Lynching at J Creek

I’ve walked a mile to the creek approximately 167 times since we moved to NC. I’m sure I’ve seen at least one new thing on every walk. Today I was enjoying the lovely sound of water rushing over rocks when I noticed a bottle hanging from the bridge. It was swaying lifelessly in the breeze from its invisible tether. Curiosity compelled me to go on the bridge where I found a fine nylon string tied to a reflector. The lynching of the bottle was a deliberate thing. My questions are, “Why? What did that bottle do to deserve such an untimely end? Will it be left for weeks as a warning to other bottles?”

I stop to speak to the four sheep and a new lamb whenever they are close enough to the road to hear me. I checked twice and saw only four animals. Walking on, I saw the fifth in the next pasture. The lamb bleated, and the sheep I was looking at stopped eating and shouted bah-aack. I’m wondering if the lamb is being weaned.

My mother loved the pileated woodpecker she saw in the thicket behind our house in West Tennessee. I suspect she identified with it, being reserved and reclusive herself. Once she pointed it out to me when I happened to be standing next to her at the back of the property. Fast forward 60 years, and I had a clear sighting on our own post. John and I were eating breakfast inside when I saw the large bird land on the wooden fence. He checked out several sections before I scared him away trying to get his picture. Come to think of it, our family resembles that bird. Our son $ is as camera shy as the woodpecker.

Speeding in Virginia

Where is a tape recorder when you need one? As has happened so often, my husband, son, and I were driving in the car together when $ asked, “Did I ever tell you about ….?”

I am promising myself that next time I’ll grab my phone and get the next few minutes recorded when he begins a sentence like that. The tale is usually something from his youth that he was not willing to divulge before. Though he grew up a Yankee, he has lived in NC long enough to learn how to tell a tale like a Southern storyteller. His voice changes a little bit, and his timing is perfect. He has an instinct for knowing what to include and what to leave dangling. I’ll attempt to tell his three-dimensional tale in two dimensions, knowing it may fall flat.

This story began when I asked who taught him to drive. I remember being in the car with his two sisters when they had learners’ permits, but I had no memory of his driving. John and $ figured out I hadn’t been with him because he took a driver’s ed class in high school. $ stated he failed the driver’s test miserably. He said, “You must have taken me for the test, Dad. I hadn’t gone more than a block when the tester told me I hadn’t put on my seat belt and wouldn’t pass. I went to live with Lise [in Stanley, NC], and Mike [her husband] taught me to drive.”

That’s when he asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time I was stopped for speeding in Virginia?”

He continued, “Everybody knew the whole state of Virginia was a speed trap back then. I was intent on driving and paid no attention to my speedometer. The cop pulled me over, and when he came to my window, he said the usual things about speeding. I knew I was going to get a ticket. He asked, ‘Do you know how fast you were going? Just what do you think you were doing, son?’”

$ told how everything spilled out. His voice was thick with tension as he said, “Sir, I got my license three days ago and bought this car the same day. I don’t know how to drive a stick shift. I’m going to Long Island, and I’m scared I won’t get through New York City before dark.”

The cop said, “So….you’re a new driver with a car you caint drive, and you’re goin’ to New York? Caint blame you. You go on then, but keep the speed down, son.”

Gun Shots in the Neighborhood

As I came down the street from my daily walk to the creek, I saw Ron on his front porch. He is always fun to talk to, full of good stories told in the great Southern tradition. He wondered if I’d seen his wife Amy picking up trash that had been strewn about their yard the day before. We have no garbage pickup here, having to take our trash to a recycling center down the highway. Where the garbage bag came from, he didn’t know, because no one leaves stuff outside to tempt the local wildlife. A raccoon was tearing at it as he watched from the porch. He reached for his .22, popped a shot at the animal, and it ran off, leaving a mess behind.

That conversation led to shooting in general, as Ron recounted a feat of marksmanship. He had a friend, lived up on the mountain, who was a retired New York City cop. They were near a sign that had fallen down on Ron’s property, and Tom teased that Ron wouldn’t be able to hit it from 5 feet away. They kept on walking, and Tom challenged him again.

“Hey!” Ron said, “You’ve changed the rules. We’re much farther away now.”

Ron turned, lifted his gun, aimed at the sign and hit it on the lower left corner.

Tom jeered, “Almost missed it! Better try again!”

Ron hit the lower right corner, followed by the upper right and upper left in quick succession.

He explained to me, “I had five shots, so I used the last to hit it square in the middle.”

Tom, who had been in tense situations in the Bronx while on duty, said, “Man! You’re a better shot than I am! If we’re ever in trouble, I want to be behind you!”

Ron had a good comeback. He said, “If we’re in trouble, you’ll have to run to stay behind me.”

The moral of this story is that if you’re from far away, don’t mess with a Southern boy who grew up with guns. He can probably out-shoot you without half trying and make fun of himself afterwards.

Didn’t You Learn Your Lesson Last Time?

It was a sure thing. The weather map at 11 p.m. showed a huge blob of rain moving into the area, with projections of heavy rain just at the time I would walk. I made sure it was still on the way when I woke at 3:13. With that double underscore of assurance, I turned off the alarm. I woke around 6 with time enough to walk before the sun got hot. There was no rain whatsoever nearby. Did I get up and go? No! I told myself I’d do some gardening to make up for it, because I loved my bed too much to leave it. Big mistake! That’s exactly the situation I had a week or so ago, and I lived to regret it. For a born gardener, there would have been no problem. I’ll bet a real gardener could talk herself out of walking most days just to get out and commune with plants eager to do her bidding.

I put it off as long as I could, baking blueberry muffins for breakfast. It was too cool to eat on the porch, but I could see the wicked wisteria winking at me, taunting me with innocent looking tendrils just waiting to grab air space. Shears and clippers refused the job. You see, even the tools were in revolt! Maybe it wasn’t an uprising, just old age. I thought the shears were locked shut, but John was able to open them with a mighty heave. The clippers moved, but grudgingly. Instead of cutting, both strangled the vines. Thank heavens sister-in-law Beth suggested loppers and helped us pick them out! I lopped the wisteria, cut off dead roses, and whacked at weedy mint plants under the mystery vine. I’ve held off trimming the vine that is climbing a trellis on the side of the house. It was obviously a loved plant, but neither master gardeners Amy nor Beth know what it is. It could yet redeem itself if it bloomed. A few of its exploratory arms fell with the mint. I should have shut my eyes while walking to the door, but I was waylaid by an evergreen ground cover with brown, rotten bits scattered throughout. Lots of that is now on the burn pile.

One should have a sense of victory, or at least satisfaction, after slaving in the garden. I was just hot.

You know you’re hot if your jeans stick to you and have to be peeled off,

if you can’t see through your glasses because sweat is streaming down the inside,

if the water in the shower is too warm when set on cold, and

if your face is still red after a cool shower.

I suppose I do have some satisfaction, after all. I thoroughly enjoy complaining about gardening! Secretly I was very pleased to find hollyhocks beginning to bloom. My grandparents had hollyhocks and snapdragons near their mailbox, and I’ve always had a soft spot for them.

One Big Breakdown Blessing

The big blessing in our double car breakdown was cell phone service. Things could have been so much worse than they were. The Jeep conked out in Pisgah National Forest, miles and miles from civilization.

Let’s go back to the beginning. We were going to take Snot (the Sonata car) to drive to Franklin to church 45 minutes away, but the car wouldn’t start. The battery had run down overnight, perhaps because the car keys were in John’s pocket and might have pressed against the open trunk button. Everyone knows if you want to open the trunk on purpose, you have to lean heavily on the key fob, sometimes twice. Accidents evidently happen in a split second. We went in the Jeep instead, realizing we had to stop for gas. That made us late for church. We walked in as they were closing the doors after the processional cross and pastor went through. The usher grabbed a bulletin from someone in the back row to give us. The church was almost full, and I didn’t see anywhere to sit. The usher led us up a side aisle and nudged a man to let us in the pew where there was space in the middle.

We had a pleasant lunch and took the long way home. I wanted to see if the mountain laurel was blooming, something we’ve checked every week. The plants were in full bloom along the roadside and beside the streams. John wanted the day to be special for me, so we stopped several times beside streams. He came prepared with a book to read (one Nancy B gave him). We passed Looking Glass Falls, and John stopped in a pull-off area next to the stream miles above the falls. I walked to the stream, and when I came back, the car wouldn’t start. We waited a few minutes before trying again. The light would work, but the engine wouldn’t respond, not even with a click or a groan. AAA said a tow truck might get to us in 1 ½ hours. At that point, we looked at each other and agreed that having cell phone service was a great blessing. There are many, many places in the mountains where there are no bars whatsoever. Not only are there no bars, there are no bathrooms. Don’t ask what we did when we rather desperately needed to use the toilet.

Travis, the young man who came to our rescue, was not as blessed as we were. Not once, but both times when he was moving the Jeep on and off the truck, heavy rain pelted him. He worked cheerfully and didn’t hold the rain against us. He thought the trouble might be in the starter motor, but he saw a security light on the dash when he tried to start the car. We dropped it at Sorrell’s, the service station I walk through most mornings, and Travis drove us home.

Before the sun set, we used the booster gadget we gave each other for Christmas to start Snot. It’s smaller than a standard book and certainly much easier than getting a jump start from another vehicle. We had to keep the car going for a while, so we retrieved things from the Jeep and drove through Maggie Valley. What an eventful day it had been! We were so thankful we weren’t having to sleep in the Jeep while waiting for a rescue.

Little Lamb and Mailboxes Ajar

The lamb is growing quickly, and I finally got a photo of it that wasn’t too far away or blurred. He follows his mama closely, sometimes hopping with exuberance. I tore myself away by looking forward to seeing him again on the way back.

As I walked up our street, I noticed that Joyce’ mailbox was open. The next one up, the log house, also was agape. That got my attention, so I checked them all, both coming and going in case I absentmindedly missed one. Every mailbox from our house to Qualla was hanging open except for the three lined up at the base of Minerva. Some had mail in them; most were empty. When I came home, I looked at ours, across the street, and at the end. We had been spared the wee hour inspection. Perhaps the culprit was frightened off by the dead end street as it ends at Amy’s steep drive.

I took something down to Amy and found Ron on the porch. By his own admission, mornings are rough. I try to limit the time I spend with him, especially early in the day, being aware that breathing does not come easy. I would have left with the barest of greetings, but he asked how much weight I’d lost. I would love to have answered 50 or some other astronomical number, but the weight has varied only 6 pounds in the last six months. Unfortunately, I proved it by looking at my log. Six pounds wouldn’t even qualify for the yo-yo label. Speaking of weight reminded him of seeing Tina Fey exposing secrets of undergarments that enable stars to appear svelte in tight clothing. It was hilarious.

As I started down the stairs, I said, “That’s great to start the day off with a good laugh.”

Ron chuckled and said, “I find it good to start the day.”

He paused for effect and said, “It’s better than being towed off somewhere.”

Amen to that!

Amy’s Church

Several days ago when visiting neighbor Anna came over to practice the piano, she invited us to hear her dad preach. We were happy to go, wanting to hear Robert and to worship in Amy’s church. I thought it would be very special to be there when Amy heard her son. Unfortunately, Ron wasn’t doing well, so Amy stayed home with him.

That Baptist church gave us the warmest welcome we’ve had in any church here. Of course, we were spotted as strangers and asked to stand up to introduce ourselves. Thank heavens John thought quickly and said the perfect thing, that we were Amy’s neighbors and came to hear Rob. As soon as the people heard Amy’s name, they murmured appreciatively. It was like being given a warm, vocal caress.

The young people were asked to go forward to sing, and Anna (wearing blue) gamely went with the others. Because we were sitting behind everyone else, I didn’t feel conspicuous snapping a photo. The woman ahead of me heard the sound and moved further down her pew, giving me a clearer view.

The music was something else. They had piano, bass, and two guitars on a WEDNESDAY EVENING! In Setauket, we had difficulty getting that many musicians on Easter Sunday! I had a hard time tearing my eyes from the bass, never having seen an electronic one before. The upper part looked like a double bass from an orchestra, but the lower part was missing. It made me feel I was looking at a person with a prosthetic leg. The sound was good, though. After the service, many people came over to shake our hands. I enjoyed talking with the pianist. I asked if she plays on Sunday, too, and she does. John told her I had played for our church, and she asked if I played by ear or by notes. I guessed correctly that she plays by ear. We agreed that it’s a gift that can’t be taught. If it could, I would have tried to learn long ago, having always envied people who could create music with nothing in front of their eyes.

How special it was to hear Rob peach! I think you’d call it the expository style, where you read a section of scripture and expound on it. Lutherans talk about “scripture alone”, but Baptists practice it routinely. Rob referred to things in Egypt, and the congregation was right there with him. In West Tennessee we used to poke fun at ourselves with the “Amen corner”. A group of men in the back would say Amen when they agreed with some point from the pulpit. Here the people participated all around the church as they murmured words in agreement with what Rob was saying. I never thought about an interactive sermon, but it must be something akin to applause. The preacher has instant feedback, and the lack of it might mean you’ve lost your audience. Rob didn’t lose his.

I longed for Amy to be there, and Ron, too. Here was their child, a son of the congregation, addressing the church. It would make any parent’s heart swell. Perhaps someone else made a recording that is much better, but I taped it with my phone.

Penance for Failure to Walk

The computer screen clearly showed a big blob of rain just at the edge of our property, about to move over us with drenching rain. I fell for it. Knowing it was a sure thing, I went right back to bed instead of going for a walk. As it turned out, it never did rain here, although son $ said it was raining on his porch when he called me. I reasoned that people are always saying you can count gardening as exercise, so I put on my new hat and ventured into the garden. I was so confident of success that I took a “before” picture, not thinking how dreadful I might look later.

I was pleased with the hat. It was not only green, it was the least expensive one I’d seen while idly looking in every store recently. Anything would seem reasonable after looking at the price of hats in the Biltmore garden shop. In other stores, pretty and reasonable were not adjectives you’d link together. The label said it was crushable, so I assumed washable as well. I donned the hat and sallied forth. Ready or not, garden, here I come! Amy and Beth, prepare to be impressed!

Yesterday I gave the wisteria a haircut around three edges of the pergola. For the last few years, I always watched for wisteria blooms in New York, enjoying the pretty flowers and sweet scent near the millpond. I even went so far as to declare it one of my favorite plants. While trimming the forth edge today, I realized the previous owner Pat had ruthlessly cut down the shoots around the bottom. That wicked wisteria knew I didn’t know what I was doing last fall and made the most of its freedom, grabbing for land in every direction. Each time I straightened up, I saw more tendrils with takeover tendencies. Whack! Whack! Take that! And that! Stealthy vines and leaves were everywhere. Having learned last time that walking on uneven ground was asking for trouble, I piled everything on the stones under the invasive plant. Let it give shelter to its own dead army until I could ask John to move the mess.

060215 Wisteria grave — Wisteria branches looking like a fresh grave under the pergola

The hat was even more trouble than the vine! I bought it to shelter my face from the sun and keep the hair out of my eyes. It actually did both, but was it worth it? I bent down to cut vines slithering near the base of the pergola, then straightened up. The hat brim hit my back, knocking it forward over my face. I pushed it back with my arm. The action was repeated over and over — knocking forward, pushing back, forward, back, forward, back. I looked like a broken action toy that had only one set of moves left. I tried keeping my head down for longer periods. Because of the effect of pollen on my nose, the front brim was in danger of becoming a nose drip collector. A real gardener might have ditched the hat and used clippers to teach the hair a lesson. Not me. I unleashed my frustrations on the vine. If I’d had a saw, that horrid thing would now be history.

I slung the loppers over my shoulder for a victory lap through the unruly garden. The plants were supposed to cower in fear, but I’m sure the daisies were snickering. They know they are going to win in the end.

Youth Concert with Dennis

This afternoon neighbor Dennis came over to invite us to his youth choir concert. There were 10 young ladies and 11 fellows, a surprising mix. Often teen girls outnumber boy singers two to one. They had a good sound, on key and confident. Dennis seemed to sing with enjoyment, as they all did.

We left home the same time as Shawn and Bob (Dennis’ foster parents), and we parked next to them at the church. After we settled in a pew, Shawn chatted with the woman next to her. She introduced her to me, saying, “This is Carolyn, our neighbor.”

I was trying to think what house Carolyn lived in when Shawn continued, “She owns the sheep.”

Carolyn asked, “Have you seen our sheep?”

I replied, “Yes, I speak to them every morning.”

I should have said I speak to them sheepishly. I always look around to see if anyone can hear me and say, “Hey! Sheep! How are you today, sheep?” They used to stare, but now they just keep on tearing at the weeds.

There was an unusual instrument accompanying the choir — a square drum. I thought a drum was round by definition, but this one wasn’t. The player beat it with two square sticks. I was surprised that the choir sang a number that David’s college choir had sung – Soon and Very Soon – although it might have been a different arrangement. The teens did a great job, and everyone was busy congratulating them on the way out. We were very glad we had gone.

053115 Dennis in youth choir — Youth choir, Baptist Church in Waynesville

Haircuts and Christmas Trees

Before he left this morning, I begged son John to cut my hair. I deemed the timing to be crucial. He reluctantly agreed to do it several weeks ago and did a great job. Since hair grows faster in warmer weather, I was becoming decidedly witch-like when breezes stirred up the curls. Now I’m back to looking like a witch trainee.

The connection to Christmas Trees is this. I think the year was 2011 after some of the young accountants left, the ones who had bought and set up a small artificial tree in the office. I was appointed to do the honors that year. Setting the tree up and tweaking the branches into shape was a breeze, but then I had to look at it every day until January 6. I had been very pleased with the same tree when someone else was in charge, but I found my eyes straying toward it and seeing an ornament askew or a branch dipping too low. That silly Christmas tree haunted me on a daily basis. I couldn’t look at it without finding fault with my work, and it was in my field of vision every time I looked up from my desk. I wanted to shield my son from the same kind of experience. If he had stayed here all day, he might have been critical of his cutting job each time he looked at me. I didn’t want him to chase me around the house with a pair of scissors, trying to get everything just right. I’m happy to say the hair has now been washed, and it arranged itself in a way pleasing to me.