Ditches and Drains and Hard Clay

Our fleet of vehicles (both of them) are becoming operational again.  The Mini now has a brand-new battery, and this afternoon the Honda CRV will have a brand new tire.  So we took turns this morning driving the Mini.  I drove to Town first and found a window of opportunity in the midst of the more or less continual rain we have been having for the past three days, completing three relatively fast miles in a cool, light mist that was refreshing on this humid, mid-60s morning.  Then I quickly returned home and Martha took the Mini to her Mom's house, where they plan to drive Jane's car to Franklin for her radiation treatment today.  Martha plans to run this afternoon if the heavy rain holds off for an hour or two longer.

After Martha had left, I decided to get to work on the new drainage pipe for the rain barrel.  We had positioned this rain barrel below a downspout from the gutter draining the largest roof of our saltbox-style house.  There weren't many saltbox houses in Highlands when we built in 1983, but we had spent a lot of time and research on a design which has held up over the years, with a big stone central fireplace; that steep roof was designed to allow warm air to rise naturally to the upstairs bedrooms, and it has worked well over the years.

The rain barrel worked well, too, for the first year or two after we built our raised garden beds; the summers were dry, and I was often able to water the garden and apple trees with accumulated rain water.  But in recent years, we have had more and more rain; the rain barrel not only serves little purpose, it often overflows and floods the garden beds.  Ironically, had I placed the downspout at the other end of the gutter, I would be faced with digging a mere 10-foot ditch instead of a 40-foot ditch.

I quickly remembered how difficult it is to dig in the hard clay soil on which our house rests, not unlike the famed Georgia red clay soil just down the road a few miles.  I hand-dug the crawlspace myself over 35 years ago, chiselling away with mattock and shovel foot by foot, and creating the half-basement we now have with its spiral staircase descending from the living room.  "I remember you, old friend!" I said out loud as I swung the mattock again and again, heavy wet clay sticking to it, the shovel, and my boots. 

I remembered the parable about the wise man who built his house on rock, not sand.  Actually, not to argue with St. Matthew, but rock requires drilling holes and inserting steel pins to anchor footings securely, common on the mountain slopes around Highlands; clay is much better. 

And it's good stress relief.

A Matter of Perspective

During a period of time in our lives when we need reliable transportation, it seems that our aging vehicles do not want to cooperate.  The Mini Cooper would not start last week, so I jumped it off and drove it to Highlands Automotive, where it was determined that the battery was probably not dead; it tested OK, and the alternator was also working.  I drove it home, grateful not to have to spend money on an "exact-fit" battery.  Mini parts, even batteries, are costly!

The next morning, it would not start again.  It being a holiday weekend, I waited until this morning to call; the logical conclusion is that the battery is, indeed, dead after all, and the new one will not arrive until tomorrow.  Meanwhile, I drove our faithful Honda CRV to Town to go to the bank and the Post Office, and on my way I stopped at Mountain Findings to donate some items.  The thrift store raises thousands of dollars every year and gives it all away on worthy causes, so we always donate things we no longer need instead of throwing them away.  While I was standing at the donation door idly chatting, I noticed something strange about my left rear tire; on closer inspection it was a nail protruding from that area between sidewall and tread which often cannot be easily patched.  So to make a long story short, Highlands Automotive also has a new tire on the way and the CRV has both a temporary patch and a strong suggestion not to take it out of Town.

I told Mary Jane, who was sympathizing with me from behind the desk, that as they knew my only other vehicle had a dead battery.  "If this tire goes flat," I said, "The only thing I know to do is to jump off the Mini and leave the engine running 24/7!"  But on consideration, we were fortunate after all that I had spotted that little nail; the tire could have gone flat on a trip to Franklin taking Martha's Mom for a radiation treatment, or in the middle of the Cullasaja Gorge.  It's a matter of perspective.

On the way home I stopped for a second time at the Post Office (we are expecting packages).  It had been raining off and on all day and I had not realized how slick the floor was.  "Hi, John," I said to one of my friends standing inside the door, and immediately slipped and fell.  "Are you all right?" he asked in some alarm.  "Oh yeah, I'm a runner; I know how to fall," and I quickly climbed back on my feet.  A woman wearing a mask, who had been sitting on the bench inside the door (and whom I recognized in a minute or two), said, "You get points for being graceful, at least!"

I am not a litigious person, but I could not have sued the Post Office in any event; I had nearly knocked over the sign directly in front of the door which I had ignored.  And after all nothing was broken, nor likely bruised.  It's a matter of perspective.

I checked in with Martha on my mobile phone, and told her what had happened.  "Are you hurt?" she asked in alarm.  "I'm fine."  "Are you sure?"  I said I was.  Then she said, "Imagine if it had been an old person!"

I loved that!  When I went into Reeves Hardware, my next stop, I looked in vain for somebody I could tell the story to, but without success.

So I'm posting it to my blog.

Memorial Day

It was a poignant Memorial Day in Highlands as we continue to monitor Martha's Mom in her battle against cancer.  We have wonderful memories this time of year of her Dad, too, driving one of his old cars downtown, flags fastened to the radiator, on one of these summer holidays or at the Motoring Festival.  How he loved to get them out!

But those days are gone, as are the days when Main Street was packed and there was bumper-to-bumper traffic on this holiday.  Still, the Town filled up more than it has at any time since the coronavirus pandemic began, with relaxed restrictions in the hotels and restaurants now encouraging visitors.

We have entered that summer weather pattern in Highlands when daytime humidity builds up during the day and thunderstorms begin to fire up nearly every afternoon.  The pattern will be continuing all week, all summer:  Rain/Storms possible every day, with varying percentages of likelihood.

Yesterday, we drove up to visit Martha's Mom in changeable conditions, dark ominous clouds looming one minute, bright sunshine breaking through the next.  All around we could hear thunderclaps, as loud as artillery firing, and then echoing and rolling around the surrounding mountains like Surround Sound in a movie theater. When we returned home in the afternoon, the sky turned a peculiar yellowish color, a few big drops splattered suddenly down, and then it absolutely poured - what local folks call a "frog-strangler" of a rain.  The little waterfall out back roared, brown with mud, and the rain barrel near the garden beds became hopelessly overwhelmed in minutes, cascading over the top and pooling up in front of the new stone wall I built two weeks ago.  I realized that my next project needs to be cutting a larger drainage hole in the side of the rain barrel and connecting it to a new drainage pipe large enough to handle such surges.  The required ditch will need to be at least 40 feet long, so once again I will schedule a meeting with my old friend the mattock.

The weather forecast this morning seemed to sum up what most Americans are expected to be doing on this holiday, in four stages.  I thought the little graphic was amusing: 

We knew we would not be "Hitting the Lake," so we drove to Town to get an early start running, four miles completed by each of us, and Bearpen Mountain once again ascended by me; it is becoming a weekly habit these days, burning off calories and stress equally well.  ("Hitting the Mountain?")

Martha had to wait for me at the park for a few minutes, and told me she had seen some of the visitors who arrived in Town for the holiday, their oversized SUVs parked in front of every rental house we passed along our route.  A blond woman, dressed in the uniform of the privileged and with a brassy voice, was talking to her companion about a man with a mask who had gone by.  "That's ridiculous!" she said.  Indeed, few of the visitors were wearing masks, and they were congregating much too closely for our liking.  So we were glad to return to Clear Creek and practice a little social distancing.  And perhaps "Grilling Out," one of those four essential activities, although in our case the grill likely will hold black bean burgers or tuna burgers.  But plenty of my home-made potato salad, corn on the cob, and beans - yum!

Light in the Fog

We have had several days of rain off and on, accumulating close to five inches according to our rain gauge.  Monday morning I was able to find a short window of opportunity and completed four miles.  On Tuesday afternoon, the rain was replaced by hazy sunshine, so I ran another two miles while Martha completed her four-mile run.  Yesterday was another washout, but this morning the flash flood warnings came to an end, and I was able to run again in fog and diminishing drizzle.  I enjoy running in the fog, wearing a bright yellow shirt to stay visible, watching the ghostly surroundings materialize and then fade away again.

I called Martha's aunt Lizette on Sunday and discovered that someone had tested positive for COVID-19 in the Brookdale Senior Living facility in Raleigh.  All the residents were tested, one floor at a time, including Lizette, who said the test itself with its long cotton swab up each nostril was extremely uncomfortable.  But she felt healthy and expected the results in a day or two.

A fifth person has tested positive in Macon County, too, according to the newspaper today.  So it is definitely here among us, and we are continuing to follow all of the protocols, wearing masks in public buildings, distancing ourselves from others, and sanitizing our hands frequently.  And of course exercise is an excellent way to maintain a healthy immune system in the event that we are exposed.  But we are being especially cautious because Martha's Mom is now undergoing radiation treatment for her cancer and her immune system is compromised.

In the midst of the pandemic and the economic collapse, we keep looking for glimmers of hope.  There are three different drug companies testing coronavirus vaccines and the results are promising.  Will we eventually take the coronavirus vaccine every fall as routinely as we do the influenza vaccine?  We can only hope.

It is also encouraging that so many people are coming together and making contributions, small and large, to those who need help.  Not only the front-line medical workers, the police and EMTs, but also the many volunteers at food banks and helping to deliver meals are to be praised.  I ran across an inspiring story from Britain this morning.  Captain Tom Moore, a beloved British war veteran, decided to walk the length of his garden (82 feet) 100 times ahead of his 100th birthday to raise money for the National Health Service.  He set out to raise 1,000 pounds, but donations kept pouring in; he finished his final lap two weeks ahead of schedule and to date has raised 32,796,510 pounds, or about $40 million.  He is to be knighted, or perhaps has been already, by Queen Elizabeth II.

The many heroes of our time! Not just Captain Moore - or is it Sir Moore by now? - but all of those donors who were just looking for an opportunity to help those many people who need it so desperately.

Reopening Underway

It was 60 degrees and sunny when I showed up at Founders Park this morning, and over the next two hours the temperature kept climbing.  It was hard to believe that I had run in snow flurries only last Tuesday, four days ago!  Karen was there, and by the time we had gone three miles we both realized we were over-dressed; I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and she was wearing a light vest.  We returned to the Park, and I called Martha on my mobile; she had just been getting ready to leave the house.  "Can you bring up a singlet when you come?" I asked.  "I'm overdressed."  Art and Vicki showed up just then, and the four of us started out, chatting about this and that, keeping a safe distance between us.  By the time I returned to the car after another mile, Martha had arrived and brought my lighter singlet.

The next four miles I completed on my own, running down Main Street, where a few cars were parked, back up Spring Street, and circling back, once again on some roads I had not traveled lately.  The Town is really starting to fill up this weekend, with hotels preparing to open in a few days under new stringent guidelines.  REOPENING UNDERWAY, said the headline in The Highlander this week.  Mountain Findings thrift shop was open, too (face masks required); Martha told me over lunch that she had planned to visit, but there had been cars everywhere and she had changed her mind.  Near Harris Lake, I passed a group of ten or twelve people walking together, not at all observing the social distancing requirements.  The simple practices of social distancing and wearing masks in public places would help this pandemic come to an end, health experts say, but apparently both have become political issues.  A certain contingent on Facebook defiantly refuses to wear face masks anywhere.  Does everything have to be a divisive partisan issue these days?

I completed seven miles, stopped for a few sips of Gatorade, and considered whether to go farther.  The rule of thumb is not to increase weekly mileage by more than 10%, and another mile would put me over that.  But it was a beautiful morning, I had plenty of time, and rules of thumb are only broadly accurate when it comes to training.  I circled the block for another mile, and was glad that I did.  Then I went looking for Martha, and I didn't have to drive very far.  She was just coming into sight down Fifth Street, looking strong, that joyous look of satisfaction on her face that marks a good run.  Later, over lunch, Martha told me that during her six-mile run she had seen something she had never seen before:  a red fox, standing in the road in front of her.  I have seen snakes, bears, and deer while running in Highlands, but never a fox!

I stopped at Dusty's - Rhodes Superette - on the way home, and was surprised to see the parking lot filled up; inside there was a line of seven or eight customers waiting to check out, all wearing masks and spaced appropriately apart.  Dusty's has required face masks since the very beginning of the pandemic, and also insists that all who enter the store take a pair of latex gloves from a box on  the counter.

The reality is that we know someone will probably carry the coronavirus to Highlands sometime this summer, and here it will be, in our midst, as it has been carried to so many other places around the globe.  All we can do is try to be as safe as we possibly can, observing social distancing, sanitizing everything we touch, washing our hands - the simple things.  Is it too much to ask?

Gardens and Fog

We normally do not plant our vegetable garden until after May 15, when the danger of frost is safely behind us.  But we have been having trouble finding garden plants and seeds, normally in good supply this time of year, and we assume that the reason must be the coronavirus and the many ripples it is causing in all sorts of supply chains.  We did manage to find some tomato plants on Monday at Lowe's in Franklin, and I set them out yesterday in the sunniest of our five raised garden beds.  I don't actually use a tape measure, but I like them to be evenly spaced' in the same way, I usually pull a taught string when I plant beans to ensure they grow in a straight line.  I sometimes think of my friend Claude, who passed away many years ago; he taught me a lot about gardening, but he used to plant beans and corn in a crooked row because, he claimed, they would hold more plants.

There is undeniably something therapeutic about planting a garden.  I love the smell of the soil, digging a little hole and gently tucking the seedling in place; and then I love watching the tender plants grow, especially the tomato vines which climb up inside their cages and spill over the sides by the end of summer.  It would also be nice if we could actually grow some tomatoes and enjoy them before they are defeated by slugs or blossom end rot.  But perhaps merely planting and enjoying growth is enough.  As Martin Luther once said, "Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would end, I would nonetheless plant my little apple tree today."  That's an inspirational thought to have at a time like this.

This morning I went down to the garden to water the newly-planted tomatoes and I realized it was misting rain, enough that I had to turn on my windshield wipers on my way to Town.  But by the time I had parked, it had stopped and there was merely fog.  This is a phenomenon I have noticed many times in Highlands:  during the climb of 1200 feet in elevation to Main Street, we rise into fog and clouds, above the condensation level.  Sometimes the fog becomes bright, as if sunshine and blue sky are just a little higher over our heads.  Once or twice I have climbed the additional 400 feet to the top of Big Bearpen and actually broken out into that clear sky, a sea of fog spread out below.

Last Wednesday, I had what I called in this blog an "epic run," meandering down seldom-traveled roads, far off the usual route.  I had the same idea this morning, running up Chestnut and then onto Lower Lake Road, which circles the Highlands Biological  Station property and lovely Ravenel Lake (which locals call Lindenwood Lake), which later in the summer will be floating pink water lilies.  Climbing all the way to Horse Cove Road, I turned back toward Town, but then ran out Gibson Street, along the base of Sunset Mountain, and back eventually to our normal running route.  Our running group refers to this as "Mary's Four Mile Run," because Mary used to run it from time to time.  But Mary, busy with grandchildren and work, has not run at all in at least a year or two, and I sometimes wish I could appropriate that nice, secluded route and call it mine.  I wanted to complete more than four miles today, so I turned down Spring Street and then a little way down the Franklin Road, and through the covered bridge to the Bascom, our very nice art center.

Eventually I found my way back to Main Street and to Founders Park, for a total of six miles.  How wonderful it is to run in the fog!  Around every corner, there seemed to be a brighter flower - rhododendron, azalea, irises along the road - and lights glowed gently as if behind curtains.

Martha had started later than I did, but I never saw her, although I found that her car was parked behind mine at the Park when I returned.  When we compared notes over lunch, I discovered that she, too, had gone off the usual route, although a different one than mine.  Now the fog has rolled away completely, and as I sit writing this blog the sun is pouring in my window, for now at least.  And - Hallelujah! - the weather forecast this morning indicates that the longed-for warm weather is coming, day by day, over the next week. 

Snow Flurries on Big Bearpen

It was colder than I had expected in Highlands this morning, 42 degrees and a brisk wind blowing, mostly overcast with fast-moving clouds.  "I don't need to run when it's that cold," Martha had told me on my way out the back door. "I can go this afternoon."  I was beginning to think I should have waited, too.  What is there about just a taste of warm weather this time of year that makes blackberry winter even harder to bear?

I started up Chestnut Street and saw that there were two vehicles parked at the foot of Big Bearpen, one of them belonging to Fred.  As I approached I saw that Fred and another man I did not know had part of the sign down on the ground below it, probably adding or deleting a name.  Fred takes it upon himself to maintain the sign, in the same way that he keeps a weather station at his home and reports the temperature to the local radio station every morning:  good old Methodist civic-mindedness.

"Are you going to run up Big Bearpen?" Fred asked.
 "I hadn't planned on it.  Are you trying to shame me into it?"
"No," he said.
"I just decided!" I said.  "I'm going up!"  Fred shook his head.

It was not a whim as much as a desire to warm up, and I had achieved that by the time I reached the first switchback.  Big Bearpen has that effect when you run it week after week - it seems a little easier every time; I was standing on the summit in no time, stopping to stretch and look out over the distant lakes of South Carolina.  The wind was still brisk, and I kept rolling my sleeves down and then back up again as it ebbed and flowed.

Half-way down the mountain, I saw Fred's car approaching on the way up.  "Are you running?" I asked.  He said he had intended to, but had changed his mind when he arrived at the park.  "Martha had the same idea," I said.  "She's going this afternoon."

"It's snowing, you know," Fred said quietly, and sure enough, while we were standing talking, a tiny snowflake drifted down between us, and then another.  "Thanks for pointing that out!" I said.  And for the next five minutes, I was running in a light snow flurry, at 42 degrees, here on May 12.  But this is Highlands, after all.  By the time I had reached Sixth Street and turned on Main, the sun was shining and the sky was blue.

Mother's Day

It was a poignant Mother's Day in Highlands for Martha's mom, Jane Lewis, recently diagnosed with terminal cancer (see post of April 30).  She is in good spirits and is expected to begin radiation treatment this week, and she is fortunate in having all four of her children living nearby.  We took shifts spending some time with her this weekend, Martha and I arriving on Saturday night with a comfort-food "picnic" supper consisting of potato salad, broccoli casserole, salmon croquettes, and pineapple upside down cake; there was plenty for leftovers.

On Sunday, her two sons Bill and Scott had a traditional brunch with her, and her other daughter Angie stopped by with a beautiful bouquet of flowers for a visit.  Angie has been preparing some of her favorite foods for her as Martha and I have, and Jane is in good spirits but tires easily.

Martha is usually treated to a nice dinner on this holiday, often accompanied by a stay out of Town somewhere.  But restaurants are still only serving take-out, and we do not feel comfortable staying anywhere except our own thoroughly-sanitized house, where visits to the Post Office or grocery store are followed by spraying shoes with Lysol and disinfecting all of the groceries and mail.  So this Sunday morning, Martha and I had our own quiet brunch here at home - angel biscuits, bacon, an omelet, spinach squares, deviled eggs, and cantaloupe - and it was delicious.  Also, the chefs did not test positive for the coronavirus.

A freeze warning was in effect, with gardeners cautioned to cover their plants, but it began to warm up nicely by the afternoon.  Martha decided she would like to drive to Clayton to try and find some flowers and garden plants.  It was our first out-of-Town trip in a long time, but at the two garden centers we visited, face masks were being worn by about half the shoppers and social distancing was being observed.  Unfortunately, the plants were not of good quality, but we returned with some wainscoting for the hallway off of Martha's office - another project for the handyman seeking employment!

Our daughter checked in, too, and it was nice to learn that she has already planted a straw bale garden of her own, inheriting the green thumb of both of her parents.  By dinner time, it had warmed up nicely enough to sit out on the deck in the sunshine, always a nice conclusion to the day. 

Great Minds

Since we returned from Atlantic Beach two months ago, my running has been hit or miss.  Cold and windy conditions have persisted longer than expected, and there has been a lot of stress in our lives.  But this past month I have pushed a little harder and am seeing some improvement.  I ran up Big Bearpen on April 6, again last week, and a third time this past Monday.  Running hills never fails to improve overall running!

It is still cold for May - temperatures at 9:00 a.m. for the next few days are predicted to be in the 30s, bottoming out at 32 degrees on Sunday, Mothers Day.  We both decided that today, rather than Saturday morning, might be a better day for a long run, and I wanted to push myself again.  I had no definite route in mind, so I turned at the Episcopal Church, then left at Townsite Apartments, and up Sixth Street to Chestnut Street.

I'm not sure at what point I decided to run down Chestnut to Fourth Street, and continue past the Ball Park on the Cashiers Road.  But I realized it might be nice to run all the way down Cullasaja Drive to Mirror Lake and then climb back up to Town again, perhaps four or five miles in all and a route I have not explored in many months.  Long, rambling runs can be wonderful that way, turning this way and that by whim, taking in new construction and landscaping along the way, pausing to admire an especially nice wall or fence.

It was a trip down Memory Lane, too.  I have run on these same roads many times, and I could not help but remember pleasant afternoon concerts in the Episcopal Church and social hours with Martha's aunt Anne in Townsite Apartments.  On Cullasaja Drive, I ran past the home of Mayor Buck Trott, who died in 2016 - we fought some good battles together when I worked for the Town!  Here was where that lady used to live who would put plastic eggs out all year long by her mailbox - what was her name? - she used to bring her little dog into the Town Hall and let him walk around on the counter.  And so my memory wandered with me, a comfortable companion, as I ran along the shore of Mirror Lake, out to the bridge, and then back up Raoul Road to Oak Street, climbing up what Ruth and John Fox, long-ago friends who lived in the Mirror Lake area, used to call Heart Attack Hill.

I did not suffer a myocardial infarction, thankfully, but my legs were a little tired by the time I reached Oak Street, then turned on Third Street, down Main Street, and back to the Park where I noted that Martha, who had started later than I, had parked.  Five miles.  "What an epic run!" I said to myself.  I drank half a bottle of gatorade and felt so good that I ran around the block again, past the Episcopal Church and Townsite, another mile.  When I had finished, I drove around our usual route and a mile or so out from the Park I saw Martha.  "Have a good run!" I said, rolling down the window.  I thought that she must have gotten a late start to only be that far along.

When I had gone to the Post Office and returned home, I was surprised that Martha was already home, starting lunch preparations.  "How was your run?" she asked.  "I had an epic run!" I said, and then proceeded to describe to her the exact route I had run, in great detail, this turn and then that turn, which only another runner has the patience to endure all the way through.  "What about you?" I asked.  "I had the same idea as you.  I ran down Cullasaja to Mirror Lake and back!"  It turned out that, with minor variations, we had completed the same run; she had been nearing the end of her own six-mile run when I had seen her.

Great minds think alike!  And run alike.

The Pleasures of Circulating

"I especially like," I said in my last post, "the 'See Rock City' [birdhouse] in the middle - that was Martha's idea - with its pop of bright red and its memory of a wonderful day four years ago at that iconic place on Lookout Mountain!"  That prompted me to look back at the photos we took on that day.  We were on the last leg of a month-long voyage across the United States, from Atlanta to California with a sizeable group of Mini Coopers ("Mini Takes the States"), and then back home again on our own.  I sent Martha photos of that warm, lazy Sunday afternoon at Rock City where we ate lunch.

She replied, "It was a wonderful day!  We have some great memories!!"

We have been thinking about the things we miss in the new Post-Coronavirus era we find ourselves in, especially as businesses are beginning to open again in Georgia, Tennessee, and South Carolina, with North Carolina (and Highlands) probably not far behind.  Governor Kemp has been the subject of criticism since he decided to open "tattoo parlors, beauty salons, and bowling alleys" last week.  "The three high-tech industries in Georgia," joked comedian Bill Maher.

I have had no overwhelming desire to get a tattoo - though I am guessing a popular image to have on one's arm might be that spiky little, greatly-magnified coronavirus sphere we have seen pictured everywhere - and I am maintaining my own hair, thank you, although thousands of women with grey roots showing are growing more impatient by the week.  And as for bowling alleys, I can do without that dubious activity; what could go wrong with sticking three fingers into the unsanitized holes of a bowling ball and donning a pair of shoes worn by hundreds of other bowlers?

We have been enjoying eating lunch and dinner at home these days and are likewise not at all eager to go back to restaurants unless we can be sure that all of the employees working there, and diners seated nearby, test negative for the coronavirus.  Many of us miss church, movie theaters, plays, concerts - all of those things we took for granted when we were able to gather safely together.  Sporting events are high on the list for many, and from our perspective as runners we wonder if we will ever feel safe running in a race again.  For the desperate runners among us, I am receiving nearly daily e-mails announcing "virtual races," where competitors run a measured route all by themselves and, on the honor system, find out if they have placed in their age group.

High on the list of things that we miss is the freedom to travel, which we are reminded of when we look at that photo at the beginning of this post, that wonderful day on top of Lookout Mountain, and on the same trip the Mackinac Bridge, Mount  Rushmore, the Golden Gate Bridge, Napa Valley, the view of the Pacific Ocean from Big Sur, the Hearst Mansion, Grand Canyon - the list goes on and on.  And our 40th Anniversary "Trip of a Lifetime" to Britain and Ireland last summer would be unthinkable these days!  Imagine crowding into a coach with 50 strangers from around the world and then disembarking to wander through crowded streets in some of the most beautiful cities in the world.

We have had many wonderful days, and many great memories!  Are these all things of the past?  I hope not, but time will tell.  Perhaps when a reliable vaccine is developed, like the influenza vaccine we take like clockwork every fall, we will again feel comfortable traveling. 

See Rock City

After two days of wind and unsettled weather, a beautiful Saturday morning materialized in Highlands.  When I went out onto the deck this morning, I could already see rose-colored clouds building on the ridge to the east through the shimmering green leaves of trees.  I thought I could hear Horatio saying,

But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,

Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.

Temperatures were climbing into the mid-fifties by the time I reached Town; birds were singing, a few people were out walking, and I thought as I often have on mornings like this that were it not for my knees and my legs, I might run all day.  I completed eight miles, and Martha had a good run, too, in these perfect conditions.

"When was the last time I ran eight miles?" I asked myself.  I started turning pages in my running log and found an entry for 8.00 a few weeks back; but wait, that was eight miles for the week.  I had to go back to February 22, the day before my birthday; we had been in Atlantic Beach, and the next day, Sunday morning, we had driven to Duck for a celebratory birthday weekend.  It seemed like a year ago - so much has changed in our lives in just a little over two months!  We actually ate in a restaurant, I recall, and it was crowded; the phrase "social distancing" had not yet been used, and had we gazed into a crystal ball that evening we would have been astonished.  And probably stocked up on hand-sanitizer and toilet paper.

At Bryson's grocery on Thursday, I pulled out my little bottle of Purell at the checkout counter; I had entered my pin number for my debit card, and I have become so cautious that I immediately cleaned my hands where my fingers had touched a possible coronavirus-coated number pad.  "I could probably sell that for fifty bucks on the street!" I joked to the two women ringing up and bagging my groceries.  Then I told them about a video Martha had seen on Facebook a month or so ago depicting a man in a car approached by a seedy-looking character at an inner city intersection.  He peeled off several bills and said, "Have you got the stuff?"   They both looked around furtively before the seedy character pulled from beneath his denim jacket two rolls of toilet paper and a bottle of Purell.

"Isn't it true!" one of the women said.  "I thought we'd have flying cars by now, but here we are scrounging for toilet paper!"

I would have thought the same thing, I thought.  After all, in my lifetime we have walked on the moon, eradicated smallpox, and built skyscrapers tall enough for terrorists to want to fly into them.  And here I am typing at a computer undreamt-of when I graduated from college, posting to a blog, searching for images of flying cars on the internet.  Something has gone terribly wrong, hasn't it?

One thing went right this week, though.  We finally completed the fence project begun only two weeks ago, painted the same deep blue as the birdbath in front of the garden shed and each post mounted with a birdhouse.  Maybe birds will actually decide to use them here rather than balanced on the railing of our deck.

It is satisfying to complete a project that burned up some stress in hard work while at the same time beautifying our property.  I especially like the "See Rock City" one in the middle - that was Martha's idea - with its pop of bright red and its memory of a wonderful day four years ago at that iconic place on Lookout Mountain!