Settling In

We have decided that Thursday will be cleaning day here at the condo.  So with a little elbow grease and Windex, I cleaned the sliding-glass doors so that the view of the ocean is unobstructed; I don't think it had been cleaned since last January.  Then I changed the batteries in the smoke alarm, replaced the furnace filter, replaced the vacuum cleaner bags and thoroughly vacuumed.  We had arranged to have the carpets cleaned before we arrived and they look good.

Martha has been busy, too, organizing the Owner's Closet, and washing all of the dishes in  the kitchen.  While she had the dishes out, she installed and/or replaced the shelf paper in all of the cabinets and drawers.  Light bulbs, Damp Rid - the list goes on and on.  After talking to Lizette, we also changed the locks on the door - who knows how many spare keys there might be? - so now we feel more secure while we are staying here and Lizette has better control over letting people stay here.  The mini blinds in the bedroom were also broken when we arrived, but after a bit of difficulty I removed them, straightened them out, and reinstalled them.  Lizette had given us the green light to replace the old-fashioned vertical blinds in the living room, too; some of them had broken and were piled up behind the television cabinet.

This type of blind is difficult to maintain; we have encountered them before in rental units in Duck.  So we replaced them with energy-efficient drapes, a nice color called Sea Foam  which coordinated well with the existing valance, and after much difficulty and three trips to the local hardware store they are now in place, framing perfectly clean windows which no doubt will need cleaning again after the first storm comes roaring in from the ocean. 

Lizette is kind enough to let us stay here this time of year, so it is always a pleasure to return her hospitality in some way by treating this place as if it is our own, making small improvements every year.  Next on the list:  cleaning the kitchen and bathroom floors and repairing the popcorn ceiling in the corner of the bedroom.  As at our own home in Highlands, there is always work to be done.

We have stocked up the refrigerator with the essentials, but in addition to the local grocery stores we depend on a great locally-owned seafood market called Blue Ocean, which was undamaged by the hurricane and is fully operational; they sell the best fresh local seafood for miles around.

And then there is Friendly Market - fresh, local, and healthy - where we can find dips and appetizers and breads and scrumptious desserts.  This year, they are expanding their operations, and it looked like they were already preparing to plant something in the little garden area off the parking lot.

Is it possible that they can be considering planting a garden in January out here?  Our garden beds in Highlands are months away from being prepared for planting.

Friends of Fort Macon

We are located only two-and-a-half miles from Fort Macon, and Fort Macon Road this time of year has little traffic.  It is thus a perfect place to run, one mile on the road, past the landmark Bridge House, and then A Place at the Beach, and Tar Landings Villa, and then Fort Macon Park itself with its dune-side and sound-side trails starting and ending at the Picnic Area (which they call The Bathhouse).  Last year we often hiked these trails on days when we were not running and we hope to do so again this year.

The Fort is a piece of Civil War history and is the second most visited State Park in North Carolina.  As runners, we especially like it because it has convenient rest rooms and water fountains mid-way during a five- or six-mile run, and we have also enjoyed events there in past years such as a musket-firing demonstration and a bird walk.  Because of this, Martha decided to become a "Friend of Fort Macon," making a donation last year, and now we receive the newsletter from time to time.

The Park was hit hard by Hurricane Florence, as Ranger Randy described in his newsletter last month.  "The waves were crashing through the Bathhouse eastern beach access and my residence (near the Coast Guard station) flooded from high tidal water coming out of the marsh.  My kids took advantage of the flood water to cast net the front yard for small fish which included (and this amount of detail is typical of Ranger Randy) mullet, sheepshead, sharptail goby, and other common marsh minnows."  Randy and his kids moved some of the valuable exhibits in the Fort from waters that filled the moat and interior of the Fort.  The power had failed and thus the pumps keeping the moat dry did not work.

Morehead City received nearly 24 inches of rain from Florence, which is an amount that is simply impossible for me to comprehend.  We have had four- and five-inch rains in Highlands, but the water drains quickly away, on its way to either the Savannah (on our property) or Tennessee river basins.  The effects of damage from Florence are apparent everywhere - hammering and construction equipment is background noise every day we have been here, and blue tarps on roofs are apparent everywhere.

Two of our favorite entertainment venues in past years - Atlantic Beach Cinema and Carteret Community Theater - are still not open and may never open.  And a local told us that 400 people were still homeless, living in churches.

Today we attended a Friends of Fort Macon monthly meeting, held (Dutch treat) at the Tsunami Grill in Morehead City.  Following lunch, Park Ranger Ben (who did the musket demonstration last year) gave an interesting presentation on other State Parks in the area.  At one of the parks, he had found a Pygmy Rattler, he said, and he wanted to take it home with him - he is something of a herpetologist, apparently - but was dissuaded because it would have been illegal to remove such a rare snake from a State Park.  I have to confess that I am not as enthusiastic about rattlesnakes as he is, and had it been found on our property Ben would have been appalled to learn that I would have likely dispatched it with a musket (or similar firearm).

The Tsunami Grill was a large mostly-Chinese buffet, similar to one we know in Brevard called the Twin Dragons.  Our two fortune cookies were unwrapped and cracked open, and the narrow strips of paper within (can we still call them "fortunes?") said:

A small house can hold as much happiness

As a large one

Book lovers

Never go to bed alone

We have settled in after only four full days here.  The running has gone very well for both of us.  After a five-mile run on Saturday, I ran a good three-miler on Monday, and this morning I ran a four-mile run that has to be one of my best runs in a long time.  I felt strong, my knee did not hurt - it felt as if I was turning a corner on my running, finally.  Looking ahead, there are 5-Ks, 10-Ks, and half marathons on the horizon, and this morning all of them felt within my grasp.

Sabbatical Sabbath

It was Sunday morning, and the First United Methodist Church of Morehead City called to us.  We love this church, and especially Reverend Powell Osteen, one of the best preachers I have ever heard.  This church is a welcoming congregation and even though we have not worshiped here for ten months, I think Powell recognized us, making us ineligible for the delicious loaf of bread presented to first-time worshipers (which we were surprised and delighted to receive four years ago).

It was comforting to be back in a Methodist Church again.  My own sojourn through the Christian faith led me to be christened an Episcopalian, raised a Congregationalist, confirmed a Methodist, and finally ending up an elder in the Presbyterian Church.  But this church feels like home to us, accommodating my long legs and unruly opinions, and soothing us with the old familiar hymns.

O God our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come;

Our shelter from the stormy blast

And our eternal home.

It was Epiphany Sunday and we went up to take communion, little wafers and tiny glasses of juice, kneeling at the alter rail.  Powell preached the first in a series of sermons on things our mothers told us when we were children.  Today it was "Always wear clean underwear."  We may look fine on the outside, but it is what is within us that counts, as Jesus told the scribes and Pharisees who were outwardly pious but inwardly unclean, like whitewashed tombs.  Next week we will hear a sermon on "Always eat your veggies," and then "You'll understand when you have kids."  Humorous, insightful, this preacher is a true gift to Morehead City and will be missed when he retires.

After lunch at the condo, we took a walk down to Oceanana Pier and back.  It was still warm, although the wind had picked up a bit.  Overhead this squadron of pelicans was looking down on all of us from a cloudless blue sky.

And we spotted these little green plants, which I am determined to identify before we leave, sprouting out of the white sand.

It is about a mile to Oceanana Pier and back, a landmark on our daily walks and runs.  It did not seem to be damaged much by Hurricane Florence.

On the way back, Martha noticed a bright blue object in the surf, which turned out to be a Portuguese Man of War.

And just before we returned to the condo, Martha spotted this set of stairs, unmoored from its proper place by the hurricane, now spread out on the sand forlorn and useless.

Always wear clean underwear, we were reminded.  It is what is inside that counts, that part of us that the world does not see.  Keep the doors of perception open.  Remember who you are.

I Don't Know Who it Will Be

Saturday morning.  The sun was shining, and the temperature was 56 degrees.  I heard the unmistakable sound of somebody texting on my phone at 7:30 a.m.  "Is the group running this morning?" an unknown person was asking.  The Highlands Roadrunners Club has a website and a Facebook page, and I am often contacted by out-of-town runners asking this question.  Then I received an e-mail from Robin, who runs with us from time to time, asking the same.  "I'm out of Town today but I assume the 9:00 a.m. group is running," I replied.  "Have a good run!"  I checked the weather in Highlands:  34 degrees, cloudy.  I hope some hardy runner showed up to run with Mystery Texter and Robin, but I don't know.  I was reminded of the immortal Delbert McClinton song:

I don't know who it will be
But I can tell you who it won't be.

We completed five miles, to Fort Macon and back, on that familiar road that we know so well from the past three years.  It was so nice to be running again on this flat, sea-level road, the sun shining but a brisk wind blowing from behind.  I was overdressed for the first half, but on the way back with the wind in my face it felt just right.

After our run I walked out onto the dune-top deck, and on the way back I thought I heard sea gulls squealing, somewhere between me and the condo.  It turned out it was some other fledglings, a group of three children playing on the swing set, laughing and squealing in delight.  I could hear them from a long distance off:  "One two three four five six . . ." all the way to twenty, playing hide and seek.

We spent the rest of the day getting organized and shopping for groceries.  In seemed like no time had passed on this short day in the year, only a couple of weeks after the winter solstice, when we realized the sun was preparing to set at the surprisingly early time of 5:10 p.m.  We went out to watch this event, and I found that many others had gathered on the wide beach, cameras in hand, to capture this simple everyday miracle of the sun sinking lower and lower and finally disappearing in a glory of light into the depths of the ocean.  Beautiful.

Arrival in Atlantic Beach

During the night, the rain which we had driven out of on our way to Raleigh caught up to us.  We were on the road quickly, and I was glad when after an hour or so we left the multi-lane beltways of the city behind us - the tractor trailers throwing up a curtain of muddy water as they hurtled past at 80 miles per hour, the hapless vehicles like ours trying to remain within some proximity to the speed limit.  We were in Kinston for lunch, home of Vivian Howard's Chef and the Farmer restaurant, a hit PBS TV show.  We took Lizette here two years ago for an early birthday dinner and to show our appreciation for her generosity, and I confess we were a little starstruck at the time when we recognized some of the restaurant staff from the show.

Chef and the Farmer is not open for lunch but we realized that Vivian's other Kinston restaurant was open - The Boiler Room, just around the corner and down a brick-paved alley.

This place was famous as an oyster bar and was a good deal less formal.  Most of the folks looked to be locals, and two very well-fed older gentlemen sat near us at the bar (the only available seats), which featured a long stainless-steel trough behind it for discarding oyster shells.  Shucking oysters is a skill which I have not yet mastered, mostly because it involves using a short sharp oyster knife confidently and a thick towel in the other hand to avoid being cut.

So Martha ordered the shrimp burger and I tried the veggie burger, which was made out of butter beans, which I understand to be very similar to, if not exactly the same as, a lima bean.  (I remember that Vivian devoted an episode of her TV show to butter beans a couple of seasons ago and will have to see if I can watch it again.)   One website I consulted said, "The butter bean is a cruel, though theoretically more acceptable, attempt to lure you into eating lima beans, which are an abomination."  I personally like lima beans, and I ate every bite of the generous butter-bean burger, most of which spilled out of the bun.

We continued on our journey, making a brief stop in New Bern, a city which had been particularly hard hit by Hurricane Florence last September.  The beautiful Civic Center, we saw, was cordoned off with a chain-link fence, and some other buildings appeared to have suffered some damage.  I still remember some of the photos we saw of this flooded city back then, which now seems to have made a remarkable recovery for the most part.

New Bern is also remarkable  for inspiring the book written by the staff of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, based on actual comments made by our incompetent President.

The road from New Bern to Morehead City is one of the more depressing ones in the area and typical of a military-base area:  pawnshops, tattoo parlors, vape shops, bail bond shops.  We were relieved to finally pass  through familiar places on Arendell (accent on the second syllable) Street in Morehead City and cross the causeway to Atlantic Beach - that high bridge across which we both ran last year in 40-mph winds for the Crystal Coast Half Marathon (Martha) and 10-K (Richard).

And finally we arrived at this beautiful place!  There was a lot to be done, unpacking and getting organized, but we took a break as the sun was almost ready to set, strolling out the walkway to the dune-top deck, breathing deep the sweet salt air from the ocean.

Sabbatical

For the last three years, we have been able to stay in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina in January, where conditions are far more favorable for running and outdoor activities than in Highlands.  Martha's aunt Lizette has a condo there, right on the beach, and she has graciously invited family members to stay there.  We are so thankful for her generosity!  When we left Highlands this morning, heading eastward, a cold rain was falling, and all we could think about was the better days that stretched out ahead of us, sunny days, in this New Year full of possibilities.

I have called these stays in Atlantic Beach a sabbatical rather than a vacation for the past two or three years.  Wikipedia's definition of a religious sabbatical:

Sabbatical or a sabbatical (from Hebrew: shabbat (שבת) (i.e., Sabbath), in Latin: sabbaticus, in Greek: sabbatikos (σαββατικός), literally a "ceasing") is a rest from work, or a break, often lasting from one month to a year.

This concept is one that speaks to us.  We are runners, outdoors people, and winter in Highlands makes it more difficult to be active.  My friend Fred, who will turn 80 a week from now, makes do with the treadmill during the winter.  "I used to say it was too cold to run when it was below 30," he told me a couple of weeks ago.  "Now it is when it is below 40."  I'm heading in that direction myself.  And I cannot seem to find a treadmill that accommodates my long legs.  While this page has often been filled with descriptions of epic January runs in Highlands in the past - snow frozen on my toboggan, skin raw from a bitter north wind - I am discovering that the older I get the hardier I used to be.

At the same time, a sabbatical is as much mental and spiritual as it is physical.  Here, away from the multitudinous distractions of everyday life, we find that we have more time to read, to write, to sit and meditate, to pray, to get back in touch with the boundless ocean and the wide sky, to grow closer together again, to recreate and renew ourselves.  We have both been accumulating books to read in two little piles on the table, ready to pack, ever since Thanksgiving.  And the television never, ever is turned on here.  The door is open when temperatures permit so that the rhythmic singing voice of the ocean meanders into this condo and surrounds us.  So thank you Lizette, for this time - is there anything more precious than time? - here on the far edge of North Carolina, a place that we have come to enjoy more and more each year.

By the time we had reached Asheville the rain had stopped, and the rest of the journey took place on dry roads but under gray skies.  We arrived in Raleigh by 4:00 and stopped to have a good visit with Lizette.  She has been in the hospital and then in physical rehab for a month, so it was good to see her back home again.  She told us that she had learned that for every day in the hospital, three days were needed to gain ground again.

We had told her that we wanted to try to make it as far as possible to Atlantic Beach, but by the time we left, it was dark and we found ourselves in rush hour traffic, conditions with which I am no longer comfortable.  So we spent the night on the outskirts of Raleigh.

First Run of 2019

For the past sixteen years, it has been a tradition in Highlands to run the New Year's Annual Resolution Run on January 1.  I still have all of the photos for those years, and it is a little sobering to review the earlier ones; they include runners who are no longer with us, like my good friend Richard Tankersley who took me under his wing in my very first marathon in 1999, friends who have moved away, runners who have become so injured they cannot run anymore.  Gosh, we looked young back then!  Most years, we are bundled up in warm clothes, and some years we had to bring out the rain gear.  Last year's run was the coldest I remember -10 degrees - and there was so much ice on Fifth Street that we 17 foolish runners waddled up to Main Street (where more salt had been applied) and ran a half-mile or so, back and forth on the completely deserted street.

Note that Fred (lower right), 80 years old next month and the oldest runner in the group, braved these conditions in shorts.

Martha had the idea this year of changing the starting time from 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m., hoping that one hour would raise the temperature a merciful degree or two.  We were surprised to find record-breaking temperatures this morning - 50 degrees - and the overnight rain had also dissipated.  The combination of these two factors brought out some 53 runners (plus at least three who did not make it to the starting time at 10:00 a.m. but caught up later) - three times as many as last year and a record for all time.  And many of us wore shorts.

What an enjoyable way to start off a New Year!  Some of us had not seen each other since last year.  I asked the traditional question in a loud voice - "Are we going to run, or are we going to talk about it?" - and started off up the hill on Fifth Street, to be quickly passed by faster runners.  When I reached the one-mile mark, I turned back as I normally do and spoke to all of the slower runners and the many walkers who were bringing up the rear ("Oh, this is a much more sensible pace back here," I would say), wishing them a Happy New Year and thanking them for coming out.  I met some new runners, and so did Martha, who might have been encouraged to come back for a Saturday group run.  And in the last mile, Karen and I ran with Faviola and her 11-year-old daughter, who had never run that far before.  I ended up doing a couple of extra miles, completing five in all, and Martha completed six. 

So that's how we runners start a New Year in Highlands, no matter what the weather conditions:  a few companionable miles (or perhaps even a heroic half-mile) to break in the new running log, enjoying the camaraderie of other runners, encouraging new runners, and looking forward to many more runs in 2019.