Emptying

Slowly, we began to empty out our house.  Furniture was sold or given away.  I discovered that I did not need a wardrobe with so many drawers; my small oak bureau with the mirror was sufficient.  That’s part of downsizing:  what is sufficient? 

A surprising benefit of downsizing was discovering things that I had forgotten I owned.  In sorting through dozens of T-shirts, mostly from the 220 races I have run since 1993, I discovered some that I had forgotten about.  Martha found two lovely little miniature books of Hiroshige prints and poetry and couldn’t remember where they came from.  Even in our relatively small house, we had so many possessions that we had forgotten what we already had.  That sentence alone is a good reason to downsize, to simplify, to get back to what is truly important.

We had a lot of hard work to do before we put our house on the market.  The wainscoting in the master bedroom, which we had discontinued last fall, suddenly became a priority again.  We decided to take the breakfast bar in the kitchen with us (just right for two people but probably an inconvenience for a buyer who would want a larger kitchen table), and so we removed it and replaced the wainscoting there. 

I sold almost all of my tools, and wondered what to do with my Body Solid exercise machine in the basement, when at the last moment my friend Gil contacted me because he had seen it on Facebook, where Martha had listed dozens of things for sale (and generated thousands of dollars in profits).  I used to work out with Gil years ago in the gym in Highlands, and was glad to sell it to him for a song, provided he dismantle it himself, which he did (I helped carry some of  the weights up to his truck). 

We wrangled so many pieces of furniture down those stairs, maneuvering around the landing, that I lost count.  With the help of Martha’s brother Scott, with his pickup truck and trailer and (most importantly) his willingness to help, we began transporting the furniture and belongings that we really wanted up to our new home, which was only five miles away.  Some of our things, mostly books and décor and winter clothes, went to a storage warehouse a mile out of Town, to be sorted through at a later time.  And finally, on the very last day of May, a Sunday, two men showed up with a big trailer and moved out the heaviest and most unwieldy things, like the piano and the big oak buffet table and the bed.  How strange it was, to walk through our empty living-dining room with the high cathedral ceilings, and hear our voices echoing through the emptiness. 

Our first night in our new home in Highlands was May 31, and it coincided with a full moon. 

In the fullness of time,
in the fullness of the moon,
we came to a new place,
a new beginning. 

Downsizing

We are ready for downsizing, for simplifying our lives, I said in my last post.  By some standards, our home in Clear Creek would already be considered a modest one.  But as I said, we have grown accustomed to spending winters in a condo at Atlantic Beach, and the smaller size suits us well.  I wrote a poem about downsizing in my first book, Bells in the Night, which was based in part on our friend Barbara moving into a smaller space.

It reminded me of Barbara, who wanted less and less,
Who gave away everything these past few years,
Quietly and without a fuss, starting at the attic
And moving downward floor by floor, leaving

A gentle trail of broom-swept emptiness behind;
First her knitting, then her china; boxes and boxes
Of photographs of Italy, friends who were gone,
And finally – most difficult of all – her books.

But giving up comes easier with use, like any skill;
The rooms seemed to empty themselves, one by one;
Sunlight streamed into the curtainless house
And the floorboards gleamed brightly with loss.

We have lived in smaller spaces for days and even weeks at a time, both at Atlantic Beach and when traveling in France and Italy.  In 2024, we rented a small apartment called Studio Michelangelo in Florence, right around the corner from the Duomo, and it was lovely.  How much space does a person really need, after all?  I am not prepared to sell everything and live in a Winnebago as one of my friends did several years ago.  But lately it seems that we are happier with less:  fewer possession, fewer commitments, less property to maintain.  More time for the things that matter.  I told one of my friends recently that I really didn’t need that much:  a desk, a reading chair, a piano.

Downsizing.  Giving up comes easier with use, like any skill.  So in April we began giving things away, selling things, donating things.  Our daughter in Greenville, who has a big house, gladly accepted some of it, like the rocking chair that my grandmother once rocked my Dad in when he was a baby. 

Our daughter also inherited all of my dahlia bulbs, some of them given to me by Martha for my birthday years ago, others given to me by Barbara James, grown by her husband Herb with whom I worked at the Town for years (and I never knew he grew dahlias!), which in turn were given to him by his mother, and perhaps her mother.  Dahlia bulbs can be passed down through many generations.  Now I receive "Dahlia Dispatch" updates on the bulbs, which like us have been transplanted but are sprouting anew in a new environment.

 
We  found that the more we gave away, the lighter we felt, the more liberated.  And the “things” went to friends and relatives, like the blue birdbath we sold to Lisa and the garden bench to Karen.  It was like giving away puppies:  we enjoyed knowing that they went to good homes.  In the end, it is the memories that we keep, and they mean more than the possessions that we accumulate over a lifetime. 

A New Chapter

Two months have gone by since my last post to this blog on March 16.  We returned to our home that we designed and built 43 years ago on Sassafras Gap Road.  The power and water were on this year, unlike in the past, but it was very cold, with temperatures in the twenties and formidable wind chills.  It was good to return to the beautiful home that we expanded and improved over the years, to the comfort of the familiar.  

As much as we love this home, for several years now we have considered moving closer to downtown Highlands.  Martha’s aunt Anne owned a condominium at Highlands Townsite until recently, and stayed there during the summers until she moved to an independent living and then an assisted living retirement home in Clemson, South Carolina.  We enjoyed many wonderful hours on her front porch, sipping wine and visiting, enjoying hearing all of the stories about her travels and her friends.  It was “Anne Central,” and in the late afternoons all of her neighbors would drop by with drinks and snacks.  The location was perfect for her, on Horse Cove Road, which is really an extension of Main Street and is the quietest road to Town.  Her grandchildren sold the place two years ago, in part to help pay for the cost of her assisted living, and that made us wonder if we had missed an opportunity to move to Highlands.  Condominiums are the only affordable options anymore, but they rarely come on the market, and especially at Highlands Townsite where most of the owners are second-generation, retired second-home owners.  Wouldn’t this have been a smart move for us?  We are ready for downsizing, for simplifying our lives, and the chores of weed-eating and maintaining a one-acre property had become a distraction from the pursuits that we enjoyed.  Staying in a condo at the beach for ten years had made us realize that we were happy with less.

In March, while we were still in Atlantic Beach, Martha learned that a unit in the building had become available, downstairs but at the opposite end where Anne’s had been.  We always do a lot of thinking and planning while we are on our “Sabbatical.”  In the past we have planned trips to Italy and France and month-long road trips out west in our Mini Cooper.  As we thought about it, it seemed to be an opportunity that we could not ignore, an open door through which a new chapter in our lives might begin.  Martha had wanted to move to Highlands for a year or two, while I was not quite ready.  But I agreed to look at the condominium with an open mind when we returned to Highlands, which we did within a week.  When we walked inside, I admit that I was pleasantly surprised.  Anne’s unit, though filled with her beautiful artwork and treasured belongings, had always seemed antiquated and dark.  This place was filled with light.  New flooring had been installed, along with a modern HVAC system.  I could see ourselves living there.
 

So, by the middle of March, and not without a lot of soul-searching and weighing of the pros and cons, we had decided to buy a new home.  A home in Highlands, on property once owned by Martha’s ancestors, in the Town which I served for 26 years, on the corner of Horse Cove Road and Sixth Street, which I have run past for four decades – in fact, it was on our regular daily running route.  We decided to list our home of 43 years on the real estate market as soon as we could – the target date was June 1, which gave us only a little over two months to take this leap of faith into the future, this new chapter, this adventure.

Winter Sabbatical Recap

The national news was so grim in January that, when we arrived in Atlantic Beach this year, I promised myself that I would not keep up with it for a month or two.  A Sabbatical, for both of us, is a time to distance ourselves from such things for a short time, to reevaluate where we have been and where we are going – we have often made big decisions out here, away from the routines and responsibilities that seem to bind us at home.  Martha began a new exercise routine that involves intense morning exercises and a challenge to walk many, many miles, and as a result she has lost weight and is as fit and strong as I think she has ever been, so much so that, has she not given up running races, she would surely place first in her age group.  I had ambitions of running a race in January, which never happened, and of beginning to build a base of winter mileage, which also never happened. 

Part of the reason we winter in Atlantic Beach is that it is about twenty degrees warmer than in Highlands, so we are usually able to hike (and in my case) run and spend time out of doors.  But in our last snowstorm – and any snowstorm is a rare event in this part of the world – Highlands received ten inches while Atlantic Beach received fifteen inches.  I did not run at all some weeks, which meant fewer miles than ever before, although I did manage to go to the Sports Center to lift weights twice a week or so, and I completed, toward the end of our stay, a five- and a six-mile run.  

My promise to distance myself from the news did not last long:   ICE agents were murdering Americans in cold blood in Minneapolis, our military kidnapped the president of Venezuela (and his wife), and most recently the failed reality-TV show President and his FOX weekend news host “Secretary of War” started a foolish war with Iran.  On the first day of the war, more than a hundred innocent schoolgirls were killed by a tomahawk missile.  

I did manage to write some poetry, another one of my Sabbatical goals, but much of it was bleak and filled with outrage and sadness. 

It is midwinter all across our weary nation,
from Minneapolis to Washington the hard cold
has settled in, and we have to wonder if the
bright summer birds will ever wake us
with their hopeful gentle songs of peace.

Walking on the beach is always a balm, and like going for a run or attending a yoga session, it never fails to calm and settle the troubled mind.  The last couple of days (as is always the case) were unusually beautiful, warm and sunny, and we took full advantage of them.  On one of them, we walked to Oceanana Pier, and along the way we met a man walking with his three young daughters, who had kicked their shoes off and were wading in the icy cold surf.  I asked the little girls if they would like a shell I had just found, and one of them eagerly took it.  Then the father asked, perhaps as payment for my gift, "Would you like to hear some beautiful music?"  We did, and it turned out that the three were accomplished young vocalists, and they proceeded to belt out a gorgeous version of the gospel song "The Sweet Holy Spirit" in perfect three-part harmony, holding hands and beaming with happiness.  Beautiful!  You never know what treasures you will come upon on the beach. 

"Sweet Holy Spirit, oh how I love Thee
For being a comfort so many times and for strengthening me
For I could not make it across life's troubled sea
If the sweet Holy Spirit should ever leave me."

As I write today, we have returned to Highlands, the place where Martha was born and where we have lived for forty-three years, although there were many changes over the winter.  The beloved Highlands Playhouse building, the Holt corner and Stone Lantern, and the Bank of America have all been torn down, the latter to be replaced with an unattractive hotel.  And although we saw flowering red bud trees and forsythia all along the way on our return trip, temperatures tomorrow are expected to (as the meteorologists all insist on saying) “drop like a rock,” into the twenties with single-digit wind chills. There are reports of snow flurries up in town. 

 But unlike past years, we walked into a home that had power and water, and our furnace came on immediately.  We have much to be thankful for.  We carry with us memories of many days of beautiful sunrises, walks on the beach, hikes at Fort Macon, good times with good friends, and continuing health and fitness.  For which we can always be thankful, through time and tides and comings and goings. 

We Do What We Have to Do

When the weather is as cold as it has been, and there is still snow on the ground, we do what we have to do.  We use a treadmill or elliptical.  And for those of us who have yet to find a treadmill that will accommodate us, we run back and forth and round and round.  Desperate for exercise, I went down to the small exercise room here at the condos on Monday, and while Martha used the treadmill, I ran up and down the short interior hallway just outside, back and forth, a hundred times, which I estimated to be about a mile.  It was not the most enjoyable workout but it was running.

By Wednesday, conditions had improved sufficiently outside that I was able to do the same thing under the covered parking area.  It was nearly as tedious as hall-running, but at least I was outside in the cold, fresh air, recording my progress on my Garmin (which had not worked in the hallway).  

Today – finally! – the sun was bright, and the snow had melted enough that we were both able to get outside in the bright sunshine.  Martha walked about four miles, and I ran two, round and round in the parking lot, then out on the road into the adjoining subdivision.  It felt wonderful. 

I cannot imagine spending a winter in northern climates where indoor tracks and treadmills are the only option for a runner.  I suppose they adapt, wearing cleats on their shoes (something that I actually tried several years ago in the winter without much success) and bundling up against frostbite.  And I remember that one young woman from Alaska even qualified for the marathon Olympic Trials one year by training entirely on a treadmill.  But for me it is so much better to be out of doors, on roads and sidewalks, even when the temperatures are cold. 

Next week, the weather is predicted to change back into more seasonable temperatures, and we are both looking forward to that.  We might even be able to run on the beach, something I have not done for two weeks.  Meanwhile, we do what we have to do.

Winter Weather III

This weekend, all of the predictions of snow here in Atlantic Beach proved to be accurate.  According to Facebook posts, at least 15 inches of snow accumulated, blowing all day in wild gusts of wind as high as 50 mph, and obscuring the view of the ocean from the condo.  There were credible reports of four- to six-foot "drifts,” which to my amusement the local weatherman had to define for coastal residents who had likely never seen more than a two- or three-inch snow in their lives.  I wondered idly this morning if the young “prophetesses” I wrote about yesterday had predicted this snow?  Or knew what a drift was?  

We awoke to the deepest snow we have seen here, piled perhaps eight inches on our outside table on the balcony, but with knee-high or even waist-high drifts out below the building where I did not venture.  I managed to make my way down the outside stairs yesterday – the elevators were not operational – and into the small exercise room on the ground floor, where I worked out on the elliptical machine and managed to do a set of squats and curls and 100 pushups.  My muscles are still sore today!  But I did not venture down there today, opting to do my Tai Chi here in the condo. 

Our time in Atlantic Beach started off promisingly enough, with a hike at Fort Macon and three-mile runs on Wednesday and Friday.  But I have not run a step in nine days due to the weather, not just because of the snow, but because of the brutal cold and wind chill, which this morning was five below zero. 

So we spent this Sunday morning listening to our Pastor, Randy Lucas, on Facebook, broadcasting from his home on Cherokee Drive - guitar in hand, fireplace in background.  Another excellent sermon on the Beatitudes.  Martha baked biscuits and made a delicious omelet.  We checked on friends back in Highlands, and they checked on us here, having learned from the news that we received more snow than many of they did.  We are thankful that the power is still on, and we are warm and well-provisioned.  I think we will enjoy being snowbound for the day!  We have plenty of books.  And it may be time for a game of Scrabble!

Winter Weather II

In my last post, I talked about the “destructive” and “crippling” ice storm predicted for North Carolina last weekend, both at home in Highlands and here at the coast.  “I hope our friends and neighbors will come through what looks like the worst ice storm in years,” I said, and we watched last weekend as the ice storm, while downing trees and power lines in the mountains, pretty much fizzled out.  It was a balmy 50 degrees here on Sunday!  Coastal weather is notoriously difficult to predict.  

I learned only today that that storm was named “Fern,” which should have told me by its delicate-sounding name that it would not destroy or cripple us.  I also should have listened to the young woman who cut my hair last week, and the young woman who handed me my take-out from Amos Mosquito Restaurant, both of whom had lived here “all their lives” (which, combined, would be just a little over half of my lifespan so far), both of whom said, “Not going to happen!”  Now we are awaiting a second storm (named Gianna) and I am wondering if I should consult these young prophetesses before believing the alarming predictions of another, second winter storm this weekend called (according to who you listen to), a Polar Vortex, a Snowmageddon, or a Bomb Cyclone.  I grew up in Connecticut and remember more than one such storm, by the way, but those were simpler times.  We called them blizzards.  And they didn't have silly names.

Prepare for the Worst, Hope for the Best – that’s our motto.  So we have “stocked up” on food and drink enough to last several days.  Now we wait and see.