Sunday Excursion

Our college friend Gerhard arrived, and he went to church with us as he always does.  We ate lunch at the nearest nice restaurant, which was Japanese.  The place is never crowded, even if the Baptists get out of church before the Lutherans.  I might have expected John to be a bit antsy, since we were taking time to eat before we went to find the steam engine.  I have jested that John worships trains, but I should set the record straight.  Worship involves salvation, but he knows the only thing a steam engine will save him from is boredom.

A man from the Long Island Live Steamers was riding this special excursion train that traveled from Salisbury to Asheville.  I’m sure I heard the reason for this trip, but both John and his friend Jim thought it might be the last time it would happen.

 

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Steam is in front of the trees, clouds behind.

We watched the train go by slowly, appreciating the chuffing of the engine.  John figured out where Jim would get off while the switching was going on.  They turned the 21 car train around using a Y near Biltmore Village.  We had plenty of time to visit with Jim before he reboarded.

I took photos of Gerhard and John, finding them more interesting than the train.  John’s whole body was concentrating on that steam engine, while Gerhard was focused on recording the event with his good camera.

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Portable Pansies

I know that pansies should be hardy, but the ones we bought had been in a protected area 040916 Portable pansies.JPGaway from strong winds.  After being transplanted and hung on our exposed deck, their little faces were not smiling.  Thinking it would be for one night only, I brought them into the bathroom when the forecast was for a hard freeze and high winds.  Well, the weather was dancing from arctic winter to fickle spring.  Every two days I lugged those pansies in and out.  They will soon be too tired to bloom, and I’ll avoid looking at them.  Note to self: don’t bring anything home from the nursery until after tax day.

 

 

 

I wasn’t the only one with premature tendencies.  Neighbors on the next street must have put in tender shrubs.  While I was walking and hoping to see a few snowflakes, I saw they had used buckets and styrofoam ice chests to protect their investment.  At least my mistake was not quite so public.

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How Much Do You Like Cheese?

I was chatting with neighbor Amy, and we were talking about food.  Nothing new there!  A conversation is not complete without a discussion of some good recipe or other.  She described a dish that included asparagus, hard boiled eggs, and cheese, lots of cheese.

Amy declared, “I love cheese.  If you put it on a shingle, I’d lick it off.”

Dog Walking Without a Dog

I was analyzing the way John and I walk and came to the conclusion that we take turns being the dog.  We don’t wear collars or leads, but we shift as conditions change.  If there are no cars in sight, John is always one or two steps ahead of me.  He says he lets me set the pace.  That means he slows down if he doesn’t hear my panting to keep up with him.  I must look like an obedient dog, walking at his heels.

He is chivalrous, letting me walk on the edge of the road.  When we hear a car approaching, he slows and steps behind me to walk in single file.  Pedestrians are vulnerable.  There is no way we want to tangle with a vehicle.  If I hear a car and don’t know that he is aware of it, I call out, “Car!”  The pitch and firm tone would most certainly translate to a dog as the command, “Heel!”

We’re telling the neighbors if they see us walking on the road, they’ll have time to decide which of us is the dog.

Boots on the Ground

John and I walk through a service station on our morning walk, one that has a popular café under the same roof.  Drivers are not always aware of us, so we try to walk defensively.  Hungry drivers might be especially dangerous.  A large pickup truck whizzed into a parking spot and rocked when it stopped abruptly.  We were about to walk behind it when we saw the backup lights go on.  I almost put out my hand to stop John when he saw the danger, too.  I was wondering when we would know it was safe to go forward, and then I knew without a doubt.  I could see under the truck as his boots hit the ground.

Ear Challenge  

At two different venues I visibly winced when the music was too loud.  That might have been expected at the organ concert, but it was a surprise at the regular Sunday morning worship service.

We had no idea the service would feature a bluegrass gospel band, Appalachian Fire.  As we sat down in the pew, we saw five men gathering in front of microphones.  I’m not an authority on bluegrass, but they seemed pretty good, just too loud for the church.  Judging by the size of the amplifier, they could have burst eardrums in any normal space.  Comparing notes afterwards, John and I agreed we had never, ever been to a service where not a single hymn was sung.  For high church, liturgical purists, this was a low blow.  It was offset by a most excellent sermon from one of the retired pastors who is a member there.

We whiled away time by eating a leisurely dinner and driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway.  We thought we were comfortably early for the organ concert at The Cathedral of All Souls in Biltmore Village.  This is the church the Vanderbilt family constructed for the area, the one where Cornelia married John Cecil, the ambassador from England in 1924.  Much to our surprise, there were no empty seats visible from the entrance.  We squeezed ourselves down a side aisle and found two spaces at the back of the transept.  That might have been a blessing.  The people in the center got the full blast of that mighty Casavant organ.  The musician, Stefan Kiessling, is an assistant organist at St. Thomas Church Leipzig (Bach’s church).  Of course, he performed challenging music, so I had never played any of the pieces myself.  John knew two of them quite well, having listened to recordings from time to time.  Herr Kiessling is known for colorful registrations.  I wondered if some of the things I thought I heard were my tinnitus or if my ears were ringing from that extreme music.  In any case, it was wonderful to be at home surrounded by quietness.  My ears had had enough of a challenge for one day.

First Rate Nurseryman  

Neighbor Amy and I stopped in a nursery, perhaps the closest one to our homes.  It was a place I had passed often since we moved here.  We were both interested in a red twig dogwood after having seen one at the Biltmore gardens.  One of the young fellows took us into a greenhouse to see their Ivory Halo.  We were not impressed, probably because the redness of the stems had faded in its spring stage.

Dedicated gardener that she is, Amy wandered into another greenhouse.

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She read the tags on some plants and picked out a lovely little variegated one to take home.  An older man was at the register, and he picked up the plant, looking at the bottom.  I don’t remember his words, but he was telling Amy that it hadn’t developed well enough.  Only two or three little roots were poking out of the bottom.

He said, “You know there is going to be a freeze tonight.  This one wouldn’t make it outside.  I suggest you might want to leave it with me for ano
ther three weeks.”

The man wouldn’t have refused to sell the plant, but he made it easy for040216 Jacob's Ladder.jpg Amy to change her mind.  She asked him to write down the name so that she could ask for it at a later time, which he did.  The common name is Jacob’s Ladder.  We were very impressed that love of plants made him lose a sale that day.  I will definitely go back there.

Tulips  

Neighbor Amy did not go to the Biltmore mansion when her sister and husband were visiting, because she was under the weather.  She stayed home to go to the doctor.  The report came back that the tulips were in full bloom.  Days later, we knew we should go before the blooms were past their prime.  We agreed the night before that if Amy felt well enough, we’d skip the house tour and go straight to the gardens.  It worked out perfectly.  Because we were there early, we found a parking place at the garden shop.  Just as we came into the garden, John’s phone rang.  He stood there enjoying a conversation with a fellow train enthusiast while Amy and I walked among the tulip beds.  From time to time we looked back to see John still in the same spot.  A couple offered to take our picture together when I was asking Amy to pose.

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The A’s — Anne and Amy

I wanted a photo of the greenhouse, so we kept walking up the hill.

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Finally we were outside the mansion, looking up at the wisteria.

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It was fun being in a professionally groomed garden with a master home gardener.  Amy spotted the one dead plant in that huge array.  She also noticed spent daffodil blooms.  She asked, “Doesn’t that make you want to reach out and snap them off?”

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I replied, “No, but I’m not a gardener.”

Because John knew Amy was in the habit of getting a chocolate milkshake at the Biltmore Creamery, he offered to take us there.  Knowing she had been watching her weight, I quickly jumped in and said we shouldn’t tempt her.

Amy said, “Thank you for being the voice of my conscience.”

I sat there squirming.  The comment could have been taken two ways.  She might have been glad to forego the treat for the sake of her health.  [Anne!  Really???]  Although the tone of voice was not sarcastic, she could very well have wished I’d kept my mouth shut.  Here is the solution:  Amy, I owe you a thick shake.  Let me know when.

The first thing I saw when we pulled into our drive was the pot of yellow pansies we’d bought the day before.  When John couldn’t find our trowel, he bought two in town while running another errand.  Life is pushing me into this role, whether I want it or not.  When I took the Biltmore photos to her house, I told Amy that I’d gotten my hands into dirt when replanting the pansies.  I looked down and noticed there was still dirt under my fingernails!  That was one baby step.

 

Amy’s View of News

If I were alert enough, I could probably devote a whole blog site to quoting casual comments from our fun neighbors.  Amy has had a persistent cough for several days, so I called to ask if she wanted to share a pot of tea.

She said, “I’m just watching the news.”

As she took a breath to continue, I said, “Do you want to finish watching the news and then come over?”

Amy replied, “The news is never over.”

I laughed and repeated it to John.  As long as the world turns, there will be news.  If you are married to a man who is addicted to New York radio, you know there are radio and television stations that do nothing but spew out news and ads 30 hours a day.  IF John were going to be buried, and IF I wanted to put something meaningful in his casket, I would tuck in a portable radio with a handle.  He used to carry one around the house from office to bathroom to living room because, to quote Amy, “the news is never over.”