Farewell Little Mini

I completed some tough runs early this week, and by mid-week I was left with a feeling of accomplishment but also cumulative fatigue.  Monday, just as I was starting my run at Founders Park, two walkers whose names I do not know but who are regulars told me, "Somebody just told us there is a bear at the stoplight!"  There are only four stoplights in Highlands so that narrowed down the bear's location.  It struck me as funny somehow; I pictured a black bear, sitting patiently at a red light waiting for it to change.  "Since he's down here, I think I'll go up Bearpen!" I told them.

And I did, climbing and climbing up my familiar mountain on an exceptionally humid morning, my seventh Monday morning in seven weeks.  There was more traffic than usual on this narrow, unpaved road, and I felt a little ill-tempered because of it; I never want to step off the road on the ascent.  But then I realized that they were all here for the same reason I was, enjoying the altitude, the stunning views, and cool mountain air that must feel like heaven to part-time homeowners from places like Florida or south Georgia.  The camera on top of Bearpen this morning showed this sunrise over Whiteside Mountain:

I was still dehydrated when I went up to Hickory Street to help with the daunting project of emptying out Martha's Mom's house and preparing it for sale.  Tuesday was more of the same, and by Wednesday morning I was not certain whether I wanted to run a mile let along complete some intervals.  But as I neared Harris Lake and the 400-meter starting line, I told myself I would try one of them.  I ran faster than expected, and thought I would try just one more.  How often has that phrase gotten a runner into trouble?  "Just one more."  But no harm was done, and the final one turned out to be my recent fastest interval time, 2:20.

But then I was exhausted, walking some of the cool-down mile, my already-stretched runner's savings account depleted.  And work continued in the afternoon at Hickory Street, where progress is finally being made, the big house slowly emptying as family members select what they would like, and now an estate sale may be just around the corner.

Tuesday, our Mini Cooper developed some problems, and we had to have it towed to our mechanic, who called last night with the grim news that we had a bad crankshaft pulley and several other problems, which would cost much more than the the value of this 2005 car.  So we decided to reluctantly part with this faithful car that has taken us on many wonderful trips, especially that audacious one four years ago all the way across the United States and back again. 

Farewell little Mini!

Atlanta Motor Speedway

The Merced River in Yosemite National Park

Just Outside of Yosemite National Park

In the Desert near Badlands National Park

Palm Springs, California

The Usual Route

Readers of this blog may wonder what I mean when I say that on any particular day I completed three miles on "the usual route."  This three-mile loop is a familiar one, and one on which I have, one way or another, back and forth and round and round, completed training runs as long as 20 miles and as short as one mile.  It is the route that I ran this morning, in fact, another hot and humid Saturday, and I decided to take photos on the next day since I do not carry my phone with me when I run.  We often see dog walkers along the way, carrying phones in addition to the burden of leashed dogs, and I am often surprised by how many of them will be carrying on lively conversations while they are out on this beautiful route, oblivious to their surroundings.  One day a week or two ago I passed a woman who I could hear at least a quarter of a mile away, yakking on and on, while passing gorgeous rhododendrons and completely ignoring the friendly wave of this runner.

We start at the Founders Park, and my own preference is to avoid Fifth Street and its traffic in favor of the driveway through a development called Highlands Manor, and then through this little shady gravel path into one of our nicest residential areas, Village Walk.

I like this little shortcut; the lawns are manicured, and there are beds of flowers everywhere featuring different blooms in different seasons.  This morning we spotted Black-eyed Susan, Shasta daisies, and a tall, delicate, red flower that I did not know but that Karen correctly identified as Lucifer's tongue.

From there, we climb Chestnut Street, where the road to Bearpen Mountain begins.  Its relentless grade beckons to me on Monday mornings, but not at the beginning of a long Saturday run.

A right turn down Sixth Street takes us on what this morning was the coolest road on the entire route, completely shaded with trees and often featuring a cool breeze that I suppose is the result of the air currents coming down Bearpen Mountain.  At the intersection of Sixth and Horse Cove Road is Highlands Townsite Apartments, where Anne Sellers normally spends her summers.  We do miss her this year!  And in fact many of the units are unoccupied due to quarantining and the dangers of travel during this terrible time of Covid-19.  We have enjoyed many pleasant times with her there in the screen-in porch over the past few summers!

The route continues across Horse Cove Road, right on Smallwood Road, and then left on Leonard Drive.  Just across from Townsite Apartments, I have marked the pavement in 200-meter intervals, all the way around to the School Track, and I often recall while running here the hard workouts I have run on this marked section of the route over the years.  It is here that I would run, in addition to the 400-meter intervals I still complete, 800-meter intervals and mile repeats, and most difficult of all, "tempo" runs of three, four, and five miles, uninterrupted and at slightly faster than race pace.  I was glad on this Saturday morning to be running a leisurely seven miles at an easy pace, chatting with Karen and Fred the whole time.  We even persuaded Fred to take some walking breaks.

On Leonard we run by Harris Lake, which this morning was glassy still in the morning light.  But I have often seen it rippled with waves in the wind, and sometimes frozen, as it was on this frigid winter morning many years ago.  I can remember ice skating on this lake, an activity that for me consisted of taking a hesitant series of clumsy, shuffling baby steps while trying to avoid falling.  I once imagined that it would be nice to be able to fly around the ice as others do, hands clasped confidently behind their backs.  But that's not me.

Leonard Drive is another pleasant part of the route, shady and relatively flat, and it is where I have been running my 400-meter intervals.  It climbs at its end gently upward to the entrance to Satulah Ridge, a subdivision where Martha's sister used to live.  The road goes sharply downhill and takes two sharp curves, and this little driveway with a gate is on the left.  I well remember three years ago while I was running here, on that side of the road, when I came upon a large black bear standing in the driveway, so close I could have touched him.  And the gate was closed.

On around the curve, where I believe I may have clocked my fastest interval in my lifetime on that day when I encountered the bear, is a house occupied for ten years by my Mom.  We moved her from Florida to Highlands in 2003 after my Dad died, and she lived here until she moved to Indiana to be with my sister in her final months, where she died in 2013.  While she lived here, a group of us who ran every afternoon after I got off work would sometimes see her sitting in the sun on the front porch (now shaded by trees the new owner planted), watching for us to run past.  I rarely pass this house without remembering her.

The house faces Pierson Drive and a flat, fast, unshaded section of the route past Highlands School, which on a morning like this was hot but into which during the winter a wind is often blowing.  I remember running into such a wind some winter days when we would have to turn and run backwards, just to keep our cheeks from becoming frostbitten.

I believe it is still the case that this is the only "K through 12" school in the state, and our daughter Katy attended all of those grades; it provided her a fine education which encouraged her, the Class Valedictorian, to go on to a degree at Chapel Hill.  Martha grew up in a little house a little to the right of this building; it burned down years ago, before we moved to Highlands, but I often hear her tell stories of her time in that house.

There is a track there, too, but it is only one-sixth of a mile, the curves a little too tight to run fast on, which is why most of us rarely use it.  Photographs of the graduating class were hung on this fence this year to compensate for the absence of the traditional graduation ceremony.  It is somehow a moving sight, and I often pause and walk here during an easy run, reading the names of these young graduates facing such an uncertain future, many of them familiar to us as the sons and daughters of families we have known for a long time.  That cute little class mascot, Riley, is the grand-daughter of good friends of ours who used to regularly run with us.

Just past the track is a short, steep little hill that we used to call Hospital Hill, because at the top on the right is where the old Highlands Hospital was located until it moved in 1993 to its present campus outside of Town on the Cashiers Road.  The building is now the Peggy Crosby Center, and it contains the offices of many of the non-profit organizations in Highlands, including the Land Trust and the Center for Life Enrichment.  But when we first moved to Highlands, our doctor had his offices here, and Martha was in fact born in this building.

If one were to continue straight over the hill, he would run past the Presbyterian Church on Main Street, which contains many memories as well and where I don't think we have missed a Christmas Eve candlelight service for the past 37 years.

But on the usual route, we turn right on Smallwood Avenue, past the other shore of Harris Lake, and then retrace the same route back to its beginning.  Sometimes there are fishermen on the shore of the lake, and there is also a fairly large flock of geese who have been known to honk threateningly if runners pass by too closely. 

I have always liked a quote about fishing that I used to believe Isaak Walton said, but have since learned is a Babylonian proverb:  "The gods do not deduct from man's allotted span the hours spent in fishing."  I sometimes think of that when I run past some fishermen, and I am optimistic enough to believe that the same rule might apply to the hours spent running.

So there it is:  "the usual route."  We are fortunate to live in such a beautiful place, and to be able to run on these quiet streets, filled with so many memories, greeted by so many friends who live along the way, meeting walkers and other runners enjoying the pleasures of being outdoors in such a place as this. And I have promised to myself never to take it for granted.

The Muggy Meter

As noted in previous posts, I never complain about weather conditions in Highlands.  This is truly a "temperate" place for outdoor activities - that is, characterized by moderate temperatures, weather, or climate; neither hot nor cold.  During the relatively mild winters here (which I am nevertheless grateful for being able to escape the worst of these past few years in Atlantic Beach), I have watched with awe YouTube videos of runners training for the Boston Marathon in snowy and icy conditions in which I would not dream of running.  And during the summer we hear stories from visiting runners from Florida or Alabama who begin running in the mornings when it is still dark to avoid that dominant, humbling, brutal sunshine and humidity.

If I was going to complain, this would have been a good week to do so, with the heat wave continuing unabated and morning humidity in the upper 90s.  Bearpen Mountain was a struggle on Monday, but I was proud that it was the sixth week in a row that I climbed to the summit.  And just as last week, my intervals yesterday were the slowest they have been.  This morning we both completed only three miles.  It had rained yesterday afternoon, a torrential downpour that deposited nearly three inches at our house in an hour's time.  The garden beds looked like rice paddies.  And our gentle trickle of a waterfall out back quickly became a roaring, muddy torrent.  Loud booms of thunder shook the house again and again.

All that rain had to go somewhere besides the Savannah River Basin, so what was left was everywhere this morning, dripping from the trees, soaking the streets and lawns where we ran.  You could see the moisture rising in wraith-like columns from the street ahead, where it will climb into the atmosphere, gather into a thunderstorm, and return in another daily downpour, which in fact is exactly what began while I was writing this post.  

For the runner, humidity is more of a factor than "dry" heat, the kind of heat you can experience in July out west while never actually breaking into a sweat.  That was not the case this morning; I was drenched in sweat before I reached the end of the block.  A doctor whose article I was reading on the internet put it this way:  "As humidity increases, thermal strain and premature fatigue increase exponentially, and so running at your normal pace will feel very difficult."  Now that is an understatement!

Still, we persevere in what the Asheville meteorologists described at the beginning of the week as "brutal" on the alliteratively named "Muggy Meter."  Because what seems "brutal" to us runners who are accustomed to less trying conditions may seem "comfy," or even "refreshing" to a visiting runner from just about anywhere else in the Southeast.

So I'm not complaining. 

The Sultry Days of July

Mid-July is turning into late July, and these long, hot, sultry days are taking a toll on our running.  The humidity has been high and today was Day Four of a heat wave that has stalled across the southeast.  Not that I am complaining, for Highlands is surely cooler than anywhere else in this part of the country.  Morning temperatures have been in the upper 60s and have climbed into the 80s by the afternoon, but we are still managing to keep temperatures manageable inside our non-air-conditioned but well-insulated house by simply opening windows at night and closing them late in the morning.

The weather map this morning showed triple-digits for places like Clemson and Greenville, and even 95 in Franklin, but omitted cool Highlands, which historically originated as a summer escape from places like Charleston and Florida.  In earlier days, Floridians would arrive on Memorial Day and stay all summer in this place advertised by the Chamber of Commerce as "Air Conditioned by Nature."

Still, it takes a little while to become acclimated to warmer temperatures.  Wednesday I had planned to run some more intervals but after only two of them, drenched in sweat and finishing slower times than last week, decided to abandon the effort.  Today was even hotter, and again I dialed back my expectations and completed only seven miles.  We had a visiting runner from Sarasota, Florida, a lean and tan woman who was obviously better acclimated to these conditions than we are.  She was ecstatic to be able to run in temperatures in the 70s.

We are continuing to work on going through Martha's Mom's house so that it can be put on the market.  Every day, we realize how much more needs to be done, but everyone is pitching in and progress is being made.  There are many sweet memories being discovered, but there are also many overflowing closets and attics and basements.  I shared the difficulty of this process with a friend who had gone through the same thing, and she put it well when she replied, "We know how hard, interesting, sometimes enlightening, sometimes sad, sometimes comical the process is of going through all those years of your parents' lives."  That is so true.  And it is also a way of finding some closure,

The garden is doing very well this year, as noted in previous posts.  We have had two or three tomatoes, but the rest of the crop are stubbornly green and don't seem to be in a hurry to ripen.  We have had plenty of summer squash, and this week I spotted the first zucchini, which will be ready to pick in a day or two.  Zucchini seem to double in size overnight.

I have also been eyeing the Blue Lake Beans. ( I have always loved the name of this variety, which comes, I discovered today, from its origins in the Blue Lake area near Ukiah, California).  When I returned home from running this morning I had my "first picking," and it looks like there will a second and a third in the next few weeks.  Martha's back-up garden on the deck is also producing and they are ready to pick.

What could be better after a seven-mile run than fresh green beans?  I will sauté a little diced onion in some olive oil, add a slice or two of bacon, and cook them until tender.  Barbequed chicken, rosemary roasted potatoes, and corn bread will round out a quintessential summer dinner, eaten out on the deck.  If the afternoon thundershower will delay its scheduled arrival by an hour or two.

Zucchini in a Time of Pandemic

Sometimes it is easy to forget how suddenly and profoundly all of our lives changed in early March.  In the grocery store this week, nearly everyone was complying with Governor Cooper's executive order mandating face masks in all public buildings, and I realized that a mere four months ago it would have been unthinkable to imagine that we in the United States would be where we are.  We would look with curiosity at photos of people on crowded streets in other countries wearing masks - all those other faraway dangerous countries where exotic viruses flourish.

With all that has been going on in our lives these past few weeks, I have not spent much time on this blog bemoaning the state of things, but it is a constant presence in our lives.  We have not traveled farther from home than Cashiers or Clayton since last year, and we know that we are the fortunate ones who are not living in apartment buildings in big cities or confined to retirement homes.  And unlike the rest of the world, cases continue to climb in the United States.  On BBC World News this week I heard a report on the new Covid-19 hot spot in the entire world - Arizona.

So we continue to hope and pray (and vote on November 3!) for more competent leadership, the kind of leadership which is making it possible for schools to open in countries like Denmark, and public gatherings to take place again all over Europe.

Bur it is Sunday and a beautiful day in Highlands, and Martha and her sister and brothers have decided that they will not work seven days a week in that big brick house where they have been going every day for weeks now.  We have fallen into a Sabbath Day tradition of having a nice Sunday brunch out on the deck, weather permitting, and it has permitted us to do so for many weeks now.  Usually I make an omelet as I did this morning, filled with red and green peppers, chives snipped from the herb planter on the deck, and cheese, and biscuits from Dusty's (Rhodes Superette), and sometimes even ready-cook bacon and home-style potatoes.  This is a departure from my own unvarying bowl of granola with fruit and nuts and fresh blueberries.  It is nice to take the time to set the table under the umbrella, carry everything out on a tray, and enjoy this brunch in our own quiet, peaceful neighborhood, surrounded by birdsong and profusely blooming rhododendron.

After brunch, I went out to check the garden, and discovered that there will be more yellow squash coming in soon, and green beans as well - a sure sign that July is progressing as it normally does despite all of the other changes in our lives that we cannot change.

I don't think I have ever seen our zucchini plants spread out so exuberantly before, and I check them in anticipation nearly every day, but still they have not produced any of those unique vegetables which are so prolific that they are legendary.  It is said in this part of the world that you have to roll your windows up when you park at church to avoid friends putting them in your car.

On this Sunday morning, I think of Martin Luther and his famously optimistic quote, which I know in my heart applies to zucchini as well as apples.

Making Feet Soar

It is difficult to believe that Martha's Mom died exactly two weeks ago today.  The death certificate has been received, bank accounts have been changed - all of the many, many little tasks that must be done in what is called "settling the estate," none of which can be neglected.  Memorials in her name have been coming in to the First Presbyterian Church, and the family continues to receive sympathy cards, some of them from people we have not heard from in some time.  Martha has been taking the lead in most of these things and has stayed very busy, and her sister and brothers have also been willing and tireless in tackling the big job of sorting through belongings accumulated over a period of 60 years packed into every nook and cranny of that big two-story house.

There are two attics in the house itself and one over the garage, and a basement absolutely filled to the ceiling with all manner of things that must be dragged out and examined.  I once noticed a rusty fender under the back porch and asked Martha's Dad what it was, and he said it was a fender for a 1940 Ford.  "What's it doing there?" I innocently asked, and he replied, "You never know when you might need one."  There must be at least 30 pairs of adjustable pliers in the depths of that basement and he knew where every one was.  I borrowed a little tool called a basin wrench from him on more than one occasion, and he would unfailingly be able to drag it out of a seemingly random pile of tools on the workbench.

So Martha stays busy emptying kitchen drawers and going through shoe boxes in the closet, but grieving is a long and complicated process.  I picked a rose from the trellis in front of the tool shed, spied while I was mowing the lawn on Thursday, and instantly thought that it would be a pretty thing to take to Martha's Mom, for she always enjoyed flowers.  And Martha says that in some way she still expects a phone call from her; they would talk to each other nearly every day. 

We have continued to stay home in the mornings to attend to home matters, or to go running on days when we can, but nearly every afternoon has been spent cleaning out cupboards, sorting through old photographs, and the like.  (Martha was a very cute little girl when she was in elementary school, with those short bangs and that impish grin!)  Meanwhile, my garden continues to surprise us, with squash and tomatoes coming in now, and just today we noticed green beans on the plants Martha has on the deck, what she refers to as her little "backup garden," high above the slugs and the marauding deer.

Highlands Roadrunner has been able to stay with the S.E.L.F. Plan described in these posts in the past - Steep, Easy, Long, and Fast on alternating days.  Monday called for climbing Bearpen Mountain again, as noted in the previous post, and Wednesday I surprised myself by completing four 400-meter intervals in my fastest time this year.  But then I was so tired on Thursday (my "E." day) that I found myself taking walking breaks on all the hills.  "How are you doing, neighbor?" our neighbor asked me on one of those hills as she pulled in the driveway where she works.  "Tired," I said.  "Walking all the hills today!"  And then I felt a little angry at myself:  poor little runner, complaining about being tired!  What a wimp! 

This morning was absolutely wonderful.  Cooler, dry air moved in overnight and there was a lovely breeze straight out of the west.  I got started early, a little after 8:00 a.m., and actually felt a little chilly at first running straight into that breeze on Main Street.  It was a nice, long, conversational run, eight miles in all, talking to Fred and Karen for three of those miles.  Karen's mother died recently, too, and as chance would have it she is the Executor of the estate, too, going through much the same thing Martha is, although her mother did not live nearby.  "We found some funny things when we were cleaning out her closet," Karen said.  "She suffered from swollen feet, and there was a new pair of shoes in a plastic bag on the shelf, apparently unworn.  Some caregiver who was not very good at spelling had written a note and pinned it to the bag:  Makes her feet soar."

I thought about that as I completed the final two miles alone, the breeze still fresh, the rhododendron blooming all along the way, cheerful dog-walkers passing by.  A day like this makes my feet soar!

Forty-First Anniversary

We had planned to leave yesterday for a three-day romantic weekend at Snowbird Mountain Lodge in Robbinsville, one of our favorite places and a frequent destination for our anniversary on July 6.  This year we are celebrating 41 years, and when Martha made the reservations a couple of months ago it seemed like the perfect plan.  But as her Mom's condition worsened, and amid continuing concerns over Covid-19, we decided to re-schedule the trip to September.  Both of us were thinking about Snowbird yesterday afternoon, though, when we would have been arriving, climbing that long steep drive up to the parking lot and its views over Santeetlah Lake, and walking into the cool, shady log lodge building itself which always smells like woodsmoke and old books.

We have taken a lot of inspiration from Snowbird in decorating our own home over the years, and we enjoyed spending the night here nearly as well.  While not pampered quite so much by the gourmet dining, the use of bicycles and canoes, and all the rest of it, we enjoyed grilled chicken and corn-on-the cob (the quintessential summer dish) on our deck before the late-afternoon shower chased us indoors.

This morning there was a cool breeze blowing, and I noticed that a gift bag and card had appeared on the table where I had placed a card and a dozen roses a day or two ago.  What do most couples do on their anniversary when they stay home?  Of course:  we both drove separately up to Town to go for a run.  I started a little earlier than Martha, and it being Monday decided to climb Big Bearpen yet again.  I had wanted for us to run together, so I was happy to hear Martha calling out my name after I had descended and was running back down Chestnut Street.  So we ran a quarter-mile or so together before I turned back, leaving her to run up Lower Lake Road while I drove home.

Martha had posted this photo on Facebook, and by lunch-time there were nearly 50 comments from friends wishing us a Happy Anniversary and many more to come.

I remember that day well!  It was August 28 of last year at the Giant's Causeway on the coast of Northern Ireland, part of our 40th-anniversary trip to Britain and Ireland.  A UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is an area of about 40,000 interlocking basalt columns, the result of an ancient volcanic fissure eruption.  "It’s been a wonderful journey with the beautiful woman I love!" I commented on Facebook.

After lunch out on the deck, we opened our cards.  But what did this intriguing gift bag contain?  It was unexpectedly heavy.   And I knew that Martha has not had time to do any shopping.  The card revealed that this gift was purchased on that same trip to Ireland, only four days after the stop at the Giant's Causeway in Waterford, home of Waterford Crystal.  Two of our travel companions had helped her hide the gift, and she had carried the well-padded package all the way back home in her luggage.  "It took up a lot of room in my suitcase," she said.  What a surprise:  two beautiful leaded crystal wine glasses.  Martha said they had warned her that the lead in the crystal might set off the alarms when boarding the plane, but they did not, and so she successfully kept this secret for nearly a year.

Whenever we use these glasses, we will remember that trip to Ireland, the journey across the wide shining Atlantic Ocean and back again, and our own beautiful journey together.

Fourth of July

We decided over a month ago to dissolve the "official" Highlands Roadrunners Club.  Membership had been dwindling for some time, and we no longer organize races to generate revenue.  Over the course of 20 years, though, we raised nearly $18,000 for local fitness-related causes, mostly scholarships for deserving young local athletes.  For several years now, under the leadership of Derek Taylor, the Rotary Club has been organizing the Twilight 5-K and 10-K in August, and it has attracted many more participants than the races we organized (although it is unsure whether or not they will be able to hold it this year).  With the Covid-19 restrictions in place since early March, we cancelled all group runs, and there are no events on the calendar.

Still, several of us continue to run on our own "unofficially," in pairs, or in a larger group on Saturday mornings with appropriate social distancing.  Martha and I, Art and Vicki, Fred, Tom and Debbie, and Karen are all regulars.  The Club is still out there on the internet, too, so visitors continue to find us, which I have always particularly enjoyed.  We have met some very interesting runners over the years and continue to do so.  "I'm coming to Highlands for a week; do you know where I can run?" a complete stranger will ask in an e-mail, and most of the time a friendly runner will show up on a Saturday and we can have the opportunity of running a few miles together. 

This week, a young woman named Mary wrote such an e-mail, and she arrived on Saturday morning accompanied by her identical twin sister Susannah and their dad, John, who was a very accomplished marathon runner.  What a pleasure it is to run with new friends and to show them our usual running routes!  Karen and Fred were there, and we all started out on the regular three-mile loop, talking about anything and everything the whole time.  The twins had just graduated from Furman University, and Mary was training for the Chicago Marathon, keeping her fingers crossed that it would be held.  So many races have been cancelled this year due to the pandemic, including the famous Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta, which has taken place on this day since 1970 and has been completed by several of our runners. 

I had started early this morning, so by the time we had completed the three-mile loop I had five miles under my belt; but our visitors seemed to be enjoying having a "local guide" so much that I took them back up Chestnut Street (pointing out the route to Big Bearpen on the way) and around Lower Lake Road, which circles the Highlands Biological Station and picturesque, water lily-dotted Ravenel Lake, then past the Nature Center and the road to Sunset Rocks.  By the end of the morning, I had completed the eight miles that I had planned to run, and also met some new friends.  "It is always a pleasure to show Highlands to visitors," I later wrote to Mary; "It seems to help us look at it with new eyes and appreciate it all the more."  It is often that way when showing Highlands to visitors.  I remember several years ago my nephew helped us move my Mom here from Florida, and when we returned the rental truck to Franklin, he insisted that I stop again and again on the road along the Cullasaja River.  "Don't you have rivers in Florida?" I asked.  "Yes, but not like this one!" he said.  I had been taking the beautiful waterfalls, the steep gorge, and the roaring rapids of our own Cullasaja Gorge for granted.

The Fourth of July fireworks had been cancelled for this evening, but the streets were still filled with visitors and traffic was heavy for Highlands.  We decided to spend the evening quietly at home, enjoying one of my favorite dinners, Martha's recipe of salmon with peaches and mint over couscous and sugar snap peas.  It tasted especially delicious after eight miles!  And on our own private dining room deck.

We sometimes wonder why so many people never use their deck for dinner.  There is nothing like al fresco dining here in Highlands, surrounded by the heavy fragrance of rhododendron blooming in such great profusion - like little explosions of fireworks - all around us, watching the sun disappear behind the trees across the road.

July in Highlands

We are slowly settling into the loss of Martha's Mom, less than a week ago now.  Funerals at our church, like Sunday services, are not possible these days due to Covid-19, and the closure and comfort they provide has made it difficult for the families of the many members who have passed away this year.  Although her sisters could not be there, all of the children and most of the grandchildren were present.  Our two pastors officiated at a very beautiful graveside service on Tuesday.  Curtis sang Fairest Lord Jesus; Emily is pregnant and is nearing her due date, and I remembered that she had been pregnant at Alan's service four years ago.  I somehow found it wonderful to see her in that state, too large for her clerical robes, as she read scripture and delivered a little homily, her baby waiting to be born.

I don't think it will be considered morbid to say that Highlands Memorial Cemetery is a beautiful place, a gently-sloping hill with hazy mountains off to the west.  I was struck by how many headstones marked the final resting place of so many of my friends.  There was Herb James off to the left, long-time Town Clerk and later Commissioner with whom I worked for 26 years.  And Mayor Buck Trott, right across the road.  Both of these men were so strong it seemed they would live forever; Herb grew up right down the road from me and told me stories of plowing all day behind a mule, then walking straight up the mountain to dance at Helen's Barn.  And of course, there was Jane's husband, who died so suddenly on Labor Day weekend of 2016, and Anne Seller's husband, the graves all recently decorated by Martha in time for Father's Day at Jane's request.

We came home and had a quiet lunch out on our deck, and it felt like some closure had been achieved.  There is a great deal of work to be done cleaning out the house and preparing it for sale, and Martha and her sister have been staying busy going through 60 years of accumulated memories.  And we have been running, too, harder than usual.  Monday, the day before the graveside service, I climbed Bearpen Mountain as hard as I could and then in the afternoon mixed up some concrete for the entrance to our tool shed, and Wednesday I ran some intervals and short hill repeats, and then mowed the yard.  Running hard; staying busy.

By Thursday, I knew I was nearing the sharp precipice of over-training, but I ran again anyway, and it did not go well.  I found myself walking most of the hills and by the end of a short run I was, as we runners like to say, "Toast."  After lunch, I began what seemed like a simple repair of a toilet supply line in the upstairs bathroom, which turned in to a trip to Town to purchase a completely new toilet, and a second trip to Town to purchase a second wax seal to replace the first one that I had ruined in the installation.  By the time Martha had returned at 5:00 p.m. the 'Toast" had burned.  Still, sometimes it is good to work to exhaustion, and to run to exhaustion.  That's how we discover where are limits are.

July is a beautiful time of year in Highlands.  Our rhododendron are blooming in great profusion, and the hydrangea near the bay window is gorgeous.  When I step out onto the deck in the morning, the air is heavy with that unmistakable fragrance of July.

Even though the Fourth of July fireworks have been cancelled, people are arriving in great numbers, most of them wearing face masks but many not.  We are worried that this influx of people may cause a "spike" here as it has elsewhere, but all we can do is practice wearing masks ourselves, social distancing, and avoiding close contact and crowds.  One of my former colleagues at the Town Hall tested positive two weeks ago, but thankfully he is recovering.

And our garden is finally producing the first vegetables of the season.  The first tomato, a small misshapen specimen, proved rotten inside, but this one is ripening nicely on the windowsill beside the summer squash I found hiding in the shade of huge leaves thus far undisturbed by slugs.

A new month, a new reality.  We have lost some things forever, but still there is birth and there are vegetables, bursting forth right before our eyes.