Mockingbird

There is a warming trend underway and it seems to have brought out more bird life than in past weeks.  Or perhaps with spring just around the corner, it is time for birds to attract one another and mate and nest.  I wish that I knew more about these winged marvels all around us, the gulls and pelicans that soar high overhead, the sandpipers that feed on insects and the biofilm that comes in on the tide, and all of these noisier species that inhabit the brush along the walkway.

This morning after drinking my cup of coffee out on the dune-top deck, a remarkable little bird landed nearby, atop one of the myrtle or yaupon bushes; I was ten feet away, gazing in admiration as this little fellow proceeded to unleash his entire repertoire, a torrent of music that never seemed to repeat itself.  He was like the precocious child of an indulgent symphony conductor who was allowed to wander throughout the orchestra and try out every instrument available, tooting French horns, buzzing woodwind reeds, plucking all manner of strings.  I went to get my camera and this was the best I could do; he had moved to the railing of the adjoining house, and he had fallen silent, as if to say, you're not recording me!  I am improvising, I am making jazz!

I have an app on my iPhone called "Bird Song ID USA" that should be useful for times like this - it supposedly matches a recording of a song with a huge database - but so far it has proven pretty useless; everything comes up "Brown Thrasher," or whenever I find an interesting bird and begin recording it, a truck will go by, or an airplane will fly overhead.  But I think my little friend was a Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos), whose song on my iPhone sounded similar, and whose appearance was, too.  (What a name! - "polyglottos")

Northern Mockingbird (from Wikipedia)

Two smaller birds chattered to each other, although they were not as gifted in voice, playing tag from bush to bush, landing on the walkway railing from time to time.

I could have stayed out all morning, phone and binoculars in hand, but I decided this would be an activity for another day.  Today we drove down through Emerald Isle to Swansboro, a peaceful ramble, and had lunch at the Saltwater Grill right on the White Oak River.

We came back in time for a leisurely walk on the beach, and we also met our upstairs neighbor Rita, who I learned had been watching me nearly every morning do my Tai Chi on the deck.  'You were late this morning," she said.  "Yes, I slept in."  And now I will feel self-conscious.  It is a very prominent place to exercise, after all, but how can I resist?  Out on this perfect deck, the dunes all around, the sun rising, the ocean before me.

We came upstairs and I could hear my mockingbird out the open doors, so I rushed back out phone in hand and snapped my best picture yet:

My little polyglot!  He stopped singing as soon as I came to gaze up at him and take his picture, as I had expected he would. 

It Makes No Sense

In stark contrast to yesterday, we awoke this morning to thick fog; I could barely make out the crooked white line made by the surf breaking on the beach.

So it was a good day to take care of some errands, like having some maintenance done on our car at the excellent Honda dealership here, and doing a little grocery shopping.  And then settling in to read all afternoon.

It was good to learn about my friends Paul and Fred and Jennifer completing the Hilton Head Half Marathon last Saturday; Paul, wearing his "EVERYTHING HURTS AND I'M DYING" shirt, was the Senior Pastor at the Methodist Church in Highlands until he was transferred to Hickory, and Jennifer (it was her first half-marathon) is the current Assistant Pastor.  Fred is 77 years old and is still running very well; in fact, as I told Jennifer, I ran MY first half-marathon with him in 1998.

It was inspirational to see my friends, and it solidified my own plans to run the half marathon that will be held here on March 4.  In fact, were it not for that race and for a concert that we will be attending on March 3, we would probably be heading back to Highlands sooner; temperatures are moderating and friends and loved ones will be happy to see us again after such a long time.  This is the longest we have ever been away from Highlands, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Martha's aunt Lizette for making her condo available to us for so long this winter.  It has been a good time to read, write, re-connect, explore, and get in some good training.  It will be a fitting conclusion to our time here to be able complete a race of significant distance - Martha, too, may attempt her first race since the injuries that sidelined her last year, although she has not yet been able to complete the training required for a 13.1-mile race.

There is something very difficult to describe about distance running, although I keep trying to do it from time to time in this blog.  I went back and read what I wrote about the 5-K I completed on February 4 and it seemed to not at all capture the experience of even a short road race.  In a half-marathon or marathon it is even more profound:  the bright sun (or the cool rain), the flashing lights and bright colors, road stretching out ahead, the cheer and the misery of fellow runners, the way a runner has to dig deep to find that long, enduring, steadfast strength that makes such long distances possible.  We pray and we dream, we hurt and we laugh, we look around us at everything going on in a race (and to some extent during the long solo training runs leading up to it; I have a 12-mile run planned for Saturday).  I rarely feel so completely alive as during those times!

My fellow-blogger J. P. Krol (a talented ultra runner) recently posted this quote, which applies to the ultra runner but also to all of us distance runners:

 "It makes no sense in a world of spaceships and supercomputers to run vast distances on foot. There is no money in it and no fame, frequently not even the approval of peers. But as poets, apostles, and philosophers have insisted from the dawn of time, there is more to life than logic and common sense. The ultra runners know this instinctively. And they know something else that is lost on the sedentary. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, that the doors to the spirit swing open with physical effort. In running such long and taxing distances they answer a call from the deepest realms of their being - a call that asks who they are." - David Blaikie

Valentines Day

The gale-force winds of yesterday died down overnight and the temperature soared into the lower 60s - the perfect day for a ferryboat ride to Shackleford Island, home of those wild horses by the same name.  They are the same wild mustangs that inhabit Corolla.  A local guide explains:
  
Like the Ocracoke "Banker" ponies, the Shackleford horses have often been referred to as ponies because of their size, but they are true horses. DNA studies prove they are descended from the Spanish mustangs brought to the Carolina coast by explorers beginning in the early 1500's. Turned loose from shipwrecks, or left behind when explorers had to flee failed attempts at colonization, they spread out all along the barrier island chain as they grew in numbers.


We departed from a calm and picturesque Beaufort Harbor on the Island Express.  Unlike the ferryman in Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha, our captain was an old salt who looked like he had maneuvered many boats and ships in his lifetime.

He pointed out the sights to see - the commercial fishing fleet with its shrimp trawlers, nets outstretched like wings - as we left Beaufort and arrived on the uninhabited Shackleford Island and its pristine beaches.  We walked and walked, all along the shore and then following paths across the sand dunes toward the interior of the island.

We saw plenty of horse dung, some of it very fresh, but no horses.  We thought our search would prove fruitless when we climbed over a dune and suddenly Martha spotted two, then three of these beautiful wild animals.

We had been cautioned not to come closer than fifty feet, but they seemed not at all startled by our presence, continuing to graze on the sparse grass unperturbed.

We wandered among them quietly, afraid to speak above a whisper.  We were told later that the total population was about 120 horses; this group consisted of about a dozen, a "harem" living separately from the main herd.

There were other sights to see along the shore.  This interesting piece of rusted iron looked like part of an anchor:

We also found plenty of shells, including this whelk, which was the envy of some of the other passengers on the ferry who had come only to shell and did not see the horses.

I learned that this was a knobbed whelk (Busycon carica) because it fits into the right hand.  The lightning whelk (Sinistrofulgur perversum), as its sinister and perverse name indicates, fits into the left hand.  Now I know.

We stopped to have a snack on the Beaufort waterfront when we returned, and as we were sitting gazing at the water we saw dolphins leaping from the water, lots of dolphins, and a lot closer than we had imagined they would come into this harbor.

What more could we see on this Valentine's Day?  Horses, whelks, and dolphins.  And on the way back to the car we came upon these beautiful narcissus blooming along the sidewalk.

And now we are treating ourselves to dinner - for the first time since we have been here! - at Amos Mosquitos - a delicious conclusion to a beautiful Valentines Day.

Birdsong and Shrimp Boats

This morning along the walkway to the dune-top deck a bird was insistently calling, and there was a reply from the thick hedge of yaupon holly, a wonderful call-and-response to begin the day, back and forth.  I finally spied this little fellow perched high in the hedge, next to the remains of the full moon still visible in the morning sky:

Even though it was not a black bird, it reminded me of that wonderful old hymn that I first learned from Cat Stevens:

 Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

The rest of the day meandered along.  We both went to Anytime Fitness and worked out, came home for lunch, and then had to go out again for some errands.  At the end of a long day it was so nice to return, just in time to take a walk down to the fishing pier - we had the beach to ourselves! - returning late in the day as shadows lengthened.

This little travelogue is a short one today!  Birds calling, meandering day, and returning to a walk along the beach.  And such a glorious sunset!

What else is there to say on such a perfect day?  A shrimp boat was coming back home after a day out on the ocean, floating out on the horizon next to the sunset.  I could see a cloud of birds flocking around it in the sunset as it slowly sailed back into port.

Handbells and Cemetery Clubs

Sunday morning found us going to the Methodist Church again, and this morning the service was filled with more activities than usual. We had noticed when we arrived that the church was almost full, and the area in front of the altar rail was taken up with the handbells for "Bells of Praise."  We heard these bell-ringers last year and they are absolutely wonderful, led by a lively and energetic young woman and a team of skilled bell-ringers; they performed "Sweet Spirit" in a complex and full arrangement, using some "bells" that I had never seen before.  The two women at one end worked with a tall six-foot high brass rack holding nine large dangling bells, in addition to their normal two bells, and they were very busy ladies indeed, hitting those racked bells with little padded sticks.  (My on-line search for this piece of equipment  proved fruitless; it may be called a "bell tree," or it may be something invented solely by these bell-ringers.)  They also used these long, square instruments called Choirchimes, which were again new to me.

A  dozen little girls in a children's choir also performed, passing two microphones between them, singing with those sweet voices which only little girls have.  And the choir featured a solo by Michelle Johnson, whom I imagine having started singing here with a child's voice and blossoming in adulthood into a lovely soprano.

It was Scout Sunday, and "Celebrating the Gift of Scouting at First UMC" was also part of the service; the scoutmaster and a dozen or so scouts told us all about their programs, and we learned that over the years, since the 1950s, this church has produced 150 Eagle Scouts, which was an amazing number and testimony to the emphasis this church places on youth.  Good role models make good choices.

Rev. Powell's sermon was about Truth (the Ninth Commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor") and he made his points powerfully and eloquently against the background of "alternative facts" and our "Liar-in-Chief" President, although he was careful to side-step politics. 

An honest witness tells the truth,
    but a false witness tells lies.

The words of the reckless pierce like swords,
    but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

Truthful lips endure forever,
    but a lying tongue lasts only a moment.

Deceit is in the hearts of those who plot evil,
    but those who promote peace have joy . Proverbs 12

After lunch we had a real treat:  a performance at the Carteret Community Theater in Morehead City of a touching and very funny play, "Cemetery Club" - "Three Jewish widows meet once a month for tea before visiting their husband's graves" - well-written and perfectly performed by three actors reprising the same roles they had played 17 years ago.   

And now it is a peaceful Sunday evening, the wind rising up powerfully again outside, rattling the handrails and blowing the palm trees back and worth wildly out by the swimming pool.  It may be time to settle in for more Tana French.

Choices

Our mornings and evenings continue to be filled with glorious sunrises and sunsets.  Our balcony faces due south but we can always see the reflected glow on evening clouds, and if we walk down to the bottom of the walkway to the dune-top deck we can see clearly east and west.  Last night it looked like a huge canvas painted by Titian.

There was no post on my blog yesterday; we took a long drive and did not get back until late, and then I spent the evening reading Tana French.  Yesterday's drive took us a long distance around Camp Lejeune, which brought back memories of my brother Fred, who was stationed there 50-some years ago.  He always described the area to me as hot, swampy, and filled with water moccasins, and he did not enjoy his time there very much; Semper Fi, Fred!

His description seemed accurate to me.  But then we drove eastward out to the ocean, to Surf City and Topsail Beach, and had a lazy day, eating lunch at a little place called Daddy Macs in Surf City, with its vine-covered entry and its second-floor view of the ocean immediately off the rear deck:

These barrier islands are similar to Emerald Isle and Hatteras, so narrow that in some places you can see the ocean on one side and the sound on the other.  The homes are packed close together and there is little in the way of commercial development, only two or three restaurants.  But it was good to explore a part of coastal North Carolina that we had never seen.

We consider our time here to be a sabbatical:  that is, not just a travelogue and a description of my daily runs, but also a time to reflect on our lives and to reconnect, to read and write, removed from our ordinary lives for a time.  Sometimes that is not reflected in this blog, but we can nevertheless feel the benefits of being here every day - the comfort and joy of our relationship, what we like to call "Peace and Plenty."  Yesterday we used our long drive to talk about our lives, our families, the choices our loved ones have made (prompted by a discussion of my brother, who died in 1980).  We are fortunate that we made some good choices in our lives - we chose to be in relationship, we chose life and health, we chose to be in community, and in a church - and it is disheartening to see those who are suffering from poor choices or have fewer options than we had.  Or who close doors that can never be opened again.

Last night was a rare and special night for those who like to gaze at the sky -  a so-called "triple-header" consisting of a "penumbral" lunar eclipse during the full "snow" moon plus the flyby of a comet.  We did not see the comet, and the big moon peeking over the condo buildings looking much the same as it did last month, glorious just the same.

This morning we could have done anything, really, but we chose to go for a run - the air suddenly mild, up into the 60s, the breeze transformed from blustery to balmy overnight.  Martha ran four miles and I ran nine miles, down to Fort Macon, where the parking lot was filled with active people out walking, or jogging behind strollers.  I held the door for an older lady emerging from the restrooms and (I presume) her daughter, who was holding a little dog.  "It's a beautiful day," I said, "Isn't it?"

"You're taking advantage of it!" the older woman said, gesturing to my running clothes.

"Well so are you!"  I said.  And that thought stayed with me the rest of my run: how important it is to take advantage of every single day!  It is an appropriate thought to be carrying because today, February 11, Martha and I went out on our first date 39 years ago; we married a year later.  And that is the best choice I have ever made.

Dark Clouds

We heard the rain during the night, tapping lightly on the windows, and we could hear the wind as well.  I did my Tai Chi under cover of the condo building, but by the time I had eaten breakfast and had a cup of coffee in hand, it had cleared off enough to sit out on the dune-top deck, my habit ever since we have arrived unless it is raining.  But the wind was picking up even more, and the sky was growing darker and darker.  I hurried to get dressed before conditions worsened.

It was one of those glowering, angry looking skies, wind whipping the cords on flagpoles like mad, blowing over trash cans, loudly rattling the dry fronds of palm trees; along the horizon there was a black line of clouds.  I decided to head west, straight into the wind, so that it would be at my back when I returned.  It really was a struggle!  I ran some pick-ups - fast, short sprints from mailbox to mailbox, from utility pole to stop sign, on some of the back roads, and it felt like someone was standing in front of me, pushing hard on my shoulders.  It was so ridiculous I started laughing!  "What am I doing out here?!!"  I know, I know; not right in the head.

I have to say that I was thankful to return to the condo more this morning than on any other morning we have been here.  The wind kept increasing in speed, and the last little circle around the parking lot was executed in a crouch, bent over, head down, trying to reduce the amount of wind resistance.

It is on these days, however, that I feel more satisfied than ever having completed a run, even a short one.  "You like misery, don't you?"  Martha asked, shaking her head.  And yes, I suppose there is an element of masochism on days like this after all.  But there is an intoxicating excitement, too, in being out in such wild weather, looking over my shoulder at gathering clouds, laughing into the wind, miserable and triumphant and absolutely alive.