Hollis Baker’s Blog

You remember John Steel don’t you? John lives north off County Road 200 on a little place he farms and raises a few cows, chickens and tomatoes. The white clap board house he lives in was built by his father in the 20’s high on a hill over looking San Gabriel River. The house faces east with a gallery running the length of the house. The building has only two rooms. The front room has a bed in the south end , and a sort of living room in the north end with a fireplace built of native stone. A few small windows let in the light and breeze on sunny days, and a view clouds and occasional rain on other days. A surprising number of books are stacked in wooden boxes, reminiscent of Thomas Jefferson’s library. The other room is a shed room attached to the back of the house that serves as a kitchen and dining room. Once there was a wood burning stove that was replaced by a kerosene stove in the 40’s. An oilcloth covered table and two straight backed chairs completes the kitchen furnishing.

The other morning I went to see John. When I say morning, I mean the country understanding of the word— before daylight. I was on a mission. I wanted to see again a sunrise with an old friend, sitting in a rocking chair, on the front porch , with a cup of boiled coffee in my hand.

I turned off CR 200 through a wooden gate that had seen better days onto a dirt road that has always been the same; rough. There is something about driving down a dirt road that makes a nice sound. The rocks, dirt and gravel play a lovely little tune as you ease forward. Sure enough, as I approached the house I saw John with a cup of coffee in one hand, and petting a spotted dog with the other. John stood, we howded, and he invited me in. The dog hardly noticed. A couple wags of his tail was all I got, or deserved from Old Spot.

I told John I had come out to watch the sunrise with him. His laconic reply was something like, “you couldn’t have picked a better time.” With a cup of coffee we sat on the porch rocking, watching the sky melt from a dark to a light gray. Down the hill toward the light fog shrouded river we could hear the wake up song of the cardinals and an occasional whipoorwill’s last call of the night. We rocked and sat quietly letting the sounds drift past us. Talk is not necessary with a friend like John.

Soon the sky began to show a light pink, like Mother’s favorite rose that quickly became bright pink like a ripening peach on the tree. A streak of low clouds far in the east turned red, then scarlet and the sun raced toward the dawn. The pink and red burst into a brilliant orange of a camp fire as the sun peeked over the ridge of cedar covered hills. The darkness fled as if in terror as the giant fiery orb popped up. Long streaks of shadows slashed across the yard making a delightful patten on the face of the house.

“Well”, John said as he stood, “that takes care of that” as if it would not have happened if we had not been there to help Old Man Sun get out of bed.
I left soon in spite of an invitation to stay for breakfast. If you ever have a hankering to see a real country sun up, go see John Steel. He would be glad for your help.