Jamie stood quite still, feeling his heart beat, watching. It was one of those strange moments that came to him rarely, but never left. A moment that stamped itself on heart and brain, instantly recallable in every detail, for all of his life.
There was no telling what made these moments different from any other, though he knew them when they came. He had seen sights more gruesome and more beautiful by far, and been left with no more than a fleeting muddle of their memory. But these—the still moments, as he called them to himself—they came with no warning, to print a random image of the most common things inside his brain, indelible. They were like the photographs that Claire had brought him, save that the moments carried with them more than vision.
He had one of his father, smeared and muddy, sitting on the wall of a cow byre, a cold Scottish wind lifting his dark hair. He could call that one up and smell the dry hay and the scent of manure, feel his own fingers chilled by the wind, and his heart warmed by the light in his father’s eyes.
He had such glimpses of Claire, of his sister, of Ian…small moments clipped out of time and perfectly preserved by some odd alchemy of memory, fixed in his mind like an insect in amber. And now he had another.
For so long as he lived, he could recall this moment. He could feel the cold wind on his face, and the crackling feel of the hair on his thighs, half singed by the fire. He could smell the rich odor of trout fried in cornmeal, and feel the tiny prick of a swallowed bone, hair-thin in his throat.
He could hear the dark quiet of the forest behind, and the soft rush of the stream nearby. And forever now he would remember the firelight golden on the sweet bold face of his son.
“Deo gratias,” he murmured, and realized that he had spoken aloud only when the boy turned toward him, startled. “What?” “Nothing.” To cover the moment, he turned away and took down his half-dry plaid from the bush. Even soaking wet,
Highland wool would keep in a man’s heat, and shelter him from cold.“
DRUMS of AUTUMN- Diana Gabaldon
If you think that Jonathan Byres is just “some emo creep” then you’re no better than everyone else in the show who is so quick to judge him because he doesn’t conform to what everyone else is doing and I don’t judge him for wanting to be away from people like that. He has already acknowledged that his actions were wrong and apologized to Nancy. Jonathan Byers is NOT his mistakes. Jonathan Byers is a strong, mindful individual who loves his family and would do anything for them, he puts others well-beings before his own, and he is so much more than the labels people give him. Everyone has made mistakes, but they do not define who we are and no one should be judged solely on them.
I have a policy never to eat or drink in a place that misuses apostrophes. Perhaps that is a little bit elitist. But really, putting an apostrophe in the name of Robert Burns, of all people, is inexcusable.
A mug of strong, steaming hot coffee, snuggled up in a blanket by a blazing log fire, the wind in the chimney is howling and screaming, while outside the snow drifts, get higher and higher.
The windows are rattling in the snow and the wind, and the bells they are ringing in the lofty church spire, guiding the lost to food, and to warmth, while outside the snow drifts, get higher and higher.
There’s a light in the stable, the horses are safe, the pigs in the sty and the cows in the byre, the winds getting colder, but the livestock are warm, while outside the snow drifts, get higher and higher.
All warm and snug in the midst of the storm, dreamy and lost in the woods of the shire, and Bilbo and Co have captured my mind, while outside the snow drifts, get higher and higher.
T'is lovely to hear the roar of the tempest, let it blow, let it freeze, for soon it will tire, and we are all safe in the eye of the storm, while outside the snow drifts, get higher and higher.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
Seamus Heaney, “Blackberry Picking,” Death of a Naturalist (1966).