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.
Monday, March 30, 2015
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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