A New Season

Fall officially arrived at 10:21 Thursday morning, and it is beginning to look like it in Highlands.  The tips of those maple trees next to the Presbyterian Church on Fifth Street look like brushes whose tips have been dipped in crimson paint and are standing on end. 

The Joe Pye weed is nodding along the road, the jewel weed is flecking the woods with gold, and the burning bush has begun to blaze.

It is beginning to feel like it, too, cool enough in my chair on the deck this morning to see the steam rise in wisps from my coffee cup.  It is surely the best time of year for running, which is why so many races are held here in the South during these coming months.  We are eyeing some of them, starting with the Autumn Breeze 5-K on October 2.  And who knows what more?  It is a new season.

Buck Trott

I have attended too many funerals this year, and I wonder if that is normal for someone of my age.  Now Buck Trott has finally succumbed after lingering in Fidelia-Eckerd for a very long time, not knowing family and friends in the past few months, and I attended his funeral today at the Church of the Incarnation.

I knew him when he was a vital, energetic, hearty Mayor when I served as Town Administrator.  He knew every single employee of the Town by name, and would often visit the Warehouse on Poplar Street at lunch time to talk to them; he was a tireless advocate for good salaries and good benefits, and he appreciated (as did I) the important and often thankless jobs of the Electric Crew and the Sanitation Crew.  Well into his 70s he still had more energy than most of us.  I remember "fighting the good fight" with him on more than one occasion.  Once we left for Raleigh early in the morning to battle against some misguided folks down the river who were trying to thwart our plans to expand our environmentally superior wastewater treatment plant.  I remember him standing and passionately addressing whatever Committee it was - everybody in Raleigh knew Highlands when Buck was Mayor! - and persuading them by, I think, his sheer earnestness.  At the end of a long day we were driving back to Highlands, and it was growing late; I kept asking, "Buck, would you like me to drive?  Take a break?"  But taking a break was not his style.  "No, I'm fine," he would insist, and then embark on the next topic of conversation, looking at his instrument panel in the dark, as I imagined he did on one of those many missions he flew in Vietnam; I could almost see him gazing left and right to check his engines.  He sometimes attributed his good healthy and energy to his exposure to Agent Orange, which I decided might be a Fountain of Youth if a soldier could outlast it.

He did so much for the Boy Scouts and the Church of the Incarnation, and when he was no longer Mayor he stayed involved in everything.  He delivered home delivery meals to my Mom every week for a long time.  "How's your Mom?" he would always ask.  And, of course, he was the best Santa Claus anyone has ever seen.

Now he has flown his final mission.  And I will miss him.

Climbing into Fall

I have written in this blog before about climbing to the summit of Big Bearpen mountain.  It has become a weekly event for me on Mondays, and since returning from our trip out West it has paid just as many dividends as the weekly long runs and the intervals.  Two weeks ago, upset about the sudden death of my father-in-law, I even ran it twice.  You can burn up a lot of stress running up therapeutic mountains like this one!

We cancelled our planned trip to Cades Cove this year, too, an annual outing which had been scheduled for Friday (Alan's birthday) and Saturday (Jane's birthday).  It was surely not the right time to leave and we could not have enjoyed it.  But Anthony, Sharon, Vicki, and Art all went and Anthony took this gorgeous photo, which made us want to return to this magical place next September, or perhaps even sooner.  As I was on the way down Big Bearpen this morning, I ran into Vicki on the way up, and stopped to ask her all about the weekend; eventually, I decided to run with her to the summit again.  And by the time I reached the top the second time, all of the lingering fog had disappeared and you could see far into South Carolina, and around the back side Whiteside Mountain stood out clearly against a blue sky.  Leaves had begun to turn a golden shade on some of the oak trees on the summit.

And so I felt that I was climbing the summit of another season this morning, leaving behind not only the hot and humid mornings, the thick curtains slanting through green trees, but also the heartbreak and the sad memories of the past.  I felt that I was climbing with renewed strength into new possibilities, a place where the bright colors and the distant vistas grow clearer once again.  Climbing into fall.

Alan Lewis

I see that my last post on this blog was August 29 and it was called "A Little Suffering."  The rest of the week was very encouraging - Big Bearpen on Monday, a set of 400-meter intervals on Thursday, and 10 miles on Saturday as planned.

But everything can change so rapidly, in the blink of an eye.  Martha was talking to her Daddy on Saturday night a little after 7:00 p.m., finding out about his day.  It had been a good one for him, too, taking his King Midget to Town twice (pictured below with his friend Bill) - visiting with his fellow lovers of old cars on the Loafer's Bench on Main Street - and now he was sitting in his favorite chair watching NASCAR on television.  And then suddenly he stopped talking, and just like that he was gone.  "Out, out, brief candle."

The rest of the evening was a blur - the frantic dash to Town, the blue and red lights flashing in the dark, the EMTs there in less than five minutes working as hard as they could to bring him back - but Martha knew in her heart that he was already gone.  His 86th birthday would have been September 16, and now there is a large void left where this decent and gentle man used to be, his wonderful sense of humor, his devotion to his family and his church.  We miss him so very much!

But he always insisted after all that he was living on borrowed time; his own father, a Methodist minister, had died in his sleep at the age of 51 of a heart attack.  And surely this is the way he wanted to leave this world, with absolutely no suffering and no pain, as if God had tapped him gently on the shoulder and led him away in a moment when he was supremely happy.  Immediately after his death, the house was filled with an astonishing outpouring of love and support for Jane and the family.  He was buried on Wednesday, a sunny and unseasonably warm day, family and friends filling First Presbyterian Church and then gathering at beautiful Highlands Memorial Park to celebrate a life well-lived. 


And I will miss him, too.  I ran hard yesterday, and although he was not a runner he was with me every step of my run.  And now he has crossed the final finish line.

Rest in peace, Alan Lewis.