All men come to the hills
Finally…
Men from the deeps of the plains of the sea—
Where a wind-in-the sail is hope,
That long desire, and long weariness fulfills—
Come again to the hills.
“All men come to the hills” by Roger Mais
I had no intention of writing this morning. But then, old habits die hard, and when I could no longer stay in bed, I went downstairs as usual to check my e-mail. Was I surprised!
Sitting at the top of the list was an e-mail from Harold Mitchell, who had been searching the Net for the names of old friends, when he stumbled upon my blog. I hadn’t seen nor had I heard from him in years! In fact, had to dig through my copy of the
Jamaica College ('75) yearbook, of which I was the literary editor, to recall his face.
A flood of
memories of Jamaica at Christmas (including the poem by Roger Mais—it’s as if those old poets always knew we would be a wayfaring people) came back:
football, the
Mona Heights fair, and friends.
Yes, I know, memory is selective. But sometimes that is a good thing. In this case, I have used my memories of Jamaica to rebuild my life in Florida. I have taken the best that living in Jamaica has taught me to recreate a life here.
So, although I can no longer go to the fair nor do I play football, I still have a few friends with whom I can share some great memories. Here’s the post that Harold found:
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