I am glowing in the dark, radioactive from Ultra sounds and Ct Scans.
But I have a reprieve. The breast lump is probably OK. Dr. D., the surgeon is treating me without surgery.
It's not cancer. He gives me a hug.
I will be here for Christmas. I will cherish life.
I will walk the last park trails.
December 25, 2015 Where Are You Christmas
Faith Hill, from The Grinch
Where are you Christmas
Why can't I find you
Why have you gone away
Where is the laughter
You used to bring me
Why can't I hear the music play
My world is changing
I'm rearranging.
Does that mean Christmas changes too
Where are You Christmas
Do you remember
The one you used to know
I'm not the same one
See what the time's done
Is that why you have to let me go
If there is love
In your heart and mine
You will feel like Christmas all the time
I feel you Christmas
I know I've found you
You never fade away
The joy of Christmas
Stays here inside us
Fills each and every heart with love
Where are you Christmas
Will your heart with love
December 25, 2015
We are gathered around the table once again. We take turns reading verses from Amazing Peace, the Christmas Poem read by the poet Maya Angelou, at the lighting of the National Christmas Tree on December 1, 2005.
...we clap hands and welcome the
Peace of Christmas
We beckon this good season to stay a while
with us
We, Baptist, Buddhist, Methodist, and
Muslim, say come
Peace....
Peace my brother
Peace my sister
Peace my soul.
Monday, December 28, 2015
November 23, 2015 "It's Howdy Doody Time"
Buffalo Bob: "Say, kids, what time is it?
Kids: "It's Howdy Doody Time"
It's Howdy Doody time
It's Howdy Doody time
Bob Smith and Howdy Doo
Say Howdy Doo to you.
Let's give a rousing cheer
Cause Howdy Doody's here.
It's time to start the show
So kids let's go.
Dr. S. looks truly upset as he tells me that I have a large mass in my abdomen and a lump in my left breast.
I am stunned. He gives me a hug.
I go home to settle my affairs.
The next day is Thanksgiving and I look around the table at my much loved children and grandchildren and wonder if I will see another Thanksgiving.
On Black Friday I buy all the Christmas presents, put them in separate large cheerful Santa Claus bags for each family in case they have to pick them up because I am going to be in the hospital. Maybe they can have Christmas dinner in the cafeteria when they visit me, I think. I take nine boxes of books to the Goodwill. For some reason, I feel a temporary rush of happiness and exhileration. I am singing the Howdy Doody song in my head.
My father bought our first TV when I was in elementary school. We watched Kukla, Fran and Ollie and the Howdy Doody Show. There was a transitional screen on Howdy Doody, round like a kalidoscope which would spin around and around. One night I dreamed of that spinning screen and awakened, knowing what the meaning of it was: I was dead. I jumped out of my bed and ran to my sleeping parents, announcing that I was dead.
"No, you are not dead" my startled mother said feeling my forehead, "You are burning up with fever".
My father called Dr. Bundy and he came in the middle of the night and gave me a shot of penicillin. I slept peacefully under my soft quilt.
I have three more hikes to go and I will have hiked each of the forty-seven states parks. I wonder if I can do it.
Kids: "It's Howdy Doody Time"
It's Howdy Doody time
It's Howdy Doody time
Bob Smith and Howdy Doo
Say Howdy Doo to you.
Let's give a rousing cheer
Cause Howdy Doody's here.
It's time to start the show
So kids let's go.
Dr. S. looks truly upset as he tells me that I have a large mass in my abdomen and a lump in my left breast.
I am stunned. He gives me a hug.
I go home to settle my affairs.
The next day is Thanksgiving and I look around the table at my much loved children and grandchildren and wonder if I will see another Thanksgiving.
On Black Friday I buy all the Christmas presents, put them in separate large cheerful Santa Claus bags for each family in case they have to pick them up because I am going to be in the hospital. Maybe they can have Christmas dinner in the cafeteria when they visit me, I think. I take nine boxes of books to the Goodwill. For some reason, I feel a temporary rush of happiness and exhileration. I am singing the Howdy Doody song in my head.
My father bought our first TV when I was in elementary school. We watched Kukla, Fran and Ollie and the Howdy Doody Show. There was a transitional screen on Howdy Doody, round like a kalidoscope which would spin around and around. One night I dreamed of that spinning screen and awakened, knowing what the meaning of it was: I was dead. I jumped out of my bed and ran to my sleeping parents, announcing that I was dead.
"No, you are not dead" my startled mother said feeling my forehead, "You are burning up with fever".
My father called Dr. Bundy and he came in the middle of the night and gave me a shot of penicillin. I slept peacefully under my soft quilt.
I have three more hikes to go and I will have hiked each of the forty-seven states parks. I wonder if I can do it.
October 13, 2015 The Mystery Illness
In Columbia, I dropped James off at his school and as I drove away I was struck by the most astonishing pain: my arms, my legs, my body. I got out of the car and sat on a bench in front of Publix Grocery Store trying to decide if I should go to the emergency room or try to get home. A security guard came and sat with me. A native of Camden, he had worked as a fireman in New York and was there on 9-11. He then came home to retire. The perfect guardian. I was comforted by his presence. The pain subsided and I drove home.
The next day I went to the doctor and was seen by a P.A. who diagnosed me so oddly with pharyngitis and put me on an antibiotic. She told me I had a high white count and my throat looked red. As I was going out the door, she said, "Maybe you should go to the emergency room."
I went home and for the next five days lay on my couch under the frayed soft quilt of my childhood watching true crime shows until I became very depressed and switched to the Food Network.
I had planned to go across I-20 to Hamilton Branch for a hike on Oct. 13, but I am laid low.
The next day I went to the doctor and was seen by a P.A. who diagnosed me so oddly with pharyngitis and put me on an antibiotic. She told me I had a high white count and my throat looked red. As I was going out the door, she said, "Maybe you should go to the emergency room."
I went home and for the next five days lay on my couch under the frayed soft quilt of my childhood watching true crime shows until I became very depressed and switched to the Food Network.
I had planned to go across I-20 to Hamilton Branch for a hike on Oct. 13, but I am laid low.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
November 15, 2015 Calhoun Falls State Park: Alons Enfants de la Patria
Down the I-85 pipeline between Charlotte and Atlanta, there is little traffic on this Sunday morning, except for the Highway Patrol searching cars on the side of the road.
I take the exit for Highway 81 South, the Heritage Corridor, through the upbeat small city of Anderson where there is a big AnMed Hospital, Colleges, restaurants, parks, gentle tree shaded neighborhoods.
In Star and in Iva, hulking against the white cool sky are the monoliths of the past-- the abandoned Owens Corning plant, huge, empty, like a great pyramid from the Egyptian desert and beside it, bizarrely appropriate, an acres wide cemetery open to the winds, bare of trees and shrubs, but tended with plastic flowers by those who have not fled.
In little Iva, the Lydia Mill lies in ruins and is said to be haunted. Comfortable old two story white houses of the Southern type with wrap around porches are scattered here and there.
I drive 30 miles to the Calhoun Falls State Park. "There are no falls" the ranger warns me. "There was a shoals before they built Lake Russell." Lake Russell lies along the great rip in the earth that makes the border between South Carolina and Georgia, the seaward path of the Savannah River with powerful dams and lovely lakes full of fish along the way.
Docked beyond the Ranger's office on the lake are a dozen house boats and pontoon boats. "They lease a space for a year and pay $100 a month" the Ranger says, "Only Dreher Island has a similar docking for lease on the lake." There are restrooms here and big stainless steel tubs with hoses to clean your fish.
The Nature Trail is in the Day Use Area across from the tennis courts. Into the woods, we go into a world of evergreen, cedar, pine, brown and orange. The 1.75 mile trail is fortunately well marked with blue blazes as the ground is well covered with leaves and pine needles. Sometimes you can glimpse silver shinning Lake
Russell, an optical illusion of a higher plateau. In the sky above, a brace of tiny birds folds together in the wind like a sail and is blown away out over the water.
The dog and I are alone here. The ground is covered with bright green moss and pale green lichen which reminds me of my grandmother's dish gardens, made with moss, a wild violet tucked in and sometimes a little statue of Chinese mud people bought from the Five and Ten. Once after the trail loops back to the same path we began on, I leave it onto a dirt road, but Boofa pulls me back in the right direction, a good tracker.
Leaving the park, we are immediately in the tiny town of Calhoun Falls where we turn left onto Highway 72. IF you go to the right, you cross the water into Elberton, Georgia.
The abandoned Westpointe Stevens Mill looms beside the road. This little town with the historic name feels abandoned as well. Only the inhabitants know where inside the lights are warm, the scents of cooking are comforting and life goes on. My brother, the fisherman, tells me that not long ago, there was a large plantation house here, a little motel where he and his buddies would spend the night, a restaurant where they would eat a big breakfast and in the evening enjoy steaks cooked on the grill, baked potatoes and salad.
On the car radio, there are constant reports of the 129 Parisians killed by Isis on Friday night, the Russian plane sent down in flight over the Siani Desert with 224 persons inside, again by Isis. France has closed its borders.
On 98.9 there is Christmas Music, the Trans Siberian Orchestra's Pacobel Canon, like a dirge.
I take the exit for Highway 81 South, the Heritage Corridor, through the upbeat small city of Anderson where there is a big AnMed Hospital, Colleges, restaurants, parks, gentle tree shaded neighborhoods.
In Star and in Iva, hulking against the white cool sky are the monoliths of the past-- the abandoned Owens Corning plant, huge, empty, like a great pyramid from the Egyptian desert and beside it, bizarrely appropriate, an acres wide cemetery open to the winds, bare of trees and shrubs, but tended with plastic flowers by those who have not fled.
In little Iva, the Lydia Mill lies in ruins and is said to be haunted. Comfortable old two story white houses of the Southern type with wrap around porches are scattered here and there.
I drive 30 miles to the Calhoun Falls State Park. "There are no falls" the ranger warns me. "There was a shoals before they built Lake Russell." Lake Russell lies along the great rip in the earth that makes the border between South Carolina and Georgia, the seaward path of the Savannah River with powerful dams and lovely lakes full of fish along the way.
Docked beyond the Ranger's office on the lake are a dozen house boats and pontoon boats. "They lease a space for a year and pay $100 a month" the Ranger says, "Only Dreher Island has a similar docking for lease on the lake." There are restrooms here and big stainless steel tubs with hoses to clean your fish.
The Nature Trail is in the Day Use Area across from the tennis courts. Into the woods, we go into a world of evergreen, cedar, pine, brown and orange. The 1.75 mile trail is fortunately well marked with blue blazes as the ground is well covered with leaves and pine needles. Sometimes you can glimpse silver shinning Lake
Russell, an optical illusion of a higher plateau. In the sky above, a brace of tiny birds folds together in the wind like a sail and is blown away out over the water.
The dog and I are alone here. The ground is covered with bright green moss and pale green lichen which reminds me of my grandmother's dish gardens, made with moss, a wild violet tucked in and sometimes a little statue of Chinese mud people bought from the Five and Ten. Once after the trail loops back to the same path we began on, I leave it onto a dirt road, but Boofa pulls me back in the right direction, a good tracker.
Leaving the park, we are immediately in the tiny town of Calhoun Falls where we turn left onto Highway 72. IF you go to the right, you cross the water into Elberton, Georgia.
The abandoned Westpointe Stevens Mill looms beside the road. This little town with the historic name feels abandoned as well. Only the inhabitants know where inside the lights are warm, the scents of cooking are comforting and life goes on. My brother, the fisherman, tells me that not long ago, there was a large plantation house here, a little motel where he and his buddies would spend the night, a restaurant where they would eat a big breakfast and in the evening enjoy steaks cooked on the grill, baked potatoes and salad.
On the car radio, there are constant reports of the 129 Parisians killed by Isis on Friday night, the Russian plane sent down in flight over the Siani Desert with 224 persons inside, again by Isis. France has closed its borders.
On 98.9 there is Christmas Music, the Trans Siberian Orchestra's Pacobel Canon, like a dirge.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
October 12, 2015 Columbia
"...they give us those nice bright colors
they give us those greens of summer
makes you think all the world's a sunny day
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So, mama, don't take my kodachrome away..."
Kodachrome by Paul Simon
Today, homes destroyed by the floods are being totally taken down and leveled.
Colleen and her neighbor, Liz are gathering photo collections from the ruined houses and attempting to preserve and reclaim them from the waters which have drenched them. (Colleen teaches photography and Liz restores documents for the library at USC).
I have seen some of these snapshots of graduates in their robes holding their diplomas, new babies stretching out on their blankets, yearly Christmas celebrations, the same people getting older, new ones joining, some disappearing, sweethearts hugging in front of their cars, family chronicles beyond value.
they give us those greens of summer
makes you think all the world's a sunny day
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So, mama, don't take my kodachrome away..."
Kodachrome by Paul Simon
Today, homes destroyed by the floods are being totally taken down and leveled.
Colleen and her neighbor, Liz are gathering photo collections from the ruined houses and attempting to preserve and reclaim them from the waters which have drenched them. (Colleen teaches photography and Liz restores documents for the library at USC).
I have seen some of these snapshots of graduates in their robes holding their diplomas, new babies stretching out on their blankets, yearly Christmas celebrations, the same people getting older, new ones joining, some disappearing, sweethearts hugging in front of their cars, family chronicles beyond value.
Friday, October 9, 2015
October 8, 2015 The Columbia Canal
"I have known rivers
I've known rivers ancient as the world
and older than the flow of blood in human veins"
Langston Hughes "The Negroe Speaks of Rivers"
Now where I have so often walked between the Columbia Canal and the Congaree, the canal has broken and flowed over its banks in two places. The banks of the canal where the bodies of the Leetmen workers are burried are exposed and bare. The canal flows into the water treatment plant and is the source of drinking water for half of Richland County. Workmen have tried to shore up the banks unsuccessfully so far and are making efforts to force some of the Congaree flood into the water treatment plant.
Those fortunate ones on higher ground who have not been evacuated have been forced to stay home from work and school are boiling their water and and having neighborhood cookouts. The children think it is fall break and are playing with the friends. There is a communal spirit of survival. From all over the state and far away, clean water is being shipped in.
It is not over. The flood waters are moving quickly down to the Low Country. Georgetown is bracing for the flow of the Pee Dee and Black Rivers into the Waccamaw. Wynyah Bay will be flooded.
I've known rivers ancient as the world
and older than the flow of blood in human veins"
Langston Hughes "The Negroe Speaks of Rivers"
Now where I have so often walked between the Columbia Canal and the Congaree, the canal has broken and flowed over its banks in two places. The banks of the canal where the bodies of the Leetmen workers are burried are exposed and bare. The canal flows into the water treatment plant and is the source of drinking water for half of Richland County. Workmen have tried to shore up the banks unsuccessfully so far and are making efforts to force some of the Congaree flood into the water treatment plant.
Those fortunate ones on higher ground who have not been evacuated have been forced to stay home from work and school are boiling their water and and having neighborhood cookouts. The children think it is fall break and are playing with the friends. There is a communal spirit of survival. From all over the state and far away, clean water is being shipped in.
It is not over. The flood waters are moving quickly down to the Low Country. Georgetown is bracing for the flow of the Pee Dee and Black Rivers into the Waccamaw. Wynyah Bay will be flooded.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
October 2,3,4 Columbia, the One Thousand Year Flood
"All the springs of the vast watery deep were broken and he floodgates of the heavens were opened"
Lying in my bed on Friday night, I listened to the pouring down of water, pouring, pouring, pouring, not driven by the wind, coming straight down in torrents. During the day on Saturday, the downpour lessened, but again on Saturday night, the pouring continued, lessening again during the day Sunday but continuing into the night. On Monday afternoon, there was a space of blue sky and on Tuesday, the rain stopped and the sun appeared over the soakened ground. Across the road from my house, the Lawson's Ford roared over its banks and crashed down the spillway.
The rivers of the Upstate and the mountains are carrying the vast flood to meet in Columbia where they have had two feet of rain. I dreamed that the ghost of my sister came to help with the flood that is enveloping Columbia where Michael and John and their families are staying home, boiling their water and under curfew from 6 pm to 6 am. John takes shifts with the Emergency Staff meeting 24 hours a day in their office near the Farmer's Market on 321.
The watersheds of the Edisto, flowing to the South and The Great Pee Dee flowing from the North are carrying the water to the sea and flooding the towns along the way. Manning is underwater. 19 dams have broken.
The Edisto at Givhans Ferry is calculated to crest on Sunday at 16.5 feet.
In recorded history, there has not been a flood like this in South Carolina. The devastation is worse than Hurricane Hugo
Lying in my bed on Friday night, I listened to the pouring down of water, pouring, pouring, pouring, not driven by the wind, coming straight down in torrents. During the day on Saturday, the downpour lessened, but again on Saturday night, the pouring continued, lessening again during the day Sunday but continuing into the night. On Monday afternoon, there was a space of blue sky and on Tuesday, the rain stopped and the sun appeared over the soakened ground. Across the road from my house, the Lawson's Ford roared over its banks and crashed down the spillway.
The rivers of the Upstate and the mountains are carrying the vast flood to meet in Columbia where they have had two feet of rain. I dreamed that the ghost of my sister came to help with the flood that is enveloping Columbia where Michael and John and their families are staying home, boiling their water and under curfew from 6 pm to 6 am. John takes shifts with the Emergency Staff meeting 24 hours a day in their office near the Farmer's Market on 321.
The watersheds of the Edisto, flowing to the South and The Great Pee Dee flowing from the North are carrying the water to the sea and flooding the towns along the way. Manning is underwater. 19 dams have broken.
The Edisto at Givhans Ferry is calculated to crest on Sunday at 16.5 feet.
In recorded history, there has not been a flood like this in South Carolina. The devastation is worse than Hurricane Hugo
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
September 21, 2015, Baker's Creek, the International Day of Peace
From Pauline to Clinton, I am listening to Beethoven's last movement of his 9th symphony, the Ode to Joy.
(It takes about 25 minutes). Leonard Bernstein directed this symphony in Vienna in 1989 after the fall of the Berlin Wall and changed its name to the Ode to Freedom ("I am sure Beethoven would support this", he said). The words were written by Friedrick Schiller and here is an exerpt:
"Joy, joy, moves the wheels
In the Universal time machine
Flowers, it calls forth,
From their buds,
Suns from the firmament,
Sphere, it moves far out in space
Where our telescopes cannot reach
Joyful as his suns are flying..."
It is a call to brotherhood on this day of Peace.
Baker Creek State Park is past McCormick, SC for 4 miles on the Huguenot Hwy or 378. Soon on Oct 1, it will close for the winter.
At the office, I meet a young man moving picnic tables, wearing a brown State Park T shirt. He is the maintenance employee. He tries to find me a trail map and tells me the story of his abcessed tooth which was extracted, his jaw that swelled so badly, that a friend lanced it, how the infection has spread into his ear and throat. I think he should go to Self Regional Hospital in Greenwood and have himself admitted but he thinks he is recovering. He goes to the maintenance shed and brings back a map. Meanwhile I meet a couple from Lexington with their Blue Heeler, who are visiting all the state parks. The man tells me that he is from the Pee Dee area and as a boy rode his bike, sleeping bag on the back, along with his friends into Little Pee Dee State Park and would sleep on the ground, spending the night or the weekend.
The Ranger comes along and tells us that the 10 mile trail is partially unmarked now. He has just bush hogged a long part of it. He tells us that last year he had cleared the trail at Hickory Knob and found that someone had turned the trail marking arrows all around to the wrong directions and he could even see a little trail hikers had made into the woods in the wrong direction. He fixed the arrows. He advises me to take the Nature trail which loops around the camping area. I do take this trail and it is pine needle covered and well marked following Thurmond Lake for a while and then rounding back to the campground.
A man at a trailer tells me he comes here to hunt and fish with his nephew. Down on the lake are two pontoon boats and on the shore a table with 26 fishing rods. The host couple at their trailer tells me they come in March and stay until the end of September. There is good fishing and it is peaceful and quiet.
It is beautiful. There is the sound of crows and blue jays, another chortling bird call I don't recognize.
The lake is the deep deep smooth green of old wine filled bottles.
I meet a man dressed in blue walking with concentration on the hilly roads. "I walk for exercise on the hills and for thinking and stress relief". His name is Eric. Eric from McCormick.
I return up the Huguenot Hwy and stop at Earth Connection Outfitters (864-993-0109 EarthConnectionOutfitters.com) no one is home at the old house festooned with kayaks of pink, blue, purple and orange. I discovered from posters that there is a Savannah Valley Railroad Trail nearby, opened in 2011. (864-378-77032 or 864-852-2835).
At the MACK artisan shop and Katura, fronted by a path of blooming vincas, I am greeted by Belinda Ramsey, coordinator of the fiber workshops at the McCormick Art Council where women are making quilts. She tells me about the Elijah Clark State of Georgia Park, just over the Savannah River Bridge down 378 past Baker's Creek. Katura was the old hotel frequented by railway engineers and staff. Fannie Kale's Country Inn and Restaurant is next door, not doing so well now, she says. Again there is the ubiquitous quilt patch painted over the doorway.
In Greenwood, at the Subway with the deck overlooking the lake, a small, blond pony tailed girl makes me a "Flatizza" while telling me that she has been a vegetarian for the past three years. "I have become anemic, but I love animals". Medics from MUSC have parked their ambulance outside and are waiting in line.
"Try Indian food", I say, "Beans and rice make a whole protein". The medics and I sit on the deck and enjoy the view while eating our lunch.
Time to go home now. I pass the church nearby with the sign that says: 'How Can I Tell If I Hear the Voice of God or Satan?'
In two days, it will be officially Fall.
(It takes about 25 minutes). Leonard Bernstein directed this symphony in Vienna in 1989 after the fall of the Berlin Wall and changed its name to the Ode to Freedom ("I am sure Beethoven would support this", he said). The words were written by Friedrick Schiller and here is an exerpt:
"Joy, joy, moves the wheels
In the Universal time machine
Flowers, it calls forth,
From their buds,
Suns from the firmament,
Sphere, it moves far out in space
Where our telescopes cannot reach
Joyful as his suns are flying..."
It is a call to brotherhood on this day of Peace.
Baker Creek State Park is past McCormick, SC for 4 miles on the Huguenot Hwy or 378. Soon on Oct 1, it will close for the winter.
At the office, I meet a young man moving picnic tables, wearing a brown State Park T shirt. He is the maintenance employee. He tries to find me a trail map and tells me the story of his abcessed tooth which was extracted, his jaw that swelled so badly, that a friend lanced it, how the infection has spread into his ear and throat. I think he should go to Self Regional Hospital in Greenwood and have himself admitted but he thinks he is recovering. He goes to the maintenance shed and brings back a map. Meanwhile I meet a couple from Lexington with their Blue Heeler, who are visiting all the state parks. The man tells me that he is from the Pee Dee area and as a boy rode his bike, sleeping bag on the back, along with his friends into Little Pee Dee State Park and would sleep on the ground, spending the night or the weekend.
The Ranger comes along and tells us that the 10 mile trail is partially unmarked now. He has just bush hogged a long part of it. He tells us that last year he had cleared the trail at Hickory Knob and found that someone had turned the trail marking arrows all around to the wrong directions and he could even see a little trail hikers had made into the woods in the wrong direction. He fixed the arrows. He advises me to take the Nature trail which loops around the camping area. I do take this trail and it is pine needle covered and well marked following Thurmond Lake for a while and then rounding back to the campground.
A man at a trailer tells me he comes here to hunt and fish with his nephew. Down on the lake are two pontoon boats and on the shore a table with 26 fishing rods. The host couple at their trailer tells me they come in March and stay until the end of September. There is good fishing and it is peaceful and quiet.
It is beautiful. There is the sound of crows and blue jays, another chortling bird call I don't recognize.
The lake is the deep deep smooth green of old wine filled bottles.
I meet a man dressed in blue walking with concentration on the hilly roads. "I walk for exercise on the hills and for thinking and stress relief". His name is Eric. Eric from McCormick.
I return up the Huguenot Hwy and stop at Earth Connection Outfitters (864-993-0109 EarthConnectionOutfitters.com) no one is home at the old house festooned with kayaks of pink, blue, purple and orange. I discovered from posters that there is a Savannah Valley Railroad Trail nearby, opened in 2011. (864-378-77032 or 864-852-2835).
At the MACK artisan shop and Katura, fronted by a path of blooming vincas, I am greeted by Belinda Ramsey, coordinator of the fiber workshops at the McCormick Art Council where women are making quilts. She tells me about the Elijah Clark State of Georgia Park, just over the Savannah River Bridge down 378 past Baker's Creek. Katura was the old hotel frequented by railway engineers and staff. Fannie Kale's Country Inn and Restaurant is next door, not doing so well now, she says. Again there is the ubiquitous quilt patch painted over the doorway.
In Greenwood, at the Subway with the deck overlooking the lake, a small, blond pony tailed girl makes me a "Flatizza" while telling me that she has been a vegetarian for the past three years. "I have become anemic, but I love animals". Medics from MUSC have parked their ambulance outside and are waiting in line.
"Try Indian food", I say, "Beans and rice make a whole protein". The medics and I sit on the deck and enjoy the view while eating our lunch.
Time to go home now. I pass the church nearby with the sign that says: 'How Can I Tell If I Hear the Voice of God or Satan?'
In two days, it will be officially Fall.
September 19, 2015 On the Edge of the Pisgah Forest
It is the last weekend of summer, the last gasp of heat, of swimming in pools and ponds, of watermelons and ripe tomatoes, of sitting on porches in the dark listening to the chorus of cicadas, crickets and frogs. I am going to a log cabin overlooking Rocky Creek, that flows into the Toe River in Yancey County North Carolina. It is not so far up I-26 East, joining Hwys 19 and 23 to Burnsville, the county seat, passing by a billboard for Zen Tubing, "Find Your Inner Tube", past fields of cosmos and zinias now fading, past Mars Hill ( where my grandfather went to college) and Bald Creek. I am in the unreal mountains, blue and green and astonishing as they stand across the sky. There is an exit for Mount Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi, where in the Spring, bicylists ride their bikes from Spartanburg in South Carolina to the top in the Assault on Mt Mitchell.
In Burnsville, I find restrooms beside the visitor center just off the square where there are historic buildings, antique and gift shops,a coffee shop "Java", the Nu Wray old hotel still in business with a restaurant, the Monkey Business Toy Store, the Menagerie, down the street, Stonefly Outfitters.
There are now trees turning yellow and red among the evergreens.
Highway 19 meets 80 South in the Micaville Loop. Now the side roads are:
Bear Wallow, Gold Knob, Boone Hill, Grizzly Bear, Bowditch Bottom, Mudslinger, Roaring Spout, Morning Glory, Locust Creek, Moccasin Flower, 7 Mile Ridge, Everlasting, Wild Cherry, Goodtimes, Passional, Powderhorn, Stillhouse and Hardscrabble, Lookout Rd and Heavenly View. I am on the Quilt Trail, displaying traditional quilt squares on the sides of buildings, houses and barns.
At Blivens Farms, I buy grits from Boonville, Bear Berry Jam (blueberries and blackberries) and Frog Jam (figs, raspberries, orange and ginger), a big red mountain tomato and a rustic bark bird feeder.
Soon I have traversed windey roads until I reach the beautiful log cabin perched over Rocky Creek. Inside there is every modern convenience. Ken, the owner, built this cabin himself. There is an antique iron stove and a modern gas stove, heat, stained glass windows, a shower with a mosaic tile wall patterned with a cabin in the mountains. There are decks surrounded with mountain laurel and rhodendron. There is even a little cabin set apart as a reading library.
We set out for a swinging bridge over the Toe River, where looking down, we see trout swimming among the rocks. We hike up to a waterfall which splashes down over level after level of rocky stairs. We see many small dark gray juncos flitting through the trees and bushes.
At night, the water stops running in the faucets, but we have buckets to flush toilets with water from the creek and bottled water to drink and brush our teeth.
We are packing up when a neighbor walks by with his stick. He says for years, he has spent the winter in Florida and the Spring, Summer and Fall here in his house on the Creek.
"This year," he says, "I am going to try to make it through the winter here."
In Burnsville, I find restrooms beside the visitor center just off the square where there are historic buildings, antique and gift shops,a coffee shop "Java", the Nu Wray old hotel still in business with a restaurant, the Monkey Business Toy Store, the Menagerie, down the street, Stonefly Outfitters.
There are now trees turning yellow and red among the evergreens.
Highway 19 meets 80 South in the Micaville Loop. Now the side roads are:
Bear Wallow, Gold Knob, Boone Hill, Grizzly Bear, Bowditch Bottom, Mudslinger, Roaring Spout, Morning Glory, Locust Creek, Moccasin Flower, 7 Mile Ridge, Everlasting, Wild Cherry, Goodtimes, Passional, Powderhorn, Stillhouse and Hardscrabble, Lookout Rd and Heavenly View. I am on the Quilt Trail, displaying traditional quilt squares on the sides of buildings, houses and barns.
At Blivens Farms, I buy grits from Boonville, Bear Berry Jam (blueberries and blackberries) and Frog Jam (figs, raspberries, orange and ginger), a big red mountain tomato and a rustic bark bird feeder.
Soon I have traversed windey roads until I reach the beautiful log cabin perched over Rocky Creek. Inside there is every modern convenience. Ken, the owner, built this cabin himself. There is an antique iron stove and a modern gas stove, heat, stained glass windows, a shower with a mosaic tile wall patterned with a cabin in the mountains. There are decks surrounded with mountain laurel and rhodendron. There is even a little cabin set apart as a reading library.
We set out for a swinging bridge over the Toe River, where looking down, we see trout swimming among the rocks. We hike up to a waterfall which splashes down over level after level of rocky stairs. We see many small dark gray juncos flitting through the trees and bushes.
At night, the water stops running in the faucets, but we have buckets to flush toilets with water from the creek and bottled water to drink and brush our teeth.
We are packing up when a neighbor walks by with his stick. He says for years, he has spent the winter in Florida and the Spring, Summer and Fall here in his house on the Creek.
"This year," he says, "I am going to try to make it through the winter here."
Sunday, September 13, 2015
September 12, 2015 Lake George Warren: Apparitions from A Walk for Your Life
Lake George Warren State Park is diagonally all the way across the state of South Carolina and nearly to Savannah. It is a fine, cool dawn with a low sky like a folded white blanket, as if a white sky were painted by water color pushing the brush along the seams with a transparent gray paint.
I take Hwy 56 past the South Carolina School for the Deaf and Blind where horses in a green pasture behind a white fence are munching their breakfast.
I get gas at Pauline General Store ($1.79.9 the cheapest in 11 years). There are porch rockers with little cypress knee tables between them. Farmers are going in and out with steaming cups of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other shaking off sleep from their eyes. Inside is a tub filled with iced soft drinks, tables, a bar and grill with a variety of homemade warm flakey biscuits filled with sausage, ham, eggs, cheese and bacon. For me, it's a sausage with grape jelly which I eat in the car.
Along the way, the deep green trees stand silently with the expectation of the fall to come, an inner knowing of the beginning of the autumnal equinox to be, that will change them.
Near Bobo's Taxidermy, there is a fluffy tailed fox in the road which vanishes into the bushes. Beside the road there is yellow mullen, black eyed susans, wild yellow indigo. On the radio a haunting voice is singing Ave Maria from the 9-11 Memorial of last night in New York.
I pass by Belfast Plantation in Newberry County and just afterwards the Little River-Dominick Presbyterian Church established in 1761. The building is red brick with blue stained glass windows. Little River flows nearby.
I get Hwy 39 at Chapells where the Fire and Rescue is having a Barbeque today, drive over the Saluda, past the Centro Cristiano Pentecostes Vida Abundante Church (pastor: Jose Gonzales) in Saluda, listening to country music on the radio:
"He's a Heartache Waiting to Happen"
I am on the Uncle Bill Eargle Memorial Highway. A Farm has Brahmins. Tall purple ironweed grows on the side of mowed down corn fields. The morning glories everywhere are pink. In the Upstate, they are usually purple, rose and sky blue. At Ridge Springs the Derrick John Deere Store has dozens of bright shining green tractors. There is a sidewalk sale today in town. There are antique stores, The Nut House pecan store, Dixie Belle Peaches. This and the next towns are set in pecan groves, cotton fields and peach orchards. Over I-20 I am on the Old Ninety Six Indian Trail. There is the New Holland Memonite Church and I am going through Salley, "Home of the Chitlin Strut". After Springfield there are four or five bridges; the middle one goes over the South Fork of the Edisto River.
I hear on the radio, that people were walking on the Haje to Mecca when a crane collapsed, killing many.
On the Camino de Santiago, a young American woman is missing from her pilgrimage, leaving behind her belongings in a back pack. Across Europe, thousands of refuges are walking, floating on rubber rafts, running, jumping on trains, suffocating in trucks, drowning, searching for freedom for themselves and a future for their children, escaping from wars in the Middle East and North Africa.
On the radio, Judy Collins is singing the Leonard Cohen "Hallelujah".
I have finally come to Denmark where the Nelson's have the best bakery in South Carolinna, maybe in the world and I buy donuts which melt in your mouth. Besides this world class Memonite bakery, Denmark has the Dane Theater converted to a Cultural Center and Voorhis College and Denmark Tech.
Soon, I think I lose Hwy 39 and stop at Bulldog Cycles where they are having an open house. I ask directions from a group of tatooed, black leather vested senior citizens who kindly show me the way and soon past Gifford, turning onto Hwy 363, I find Warren Lake and the entrance to the State Park.
The Williams Family, wearing bright red Tee shirts which declare "Family is Everything" and "Williams", are having a cookout and even putting up a big inflated bouncy house on the athletic field for the kids.
Coming up from the children's play ground and leaving the Nature Trail which goes down near the lake, is a group of people, four young men and two women, who startle me by looking like apparitions of the Syrian and Iranian refugees who are fleeing into Europe. One woman wears a long traditional subtlely flowered dress with yazma head scarf. But they are smiling and well fed. They give me directions to both trails. They are from Lebanon and will soon be U.S. citizens.
I take first the little Nature trail, only .3 mile and then the Fit Trail. All along the way, there are exercise stations-- "A good walk ruined" as Mark Twain once said of the sport of golf.
Then I take 1.5 mile trail which is extremely well kept and marked. Growing there are pink Butterfly Pea vines with little flowers and floating through the forest air is a beautiful brown butterfly (could this be the Wild Indigo Dusky Wing?). On a pond float Fragrant White Water Lillies ( Nymphaea adorata).
Going home, I take 321 up to Columbia. On the way in the crossroads of Neeses is the gargantuan Piggly Wiggly, which has a pharmacy, a florist and even a large restaurant inside.
Nearing home, there is a swath of blue peaking out over gigantic cumulus clouds piled on the horizon, the kind of clouds that have a silver lining, at least that is the way I see them.
I take Hwy 56 past the South Carolina School for the Deaf and Blind where horses in a green pasture behind a white fence are munching their breakfast.
I get gas at Pauline General Store ($1.79.9 the cheapest in 11 years). There are porch rockers with little cypress knee tables between them. Farmers are going in and out with steaming cups of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other shaking off sleep from their eyes. Inside is a tub filled with iced soft drinks, tables, a bar and grill with a variety of homemade warm flakey biscuits filled with sausage, ham, eggs, cheese and bacon. For me, it's a sausage with grape jelly which I eat in the car.
Along the way, the deep green trees stand silently with the expectation of the fall to come, an inner knowing of the beginning of the autumnal equinox to be, that will change them.
Near Bobo's Taxidermy, there is a fluffy tailed fox in the road which vanishes into the bushes. Beside the road there is yellow mullen, black eyed susans, wild yellow indigo. On the radio a haunting voice is singing Ave Maria from the 9-11 Memorial of last night in New York.
I pass by Belfast Plantation in Newberry County and just afterwards the Little River-Dominick Presbyterian Church established in 1761. The building is red brick with blue stained glass windows. Little River flows nearby.
I get Hwy 39 at Chapells where the Fire and Rescue is having a Barbeque today, drive over the Saluda, past the Centro Cristiano Pentecostes Vida Abundante Church (pastor: Jose Gonzales) in Saluda, listening to country music on the radio:
"He's a Heartache Waiting to Happen"
I am on the Uncle Bill Eargle Memorial Highway. A Farm has Brahmins. Tall purple ironweed grows on the side of mowed down corn fields. The morning glories everywhere are pink. In the Upstate, they are usually purple, rose and sky blue. At Ridge Springs the Derrick John Deere Store has dozens of bright shining green tractors. There is a sidewalk sale today in town. There are antique stores, The Nut House pecan store, Dixie Belle Peaches. This and the next towns are set in pecan groves, cotton fields and peach orchards. Over I-20 I am on the Old Ninety Six Indian Trail. There is the New Holland Memonite Church and I am going through Salley, "Home of the Chitlin Strut". After Springfield there are four or five bridges; the middle one goes over the South Fork of the Edisto River.
I hear on the radio, that people were walking on the Haje to Mecca when a crane collapsed, killing many.
On the Camino de Santiago, a young American woman is missing from her pilgrimage, leaving behind her belongings in a back pack. Across Europe, thousands of refuges are walking, floating on rubber rafts, running, jumping on trains, suffocating in trucks, drowning, searching for freedom for themselves and a future for their children, escaping from wars in the Middle East and North Africa.
On the radio, Judy Collins is singing the Leonard Cohen "Hallelujah".
I have finally come to Denmark where the Nelson's have the best bakery in South Carolinna, maybe in the world and I buy donuts which melt in your mouth. Besides this world class Memonite bakery, Denmark has the Dane Theater converted to a Cultural Center and Voorhis College and Denmark Tech.
Soon, I think I lose Hwy 39 and stop at Bulldog Cycles where they are having an open house. I ask directions from a group of tatooed, black leather vested senior citizens who kindly show me the way and soon past Gifford, turning onto Hwy 363, I find Warren Lake and the entrance to the State Park.
The Williams Family, wearing bright red Tee shirts which declare "Family is Everything" and "Williams", are having a cookout and even putting up a big inflated bouncy house on the athletic field for the kids.
Coming up from the children's play ground and leaving the Nature Trail which goes down near the lake, is a group of people, four young men and two women, who startle me by looking like apparitions of the Syrian and Iranian refugees who are fleeing into Europe. One woman wears a long traditional subtlely flowered dress with yazma head scarf. But they are smiling and well fed. They give me directions to both trails. They are from Lebanon and will soon be U.S. citizens.
I take first the little Nature trail, only .3 mile and then the Fit Trail. All along the way, there are exercise stations-- "A good walk ruined" as Mark Twain once said of the sport of golf.
Then I take 1.5 mile trail which is extremely well kept and marked. Growing there are pink Butterfly Pea vines with little flowers and floating through the forest air is a beautiful brown butterfly (could this be the Wild Indigo Dusky Wing?). On a pond float Fragrant White Water Lillies ( Nymphaea adorata).
Going home, I take 321 up to Columbia. On the way in the crossroads of Neeses is the gargantuan Piggly Wiggly, which has a pharmacy, a florist and even a large restaurant inside.
Nearing home, there is a swath of blue peaking out over gigantic cumulus clouds piled on the horizon, the kind of clouds that have a silver lining, at least that is the way I see them.
Monday, September 7, 2015
September 6, 2015 Little Pee Dee State Park, Great White Herons
I slept in my little tent where looking up I could see the sliver of a moon through the tops of tall pine trees.
The woods and lake were breathing their musical notes in and out in a lullaby. Once, I heard a commotion among water fowls, but near dawn, there was a silence, warm, full of promise and comforting.
Yesterday evening I took the Beaver Pond Nature Trail which shoots off the camping area for one and a half miles. It is a white sand, pine needle covered trail through pines and oaks full of the unworldly black butterflies with blue markings (known as Limenitis Arthemis Astyana) drifting towards my outstretched hands and away. Suddenly, almost without warning I came upon the pond of high grasses and cat tails, alive with dozens of Great White Herons, wading, perching, bursting and careening through the air, as startled as I was to be an uninvited guest at their roosting and fishing place. Unaware, I had stumbled through that invisible barrier into another world inhabited by other beings. With reverence, I stepped as quietly as I knew how around the loop and back through the butterfly woods.
This morning at 5:00 am, I awoke to the strong aroma of coffee brewing, the orange flame of a camp fire not far away. I made tea and sipped it watching the dawn come. Showered and dressed I walked down to Lake Norton where the day before I had seen mallards and an anhinga with its wings wide spread on a little island. A young girl told me that she thought it was a fake bird. This morning, I could see many many white dots of herons far down the lake. Yellow blooms of lilies float on the dark black waters.
It was time to leave and I took another course home, first down hwy 57 to the crossroad of "Fork" where I spotted a huge fat snake curled on the side of the road, perhaps a copperhead or even a rattle snake, I did not stop to check it out but turned unto Hwy 41 to Marion. I have noticed that in Dillon and Marlboro counties, the garbage cans are Susan B. Koman pink.
In Marion, there were hand wavers up already, sitting in lawn chairs passing the time, greeting strangers driving by as well as friends passing. Here there is poverty, houses grown over with bushes, side walks fringed with tall grasses. It reminds me of how my town was growing up, how I remember walking barefoot on those grassy sidewalks in the silent summer heat. I turned onto Hwy 76 for Florence, past billboards for "Yams, Real Greens, Blackeye Peas, Boiled P-nuts and Beer on Sunday", soul food, but the food of the European Americans as well as the African Americans, who have shared much.
I stopped at a BP station which had a snack and breakfast-lunch bar with tables, a pool room with 2 pool tables and three, yes three, Ladies' Restrooms. This gas station has a porch with rocking chairs.
In Florence, there is prosperity, the Francis Marion College now listed in USA News and World Report as a best American College. There is McLeod Regional Hospital.
I cross under I-95 and head for Darlington. Now the land is softly rolling. Unbeknownst to me, today is the day of the Southern 500 at the Darlington Motor Speedway. I am driving behind the Joe Gibbs Racing Van.
Banners proclaim "Welcome Race Car Fans". I drive right past the speedway where thousands of those fans, dressed for the sunny day are parked and tail gating; one young couple is walking 6 hunting dogs on the side walk. People are hawking parking places, flags, mugs, hats, you name it, it is here. There is a festive spirit for the race which has not started yet.
My last stop toward McBee (pronounced Mackby with the emphasis on Mack) is the McLeod Farms Store. Huge Mrs. Huff's orange and pink Lantana along the side of the building, rocking chairs on the porch. Inside are peaches in season, vegetables, an ice cream parlor and peach cider, apple cider, corn relish, peach butter, apple butter, canned peaches, pickled peaches, peach almond bread, apple almond bread, peach cobbler with and without ice cream, anything your heart desires in the manner of peaches. I buy some fresh peaches.
Now a back road, we came this way on the driving to the beach when I was a child. We would stop, I suppose just here to buy peaches at a peach stand. At home, my mother would buy a bushel of peaches from Springs' stand and would be horrified when my father's mother (from Pennsylvania by way of Ireland) would stew the peaches. Somehow, our family could put away a bushel of ripe peaches in cobblers, pies and sliced on vanilla ice cream, made into homemade ice cream and on corn flakes with milk.
I notice that in McBee, the name on the water tower is Alligator Water. There are other businesses with the name alligator.
I am tired now of driving and hardly notice the yards with suspended gourd bird houses for purple martins,
motorcycles in the driveways, campers in the backyards, rockers on the porches, Chinaberry trees in the yards. I pass Papa John's Christmas Tree Farm, the brick house which looks uninhabited, the grass cut, the broken back yard cyclone fence which belonged to my mother's sister, Trude (married to Papa John). And there on the left is the place where my mother's old homeplace had once been before it burned, now just a small cottage where someone else lives. There had once been a sandy drive in the back where we played hop scotch, a privet hedge separating the barnyard of chickens, pigs, hunting dogs, smokehouse and giant walnut trees that had been cut down and hauled away by a crook who scammed my grandmother out of them.
In the Upstate, along the road, sweet gum, poplars and pecan trees have their first yellow leaves.
By late afternoon, I am back home again, feeding the cat and the dog and unloading the car. My glimpse into the other world of the Great White Herons is behind me, but will stay with me always.
The woods and lake were breathing their musical notes in and out in a lullaby. Once, I heard a commotion among water fowls, but near dawn, there was a silence, warm, full of promise and comforting.
Yesterday evening I took the Beaver Pond Nature Trail which shoots off the camping area for one and a half miles. It is a white sand, pine needle covered trail through pines and oaks full of the unworldly black butterflies with blue markings (known as Limenitis Arthemis Astyana) drifting towards my outstretched hands and away. Suddenly, almost without warning I came upon the pond of high grasses and cat tails, alive with dozens of Great White Herons, wading, perching, bursting and careening through the air, as startled as I was to be an uninvited guest at their roosting and fishing place. Unaware, I had stumbled through that invisible barrier into another world inhabited by other beings. With reverence, I stepped as quietly as I knew how around the loop and back through the butterfly woods.
This morning at 5:00 am, I awoke to the strong aroma of coffee brewing, the orange flame of a camp fire not far away. I made tea and sipped it watching the dawn come. Showered and dressed I walked down to Lake Norton where the day before I had seen mallards and an anhinga with its wings wide spread on a little island. A young girl told me that she thought it was a fake bird. This morning, I could see many many white dots of herons far down the lake. Yellow blooms of lilies float on the dark black waters.
It was time to leave and I took another course home, first down hwy 57 to the crossroad of "Fork" where I spotted a huge fat snake curled on the side of the road, perhaps a copperhead or even a rattle snake, I did not stop to check it out but turned unto Hwy 41 to Marion. I have noticed that in Dillon and Marlboro counties, the garbage cans are Susan B. Koman pink.
In Marion, there were hand wavers up already, sitting in lawn chairs passing the time, greeting strangers driving by as well as friends passing. Here there is poverty, houses grown over with bushes, side walks fringed with tall grasses. It reminds me of how my town was growing up, how I remember walking barefoot on those grassy sidewalks in the silent summer heat. I turned onto Hwy 76 for Florence, past billboards for "Yams, Real Greens, Blackeye Peas, Boiled P-nuts and Beer on Sunday", soul food, but the food of the European Americans as well as the African Americans, who have shared much.
I stopped at a BP station which had a snack and breakfast-lunch bar with tables, a pool room with 2 pool tables and three, yes three, Ladies' Restrooms. This gas station has a porch with rocking chairs.
In Florence, there is prosperity, the Francis Marion College now listed in USA News and World Report as a best American College. There is McLeod Regional Hospital.
I cross under I-95 and head for Darlington. Now the land is softly rolling. Unbeknownst to me, today is the day of the Southern 500 at the Darlington Motor Speedway. I am driving behind the Joe Gibbs Racing Van.
Banners proclaim "Welcome Race Car Fans". I drive right past the speedway where thousands of those fans, dressed for the sunny day are parked and tail gating; one young couple is walking 6 hunting dogs on the side walk. People are hawking parking places, flags, mugs, hats, you name it, it is here. There is a festive spirit for the race which has not started yet.
My last stop toward McBee (pronounced Mackby with the emphasis on Mack) is the McLeod Farms Store. Huge Mrs. Huff's orange and pink Lantana along the side of the building, rocking chairs on the porch. Inside are peaches in season, vegetables, an ice cream parlor and peach cider, apple cider, corn relish, peach butter, apple butter, canned peaches, pickled peaches, peach almond bread, apple almond bread, peach cobbler with and without ice cream, anything your heart desires in the manner of peaches. I buy some fresh peaches.
Now a back road, we came this way on the driving to the beach when I was a child. We would stop, I suppose just here to buy peaches at a peach stand. At home, my mother would buy a bushel of peaches from Springs' stand and would be horrified when my father's mother (from Pennsylvania by way of Ireland) would stew the peaches. Somehow, our family could put away a bushel of ripe peaches in cobblers, pies and sliced on vanilla ice cream, made into homemade ice cream and on corn flakes with milk.
I notice that in McBee, the name on the water tower is Alligator Water. There are other businesses with the name alligator.
I am tired now of driving and hardly notice the yards with suspended gourd bird houses for purple martins,
motorcycles in the driveways, campers in the backyards, rockers on the porches, Chinaberry trees in the yards. I pass Papa John's Christmas Tree Farm, the brick house which looks uninhabited, the grass cut, the broken back yard cyclone fence which belonged to my mother's sister, Trude (married to Papa John). And there on the left is the place where my mother's old homeplace had once been before it burned, now just a small cottage where someone else lives. There had once been a sandy drive in the back where we played hop scotch, a privet hedge separating the barnyard of chickens, pigs, hunting dogs, smokehouse and giant walnut trees that had been cut down and hauled away by a crook who scammed my grandmother out of them.
In the Upstate, along the road, sweet gum, poplars and pecan trees have their first yellow leaves.
By late afternoon, I am back home again, feeding the cat and the dog and unloading the car. My glimpse into the other world of the Great White Herons is behind me, but will stay with me always.
September 5, 2015 H. Cooper Black Memorial Field Trial:Cruising Hwy 9
According to Chris Waddell, Ranger, H. Cooper Black is a 7,000 acre wildlife preserve with 50 miles of dirt roads, dedicated to horses and hunting dog field trials.
Highway 9 crosses South Carolina from the mountains above Spartanburg and goes all the way across the top of the state to Little River, Cherry Grove and Ocean Drive (home of the Shag) beaches. I cross the Broad River at Lockhart, through Chester , then crossing the wide Catawba to Lancaster where there is an odd billboard warning:
"Don't Let E-Coli Ruin Your Dinner Party"
Through Tradesville and over Lynches River into Chesterfield county and past Dudley Dorights General Store.
In Pageland there are lovely red roses blooming along the old main streets of town. Twenty years ago, as a volunteer, I drove a frail patient to a nursing home on the skirts of town here where posted at the door was a sign proclaiming "Quarantine".
" Never mind that", the white coated doctor said and I left the man there, to worry about it the rest of my life, including today.
Along the road through tiny hamlets are Evans Farm Produce, Rick's Produce, Grandma's Produce and at Mt Croghan in the road in front of Polecat BBQ lies a smashed furry red and black dead animal looking much like a "Polecat" (an ill smelling member of the weasel family, a type of skunk, or a vile member of the human family who acts like a polecat). In Ruby, Jewel City Produce is closed.
From Cheraw (home of the Braves), I take hwy 1, then left on Society Hill Rd and right onto H. Cooper Black Rd and left on Sporting Dog Trail. After a few miles on a gravel road, I come to stables, rest rooms, a Club House and a dozen white shiney mobile home/horse trailers as big as Trailways buses, parked under some shade trees. These huge vehicles cost from $40,000 up to untold fortunes.
There are really no hiking trails here. There are horseback riding trails, but Christ Waddell suggests I take a stroll around Goose Pond (one of three ponds here). I take a pleasant 1.5 mile walk around the little pond covered with water lilies, the large blooms now brown. At first I am following two pinto horses, their long tails swinging, carrying two riders who move off into the distance over meadows and into pine forests. No one else is here except me, a little white heron in the top of a tree, lots of orange and black fritillaries and thousands of grass hoppers flying through the air.
The field dog trials begin in the fall and continue until Christmas, says Chris Waddell.
Leaving, I pass through the sweetly named village of Society Hill, take Hwy15/401 across The Great Pee Dee River and back onto Hwy 9.
Here is the town of Clio, established 1836, where on Main St the fading letters high up on an old brick building proclaim: " Edens Opera House", now divided into an auto parts store and a Refuge of Deliverance mission.
Now, the land is changing into lush flat fields of cotton or soy beans and in the distance houses and barns banked against forests of dark green trees. I drive on through Minturn and Little Rock. A sign says:
" I love you
I forgive you
Come to supper"
Here is the huge looming Perdue Dillon Plant and then the even huger more looming Rocket City 2 Fireworks, it's red and yellow facade devastating the view of the town of Dillon. Highway I-95 crosses here, just over the border from North Carolina. A little north is the famous South of the Border group of Souvenir Junk shops and restaurants. I did not go there, but I have been there before when John was on his way to Kitty Hawk to run a marathon. Colleen, Michael , the dog, Finn, and I accompanied him. Not today.
I am on my way to Little Pee Dee State Park, turning rt on Hwy 57 for 11 miles, then left on Road 22 (State Park Rd) and across two bridges over the black waters of the Little Pee Dee River, then right into the Park, where I pitch my tent for the night.
Highway 9 crosses South Carolina from the mountains above Spartanburg and goes all the way across the top of the state to Little River, Cherry Grove and Ocean Drive (home of the Shag) beaches. I cross the Broad River at Lockhart, through Chester , then crossing the wide Catawba to Lancaster where there is an odd billboard warning:
"Don't Let E-Coli Ruin Your Dinner Party"
Through Tradesville and over Lynches River into Chesterfield county and past Dudley Dorights General Store.
In Pageland there are lovely red roses blooming along the old main streets of town. Twenty years ago, as a volunteer, I drove a frail patient to a nursing home on the skirts of town here where posted at the door was a sign proclaiming "Quarantine".
" Never mind that", the white coated doctor said and I left the man there, to worry about it the rest of my life, including today.
Along the road through tiny hamlets are Evans Farm Produce, Rick's Produce, Grandma's Produce and at Mt Croghan in the road in front of Polecat BBQ lies a smashed furry red and black dead animal looking much like a "Polecat" (an ill smelling member of the weasel family, a type of skunk, or a vile member of the human family who acts like a polecat). In Ruby, Jewel City Produce is closed.
From Cheraw (home of the Braves), I take hwy 1, then left on Society Hill Rd and right onto H. Cooper Black Rd and left on Sporting Dog Trail. After a few miles on a gravel road, I come to stables, rest rooms, a Club House and a dozen white shiney mobile home/horse trailers as big as Trailways buses, parked under some shade trees. These huge vehicles cost from $40,000 up to untold fortunes.
There are really no hiking trails here. There are horseback riding trails, but Christ Waddell suggests I take a stroll around Goose Pond (one of three ponds here). I take a pleasant 1.5 mile walk around the little pond covered with water lilies, the large blooms now brown. At first I am following two pinto horses, their long tails swinging, carrying two riders who move off into the distance over meadows and into pine forests. No one else is here except me, a little white heron in the top of a tree, lots of orange and black fritillaries and thousands of grass hoppers flying through the air.
The field dog trials begin in the fall and continue until Christmas, says Chris Waddell.
Leaving, I pass through the sweetly named village of Society Hill, take Hwy15/401 across The Great Pee Dee River and back onto Hwy 9.
Here is the town of Clio, established 1836, where on Main St the fading letters high up on an old brick building proclaim: " Edens Opera House", now divided into an auto parts store and a Refuge of Deliverance mission.
Now, the land is changing into lush flat fields of cotton or soy beans and in the distance houses and barns banked against forests of dark green trees. I drive on through Minturn and Little Rock. A sign says:
" I love you
I forgive you
Come to supper"
Here is the huge looming Perdue Dillon Plant and then the even huger more looming Rocket City 2 Fireworks, it's red and yellow facade devastating the view of the town of Dillon. Highway I-95 crosses here, just over the border from North Carolina. A little north is the famous South of the Border group of Souvenir Junk shops and restaurants. I did not go there, but I have been there before when John was on his way to Kitty Hawk to run a marathon. Colleen, Michael , the dog, Finn, and I accompanied him. Not today.
I am on my way to Little Pee Dee State Park, turning rt on Hwy 57 for 11 miles, then left on Road 22 (State Park Rd) and across two bridges over the black waters of the Little Pee Dee River, then right into the Park, where I pitch my tent for the night.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
August 22, 2015 The Cottonwood Trail, In the Time of Butterflies
It is the time of fullness, the time of harvest; the boardwalk is being overcome with green branches and vines trailing over it. The poison ivy is dark green and verdant, dripping urushiol on unsuspecting hikers and the coats of dogs. Again, after rains, the water is high. The gnats and mosquitoes are out in droves. There is a field of vibrant zinnias along the way, deep pinks, brilliant oranges and reds, soft yellows and even the occasional white bloom. On a path through tall bushes and brambles, there are pink Scottish thistles growing over ten feet in height. Near the wetlands are Dutchman's britches, the white massed blooms of Confederate Jasmine (Virgin's Bower), yellow woodland sunflowers, a tiny red flower on a vine, bunches of small purple blossoms on long stems hanging over the boardwalk. In a field of brown grasses, tiny white spiders have made thousands of pot holder sized delicate webs, glistening, ghostly in the morning dew.
Reaching the creek, I scare up a group of deer drinking water on the near side. They plunge, splashing into the water and up the far bank into the woods. Where I found the snake skin, a bridge has fallen off the muddy bank, but right away, someone has shored up the path.
At home, in my yard, I can hardly step for the countless hoppy toads that scatter along the ground before me.
And there at my back porch, the butterfly bush is full of yellow swallow tailed winged creatures, opening and closing their wings, mysteriously flittering into life and out again. Butterfly, in Greek, psyche, the word also for soul.
"He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul"
The 23rd psalm, The Holy Bible
* The yellow tiger swallow tailed butterfly is the state butterfly of South Carolina.
Reaching the creek, I scare up a group of deer drinking water on the near side. They plunge, splashing into the water and up the far bank into the woods. Where I found the snake skin, a bridge has fallen off the muddy bank, but right away, someone has shored up the path.
At home, in my yard, I can hardly step for the countless hoppy toads that scatter along the ground before me.
And there at my back porch, the butterfly bush is full of yellow swallow tailed winged creatures, opening and closing their wings, mysteriously flittering into life and out again. Butterfly, in Greek, psyche, the word also for soul.
"He leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul"
The 23rd psalm, The Holy Bible
* The yellow tiger swallow tailed butterfly is the state butterfly of South Carolina.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
August 17, 2015 Rivers Bridge State Park "Dream of Battlefields No more"
From my home in the Upstate, along the escarpment of the Blue Ridge, which you can see from a good day, blue and gray undulating bands holding up the sky, it was a round trip of 524 miles down to Erhardt in Bamburg County. This is counting wrong turns in Aiken in a down pour and my accidental trip to the back entrance to the Savannah River Site (known in gallows humor by the locals as the "bomb plant") where I was met by a highly armed man in body armor. He was not glad to see me, but showed me on my map where I made my mistake in Barnwell by turning right instead of left on Hwy 64, the low country highway.
I had begun my trip early; everywhere the yellow school buses breaking my heart, scrubbed, blank faced children standing by the road with their backpacks under a buttermilk sky.
I passed through Kirksey after Greenwood with a pasture of white goats and an old store with a big fat black and white cat curled asleep on a red porch swing.
I drove down through historic Edgefield, "home to 10 governors--
Edgefield has had more dashing brilliant romantic firgues, statesmen, orators, soldiers,, adventurers and daredevils than any other county of South Carolina, if not of any rural county of American" W.W. Bull,
"The State that Forgot" this on the side of a building, near the square. It is also the home to the National Wild Turkey Federation (see the giant turkeys painted by artists all over town). One turkey has has an expanse of pottery painted on its wing, attesting to the famous Edgefield Pottery Works where the enslaved potter "Dave" created his artful jugs.
Passing under I-20 before Aiken, Hwy 19 becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. Within the lovely still lively downtown, Hwy 19 becomes Whiskey Road, down to New Ellerton. 278 to Barnwell and 64 to Rivers Bridge. Just before the park, I pass a large ornate gate at a field proclaiming: "Stuck Kin Our Swamp"
.
Here it is the swamp of the two branched Salkehatchie river (a tributary of the Combahee). And here at the end of the Civil War on February 2 and 3, 1865, at the crossing called Rivers Bridge, Confederate troops vainly tried to delay Sherman's march up country to burn Columbia.
At the Ranger Station, I meet John White, Ranger and Archaeologist, who is on light duty recovering from knee surgery and takes the time to give me what he calls the "very short history of the park and battle", which did set the stage for a end of the war, the burning of Columbia and Sherman's march into Virginia to meet Lee.
He draws me a map of the Memorial and the Battlefield so that I can take the road down to the Salkehatchie River and Swamp. At the Memorial, rangers and the State Archaeologist are mapping the ground in anticipation of making either penetrating ground radar or ground resistance testing to search for the remains of the unknown buried dead soldiers. 10 years after the battle, residents of the community had disinterred the remains of many and placed them in a single grave just here where local women later placed a large general headstone with the words"
Soldiers rest, your warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battlefields no more,
Days of danger, nights of wakeing."
My friend from nearby Hampton tells of attending the Spring Memorial every Spring while growing up.
The trail to the battleground is a mile out and another back, an easy walk on white sand and pine needles. You must cross a road and come to the battlefield, pass by to the swamp where Union soldiers froze in the rain in the dead of winter. There is a great blue heron and some turtles, cypress and cypress knees. No copperheads or water moccasins about which John White warned me. Even so, I carried a stick.
I travel under black clouds, occasionally letting down heavy rain. On Whiskey Rd in Aiken, I pass statues of horses painted by artists. This is horse country, in fact. On the far side of town, I pass --
Off Da Chain Seafood and Mo, which is unfortunately closed and boarded up and the the Booyah Bar and Grill which appears to still be in business.
Much thanks to John White, to whom I am indebted for enlightenment in history and for helping me get back to Highway 64 (without going to the bomb plant) and home again before dark.
I had begun my trip early; everywhere the yellow school buses breaking my heart, scrubbed, blank faced children standing by the road with their backpacks under a buttermilk sky.
I passed through Kirksey after Greenwood with a pasture of white goats and an old store with a big fat black and white cat curled asleep on a red porch swing.
I drove down through historic Edgefield, "home to 10 governors--
Edgefield has had more dashing brilliant romantic firgues, statesmen, orators, soldiers,, adventurers and daredevils than any other county of South Carolina, if not of any rural county of American" W.W. Bull,
"The State that Forgot" this on the side of a building, near the square. It is also the home to the National Wild Turkey Federation (see the giant turkeys painted by artists all over town). One turkey has has an expanse of pottery painted on its wing, attesting to the famous Edgefield Pottery Works where the enslaved potter "Dave" created his artful jugs.
Passing under I-20 before Aiken, Hwy 19 becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. Within the lovely still lively downtown, Hwy 19 becomes Whiskey Road, down to New Ellerton. 278 to Barnwell and 64 to Rivers Bridge. Just before the park, I pass a large ornate gate at a field proclaiming: "Stuck Kin Our Swamp"
.
Here it is the swamp of the two branched Salkehatchie river (a tributary of the Combahee). And here at the end of the Civil War on February 2 and 3, 1865, at the crossing called Rivers Bridge, Confederate troops vainly tried to delay Sherman's march up country to burn Columbia.
At the Ranger Station, I meet John White, Ranger and Archaeologist, who is on light duty recovering from knee surgery and takes the time to give me what he calls the "very short history of the park and battle", which did set the stage for a end of the war, the burning of Columbia and Sherman's march into Virginia to meet Lee.
He draws me a map of the Memorial and the Battlefield so that I can take the road down to the Salkehatchie River and Swamp. At the Memorial, rangers and the State Archaeologist are mapping the ground in anticipation of making either penetrating ground radar or ground resistance testing to search for the remains of the unknown buried dead soldiers. 10 years after the battle, residents of the community had disinterred the remains of many and placed them in a single grave just here where local women later placed a large general headstone with the words"
Soldiers rest, your warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Dream of battlefields no more,
Days of danger, nights of wakeing."
My friend from nearby Hampton tells of attending the Spring Memorial every Spring while growing up.
The trail to the battleground is a mile out and another back, an easy walk on white sand and pine needles. You must cross a road and come to the battlefield, pass by to the swamp where Union soldiers froze in the rain in the dead of winter. There is a great blue heron and some turtles, cypress and cypress knees. No copperheads or water moccasins about which John White warned me. Even so, I carried a stick.
I travel under black clouds, occasionally letting down heavy rain. On Whiskey Rd in Aiken, I pass statues of horses painted by artists. This is horse country, in fact. On the far side of town, I pass --
Off Da Chain Seafood and Mo, which is unfortunately closed and boarded up and the the Booyah Bar and Grill which appears to still be in business.
Much thanks to John White, to whom I am indebted for enlightenment in history and for helping me get back to Highway 64 (without going to the bomb plant) and home again before dark.
Monday, August 10, 2015
August 9, 2015 Francis Biedler Forest "Brake for Snakes...and Turtles"
I can't tell you how to get there. You will have to ask. I don't know if GPS will do it. It is really out in the boondocks, the sticks, the outback, out in the country. Traveling East on I-26, take exit 177 after going under I-95, about 7 miles and go into the town of Harleyville. From there, you are on your own. But the address is 336 Sanctuary Rd., Harleyville, South Carolina 29448. Believe me, it is worth the trip.
The Biedler Forest is an Audubon Center. Down the dirt road, you will find a well equipped station with guides, gift shop, rest rooms, outdoor picnic tables and after a $10.00 adult fee, the entrance to the 1.75 mile boardwalk winding through the last and tallest stand of Cypress-Tupulo Swamp in the world. Yes, I said, in the world. It is the summer (spring and fall) home to the protonotary warbler, a little yellow bird who makes its home in the hollows of the thousands of Cypress knees rising up from the black muddy soil of the swamp.
When I last visited here, it was winter and the yellow bird had gone down to South America.
I returned in hopes of meeting this yellow warbler, the mascot of the center. And I did meet him.
But first we traveled along the boardwalk until a blue eyed, grey haired New Zealand Birder, armed with binoculars, approached and pointed out not one, but two 5 foot long brown water snakes, their brown, yellow striped underbellies bulging with recent dinners.
We came to a high observatory stand built over a lake brimming with turtles swimming and sunning on logs.
It was there that I saw the yellow birds flitting around in the tops of the trees. The New Zealander was there and a young landscaper from Columbia who was also a birder. They pointed out the wood stork flying far up in the blue heavens above us, the great blue heron perched on a log down the lake, a little blue heron flying up from the bank.
Going back along the boardwalk, we meet a young woman and man using binoculars to watch small birds high in the trees, attempting identification. She tells me to get the "merlin" app of Cornell Lab Ornithology which will help me identify birds on a smart phone. You enter size, location, at most three colors, where the bird is sighted (such as soaring, in bushes, on a fence etc.) and then you will be offered a series of possible photos. You may even be able to hear the recording of the bird's voice. It is almost like having a teacher or birder guide with you.
This area is known as Four Holes Swamp. The Biedler Forest Center offers guided canoe trips in May and monthly night walks.
Notice the sign upon entering Sanctuary Rd: "Brake for Snakes....and Turtles" and the admonition in the Center: "May the Forest Be With You."
And so it will.
( If we take care of it.)
The Biedler Forest is an Audubon Center. Down the dirt road, you will find a well equipped station with guides, gift shop, rest rooms, outdoor picnic tables and after a $10.00 adult fee, the entrance to the 1.75 mile boardwalk winding through the last and tallest stand of Cypress-Tupulo Swamp in the world. Yes, I said, in the world. It is the summer (spring and fall) home to the protonotary warbler, a little yellow bird who makes its home in the hollows of the thousands of Cypress knees rising up from the black muddy soil of the swamp.
When I last visited here, it was winter and the yellow bird had gone down to South America.
I returned in hopes of meeting this yellow warbler, the mascot of the center. And I did meet him.
But first we traveled along the boardwalk until a blue eyed, grey haired New Zealand Birder, armed with binoculars, approached and pointed out not one, but two 5 foot long brown water snakes, their brown, yellow striped underbellies bulging with recent dinners.
We came to a high observatory stand built over a lake brimming with turtles swimming and sunning on logs.
It was there that I saw the yellow birds flitting around in the tops of the trees. The New Zealander was there and a young landscaper from Columbia who was also a birder. They pointed out the wood stork flying far up in the blue heavens above us, the great blue heron perched on a log down the lake, a little blue heron flying up from the bank.
Going back along the boardwalk, we meet a young woman and man using binoculars to watch small birds high in the trees, attempting identification. She tells me to get the "merlin" app of Cornell Lab Ornithology which will help me identify birds on a smart phone. You enter size, location, at most three colors, where the bird is sighted (such as soaring, in bushes, on a fence etc.) and then you will be offered a series of possible photos. You may even be able to hear the recording of the bird's voice. It is almost like having a teacher or birder guide with you.
This area is known as Four Holes Swamp. The Biedler Forest Center offers guided canoe trips in May and monthly night walks.
Notice the sign upon entering Sanctuary Rd: "Brake for Snakes....and Turtles" and the admonition in the Center: "May the Forest Be With You."
And so it will.
( If we take care of it.)
August 8, 2015 Givhan's Ferry: "This, the Way to the Stars"
I slept on the porch over the North Edisto River, watching the stars overhead which seemed to dance and disappear with the drifting of clouds. Before light, I head the call, "WhaaWooooo..Wa Wa Wa Whooooo" close by and then an answering call upriver. I have heard it here before. I think it is coyotes.
We visited Drayton Hall Plantation built by John Drayton in 1738. Over the great mantel in the Ballroom is the motto of the Drayton family inscribed in Latin and translated "This, the way to the stars". We walked the long grassy path from the house down to the Ashley River where ancient oaks lean over the waters.
Givhan's Ferry is found just off highway 61, "the Ashley River Rd" about 25 miles north of Charleston past the plantations of Drayton, Middleton and Magnolia. The four cabins here were built by the CCC in the 40's. There is camping with hookups and primitive camping.
"Floaters" drift down the dark tannin colored waters of the North Edisto on colorful tubes and rafts. I floated this river once at just this place. Nearby on the water, a gang of teenagers were yelling and diving for their truck keys which had gone overboard into the drink. A drunk woman motored her boat wildly up and down the river, pushing my float from side to side, interrupting the zen like travel down this beautiful ancient waterway.
Five years ago, my mother died in April at the age of 98. Two weeks later, her sister died as well. They had always done things together; gone to nursing school together, gotten married the same year, had their first child within a month of each other. And now they had taken their last long journey together. My cousins, Ruth and Grace and I went together on the weekend of Mother's Day to Givhan's Ferry after their passing. There was a Pow Wow of the Edisto Tribe in nearby Ridgeville and we took our folding chairs to watch.
Under a tent, men played the big drums in a circle while other male tribe members danced dances of the hunt. In honor of mothers and Mother's Day, all women were invited to dance in an only women's dance, even if you were not Native American. Ruth and Grace declined, but I joined the dancers. There was no way to tell if I was a member of the tribe. The chief's son was blond and blue eyed. Another primary dancer had the skin and features of Africa. The dancing women took me in and showed me how to dance the age old dance.
On another visit to the park, we were honored to see a local church baptizing members in the waters of the river. Ministers stood waist deep in the water and dunked believers. Several old men bound to wheelchairs were carried out, the old and infirm, as well as the young and healthy with tribal tatoos.
Today I take the Nature Trail of 1.6 miles through the forest. It begins beyond the camping areas and near a picnic shelter which has a horse shoe playing ground. The trail glances the edge of the Limestone Cliffs on the banks of the river. 30 million years ago, the ocean was here and left layer upon layer of sea animals which created the alkaline soil where plants live which are otherwise unusual to the acid soil of South Carolina.
I come to a fallen tree still bearing green leaves and go off trail through poison ivy and brambles for a while.
There is then a wooden bridge over a stream dried now to mud. Coming off the trail onto the athletic field, I meet two women who have been geocaching. They tell me they have found all of the caches in the park.
At the cabin, we cook waffles with strawberries on top and drink coffee and tea on the porch over the river.
We are in the zone.
We visited Drayton Hall Plantation built by John Drayton in 1738. Over the great mantel in the Ballroom is the motto of the Drayton family inscribed in Latin and translated "This, the way to the stars". We walked the long grassy path from the house down to the Ashley River where ancient oaks lean over the waters.
Givhan's Ferry is found just off highway 61, "the Ashley River Rd" about 25 miles north of Charleston past the plantations of Drayton, Middleton and Magnolia. The four cabins here were built by the CCC in the 40's. There is camping with hookups and primitive camping.
"Floaters" drift down the dark tannin colored waters of the North Edisto on colorful tubes and rafts. I floated this river once at just this place. Nearby on the water, a gang of teenagers were yelling and diving for their truck keys which had gone overboard into the drink. A drunk woman motored her boat wildly up and down the river, pushing my float from side to side, interrupting the zen like travel down this beautiful ancient waterway.
Five years ago, my mother died in April at the age of 98. Two weeks later, her sister died as well. They had always done things together; gone to nursing school together, gotten married the same year, had their first child within a month of each other. And now they had taken their last long journey together. My cousins, Ruth and Grace and I went together on the weekend of Mother's Day to Givhan's Ferry after their passing. There was a Pow Wow of the Edisto Tribe in nearby Ridgeville and we took our folding chairs to watch.
Under a tent, men played the big drums in a circle while other male tribe members danced dances of the hunt. In honor of mothers and Mother's Day, all women were invited to dance in an only women's dance, even if you were not Native American. Ruth and Grace declined, but I joined the dancers. There was no way to tell if I was a member of the tribe. The chief's son was blond and blue eyed. Another primary dancer had the skin and features of Africa. The dancing women took me in and showed me how to dance the age old dance.
On another visit to the park, we were honored to see a local church baptizing members in the waters of the river. Ministers stood waist deep in the water and dunked believers. Several old men bound to wheelchairs were carried out, the old and infirm, as well as the young and healthy with tribal tatoos.
Today I take the Nature Trail of 1.6 miles through the forest. It begins beyond the camping areas and near a picnic shelter which has a horse shoe playing ground. The trail glances the edge of the Limestone Cliffs on the banks of the river. 30 million years ago, the ocean was here and left layer upon layer of sea animals which created the alkaline soil where plants live which are otherwise unusual to the acid soil of South Carolina.
I come to a fallen tree still bearing green leaves and go off trail through poison ivy and brambles for a while.
There is then a wooden bridge over a stream dried now to mud. Coming off the trail onto the athletic field, I meet two women who have been geocaching. They tell me they have found all of the caches in the park.
At the cabin, we cook waffles with strawberries on top and drink coffee and tea on the porch over the river.
We are in the zone.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
July 30, 2015 110 Calhoun Street
The Emanuel A.M.E. church sits a half block off the intersection of Meeting St and Calhoun St. in Charleston, initially organized in 1891, it was named "Emanuel", meaning 'God With Us" in 1865 and has the oldest African American congregation south of Baltimore.
It was the site of a massacre of nine members on June 17, 2015 during a prayer service. On June 22, thousands linked arms, sang and walked across the Ravenel Bridge in support of the victims, their families and the congregation.
On July 10, we watched the Confederate Fight Flag come down from the South Carolina State House grounds.
I walked from the Music Hall which is close by. The facade of the building is amassed with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. The old Welcome Banner is now covered with prayers and condolences from thousands of people. Twenty foot square signs proclaiming "Forgive Us As We Have Been Forgiven" have been erected to take the overflow of writings. Even the fire hydrant near by is covered with signatures and prayers. A new purple brass plaque proclaims inside a heart , "We Are U9+ed in Faith and Love and has the names of the slain.
I leave my small note, "Time Passes, Love Lights the Way" nearly invisible among the thousands and complete my walk down Meeting Street, back up King and around John Street again to the Music Hall.
It was the site of a massacre of nine members on June 17, 2015 during a prayer service. On June 22, thousands linked arms, sang and walked across the Ravenel Bridge in support of the victims, their families and the congregation.
On July 10, we watched the Confederate Fight Flag come down from the South Carolina State House grounds.
I walked from the Music Hall which is close by. The facade of the building is amassed with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. The old Welcome Banner is now covered with prayers and condolences from thousands of people. Twenty foot square signs proclaiming "Forgive Us As We Have Been Forgiven" have been erected to take the overflow of writings. Even the fire hydrant near by is covered with signatures and prayers. A new purple brass plaque proclaims inside a heart , "We Are U9+ed in Faith and Love and has the names of the slain.
I leave my small note, "Time Passes, Love Lights the Way" nearly invisible among the thousands and complete my walk down Meeting Street, back up King and around John Street again to the Music Hall.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
July 25, 26, 27 28, 2014 A Snake Skin on the Banks of the Creek
Everyday, it is so hot, that the thunder storms that sometimes crack the darkening sky in the afternoons seem like the monsoons of the Rajasthan desert. Everyday at dawn, I go to the Cottonwood Trail before the intense heat. The storms have done little to fill the wetlands back up. The reeds are turning brown reaching up from the mud. One morning I can see not one but two Great Blue Herons perched high up in the tops of the dead trees in the wetlands. There are deer tracks in the mud. There is a flock of goldfinches careening around in the damp warm air. A doe picks her way through the bending grasses.
One day, I hear the deep and distant chanting of a large group of human beings. They are coming closer, breaking the orchestral music of the cicadas, the crickets and the birds with their "sound off". A group of ROTC students with their leaders are marching through the forest, calling out their sound off.
As children, we had a sound off that went like this:
I left my wife and 49 kids,
the old gray mare
and the peanut shells.
All because I thought it was right,
Right,
Right through the cornfield
Right by jingo (skip into the air and change feet)
Left
Left
Left
I left my wife and 49 kids
the old gray mare
and the peanut shells
Without any hamburgers
Left
left
Another day, I found a snake skin curled on the bank high over the creek. I took it home.
The skin can mean, change, rebirth, the sloughing off of the old ways that are no longer viable.
One day, I hear the deep and distant chanting of a large group of human beings. They are coming closer, breaking the orchestral music of the cicadas, the crickets and the birds with their "sound off". A group of ROTC students with their leaders are marching through the forest, calling out their sound off.
As children, we had a sound off that went like this:
I left my wife and 49 kids,
the old gray mare
and the peanut shells.
All because I thought it was right,
Right,
Right through the cornfield
Right by jingo (skip into the air and change feet)
Left
Left
Left
I left my wife and 49 kids
the old gray mare
and the peanut shells
Without any hamburgers
Left
left
Another day, I found a snake skin curled on the bank high over the creek. I took it home.
The skin can mean, change, rebirth, the sloughing off of the old ways that are no longer viable.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
July 13, 2015 Great White Swamp Flowers
At dawn, the wetlands are dry as a bone, still as the grave. Hardly a bird sings, too early now for the cicadas. It is overcast with white clouds, windless, airless without a leaf stirring, already 70 degrees.
All of the worshipers at the Emanual Church have been laid to rest. The Confederate battle flag has been taken down from the statehouse grounds. The people sang: Na, na, na na...Na na na naaaa...goodbye.
All across the drying wetlands, swamp flowers are in glorious bloom. Giant white blossoms, deep dark red at the base of the stamens.
All of the worshipers at the Emanual Church have been laid to rest. The Confederate battle flag has been taken down from the statehouse grounds. The people sang: Na, na, na na...Na na na naaaa...goodbye.
All across the drying wetlands, swamp flowers are in glorious bloom. Giant white blossoms, deep dark red at the base of the stamens.
July 7, 2015 From the Harbor River to Johnson's Creek
We have rented a house on Harbor Island in the woody section with a big porch over an alligator pond. On the first night there was thunder and lightening and heavy rain. We stayed on the porch.
This island lies where the Harbor River empties into St. Helena Sound. In the morning I have walked along the beach from the Harbor River, south to Johnson's Creek. An old draw bridge spans the river. Along the water's edge is the black sticky pluff mud of the wide marshes. There are many conch shells scattered in the sand. Each one is inhabited by a hermit crab. There are fishermen along the shore and shrimp boats on the horizon. There are many sea birds, ibis, herons, gulls. Here it is a bird sanctuary. Great flocks fly out into the sky in the early morning and at sunset they return to roost in the trees and bushes along the inlets.
There are few people swimming in the ocean. There have been seven shark attacks along the North Carolina beaches and one here beside us at Hunting Island. The children have splashed and played in the tidal pools.
Fran, the Turtle Lady, has told us there are 47 sea turtle nests this year. None have opened yet. The first one at Fripp opened this week. Hunting Island has 79. Near Johnson's creek, there is a large roped off area where there are several nests. Here when the tide is out and the beach is very very wide, there are many stranded horse shoe crabs. I can see the light house across the creek beyond the trees.
This island lies where the Harbor River empties into St. Helena Sound. In the morning I have walked along the beach from the Harbor River, south to Johnson's Creek. An old draw bridge spans the river. Along the water's edge is the black sticky pluff mud of the wide marshes. There are many conch shells scattered in the sand. Each one is inhabited by a hermit crab. There are fishermen along the shore and shrimp boats on the horizon. There are many sea birds, ibis, herons, gulls. Here it is a bird sanctuary. Great flocks fly out into the sky in the early morning and at sunset they return to roost in the trees and bushes along the inlets.
There are few people swimming in the ocean. There have been seven shark attacks along the North Carolina beaches and one here beside us at Hunting Island. The children have splashed and played in the tidal pools.
Fran, the Turtle Lady, has told us there are 47 sea turtle nests this year. None have opened yet. The first one at Fripp opened this week. Hunting Island has 79. Near Johnson's creek, there is a large roped off area where there are several nests. Here when the tide is out and the beach is very very wide, there are many stranded horse shoe crabs. I can see the light house across the creek beyond the trees.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
June 20, 2015 "All That's Beautiful"
Waking from sleep, I remember that something bad has happened, something that can't be undone.
I hit the trail in the wetlands with my dog.
The sun still shines. The birds still sing. The dark leaves of summer are still on the trees.
Soon, the funerals will begin.
A child-man with the bowl haircut of a toddler, has taken down the devout, who were praying in the Mother Church in the Holy City. It was not a toy gun, it was a birthday present.
There has been a heat wave. The water in the wetlands is low, full of minnows, the sky full of birds.
The fluffy white cottonwood seeds are falling on the shards of river birch bark on the floor of the trail. They drift floating down the creek into the dark wood.
"I heard the old old men say:
All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."
W.B. Yeats
I hit the trail in the wetlands with my dog.
The sun still shines. The birds still sing. The dark leaves of summer are still on the trees.
Soon, the funerals will begin.
A child-man with the bowl haircut of a toddler, has taken down the devout, who were praying in the Mother Church in the Holy City. It was not a toy gun, it was a birthday present.
There has been a heat wave. The water in the wetlands is low, full of minnows, the sky full of birds.
The fluffy white cottonwood seeds are falling on the shards of river birch bark on the floor of the trail. They drift floating down the creek into the dark wood.
"I heard the old old men say:
All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."
W.B. Yeats
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
June 14, 2015 Atlanta's Fourth Ward Park
Built in 2011, the park joins the extended trail of the Atlanta Beltway and on Father's Day, next Sunday, June 21, there will be a Family Walk through this park and further on. This scorching hot evening, after an outdoor supper nearby in the Grill, I walk with Eleanor, Ryan and Mathew around the lake and gardens salvaged from a trash strewn landscape of storm water runoff and flooding. It serves now as a retention basin. This urban greenscape of blooming grasses and plants is a haven for ducks, geese and human beings in the middle of the city.
Across the way, looms the seven story Ponce City Market (previously the Sears Building), now restored with shops, apartments and restaurants.
We walk around the lake to the tune of bullfrogs croaking and up around the playground where an extended family is grilling and celebrating a luau. All the young girls are dressed in swim suits with grass shirts and leis of flowers around their necks, flowers in their hair.
We pass a drunk sprawled out on a bench, mumbling obscenities to his own demons, his bicycle parked beside him. When we return and pass by again, he is passed out and silent.
Across the way, looms the seven story Ponce City Market (previously the Sears Building), now restored with shops, apartments and restaurants.
We walk around the lake to the tune of bullfrogs croaking and up around the playground where an extended family is grilling and celebrating a luau. All the young girls are dressed in swim suits with grass shirts and leis of flowers around their necks, flowers in their hair.
We pass a drunk sprawled out on a bench, mumbling obscenities to his own demons, his bicycle parked beside him. When we return and pass by again, he is passed out and silent.
Monday, June 8, 2015
June 7, 2015 In the Wetlands, the Luna Moth
It is the magic hour. Early mist drifts up from the Lawson's Ford Creek. A man is photographing a luna moth. He has found it lying on the bridge over the creek. In death, it is perfect, a pale luminous green, white body with intact antennae, and on its wings painted eyes to freighten predators. It lives in the night world of scents of flowers and grasses, the blossoms of trees, hickory, sweet gum and birch.
On the boardwalk over the wetlands, another photographer is carrying his camera approaching me. He tells me that he has just seen a doe with two fauns, no more than a day or two old.
A large dead tree has fallen across the boardwalk. I brush against blackberries, now pink and red and soon to be black and ripe. May has been the time for strawberries, soon to be over. Before they are gone, make shortcake.
This is how my mother made strawberry shortcake:
OLD FASHIONED STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE
Slice one quart of strawberries and cover with one cup sugar. Let sit.
Make dough.
2 cups flour
2 Tbsp sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup shortening
1 cup milk
light cream or whipped cream
Heat oven to 450 degrees. Grease cookie sheet
Combine flour, sugar, baking power and salt in bowl.
Cut in shortening.
Stir in milk.
Pat dough into a large rectangle one a a half inch thick on cookie sheet.
Bake 15 to 20 minutes.
Split cake while warm.
Spread with butter.
Fill with berries.
Serve warm with cream.
On the boardwalk over the wetlands, another photographer is carrying his camera approaching me. He tells me that he has just seen a doe with two fauns, no more than a day or two old.
A large dead tree has fallen across the boardwalk. I brush against blackberries, now pink and red and soon to be black and ripe. May has been the time for strawberries, soon to be over. Before they are gone, make shortcake.
This is how my mother made strawberry shortcake:
OLD FASHIONED STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE
Slice one quart of strawberries and cover with one cup sugar. Let sit.
Make dough.
2 cups flour
2 Tbsp sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup shortening
1 cup milk
light cream or whipped cream
Heat oven to 450 degrees. Grease cookie sheet
Combine flour, sugar, baking power and salt in bowl.
Cut in shortening.
Stir in milk.
Pat dough into a large rectangle one a a half inch thick on cookie sheet.
Bake 15 to 20 minutes.
Split cake while warm.
Spread with butter.
Fill with berries.
Serve warm with cream.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
May, 30, 2015 Hobcaw Barony: The Lost World
Colleen and I drove down yesterday from Columbia, 378 to Sumter, 521 to catch 17 in Georgetown, over the great Wacamaw River Bridge. The weather is fine. The sky is blue with huge cumulous clouds above us. Queen Ann's lace, Philadelphia day lilies, prickly pear with yellow blossoms, a strange spindly tree with bright red flowers, daisies along the way. Hobcaw is just over the bridge on the right where Colleen is to teach a photography class on Saturday and I am going to explore the marshes, creeks and maritime forests of long leaf, lobloly pine and oak. There are 90 miles of dirt roads here, a part of which was the original Kings Highway down the coast.
Belle Baruch, six foot two world traveler, pilot and lover of the land, daughter of Bernard Baruch, Camden native, wall street banker and financial advisor to U.S. presidents and world leaders (who he invited to Hobcaw), bequeathed this land to the State of South Carolina in 1969 (after her death in 1964) with special conditions that it be preserved in its wild state and studied. USC has a Marine Sciences Lab here and Clemson has a center for forestry study.
At 6:30 a.m., I am on a bird walk with 6 others and guide and oceanographer, Dennis A. We visited the feeding site for endangered painted buntings and watched them flying to the feeder and perching in trees. We saw indigo buntings, blue birds, red winged black birds, mocking birds, Carolina wrens, little green herons, little blue herons, white egrets and cardinals. We heard the voice of the mud hen who hides in the tall grasses.
After breakfast, we go out to the ancient shell midden and launch into the creeks and inlets. Bernard Baruch once said that the sky was black with the hundreds of ducks flushed out of the spartina grasses. No more.
We net a bucket of fish and shrimp (there are at least 185 fish species here), name them and throw them back. On the sand bar, there is a huge living horse welk. At a station called Oyster Landing of Crab Haul Creek, there is a webcam on a pier observing the marshes and the sky. Jay P., a marine biologist, tells me that you can go to Baruch.SC.Edu and through the webcam, watch the inlet, marsh and creek, the storms that come up over the horizon, the spartina grasses waving in the breezes and turning green to gold.
That night, Tim M., Ph.D, tells us that at Chernobyl and Fukushima, the barn swallows have white spots now. Some have tumors. The African Mask beetles have distorted markings. Where they once had the markings that looked like two dark eyes, painted features of nose and mouth, they may have one eye, a nose that wrapped around their head, mouth spots fading into a chin.
John and James meet us the next day and we spend the day on the beach, making a sand castle, celebrating James' 6th birthday and picnicing.
Driving home, through curtains of great black and white clouds of sun and rain, I spot a rainbow, resplendent over the changing world.
Belle Baruch, six foot two world traveler, pilot and lover of the land, daughter of Bernard Baruch, Camden native, wall street banker and financial advisor to U.S. presidents and world leaders (who he invited to Hobcaw), bequeathed this land to the State of South Carolina in 1969 (after her death in 1964) with special conditions that it be preserved in its wild state and studied. USC has a Marine Sciences Lab here and Clemson has a center for forestry study.
At 6:30 a.m., I am on a bird walk with 6 others and guide and oceanographer, Dennis A. We visited the feeding site for endangered painted buntings and watched them flying to the feeder and perching in trees. We saw indigo buntings, blue birds, red winged black birds, mocking birds, Carolina wrens, little green herons, little blue herons, white egrets and cardinals. We heard the voice of the mud hen who hides in the tall grasses.
After breakfast, we go out to the ancient shell midden and launch into the creeks and inlets. Bernard Baruch once said that the sky was black with the hundreds of ducks flushed out of the spartina grasses. No more.
We net a bucket of fish and shrimp (there are at least 185 fish species here), name them and throw them back. On the sand bar, there is a huge living horse welk. At a station called Oyster Landing of Crab Haul Creek, there is a webcam on a pier observing the marshes and the sky. Jay P., a marine biologist, tells me that you can go to Baruch.SC.Edu and through the webcam, watch the inlet, marsh and creek, the storms that come up over the horizon, the spartina grasses waving in the breezes and turning green to gold.
That night, Tim M., Ph.D, tells us that at Chernobyl and Fukushima, the barn swallows have white spots now. Some have tumors. The African Mask beetles have distorted markings. Where they once had the markings that looked like two dark eyes, painted features of nose and mouth, they may have one eye, a nose that wrapped around their head, mouth spots fading into a chin.
John and James meet us the next day and we spend the day on the beach, making a sand castle, celebrating James' 6th birthday and picnicing.
Driving home, through curtains of great black and white clouds of sun and rain, I spot a rainbow, resplendent over the changing world.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
May 22, 2015 Myrtle Beach State Park "They Paved Paradise..."
I arrived at Myrtle Beach State Park on Highway 17 (it is known as Kings Highway) from the South, having gone through Georgetown and Pawley's Island. It is 3 miles south of Myrtle Beach where 400,000 vacationers are visiting this weekend. It is Biker Week as well as Memorial Day Weekend.
Have I lost my mind? I have been invited to join a friend at one of the South Carolina at the Riviera style resorts that have grown up like fire ant hills along this once beautiful and pristine coast.
Myrtle Beach State Park has attempted to capture and preserve something of the maritime forest that once flourished here. The park is 326 acres, has a fishing pier, camping and even some cabins, a Nature Center and Activity Center.
There are but two short trails: Sculptured Oak and Yaupon. For me, the map that I get from the Park Office is confusing, so I take the entrance to Yaupon which leads into the forest from behind Shelter B-6 which is the last picnic shelter on the road next to the pier and the ocean. Go to the pier and turn right to find it. The trail is a tiny refuge from the insanity of Myrtle Beach. Underfoot is packed white sand and pine needles, good to walk on. Little sapsucker woodpeckers live here in the winter. They leave accurately straight lines of holes in the trees. There are Yaupon Holley trees in this forest. Native Americans made a kind of tea from the little oval leaves which contain caffeine. I took just a few to make my own tea at home.
The forest is filled with the intoxicating fragrance of magnolia. Yaupon connects with Sculptured Oak and passes a pond before it comes out again near the Park Office.
I have had the trail all to myself, a short , peaceful walk before what is to come: the 400,000 people, the bikers zooming in and out on the highway, the endless outlets and souvenir stores, the buffets with snow crab legs, sea food, fried chicken and chocolate fountains.
Soon, I am in traffic jams and become enthralled with the bikers, especially the women with their own bikes, their long red hair flowing behind them in the wind, their 5 inch heels.
I am going to a resort in the North 80's, so I take a look down North 77th street where my father once bought a small one story house with two bedrooms, large living room and kitchen-dining area. It had a
carport in the back with a one room bedroom attached. It was on the last street where there were houses or other development back then. Where there are now high rises, we roamed the sandy open space where we named our places "wood fort, thorn valley and thorn hill". In my mind's eye, I can see it all, my mother, my father, my sister and brother, my cousins, "Nellie", my dog.
How it all has changed.
Big Yellow Taxi
They paved paradise
and put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot.
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone.
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot......
Joni Mitchel
Have I lost my mind? I have been invited to join a friend at one of the South Carolina at the Riviera style resorts that have grown up like fire ant hills along this once beautiful and pristine coast.
Myrtle Beach State Park has attempted to capture and preserve something of the maritime forest that once flourished here. The park is 326 acres, has a fishing pier, camping and even some cabins, a Nature Center and Activity Center.
There are but two short trails: Sculptured Oak and Yaupon. For me, the map that I get from the Park Office is confusing, so I take the entrance to Yaupon which leads into the forest from behind Shelter B-6 which is the last picnic shelter on the road next to the pier and the ocean. Go to the pier and turn right to find it. The trail is a tiny refuge from the insanity of Myrtle Beach. Underfoot is packed white sand and pine needles, good to walk on. Little sapsucker woodpeckers live here in the winter. They leave accurately straight lines of holes in the trees. There are Yaupon Holley trees in this forest. Native Americans made a kind of tea from the little oval leaves which contain caffeine. I took just a few to make my own tea at home.
The forest is filled with the intoxicating fragrance of magnolia. Yaupon connects with Sculptured Oak and passes a pond before it comes out again near the Park Office.
I have had the trail all to myself, a short , peaceful walk before what is to come: the 400,000 people, the bikers zooming in and out on the highway, the endless outlets and souvenir stores, the buffets with snow crab legs, sea food, fried chicken and chocolate fountains.
Soon, I am in traffic jams and become enthralled with the bikers, especially the women with their own bikes, their long red hair flowing behind them in the wind, their 5 inch heels.
I am going to a resort in the North 80's, so I take a look down North 77th street where my father once bought a small one story house with two bedrooms, large living room and kitchen-dining area. It had a
carport in the back with a one room bedroom attached. It was on the last street where there were houses or other development back then. Where there are now high rises, we roamed the sandy open space where we named our places "wood fort, thorn valley and thorn hill". In my mind's eye, I can see it all, my mother, my father, my sister and brother, my cousins, "Nellie", my dog.
How it all has changed.
Big Yellow Taxi
They paved paradise
and put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot.
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone.
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot......
Joni Mitchel
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
May 16, 2015 Death at Crowder Mountain
On the news, I have heard that a woman came with her family and climbed to the rock face of Crowder's Mountain. Taking pictures near the edge, she fell 100 feet to her death.
This is where Michael and Earl would sit on the rock not so far from the edge and scare me to death.
It is where Hanah and John came with Camp Cherokee to rapel down the cliff.
This is where Michael and Earl would sit on the rock not so far from the edge and scare me to death.
It is where Hanah and John came with Camp Cherokee to rapel down the cliff.
May 19, 2015 Lynches Woods: The Tatooed Man
In the parking lot behind the Newberry Sheriff's Department, I meet a tall silver haired man with backpack leaving the entrance to the woods. He tells me that the gravel road through the park was built in the 1930's by the Civilian Conservation Corps and that his father, in fact, helped build it. He tells me to take the gravel road and not the woodland trails "until I get to know it".
I thank him and walk down the hill until I find a confusion of one way road signs and "do not enter" signs.
A hiker emerges to the left, leaving the woods in the opposite direction from the one way sign. He is a man with salt and pepper curly hair wearing an old faded T shirt cut off at the arms to reveal a glorious tangle of tatoos. He tells me that the gravel road is five miles, that there is a rise he calls, "mother mountain" and if I want to spare my body pain, I will take the opposite direction of the one way signs. "I have done it twice today", he says.
I try to do as he says, but find myself on a short loop past a big picnic shelter with eight to ten tables and back to where I started. I take the direction of the one way signs.
On the trail there are low stone arches marking streams flowing below. These arches attest to the age of the road. And here and there are the new bridges recently constructed. Soon I hear a heavy splash nearby and a rumpled man appears coming towards me. I grab my phone and pick up a big stick. He does not speak English. I think he has slept in the woods. He travels on.
On my left is a cow pasture and on the faraway hill, a farmhouse and large gray barn with dull red roof. The stoic black cows are huddled together at the nearby fence.
The trail begins to ascend and I find that all along the way, I am on an upward walk through the lovely green wood with flashes of sunlight and plateaus. It is really not strenuous. Here and there horse trails wind off into the forest. These trails do not look well traveled, but once I catch the telltale scent of horse.
As the sun rises at noon high in the sky, I leave my club (the one I was going to knock out the rumpled man with) at the first bridge for the next hiker.
I thank him and walk down the hill until I find a confusion of one way road signs and "do not enter" signs.
A hiker emerges to the left, leaving the woods in the opposite direction from the one way sign. He is a man with salt and pepper curly hair wearing an old faded T shirt cut off at the arms to reveal a glorious tangle of tatoos. He tells me that the gravel road is five miles, that there is a rise he calls, "mother mountain" and if I want to spare my body pain, I will take the opposite direction of the one way signs. "I have done it twice today", he says.
I try to do as he says, but find myself on a short loop past a big picnic shelter with eight to ten tables and back to where I started. I take the direction of the one way signs.
On the trail there are low stone arches marking streams flowing below. These arches attest to the age of the road. And here and there are the new bridges recently constructed. Soon I hear a heavy splash nearby and a rumpled man appears coming towards me. I grab my phone and pick up a big stick. He does not speak English. I think he has slept in the woods. He travels on.
On my left is a cow pasture and on the faraway hill, a farmhouse and large gray barn with dull red roof. The stoic black cows are huddled together at the nearby fence.
The trail begins to ascend and I find that all along the way, I am on an upward walk through the lovely green wood with flashes of sunlight and plateaus. It is really not strenuous. Here and there horse trails wind off into the forest. These trails do not look well traveled, but once I catch the telltale scent of horse.
As the sun rises at noon high in the sky, I leave my club (the one I was going to knock out the rumpled man with) at the first bridge for the next hiker.
Monday, May 18, 2015
May 16,2015 The Cottonwood Trail on That Jingle Jangle Morning
I am rounding the board walk in the wetlands just after dawn. Two antlered young bucks, one brown, one faun are drinking at a small rivulet. Startled, they spring up but go only a few feet away. We stand silently observing each other, their beautiful round eyes unblinking. Soon I round the walk and there before me within 10 feet is a silent doe, perfect, composed, standing where the water has receded in this week without rain.
Unconcerned, she walks delicately a few feet away picking her way through the reeds and irises.
There is a gentle breeze wafting around me like the wind at the ocean while I sit for a while watching the morning birds streaking through the sky, the little woodpeckers drumming, a red winged blackbird perching over the water on a branch. A gray snake with an orange belly slithers into the muddy tall grass.
There is no one here but me. There is no other creature except the deer, the birds and the gray and orange snake. There is no one else in the universe on this jingle jangle morning.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there's no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
On that jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you.
Take me for a trip upon your magic swirling ship
All my senses have been stripped
My hands can't feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wandering.
I'm ready to go anywhere.
I'm ready for to fade, into my own parade.
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there's no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me.
In that jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you.
Unconcerned, she walks delicately a few feet away picking her way through the reeds and irises.
There is a gentle breeze wafting around me like the wind at the ocean while I sit for a while watching the morning birds streaking through the sky, the little woodpeckers drumming, a red winged blackbird perching over the water on a branch. A gray snake with an orange belly slithers into the muddy tall grass.
There is no one here but me. There is no other creature except the deer, the birds and the gray and orange snake. There is no one else in the universe on this jingle jangle morning.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there's no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
On that jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you.
Take me for a trip upon your magic swirling ship
All my senses have been stripped
My hands can't feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wandering.
I'm ready to go anywhere.
I'm ready for to fade, into my own parade.
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there's no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me.
In that jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
May 12, 2015 Conestee Lake Park: It's Almost Like Falling in Love
"What a day this has been
What a rare mood I'm in
It's almost like falling in love"
The magic of this full throttle Spring day is nearly overwhelming. It is early, moving along on Hwy 296 through Reidville towards Mauldin. Lush green fields, blooming catalpas, tulip poplars and magnolias along the way before I am in the South edge of Greenville and turn rt on 146, then left on Butler Rd and continue through Maudin until the road becomes Mauldin Road.
The entrance to Conestee Lake Park is at 840 Mauldin Road behind the sports complex and the dog park.
There are 11 miles of trails over and across the Reedy River, through wetlands teeming with plants, birds and animals. The heavy intoxicating scent of honeysuckle, wild rose and blooming privet fills the air.
I take the Raccoon Run near the dog park. It is a well marked tunnel through much green bushes and trees at first along the sides of a steep red mud bank. I come upon a rock floor and then a field and we find a platter sized turtle in the gravel road. At the top of the rolling ridge, I find more rolling ridges and so we turn back again. I find later that the Raccoon Run is a loop that would have taken me to Flat Tail trail where I go now.
From the big entrance saying "Lake Conestee Park", you can look down through the woods and see a bridge over the Reedy River. To the left is a sand beach where people take their dogs to swim. It is on the near side of the river, so you must take a turn off to the left before the bridge to get there.
I go through Heron Circle, take Possum trail and go to the left at a spot where going forward is blocked.
This is Flat Tail. I find West Bay Observation Deck see before me. Surely this is the Garden of Eden.
Great Blue flies up into one of the dead trees above a lush sea of Broad Leaf Arrowhead plant (also called Duck Potato), American Black Elderberry, Wild Blue Irises, the Primrose plant which will bloom next month, grasses.
I have met Beverly and her red dog, Lily. She becomes my guide. She and her husband have hiked here for many years and worry about the influx of people who will come when a connection to the Swamp Rabbit Trail is completed from downtown Greenville. She tells me how to cross the river again and circle around to the Bird Nest. This is a high deck over the wetlands where we can look out again and see what grows and moves. Here you could see a variety of ducks, perhaps even the Great Egret, a Kingfisher, a Green Heron, an American Bittern and many of the 200 species of birds spotted in the past year by the Greenville Bird Watchers Club. Recently 82 species were seen on bird count day.
Going back, Great Blue flies up in front of me, so close I can hear the slow flap if his wings. From Flat Tail, I take Heron Circle, Woodie Walk and then bear to the left to cross the big bridge again.
"It is almost like falling in love."
What a rare mood I'm in
It's almost like falling in love"
The magic of this full throttle Spring day is nearly overwhelming. It is early, moving along on Hwy 296 through Reidville towards Mauldin. Lush green fields, blooming catalpas, tulip poplars and magnolias along the way before I am in the South edge of Greenville and turn rt on 146, then left on Butler Rd and continue through Maudin until the road becomes Mauldin Road.
The entrance to Conestee Lake Park is at 840 Mauldin Road behind the sports complex and the dog park.
There are 11 miles of trails over and across the Reedy River, through wetlands teeming with plants, birds and animals. The heavy intoxicating scent of honeysuckle, wild rose and blooming privet fills the air.
I take the Raccoon Run near the dog park. It is a well marked tunnel through much green bushes and trees at first along the sides of a steep red mud bank. I come upon a rock floor and then a field and we find a platter sized turtle in the gravel road. At the top of the rolling ridge, I find more rolling ridges and so we turn back again. I find later that the Raccoon Run is a loop that would have taken me to Flat Tail trail where I go now.
From the big entrance saying "Lake Conestee Park", you can look down through the woods and see a bridge over the Reedy River. To the left is a sand beach where people take their dogs to swim. It is on the near side of the river, so you must take a turn off to the left before the bridge to get there.
I go through Heron Circle, take Possum trail and go to the left at a spot where going forward is blocked.
This is Flat Tail. I find West Bay Observation Deck see before me. Surely this is the Garden of Eden.
Great Blue flies up into one of the dead trees above a lush sea of Broad Leaf Arrowhead plant (also called Duck Potato), American Black Elderberry, Wild Blue Irises, the Primrose plant which will bloom next month, grasses.
I have met Beverly and her red dog, Lily. She becomes my guide. She and her husband have hiked here for many years and worry about the influx of people who will come when a connection to the Swamp Rabbit Trail is completed from downtown Greenville. She tells me how to cross the river again and circle around to the Bird Nest. This is a high deck over the wetlands where we can look out again and see what grows and moves. Here you could see a variety of ducks, perhaps even the Great Egret, a Kingfisher, a Green Heron, an American Bittern and many of the 200 species of birds spotted in the past year by the Greenville Bird Watchers Club. Recently 82 species were seen on bird count day.
Going back, Great Blue flies up in front of me, so close I can hear the slow flap if his wings. From Flat Tail, I take Heron Circle, Woodie Walk and then bear to the left to cross the big bridge again.
"It is almost like falling in love."
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
May 5, 2015 Bald Eagle Fledgling and the Indian Drifter
On the porch of the log cabin office are elderly ladies and volunteers. As this is the county my mother hailed from (as they used to say), I am familiar with these ladies from my childhood. They are of pale white skin that they have always covered with hats. They have neat gray curly permed hair and they rock gently in rocking chairs after a long day of canning and cooking and feeding the family.
I ask about the Bald Eagles, if the chicks are in the nest beside the wide rocky Catawba River. "There is one ", says the volunteer, "That one is still staying in the nest, cuddling deep down". If I am lucky, I might see him move or a parent return to the nest. The Rocky Shoals Tiger Lilies are not blooming yet. It will be one or two more weeks, but their long iris-like stems are waving from the rocks.
The eagle nest is to the right, down the Thread Trail. You go past two benches (not picnic tables). Far out on the rocks I see Great Blue, so tall that his neck is curved twice. A yellow Goldfinch perches on a branch beside me. I pass a lonely fisherman on the bank, then I meet Frank Ross and his Dad, James, from Rock Hill with their little dog.
They come here often and know the eagles. There is a little turnoff near the nest and Frank points out the nest of sticks and branches high up in a tall pine. With my binoculars I can see the chick moving for a moment. Frank takes me off trail to the foot of the pine. He knows it because it is the only place two large pines stand together. James tells me that once the nest fell down and the eagles replaced it. The pair of eagles came in the 90's and have had their fledglings in February. Frank says he has found many fish bones at the base of the tree.
Back at the parking lot, I find a sparkling red and black motorcycle parked beside my Jeep. It has a leather seat and studded leather saddlebags. Along its brilliant side is the golden image of a Native chief with full headdress. A helmet with leather gloves inside dangles from the handle bars. "Indian Drifter" is emblazoned on the front.
I do not see the rider, but I know he must be the descendant of those who forded the wide river here, those who paddled their canoes down the rivers to Edisto where they built the shell mounds, the ancient conservators of this land which once belonged only to God.
I ask about the Bald Eagles, if the chicks are in the nest beside the wide rocky Catawba River. "There is one ", says the volunteer, "That one is still staying in the nest, cuddling deep down". If I am lucky, I might see him move or a parent return to the nest. The Rocky Shoals Tiger Lilies are not blooming yet. It will be one or two more weeks, but their long iris-like stems are waving from the rocks.
The eagle nest is to the right, down the Thread Trail. You go past two benches (not picnic tables). Far out on the rocks I see Great Blue, so tall that his neck is curved twice. A yellow Goldfinch perches on a branch beside me. I pass a lonely fisherman on the bank, then I meet Frank Ross and his Dad, James, from Rock Hill with their little dog.
They come here often and know the eagles. There is a little turnoff near the nest and Frank points out the nest of sticks and branches high up in a tall pine. With my binoculars I can see the chick moving for a moment. Frank takes me off trail to the foot of the pine. He knows it because it is the only place two large pines stand together. James tells me that once the nest fell down and the eagles replaced it. The pair of eagles came in the 90's and have had their fledglings in February. Frank says he has found many fish bones at the base of the tree.
Back at the parking lot, I find a sparkling red and black motorcycle parked beside my Jeep. It has a leather seat and studded leather saddlebags. Along its brilliant side is the golden image of a Native chief with full headdress. A helmet with leather gloves inside dangles from the handle bars. "Indian Drifter" is emblazoned on the front.
I do not see the rider, but I know he must be the descendant of those who forded the wide river here, those who paddled their canoes down the rivers to Edisto where they built the shell mounds, the ancient conservators of this land which once belonged only to God.
May 5, 2015 N.R. Goodale State Park. The Story of the Star Maiden
Past the Arrant Community Center, the road goes down to the park office and across an expanse of grass, and before you is the startling sight of a wide lake studded with blooming white waterlilies and beyond that the submerged trunks of cypress trees with delicate green leafed branches high above.
As the Native American story goes, there was once a young boy who slept outside under the trees and the starry sky. A star appeared to alight in the tree's branches and to the boy's surprise, a beautiful maiden stepped down from the star.
She told him she was so enthralled with the beauty of the earth that she wished to take another form and come down from the heavens to reside on earth forever. The boy ran to the elders and told his story. The elders told him to let her know that she should come to earth as a flower.
The next morning, the boy awoke to find the lake strung with hundreds of white waterlilies. The maiden and her star sisters had come to earth to live forever in white blossoms floating on the clear water.
There is a 3.5 mile canoe and kayak trail in the cypress swamp where alligators reside. The trail is called Big Pine Tree Creek Canoe Trail, but the lake is Adams Grist Mill Lake. Canoes, Kayaks and a fishing boat can be rented for $7.00 for a half day and $12.00 for a full day. There are 3 kayaks and 6 canoes and one fishing boat. Colleen and John kayaked here often before James was born.
I took the 1.7 mile trail which runs off to the left behind the rental boats. This is a great trail which becomes a loop. It's surface is white sand, pine needles and leaves. The forest is shady all along the way with a ground cover of new green ferns.
This park was dedicated in 1952 as a Kershaw County Park of 2,000 acres. It's history can be read on a monument of pink granite from Flat Rock. The park was donated to the State Park System in 1973. R.N. Goodale was a local florist and civic leader in nearby Camden.
The park was actually closed today as far as the office being open, but fortunately, a ranger appeared carrying my phone which had been found close by.
I came to Goodale from Columbia taking I-77 North, the I-20 towards Camden (exit 98), passed the Revolutionary War Park on Broad St, the Robert Mills Court house and then right on DeKalb for 3 miles, right again on Stagecoach Rd. and shortly the park is on the right. Of course, from Charlotte, one way would be to take I-77 South and then I-20.
George Washing to came to Camden on Mary 25, 1791 and proclaimed that "Camden is a small place. It was much injured by the British whilst in their possession". (for 11 months in 1780).
There is no camping and no cabins at Goodale, and the office is closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but you can bring your own canoe, kayak or fishing boat, your own gear, your own picnic.
As the Native American story goes, there was once a young boy who slept outside under the trees and the starry sky. A star appeared to alight in the tree's branches and to the boy's surprise, a beautiful maiden stepped down from the star.
She told him she was so enthralled with the beauty of the earth that she wished to take another form and come down from the heavens to reside on earth forever. The boy ran to the elders and told his story. The elders told him to let her know that she should come to earth as a flower.
The next morning, the boy awoke to find the lake strung with hundreds of white waterlilies. The maiden and her star sisters had come to earth to live forever in white blossoms floating on the clear water.
There is a 3.5 mile canoe and kayak trail in the cypress swamp where alligators reside. The trail is called Big Pine Tree Creek Canoe Trail, but the lake is Adams Grist Mill Lake. Canoes, Kayaks and a fishing boat can be rented for $7.00 for a half day and $12.00 for a full day. There are 3 kayaks and 6 canoes and one fishing boat. Colleen and John kayaked here often before James was born.
I took the 1.7 mile trail which runs off to the left behind the rental boats. This is a great trail which becomes a loop. It's surface is white sand, pine needles and leaves. The forest is shady all along the way with a ground cover of new green ferns.
This park was dedicated in 1952 as a Kershaw County Park of 2,000 acres. It's history can be read on a monument of pink granite from Flat Rock. The park was donated to the State Park System in 1973. R.N. Goodale was a local florist and civic leader in nearby Camden.
The park was actually closed today as far as the office being open, but fortunately, a ranger appeared carrying my phone which had been found close by.
I came to Goodale from Columbia taking I-77 North, the I-20 towards Camden (exit 98), passed the Revolutionary War Park on Broad St, the Robert Mills Court house and then right on DeKalb for 3 miles, right again on Stagecoach Rd. and shortly the park is on the right. Of course, from Charlotte, one way would be to take I-77 South and then I-20.
George Washing to came to Camden on Mary 25, 1791 and proclaimed that "Camden is a small place. It was much injured by the British whilst in their possession". (for 11 months in 1780).
There is no camping and no cabins at Goodale, and the office is closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but you can bring your own canoe, kayak or fishing boat, your own gear, your own picnic.
Monday, May 4, 2015
May 3, 2015 Hardtimes at Bent Creek
It is colder in the mountains, but so clear that you can see individual trees, small cottages, layer upon pastel blue and violet layers of rolling peaks into the pale horizon.
Turn off I-26 West at exit 33 onto hwy 191 (Brevard Rd), go past the Outlet Mall, past Discount Shoes and Celebrity Hot Dogs on the right and Possum Trot Rd on the left . Across from Beth Shalom Cemetery there will be a sign for Lake Powatan Bent Creek National Forrest Recreational Area. turn right for 2.3 miles through little Stormy Ridge Neighborhood. On the right is a road to Rice Pinacle Trail Head, then on the left is a very small parking lot (probably filled with cars) for the Hardtimes Trail Head,then the entrance to Lake Powatan ($2.00 per person fee). This is part of the Pisgah Forest.
There are at least 5 trails. You can get a map at the entrance. I take a left toward the "beach and fishing" area and a woman at Parking Lot A tells me that the trail here called Homestead goes around to the beach area of the lake and is quite beautiful. She is right. It is a lovely trail along the edges of the lake and over bridges crossing Bent Creek, often through tunnels of rhodadenron whose new buds have not yet opened. There is indeed a beach and later I come upon Hardtimes Rd. By instinct, I take a left there and it takes me all the way around the lake to the fishing pier and back to to the parking lot. The air is full of the sweet and fetid fragrance of eleagnes, the tiny white flowers blooming in bushes all along the banks of the lake. Wild white roses peek out from the sides of the road.
I try a second trail called "Deerfield Loop". You find this trail by driving straight from the entrance to a parking lot which is high up over the beach area. There is a restroom here just down the trail towards the beach. Deerfield Loop is accessed from the road from the entrance. This trail loops around a high ridge above a tiny stream. Indeed at the crest, there is a meadow, which must be the deer field. Soon there is the entrance to Pine Tree Trail and then below that an arrow to Small Creek. At the arrow to Small Creek, you must take a left to complete the Deerfield loop.
The trails here are reached from one trail to another.
Besides Homestead, Deerfield and Pine Tree, there are Explorer (3 mi) and Sleepy Gap/Graggy Mountain (1 /34 mi). There are often mountain bikers, runners and hikers along the way. There could be a deer or a bear, but I saw none.
Deep in the forest, mountain azaleas are blooming, their orange sun colored blossoms reaching up from tall branches on spindly trunks.
Wildfires are burning somewhere in the Pisgah Forest. Oddly, the air is still clear.
Leaving, going down the mountain, I find I am behind and then in front of a huge truck whose load is marked "explosives".
Around and back we go until I outdistance him on the Saluda Grade. There are turnoffs here for trucks that lose their brakes.
I am listening to Bob Dylan singing: "I Threw It All Away".
I once held her in my arms
She said she would always stay
But I was cruel
I treated her like a fool
I threw it all away
Once I held mountains in the palm of my hand
And rivers that ran through every day.
I must have been mad
I never knew what I had
Until I threw it all away.
Love is all there is, it makes the world go round
Love and only love, it can't be denied.
No matter what you think about it,
You just won't be able to live without it
Take a tip from one who's tried.
So if you find someone that gives you all of her love,
Take it to your heart, don't let it stray.
For one thing that's certain
You will surely be a hurtin'
If you throw it all away.
Turn off I-26 West at exit 33 onto hwy 191 (Brevard Rd), go past the Outlet Mall, past Discount Shoes and Celebrity Hot Dogs on the right and Possum Trot Rd on the left . Across from Beth Shalom Cemetery there will be a sign for Lake Powatan Bent Creek National Forrest Recreational Area. turn right for 2.3 miles through little Stormy Ridge Neighborhood. On the right is a road to Rice Pinacle Trail Head, then on the left is a very small parking lot (probably filled with cars) for the Hardtimes Trail Head,then the entrance to Lake Powatan ($2.00 per person fee). This is part of the Pisgah Forest.
There are at least 5 trails. You can get a map at the entrance. I take a left toward the "beach and fishing" area and a woman at Parking Lot A tells me that the trail here called Homestead goes around to the beach area of the lake and is quite beautiful. She is right. It is a lovely trail along the edges of the lake and over bridges crossing Bent Creek, often through tunnels of rhodadenron whose new buds have not yet opened. There is indeed a beach and later I come upon Hardtimes Rd. By instinct, I take a left there and it takes me all the way around the lake to the fishing pier and back to to the parking lot. The air is full of the sweet and fetid fragrance of eleagnes, the tiny white flowers blooming in bushes all along the banks of the lake. Wild white roses peek out from the sides of the road.
I try a second trail called "Deerfield Loop". You find this trail by driving straight from the entrance to a parking lot which is high up over the beach area. There is a restroom here just down the trail towards the beach. Deerfield Loop is accessed from the road from the entrance. This trail loops around a high ridge above a tiny stream. Indeed at the crest, there is a meadow, which must be the deer field. Soon there is the entrance to Pine Tree Trail and then below that an arrow to Small Creek. At the arrow to Small Creek, you must take a left to complete the Deerfield loop.
The trails here are reached from one trail to another.
Besides Homestead, Deerfield and Pine Tree, there are Explorer (3 mi) and Sleepy Gap/Graggy Mountain (1 /34 mi). There are often mountain bikers, runners and hikers along the way. There could be a deer or a bear, but I saw none.
Deep in the forest, mountain azaleas are blooming, their orange sun colored blossoms reaching up from tall branches on spindly trunks.
Wildfires are burning somewhere in the Pisgah Forest. Oddly, the air is still clear.
Leaving, going down the mountain, I find I am behind and then in front of a huge truck whose load is marked "explosives".
Around and back we go until I outdistance him on the Saluda Grade. There are turnoffs here for trucks that lose their brakes.
I am listening to Bob Dylan singing: "I Threw It All Away".
I once held her in my arms
She said she would always stay
But I was cruel
I treated her like a fool
I threw it all away
Once I held mountains in the palm of my hand
And rivers that ran through every day.
I must have been mad
I never knew what I had
Until I threw it all away.
Love is all there is, it makes the world go round
Love and only love, it can't be denied.
No matter what you think about it,
You just won't be able to live without it
Take a tip from one who's tried.
So if you find someone that gives you all of her love,
Take it to your heart, don't let it stray.
For one thing that's certain
You will surely be a hurtin'
If you throw it all away.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
April 28,2015 The Rocky Branch Natural Area at Little Mountain, SC
On a cool blue day, I headed for Lynch's Wood at Newberry only to find it closed for repair of bridges. A Police Department employee told me that there was a good trail down SC 76 at the small town of Little Mountain. I followed the Georgia Pacific Railway East through Prosperity, past fields of green, of blue and of yellow wild flowers and stopped at the Little Mountain Unlimited Antique Mall for directions. The clerk there knew nothing of a trail, but a handsome man with a lisp appeared and told me to continue on 76 (Main St), pass the Citgo Station on the right and then the big church (Lutheran) and turn right on Mountain St. Shortly, AME Zion church is on the left and then a turn to the left and the park is on the left. (There is a sign at Main and Mountain).
There in the woods is a picnic shelter with table, restrooms and a memorial to Roxie Koon Derrick "In Appreciation for her loving and generous spirit whose desire is to share this wonderful place with present and future generations. The town of Little Mountain and its Citizens." November 2012.
The trail is a dirt road down the hill (it may be the little mountain of the town's name) and then up a hill again.
Down to the left, the gleaming pewter surface of a pool of the branch is visible. Butterflies and dragonflies flitter around me. The path is a loop with benches here and there and two wooden porches built into the side of the little mountain where you can sit and look down into the forest below. The trail eventually loops back to the picnic shelter.
Again I visited the Antique store and the same man told me that "Roxanne" of the trail is still alive and owns a gas station in town. This is the biggest antique store I have ever visited. It is full of pink depression glass, china, pottery, Citadel and Boy Scourt uniforms, Barbie dolls, linens, wreaths made from cotton plants, bird houses, iron skillets, portraits of generals A.P. Hill and George Meade who met at Gettysburg, a sign says "Fresh Eggs" and another boasts a cafe in the basement. Also down below are beautifully restored antique cars, a truck and even a tractor. Beside the cafe is a set up for a live band with keyboard, drums, guitars.
The clerk tells me that this building was once a mercantile store, but was turned into the antique store about seven years ago.
In old Irish stories and in most of the world's mythology, dragonflies and butterflies are considered a glimpse of the ephemeral and transient, a fire like presence of the spirit or soul with the ability to cross into the other world.
Little Mountain can be reached from I-26 or from SC 76. It is 8 miles East of Newberry and just West of Chapin.
There in the woods is a picnic shelter with table, restrooms and a memorial to Roxie Koon Derrick "In Appreciation for her loving and generous spirit whose desire is to share this wonderful place with present and future generations. The town of Little Mountain and its Citizens." November 2012.
The trail is a dirt road down the hill (it may be the little mountain of the town's name) and then up a hill again.
Down to the left, the gleaming pewter surface of a pool of the branch is visible. Butterflies and dragonflies flitter around me. The path is a loop with benches here and there and two wooden porches built into the side of the little mountain where you can sit and look down into the forest below. The trail eventually loops back to the picnic shelter.
Again I visited the Antique store and the same man told me that "Roxanne" of the trail is still alive and owns a gas station in town. This is the biggest antique store I have ever visited. It is full of pink depression glass, china, pottery, Citadel and Boy Scourt uniforms, Barbie dolls, linens, wreaths made from cotton plants, bird houses, iron skillets, portraits of generals A.P. Hill and George Meade who met at Gettysburg, a sign says "Fresh Eggs" and another boasts a cafe in the basement. Also down below are beautifully restored antique cars, a truck and even a tractor. Beside the cafe is a set up for a live band with keyboard, drums, guitars.
The clerk tells me that this building was once a mercantile store, but was turned into the antique store about seven years ago.
In old Irish stories and in most of the world's mythology, dragonflies and butterflies are considered a glimpse of the ephemeral and transient, a fire like presence of the spirit or soul with the ability to cross into the other world.
Little Mountain can be reached from I-26 or from SC 76. It is 8 miles East of Newberry and just West of Chapin.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
April 14, 2015 Greenwood State Park: Terra Emeralda
There is just a short nature trail here, a loop behind camp ground number 1. It is raining and warm as I enter a green world. Emerald, sage, vert, verdigris, malachite, beryl, aquamarine, chartreuse, lime, kelly, olive, Mittler's green, Prussian green, bronze green, Lincoln green,yellow green, grass green, forest green, spinach green, moss green, pine green, Nile green, jade, viridian. I am in Terra Emeralda, the trees fleshed out with new leaves, the ground covered with new green muscadine vines. The light filtered through the dark clouds illuminates this verdant world. I search the roots of fallen trees for arrowheads and find only a large brown frog. I can imagine the early settlers of the town of Greenwood naming this place "green wood".
The birds sing: jeepers, jeepers, jimmy, jimmy, leave her, leave her, we do it, we do it, like the motto of the CCC who built the structures in 1938, "We can take it". There is a small fishing pier with names carved on its rails: " Aika, Jason, Zornies were here." Picnic tables are nearby. The lake is as green as the woods.
I visit the Drummond Center and the Ranger takes me to open the doors onto the stone terrace and an astonishing view of the lake. The is a small photographic museum here devoted to the State Parks, the CCC and the people who had lived on the land as share croppers or owners.
I came up from Columbia on I-26 West, took exit 74 onto highway 34 through Newberry and continued 25 miles over Bush River, Beaver Dam Creek, Little River and the green Saluda. There are blue, purple, pink and white ragged robins in the fields, red clover, then through the little town of Silver Street and took a right on hwy 702, then two miles to the park. Near the entrance, there is a "Grand Daddy Greybeard" in full bloom, dripping a beard of white blossoms.
Leaving, I continued on 702 until I saw a sign that said a Piggley Wiggley was 3 miles down Wilson Bridge Road on a sharp left. Turned left on Cambridge Road which took me immediately to the Piggley Wiggley in the town of Ninety Six. Here I visited the D and L Flower Shop in an old building, next door to Linda's Then Again and in front of Hairidice Styling Salon.
I went back on Cambridge Rd (246) until I met hwy 72 which took me through the edge of Greenwood and over the lake. I had lunch looking out over the water at the Subway in the Sunoco Gas Station, the best Subway view in the world, where a man sailed up in his small boat, cut off his Evinrude and mounted the steps to the Subway (just like driving up in a car) and got his bag lunch to go back into the boat.
Hwy 72 continues on to Clinton where I took Hwy 56 which crosses I-26 again. The sun is breaking out though the big white clouds as I arrive home.
The birds sing: jeepers, jeepers, jimmy, jimmy, leave her, leave her, we do it, we do it, like the motto of the CCC who built the structures in 1938, "We can take it". There is a small fishing pier with names carved on its rails: " Aika, Jason, Zornies were here." Picnic tables are nearby. The lake is as green as the woods.
I visit the Drummond Center and the Ranger takes me to open the doors onto the stone terrace and an astonishing view of the lake. The is a small photographic museum here devoted to the State Parks, the CCC and the people who had lived on the land as share croppers or owners.
I came up from Columbia on I-26 West, took exit 74 onto highway 34 through Newberry and continued 25 miles over Bush River, Beaver Dam Creek, Little River and the green Saluda. There are blue, purple, pink and white ragged robins in the fields, red clover, then through the little town of Silver Street and took a right on hwy 702, then two miles to the park. Near the entrance, there is a "Grand Daddy Greybeard" in full bloom, dripping a beard of white blossoms.
Leaving, I continued on 702 until I saw a sign that said a Piggley Wiggley was 3 miles down Wilson Bridge Road on a sharp left. Turned left on Cambridge Road which took me immediately to the Piggley Wiggley in the town of Ninety Six. Here I visited the D and L Flower Shop in an old building, next door to Linda's Then Again and in front of Hairidice Styling Salon.
I went back on Cambridge Rd (246) until I met hwy 72 which took me through the edge of Greenwood and over the lake. I had lunch looking out over the water at the Subway in the Sunoco Gas Station, the best Subway view in the world, where a man sailed up in his small boat, cut off his Evinrude and mounted the steps to the Subway (just like driving up in a car) and got his bag lunch to go back into the boat.
Hwy 72 continues on to Clinton where I took Hwy 56 which crosses I-26 again. The sun is breaking out though the big white clouds as I arrive home.
Monday, April 13, 2015
April 12, 2015 Woodruff Greenway , Wild Pink Dogwood and Poke Salat
I am driving 221 (Church St. in Spartanburg, Main St in Woodruff) listening to Jose Feliciano playing and singing "You Were Always on My Mind" from his new album, "The King".
Past dogwoods and violet wisteria, 221 joins 146 when you bear to the left after the old downtown. All is quiet as the good people of Woodruff are all at their places of worship in the early dawn. Turn left at the Baptist Church. On the right is the high school, then on the left is the Junior High. There is no sign, no indication of the trail, so drive into the far end of the parking lot and walk down to the Theo Atheletic field.
Behind the bleachers the trail goes downhill to a series of two bridges over a clear stream.
Violets and ferns grow on the banks.
River birches stand tall. Out in the hardwood forest, stands a wild pink dogwood, the first wild pink one I have ever seen. My mother said long ago, my grandfather had found one out in the woods down home and tagged it with a red strip of cloth to dig it up in the Fall, but someone else got it first.
The tender green shoots of Poke Salat are spouting up near fallen logs.
The trail is an out and back just under a mile long. It ends (or begins) at the Woodruff Leisure Center where I meet a Dad and his two boys who tell me that this lovely walk is nearly always deserted. There is a plan to extend this trail.
If you follow 146 West, you will eventually leave the old small town and in about 20 minutes, find yourself in the cosmopolitan crash of the big shopping venue of Greenville. Out of the past and into the future.
Poke Salat Annie by Tony Joe White:
"If some of yall.......
Down in Louisanna where the alligators grow so mean
There lived a girl that I swear to the world
Made the alligators look tame
Poke salat Annie, Poke salat Annie
Everybody said it was a shame
Cause her mama was working on the chain gang
(a mean, vicious woman)
Everyday 'fore supppertime she'd go down by the truck patch
And pick her a mess of Poke salat
And carry it home in a tote sack.
Poke salat Annie, 'Gators got you Granny
Everybody said it was a shame..
Cause her mama was working on the chain gang.
Lord have mercy, pick a mess of it...
Her daddy was lazy and no count,
Claimed he had a bad back.
All her brothers were fit for was stealin
Watermelons out of my truck patch
Sock a little Poke salat to me, you know I need it.
Poke salat Annie.
Past dogwoods and violet wisteria, 221 joins 146 when you bear to the left after the old downtown. All is quiet as the good people of Woodruff are all at their places of worship in the early dawn. Turn left at the Baptist Church. On the right is the high school, then on the left is the Junior High. There is no sign, no indication of the trail, so drive into the far end of the parking lot and walk down to the Theo Atheletic field.
Behind the bleachers the trail goes downhill to a series of two bridges over a clear stream.
Violets and ferns grow on the banks.
River birches stand tall. Out in the hardwood forest, stands a wild pink dogwood, the first wild pink one I have ever seen. My mother said long ago, my grandfather had found one out in the woods down home and tagged it with a red strip of cloth to dig it up in the Fall, but someone else got it first.
The tender green shoots of Poke Salat are spouting up near fallen logs.
The trail is an out and back just under a mile long. It ends (or begins) at the Woodruff Leisure Center where I meet a Dad and his two boys who tell me that this lovely walk is nearly always deserted. There is a plan to extend this trail.
If you follow 146 West, you will eventually leave the old small town and in about 20 minutes, find yourself in the cosmopolitan crash of the big shopping venue of Greenville. Out of the past and into the future.
Poke Salat Annie by Tony Joe White:
"If some of yall.......
Down in Louisanna where the alligators grow so mean
There lived a girl that I swear to the world
Made the alligators look tame
Poke salat Annie, Poke salat Annie
Everybody said it was a shame
Cause her mama was working on the chain gang
(a mean, vicious woman)
Everyday 'fore supppertime she'd go down by the truck patch
And pick her a mess of Poke salat
And carry it home in a tote sack.
Poke salat Annie, 'Gators got you Granny
Everybody said it was a shame..
Cause her mama was working on the chain gang.
Lord have mercy, pick a mess of it...
Her daddy was lazy and no count,
Claimed he had a bad back.
All her brothers were fit for was stealin
Watermelons out of my truck patch
Sock a little Poke salat to me, you know I need it.
Poke salat Annie.
Monday, March 30, 2015
March 29, 2015 Prayer Flags in Tryon, NC
High above the main street through Tryon, multicolored prayer flags are sending their mantras on the breath of the Wind Horse across the escarpment of the Appalachian Mountains. Garuda (Wisdom), Dragon (Strength), Tiger (Confidence) and Snow Lion ( Joy ) printed on the flags symbolize the five virtues of Tibetan philosophy.
But no, the flags are men's neckties and the Wind Horse is "Morris the Horse", a giant painted white replica of a nursery toy on the corner of Pacolet Street. Turn here and then turn left onto one way narrow Chestnut street and on the right is the parking lot for Woodland Park.
Trillium spouts up by the first wooden bridge. Bloodroot and a tiny yellow flower bloom along the path.
Blue periwinkle covers the ground. This is a short and beautiful trail winding along a rock stream with a small waterfall.
Behind a fallen log, someone has recently left their cache of Yuengling Lager.
At the foot of the hill is a Dollar General where I buy tiny toys to put in plastic eggs for Zack and Shane.
A woman in the store tells me that her cat ran off with a raccoon. "They are friends," she says.
This is the town where my father lived perhaps eighty years ago, managing a hosiery mill for Abraham Feinberg, president then of Fruit of the Loom.
But no, the flags are men's neckties and the Wind Horse is "Morris the Horse", a giant painted white replica of a nursery toy on the corner of Pacolet Street. Turn here and then turn left onto one way narrow Chestnut street and on the right is the parking lot for Woodland Park.
Trillium spouts up by the first wooden bridge. Bloodroot and a tiny yellow flower bloom along the path.
Blue periwinkle covers the ground. This is a short and beautiful trail winding along a rock stream with a small waterfall.
Behind a fallen log, someone has recently left their cache of Yuengling Lager.
At the foot of the hill is a Dollar General where I buy tiny toys to put in plastic eggs for Zack and Shane.
A woman in the store tells me that her cat ran off with a raccoon. "They are friends," she says.
This is the town where my father lived perhaps eighty years ago, managing a hosiery mill for Abraham Feinberg, president then of Fruit of the Loom.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
March 24, 2015 Holly and Laurel Where There Was Murder and Mayhem
I have walked today along the aged stone parapet of the first South Carolina Prison, built in 1866. It was demolished several years ago and what remains is a tall wall of great rustic granite blocks rising above the Columbia Canal and the Congaree River. There is a grassy open field lined with benches high over the waters and on the other side more granite blocks lining the walk. In the middle of the grassy field is a series of five fountains built into a stone basin, gurgling up into the Spring air.
It is a short stroll from here to the Vista, a repurposed old down town neighborhood of art galleries, antique stores, restaurants and businesses.
Or you can go down a series of steps beside the old brick facade of the prison (someone has written in paint:
"Trust No Hoes") to the Canal Riverfront Park. Here there are Hollies and Laurel and many crape myrtles planted in memory of loved ones. Jasmine, the State flower, and azaleas are blooming.
There is something about the huge granite slabs that held the prisoners in, that is redolent of the dark deeds that brought men here and of the dark deeds housed within.
It is a short stroll from here to the Vista, a repurposed old down town neighborhood of art galleries, antique stores, restaurants and businesses.
Or you can go down a series of steps beside the old brick facade of the prison (someone has written in paint:
"Trust No Hoes") to the Canal Riverfront Park. Here there are Hollies and Laurel and many crape myrtles planted in memory of loved ones. Jasmine, the State flower, and azaleas are blooming.
There is something about the huge granite slabs that held the prisoners in, that is redolent of the dark deeds that brought men here and of the dark deeds housed within.
March 21, 2015 Tadpoles in the Wetlands
Yes, Spring came yesterday at 6:00 pm.
The birds are calling:
"zuccinni, , zucinni, zucinni"
"speak to her, speak to her, speak to her"
Yoshina cherry trees are in full bloom, little purple violets burst from the grass.
There are hundreds of tadpoles in the wetlands. They have three pairs of gills, no eyelids, a long body and tail with dorsal fin.
They are telling us about metamorphosis, the power of change and coming of age.
The birds are calling:
"zuccinni, , zucinni, zucinni"
"speak to her, speak to her, speak to her"
Yoshina cherry trees are in full bloom, little purple violets burst from the grass.
There are hundreds of tadpoles in the wetlands. They have three pairs of gills, no eyelids, a long body and tail with dorsal fin.
They are telling us about metamorphosis, the power of change and coming of age.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
March 17, 2015 Columbia Canal, the Grave of the Leetmen
Below the path by the canal lie the bones of the indentured Irishmen who built this canal in 1820. They lie in the earth without a stone, without a name. They came from a cold country and many perished from the heat or died of disease endemic to this region. Those who died were buried in this very bank where runners and walkers, strollers with babies and bike riders exercise in the warm breath of early Spring. Those who survived established a village called "Little Dublin" near where the Campus of the University of South Carolina exists today and from which many of their descendants have graduated.
Today their monument is draped with a green wreath. "Ar Dheis Go Raibh Anamach Na Marbh", May They Rest on the Right Hand of God.
The white clouds of Bradford Pear trees billow gently. The arms of purple Red Buds reach out from the woods. From a distance there is a pale green and pink glow from the forests.
The full tilt boogie band of Spring is tuning up.
Today their monument is draped with a green wreath. "Ar Dheis Go Raibh Anamach Na Marbh", May They Rest on the Right Hand of God.
The white clouds of Bradford Pear trees billow gently. The arms of purple Red Buds reach out from the woods. From a distance there is a pale green and pink glow from the forests.
The full tilt boogie band of Spring is tuning up.
Monday, March 16, 2015
March 15, 2015 Bloodroot at Pearson's Falls
The tiny white flower of the bloodroot is blooming along the stone stepped path up the mountain by Colt Creek to Pearson's Falls. Colt Creek falls in three steep tiers and flows down down down to the Pacolet. The air is filled with the cool clean breath of water. There is a woman photographing the leaves of the yet to bloom Oconee Bell springing up from a crag in the rocks. This silver shine clear day of 76 degrees has blossomed out of the cold and muck of winter. I talk with a family of Romanian immigrants sitting on a bench near the highest viewing place just over the Ethel James Chase stone bridge built by her sons and grandson. A young couple is lying side by side on a smooth rock. It is a short walk of only a quarter mile up. There are restrooms and picnic tables. There is a $5.00 entrance fee for adults used to keep up the 268 acre sanctuary by the Tryon Garden Club.
In the parking lot are cars from Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Florida, North and South Carolina. A woman in a car with Connecticut plates stops by me and tells me "I just had to get out of the snow. I booked a room in Saluda and drove down for a week." She tells me that the New Haven St. Pat's Parade is postponed due to the flooding produced by melting snow in the streets.
The Palmetto Trail Head is nearby.
I came up by taking Hwy 108 West from Columbus, NC , turning onto Harmon Field Road where I see a horse event going on and where a Barbeque Festival is held each Spring. From here Hwy 176 leads to a left for Pearson's Falls Road.
Leaving the park, I continue 3 miles up the winding hwy 176 into the small town of Saluda, NC. The cozy main street is lined with antique stores and restaurants where there is often live music. Honking Tonkers Gallery featuring bakery and chocolates, Thompson Grocery, the Purple Onion, the Saluda Grade Cafe.
I come out of the "Somewhere in Time" store of Pace General Store with a yellow and violet frayed quilt, so soft and comforting.
There is an easier way to leave here for home. I go back East on 176 and turn left onto Ozone Road and shortly reach I-26 and the sharp incline down the Saluda Grade where it is possible to see for miles across the flat plain laid out in front of you. WNCW public radio from Isothermal Community College is wafting the mountain music of fiddles and banjos across the airwaves, the wild old mountain songs of love and murder.
My heart is pounding with the beat as I pass by Lake Bowen whose furled waters are bright and glimmering in the late afternoon light, then home again where the first Japanese Magnolias are opening their pink and mauve blossoms.
In the parking lot are cars from Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Florida, North and South Carolina. A woman in a car with Connecticut plates stops by me and tells me "I just had to get out of the snow. I booked a room in Saluda and drove down for a week." She tells me that the New Haven St. Pat's Parade is postponed due to the flooding produced by melting snow in the streets.
The Palmetto Trail Head is nearby.
I came up by taking Hwy 108 West from Columbus, NC , turning onto Harmon Field Road where I see a horse event going on and where a Barbeque Festival is held each Spring. From here Hwy 176 leads to a left for Pearson's Falls Road.
Leaving the park, I continue 3 miles up the winding hwy 176 into the small town of Saluda, NC. The cozy main street is lined with antique stores and restaurants where there is often live music. Honking Tonkers Gallery featuring bakery and chocolates, Thompson Grocery, the Purple Onion, the Saluda Grade Cafe.
I come out of the "Somewhere in Time" store of Pace General Store with a yellow and violet frayed quilt, so soft and comforting.
There is an easier way to leave here for home. I go back East on 176 and turn left onto Ozone Road and shortly reach I-26 and the sharp incline down the Saluda Grade where it is possible to see for miles across the flat plain laid out in front of you. WNCW public radio from Isothermal Community College is wafting the mountain music of fiddles and banjos across the airwaves, the wild old mountain songs of love and murder.
My heart is pounding with the beat as I pass by Lake Bowen whose furled waters are bright and glimmering in the late afternoon light, then home again where the first Japanese Magnolias are opening their pink and mauve blossoms.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
March 1, 2015 Leaving Siberia for Hunting Island State Park
Friday night I dreamed of riding my bike to Hunting Island and then I awakened on Saturday morning to birds singing outside my bedroom window and all of the snow and ice melted and gone.
February has been full of the most snow and ice in my entire memory. The sun has seldom visited. Boston and New York are getting hit for the 6th time with several feet of snow.
Now it is 9:00 am and 30 degrees with rain as I start out. In Union, it is 31', The shoulders of the road are wet, red and muddy Whitmire 32', Pomaria 33', then 34'. Columbia is 35' As the temperature creeps up, so does the price of gas.
A huge mobile home passes me from Illinois: MY IKON RV says its plate, then comes Quebec, Ontario, Arizona, Minnesota, Massachusetts, fleeing south out of the blizzards.
Down 21 South, a bridge is out and I detour. I pass the Dukes Harley Funeral Home and then in Orangburg in the Burger King, there is a fly. Could this be the first sign of Spring. I look for jasmine hanging from trees, red buds with pink flowers leaning over the road but there are none. There are daffodils and jonquils blooming and the trees are beginning to unfurl tiny red beginnings of leaves. The ditches are filled with black water.
The rain is pouring in Beaufort and it is 41 degrees.
By some miracle as I enter Hunting Island, the rain ceases. I walk down the beach around the drowned trees to the camp ground and then round back on the Magnolia Forest Trail. Along the way I pass great trees, their arms stretched upward, draped in voluminous dead vines, looking like monsters in a children's book. There has been so much rain, that great pools cover the trail here and there so that I tramp through the woods. My feet are soaked.
At night from the Lighthouse Keeper's cabin, we can see the light of the Lighthouse, replaced since last year.
I sleep the sleep of the innocent and in the morning walk the beach, gathering sand dollars under a gray sky. breathing the salt air and the fetid, rich scent of pluff mud, the stuff life comes from.
By noon, the sun can be seen again. The sky is blue with striated white clouds.
Spring is going to come soon, I hope.
February has been full of the most snow and ice in my entire memory. The sun has seldom visited. Boston and New York are getting hit for the 6th time with several feet of snow.
Now it is 9:00 am and 30 degrees with rain as I start out. In Union, it is 31', The shoulders of the road are wet, red and muddy Whitmire 32', Pomaria 33', then 34'. Columbia is 35' As the temperature creeps up, so does the price of gas.
A huge mobile home passes me from Illinois: MY IKON RV says its plate, then comes Quebec, Ontario, Arizona, Minnesota, Massachusetts, fleeing south out of the blizzards.
Down 21 South, a bridge is out and I detour. I pass the Dukes Harley Funeral Home and then in Orangburg in the Burger King, there is a fly. Could this be the first sign of Spring. I look for jasmine hanging from trees, red buds with pink flowers leaning over the road but there are none. There are daffodils and jonquils blooming and the trees are beginning to unfurl tiny red beginnings of leaves. The ditches are filled with black water.
The rain is pouring in Beaufort and it is 41 degrees.
By some miracle as I enter Hunting Island, the rain ceases. I walk down the beach around the drowned trees to the camp ground and then round back on the Magnolia Forest Trail. Along the way I pass great trees, their arms stretched upward, draped in voluminous dead vines, looking like monsters in a children's book. There has been so much rain, that great pools cover the trail here and there so that I tramp through the woods. My feet are soaked.
At night from the Lighthouse Keeper's cabin, we can see the light of the Lighthouse, replaced since last year.
I sleep the sleep of the innocent and in the morning walk the beach, gathering sand dollars under a gray sky. breathing the salt air and the fetid, rich scent of pluff mud, the stuff life comes from.
By noon, the sun can be seen again. The sky is blue with striated white clouds.
Spring is going to come soon, I hope.
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