July in Highlands

We are slowly settling into the loss of Martha's Mom, less than a week ago now.  Funerals at our church, like Sunday services, are not possible these days due to Covid-19, and the closure and comfort they provide has made it difficult for the families of the many members who have passed away this year.  Although her sisters could not be there, all of the children and most of the grandchildren were present.  Our two pastors officiated at a very beautiful graveside service on Tuesday.  Curtis sang Fairest Lord Jesus; Emily is pregnant and is nearing her due date, and I remembered that she had been pregnant at Alan's service four years ago.  I somehow found it wonderful to see her in that state, too large for her clerical robes, as she read scripture and delivered a little homily, her baby waiting to be born.

I don't think it will be considered morbid to say that Highlands Memorial Cemetery is a beautiful place, a gently-sloping hill with hazy mountains off to the west.  I was struck by how many headstones marked the final resting place of so many of my friends.  There was Herb James off to the left, long-time Town Clerk and later Commissioner with whom I worked for 26 years.  And Mayor Buck Trott, right across the road.  Both of these men were so strong it seemed they would live forever; Herb grew up right down the road from me and told me stories of plowing all day behind a mule, then walking straight up the mountain to dance at Helen's Barn.  And of course, there was Jane's husband, who died so suddenly on Labor Day weekend of 2016, and Anne Seller's husband, the graves all recently decorated by Martha in time for Father's Day at Jane's request.

We came home and had a quiet lunch out on our deck, and it felt like some closure had been achieved.  There is a great deal of work to be done cleaning out the house and preparing it for sale, and Martha and her sister have been staying busy going through 60 years of accumulated memories.  And we have been running, too, harder than usual.  Monday, the day before the graveside service, I climbed Bearpen Mountain as hard as I could and then in the afternoon mixed up some concrete for the entrance to our tool shed, and Wednesday I ran some intervals and short hill repeats, and then mowed the yard.  Running hard; staying busy.

By Thursday, I knew I was nearing the sharp precipice of over-training, but I ran again anyway, and it did not go well.  I found myself walking most of the hills and by the end of a short run I was, as we runners like to say, "Toast."  After lunch, I began what seemed like a simple repair of a toilet supply line in the upstairs bathroom, which turned in to a trip to Town to purchase a completely new toilet, and a second trip to Town to purchase a second wax seal to replace the first one that I had ruined in the installation.  By the time Martha had returned at 5:00 p.m. the 'Toast" had burned.  Still, sometimes it is good to work to exhaustion, and to run to exhaustion.  That's how we discover where are limits are.

July is a beautiful time of year in Highlands.  Our rhododendron are blooming in great profusion, and the hydrangea near the bay window is gorgeous.  When I step out onto the deck in the morning, the air is heavy with that unmistakable fragrance of July.

Even though the Fourth of July fireworks have been cancelled, people are arriving in great numbers, most of them wearing face masks but many not.  We are worried that this influx of people may cause a "spike" here as it has elsewhere, but all we can do is practice wearing masks ourselves, social distancing, and avoiding close contact and crowds.  One of my former colleagues at the Town Hall tested positive two weeks ago, but thankfully he is recovering.

And our garden is finally producing the first vegetables of the season.  The first tomato, a small misshapen specimen, proved rotten inside, but this one is ripening nicely on the windowsill beside the summer squash I found hiding in the shade of huge leaves thus far undisturbed by slugs.

A new month, a new reality.  We have lost some things forever, but still there is birth and there are vegetables, bursting forth right before our eyes.