AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES it is the time of year when the pines decide to gild all the earth with gold. It is the type of gold that’s not worth much, except for those of us who love pines. All in this church fit that description. Red and gray squirrels bawl and chatter from overhanging limbs, announcing the arrival of a new day. Woodpeckers conduct conversations in their various dialects. Chickadees and nuthatches, always to be found together, speak softly and sweetly of Sunday morning things. The local deer stroll through, stopping at the table in Fellowship Hall to partake of the cracked corn Kathy has set out.

The crows broadcast the news that the Hall is open and coffee, donuts, and bear claws—or their aviary equivalent—have been set out. Blue jays and cardinals also arrive and soon all the congregation is here. Except for our dapper chipmunks who, it seems, have retreated to their winter quarters with a good supply of seeds and peanuts laid in.

The Father of Waters rests like a mirror within its banks, inviting the parson/caretaker to dip a paddle. After services are concluded, of course. All here at the Church O The Pines are well and seem content with their lot, for, on such a morn, what awakened soul would not be? We wish you Good Sabbath.