Wedding Bells

We were so happy to learn last week that our daughter Katy and her long-time boyfriend David got married, on their 10th anniversary as a couple.  Martha posted the news on Facebook:

"She was piped in to the sounds of Highland Cathedral on the bagpipe, where they exchanged and pinned their tartans. Due to the pandemic, it was a lovely, private ceremony, with just the two of them present."

Among the dozens of comments of congratulations was one from acclaimed nature photographer Kevin Fitzpatrick, for whom Katy worked as an intern while she was in High School.  Martha told him, "I know you will be interested to know that they took their own photos using their iPhone cameras with tripods and remote controls, and still managed to make everything look natural." 

Just in time for the wedding, our Carolina Silverbell (Halesia carolina), just off our deck, began blooming. 

 

Wedding bells, hanging in the sweet April air.  It is the season for new beginnings!

Easter Sunday

It was a beautiful Easter Sunday, and in  the past we would have attended an Easter Sunrise service, or at least some church service.  Over the years, we have attended sunrise services at the Kitty Hawk Pier, in Elizabeth City, and here in Highlands at the Nature Center.  We have attended church in places as far away as Alexandria, Virginia and Myrtle Beach.  It seems that we have often been traveling at Easter, and so it has been interesting to worship in far-flung locations.  I recall that the church in Alexandria, where we stayed while visiting Washington D.C., was Christ Church and we sat in a box pew which the ushers went down the aisle and closed at the beginning of the service.

But church options this year are still limited, so we decided to drive to the N. C. Arboretum in Asheville, which some might say can also be a place of worship.  We had called ahead and found that the Bent Creek Bistro was open at the Arboretum and was serving very good, healthy take-out, and that's where we decided to have our "Easter Dinner."  It was outside dining only but nobody sitting in the sunny courtyard seemed to mind.  We ordered, and when someone called our name we carried our smoked turkey and provolone sandwiches to a nearby bench.

It was a memorable Easter, perhaps as nice as that time in Washington D.C. where (once they had opened up our pews) we had afterward gone to the Smithsonian and enjoyed dinner on white tablecloths while someone played classical music on the harp.  Instead of harp music we had birdsong, green grass, and trees just beginning to blossom as families strolled by on their way to the gardens.

After lunch, we walked along one of the many garden trails, which began under this arch near the Bistro.

We did not expect to see much in bloom in early April, but some of the flowering trees were just beginning to show pink and white buds.  And a little farther along the path we came upon this extravagantly overflowing Spring Snowflake.

The Arboretum is filled with some remarkable sculpture, too, from a humble carving of an owl that seemed to be growing out of a rock, to this shining silver-oak-leaf creation.

We circled around through the Forest Meadow and climbed the steps to the larger-than-life statue of Frederick Law Olmsted, the father of American landscape architecture and designer of Central Park and the Biltmore Estate.

The formal gardens are laid out between the Visitor Center and the Educational Center, and there is also a very fine Bonsai exhibit.  The central feature of these gardens is a spectacular Quilt Garden, which we have seen in full bloom in July but in April was just beginning to take shape.  Still, it was nice to walk through these just-awakening garden beds before their inhabitants had yawned, stretched, and sat up into the full splendor of summer.

The Visitor Center always has art on display, and today there was a large collection of photographs, mostly of flowers.  I have always appreciated two of the quotations written on the walls high above the art exhibits.

Our only disappointment on this beautiful day was that as we exited the Arboretum and turned right, planning to return home on the Blue Ridge Parkway - the top down on our Mini, the sun shining warmly - we discovered that it was closed.  I later found that Pisgah Inn, where we had intended to stop and watch hawks glide over the valleys below before returning down the Davidson River to Brevard, had opened on April 1, but apparently road conditions were not good along the Parkway.  They do not use snow plows or salt, and in the shade it takes a long time for ice to melt at 5,000 feet.  But the drive home along the French Broad River, and then on winding Highway 64 through Cashiers to Highlands, was absolutely beautiful, and our brief disappointment evaporated in the warm sunshine and the open air.

At the end of the day, we felt just as we had on Saturday in the Easter Parade.  It seems as if we are turning a corner, that there is healing and solace in a new season, that as Rachel Carson said, "dawn comes after night, and spring after winter."

Easter Parade

The struggle continued this week, winter contending with spring, and neither willing to cry "Uncle!"  It rained all day on Wednesday, and when I drove to Franklin to turn in a license plate on a vehicle we had just sold, I noted that the Little Tennessee River was out of its banks, spreading brown mud across the bottoms where the grass had just turned green between Dillard and Franklin along US-441.  But that night the rain tapered off and a cold front swiftly moved heralded by high winds, and temperatures plummeted into the 20s.  We could hear it moaning through the night, the tall pine trees swaying dizzily overhead all around our house.

I had learned about the Beaufort Scale while we were in Atlantic  Beach this winter, developed over 200 years ago by Sir Francis Beaufort, which classified wind speeds and their appearance on the ocean from CALM (Sea surface smooth and mirror-like) to NEAR GALE (Sea heaps up, waves 13-19 ft, white foam streaks off breakers) all the way to HURRICANE (Air filled with foam, waves over 45 ft, sea completely white with driving spray, visibility greatly reduced).  Tuning in to Asheville's WLOS-TV weather on Thursday morning, I learned that our local meteorologists have devised a new scale, the Trash Can Wind Meter.  They described Thursday morning as a "Neighbor's Yard" kind of day.

Missing, I thought.  Is that even possible?  We do not use trash cans - I take our trash to the Macon County transfer station on Rich Gap Road on the way to Town when needed - but I did note on the Betz Birdhouse Scale that Thursday morning was a "Birdhouse Blown Over" kind of day.

Friday morning again saw temperatures in the 20s and wind chill even lower, but by Saturday it was in the 30s and the wind had tapered off again.  So we went ahead with our plans for that day arranged several weeks in advance, an Easter Parade in Dillsboro, a little town about an hour away.  The annual event included a contingent of Mini Coopers, courtesy of Appalachian Mini, a group to which we belong, as well as several vintage cars and an Easter Bonnet contest.

We showed up at the appointed time in our Mini Cooper and joined nine others assembling on the other side of the railroad tracks belonging to the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad, a heritage railroad that operates between Dillsboro and Bryson City and contributes greatly to tourism in both towns. 

They were a friendly, gregarious group of Mini enthusiasts and they welcomed us warmly to the first event we have attended.  We enjoyed chatting with several of them - especially a burly-looking, heavily- tattooed man who had restored his 2003 Mini from a rusting cast-off found in a junkyard - and I realized that this was the first real event that we had attended in a year, since the Covid pandemic had stopped everything in its tracks.  And the first socializing we had engaged in for several months.  It reminded us, on a much smaller scale, of the "Mini Takes the States" tour we took in 2016 from Atlanta to California and back home again, memorialized on this blog at the time for those who might care to read about it.  That event had included hundreds of Minis (and no two exactly the same!) compared to this contingent of ten cars.  But it was the same feeling of camaraderie bound by the simple theme of common car ownership.

I crossed the tracks while we were waiting for the parade to start and looked over the dozen or so vintage cars, including Model A's and fine old Pontiac GTO's, and one especially nice MG roadster.

I spotted several interesting Easter bonnets while I was strolling down through Dillsboro, and took a photo of this automobile-themed specimen.

We did not stay for the Easter Bonnet Contest awards and so don't know if License Plate Man was recognized for his original hat.  Perhaps it went to one of two women who had the largest straw hats I have ever seen, or that belonging to the terrified little girl who was forced against her will to sit on a bench alongside a six-foot talking bunny.  I returned to our Mini, and before much longer, someone shouted, "Let's go, we're holding up the parade!"  And we crossed the railroad tracks, turned left, and drove down the entire two-block length of Dillsboro, waving our hands and wishing "Happy Easter" to everyone who had come to watch.

I suddenly realized that I had never been in an Easter Parade before today!  It was all over in five minutes or so, and we returned to our parking lot to undecorate our cars.  Then we all left Dillsboro and drove along the scenic Tuckasegee River through Webster to Cullowhee and Sylva, a road on which we had never driven before.  What fun!  One of the organizers of the event posted this great photo taken through the rear-view mirror of his very fine 2015 Mini roadster on Facebook.  Minis feel frisky on two-lane roads like that!

The rest of the group drove into Sylva to Jack the Dipper, a popular ice cream place that has thrived in the college town of Cullowhee (Western Carolina University) for years.  We chose to forego the ice cream and took a turn up Highway 107 to Cashiers, and then back to Highlands.  

It had been a good day, a day that seemed to mark a return to some conditional kind of normalcy after the Covid pandemic.  It has been a long time - over a year - since we have gone on a purely pleasure drive like this one.  And for the first time in our lives we had participated in the Easter Parade that I have always heard celebrated in the Irving Berlin song:

In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it,
You'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade.
I'll be all in clover and when they look you over,
I'll be the proudest fellow in the Easter parade.

The Annual Struggle

We have returned to Highlands in mid-March, just in time to witness the annual struggle between Winter and Spring, one not wanting to let go just yet and the other insisting that it is time.  Yesterday afternoon the temperature went up to 70 degrees, and everywhere we looked we saw flowering trees and greening grass.  Our hyacinths and daffodils, like old friends, were waiting to greet us along the walk.

Down the road just a bit, the wall of forsythia in front of our neighbor's garden was already profuse, although with less sunshine ours is still a little spindly.

After cleaning the table, we ate lunch out on our deck.  And then it was so nice that we ate dinner there, too, although Spring showers threatened to chase us indoors.

It was also nice to meet friends at the Park yesterday morning for a group run - Karen and Fred, and later Vicki and Art.  We have had the opportunity to run more in Atlantic Beach than we would have here in Highlands this winter, but they have been solo runs, and I have missed the camaraderie of running with friends.  Running has been a struggle, though, partly because of the 500-mile drive home and partly because of the change in altitude, from pretty close to zero feet on those glorious mornings when I could play tag with the incoming surf running on the beach, to 3850 feet on Main Street.  I managed only five miles yesterday, and as I told Martha when I returned home it felt like ten.  But I have been in this place before in my life as a runner, know that I will soon become acclimated to the altitude, and before long will be running up Big Bearpen again.

I am looking at the weather forecast for the week now and I see to my disappointment that this balmy time will come to an end in a few days; the temperature on Thursday morning is predicted to be 22 degrees.  I remember seeing it snow many times in April, after all, and on one memorable occasion on May 6.  But fortunately those snows do not last long, and there is something especially lovely about snow clinging to daffodils.

There is plenty to do this time of year in our yard.  I picked up most of the branches that blew down over the past four months, and on Friday I unstopped the culvert under out neighbor's driveway which in a torrential rain on Friday briefly turned our front yard into a muddy river.  There are apple trees to prune, and compost to take to the gardens, and then gardens to be tilled and planted.  All of this is the kind of work I look forward to, that good satisfying work that makes one sleep well at the end of the day.  

But 22 degrees on Thursday!  Perhaps I will take that day off from yard work.  It won't be long before we will be hearing the peepers down the road, the crocuses will be struggling free from the earth, and insistent Spring will have won the struggle.

I made a covenant with Spring
It was Ordinary Time, and the crocuses were up;
The morning sun lapped at the edge of the pond.
And the birds sang every morning.  I gave them
Literary names:  Cheever Cheever Cheever.

We decided on this Palm Sunday morning that we should not work at all, but instead should take a drive down to South Carolina for a surprise visit with Martha's aunt Anne.  It is not easy to surprise her, but we did, the first time we have seen her in something like 15 months.  We have talked from time to time on the phone, but it was so nice to see her face to face!  Everywhere we look, things are getting better: restaurants are opening, events are being planned, and nearly everybody we know has already been vaccinated.  There is a lot to look forward to as the long struggle with Winter - and with the pandemic - seems to be coming to an end.

On the Horizon

There is always something new on the horizon.  Yesterday morning when I looked out the balcony, this unusual structure was in place, directly in front of the condo, appearing to be floating in the air.  I had not seen it before then and wondered if it had arrived overnight.

Martha, who is a regular follower of “Friends of Atlantic Beach” on Facebook, learned that it was the Bravos, an offshore barracks and supply vessel supporting the dredging and beach nourishment, which has now almost come to an end.  “You can see the body is suspended off the water by spuds to keep it steady,” the helpful Facebook friend added. 

I wondered if the Brazos was occupied or not – he had used the word “barracks” – and if so, if those “spuds” helped to keep it from blowing away or capsizing.  The wind has risen to nearly 30 miles per hour and is expected to remain that strong for the next three days, and the ocean is a wild sight, churning white with foam leaping into the air.  We were hoping to complete one or two nice runs on the beach before we left here next week, but now it doesn’t seem like that will happen, even for those of us officially diagnosed with NRITH syndrome (Not Right in the Head). 

While the Brazos is on one horizon, we can feel the pull of Home on the other horizon.  We have stayed here longer than in any previous year, thanks to the generosity of Martha’s Aunt Lizette.  But we have found ourselves discussing home more and more, making plans for planting the garden, pruning the apple trees, seeing friends and brothers and sisters – all of the elements of our life in Highlands that we enjoy so much.  And with our second Covid shot behind us, we are looking forward to brightening expectations. 

We have had a good Sabbatical.  That tall stack of  books that we brought with us to read, posted in this blog way back in December, has disappeared, and we have read many more besides those.  

I have gotten some good writing done and managed to learn some new music on the keyboard we brought with us.  Martha has enjoyed preparing seafood and has learned some new recipes.  And we have both enjoyed so many good runs and hikes that they cannot be counted.  Although the wind continues to howl as I write what may be my last post before we return to Highlands, we will carry with us wonderful memories of this place and time.

The Music of What Happens

Martha was using a bookmark the other day that I had never noticed before.

Birds are plentiful in Atlantic Beach – we have gone on bird walks at Fort Macon in past years with Park Superintendent Randy Newman – and we have learned to identify some of them.  Now that Spring is just around the corner, the air is alive with their songs.  That mockingbird is still here with his magical mimicking music; I often see him along the walkway to the dune-top deck early in the morning perched on the top-most branch of a red cedar.  Some birds are nesting in the shrubs directly below our balcony, too, and they often swoop up to stand near the railing.  Their droppings were becoming a nuisance, so Martha taped a piece of aluminum foil there to deter them, which has been mostly successful.  But sometimes one will land defiantly on the center of the foil and strut back and forth, as this mourning dove did earlier today.

They love to perch on the roof ridges of the nearby houses, too, sometimes congregating in large numbers, and then moving in unison to another roof.  They are so close together that it is amazing they do not collide.  But I suppose they might think the same thing about a runner in a marathon, packed in with thousands of other runners. 

Sometimes I go out on the balcony with my coffee in the morning and simply watch them at play.  It is mating season and they do seem to be at play; sometimes a pair can be seen chasing one another like children playing a game of tag.  All of this reminds me of a poem by Seamus Heaney that I came upon the other day.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

That’s what the legendary hero Fionn mac Cumhaill is said to have replied when he was asked what was the best music of all:  “The music of what happens.”

We will be leaving Atlantic Beach in a week or two, and so we are trying to savor every moment, walking on the beach nearly every day, running, trying to keep that green bough in our heart, and listening to that best music of all, the music of what happens.  This morning was overcast, but when I went out onto the deck I could see a bright band of gauzy pink all along the horizon on the east. 

We will feel better about traveling because as of yesterday morning we received our second Covid vaccine.  And it is good to know that we are among the increasing number of Americans that have now been vaccinated, over 100 million as of yesterday, 13% of the population.  It is possible that we might be returning to a summer of backyard cookouts with friends and families by the Fourth of July, as our President talked about in his speech on Thursday night.  That would be very welcome music to our ears!

Oriental Journey

Yesterday we decided to take an Oriental journey – that is, to Oriental, a small Town in Pamlico County on the banks of the Neuse River that we have visited in past years while staying in Atlantic Beach.  It is an old Town, once haunted by Blackbeard the Pirate, and now definitely a fishing-centric place, with the Oriental Harbor Marina filled with pleasure and commercial boats.  It’s an hour and twenty minutes away by driving to New Bern and then east and south.  But in the same time, you can drive pleasant two-lane roads through flat countryside and take the 15-minute ferry across the Neuse River (at a much narrower point) from Cherry Branch to Minnesott Beach, and then on to Oriental. 

The N.C. Ferry system is an especially fine, underrated operation by the State of North Carolina.  It costs absolutely nothing, and the ferry terminals and the ferry itself (which leaves every 30 minutes) were spotless.  It was a smooth crossing on this balmy day.

It’s a short drive to Oriental from the ferry terminal.  The Town was named, I learned, from the sailing steamer Oriental, built in Philadelphia in 1861 and used as a Federal transport ship in the Civil War.  She was wrecked only a year later off Bodie Island, 33 miles north of Cape Hatteras, but a porthole from the ship is on display in the Oriental History Museum, closed every time we have visited, alas. 

Our first stop was The Silos, a great little dive of a restaurant that is literally located in a silo and is known for its good pizza.

The Silos was open for indoor dining at 50% capacity, but we chose to order a pizza to go and found a quiet place around the back called the Red Rooster, which during the summer is the go-to place in Oriental to listen to live music.  We were the only ones there today and there was no live music, but we enjoyed eating our Greek Pizza on a table next to a decrepit but authentic-looking covered seating area.

After lunch, Martha shopped a little in a place she likes on Broad Street called Nautical Wheelers, while I sat outside on the porch, finding the directions to Lou Mac Park on my phone.  We visited the Park after that and found the famous "Dancing Chairs," a set of white Adirondack chairs that are usually placed at the water's edge.  Local legend has it that the chairs dance all night when there's a full moon, and settle down before the sun comes up, but always in a different location within the park's grounds.  We shall have to return here someday when there is a full moon and test the veracity of this legend!

The journey back across the Neuse River was as smooth a crossing as the journey this morning.  Taking a ferry always reminds me of Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, which ends with Siddhartha apprenticing with the ferryman Vasudeva:

Often, they sat in the evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape.

Being a ferryman is an honorable profession, I realized, as our ferryman gently nudged our ferry into the dock at Cherry Branch.  “Thank you,” I said, as we rolled up onto solid ground.