Beaufort

Beaufort is one of the prettiest little towns we have ever visited, and we spent today wandering its peaceful streets on the eve of our trip to New Bern to participate in the "Sister March."  So it was a quiet little interregnum, visiting the shops and the Maritime Museum and the Old Burying Ground.  I spent a long time in the Maritime Museum learning about the menhaden industry and Blackbeard and other local history while Martha investigated the little boutiques.

I could not avoid thinking about Potus Trumpus, and of how similar he was to Blackbeard, an outlaw boarding the ship of the Republican Party and looting it so thoroughly. 

Then, as I had done last year, I marveled at the beautiful little homes along Taylor's Creek, many of them dating back to the 19th century.

Out on Taylor's Creek I was surprised to see a rowing team, moving fast down Taylor's Creek, coxswain in the rear and all.  I was not quick enough to take a photo but Martha did:

And finally I found myself again at the Old Burying Ground, which I had enjoyed visiting last year; it was a spooky place, an owl hooting mournfully in the background, daylight fading.  I knew from its sign that the gates closed at 5:00 p.m. and I saw from my watch that I had  passed that fateful hour, and I would not have wanted to be locked behind these iron gates after dark.

This grave in particular is well-known locally; it is continually decorated with many small icons and little tokens.  Everybody can relate to the girl buried in a barrel of rum, which I wrote about in a poem (still unpublished) that I wrote last year.

Girl in Barrel of  Rum (1700s)

She would have come to gracious Beaufort as an infant,

And flourished into a sparkling, headstrong girl,

Freckled, slender as a weed.  “Take me to London,”

She begged her father, over and over again.

And so he relented, as fathers do, but not before

Promising to return her to her mother’s arms –

One final hug, spinning her around, lifting her feet high.

For every adventure a cost; she died on the voyage home,

And her father, true to his word, as fathers are,

Brought her back in this barrel of rum.  So to this day

Her rounded little grave is piled high with tokens,

Coins, flowers, metro passes:  trinkets from the future.

At the end of the day we met together, Martha and I, watching the sun set over Taylor's Creek.  Gorgeous!

 

This whole Town seemed to come to a standstill as, all along its waterfront boardwalk, folks gathered to watch, cameras clicking, children standing silently in awe, as another master painting unfolded in the sky brushstroke by brushstroke.

  Our destination tonight was the highly-rated Beaufort Grocery Company and a special small plates dinner being offered.  We were pleasantly surprised to see Dixie Stewart, one of our old Highlands running friends who now lives here, and her husband Richard, a doctor at the hospital and my former G.P., walk by.  We enjoyed sitting and visiting with them before returning home.

The other folks at the table were Molly and her husband, who lived only one block away from the restaurant in the historic district and extolled the virtues of living in this beautiful little city.  When we told them about the rowing they said that they were members of the rowing team!  What a surprise; they did not look like rowers.  Or smiters of the sounding furrows.

 Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows.

Appalling Times

This morning I witnessed another beautiful sunrise.  Readers of this blog are likely tired of seeing these same sunrises and sunsets every day, but they are a balm, a wonder, an enchantment each day, lifting us up in the morning and gently closing the book of day at night.

Two contrails, vapor tails left by some predawn aircraft, had crossed in the pink sky out over the ocean - "X" marks the spot.

I had intended to complete another long run on Saturday because I am still eyeing that half-marathon on March 4, and prior to that a 5-K on February 4, and I need those long miles.  But instead I ran a "semi-long" run of six miles, down to Fort Macon and back, my legs weary from many miles in recent days.  Although my running log says I have only run 10 miles this week (Monday and Tuesday), I keep a kind of rolling running log in my head as many runners do, and I was fully aware that I ran 10 miles on Saturday; so that meant that I have actually run 20 miles in four days, and today's six miles makes 26, a big jump up in weekly mileage.  But I took it easy, stopped to stretch here and there, and it went well.

The reason why I am not running long on Saturday is that we will be in New Bern joining many other Americans in a peaceful "Women's March" (which will include men as well), a smaller chapter of the huge march on Washington that is planned for Saturday.  I am fearful that the Washington March may result in violence; "Bikers for Trump" are heading that way, according to the news.  What could go wrong with that?  I have a memory that goes back to Altamont in 1969.  I also have a memory that goes back to the Vietnam-era protests, in which I participated; in fact, that was the last time I participated in a public gathering of this kind.  These are unprecedented times!  We will be gathering at the gazebo on Front Street and marching to the Courthouse, and I hope it will indeed be a positive event and not one marred by anger or heckling or violence.

Tomorrow is Inauguration Day, and I share the deep concern that so many of us have about the anointment of an unfit, impulsive, unqualified egomaniac - surely the most dangerous President we have ever inaugurated.  He represents for me everything that is wrong about our country in his shallow reality-TV vulgarity and his ignorance, descending from his gold-plated tower with his super-model on his arm, building a coalition from hatred and bigotry.  What is most disturbing of all is that so many Americans voted for him, as casually as if they were buying a lottery ticket or clicking a "Like" on Facebook.  And so many of my friends did so, too:  good, decent people.  That is what disturbs me more than anything.

We decided to get take-out from the Island Grille right here at Sand Villas for lunch, grilled shrimp burgers again, and I found a sign on the door announcing that they will be closed tomorrow for a private party.  Inside, while I was waiting for my order, I noticed an entire wall with "Trump-Pence" signs posted on it, bordered by American flags, and in the corner were little plastic hats with brims that also bore those names - the private party.  On FOX news the clock was ticking down to the public party as Potus Trumpus's plane descended from the skies.

I will not be watching any television tomorrow.  And Saturday we will be joining millions of other Americans who are absolutely appalled.  Now is the time to stand up and speak out.

The Catbird Seat

One of the joys of living near the ocean is fresh seafood, and we have consumed an abundance of it in the nearly two weeks since we have been here, including scallops, crab cakes, and trigger fish, all prepared here in the condo by Martha.  The dishes she has prepared have been absolutely delicious, as all fresh seafood is, but my photos do not do them justice.  Here is the melt-in-your mouth sweet bay scallops she prepared last week, with roasted brussel sprouts (so simple:  just baked until they have a little caramelization) and macaroni-and-cheese from Friendly Market - great flavors and textures, but somehow the colors all looked a little drab in my photo.  But that is the fault of the photographer and not the chef.

Martha loves to cook so much out here that I rarely have an opportunity, but I enjoy being in the kitchen, too, as some of my followers know, and tonight I offered to prepare baked grouper (which is coming in just now at Jim's Seafood) so we will see how it comes out.  Hopefully delicious; probably not photogenic.

This day was a surprise!  Thunderstorms had been predicted for most of the day, and it was raining a little when we went to Anytime Fitness this morning, but by lunchtime (the reliably healthy Panera Bread nearby) the sun was beginning to shine, and all afternoon the skies have been cloudless.   Meteorologists have a tough time out here; they seem to be wrong most of the time, really, and it is best not to make plans based on their predictions. 

Our walkway leads to a wide dune-top deck, and that is where I would have preferred to sit all day in the sun, leaning against the slanted back with feet propped up on the adjoining seat, hat cocked over my face, as I did once or twice last week.  But we have been joined this week by one or two other families, and particularly one woman who has been in the Catbird Seat all day.  Her husband joined her mid-afternoon and they left to stroll on the beach, so I waited a decent amount of time and then ambled out to sit and watch the surf break and listen to the sea gulls.  But in no time they had returned; she was slightly plump and was wearing a wide-brimmed sunbonnet, and she sat right down at the other end of the bench and said, "Well, here I am on my perch again!"  And she did look as if she had landed on a perch, back straight, gazing around her.

"Oh, were you out here earlier?" I innocently asked.

"Oh yes!"  Her husband sat down meekly beside her and they fell silent, watching the same surf I was watching.

"Did you see any dolphins today?" I asked.

"No, not today, but we have seen them every other day."

I watched them out of the corner of my eye for a few minutes, trying not to feel resentful at having to share my own favorite perch, and then I stood up nonchalantly and walked down to the end of the walkway and stood for awhile surveying the wide ocean and that perfectly straight line of the horizon.  Then I turn and walked past them with a friendly wave and a smile and came back inside.  No need to intrude, after all - they are exactly where anyone should be on a beautiful day such as this, not sitting indoors watching television, but out here the same as I am, a happy little bird perched on a wide branch simply watching the waves roll in.  And wherever I sit out here, after all, I am in the Catbird Seat.

And here is our dinner for tonight:  fresh baked grouper, sauteed spinach, and black japonica rice.  Martha pronounced it delicious, but still the photo doesn't do it justice!

Dark Corners and Bright Sunsets

One of my favorite pastimes at the beach is reading, as I have mentioned before in these pages, and specifically British murder mysteries.  I can recall many, many evenings here and in Duck, in many houses, engrossed in P. D. James and Martha Grimes and Ruth Rendell and Robert Galbraith (AKA J. K. Rowling), and even Rex Stout.  This Christmas I gave Martha a book of previously-unpublished short stories by P. D. James and two Ruth Rendell books, which I have been enjoying reading as well as she.  The reason I did not post anything on this almost-daily blog yesterday is that I was engrossed all day in Dark Corners, which was published last year and was Rendell's last book before she passed away in 2015.

It was agreeably creepy, as most Ruth Rendell books are!  The last paragraph was especially poignant (or prophetic?):  "Tom put his newspaper down and leaned back in his chair.  'And now, now it's all over.'"  And of that I am truly sorry.  But the other book is A Demon in My View, which I seem to have overlooked in my thorough exploration of Rendell over the years, so perhaps it is not all over after all.  There will be plenty of time for the new Wallace Stevens biography and Gödel, Escher, Bach next week.  First we have to get through the serious books.

I ran six miles yesterday pre-Rendell and should have taken today off, but it was just too beautiful a morning not to run.  And it is supposed to rain tomorrow morning. 

High, puffy clouds, moving out to sea, and bright blue skies coming in from the north:  I decided to run another interval workout as I did last week, and it went very well, each one faster than the last one, and all of them a good five seconds faster than last week.  I knew I was pushing the envelope, though, so I was especially sensitive to the slightest little niggle or tightness, which thankfully never came.  It is a satisfying feeling to finish a workout and know you have given it your all.

Martha walked six miles, out to Fort Macon, and I passed her on my way back.  We are becoming accustomed to this route and have many landmarks - the entrance to the picnic area halfway there, the historic marker for the Union Artillery Emplacement, and this interesting place one-half mile on the right at the entrance to Sea Dreams called "Bridgehouse."

Still, despite Sea Dreams, it is hard to escape the inauguration of our next President scheduled for this coming Friday.  The internet is having a hilarious time!  Now we have learned that Potus Trumpus will be taking off the weekend and not starting work until Monday.  "Why?" one internet wag wondered.  "So that he can heal from his injuries when he places his hand on the Bible and it bursts into flames?"  I stopped at Food Lion after my run to buy some things and the tabloid at the checkout counter screamed out to me, "CROOKED HILLARY WILL DIE IN JAIL After Backstabbing Bill Sells Her Out!!"  One wonders what the effect of calling Hillary crooked for 25 years or so, even in such a disreputable place as the checkout line, might have had on the election.  She is, I am proud to say, the woman I voted for.

So I escape to take a long walk on the beach, finding only broken sand dollars and caved-in whelks today.  Down by the pier a small colony of seagulls seems to be intent on breaking open tiny shells and feeding on what is inside.  One of them, no larger than the others, is especially aggressive; he has had too many cups of coffee! -  he flaps his wings and chases all the others away, and is alone in the middle of a big empty space.

But this place is so very beautiful, after all, despite the tabloids and the angry seagulls; every evening seems to end with these gorgeous sunsets, a balm to heal and soothe the spirit.

Sabbatical Sabbath

Today we again attended the First United Methodist Church, where we found the white pews packed with worshipers; attendance last week had suffered from the cold and blustery conditions (93 at the 11:00 service).  We heard Associate Pastor Jason Villegas preach; earnest and young with unruly dark hair and no text before him, he nonetheless delivered an excellent sermon on the second in a series on the Ten Commandments.  Young Sarah Williams had the Children's Moment, but the only child present was a cherubic 8- or 9-month old girl wearing a big bow around her hair, carried by her mother, and staring with a serious, rapt expression on her face as if absorbing every word.

This is a well-organized church which I appreciate from participating in almost every capacity in many churches, off and on, over the years; its choir sings tight, difficult harmonies, and every single light blazes in its overhead chandeliers.  I had the feeling that somebody in this church has joyfully taken on the job of monitoring these bulbs carefully each week and would be personally ashamed to fall down in this small part of corporate worship.  It is a church that I would attend regularly if we lived here, friendly and open, young Jason listening with care to Celebrations and Concerns.  An older gentleman calmly and thoroughly shared his amazement at the many acts of kindness shown during the recent death of his wife and there were damp eyes everywhere..

After church we had lunch at the Ruddy Duck again, enjoying the tasty Hatteras-style clam chowder, before returning to the Condo.  It was a little chilly on the beach but it was low tide, so we found ourselves again as we have on an almost daily basis out on this wide beach, gleaming with afternoon light, looking at the bright coins that the tide had left in the offering plate, and listening to the Offertory by this Coastal Chancel Choir of waves gently breaking.

There is a whole line of oceanfront houses just a little way up the beach to the east, dressed in their colorful Sunday best as if standing up to sing a hymn.  (And perhaps that is as far as I can carry this fanciful analogy.)

We turned back and I stooped to take photographs of shells that had been polished as smooth as pebbles in a mountain stream, and almost stepped on a sand dollar that Martha pointed out.  Then she found another, both of them a little tattered around the edges, but unbroken.

Here they both are, still gray from the ocean, drying on a paper napkin.  And yes, that is a cartoon character named "Olaf" waving with an idiotic grin in the background on the napkin.

Martha has not missed many opportunities to gently poke fun at my hasty (and unsupervised) choice of napkins from the Food Lion our first night here. 

That is how it is here on this Sabbatical Sabbath:  the lovely harmonies of many choirs singing, riches beyond compare washed up for free from this endless ocean, and gentle laughter at blundering Olaf.

The Long Miles

Today I completed my longest run since we arrived, 10 miles, out to Fort Macon along Highway 58; there was little traffic, and I only saw two other runners and a cyclist.  It's a great place to run, with the sound on one side and the ocean on the other, both out of sight behind a thick tangle of twisted trees.  But from time to time I could distinctly hear the crash of surf on one side, and from the nature trail which extends from Fort Macon on the sound side the laughing and chattering of a lively group of children.  The miles seemed especially long toward the end of this long run, and I realized that I had not gone this far in many weeks.  I was reminded of the marathons and half-marathons I have run in the past on roads like this, at Tybee Island and the Outer Banks, long flat miles, the mind wandering as far and wide as the sky, one step after another, stopping to walk at aid stations.  But I was alone today and there were no aid stations, only markers which have already become familiar to me, like the sign at the top of the "hill" (everything is relative out here on the coast) marking the Union artillery emplacement which rained down destruction on this fort in 1862.  The Wikipedia account is succinct:

Union force invested the fort with siege works and on April 25 opened an accurate fire on the fort, soon breaching the masonry walls. Within a few hours the fort's scarp began to collapse, and in late afternoon the Confederate commander, Colonel Moses J. White, ordered the raising of a white flag.  Burnside's terms of surrender were accepted, and the Federal troops took possession of the fort the next morning.

 
So even here along this peaceful shore it is hard to escape the reality of endless warfare, just as it was in 1862.  I unaccountably remembered the words of Jimi Hendrix's strange and beautiful A Merman I Should Turn to Be from Electric Ladyland:

oh say can you see its really such a mess
every inch of earth is a fighting nest
giant pencil and lip-stick tube shaped things
continue to rain and cause screaming pain
and the arctic stains
from silver blue to bloody red

These were sober thoughts for a beautiful day, but it has been hard to avoid, as noted in a previous post, the increasingly alarming twitterings of our President-Elect.  We had picked up a copy of the Carteret County News-Times two days ago expecting to learn about local music and theater, only to find a long, rambling, angry Letter to the Editor replying to an earlier letter (by some NPR listener like me, I suppose) by Capt. Steve Miller, which ended with:

So, Mr. Humphrey, I would recommend that you pin a safety pin to your lapel, crawl back into your "safe space" along with the rest of your liberal snowflakes and prepare to be amazed.  To quote a recent post on Facebook, "Suck it up, buttercup, you lost."  Now you know how we felt for the last eight years.  God bless America.

Such anger and bitterness!  And, truly, this liberal snowflake Roadrunner, who cannot help but dwell upon these things while he runs, is not preparing to be amazed.  He is preparing to be terrified.

We escaped to our "safe space" in the afternoon, the local movie theater, and watched Hidden Figures, which was uplifting and hopeful.  This was a message we needed to hear today!

Swansboro

I woke up this morning thinking about the American workers who had been left behind  by the forces of globalization and were somehow conned into voting for Donald Trump.  It  is true that we have not turned on the TV here in a week, but we have not been able to avoid the news stories that are more and more disturbing each day and the daily posts on Facebook from friends who are as concerned as we are about the impending doom that is scheduled for January 20 when this Trump will be inaugurated.  (It almost seems as if I am using an obscenity to use his name in this blog about running and seashells and sunrises and sunsets.)  So we decided to take off for a ramble down the Crystal Coast through Emerald Isle to historic Swansboro today, and not to allow the President-Elect to ride with us in the back seat.

Sunrise was as glorious as ever.  This is the warmest day since we have arrived, and I was almost over-dressed as I moved slowly from position to position doing my Tai Chi, breathing deeply and being thankful for another day in this beautiful place.

The walkway and the seats built into it were sopping wet from the moisture that had drifted in from the ocean; the rails glistened in the morning light.

Last night's full moon was visible to the west, unblinking and wide awake in what I once referred to as glorious insomnia.

We drove west through Pine Knoll shores and on into Emerald Isle, surprised by how nice it was - many high-end clubs, and huge oceanfront mansions invisible down winding  gated driveways.  We stopped at the Crystal Coast Visitor Center, where a very friendly woman talked to us; her daughter was a student at WCU and she knew our part of the state well.

We arrived in Swansboro in time for a waterfront lunch at the Ice House, which visitor-center-woman and Tripadvisor both highly recommended.

 
Martha had a crabcake sandwich, her first since we have arrived here, and I had sashimi tuna sliders - delicious!  - and we watched boats glide by on the White Oak River. 

Swansboro is a historic place, lots of lovely shops and restaurants, and dozens of old homes; we had picked up a Walking Tour brochure at the Visitor Center and it served as the basis for a slow, meandering, sunlit stroll through quiet streets that reminded us of Manteo.  Most of the homes were ca. 1900, and many had interesting architectural elements:  fish scales, captain's wheels, starfish.  I don't think a single home lacked a cool, wide porch with rocking chairs; this is a hot place in July.

I stopped on Water Street to photograph this interesting little house (every city around here seems to have a Front Street, a Water Street, a Main Street, and a Church Street, reflecting the historically essential parts of everyday life).

A woman who had been pruning her hedge by hand across the street, and who had stopped to rest, was sitting on her front steps.  "Do you like that house?" she called out to me.  "Yes, I do," I said.
"Well you would be surprised how many times they try to get him to tear it down," she said, referring very specifically to (I supposed) some wise, stubborn, unnamed landowner.  "I think it should be preserved and placed on the National Register," I said.,  "You've done a good job preserving many of these old homes here."  She seemed pleased by this, and I walked down Water Street while she returned to her hedge.

We love small cities like this one.  Everywhere, the motto "Friendliest City by the Sea" is hanging on streetlight banners and incorporated into public places in some way, together with the ubiquitous swans.  Even the Ward Cemetery up on Walnut Street is billed as friendly and has its own swan.

This little place was hidden in cool shade - it looked like a Hobbit House, with an inexplicable ladder propped on a tree out front.

And this is all that remained of a tree outside a house on Main Street, carved by some talented sculptor who did not want to miss an opportunity to create art.  Because art can be created anywhere, after all.

And so we returned again to Atlantic Beach not having thought very much about the President-Elect and his disturbing cabinet choices and proclivities.  We were in time to watch that magnificent daily event that seems so ordinary but draws dozens to the beach, or gathered on decks, couples hugging and walking hand-in-hand, gulls standing alone looking out to to the ocean with a baffled expression, sandpipers scurrying in the surf in the very last moments of the day, watching the sun disappear in its humble blaze of glory. 

Another beautiful day, its hours like precious books held between the two bookends of sunrise and sunset.