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.