May 18, 2013 Heartbreakingly Beautiful, the Mulberry and the Catalpa

I am walking in the rain. The air is fragrant with honeysuckle and many flowers.  The rivers and lakes and ponds are full again after years of drought. There are fields of daisies, fields of yellow dandelions, roadsides of blue, purple, pink and white ragged robins. Red, pink and white poppies are planted in the medians of the highway.  The trees are bowing with the weight of water, full and rich with green.  The Mulberry trees are heavy with unripened fruit.

The purple catalpa has bloomed and the tall white blossomed catalpa is now blooming. It is sometimes called the catawba or the Indian fish bait tree. The sphinx moth lives only in this tree and the larvae are excellent bait for fish.  Ryan tells me that on his grandfather's farm in Mississippi, they had a catfish pond, ringed with catawba trees. All they had to do to fish, was  use a cane pole, bait the hook with the sphinx worm and catch a catfish for dinner.

There is a Greek myth about how the Mulberry fruit changed from white to red. The lovers, Pyramus and Thesbe were forbidden to marry and so they planned to meet secretly under the mulberry tree. Thesbe arrived first only to be frightened away by a lion who took her scarf in his mouth and stained it with the juice from the berries. When Pyramus arrived he found the red stained scarf and thought Thesbe to be dead. He took his sword and killed himself. When she returned and found him dead, Thesbe took the sword and joined her lover in death. Their mingled blood soaked into the soil and stained the white berries red forever.

(There actually are white, red and black varieties, the red being indigenous to North America.)

I broke off a low branch of the catalpa, stripped it of leaves, dipped it in root hormone and planted it on a sunny bank.
Monday will be Peter's birthday.  He is in the hospital suffering from the ravages of long mental illness.
I plant the tree in his honor.

In all cultures, the planting of a tree is believed to be an investment in life.

"He who plants a tree will live a long life." Marco Polo.

May 14, 2013 Little River Blueway: Hickory Knob and Baker's Creek State Parks

I took 221 which goes directly to McCormick through old Southern towns along the railroad, Woodruff, Laurens, Greenwood and then McCormick (keep straight and continue on 378 a few miles to both parks).
On the way home I went through Clinton(catch 56 after Greenwood) instead of Laurens.  All of these towns have a  railroad running down the main streets alongside antique stores, spas and cultural centers.

( You can get there from I-26 if you take 25 somewhere near the town of Saluda and then to McCormick.)

At Hickory Knob, you come to a golf course at the end of the world with Pro Shop and bar, a lodge with swimming pool and dining room with buffet serving breakfast, lunch and dinner. In the great room lobby, there are stuffed chairs and couches and pool tables. On the wall are paintings from winners of the
Artist in Residence program each year. I like the water colour.

There are many golfers, but no hikers and the desk clerks, administrative staff do not know anything about the trails.  The clerk tells me to take the Beaver Run trail which loops back.

Most of the time, it travels along Strom Thurmond Lake.  I come upon a cabin and peek in the window.
There is a table with a half downed bottle of Jose Cuervo on top.  I keep going until I realize the trail is not a loop.   The rocks I find as I go are very heavy and rust streaked as if full of iron ore.

There are ant hills everywhere, and mounds of fire ants.

I see another log cabin which is the Guillebeau House built in 1770 and moved here from the Huguenot settlement of New Bordeau nearby.

A woman in the Pro Shop connects me to "Ranger George" on the phone who sets me straight about the trails.  They start at the big red barn and there are several, two or three miles each and one of 7  miles.

In the car, I realize that my legs are burning and itching.  I have been attacked by fire ants.

Baker's Creek State Park is only three miles away. It has a beautiful pavilion whose wide porch reaches out over the shore of Little River, a wonderful place to picnic.  There are trails here.

I drive home out of this part of the Sumter National Forrest under a cloudless pale blue sky, a perfect temperature of 70 degrees, past a church advertising a pancake breakfast and another with a sign stating "The Holy Ghost Came".  In Greenwood, I drive past the Amish Oven, renowned for good food and then treat myself to a real donut at Donuts and More (they have Tiger Mountain coffee too). This is a real old fashioned donut store, with real yeast raised donuts that taste like they used to taste.  Delicious. Coming down through Greenwood, you pass the Civic Auditorium on the left, then Charzene's Beauty College on the right, go through the stop light and the Donut and More is on the left.

Today I have been to the Little River Blueway (and it is more blue than green).  This is an area of the Sumter National Forrest, full of lakes and rivers and part of the Savanah River system which is the border of South Carolina and Georgia.

At home, I put cortisone cream on the ant bites.

Ruefully I read about Australian Aboriginal ant totems.  The ant works for the common good and has the characteristic of patience. The ant spirit teaches that you have everything you need and will receive it when you need it most.   If the ant people come to visit you, this is what you need to learn.

I also read that the fire ant illuminates the beauty of the earth with the brightness of his fire.

I'll say!

May 10, 2013 Back From the Dead

After two months, Big Cat is back, looking none the worse for wear and obviously not eaten by a coyote.
She missed the Flycatcher chicks and I am glad as one year, one fell out of the nest and Big Cat mauled it and brought it's body to me.

I went for a walk in Floyd's Greenlawn Cemetery while I was getting tires for my car. It was early and the workers were out digging, putting up tents and taking them down.  I saw a woman walking in the distance who then mysteriously disappeared.  It occurred to me that she could have been a ghost who had left her grave in the spring earth to have a walk around again.

At home, a message from my cousin, Andy, saying his brother, Bob's heart had weakened and he had quietly left the earth on Sunday.

I thought about how brave Big Cat is, how valiant, how fearless, to just up and leave for the unknown and then to return with the same Attitude.  And I thought now is the time to take more risks, not less. What is there to lose?

Later today, I am going to drive down to Atlanta in a rainstorm with one headlight to go with Eleanor to the High Museum to see the Frida and Diego exhibit which ends tomorrow.

May 7, 2013 Muskrat Ramble

Raining this morning along the Columbia canal.  A few drenched runners and walkers pass by laughing.
I carry my green polka dot umbrella.  The canal has overflowed.  No rocks can be seen in the Congaree as it furiously rushes by.

As the rain begins to let up, animals appear.  A great blue heron just yards away on the bank.  Two rained slicked Canadian geese just on the side of the path.  A pair of wood ducks (aix sponsa) paddle out into the flood. Farther on, a pair of mallards.

I can see something with a silky swim coming across the canal. It is a small brown muskrat  (ondata zibethicus)who clambers up the edge of the shore and begins munching on the varigated honey suckle growing up everywhere among the rocks. The spirit of the muskrat is to create order out of chaos.

The honeysuckle is so very fragrant and I have never seen the yellow/rose/white variety.  I break off branches to take home, dip in root hormone and plant at my mailbox. As children, we pulled the stamen through the flower, releasing a drop of nectar to drop on the tongue and relish the pure sweetness. Honeysuckle is native to Japan.  For the Greeks it was the flower of love, blooming all summer long while Daphnis and Cloe were together. The Chinese used it for snake bite and the Scottish draped it on barns to keep the evil spirits away from their cattle.

The rain has stopped, I notice the 12 foot sculpture by Rachel Palmer called "Welcome Home" which speaks of the three rivers, the Congaree, the Saluda and the Broad.  There are seven cubes on top of each other, each displaying layer upon layer of earth, silt, rocks, sediment and even a glove, a bottle, a key, the fragments of someone's life.

May 6, 2013 Water Colours

All day yesterday it rained and into the night.  This morning there is a break.  To the South, dark heavy clouds filled with water and dark burnt umber shadows. To the north, Chinese white cumulonimbus clouds with cerulean blue patches and a high ceiling.

At Glendale Shoals, the muddy Lawson's Fork Creek roars, rushes and tumbles with enormous force over the spillway, flooding its banks.

A mountain bluebird whisks down the shadowy tunnel of the water and the rain drenched branches of trees
reaching over the maelstrom.

From the Mountains to the Sea (Charleston and Asheville) April 28, 29, 30, and May 1, 2013

Rain, rain, rain.  I drove to Charleston in a downpour all the way until Summerville where it stopped.  Old friends were waiting at the Andrew Pinckney. We walked down Meeting St and across Queen St, past the pineapple fountain to the waterfront park where we sat on a big swing and watched the boats in the Cooper River.

In the morning the rain caught up with us while we had breakfast on the roof in sight of the Ravenel Bridge.

We toured Drayton Hall, sitting under a tent with shards of phosphorous, sweet grass baskets and a saucer of early Native American/African pottery on the table in front of us.

More rain poured down as we were guided through the hall itself, my favorite part being the penciled records of the heights of the children as they grew on the door jam, facing the record of the standing
heights of Charlotta's dogs on the other side.

May 1,  Carl Sandburg's mountain-side home, Connemara, in Flat Rock, rain dimpling the lovely pond, twin
kid goats lying in the grass (descendants of Mrs. Sandburg's herd), the sound of Sandburg's guitar and his aged voice playing in the house.

In Asheville, we walked from the Grove Arcade up to Pack Square and the Vance monument and back and came down, down, down the mountain in the rain, rain, rain.

April 25, 2013 Gone, But Not Forgotten

I could see the Flycatcher chicks, big and fat, poised on the top of their nest as I went out the door to put my bag in the car.  Behind my back, they flew off and the nest was empty only moments later when I returned.

The gray Flycatcher, a native of Mexico, first came to the U.S. in the 20th century.

The SC naturalist, Rudy Mancke, noted them in Laurens County in 1982.