James Etheridge

Today is Thursday, 8.27.20 and I am sitting on the back porch of our dear friends Sharon and Ronnie’s house north of Suches, Georgia in the Blue Ridge mountains.  I have often stated my love for this part of the world.  Nothing has happened this week to change that.  Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.

Sharon feeds corn and apples to the deer every morning and evening.  Earlier this morning, as I sat in the screened porch, a five-point buck with velvet on his antlers walked up to the fence.  I went to the utility room, filled two Solo cups with corn, opened the back door slowly and walked up to the fence.  The buck backed up a little at first, then slowly walked down to where I could almost pet him.  I threw the corn on the ground in front of him and he began to eat.  Another buck, a six-pointer along with a doe came down the ridge toward the fence.  I went back to the utility room, filled the Solo cups again and walked back to the fence.  The six-pointer and the doe jumped back uncertainly, then eased back down after I threw the corn on the ground.  The five-pointer had never stopped eating.  They grazed for about an hour before moving on down the hill and into the forest.  The five-pointer stood at the bottom of the hill for a long time in majestic profile while Ronnie and I stood at the porch rail with our coffee.

For years, it was a foregone fact that I was going to retire to Florida.  Now I can’t imagine being anywhere but here.  My friend Todd and I went trout fishing yesterday, first in the Toccoa River behind his house, then at Cooper’s Creek. Todd had said that the fishing reports for the day weren’t good and that was accurate.  Neither one of us got so much as a nibble all day, but it didn’t matter.  We were in the water, casting and hitting the holes.  Afterward, we went back to Todd’s house, sat on the front porch and drank a couple of beers.  It would have been better to come home with a mess of trout, but it was still a fine day on the river.

Last night we had a wonderful dinner in the home of our new friends Ray and Susie.  Today Ronnie and I put the top down on the Bug and rode the curves of Highway 60.  Tomorrow we are meeting an old Gresham Park friend, Jerry Cannon and his wife Boopa, for lunch in Young Harris.  As I sit and write, there is a large bee diligently working at the begonia bush next to me.  He flew to my knee, then moved to the arm of my chair.  After checking me out, he then went back to work at the begonia.  A small, funky looking cricket is sitting motionless on one of the leaves.  The hummingbirds are bickering at the feeder.  Black-capped chickadees are at the feeders and birdhouses.  The crickets are already beginning to communicate in the woods.  Other than that, there is the beautiful sound of silence.

In many ways, time stands still here.  Yet, the day we must leave looms two days away.  After being removed from the city for five days, we must go back and face whatever is left that 2020 could possibly conjure up.  The Good Lord willing, we will return.  Someday soon, hopefully.  For good.