Thank you for introducing me to Milton Hopkins. Thank you for allowing me to walk in the wonder of it all - behind you two kindreds, taking it all in. My heart and arms are also full of such rich and abundant gifts.
A breathtaking tribute to a remarkable man. What a precious gift to have known him and to have spent time in his world. Thank you for this and for your heartfelt words.
What a beautiful writing about a man I never knew, but now feel as if I could have known. He is a treasure. And magical realism was the perfect fit for telling the story of the two of you. I am grateful his spirit dwells with you.
From Wild Card Quilt, pg 248 (hardbound) ed. 2003: “ ‘The work of belonging to a place is never finished,’ wrote Scott Russell Sanders. Nor is Milton, with more than seventy years in one vicinity, finished. I think sometimes he is the place personified….” Beautiful chapter on Milton, Janisse. Just happened to read it today.
Reaching Milton, staying with the route, open to an experience------as I felt his heart and yours entwined I wondered about missed wonders because we've judged the unusual instead of accepted it. Curious is something to cultivate. Grateful you shared this magical reality.
Even so long after his passing, I feel your missing of him so deeply. I cried for your loss. To find a whole heart friendship like that is really once in a lifetime. I'm glad you found each other in this one. May your sweet memory of him hold you over until you meet again.
Thanks for the introduction to Milton Hopkins. Been 30 years since I visited rural Georgia but your piece whooshed me back to a time and place that felt familiar and friendly. And what a heart!
My family knew Mr. Milton. I grew up on the Bowen’s Mill Fish Hatchery in Ben Hill County and my dad, in addition to running the hatchery, was the caretaker for 1000+ acres next to it for another landowner. The greens and browns of that place were very much what you described. I hope your magnolia tree somehow lives there too. Mr. Milton had signed a book for dad and he was always so proud of it. Mr. Buddy saw the world in the way it was meant to be seen. Beheld, honored, cherished. I loved your tribute. What a special gift he was.
Janisse, thanks for the heartfelt (Yours and the readers) memoir of the merging of two hearts. Magical places are rare; custodians and proponents of them are also to be treasured. I vividly remember my one day visiting with Buddy and a few others, including Frances Mayes before her Under the Tuscan Sun was a thing. Also I want to give shoutouts to two people who admire and work to protect the treasures Under Our South Georgia Sun: Lorraine Fussell, and Frankie Snow..
When I was 11 I met a man who was 90.His name was Roy Ivor. He was a famous ornithologist who had written a book and articles for the National Geographic. I worked with him at his bird sanctuary for four years until my father was transferred to New York state. Every day I made my way through the woods, across the meadow and over the creek to his small cottage in the woods that was surrounded by large aviaries filled with all kinds of birds from sparrows to eagles. Everyday he taught me something new. I used to watch as his old weathered hands would pick up an injured bird and his fingers would check it's wings and body for injury. Talking in a tone with such soothing words that revealed the compassion he felt for his charges. Sometimes it was not possible to be in his presence and think of him as anything but a "holy man." He died a few days before his 100th. birthday. When I am out walking in the woods or watching the birds come to our feeder often I can still feel his hand on my shoulder pointing out the things I should take note of. Your story of course, brought me to tears. If only we could all have mentors like these men in our lives the world would be a better place.
Only you could even experience this and, with your genius, you can barely communicate it.
Beautifully written about a truly beautiful man. He was a treasure.
What a wonderful mentor 🌳of nature & place.
Thank you for introducing me to Milton Hopkins. Thank you for allowing me to walk in the wonder of it all - behind you two kindreds, taking it all in. My heart and arms are also full of such rich and abundant gifts.
What a gorgeous meditation on love and friendship and the way we belong to each other.🌿
A breathtaking tribute to a remarkable man. What a precious gift to have known him and to have spent time in his world. Thank you for this and for your heartfelt words.
What a beautiful writing about a man I never knew, but now feel as if I could have known. He is a treasure. And magical realism was the perfect fit for telling the story of the two of you. I am grateful his spirit dwells with you.
From Wild Card Quilt, pg 248 (hardbound) ed. 2003: “ ‘The work of belonging to a place is never finished,’ wrote Scott Russell Sanders. Nor is Milton, with more than seventy years in one vicinity, finished. I think sometimes he is the place personified….” Beautiful chapter on Milton, Janisse. Just happened to read it today.
Land
It was not clear
Whether he picked the land
Or the land picked him,
But it seemed they were made
One for the other.
He was bent, misshapen
By childhood disease
And carried his body and life
In pain, twisted, humped, bowed
But less to ill effect than it
Might have seemed.
His body had not shaped his mind
Nor set limits on his work
And by native sense and craft
Made more than body might allow.
The land lay oddly, square
To nothing. Oblique to road
With no right corners,
A surveyor’s nightmare or dream,
A metes and bounds farm
Marked from tree to post
To boulder to bend of creek
Thence to a large white oak,
The bounds unbounded by line
Or fence or neighbor’s patrol.
It was a land known by working,
Not by map or plat,
Of which way to turn the mule
At end of row or to place
Which garden above the other
In irregular terraces as if
A rice farmer had despaired
And left his paddies to waste.
Or was it that the crooked paths
Connecting each garden
Was the only way he could work,
So that the land mirrored the man
More than it appeared.
Tipped more north than south
The noon shadows raced ahead
Cooling the big gardens before
Sun had dipped, enough to make
Long work seem shorter.
The folds and bottoms held streams;
Small trees and irregular orchards
Favored southeast exposures
On the soft slopes
Where plum pear and apple
Currant and cherry made jam
And sweetened the winters
As the land and the old man
Bent the farm into life.
smith
Reaching Milton, staying with the route, open to an experience------as I felt his heart and yours entwined I wondered about missed wonders because we've judged the unusual instead of accepted it. Curious is something to cultivate. Grateful you shared this magical reality.
Even so long after his passing, I feel your missing of him so deeply. I cried for your loss. To find a whole heart friendship like that is really once in a lifetime. I'm glad you found each other in this one. May your sweet memory of him hold you over until you meet again.
Thanks for the introduction to Milton Hopkins. Been 30 years since I visited rural Georgia but your piece whooshed me back to a time and place that felt familiar and friendly. And what a heart!
My family knew Mr. Milton. I grew up on the Bowen’s Mill Fish Hatchery in Ben Hill County and my dad, in addition to running the hatchery, was the caretaker for 1000+ acres next to it for another landowner. The greens and browns of that place were very much what you described. I hope your magnolia tree somehow lives there too. Mr. Milton had signed a book for dad and he was always so proud of it. Mr. Buddy saw the world in the way it was meant to be seen. Beheld, honored, cherished. I loved your tribute. What a special gift he was.
on the edge of tears. thank you.
Janisse, thanks for the heartfelt (Yours and the readers) memoir of the merging of two hearts. Magical places are rare; custodians and proponents of them are also to be treasured. I vividly remember my one day visiting with Buddy and a few others, including Frances Mayes before her Under the Tuscan Sun was a thing. Also I want to give shoutouts to two people who admire and work to protect the treasures Under Our South Georgia Sun: Lorraine Fussell, and Frankie Snow..
When I was 11 I met a man who was 90.His name was Roy Ivor. He was a famous ornithologist who had written a book and articles for the National Geographic. I worked with him at his bird sanctuary for four years until my father was transferred to New York state. Every day I made my way through the woods, across the meadow and over the creek to his small cottage in the woods that was surrounded by large aviaries filled with all kinds of birds from sparrows to eagles. Everyday he taught me something new. I used to watch as his old weathered hands would pick up an injured bird and his fingers would check it's wings and body for injury. Talking in a tone with such soothing words that revealed the compassion he felt for his charges. Sometimes it was not possible to be in his presence and think of him as anything but a "holy man." He died a few days before his 100th. birthday. When I am out walking in the woods or watching the birds come to our feeder often I can still feel his hand on my shoulder pointing out the things I should take note of. Your story of course, brought me to tears. If only we could all have mentors like these men in our lives the world would be a better place.