Smoke

 Some folks who live half a mile down the road have been burning brush. I have been watching.

The first two days the wind was still — or so I thought. Not a leaf was moving, even in the tallest trees.

On the first day, the smoke rose straight above the tree line and then moved glacially toward the southeast. On the second day, the smoke rose straight above the tree line and then drifted toward the northwest.

I could detect no breeze either day. I’m not sure what forces were at work on the smoke. I’m guessing just a slight difference in atmospheric pressure between the Piedmont and the Coastal Plain to the south.

The little puzzle made me think of my grandfather, who was like other old cowhands I met as a boy. When my grandfather would light a cigarette, he’d always watch the smoke and note what it was doing. Always.

He was always a bit skeptical of book learning. He learned by observation. Observing the world around him was such a fundamental part of his personality, I’m not sure he believed there was any other way to learn.