Harkers Island

Today we decided to visit Harkers Island, which lies due east of Atlantic Beach on what they call the "Back Sound."  It is small, unincorporated, and quite picturesque.  We came here last year on the recommendation of Martha's Aunt and had a little picnic on National Park Service land adjacent to the ferry to Cape Lookout.  The sea was too rough today for a ferry to Shackleford Island, where the famous Shackleford ponies (related, I think, to the Banker Ponies farther north that we know in Corolla) roam freely and the Cape Lookout lighthouse stands tall; we may come back on a day when wind gusts are not 30 mph!

We had lunch at the Fish Hook Grill,a little hole-in-the-wall place highly-rated by Tripadvisor, where they served up their signature, delicious Hatteras-style clam chowder (clear broth, plenty of clams, potatoes, and not much else). 

This is the kind of place we love to discover - all they had on the table for condiments was Texas Pete Pepper Sauce, Texas Pete Hot Sauce, and Malt Vinegar.  I had the crab cake sandwich as well, made in-house and falling-apart delicious!

We spotted this egret in the reeds just before we crossed the bridge to the island - it had flown in spectacularly but we did not get the camera out in time to catch it mid-flight.

At the Ferry at the eastern end of the island, the wind was glowing straight in off the Sound and gulls were just hanging in the air, as if tethered by kite-strings, gazing out over the water toward Cape Lookout Lighthouse faintly seen on the horizon.

Then we spent some time wandering through the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum and Heritage Center, which was celebrating its 25th year and which we had toured last year as well.

It's one of the best small museums in the area, filled with fascinating exhibits as diverse as two splendid Community Quilts (and the local quilters were working today in the special-events room), looping videos about fishing and the Down East Brogue, and a continuously-playing recording of the Menhaden Chanteymen singing acapela work songs going back to slavery days.  As we climbed up to the second floor, and the third, and on up to the tower with a view of Cape Lookout lighthouse on one side and Willow Pond on the other, we could hear their soft voices harmonizing down below us, and picture their grandfathers doing hot field work or hauling in nets heavy with menhaden.

This old photo of a"Dry Boatman," whose job it was to spot the big schools of menhaden and lead the big fishing boats out to them, was especially fascinating to me.  I would have loved to have spoken to him, although he looked like the sort of man who would not waste much time on foolish talk.

I remember this quote from Wallace Stegner from last year, and it was a fitting one for this place devoted to explaining exactly who these people were who lived here over the years, with their Downeast brogue and their hard lives out on the sea.  People who hailed from any other place (like us) were called "Off."

The museum houses one of the most comfortable-looking libraries I have ever seen; I could have spent the rest of the day in that leather chair, reading through local-history books.

We rambled back past shrimp boats berthed safely in a little marina on this extremely rough day, white-caps charging in on the Sound, blowing back everything in sight in a furious gale (although temperatures were surprisingly mild).

An interesting little thrift store beckoned on the road back to Beaufort, complete with enigmatic bible verse that I had to look up.
 

"Call to me and I will answer you 

and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know."

And so we found ourselves back in Beaufort at the end of the day, and then Morehead City again, and across the bridge to Atlantic Beach.  Where were we from, after all?  Do we know who we are?  We spent the day driving through cold salt flats and past little houses nestled under live oak trees and backing up on the choppy sound, gleaming brightly behind them, looking for all the unsearchable things still to be discovered.

Bookstores and Libraries

This was perhaps the hardest three miles I have run since I have been here; cloudless sky, fierce wind - when I turned back after a mile or so it was like being pistol-whipped (too much police drama!)   I struggled to remember my Shakespeare - this was not flattery but counsel!

The icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
‘This is no flattery: these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.’
Sweet are the uses of adversity.

I returned to the condo, shivering and grateful to be indoors, before Martha had left for Anytime Fitness, where she has a trainer working with her twice a week; I went grocery shopping while she was working out, and then we stopped at a bookstore on the way back home.  I had been so enthralled with Into the Woods that I reviewed the New Yorker story from last fall and discovered the titles to the next two books in the series, The Likeness and Faithful Place.  But we came up empty, and it was the same at three other bookstores I called.  Finally, at Martha's suggestion, I called the most reliable place of all for books:  the library.  A young woman at Webb Memorial Library in Morehead City said, of course, they had both books! 

What a charming old building the library proved to be, up and down stairs, winding around corners, everywhere little nooks of books.  I will have to return here again.  But the embarrassed young librarian apologized - they did have the book, but it was checked out.

I suppose it is good that I have to wait two more days (until the first bookstore we checked could get the book in) because we spent the day catching up on house-keeping (these big sliding glass doors require weekly applications of Windex to let in all that bright sky) and blog-keeping.  And now I am caught up.

Windy Sunday

The wind was up again this morning!  We bundled up and crossed the bridge to Morehead City and found welcoming shelter from the storm at the Methodist Church.  Reverend Powell (they call him by his first name) was back from the Dominion Republic and he preached a strong sermon on the Fifth Commandment, "Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother," which included two points I had never noticed before:  a woman is included  (in that patriarchal society surely it would normally have been simply "Honor Thy Father); and it carries with it a blessing or a promise ("so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you).  Of course this is a blessing for Community, and it refers to all of our elders and the wisdom they carry.  A quartet sang a beautiful acapela "Down to the River to Pray," made possible by perfect bass, tenor, alto, and soprano voices.

We decided to splurge and have lunch at the Island Grill, just down the road from here.  It was a place that Lizette, Martha's Aunt, had told us about last year but we never made it.  What a treat!  Small and cozy, friendly staff, delicious food.  Martha had the Shrimp and Grits and I had the Maryland Crab Cakes Benedict from the brunch menu.  Mondays and Tuesdays is "BOGO" (buy one entree get one free) and we will return again.

Then it was back Into the Woods again, which I am determined to finish tonight (there are starting to be developments!)  At some point I think I suddenly told Martha, "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court."

The wind was blowing stiffly outside but I bundled up and went for a short walk on the beach, just to take a break from reading.  Sand had been blow into long, sinuous lines along the dunes.

Out on the beach the wind had blown the surf up into long lines of sea-foam, which were tumbling along in the sand like little tumbleweeds.  My pants-legs were flapping like crazy!

I was thankful to return to a warm condo and a satisfying denouement to my Irish murder mystery

Long Runs

The morning sky over the ocean looked as if it had been painted with a broad brush in wide strokes and dabs of cloud.

I am still thinking that I might be able to run a half-marathon on March 4, so I thought a long run might be in order, another 10-mile run like the one I completed two weeks ago.  It was clear and windy, but well up in the 40s, and it went better than expected; I felt that these tired old legs might have been able to respond had I asked them for three more miles.  It was a cloudless day, doves winging overhead; I paused for water and a good stretch at Fort Macon where the North Carolina flag was fluttering and the wind was banging the rope against the flagpole, making a musical chiming sound.  I finished back at the condos with a lap around the parking lot.

Sometimes I like to eat a Reuben after a long run, so Martha called in an order to the Resort Grill downstairs (grilled shrimp burger for her); this had been the venue for a Trump/Pence party on Inauguration Day, as mentioned in an earlier post.  There was a sign on the door saying they would be closed for a minimum of three weeks in February because Deb (the chef) will be having knee-replacement surgery.  Cindy, the waitress, had our order ready.  "Lord, sweetie!" she said.  "It's nice to see you sit down for awhile.  It makes me tired to see you every morning!"

I smiled and said, "Well, I think I'm just going to sit down the rest of the day.  Thanks!"

It's almost as alarming to know that I have been carefully observed out the big tinted window every time I run as it is to be called "Sweetie."

Long runs are very satisfying, that deep satisfaction that comes from knowing you have put a significant number of miles under one's feet.  Even though they were so slow that I felt this sign had been posted especially for me.

I did, indeed, sit most of the day, first in the Atlantic Beach Cinema (where we watched La La Land) and then stretched out on the sofa engrossed in my new book, the fifth since we have been here.  The book is Tana French's In the Woods and it is very, very good!  I read late into the evening until I was too tired to read anymore.  I had learned about Tana French and her intriguing Dublin Murder Squad mysteries from an article in The New Yorker last fall and the first in the series was simply wonderful.

We've been reading so many British mysteries that I have begun to refer to taking the "lift" instead of the elevator.  And perhaps I am a little "mental" as well.

Winterfeast

Winterfeast is a fund-raiser for Tryon Palace held every January in New Bern's North Carolina History Center, a handsome building looking out over the Trent River.

This year Martha planned ahead and reserved two tickets for us.  This is THE off-season event for New Bern and was well-attended by happily-chattering local people and a few fortunate outsiders like ourselves.

While we were waiting for the doors to open, a man with a very loud voice stood at the top of the steps and shouted out:

"Give me an O!"

"O!" every body cheerfully shouted back.

"Give me a "Y!"

"Y!"  And so on.  "OYSTERS!!!" 

When the doors were opened, we found plenty of the advertised comfort foods inside:  shrimp and grits, jambalaya, clear Cheseapeake-style shrimp soup; everything was delicious!  But the big excitement, we discovered, was the oysters, which were being consumed loudly and voraciously in a big heated tent out the back door lined with many long tables.  A man stood with arms folded at the entrance to the tent handing out a rolled liner napkin and an oyster knife, and inside the tent oyster-consuming New Berners appeared to know exactly how to use them, lined up elbow-to-elbow at the tables, prying open oyster after oyster, slurping out the contents, and noisily dropping the empty shells into bins beneath the tables.  It was chaos, but delightful laughing chaos.  It has been a long time since I have eaten oysters - I am remembering, vaguely, a fire at the beach during my college years, oysters thrown carelessly into it, closed eyes, and the quick slimy swallow. 

We did not partake of the oysters; I have a long run to complete in the morning.  But we had a wonderful time winter-feasting on everything else!

Not Right in the Head

Mountain weather is notoriously changeable.  The saying is, "If you don't like the weather, just wait around a few minutes."  Here it is the same, and what we especially notice perched on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean is the wind, which always seems to be blowing either offshore or onshore through the parking area; when the sliding glass door to the balcony is even slightly open (which is how we like to keep it in order to hear the sound of surf breaking) it makes it difficult to open the door to the hallway.  Another front came in overnight - we could hear it rattling the railings in the wee hours - and this morning we awoke to a strong wind blowing straight in from the ocean with gusts up to 22 mph.  It was warm - 60 degrees - but the ocean was churning, big waves breaking; it sounded like some continuous machinery echoing in an immense factory.  Doing Tai Chi on the dune-top deck was a challenge in this wind!

I went back out to the dune-top deck to drink my coffee after breakfast as I usually do, and it was literally difficult to keep the cup steady in my hand.  Martha sent me a text message:

Martha wisely opted to use the treadmill here at the condos, but I started putting on running clothes because this was the day I had planned to run intervals again and I was not going to be deterred by a little wind.  As I struggled to open the wind-jammed door to the hallway she shook her head and said again, "You're not right in the head."

I derive a great deal of perverse pleasure running in conditions like this, or worse.  I have completed marathons, 20 of them, some of them in face-stinging rain.  I remind Martha that she has completed three marathons herself and has the same mental deficiency.  As Delbert McClinton sings:

Ain't no doubt about it.
She's the same kind of crazy as me.

Of course I'm not right in the head!  Once out in the parking lot I found it really was not very windy at all.  In fact, I was running easily, and seemed to be going faster than I had planned on my warm-up to the picnic area where I planned to run intervals. Then it dawned on me:  the wind was blowing in my direction.  I stopped and turned and it was blowing straight into my face.  The run back will be fun!

The intervals, too, were faster than expected - 0:59 and then 0:58 . . . with the wind at my back; a little slower turning and running straight into the wind.  I remember seeing something called a Runners Parachute in the back pages of Runners World magazine several years ago, and I found that Nike still sells this dubious training device.

Yes, that's exactly how it felt to run into the wind today.  And I kept repeating to myself that little mantra - it had just the right cadence after all!

NOT

RIGHT

IN

THE HEAD

Four intervals and I had had enough, and just then it began to rain a little.  "Can it get any better than this?" I thought.  It began to rain harder, horizontal ran.  But, really, it was not very heavy, it was actually cooling me off a little (I had overdressed).  That's what we runners tell ourselves.

While I was stretching under the welcome shelter of the parking area, an older man came down the elevator and smiled at me.  "I wish I could still do that!"  He said.

"It's really not too bad out there," I said; "Just a little rain.  It felt pretty good."

"I've got bone fragments floating around in my knee.  But I used to love it."

'Ah," I said.  "Well, we all do what we can.  Have a good day!"

Highlands Trailrunner

I have not done much trail running in my career, and that is mostly because I could also be called Highlands Clumsyrunner and, until my cataract surgery three years ago, Highlands Blindrunner.  Despite these handicaps, I have completed three races entirely on trails - the Dupont Forest 12-K (twice) and the Howling on the Owl 10-K at the Arboretum - and many longer races rudely interrupted by sections of trail; the Flying Pirate Half Marathon at the Outer Banks includes a grueling final mile across sand dunes, and this same section of trail comes mid-way in the OBX Marathon in November.

Mile 13 of the OBX Marathon Course

I thought that it might be more enjoyable to run trails if I wasn't racing on them.  So I decided to run the maritime-forest section of the Elliott Coues Nature Trail this morning; it has a good surface, mostly free of roots and rocks, and I knew what to expect from yesterday's hike.  I ran to Fort Macon on the highway, circled the parking lot, and slipped into the woods, suddenly engulfed in a tunnel of red cedar so shady that I removed my sunglasses.

I can appreciate the allure that trail running has for many runners; I marvel as I read J. P. Krol (in his blog High on LeConte - http://www.highonleconte.com/daily-posts) describe trail runs up and down mountain trails that I have hiked with difficulty.  Today's run was much easier than those trails, but at the same time I found myself focusing intently on the surface ahead of me, lifting my legs high on the wooden walkways; this unwavering attention to every single step leaves no room for daydreaming.  

We run on unpaved roads in Highlands, like Lower Lake Road, but there is something special about running on single track, all alone except for a sole runner at the beginning and a pair of women walking mid-way.  Dappled sunshine, the twisted limbs of live oak trees, terrain that changes with every curve of the trail.  It is a compelling way to enjoy this outdoor world that we are so blessed to have at our doorstep.

I knew from yesterday's hike that most of the trail on the other side of the road leading back to the Fort included a lot of soft sand, so I cut into the parking lot at the Picnic Area, having gone perhaps two miles in all on the trails.  There I found myself abruptly in civilization again - asphalt, striped parking places.  It was too beautiful day and I was enjoying the freedom of running off-road, so I trudged over the sand dunes and down onto the beach.  There I found no lines to run between, only the flat, wide beach at low tide stretching out before me, breaking waves on one side and sand dunes on the other. 

Elliott Coues Nature Trail

A cold front blew in overnight, the wind suddenly shifting around to the north and the west and the temperature abruptly dropping into the 40s.  There were whitecaps scudding out on the dark ocean, and the wind was blowing so hard that it looked like a massive river flowing to the east rather than rolling in on the sand as it normally does.

It has been stressful reading news stories on our computer and listening to Public Radio (we have still not turned on the television), this inauguration and its aftermath casting a dark shadow over what we wanted to be a quiet Sabbatical.  It seems as if there is a new regressive executive order signed every day.  "All I wanted to do was come here and read poetry and walk on the beach," I complained to Martha this morning.  But the sense of Peace and Plenty in our lives always seems to be a struggle, a journey, rather than a place where we arrive and dwell complacently; we are always wrestling with angels.  In Fumbling Toward Ecstasy Sarah McLachlan sings beautifully about:

Peace in the struggle to find peace.
Comfort on the way to comfort.

This afternoon the wind calmed a little and we walked in the peace and comfort of the Elliott Coues Nature Trail, a 3.3-mile loop beginning at Fort Macon, circling back through the Picnic Area, and then returning again.  We hiked the trail in a counter-clockwise direction, starting out through the maritime forest filled with these little red-berried hollies called yaupon that are everywhere here.

Fragrant red cedar shaded the path, and there were well-constructed bridges and walkways all along where the ground was swampy. 

We passed beneath the outstretched limbs of live oak trees, familiar to us from the Outer Banks where it is also plentiful; in fact, the trail reminded us of Kitty Hawk Woods where we have run marathons and half-marathons in the past.

Across the salt marsh to our right we could see Bogue Sound and the big freighters anchored in Morehead City and Beaufort. 

Then we crossed the highway and the maritime forest gave way to a lovely, winding path through sand dunes as we drew near the ocean.  The path was lined on both sides with Christmas Trees, and the fragrance of Frasier Fir was all around us.

In the distance we could see the ocean, gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun.  I have learned where the term "Crystal Coast" originated, by the way; the Carteret County Chamber of Commerce coined the term "to describe the area's extremely clear waters and brilliant white beaches," according to a local Insider's Guide.  This was the kind of day the Chamber of Commerce likes to see!

We climbed atop a sand dune and found these tombstone-like toppled remains of a concrete structure of some kind on which someone had scratched some graffiti that seemed appropriate to the day and the season and the place:  "Be Kind."

We also found the remains of a rock jetty, perhaps part of an old fishing pier, that stretched out into the surf, waves crashing against it and spraying in the air.  

A fishing boat was slowly making its way down Morehead City Channel, steering between a green buoy and a red one, out to the open ocean.

High, puffy clouds.  Bright sunshine.  Steady wind from the north.  Martha remarked that this is the kind of day we will remember for a long time.

We found ourselves back at Fort Macon.  Its cannons were pointed out toward the channel, roughly in the direction of the fishing boat which was becoming smaller and smaller and smaller as it ventured out onto the endless expanse of ocean.

This was indeed the kind of day we will remember for a long time.  Another perfect sunset tonight, and all along the horizon this long, lovely strip of light, resting lightly on the surface of the ocean. 

Christmas at the Beach

The first day that we ran here, east along Highway 58 toward Fort Macon, we were surprised to find a unique fragrance perfuming the air - pungent, sweet, and reminding us of Christmas:  Christmas trees, deposited all along the road, and at the Fort Macon Picnic Area a large stack.  The recycled trees, we remembered from last year, are used all along the coast to help preserve sand dunes.

There was only one tree today at the designated place, but on our first run there must have been 20 or 30 of them; several had little decorations still tied to the branches, and at least one was still attached to a red plastic tree stand.   Even though it is January 23, we suppose that there are collection places up and down the ocean road and they are periodically hauled to this place.  Last week two State Park workers were loading them onto a small ATV and taking them out to place on the sand dunes.

It is a wonderful fragrance, and one that reminds us both of the memorable hikes we have taken to another place we love:  Mt. LeConte in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, its 6500-foot summit far above the hardwood line covered almost entirely with Frasier Firs.

So when we run here we think about and give thanks for having experienced these two diametrically opposite places that we love so much:  this wide, flat, rolling ocean here at sea level, and the high swirling mists so far away on top of the world.

"Wave after wave, each mightier than the last 
'Til last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame." 

- Tennyson, The coming of Arthur.

"Now I understand why the old poets of China 
went so far and high into the mountains, 

then crept into the pale mist."

 - Mary Oliver

Boston Strong

It has been very distressing to read Facebook these days.  So many of my Facebook "Friends" have become so opinionated!  Many have voiced anger and frustration over the election and the inauguration, but just as many seem to be triumphant about it and are equally angry that the "sore losers" are resisting the Trump Administration.  It has opened up old wounds that I thought had been healed decades ago.  And everybody seems to have gone into their own corner so that true dialogue is impossible.  So I decided to take a break from it for the most part, except for looking for and finding the photo of Paul, Fred, and Jennifer posted by Jamye after the Hot Chocolate 10-K they all ran on Saturday.  That's the kind of news I want to hear right now!

Tai Chi on the deck just before it began to rain.  A small child had left his toy on the railing, and I am not willing to move it - big wheels turning, little wheels turning.  The ocean rolling and rolling.

Martha discovered that a movie was playing in Emerald Isle, a matinee and one that we wanted to see, so we missed church services this morning.  The movie was Patriots Day and it is a powerful one, about the Boston Marathon bombing in 2013, two years after I ran it; this made it even more powerful because I could have been there, and Martha and Katy (who were in the finish line stands) could have been there, too.

I posted this on Facebook after the bombings:

I have read so many posts from runners who have been deeply affected by the tragedy at Boston.  It is a terrible thing for all of us to bear, but doubly so for runners, because in a sense running is our escape, our sanctuary.  Out there on the busy streets and quiet roads and distant trails, we often enter into a special country where the troubles of the world seem a long way off.  And Boston, especially, is a kind of holy city for marathon runners, where distance runners have to earn the right to shred their quads on the unforgettable Newton Hills and stumble through the ear-splitting tunnel of Wellesley Women and finally turn that glorious corner and run down Boylston Street to Copley Square.  When I qualified for Boston, Martha gave me a book that described the famous course in so much detail that I knew when to expect each landmark along the way.  So this was like a bomb going off in a church or a synagogue, a desecration of a place where thousands gather to pursue what Alberto Salazar calls “an imponderable enterprise.”  A place of joy and terror and suffering and triumph.  And now it is a place of special sorrow to all of us who have ever tied on a pair of running shoes.

But since then I have watched remarkable stories of the survivors, how they have gone on to complete future Boston marathons wearing prosthetic legs, how they have triumphed over adversity.  Gruesome and bloody and violent at times, Patriots Day nevertheless spoke strongly - "Boston Strong" - about this power of love triumphing over hatred.  I will always remember that when the bombs went off, runners and spectators began running toward the explosions to see how they could help.

That is the kind of inspirational message we need today in a world that seems to be so filled with hatred.  It is a time for being Boston Strong.

Women's March in New Bern

This morning I awoke early and ran three miles in thick fog, north on Highway 58 toward Fort Macon and then out through the picnic area to the beach at low tide.  This is the only beach I have been able to run on, so wide and flat and perfect a surface, the calm surf breaking just a few feet to one side and nothing near me but soaring gulls, two shell-gatherers, and a cyclist on a mountain bike taking advantage of the hard-packed sand.  I had glanced at my watch to measure the distance, which we had previously estimated to be one mile, and I was glad I did because the fog was so thick that I could literally see nothing beyond the sand dunes.  I wondered how I would be able to find the narrow little path and the walkway to the condos.  Had I run too far?  Then I made out faintly that familiar line of colorful houses at Sea Dreams, closest of all the houses to the beach, and I knew I had not gone too far; and a mile had gone by on my Garmin I thought I could see that little opening between the dunes that marked the walkway.  Trudging up through the soft sand on the upper beach I gradually saw the massive shape of the condo faintly in the fog, clearer and clearer the nearer I came.

This was the day we had planned to drive to New Bern to join with other concerned citizens around the country and around the world in peaceful resistance to the Trump Inauguration.  We got an early start, not knowing what do expect.  The event was called a Women's March and was a "sister" march to others being held around the country- hundreds of thousands in Washington and L.A. and Chicago and Asheville - but men were invited too (and I found that about a third in attendance were men).  A demonstration in Washington the night before the Inauguration had turned violent, and we had no intention of being a part of anything like that - the word "peaceably" is prominent in the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

At the same time, I have read, before and after the event, a great many posts on Facebook and elsewhere, some of them from friends and relatives, who have viewed peaceful resistance as somehow unpatriotic.  I cannot disagree more strongly with this idea.  From the Civil Rights movement in the 60s (which I was too young to take part in) to demonstrations against the Vietnam War (which I did take part in nearly 50 years ago), public policy has often been shaped by masses of concerned people simply gathering together to say "No."  I think the last time I exercised this basic constitutional right was during the first Iraq War, when I joined other pastors in Highlands to walk from place to place in Town and to simply pray.   

I feel that this is a similar profound moment in our history when good people must stand up and speak out against this President and all that he represents - the very worst representation of our nation, in my opinion - and the regressive policies he has already started to implement.  Martha, too, has become increasingly dismayed at all of the lies and distortions, the bigotry and baseness of this campaign and its eventual"winner," the treatment of women.  I know the election is over, but the fight for human rights and for the progress of the last 50 years, which many of my generation have taken for granted, will never be over.  Good people standing up and speaking out.

We were relieved to see so many men, women, and children already gathering at the gazebo at Union Point Park.  

It was a peaceful and uplifting time; these were people who I felt I knew, intelligent and informed citizens, men and women of all ages and races joining together.  So many inspirational signs, so many inspirational conversations with others who were as concerned as we are.

Helen Robinson, long-time New Bern Democratic Party mainstay who pulled this event together at the last moment, spoke from her heart about her young granddaughter and grandson and their future.  Marshall Williams, former head of the local NAACP and President of the Christian Community Network, gave a rousing speech.  If he is not also a Preacher he has missed his calling!

And then we all lined up, two by two, instructed to stay on the sidewalks and follow the traffic laws, which we did.  There was no violence; on the contrary, a great feeling of peace and unity and courtesy and dignity prevailed, and occasionally Helen or one of her friends would lead a chant:

Why are we here today?

We are stronger together.

Why are we here?

We need one another.

Why are we here?

We are going to find out voice.

Why are we here?

We are going to join our hands and hearts,.

Why are we here?

We are going to work for justice.

Why are we here?

We are gong to walk together.

And walk we did, perhaps 700 of us (according to the news), past the beautiful old historic homes of New Bern on our way to a crowded little parking lot behind the Courthouse.

As we circled back around the block, I was touched to see two small groups of stragglers, each of them helping an elderly man and an elderly woman, well into their 80s or older, using a rollator; they walked with difficulty but I had the feeling that they had marched on streets like this before in their long lives.  A young police woman was stopping traffic at an intersection to grateful thank-yous.  There was so much love and determination here!  We were glad that we had come and been a part of such a positive beginning to what appears to be a long struggle ahead.

The march ended, and we spent the rest of the day walking through the beautiful street-scapes of New Bern.  From time to time, we would pass others who had marched with us earlier in the day (most were wearing pink hearts or bracelets).  

The drive from New Bern to Atlantic Beach passes through Havelock and Cherry Point, a depressing stretch of road filled with pawn shops, tattoo parlors, and hopeless poverty - the very part of America that has been left behind and somehow has come to believe that this arrogant, narcissistic billionaire, descending from gold-plated Trump Tower to board Trump Jet and perhaps visit the White House from time to time, actually cares about their lives.  He should walk down this road.  

And here is a poignant little photo I took on the way back home - a church and a pawn shop sharing common ground.