Arctic Chill

The next few days will bring big changes to our weather after what has been a relatively mild winter so far.  It looks as if Highlands will not escape the upcoming arctic chill.  In fact, the Weather Channel map this morning shows the jet stream passing directly over us.

I can almost feel that big, blue streak of arctic air, straight out of the west, going right through the hapless runner despite all the extra layers of clothing!  And there might be snow, as well, although there is some difference of opinion on that point.  The local WLOS-TV forecast predicts some snow showers, and temperatures in the teens:  a rough week ahead. 

I used to be more "Hard Core," I guess.  But these days when the temperature dips into the 20s and lower and the wind chill leaves fingers numb and tingling for a long time afterward, I long for those warmer places where we hope to be running in a couple of weeks, thanks once again to the gracious offer from Martha's Aunt Lizette of the use of her condo in Atlantic Beach, NC.

The past two years we escaped just in the nick of time - in fact, it seemed both years as if snowstorms followed on our heels as we fled Highlands.  This time it looks like we may not have made it in time.

So Hallowed and So Gracious

Once again, family health emergencies have intruded into our thoughtfully planned schedules.  We had planned to visit Old Salem this week and listen to Christmas music on the Tannenberg organ.  But kindness and responsibility are more important than our ordinary plans in times of emergency, after all.  Which is an appropriate thought to have on this Christmas Eve in Highlands when people everywhere - on the streets, in the post office, in the hardware store - seem to be striving to become better versions of themselves, smiling, singing snatches of carols, exchanging well-wishes and words of comfort.  I wished a complete stranger a Merry Christmas yesterday!  How wonderful it would be if we could always dwell in such a season.

I did manage to run three miles early Monday morning before making trips to Asheville on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.  While we were in Asheville on Tuesday we managed to find time to go to see the National Gingerbread House Competition at the Grove Park Inn. 

 
 The Inn is such a lovely place to celebrate Christmas, and we have often visited it during this season - what a wonderful place to be snowbound for a few days!  I could wander around its long corridors and climb to its many levels day after day, I think.  It looks like it will be standing for centuries, unlike some of the gingerbread houses that were already caving in.

And on that Thursday, we took advantage of the window of opportunity.  It was an unseasonably mild day, the first day of winter, and I was comfortable wearing shorts and a lighter shirt, a reminder that in only two weeks we will be on our way to warmer climes for two months.  And I discovered that the sun is actually closest to the earth on this winter solstice, almost as amazing as the fact that on the summer solstice the day contains six hours more sunlight than during this dark time of year.  It is no accident that we celebrate the Light of the World at this time of year.

So today Martha is baking the ham that we will have for Christmas Dinner tomorrow, and I have decided to bake an apple pie entirely for my own enjoyment, and for the aroma that comes from the kitchen, the sound of Messiah in the background.

On Christmas Eve I always remember that wonderful speech Marcellus makes at the end of Act I of Hamlet:

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

The bird of dawning singeth all night long.

And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.

The nights are wholesome. Then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is that time."

So Merry Christmas to the occasional readers of this little blog.  

Running on Icy Roads

I do not function very well when I cannot run, and I have not run since Wednesday due to the snow accumulation and the uncleared roads.  In past years I tried running in snow; once I used something called Yaktrax on my shoes, but I think they were intended for deeper snow, not snow and ice on top of pavement.

Yesterday cabin fever got the better of me and I manged to get to the top of our steep road, fishtailing in the curves, moving steadily upward; the Walhalla Road, US-28, was free of snow and ice except in the usual places (like "Mitchell's Curve").  I went to the gym and hit the weight room, bounced a pickleball up against the wall in the gym for a few minutes, and then drove around our usual running route, scoping out the icy places.  And this afternoon, with temperatures in the upper 40s and bright sunshine, I drove to Town with my Favorite Running Partner and we ended up logging four careful miles, stopping to walk the icy parts.  We marveled at how the temperature plunged 20 degrees in those stretches of road where the December sun, low on the horizon, never shines.

But what a joy it was to run again after only four days of not running!  I cannot imagine how a truly snowbound runner would fare.  I suppose they would bundle up and get out the Yaktrax .  And there was plenty of beauty left to see despite the melting snow, which officially reached a depth of 15 inches in Highlands and 18 inches in Cashiers.  This rain chain at the Hudson Library was a 12-foot icicle gleaming in the sun:

And the little Oriental garden by the front entry presented a beautiful sight, a tall cap of snow sitting at a rakish angle on top of the stone lantern.

Now we are back home in our warm house, glad that we ventured out into the beauty of mid-December in Highlands.

Shoveling Out

It snowed all night and this morning we awoke to a total of perhaps eight or ten inches of snow, which prompted me to take exactly the same photos of the same deck furniture, documenting these slightly greater depths.

Our Mini Cooper does not like snow; she is like most of the cats we have owned (and unlike most of the dogs we have owned), too delicate a creature for winter.  She seemed to be huddled up sullenly under the thick blanket of snow, her British mirrors just barely visible.

I posted the photo on Facebook.  "I don't think we'll be riding with the top down anytime soon."   Anthony posted a photo of Everett's convertible top sagging and said he might not have one soon.  "I just went out and scraped it off," I replied.  "It's a heavy snow!  Shoveling our driveway will have to substitute for my long run this morning."  

Then I got to work shoveling snow, one of the most enjoyable activities I know, I suppose because it reminds me of my New England childhood.  My brother and I would first clear our own driveway after a heavy snow (that was the rule my Dad pronounced); the snow-piles along our driveway one year were so high that it was difficult to throw a shovelful on top - one year we had to haul some down beside the garage in the wheelbarrow.  Once our driveway had been cleared to my Dad's satisfaction, we would head out to make a few dollars shoveling our neighbors' driveways.  What great memories!  I remember snow so deep that we had to lift each shovelful off in sections, a third at a time.  At the end of the day, we would return with wet gloves and stiff fingers, the bottoms of our jeans wet and frozen stiff until they thawed beside a heat vent, warm and glowing with pride, a few wet bills stuffed in our pockets. 

So I was remembering my Dad and my brother, both of them gone now, as I carefully shoveled the walk, and then the driveway, straight lines out to the as-yet unplowed road.  The hush was disturbed from time to time as an evergreen bough would release its held fistful of snow and crash down to the driveway.  What a sweet fragrance there was to the air!  And the great satisfaction of simple work, shovelful by shovelful, as I eventually took off my coat and then my vest, warming willingly to this work.  As the old Zen saying has it (amended for the task before me):

"Before enlightenment, chop wood, shovel snow;

After enlightenment, chop wood, shovel snow."

There is no more chopping of wood since we installed gas logs in our fireplace, but I have always enjoyed that task, too, in the same way - the slow, methodical work, stopping from time to time to stretch and look around, to breathe deeply, with patience and mindfulness rather than hurrying to complete the task. 

And now I have finished, almost without noticing that it has happened, and we will await the snowplow to rumble down the road and connect us once more to the wider world.

First Snowfall

We awoke this morning to a light snow on the surfaces of everything in our yard, first revealed by the excited spectacle of white tops on our cars when I turned on the spotlights at 6:30 a.m.  It was a beautiful snow, continuing all morning and coating everything, transforming common objects into amazing new creatures.  The table and chairs on our deck have thick white cushions, which seem like another world, far removed from those summer days where we sat and put up the umbrella to shield us from the late-afternoon sun.

Everything looks just a little bit like those Hasui woodblock prints, especially the arbors and pergolas which already have an Oriental backbone.

And the fence-posts have donned Pope's mitres.  Snow hangs impossibly from the tomato-cages that only a few months ago contained the vines of grape tomatoes.

It finally seems like winter.  The power even went off for two hours - I dragged the generator outside the basement in readiness, then sat in my study by the window in the waning afternoon light reading back-issues of The New Yorker - returning suddenly to remind us how much we had been enjoying Christmas music and decorations.

It is a good day for reading.  Those New England poets I grew up with come to mind on a day like this as our woods fill up with snow.

"Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow." - Frost 

 

 

“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of Storm.”- Emerson

 

"It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs." - Wallace Stevens

Let It Snow

Now that we've had our Christmas Tree Lighting and Christmas Parade, the next step into winter seems to be right around the corner:   the first snow.  The forecast on the local radio station indicates only a slim chance of "wintry mix" tonight and tomorrow.

But that was enough to have everyone talking about it, as they always do in Highlands - at the Post Office, at Reeves Hardware,  that was the main topic.  "I hear we might be getting three inches!" one snow-lover smiled.  We always like to exaggerate the depth of that very first snow.

WLOS-TV, which I watch every morning on my computer, was a little more sure about snow developing, and in some robust amount.  Meteorologist Jason Boyer even pulled up the TV station's patented "Flake-O-Meter:"

The blue hand was pointing toward "Accumulation for Many" this morning, which is No. Two out of Four on the Flake-O-Meter scale.  But we're ready for No. Four!

Ia there anything more magical than running in the snow?  The hush, the metallic fragrance in the air, the branches bending down gracefully under the gentle accumulation, like a soft blanket thrown lightly over a snug world.  It is a transformation of the everyday into the miraculous, as Hasui and other Japanese artists understood so well.  Absolutely beautiful.

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Christmas Parade

We had gathered with hundreds of others to watch the lighting of the Town Christmas Tree last weekend.  But today the season began in earnest with the annual Christmas Parade.  We had a busy day planned - leaving immediately after the parade to visit Martha's aunt Anne in Clemson and take in a Sunday matinee performance of Miracle on 34th Street - so I completed my long run of ten miles yesterday.  It has been a beautiful weekend, temperatures in the 50s, good for running and good for watching this small-town celebration, unabashedly Christian and uniquely Highlands.

The Highlands Hurricane Swim Team has had a good season, and their impressive float early in the parade was a highlight:

There were many runners in the parade as well.  Bill and his wife Mary are members of our running club, and Bill justly takes pride in his fine old Ford:

And Bob, the unofficial Club Photographer, was out in his old truck, taking pictures of bystanders all along the way as they took pictures of him.

Most of our local churches were well-represented, and I have no doubt that if we had a synagogue in Highlands they would be welcome to celebrate Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights.  The Methodists always have the classic sheep, and an attractive young Mary and Joseph on a donkey.

They are known, too, for the camels, one of them led by our faithful runner Fred, who probably ran yesterday, too, because his camel-tending duties take precedent on this day.

The ladies of the Mountain Garden Club are always a big hit, too; they work for months on an intricately-choreographed number that usually ends with a chorus line.  Such a wonderful sight to see our friends and neighbors being silly and not minding a bit!

And of course Santa must bring up the rear, high on his sled.  For years this role was filled by Buck Trott, who was also Mayor and thus rode in a car toward the front of the parade (usually driven by Martha's dad Alan in his T-model), which required a quick change and transport from front to back in some mysterious fashion.  Both of them are gone now, and there is a tinge of sadness as we remember those who ride in parades only in our memories.

So this is small Town life at its best, the secular rubbing shoulders with the sacred, the students from the Highlands Biological Station raising high a spotted-red salamander banner, three wise men carrying gifts for a King, Smoky the Bear and the Grinch and the Tooth Fairies from the Dental Clinic cavorting and distributing candy, the corny and the scriptural, the profound and the silly, children on floats pulled by tractors and trucks singing sweet carols. 

On a day like this we appreciate Highlands more than ever!

Giving Thanks

I did not have time to run on Thursday this week -Thanksgiving Day - because Martha and I worked together to prepare dinner for her family.  I walked down the road, however ("working up an appetite" in some fashion was always a tradition in my own family when I was a child), during a brief window of opportunity between putting the turkey breast in the oven and beginning to prepare the casseroles that, in our division of labor, I had volunteered to make.

I thought about all of the times I have been fortunate enough to run on this day in my life.  Like the races I ran when we were visiting my Mom and Dad, starting and ending in downtown Orlando, in three consecutive years - 1996, 1997, and 1998 - one of those years with my young daughter.  And all of the long, glorious runs through those neighborhoods in Raleigh where Martha's grandmother lived in the house in which she was born on Boylan Avenue, lovingly restored since then by her aunt Lizette.

I would run in that triangle between Glenville and Hillsborough and Wade Avenue, and into the campus at N. C. State (I ran around the track one morning), through Cameron Village, wandering in neighborhoods filled with beautiful old homes on sidewalks made treacherous by the upheaving roots of majestic oak and maple trees.  Those were wonderful gatherings we had! - dinner prepared by Lizette.  To this day we marvel that she was able to prepare such a complex meal for so many people while many of us were "underfoot," staying at her house.  She told me recently that she would do it all again, the laughter of the children (all grown up now, many with families of their own), her husband Leon ringing the bell for Salvation Army somewhere nearby while she single-handedly prepared this feast, a gift of love and hospitality.

This day seems filled with nostalgic memories like these, many of them involving getting out of doors to "work up an appetite," enjoying the morning, watching cars park at the curb in those Raleigh neighborhoods as they arrived early for dinner, or competing with other runners in downtown Orlando on uneven brick streets.  I have a lot of wonderful memories for which I am thankful!  As a runner, but also as a husband, father, part of a family.

And today seemed like Thanksgiving Day, too, arriving at Founders Park to find so many of my running friends, chattering about how we needed to burn off all those calories from dressing and gravy, laughing and enjoying a surprisingly balmy morning.  Even better, Martha came running, too, and so I had the pleasure of running a few miles with my Favorite Running Partner, finally back from her injuries, recovered well after our race last Saturday, and looking strong and light on her feet.

Yes, today seemed like a day for giving thanks.  They had already closed off Pine Street for the lighting of the Christmas Tree at Founders Park tonight, and in a little while we will go up to Town and walk around its busy streets, have an early dinner at the Asia House ("anti-turkey"), and join with hundreds of others to watch this simple American tradition of lighting a community tree, surrounded by friends and neighbors.  Giving thanks.

Turkey Strut

I missed the opportunity to run the half-marathon I had trained for in mid-October, so I had been searching race calendars for another race.  Last week, Martha stumbled upon one in WNC Magazine that sounded interesting, the Cherokee 5-K Turkey Strut.   The entry fee was inviting, only $5 for children 12 and under and for “elders” over the age of 59.  Elders!  I loved it already.  And it turned out to be one of the most interesting races we have entered, on a course that took us around the Kituwah Mound between Bryson City and Cherokee.

The place, I learned, is a sacred and historic site to the Cherokee Nation and once sat at the center of the first Cherokee village, Kituwah, often referred to as the “mother town of the Cherokee.” Archaeologists date the site back nearly 10,000 years.  The Mound itself was protected by a low split-rail fence and those who were not Cherokee were asked not to walk on this holy ground behind the fence, which reminded me somehow of God's commandment to Moses in Exodus: "Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground."

I am not a cynic, however, and surely all of us who return again and again to nature to find strength and peace come to know that there are indeed special, holy places in the world like this.  That's why we seek out the fog-shrouded peaks of Mt. LeConte, the long winding trail climbing higher and higher and the endless vistas opening up; or the crimson sun rising from the ocean on a sweet lavender morning as gulls wing overhead.  And truly this place seemed filled with that same sense of wonder and holiness, these flat fields along the broad, winding Tuckasegee River with dry brown field corn still standing here and there where it had not yet been harvested, the crinkly rustling stalks, the cobs scattered along the trail.

The course was entirely on gravel roads - I said in my Newsletter account that a more accurate name would have been the Turkey Stumble - and I was worried for Martha, who has had some hard spills in recent years and resulting injuries from which she is just now recovering; this was her first race since March.  In some places, it was a matter of choosing between the left rut, the right rut, or the short blond-colored grass in between.  My legs were shredded after a mile or so; they felt about like this:

But the final half-mile of road seemed to be smoother, the pieces of gravel smaller, and I was able to muster up a final kick at the end, enough to catch one woman and pass her but not enough to catch the "elder" in my age group who would take second place (in the 61 and over age group) to my third (32:49)  I had almost hoped that Martha had gone in early (it was a figure-eight course), and looked around briefly to be sure she was not nursing a bleeding knee in the car.  But she has never had those initials "DNF" next to her name in any race, and sure enough I saw her coming around that last big sweeping curve around the field, pumping her arms and kicking hard at the end as I had, and missing first place in her own age group by only eight seconds (34:04).  It was nice to be running races with my FRP (Favorite Running Partner) again!  And to see her so completely recovered.

My watch showed a distance of 3.16 miles, but I am not a snob when it comes to small non-certified races like this.  It was a laid-back affair, after all (although computer-generated results were available promptly after the race), with strange age-groups that varied from ten years to four years, and with only two porta-potties available and minimal post-run nourishment (water and bananas).  We gathered afterward in a big open tin-roofed building where big carts of harvested corn were parked at one end, lots of children milling around in between (taking advantage of that $5 entry fee), and a display of interesting awards at the other end:

A wagon-load of butterball turkeys for first-place overall winners, bags of potatoes, and jars of home-canned green beans and tomatoes - a complete Thanksgiving Dinner!  The awards took a long time, as proud parents gathered around with cell-phone cameras and took many pictures.  We had the feeling that this was a community who knew one another well and took pleasure in gathering for this long-standing holiday event.  I suspect most of them knew by name the woman who had put up those green beans.

So it was a good day, there in this beautiful and sacred place where the Cherokee Nation had gathered and camped and grown corn for thousands of years, the smoke from their campfires rising up into a cloudy November sky like this one to Unetlanvhi, or the Great Spirit, the Creator who presided over all things and created the Mother Earth.

Whiteside Mountain

There may not be many clear and relatively warm days left this year, perfect for hiking.  It had warmed up to 50 degrees this afternoon and Whiteside Mountain was calling to me.  There were hordes of people in Town, here for the Highlands Food and Wine festival; someone was flagging cars into the parking lot on the old Deville property across from the Post Office, and there were shuttle buses on the move between there and the huge tent set up on Pine Street.  Slender young women were crossing Main Street oblivious of the traffic, most of them wearing expensive-looking knee-length boots.

Some of the same hordes were at the Whiteside Mountain parking lot where I was fortunate to squeeze into a parking place.  A small group of young people was just behind me on the trail, laughing and chattering away, obviously climbing the mountain for the first time.  So I played the part of the experienced local and told them a little about the trails and what they would be looking at from the summit.  "Here for the Food and Wine Festival?" I asked.  "You got it!"  They were suitably impressed by the views of Whiteside Cove at the top, and one of them even climbed down to take a look at Fool's Rock, site of the daring 1911 rescue by Charles Wright.

The faraway lakes of South Carolina were gleaming on the horizon; I started to point them out to my accidental companions, but decided against it since they did not even notice the peregrine falcon floating blissfully on the thermals.

They were chattering so much that I let them go on.  But there were others who were as impressed by the silence as I.  One woman was perched on a little rock, arms clasped around her knees, gazing out in the distance savoring the quiet.  This young man was painting the magnificent view spread out before him, and he permitted me to take a picture of his work in progress.

After any time at all hiking out on a mountain, that indescribable peace begins to well up inside a person, not unlike what we runners experience on those long, leisurely runs far from Main Street.  Other hikers greet us readily, commenting on the gorgeous day, the glorious views.  Children seem especially excited; perhaps they have never climbed to such an altitude before in their lives.

On the way back down the trail, I stopped to take photos of the small, unusual things I spotted along the way, seeds and leaves and empty November stalks, noticing with satisfaction the fallen leaves thick on the watery parts of the trail, a little pile of rocks placed one atop another by some whimsical hiker.  And one especially endearing little dog with tiny, spindly legs who was absolutely in heaven, sniffing the ground almost continuously, suddenly stopping before me to gaze up in fascination at this solitary hiker.  I hope his owner will be carrying him around tonight in a big tent on Pine Street, sipping wine while the little fellow sleeps in her arms.

Going Forward Slowly

The Chinese proverb that ended my post on Sunday seemed appropriate to this week's training: 

"Do not fear going forward slowly;  

fear only to stand still."

- Chinese Proverb

After an unusual five days of "standing still" while I nursed this chest cold, I ventured up to Town on Tuesday morning.  It was raining, something a little more than a drizzle, so I waited in my car until the window of opportunity promised by the reliable weather app on my phone had materialized, which it did.  It felt good to be moving forward in this cool fog, even to be moving forward slowly!  Still coughing up the remnants of this cold, I managed to complete two miles.

Yesterday, we went to Zachary Field to walk a few laps with Martha's brother Bill Lewis, who readers of this blog will remember had a serious heart attack a mere month ago and is beginning cardio rehab.  It was a foggy day, so foggy that at times we could look across the soccer field around which the walking path goes and barely see Bill's ghostly figure on the other side, slowly and with quiet determination making his way in the fog.  "Not bad for somebody who had a heart attack a month ago!" I told him.  Going forward slowly is a relative thing, I reflected, something which all runners quickly learn, of course.  Shalane Flanagan had been running sub-5:30 miles in New York on Sunday.  I had been running 12:44 miles yesterday.  Bill was glad to be merely walking.

On the way back to the car Martha spotted these tiny leaves, sprouting from the rock wall below the walking path, brilliant little blazes of color here on a gray and foggy afternoon.  The beauty of small, almost insignificant parts of a world that I had walked right past and not seen.

This morning when I arrived at the Park I was glad to see Fred just starting out, and we completed four miles together, enjoying that quiet camaraderie runners have, talking about books and bears and marathons and growing older and slower.  Four miles seemed like more of a struggle than it had in a very long time, but it always makes it easier when we go the journey with our friends.  "Well, we managed to stay under 13-minute miles," he said ironically.  I checked my watch and saw that he was right:  12:56.

And so I drove home in a glow of pride and quiet satisfaction at having run just a little slower than Shalane Flanagan had run.  

Falling Back

Last night we participated in that ridiculous annual ritual of setting our clocks back as "Daylight Savings Time" ended.  Only a fool would believe that daylight can be saved, or that we can "gain an hour."  It's disruptive to pets and farms animals (and runners), who don't know when they are supposed to go to sleep, or wake up, or eat.  As I write, it is mid-afternoon and it already seems to be getting dark outside.

I have fallen back in another way, too, finishing my run on Thursday feeling absolutely spent, and realizing by Friday that I had contracted a nasty little virus which has now settled into my chest.  So the old rule of thumb - if congestion is above the throat, it is OK to run; if it is below the throat, take a day off - has waylaid this runner.  And it has made me realize what a precious thing it is to be healthy and fit.  It has only been three days and I already feel the results of not running, not only physically but mentally.  I feel like Prince Hamlet when he cries out in melancholy:

"How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!"

I did the next best thing to shake off this mood, though, walking one or two miles each day, looking at these beautiful leaves that to my mind have reached their very peak of beauty, not because of the fanfare and perfection of brilliant color but because of this quieter music, the nuances, the little cracks and mottled shades of color.  We walk down the road these days and hear the continuous, gentle sound of leaves falling to the ground all around us.

This morning I lazed around the house, drinking an extra cup of coffee and doing what many runners do on this first Sunday in November - watching the NYC marathon.  This year saw Shalane Flanagan, whose career I have followed with admiration for years, winning the women's race - the first time for an American woman in 40 years.  What a joy it was to watch her cross that finish line, so far ahead of everybody else, those long legs pumping and that long blond ponytail swinging from side to side.  There was no falling back with her!

And when I return to running tomorrow or the next day, I will remember this picture as an inspiration for my own humble finish lines.  And my own determination to keep moving forward despite what the clock tells us to do.

 "Do not fear going forward slowly; 

fear only to stand still."

 - Chinese Proverb

Snow Flurries and Leaf Flurries

It is a Sunday, the last Sunday in October, and day by day Bill Lewis has continued to regain his strength.  Yesterday we visited  him and he was resting, watching a basketball game with his brother; we brought him a print-out of all the comments that have been posted on Facebook and it must surely be an amazing feeling to know that so many in the community care about him and are praying for his full recovery.  If Bill experienced visions of angels in flowing robes or golden cities, he has not said so.  Still, it is not often that a man can be told that, like Lazarus, he has been revived from the dead and has another chance.

If it were me, I think I might find myself sitting for some time in a shaft of sunlight beneath a stained-glass window in some holy place.  Or I might spend many of my days as I did this morning, walking down the road in the late October brilliance, marveling at the chiaroscuro patterns made by swiftly-moving clouds, the leaves golden and brilliant orange, the wind cutting sharp and cold - a harbinger of the season to come.  I noticed that there was a light splatter of moisture on my sunglasses, and as I gazed around I saw with surprise that these were snow flurries - I could see them swirling around, mixed with the falling leaves.  What a joy it was to walk in this flurry of snow and leaves all mixed together!

Acts of kindness are more important than races, but still I feel a little disappointed that I reached a certain relative peak of fitness in mid-October and had to cancel running a half marathon for which I had trained for two months.  But now, here among this season of swift changes, I am determined to begin working toward another goal, and then another.  There is a good half marathon in Morehead City on March 3, and there are some shorter races before then.  It is time to shake off the stiffness in my legs of so many days driving back and forth to the Veterans Hospital and to wake up my legs again.  So yesterday I included some short hill sprints in my run, and in the week ahead I will begin running some tempo miles, climbing those long hills, and building mileage again.

Training never ends; it just needs to be re-focused from time to time.

Bill Lewis Comes Home

I sent this e-mail to family and friends this morning:

"Family & Friends:

We are so happy to report that Bill Lewis came home yesterday!  We had been told by his doctor on Sunday that he might be released by the end of this week, but Tuesday morning we learned that he was indeed being discharged that very day.  We arrived and found him disconnected from all his tubes and wires and things, up and walking, impatient to leave.  He has a long list of medicines that he will be taking, some for the rest of his life.  And he has to go back to the VA hospital often in the coming weeks and months, beginning with an examination by his cardiologist next week.  After all of the paperwork had been completed we got him in the car and started heading back.  He looked out the window and said this was the first time he had been outside in two weeks, and we realized that it had been exactly two weeks since he had been driven here by ambulance in the middle of the night.  He thoroughly enjoyed the trip back home; the first half-hour on the Blue Ridge parkway which has an entrance just down the road from the VA hospital; it is a beautiful drive, and he was just soaking up the blue sky and the fall foliage, glad to be alive and breathing the sweet air!  When we arrived in Highlands, we noticed a large group of people parked at the Community Building, just a couple of blocks from Jane’s house (where he will be staying for now) – a Mama bear and its two clubs were out on the front lawn of Mildred Wilson’s house, and folks were taking pictures on their cell phones:  a welcome home committee!  We are so thankful for all your prayers, and for God’s healing hand which we pray will continue to be on Bill." 

  
That was the second welcome home committee.  As we passed the Whiteside Overlook, we saw two dozen people lined up at the handrail taking photos of the "Shadow of the Bear," which appears this time of year in the valley below. 

Welcome home, Bill!

Bill Lewis (Continued)

Ten days after being admitted to the ICU at the VA hospital, Bill Lewis has been moved to a private room.  Some of the nurses tell us they consider it a miracle.  "The hand of God has been on him," one of them said.  I am not sure how frequently these doctors and nurses, who deal with death and disability and serious illness on a day-to-day basis, are able to say this.  But we are so grateful for their compassionate care. 

Bill is talking, beginning physical therapy, eating regular food.  He still needs to regain his strength, but the progress he has made in the three days since they removed the ventilator tube from his throat has indeed been nothing short of miraculous. 

Thanks to all those who follow this blog from time to time and have been praying for his recovery.  Today we decided that we would remain in Highlands and rest from the many days of travel, which has been especially difficult for Bill's 82-year-old mother.  I have been outside enjoying what the meteorologists called this morning "abundant sunshine" all afternoon, raking abundant leaves in our yard, and giving abundant thanks.

Bill Lewis

In the midst of our busy lives, accidents can happen, hurricanes can sweep across islands, loved ones can suffer accidents and death.  And then the races that we plan to run, however hard we trained for them, suddenly become irrelevant as we must turn to the most important things:  praying for and helping those we love.

Last Tuesday, Martha's 58-year old brother Bill had a sudden heart attack and he was taken to the Charles George VA Medical Center near Asheville.  He went into cardiac arrest, and an excellent team of doctors and nurses, Saints every one, kept him alive, watching over him day and night.  We discovered that this hospital was the No. 1 VA hospital in the nation, and has been for five years, and we have met some of the finest people!  Yesterday, for the first time, Bill opened his eyes, squeezed our hands, tried to talk (he still has a ventilator tube down his throat), nodded his head remembering a story about an old friend, and seemed almost to laugh when I joked that I was gong to have the elevator music in the background changed to Led Zeppelin.  He has been in an induced coma since Tuesday and did not know we were there, but yesterday he did.  And more important, we knew he was there!

So we pray that Bill Lewis will recover, and we climb in the car and drive to the hospital once again to take up vigil and be here for him.  So this race, the focus of my blog for nearly two months, is on the back burner.  There will be other races, but there is only one Bill.

Niggles and Nate

As it turned out, Nate carried several inches of rain but not as much wind as Irma, so our property escaped unscathed, although we understand there were some tornadoes sighted in Tryon and in Rutherford County to the east.  I have always heard from locals that tornadoes do not form above an elevation of 2000 feet, which is probably inaccurate but is one of those things I choose to believe anyway.  My mother-in-law says her mother remembered a possible tornado in Highlands when she was 20 years old, in 1918; trees near the cemetery were twisted and flattened like matchsticks.  Once in 100 years:  pretty good odds.

On Monday morning I drove to Town, and the only evidence of Nate's passing through was a light scattering of leaves and pine needles on the road.  Thick, warm, humid fog disappeared as I drove higher and higher until I saw a remarkable swath of blue sky, and then sunshine slanting through the trees above Satulah.  Conditions felt like Florida, though, so humid that I was drenched with sweat in no time here in the second week of October.

This is the final week before my half marathon, so I am tapering, that time in training when a runner can feel as if he is walking a fine line between pushing too hard and becoming stale.  This is also a time when I always experience what marathoner runners refer to as "niggles," anxious little aches and pains that crop up unexpectedly.  Despite all my 12-milers and interval sessions, now that I am running only short and easy miles that old stiffness in the right lower leg and knee has returned; this morning I felt as if I was falling apart, almost limping as I descended the stairs.  I have learned, though, that this will very likely disappear on Saturday morning when I begin running. 

So in this final week, I recognize a familiar road, a place I have run before.