Sea Level

We were truly at sea level this morning, walking by the marina where I walked for 20 years. It was very exciting, because there were rumbles of thunder at the beginning and end of the hour’s walk. Despite the threat, we were not rained on.

It was such a disappointment that we missed Tom. Dennis told us he was looking for us, but we missed him by a hair. We caught up on Dennis’ news, and Dave pulled in. I loved seeing them again, my anchors by the water. They, Nancy, and Tom were the pleasures of my morning for about five years. Now Nancy and I have moved away. I asked John to touch the railing for Nancy. He was happy to do that for her, but his face reflected his I-don’t-like-my-picture-taken attitude. Be understanding, because that is a common pose for everyone who ever lived with me.

Things in the village were mostly the same. One house was sold, and another is on the market. Extensive landscaping was in progress at another house, marked by raw earth and newly exposed plants. If you return often enough, you’d keep up with the changes.

I did notice one thing I would never have paid attention to before. Near the millpond were two shoots just encroaching on the sidewalk. Something about the vine made me stop. Golly! It was wisteria! I loved the wisteria along there on both sides of the road, but that was before I was responsible for curbing it. Knowing from my constant battle in NC, the wine can be vicious. I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew under the roadway. I stepped away quickly before the shoots could entangle my ankles.

Avalon Park was the same except for a new stone wall just across from the gristmill. That will be handy for tourists. I might have tried it out, but John was waiting for me. We went to the end of my old route before I suggested he go at his 3 mph rate back to the car where he could listen to his beloved NY radio stations. He knows his rate because of cardiac rehab. I suspect I walk at 2 mph, since I walk about two miles in an hour.

I stopped at the millstream to say hello to a black crowned night heron standing on one leg, perhaps one I used to greet all the time. There is a stick over the rock on the left that enters the water just above the bird’s head. It’s obvious I could use lessons from photography 101.

A Voice from the Past

The phone call was a surprise. Ben, a high school classmate, said it had been five years since he last talked to me. Our 55^th high school reunion is coming up, and I have to say, it was tantalizing to know how much I will miss by not being there. I might feel my life was complete if I reminisced with every attendee the same length of time. Ben recalled that our mothers had a long history, having grown up across the street from each other. They continued their association in a book club that lasted for decades. Years after our graduation, Ben had business deals going through the lawyer’s office where my mother worked. He saw my mom more than I did in those years!

We were in the same classroom for first grade, not that we remembered each other. He spoke of Mrs. Richardson, and she was my teacher, too. We remembered the rhythm band, so that must have made a big impression. Ben wondered if we were together in kindergarten. Back then it was not part of the public school system. He knew the class was held in a home down the street from mine. I said, “We were definitely not together then. I was a kindergarten dropout. I refused to stay and ran home.”

I had lost contact with all but a handful of classmates. Using their names from 55 years ago, Benjie mentioned Don, Bobby, Rita, Billy, Raynor, Bob, Joe, and others. From other classes, we talked of Bob, Tom, Bill, Diane, Dunaway, and Wesley.

I think one the stories I enjoyed the most was his talk of walking after school. He was using the same basic route that Raynor took, and he loved to pull her beautiful, long blond braids. I had no idea Raynor lived near my home back then. I had her pegged to a house where she lived later. What was most amazing was that there were actually people who walked home from school. I was aware of students outside the town limits who rode a school bus and those from town who were picked up by car. I could not have named even one who walked. How I’d love to know the distance from school to my home! I think nothing of walking two miles a day now, six times a week. Back then? I would never have imagined it.

Ben will be playing the piano for the class worship service this weekend, along with harpist Bill. We were both in awe of Bill’s God-given talent to play many musical instruments. He also spoke of Rita, who usually attends the reunions and plays the piano but will not be there this time. No one knows how long any of us will last, but I do hope there will be more reunions and that I will get to see all these wonderful people from my past.

Bill Bought a Glock!

Our neighbor Ron is a master storyteller and consummate salesman. I took something over to his wife a few days ago and stood there on the porch for an hour listening to some of his stories. The one I remember most clearly was about Ron’s friend, a retired NYC policeman. The last tale Ron told about Bill involved shooting guns at a target out on the mountain. Ron won, hands down that day. He had five bullets, shot one corner of the target after another, and ended with a perfect bullseye.

Well, it seems Ron knew of a Glock for sale. He wouldn’t spend the money for it, but he “sold” Bill on the idea. Bill bought the gun for himself, and the first thing he did was take it apart to see how it was made.

After all the parts were laid out on the table, Bill exploded. He shouted, “Blast it!”

I thought that was quite a controlled epithet for a New York cop, but I heard it wrong. My ears are not what they used to be. Ron repeated it to make sure I heard it right.

Bill actually yelled, “PLASTIC! This thing is made of plastic!”

Ron later acquired a Beretta for himself, but that’s another story. Bill may yet be green with envy.

100 Years Old

Yesterday John mentioned that it would have been his mother’s 100^th birthday. Our grandson Nathaniel latched onto that, and between the two of them, they hatched a plan to celebrate. It may have been while we were in a restaurant after church that they asked me what Mom’s favorite dessert was. Without hesitating, I said it was lemon meringue pie. After the words left my mouth, I began to have doubts. I remembered she made a wonderful plum cobbler that no one else did, but that didn’t mean it was her favorite. John remembered rhubarb with the same conclusion. Anyone who reads this is welcome to correct us. I offered to make lemon curd if we’d get an angel cake on the way home, that being a dessert that would come close to being on our nutritionists’ approval list. Nathaniel held out for pie, the real thing. The two fellows disappeared into the supermarket while I glanced at the newspaper in the car. They came back with lemon cream pie, a most reasonable substitute. I found only the topping was different – whipped cream instead of meringue. All three of us blew out the candle.

071915 N JC lemon pie for Mom's 100th — Nathaniel and John

I looked at my photographs, picking out the first picture I took of Mom just before our wedding in 1964. She is the third from the left in a white dress. I found others from 1974, 1984, 2004, and the very last one several weeks before her death at age 92.

I felt comfortable with Mom from the first time I met her. She and my mother were similar, in that both were dedicated Christians, were reserved dealing with others, had incredible patience, and loved the color blue. Both were very active in church activities, had their hair done once a week, and had a tendency to burn food in the oven or toaster. Sorry about that. At my age, you call up one memory and get swamped with a thousand others.

If I had to choose one outstanding trait about my dear motheriin-law, it would be the beautiful way she aged. We’ve all known crotchety old folks who have nothing good to say about anybody or anything. They were a pain to themselves and everyone around them. Not so Mom. She was pleasant to everyone and continually thanked us for everything we did for her. Her outlook was astounding. John was forever saying, “Old age is a terrible thing”, to which Mom would disagree. He finally asked her what age category she thought she was in. Her reply (remember, age 92) was quick, “Advanced middle age.”

My last picture of Mom with Pastor Bell 2007

Happy Birthday, Mom!!!

Marking Time Again

The clockmaker, Daryl, called to say my granddaddy’s clock was ready. We were pleasantly surprised that he checked and cleaned it in only nine days, which included letting it run several days in his home. I loved listening to him talk, because his speech was even and measured, much like the clocks he repairs. He took time to explain what he had done, included an anecdote about an old factory clock to which 10 others were linked, and reassured me that I couldn’t overwind my treasure. He showed us he was leaving his card inside the case with a list of the things he had done. We liked that, since we had a faded bill from the last repair done in 1996. He repaired a hinge that had been broken years ago and said he did not polish the brass ring around the glass. He felt such an old clock needed to look its age. I liked his thinking. Bet I could depend on him to agree I should not restore my gray hair to brown, so I’d continue to look my age.

We were surprised to get a postscript. Several hours after he left, Daryl called to add one more comment. He said, “You should stop the pendulum gently when you wind the clock, and restart it carefully.”

We had never heard that before. As you wind, there is pressure on the gear, then no pressure. If you catch it at the wrong place, it could bend teeth. That would have been most appropriate for my dad and granddad to know, since they were dentists. They would not have wanted to bend any teeth the wrong way!

I listened to the gentle tick tock and felt I had witnessed a resurrection. The dead clock was alive again, marking time with a steady beat.

Streams are Back On

For weeks we had a bit of rain every day, but that wasn’t enough to keep the little streams full. The two closest to our house are not even called streams on maps. They are labeled Park Branch, blending into one stream somewhere behind Shawn and Bob’s house. Two days ago I could hardly hear them as I stood on the road above. Today, after tons of rain yesterday, they were audibly back on duty. I planned to take a photo or so on my return. Jonathan Creek was a muddy torrent, covering all the boulders that are visible on a normal summer day. Photographs were the last thing on my mind as I walked home, because the mist was hitting my skin, suspiciously like fine rain. I retreated to the front porch to read the limp newspaper.

A Lovely, Rainy Day

Yesterday we left Nate alone for hours while we went to a memorial service for a dear new/old friend. About 56 years ago I was sitting on the groom’s side at Margaret’s wedding. I didn’t meet her again until last year after we saw her and James’ name in an Asheville church bulletin. We go to five different churches on a regular basis, so the likelihood of my seeing their names was slight. We had three wonderful times together before she died of cancer.

The church was absolutely filled to the brim, the brim being the balcony where our backs were pressed against the back wall of the church. It was a vantage point to see her many friends and hear their voices raised in praise to God. What a joyous service it was! We gathered to celebrate her faith filled life of service that touched so many people.

Today was entirely different. The weather was cool and rainy, punctuated with marvelous thunderstorms. It’s hard to believe I put on a sweater several times in a middle-of-July day! Dennis came across the street to spend the day with us and Nate. Oh! We had lively times! They played fierce games of backgammon, worked on a round train jigsaw puzzle, fought Nerf gun battles throughout the house, and ran trains on the front porch while watching streaks of lightning split the sky. Thunder rolled and reverberated through the mountains.

The fellows are doing something quiet in another part of the house while I sit at the computer. There is a silent show beyond the deck. Behind each ridge of the mountains, clouds are rising and flowing offstage. One could sit for hours, mesmerized by the fantastic, ghostly shapes. We are so blessed to be living here to see these wonders.

The Sunshine Blogger Award

Thank you, Greta, for nominating me for the Sunshine Blogger Award. I have resonated with Greta’s blogs because she writes about many things that are important to me. Her blogs are full of sunshine, as well as Sonshine. Take a peek for yourself! The Beautiful Hart Project

Greta’s questions for me:

What is your greatest passion?

I would rather write than sleep or eat! I say that only because I have made those choices from time to time.

What are your greatest abilities?

Some of my relatives say I can get anyone involved in a conversation. It’s easy for me to relate to people. I’d like to be known for my writing. That’s what people say about me and what I’d like to say about myself. In reality, I’m probably best at sight reading classical piano music and sight reading choral music.

How do you apply your greatest passions and abilities?

I talk whenever I’m within four feet of another person, and I write something almost every day. Occasionally I sit at the piano and play whatever I open a book to, and I always sing in church. I often start with the soprano line on the first verse of a hymn and switch to another part for other verses. I usually end with tenor on the last verse.

How do you unwind from a hectic day?

I’m retired, so I don’t have hectic days any more.

If you had to choose one: reading or writing, which would you choose?

Writing wins, hands down. Well of course, my hands are down on the keyboard.

What is the greatest lesson you’ve learned?

I’ve learned that loving — God and people, in that order, — is the most important thing in life.

I nominate Rachel (brillteen.com) for the Sunshine Blogger Award. We share a love of baking and photography. Rachel is in a very different age category from me, and I enjoy her fresh views.

There are many blogs I enjoy following, but I nominated eleven of them for the Infinity Dreams Award. These things take a fair bit of time, especially if you are a bit tech intimidated as I am. I don’t think they would appreciate other nominations. Hopefully, Rachel won’t mind, although she has already participated as a Versatile Blogger and an Infinity Dreamer.

Questions for Rachel

Name the most complicated recipe you’ve used to make a dessert.
How did you become interested in photography?
Do you have hobbies other than baking and photography?
Where would you like to go on holiday?
If you like to read, what kinds of things do you like?
Are you a morning person or a night owl?

The Rules:

* Thank the person who nominated you.

* Answer the questions from the person who has nominated you.

* Nominate some other bloggers for this award.

* Write the same amount of questions for the bloggers you have nominated.

* Notify the bloggers you have nominated.

“Just” Challenge

A month ago I wrote about the word “just” and how it is overused in everyday speech. There was a quote that included three of them, and today I found another.

“I JUST feel like this woman was denied access to a library and a book,” Burlingame said. “I JUST wanted the opportunity to rectify that, not JUST for her but for us as the library system.”*

I don’t know why my eyes snag on that word. My ears are beginning to protest, too. People who scan this tend to be readers, so I challenge you to find a quote that includes more than three “just” words in a single quote or paragraph. Please justify my concern, or I will have to adjust my thinking.

*Nagem, Sarah. “After 73 years, woman gets library card.” Asheville Citizen-Times July 11, 2015

My Grandfather’s Clock

Son $ saw a business card for clock repair at Haywood Smokehouse (where we love the BBQ). John called the number listed for Daryl Bridges, and the man came today. As he stepped through the door, John told him, “This wall clock was hanging in the dental office of Anne’s father and grandfather, so it’s an old one. We immobilized the pendulum, but it wouldn’t work after we moved.”

Daryl looked at it on the wall, gave the pendulum a slight nudge, and waited to see what would happen. He opened his small box that looked like a tackle box and picked out a round gizmo. Having given us permission to watch, I dared to ask, “Is that a stethoscope for a clock?”

“No,” he said. “It’s an amplifier.” He stuck the probe into the winding hole, tapped the pendulum, and listened. It would tick one way but not the other.

“Do you mind if I take it off the wall?” he asked.

Of course, we wanted him to fix it, so we said yes. He approached it reverently, lifted it off the wall, and laid it gently on the table. Inside he found the invoice with a list of the things that had been repaired in 1982. He could read the name Garstang, and I remembered that was the name of the clockmaker. He couldn’t reach the top of the pendulum through the door. We gave permission for him to remove the hands and clock face. Peering with a flashlight, he discovered the pendulum had slipped and was not hanging correctly.

Daryl said he liked knowing the stories about old clocks, and I supplied a brief history. My granddad had an 8^th grade education and worked as a tinsmith. He went to Vanderbilt in Nashville and told the dean that he was there to become a dentist.

The dean said, “You can’t do that.”

Granddaddy said, “I have to. I’ve sold my part of the business.”

After much discussion, the dean finally said, “You can start classes, but one wrong step, and you’re out.”

This clock hung in the lab of Granddaddy’s office, covered in dust from the plaster of Paris dentists used back then. My dad had it cleaned and refinished when he moved his office to a ground floor storefront.

Daryl pointed to oil on some pieces of the works and recommended a good cleaning. It may take a month or two, because he has several jobs ahead of ours. The poor old clock has hung motionless on our wall for eleven months. One more month is nothing. It will be great to have it back. I wonder if it will still say “Tock Tick” instead of “Tick Tock” as my mother insisted it did. After Dad’s retirement, it hung on the wall of their bedroom. That’s where the clock had a new purpose, helping Dad set his hearing aids correctly before going out. It was still ticking steadily when we went there for his funeral.