As the Crow Flys

One crow means sorrow, two crows mean joy.

Three crows a wedding, four crows a boy.

Five crows mean silver, six crows mean gold.

Seven crows, a story thats never been told.

Being back at the homestead after my trip to MI feels good. My house is back into shape and the weather is quite agreeable. About 65 daytime highs, near 45 night time lows. My old horse has darn near shed his entire winter coat, he is lookin’ mighty fine this spring.

At the beginning of this entry is a poem from my childhood. It has stuck in my mind ever since I can remember. Who first taught me this poem? I do not know. But my mother’s mother, who I grew up calling ‘Gramma’ gave me a book with this poem in it, I had already memorized the poem by that time. Now, as a grown adult, whenever I see a crow or a group of crows, I recite this poem silently in my mind. I suppose there is medication for that, but I am quite happy with my disorder.

My last night in MI I spent at my childhood home where my twice widowed Father still lives, alone. Not much changed since last summer when I was there. Sure, like just about any other grown adult, I have hangups about my upbringing and could benefit from a bit of Dr. Phil therapy, but really-its easier to ignore that and get on with my life. That whole mess is just another reason I moved 1500 miles from my home state. For whatever reason I packed up and shipped out, it turned out to be probably the best thing I ever did for myself, by myself, and all alone.

Back to my last night in MI, I was staying the night in town with my Father since I had a small journey the next morning to the Traverse City Airport, about a 2 hour car-ride. Before going out to dinner, we sat around his dining room table. He of course was drinking his trademark Canadian Mist. I declined any alcoholic beverage because I had indulged in it previous nights before, also I needed my mind clear for the trip home. We were visiting, catching up and discussing my previous employer and my insurance licenses (adjuster licenses) that I still renew every 2 years but havent used in 4 years. My Father commented on my weekly letters I snail mail to him with the goings ons and current events at my house. They usually include recent pics of the boys and our horses. He said how much he enjoyed them and he never understood why I didnt write for a living. He also added that when I was in high school, my creative writing teacher, sister somebody (I attended catholic school my entire education until college) she told my Father that I had a gift for words and she had hoped I pursued this talent in my future. After my Father told me this, I kind of just sat there and silently said to myself, sure would have been nice if SOMEONE had told me that 20 years ago. As we finished our conversation and were preparing to leave for town to eat dinner, I gazed out his huge picture window in the dining room, and there sat a group of crows in the evergreen. I immediately chanted my secret poem inside my mind, and behold there were 7 crows in that tree.


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