I wish I were a gifted photographer or painter. I wish I were a writer of great talent. I wish these so that I could convey the incredible beauty of middle Tennessee on a clear November morn.
My commute this week has been exceptional; from the drive downhill on a street lined with maples in red and gold adding glory to pastel Victorians to point on the hill where I see the courthouse dome rising over the deep red oaks that surround it. Out the highway past the little white Missionary Baptist church nestled at the foot of the rolling green hills, past the 60's brick ranch sitting atop the rise, with it's bright red barn and freshly painted white fence. To the left there are two old white columned houses built in the day of functional beauty, farmhouses shaded by more golden maples set apart from the more modern brick homes build a century later.
And now the antebellums, resplendent in the morning sun, one guarded by the old slave built stone fence and tall, century old hickories and oaks; the other in sturdy brick, with tall hollies standing sentry in the drive.
Then past the old, faded red barn with it's once white silo and peeling white fence in the foreground as the hills rise behind in various muted shades of autumn.
All this beauty and rural charm and in my head I hear the great George Beverly Shea singing...Oh Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all thy hands have made...
Oh! I wish I had a better vocabulary with which to describe this, but let it suffice to say, I arrive at work mellow with a smile on my face.