Sunday

We awoke early this morning to sunshine streaming boldly through all the windows.  It is difficult to "sleep in" on mornings like this!  The sky was bright blue and cloudless, as it always is when a front has moved in, but the temperature was still only 22 degrees with a brisk southerly wind.  I went outside for my Tai Chi but it was still too icy to safely walk on the wooden walkway to the beach, so I stayed close to the building; birds were singing in the holly bushes near the walkway, optimistic that warm weather will come soon.  And that brilliant sun!

Our condo is facing south so the sun rises between the houses next to us; I would have had to go all the way down to the big, wide beach to see it rise.  But still, it is wonderful to see all of the houses around us in their seaside pastel hues suddenly burst into color at dawn.  Our balcony is bathed in sunlight by 9:00 a.m., and I may brave the freezing temperatures later today to simply sit in a chair, sipping in the delicious mixture of bright sunshine and frigid air.

We had some good seafood chowder Friday night courtesy of Friendly Market, our go-to place for seafood and sides here.  Last night we had our first "real" seafood dinner; the photo does not do it justice with its one-note earth-tones, but the roasted brussel sprouts, pan-seared scallops, and macaroni-and-cheese exploded with flavor.  No fancy sauces, just a little salt and pepper and char; Martha has learned that all the scallops need is a little butter and olive oil before placing them in the skillet and then walking away before turning them over one time.

The windows were covered with salt spray, so I got out the Windex I had bought last year (still under the kitchen sink) and went to work.  I also got both TVs working perfectly last night, although as readers of this blog will know we do not watch TV here, especially while on Sabbatical.  What a sacrilege!  But we have often stood out near the ocean at night here and in Duck and seen through the tall windows of our neighbors' houses TVs shouting and flashing at full tilt.  "Come out and look at the moon!" we feel like crying out.

I was reminded that it was the Sabbath and that I had possibly broken the Fourth Commandment (although surely cleaning windows at the beach is an exception) when Rev. Powell Osteen Jr. preached on the the Ten Commandment later this morning at the First United Methodist Church in Morehead City, which we also attended last year.  "I know you, don't I?" Rev. Powell asked as we entered the sanctuary.  I am sure he did, because he seems to be the kind of Pastor who never forgets a face or a name.

The church contains one of the warmest, friendliest congregations with whom we have worshiped.  We like visiting other churches, and this one has a beautiful sanctuary, a wonderful choir (with two or three exceptional soprano voices), a fine organist, and hymns sung at a lively tempo (a pet peeve of mine in other churches).  Rev. Osteen is an excellent preacher, too; he knows his scripture and is very well-read, but his message was skillfully delivered and clearly illustrated - a perfect sermon.  An especially nice touch in this church is the Bread Stewardship; first-time visitors are given a loaf of delicious, sweet, home-baked bread.  We enjoyed this bread last year and had been tempted to claim the status of first-timers, but Rev. Osteen seems to have a long memory - perhaps for this very reason! - and I suspect he would have "sussed us out."  (Number Nine - bearing false witness!).

Now we have returned home to our clean windows and brilliant sunshine, ships slowly sailing south out on the bright horizon, and left-over seafood chowder.  I plan to spend the rest of the day immersed in The Moons of Jupiter, which Martha gave me for Christmas after carefully checking my shelves and deciding it was the only book by Alice Munro I had somehow overlooked.

But first for an invigorating walk on a windy, 24-degree beach!  I bundle up in Gore-Tex and gloves and head down the walkway, one of those big freighters out on the horizon, the wind biting sharply:

And suddenly I see beside me in the surf the gleaming arcs of dolphins leaping and playing (or perhaps merely looking for dinner!) just a few yards off-shore.

Upcurving in the glistening air, like the top

Of a dolphin wheel poking just above the surface

Turning round and round in this sunny realm.

 And as if this beautiful sight is not enough, this Sunday afternoon I am rewarded even more by finding this sand dollar half-buried in the cold surf.  A priceless coin.

Atlantic Beach

We have settled in comfortably already, our computers set up on the dining room table and two crooked little stacks of books on the coffee table. 

It's a warm and open space with sea-shell motifs scattered here and there and comfortable chairs and sofa.  And as with every oceanfront place we have ever stayed in the rooms are filled with light even on cloudy and windy days like this one.  The clock on the wall is stopped (dead battery most likely) and we have decided to keep it that way out of defiance of schedules and appointments.  Isn't there a song about this clock?

There are 90 condo units here but they are almost all vacant in January; we have sighted only two people outside, and there is only one car parked on our side of the building.  This is not the prime time of year for Atlantic Beach.

Our neighbors back home have sent us photos of the 8-inch snow that Highlands received, beautiful fluffy snow piled up on deck furniture, dogs out romping in it with snow-covered noses.  We escaped just in time, as we did last year.  And while I have always loved snow and part of me misses the experience, I know that there will be no running for many days in Highlands; the temperature here will be 60 in just a day or two.  We discovered last year how much we enjoyed being able to be active outdoors in January (the treadmill is not for me).  And of course the ocean is an ever-present and ever-changing attraction, the sound of the surf and its colors and surfaces always in motion.  This morning Martha noticed a huge ship on the horizon, a freighter coming south around Cape Lookout, its shape ghostly in the haze that is blurring the line between sky and ocean.

Martha has settled into a good book titled, appropriately, Sweet Salt Air, but I am restless; it always takes me a day or two to settle down.  So I go back to the grocery store for a few more supplies, braving the wild, wild wind that again is rocking the car and knocking over trash cans at the store.  I think on the Beaufort Wind Scale we might be in a Fresh Gale, on our way to a Strong Gale or a Whole Gale.  After lunch I go out in snow flurries, or rather billowing waves of snow blowing across the brown lawn below us, out toward the beach which I have not yet walked upon.  A few steps on the wooden walkway and I realize that I am on slick ice, so I turn and walk precariously back onto the concrete walk.

I have not bundled up properly and the walk back to the shelter of the condo is excruciatingly cold, the wind and snow stinging my cheeks.  It is such a relief to return to our sanctuary that I think my restlessness has blown away and I am ready to settle down to a book until a more temperate day.

Arrival

We slept well and enjoyed a full Southern breakfast on Friday morning in a gracious dining room which reminded Martha of her Mamah's historic home in Raleigh with its simple decor and quintessentially North Carolina Christmas decorations.

We had been greeted in the hotel lobby by the hotel cat, a little tabby named Sally.  We have a similar tabby in our local hardware store but I have never seen one in a hotel before.  A sign in the lobby explained who she was:

Sally made herself thoroughly at home in this wonderful place for a cat, lounging on the plush lobby furniture, grooming herself meticulously as only cats can do, and napping in front of a warm fireplace hung with a single red stocking bearing her name and a paw print.

"Doesn't she try to get onto the breakfast bar?" I asked the next morning.  (Eggs, bacon, sausage patties).  "She prefers to hunt for her foot," we were told, and evidently she often brought her little trophies to the courtyard doormat, which I thought might have been a surprise for some guests.

We continued on to Raleigh on Friday and had a nice visit with Martha's aunt over lunch.  It is she who is so graciously letting us stay in her condo, and we told her how much it meant to get away during the winter months on this journey that we are calling a Sabbatical rather than a vacation.  Books to read, poetry (and blogs) to write, re-creation, re-connection, windy deserted beaches to walk and run along.

A light, cold rain splattered the windshield most of the way from Raleigh to Kinston, but then it cleared off almost entirely and it seemed as if the sun might try to shine.  We provisioned ourselves and unpacked as the wind picked up again and the storm approached.

In the night we heard the same peculiar, rattling, musical wind-chime-like sound that I remembered from last year, perhaps wind moaning through the metal deck-railings all around us, and the salt tang and presence of the wild ocean surf invisible in the darkness before us. 

Departure

We left early this morning - the wind had settled down, and although there was no precipitation the air seemed filled with moisture.  We began to follow the weather forecast more carefully as Winter Storm Helena approached.  By the time we had reached Winston-Salem, we had learned that the storm would begin Friday night and continue all day Saturday, with snowfall amounts in the 8-10" range.  We had planned to spend Friday in Raleigh visiting Martha's aunt and then leave Saturday for Atlantic Beach, but it became clear that this would not be a prudent plan; snowfall was expected to be at its worse Saturday morning and I did not relish the idea of navigating city traffic in heavy snow.  Travelers must above all be flexible in their plans!  So we made some phones calls and moved everything ahead one day, staying the night in Winston-Salem at the lovely and surprising Historic Brookstown Inn, an undiscovered little gem of a hotel on the outskirts of Old Salem.

The 250-year old Inn, formerly a cotton mill, is listed on the National Register and also contains the Winston-Salem Visitor Center; its lobby was warm and inviting and the corridor to our room, in a second building across an open courtyard, meandered wonderfully, old brick walls and massive timbers overhead, quilts on the wall, uneven floors underfoot.

Our warm little room was spread out on two levels, with a lovely fireplace in the sunken-living-room area and a big, comfortable bed under high ceilings.  We walked (longitudinally, as it were) next door to the adjoining Meridian restaurant for delicious tapas; it would have been packed even on a weeknight but was nearly empty in the expectation of wintry weather.

Winds of Change

I awoke during the night and heard the wind moaning, the tree-house outside our bedroom window creaking as the tall trees swayed.  We were packing today, departing tomorrow morning for Atlantic Beach (see previous post) and there were  many errands to run.  But first I had planned to run at least five miles, the last opportunity before two days of travel and uncertain weather conditions which seemed to be developing.  I had arranged to meet my friend Skip at Founders Park before running - he is moving to Tryon, packing up much more comprehensively and permanently than we were, and was giving me a very nice turntable - and it was good to see him again, perhaps for the last time in weeks or months.  We will meet again, I am sure, and it was a hearty and jovial farewell, but I will miss running with him nearly every Saturday.  As we both drove down Oak Street, I turned down the First Street hill and he drove down Oak Lane toward Franklin, both of us taking different roads on this day when the winds of change whirled leaves up all around us, my big SUV rocking in the wind when I parked at the Post Office. 

There was nobody at Founders Park when I returned a few minutes later - Vicki had said she might be there - so I started out by doing a two-mile loop.  The wind was so strong that it seemed to stop me in my tracks when I turned the corner of Fifth Street, and I zipped my fleece vest up tight; when I turned another corner, I felt almost as if I was overdressed.  I seemed to be walking that tightrope between tolerable conditions and real discomfort, swaying back and forth from minute to minute.  I found myself taking a kind of perverse joy in being the only runner out this morning.  Harris Lake looked as choppy as the ocean, and I felt as if it was even blowing a little lake-spray on me.  No sign of Vicki on my second loop, but I spied another runner far ahead of me on my next loop; I knew I could never catch him, so I reversed my loop and waited for him at the Park.  And there he came, Fred, topping the little hill at Carolina Way, wearing (unbelievably) shorts.  A real warrior! - and ten years my senior.  He will be running a race in two weeks with Paul and Jennifer and I wished him luck, the wind howling around us as we parted.  Many departures this day.  I ran a mile or so more, finishing up my five miles, and Vicki was just pulling out in her car:  "I ain't running in this wind!" she cried through a crack in her window.  I smiled and said good-bye to her, too, and was glad of the sanctuary in my little car.

I think this might have been a Strong Breeze today, according to the Beaufort Wind Scale:  "Large branches in motion; whistling heard in telephone wires; umbrellas used with difficulty."  Or maybe even a Moderate Gale:  "Whole trees in motion; inconvenience felt when walking again wind."

So the inconvenient wind continued to blow all day as I went from place to place running my errands and returned to prepare for another departure and another arrival.

Would You Rather?

I completely expected to get wet this morning when I drove up to Founders Park for my Monday morning run.  I wore my hat and brought an extra dry shirt with me, and I summoned up all my resolve.  So what a surprise it was to find less and less rain on my windshield as I climbed to the plateau, and none at all when I arrived.  Steve was the only runner waiting, and he accompanied me to the base of Big Bearpen before continuing his own 10-K-pace workout (his 10-K time is faster than mine has ever been).  I climbed slowly, savoring my surroundings; the fog was becoming brighter and brighter, as if the blue sky was just a little bit above me, but that is all I saw at every one of the vistas as I circled the summit:  bright fog, in an expanse stretching out to infinity on my right, and the road curving away ghostly beautiful ahead of me.

This will be the last time I climb this mountain for awhile because we will be leaving in a few days for Atlantic Beach NC, where we enjoyed some warmer temperatures and good running last January.  Martha's aunt has a place there and she has been very gracious in allowing us to escape again.  So I descended slowly, feeling the good cushioning in my brand-new pair of shoes (straight out of the box!  I love New Balance) and the rain-softened road, and then I circled around Lower Lake Road and Gibson Street, pulling all of the hills as hard as I could.  I completed seven miles in all, and when I was crossing the street to my car, I spied this little card in the middle of the road.

Intrigued, I pried it up from the wet road and found these difficult questions on the reverse side:

A visit to Google when I returned home informed me that this is a playing card from an African-sounding board game called Zobmondo, which I have never heard of. 

Such difficult choices!  But why do we always have to choose?  Can we not have both?  Can we not climb bright-foggy mountains, and run on the beach alongside thundering surf and laughing gulls?  There are so many possibilities!  Still thinking about oceans and mountains on the drive back home, I found that the fog had lifted and settled into Clear Creek valley - an ocean of tranquility spread out before me.

Merely Circulating

On the first day of the New Year I always try to do a little bit of everything - everything that I enjoy and that I intend to pursue in the coming year.  It rained all night, and I lay in bed listening to it for a long time.  Then I did my usual Tai Chi on the covered deck, but this morning I focused on slowing down more, on breathing, on feeling as if I am a part of the rain dripping on the roof and the fog rolling through the underbrush below me.  Why am I always in such a hurry?  I decided to not wear a watch all day.  To merely circulate.

I almost always run on New Year's Day, but (see previous post) we ran yesterday and I ended up completing nine miles.  So I donned my Gore-tex and walked down our road, enjoying the sound of rain on my hood, watching the fog rise up ahead of me on the road, seeing the reflection of the trees in the puddles, smelling the sour fragrance of wood smoke from the old farmhouse in our valley.  I am going to run or walk as much as I can this year.

Later in the morning I found time (a curious phrase, that - to "find time") to write in this blog, and to read - I am going to do more of each this year.  After lunch I drove up to Town and delivered two big slices of the apple pie I baked yesterday to my mother-in-law.  I am going to bake more this year, and do more nice things for the people I love.  Then I went to the Civic Center and worked out hard in the gym, surprised to find only a small handful of "Resolutionaries" pounding away on the treadmills and ellipticals. 

Then I rambled around Highlands - such lovely sights to see merely circulating in the gauzy fog.

When I returned home, Martha wanted to walk down the road, so I walked again, and Martha pointed out some smaller things around us that I had overlooked on my walk this morning.  I am going to pay closer attention, and listen to my wife more carefully this year, she will be glad to read!

Now I am going to play the piano for awhile, and perhaps read some poetry.  I have made a crooked little stack of the books I am going to read over the next two months, Christmas gifts, and it includes the poetry of Leonard Cohen and Tomas Tranströmer and a new biography of Wallace Stevens.  (At least, these are my good intentions.)  Maybe I will read once again The Pleasures of Merely Circulating , the perfect poem for this rambling day:

The garden flew round with the angel,
The angel flew round with the clouds,
And the clouds flew round and the clouds flew round
And the clouds flew round with the clouds.