Gardens and Blooms and Midsummer Nights

It has been nearly two weeks since my last post to this blog.  Sadly, my gentle mother-in-law Jane Lewis continues to decline each day, rarely getting out of bed now and eating very little.  Only two weeks ago she was eating a whole banana, but now it is just a bite or two.  We are spending as much time as we can with her - Martha has not missed a day - but she sleeps much of the time.  So we have been trying to stay busy in the mornings, keeping up with our running and with completing projects around the house and the yard.

We are in that summer cycle of weather now when we can expect afternoon thunderstorms almost every day.  I remember that when I was working full-time, a handful of us would meet at the Town Hall when I got off work at 4:30 p.m., and one summer it rained every day at exactly that time.  My two pairs of shoes, which I alternate every run, never had much of a chance to dry.  Now we can run in the mornings when the rain is less likely. 

Nearly every week, I run up Big Bearpen Mountain on Monday, as I did this morning, that relentless upward ascent through slanting curtains of sunlight in the morning mist, never stopping until I have reached the 4200-foot summit, where I unfailingly take what our friend Jim Askew (now deceased) once called his "Rocky Moment," except overlooking an expanse of June-green mountains off the south side of the summit instead of Philadelphia.

On Wednesdays or Thursdays, I have begun to do some speed work, consisting last week of 400-meter intervals, classic training for a 5-K race despite no races of any kind on the horizon.  Some area races may be taking place, including the Twilight 5-K in Highlands, depending on whether or not Covid-19 "spikes" are taking place.  But we simply cannot see any way we would want to run a road race right now with hundreds of other runners and spectators.  Still, races or no races, hard workouts are good for burning off both fat and stress, and like that long pull up Bearpen this morning the benefits of self-discipline extend beyond simply training for races.

Saturdays, I have been enjoying long, easy runs - eight miles this week - partly in the company of Karen and Fred a couple of arms-lengths away, but mostly alone.  Coincidentally, I learned that Karen's 92-year-old mother died last Tuesday.  We are careful to spread out across the road and continue to steer a wide berth around the many dog-walkers who seem to have arrived in full force this month.  The long, solitary runs are good for praying and giving thanks and trying to connect with the beauty of Highlands in June, this lovely place now blooming with mountain laurel and flame azalea and flowers of every kind.  Martha liberated a couple of stalks of foxgloves from along the road and we brought it to her Mom in the afternoon, joining the many other bouquets in her room courtesy of thoughtful friends.

The daily thunderstorms have been good for the gardens.  What a change we have seen in just a little over a month.

The tomato plants in the garden bed with the best exposure to sun have already developed, from a few scattered blossoms into a good many green tomatoes, some of them the size of plums.

I celebrated another holiday on June 16, a day which is known in literary circles around the world as Bloomsday, because it remembers the wanderings of Leopold Bloom around Dublin on that single day in 1904.  Readers of this blog will remember that I had the opportunity to walk in those same footsteps last August.  I wrote in this blog at the time:

"Bloom was the famous anti-hero, a Ulysses from his own time, who famously sailed the streets of Dublin in Ulysses, perhaps the most important novel of the 20th century.  The novel took place in a single day - June 16, 1904 - a date still celebrated in libraries and literary circles in various cities around the world by readings from the book, especially that famous single-sentence soliloquy by Molly Bloom, the remarkable climactic conclusion to the book:

. . .and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

 

I found one or two very good readers of the book on the internet on that day, which is a huge holiday in Dublin featuring actors dressed as characters in the book and quoting long passages from memory.

 

 

Fathers Day is always a little poignant since Martha and I have both lost our fathers, mine many years ago and hers a little less than four.  I received a beautiful hand-made card from my daughter Katy, and told her that the only other person I know who makes hand-made cards is Martha's aunt Anne Sellers.  In these days of coronavirus cautions, we could think of no better way to celebrate than to stay home.  Martha prepared one of my favorite recipes, salmon with peaches and mint, and we dined on our deck, where the thunderstorm rumbling on the horizon mercifully held off.  I had been saving the most recent of the Globe theater Shakespeare performances, which have been streaming on-line, and watched it on Saturday night, the appropriately-timed A Midsummer Night's Dream, on that first day of summer and longest day of the year.

How Did That Happen?

During stressful times, it goes without saying that our faith sustains us.  But hard runs and hard work, as noted in previous posts, also help relieve the stress.  Saturday I completed eight miles and Martha completed six miles.  We have been running in the mornings when we can, sometimes on alternate days, and then in the afternoons we have been spending time with Martha's Mom, who is now on oxygen most of the time and has caregivers assisting her.  Hospice has been wonderful; it takes a very special kind of person to give that kind of care.  Martha's sister Angie has been coming over after we leave and spending time with her in the evenings.

Meanwhile, the milestones of life come and go.  June 5 was a day to remember for us; our daughter Katy was born 34 years ago, and although we could not be with her in person we shared some wonderful memories.  "It's a weird one!" she said.  When I stopped by Highlands Pharmacy on Saturday to get some prescriptions for Martha's Mom, owner and pharmacist Sherry asked about her; she has a daughter the same age as Katy.  "She turned 34 yesterday," I said.  "How did that happen!?"  It is hard to remember that I once held her in my arms so easily.  Here she was, gazing in wonderment at her first Christmas Parade in Highlands when she was six months old.

Another birthday has slipped by, too.  Martha's aunt, Anne Sellers, turned 90 years old on Sunday.  90!  How did that happen? she must be asking herself.  She will not be coming to Highlands for the summer this year as she normally does in June, and we will miss her.  I saw her friends and neighbors Donna and Rich on Saturday while I was out running, and I told them that we always considered that summer did not arrive in Highlands until Anne arrived.  For the last five or six years we have celebrated her birthday with dinner out on our deck, sometimes with her friends from Savannah who drive her to Highlands.

So Happy Birthday Anne, and Happy Birthday Katy, if you are reading this post!  We think of you both all the time and hope to see you soon.

Our Stressful Times

The rain barrel drainage project, described in such excruciating detail in the previous post, has finally been completed.  I await with interest the arrival of the next deluge to see whether it actually works! 

 
The garden is thriving, and there have been no signs thus far of marauding deer nibbling at the Blue Lake bush beans; still, I will erect a short fence around the beds tomorrow, hoping (do they follow this blog?) that they do not decide to pay a visit before then.

The project was a good stress-reliever, and stress relief is in much demand right now.  Martha's Mom is not doing very well at all, and she and her sister and brothers have all been pitching in to help.  It is not an easy time that they are going through as they watch her decline so quickly.  She did not want to undergo chemotherapy, and now she has stopped her radiation treatments, too.  But, miraculously, she says that her pain level, initially a three or four on a scale of ten, is now zero.  That is a blessing, and it is also a blessing to have so many loving children surrounding her.

Meanwhile, the coronavirus pandemic is continuing to spread in North Carolina, and as expected it has reached Highlands now.  One of Old Edwards Inn's restaurants was identified as a "cluster," and two other businesses have closed down while employees are being tested.  It is alarming to see so many visitors and local people refusing to wear facial masks.  To us, it is a matter of respect and caring for others.  I am 100% positive that I am not an asymptomatic carrier - I have been taking every precaution, and this morning I completed a three mile run - but still I wouldn't want my friends and neighbors to think that I am not cooperating with a very sensible recommendation of public health professionals.

I try not to stray into politics in this blog, but how can it be avoided in times like these?  On top of the pandemic and the economic collapse it has caused, with 40 million people out of work through no fault of their own, now every city in the nation is experiencing protests not witnessed since the 1960s against police brutality and injustice against black men.  There have been large demonstrations in cities that we know well - Raleigh, Asheville, and Greenville.  Thus far they have been peaceful, although there was some destruction and looting in Raleigh and Asheville.  We even had a small demonstration here in Highlands this week involving about 75 people, which we did not learn about until after it had occurred.  Like the coronavirus, outrage against injustice knows no boundaries.

Yesterday we learned that a peaceful protest in front of the White House was disrupted with tear gas so our President could walk across the street to a church and pose for a photo-op with a Bible held in his hand as a prop.  If only he would open that Bible, and read it, and offer some words of comfort for a nation that is torn apart!

I don't think I have ever seen a time in our history like this, even the anti-war demonstrations in the Vietnam era and the Civil Rights marches in the 1960s.  In such stressful times, it is paramount that we continue to respect each other, have faith in God and in each other, and have faith in our institutions that are under attack every day.  As Abraham Lincoln so famously said in times no less tumultuous than these:

"We are not enemies, but friends.  We must not be enemies. 

Though passion may have strained,

it must not break our bonds of affection.

The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched,

As surely as they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

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.