Do Windmills Have Voices?

   Driving down the highway, the scenery seems to slide by at 70 mph, and my thoughts are often elsewhere, but over here in South Georgia, I have been intrigued several times by a scene on my route.

   Now, in my older years, I have shunned the Interstates of this world, and taken to the back roads. Roads that take me through smaller towns and give me glimpses of life lived away from busyness and sprawl.

   Roads such as Highway 341, which I often take on my way north from St. Simons. Traffic is lighter, big semis fewer, and scenes more bucolic.

   A road that takes me through Jesup, Odom, Baxley, McCrea and Hazelhurst.

   A road that lets me unwind before I have to go back to the hurry of Interstates 16 and 75,  roads that will take me to Macon, and Atlanta, and on to Chattanooga.

   I have driven this road several times in the last few months, and I can tell you, without looking it up, which of its towns have courthouses and good places to eat.

   It is familiar to me.

   Several times lately, I have noticed a scene that I wondered about.

   Somewhere between McCrea and Baxley, I spotted, rising above the surrounding trees, the remnants of a homestead (I think). Maybe the correct term is "farmstead"

   What is left of a house, with its water tower and tank, and windmill.

   So, driving that route the other day, I stopped. Getting out of the car, noticing the "No Trespassing" signs on the fence, seeing the lock on the gate, but slipping around it into the yard (?), I walked up to the structures. The grass was tall and a misty rain had made an appearance.

   It was also quiet. Even though 314 is a four lane highway, there was no traffic. The only noises were insects.

   Then a whirring sound above me. Looking up I noticed a slight breeze had come up, and the windmill blades were moving.

   It was then I wondered about the folks who had once lived in this place.

   What kind of life did they have?

   What loves did they share?

   There were a lot of memories stored in this site. Memories of men, women and children. Memories of games and love and work.

   The windmill moved around catching the wind from wherever it came. The sounds seemed to want to tell me something, but what?

   Real people lived here once. Real lives were brought into the world and departed thence. Life was sustained and nurtured.

   Whose, What kind, and How were all questions that had answers, but the windmill just whirred and I had to leave still wondering.

   A trip back into someones past, with the human voices stilled, but the windmill speaking on regardless,

   And I understood not it's language.

And The Moral of This Story Is....

   One of my new early morning habits has become a walk on the beach. It is quiet before the sun comes up. There is time to think. There is time to pray. There is the sense that all is right with the world, and that there is that surety that God's mercies and grace are new every morning.

   Some dawns are cloudy, some are kinda moody, but there are times like this morning that seem absolutely glorious.

My friend Duke Smith once told me that I should always look behind me when I finished shooting, and so I did..

A picture of the sunrise that I had never seen before. Taken facing west instead of east.

And the moral of this story is:

Don't think that all you see is all there is.

There is always more