Mother's Day

Martha had wanted to go somewhere different this year on Mother’s Day and decided that an overnight visit to the Fryemont Inn would be just the place to go.  We read about their Covid protocols on the website and it seemed like one of the safest destinations, with large rooms that could be aired out and a spacious lodge and dining room.  

The Inn is located on a hill overlooking Bryson City, just a little over an hour from Highlands, and although we have never stayed there we had heard good reports.  Constructed a hundred years ago by Amos and Lillian Frye (thus it’s name) it is listed on the National Register. 

Amos Frye had access to some of the best timber in the Great Smoky Mountains at the time, and he used it on the Inn – oak and maple for the floors, locust for the beams and columns, poplar bark for part of the siding, and interior paneling from the great American chestnuts that were at the time being killed by the chestnut blight.  Martha’s grandmother’s home on Fourth Street in downtown Highlands, where we briefly stayed 38 years ago when our home was being built, had similar paneling, come of it rare clear chestnut (as opposed to “wormy” chestnut), and when we walked into the lodge it reminded us of that wonderful old home.  It featured a huge rock fireplace in which a fire was blazing.  It seemed to be a laid-back place; a group of guests were playing a spirited game of Scrabble on a big game table, and someone was curled up with a book in front of the fire.  

The Fryemont reminded us, too, of the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem where we have often stayed on our way to the Outer Banks and Atlantic Beach.  A converted cotton mill, the Brookstown has that same quirky layout, uneven floors, and crooked corridors.  The Inn has been owned by only three families, most recently the Browns since 1978.  We met Hotel Manager Monica Brown when we arrived – her husband is the Executive Chef and her daughter works there during the summers.

We wandered down dark corridors and peered in unoccupied rooms that were open, some of them containing old-fashioned sinks with separate hot and cold faucets, like the historic old Blue Swallow in Tucumcari, New Mexico, where we stayed on our trip to California in 2016.

Historically interesting, but a bit of a challenge when washing up!  (Do you want ice cold water in your face, or scalding hot water?)  Unsure about some of the rooms in the Main Lodge being musty, Martha had arranged to stay just a short distance away in one of a group of comfortable and more modern rondettes called the Balcony Suites, where hot and cold water commingled in a single spout thanks to the miracle of modern plumbing.

It was a great place to stay, quiet and airy, with rocking chairs on the back deck.  We had arrived early enough in Bryson City to spend some time walking around, but now it was appealing to sit and relax under towering shade trees in those rockers waiting for dinner.  Dinner was in a spacious dining room, and we sat at a table with a window facing a stone terrace; the only other diners were on the other side of the room in front of the fireplace.  The menu included trout prepared six different ways, and we each tried a different way, the apricot-ginger glaze and the white-wine-and-mushroom sauce equally tasty.  While we were eating, Martha remarked that this was the first time we had dined indoors at a restaurant in well over a year.

The next morning, we returned to the same dining room for a bountiful breakfast, and then left Bryson City on a rambling, circuitous route, warm enough to put the top down on our Mini Cooper.  We stayed on two-lane roads to Robbinsville, then back over to Topton and a beautiful drive down the Nantahala River gorge to the Nantahala Outdoor Center (the NOC), popular with tubers and kayakers across the country.  

 We had a little picnic across the river, watching the water cascade over the rocks.  It was a little early in the season for venturing out in the water, but we watched a single kayaker expertly maneuver his craft upriver.  The Appalachian Trail actually crosses the Nantahala River on the bridge alongside the NOC, so after we had walked across the bridge we were able to say that we had hiked on the AT for Mother’s Day. 

It was a good Mother’s Day despite being tempered by the sadness of such holidays.  Martha heard from our own daughter, and she also heard from her sister and her brothers, who were united in missing Martha’s Mama who died last June.  But we were fortunate to have our mothers for as many years as we did, weren’t we? - my own mother lived to be over 90 – and it is a comfort to know that we tried to love them as much as they loved us.

Our Iffy Gardens

It is always nice to see our gardens take shape in May - my "main"garden down in the raised beds that I built several years ago, and Martha's "backup"garden up on the deck, protected on high from deer and rabbits.  The time to plant gardens in this part of Western North Carolina is not before May 15; otherwise a late frost can arrive overnight and put a swift end to early planting.  Although a little early, the temperatures looked good for the next week, so last week we set out most of our plants.  

I planted red bell peppers, tomatoes (several varieties), zucchini, and blue lake green beans in the raised beds, which after several years contain loose soil amended with composted fall leaves that don't even need tilling.  I expect them to do well if I erect the deer netting around the raised beds, if it doesn't rain too much this summer, and if I can keep slugs under control with "Sluggo," a product that always reminds me of that old cartoon strip that only we old-timers still remember.

But what's in a name?  Sluggo, tiny pellets that bait and kill slugs and snails, is very effective if I distribute it in time.  There are a lot of other "ifs" in the sentence before, but it is well worth the effort.  Of course, we realize we could buy fresh vegetables all summer at August Produce, but where's the fun in that?  Is there anything better than a tomato grown in your own garden?

Martha's backup garden takes place in several very clever planters known as "Grow Boxes," which you can fill with water so that they water the plants (mostly herbs) below, from the roots,  She ordered six new ones this year, and has planted them with the herbs that make our summer cooking so wonderful - basil, parsley, chives, and rosemary.  She has also planted some roma tomatoes, green beans, and summer squash.  My garden, exposed to the elements and the predators, is not always reliable, but her backup garden rarely fails.

So we have planted, fertilized, and watered.  And now we wait to see, in that "if" of the gardener's held breath, what happens this season.  In the best of conditions, we will be rewarded with that most wonderful gift, real produce from our own gardens.  And if it fails, we have at least gotten some dirt under our fingernails and experienced the age-old wonder of sowing seed and cultivating and hoping for the magic of growth.

More Projects Underway

"It is good to be working on something physical again, sore muscles at the end of the day and the satisfaction of seeing plans become reality."  That's what I wrote in my last post about the demolition of the steps to our front porch and various fences that will interfere with the planned covered entryway to the front door.  Work continued this week with the removal and replacement of two rotten boards on our deck.  What seemed like a relatively easy task turned into a brutal contest against rusty screws with crowbar and circular saw. 

Wednesday morning, after two days of hard work, I learned that my running was impacted in a big way.  I had run three miles on Monday, but fatigue is cumulative, and I felt it in my heavy legs.  I have also come face to face once again with that uncomfortable truth:  "I am no longer as young as I was!"  I ran until I was tired, then walked, then ran some more.  Fortunately I met my friend Fred half-way through the run and I turned and finished it with him.  82-year-old Fred is actually planning on running in a track meet next weekend and had been running intervals, so we paced each other back to the park at 12-minutes per mile.  A track meet!  What an inspiration.

Thursday I put the finishing touches on the deck, adding another decorative horizontal beam for hanging flowers this summer, something I had been meaning to do for some time now.

And what is a deck without rocking chairs?  Our last remaining rocking chair finally succumbed to old age and rot this winter and could no longer be repaired with hose clamps, screws, or new runners cut with my jigsaw, so I sadly took it to the landfill.  Martha had identified some acacia-wood rockers at Walmart, of all places, so on Friday I took an extra rest day and we drove to Clayton and bought two of them.  I unpacked and assembled them, challenged by the claim "Easy Assembly:  Assemble in 30 minutes or less!" (21 minutes 52 seconds - hah!)  We were heartened to learn that acacia is "100% wood from well-managed forests," and surprised to learn that they were made in Vietnam.

We had our house pressure-cleaned by Martha's nephew last week and he did a great job, making our green metal roof shine as if brand new as well as the boards on our deck (above).  Now we are planning to have our house painted.  It is a good time after a thorough pressure wash and painting is long overdue.  We had agreed on a new color scheme, a shade of tan or beige instead of gray, the same green window frames, but brick-red accent colors on the window sashes and doors.  We found the exact colors for the windows on the first try, but we went through four shades of tan for the siding before finally (with some remaining trepidation) settling on a shade.

We had already sampled, among other colors, Shakespeare Tan (is that based on the color of cottages in Stratford-upon-Avon, I wondered?) and Woodstock Tan ("By the time I got to Woodstock . . .?") before settling on the comparatively unglamorous Grant Beige.  

Now to find somebody to do the work.  Construction (and painting) is booming in Highlands this spring; Covid-19 restrictions are being lifted, everybody wants to build a house in Highlands, and there is more than enough work for everyone.  As a result, the cost of lumber has gone up 200% since last year and contractors who are not tied up all summer are hard to find.  Our first painting contractor told us he might be able to get to our job by August.  Now we are waiting for the second estimate from a genial Latino who spoke excellent English and whose truck ran out of gas in our driveway, where I gladly gave him all the lawnmower gas that I had on hand.  Maybe he will remember the favor and find time for our project.

The extra rest day paid off, and Saturday morning I was able to complete six miles.  "I am no longer as young as I was" is a condition, I have found, that can be treated by another truth I am learning more and more about every year:  "I need an extra rest day!"