Worlds Apart

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Thus begins the classic “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens. Or is it “You say potato, I say patato”? Either way, in a similar dichotomy, let me describe two different worlds.

I can wake up in our quiet village of Painted Post and sit on my porch or deck and watch the world wake up. First the newspaper carrier, trudging sleepily through the predawn light, thudding newspapers on to porches up and down the street. The newspaper brings news of crime, feuding politicians, and, the obituaries. The ear splitting whine of the distant street sweeper graciously avoids our neighborhood, this day. Pajama clad neighbors begin to drag garbage cans to the curb. The dog walkers stroll by, coffee cup in one hand, doggie bag in the other, if we are lucky. The garbage truck soon clangs and bangs and beeps as it backs down the one-way Olive Street. A purposeless factory whistle sounds. Now it’s daylight. The diverted interstate traffic, under construction for the last two years, clogs the village’s main thoroughfare a half block away. Drivers honk their horns at the striking workers at the Dresser Rand factory a few hundred feet away, the strikers shouting back. Squirrels drop acorns, clunking on to the car parked in the street. Workers and school children step hurriedly down the sidewalk, anxious to get to their appointed morning destination by the deadline.

Time for me to do the same.

OR

In Biscuit Hollow, I can sit on top of Mount Laurel next to the big pines and watch the world wake up.

The valley, dense with fog, blanketing the distant sounds of civilization.

The wind faintly whispering in the pines, interrupted by the songs of chickadees and finches in the trees all around me. Squirrels dropping acorns and pine cones to gather later for the winter munchies. The screech of a red tail hawk high over head where the blue sky nestles the morning sun, yet unseen through the white.

Occasionally, sunbeams accentuated by the fog reach their fingers through the trees, promising a warm, bright day ahead.

The fog lifts slowly, climbing the valley sides, revealing glimpses of bright sun, clear sky, and colors. The colors of fall, just beginning. Today is the first official day of fall. The plentiful blanket of yellow golden rod. The trees tinged with yellows and ambers and reds, mixing with the green of the meadows and trees yet untouched by the Masters paintbrush.

The sky is clear now, yet the valley below remains filled with a pillow of white.

A flock of turkey cross the field across the valley, breakfasting along the way.

Time for me to do the same.

Strangely enough, there are actually people that prefer the former to the latter. Go figure.