Milestones

People often tell me things happen in threes, in particular uncomfortable or sad occurrences. Two disasters and they're waiting for the next awful thing. I suppose there might be some truth in that "series of threes" idea. Depending on when one begins counting, however, things can happen in any number actually. Following the third event, one either begins counting again or "four" comes into play. More basically, I suppose there's no end to the ways people exercise their superstitions!

That said, milestones around here are piling up -- literally. And, so far in this seven-day period it's a three: Mom and Dad's 57th wedding anniversary last Friday and Tal's 83rd birthday yesterday. Today, as we made our way from Monetta to Aiken, our car's odometer passed 140,000 miles.

Ooh. I wonder what it means?! Other than we're on the verge of needing new tires.

"Grant that he may grow in wisdom and grace"

That phrase is from a collect for birthday in The Book of Common Prayer (pg 830). My dear Tal's days have increased to the point that today he is celebrating another year. Since I'm in a hotel in Charlotte, I called him while my Wolfgang Puck coffee brewed. And, at 6:30 I just barely caught him, his ride for a day of golf in Elberton GA with the Emerald Seniors pulling through the gate as he answered the telephone. Had I waited to let that wonderful first sip slip down my throat before dialing, I would have missed him.

We will revolve in two separate worlds today, both of them good and meaningful. Even with two meals, a long agenda, and a 150-mile drive home, I'll likely pull into the garage a mere frazzle before he arrives home.

I don't know about wisdom and grace, but his stamina is remarkable. How does he do it?

1:1

Monday morning came at full speed. Tal went to Aiken to be with his brother and family and I prepared to leave for Charlotte by lunch. I'd moved a lovely bowl of roses from the living room to the study so they'd not go unenjoyed. The blinds were open, the sun streaming across the desk. The light was so nice, though shadowy, and the white rose -- John Kennedy, I think -- perfectly past it prime, if that makes any sense. Eventually, nothing would do but I had to press the "pause" button on my travel preparations. I put the macro lens on the camera and the camera on the tripod.

This view is 1:1. The petal's moist look and delicate veins are elegant at the very least, and more pronounced, given the days since Tal brought the bloom inside.

Pressing on

It's Sunday. Tal and his son, Bruce, are out fishing. I've just finished restoring the kitchen to order, having prepared a crack-of-dawn breakfast of peppered bacon, grits, scrambled eggs, toast with orange marmelade and coffee. How I make such a mess does boggle the mind. But, now the kitchen is geogeous! Even the stainless steel's been polished.

To add to the disorder of the day, the person who was supposed to pick up the dogs from the vet before the kennel closed at noon yesterday, didn't. This place isn't right without Whitby and Belle. Needless to say, both of us are disappointed; the quietness around here is rather loud.

I'm stalling on two formidable tasks I have to finish today, a writing project and one requiring alot of paper pushing, envelopes, mailing labels. My strongest motivation to get on with it is the fact that my part in both projects will be over by the 24th of October. Not that I'm wishing my life away ... or counting the days.

Still sweet on each other

The adage is that a picture is worth a thousand words. I don't know about that, but this one's worth 57 years! Mom and Dad's anniversary celebration yesterday featured pizza at Pastaria 811, an out of the way Italian restaurant at Pawleys Island, where this photograph was taken. A glass of champagne followed at home.

Pretty cute, huh? And, they are still sweet on each other, a lovely phenomenon to witness.

Indulged ... again

We arrived at Mom and Dad's yesterday afternoon. Already set up on the desk under the window in their office was a reel-to-reel tape machine, all cued up. On our last visit I'd recalled a set of interviews with Grandaddy Tarbox and had wondered if I could hear them sometime.

That sometime was today. This morning while Mom and Dad were at a doctor's appointment I sat in front of that machine and listened to the voice of my paternal grandfather, which I'd not heard in over 38 years. The tapes were made in 1969 (March, I think); he died in August 1971.

That soft voice with an accent, a distinct accent, one I didn't notice while growing up. But, how singular it is, listening to it now. Charleston? Southern, but not a drawl. Perhaps, it's coastal.

He talked about his days of flying, about the hurricane of 1904. Never an enthusiastic talker, the tapes were interviews with several individuals, from my dad to a couple of young boys in Georgetown, and Grandaddy didn't make it easy for them! He gave short answers. If the question asked for a "yes" or a "no," that's what the questioner got. Toward the end of the third tape, though, a woman whose name I didn't get, sat with him and one of his photograph albums. She would comment on something in one of the photos -- bird eggs, wrecked boats -- and that got him talking.

I found myself simply hearing the voice, not actually following the words. Not only am I an indulged woman. I'm vastly, wonderfully rich.

Indulged

No matter what our position in life those of us who live in (what we have named) the first world have it pretty good. The now year old financial crisis has hit almost everyone in varying degrees. If we have children in our lives, providing for their needs and well-being dominates both our waking and our sleeping. The costs of health care and the arguments over health care reform escalate. No matter what it is that troubles any of us, in comparison with people in much of the rest of the world. we are blessed, even indulged. Truly, we do not want for much.

Today has been full. And, I have been indulged. On our drive to Pawleys Island to help my parents celebrate their (get this!!!) 57th wedding anniversary, our route, as usual, took us through North. From some distance away it was evident that two C-17s were doing touch-and-goes on the US Air Force Auxillary Air Field (aka North Army Air Base). To my delight (especially since Tal was driving) on the stretch of US178 which parallels the runway for a piece, one of these hulking aircraft looked as though it were coming right for us. On that same pass I was able to watch it on my right flare as it approached the runway, not quite touching its wheels to the concrete, pulled up and accelerated to go back around.


So, I saw a couple of Globemaster IIIs at North. No, it's better than that. This is the indulged part. After we passed Bull Swamp (aka Ethridge Mill Pond) on SC172, Tal stopped at the top of the hill and we watched those two planes fly over and approach the airfield. Not only were the planes impressive -- huge and powerful, but the view down that hill and across the rolling South Carolina terrain was more lovely than I can even begin to express. Oh, and the clouds were rather spectacular, wouldn't you say?

I'm so lucky.

All dressed up

Before leaving York yesterday I had one of my bright ideas. I suggested to Tal during our morning telephone conversation that we use a gift certificate to a nice local restaurant that I'd been given late in the summer for supper that evening. When I arrived home shortly before 5:00, Tal greeted me in the garage already dressed for dinner. He had even called the establishment to find out when their evening service began.

Too bad the taped message didn't include the fact that dinner isn't served Sunday through Tuesday evenings. So, we arrived in our "finery" only to find the front porch wide and welcoming, but the interior dark and the air devoid of tempting smells.

Back home we went, where -- for no out-of-pocket expense -- we produced a meal of crab cakes, brown rice, tossed salad, hot rolls, wine and, by time for dessert, "home baked" chocolate chip cookies. I have to ask myself why I wanted to go out at all.

Oh, yes. There was the small matter of the state of the kitchen in the meal's aftermath. Now I remember ...

Rural driving

Our board meeting this morning at York Place was productive but longer than usual. The economic climate and ever-changing state regulations are having an impact on the census. The administration brought us to to speed on possible strategies they may have to employ to ensure York Place maintains its mission to at-risk children. A trying time to be sure and, although everyone is upbeat, it shows.

My drive home along yesterday's route was again simply lovely and even restorative. The sole challenging stretch was long several miles (life 15) through rolling terrain and along a double-yellow line behind a pickup going, at best, 35MPH. The mirror on the driver's side dangled by its cable; only when an oncoming car approached did the driver lurch to the right from the middle of the road. Welcome to the south, I guess.

Calmness prevailed, but I was grateful for the car's 24V DOHC (whatever that means) controlled by my right foot. When my chance came, I took it! The fuel consumption at such moments something I refuse to consider.

Greetings from York

Today begins the fall meeting of the board of trustees for York Place Episcopal Church Home for Children. I left home after an early lunch with Tal -- who, as I was backing the car out of the garage, shouted from the steps "I hope you retire soon!" So helpful. He was smiling, promise.

The drive was lovely. I opted for cutting cross country, Edgefield to Newberry to Winnsboro to Chester to York with lots of named crossroads along the way. Likely not as fast, but so much more interesting than I-20 and I-77. One day, I keep telling myself, I won't be on my way somewhere, won't be in collar and heels. One day I'll poke along, stopping to study things, like rolled hay in still-green fields and late summer weeds along in-need-of-maintenance fences. I probably won't ever do that, but I do enjoy thinking about it.

Following our afternoon sessions, the president of York Place and his wife welcomed us into their home for dinner. Actually, we had cocktails in their beautifully landscaped backyard, moved through a buffet line in the kitchen and dined on the front porch -- which, wrapping two sides of the house, seated 30 at set tables with white linen, candles and locally grown roses. Truly elegant! Tired as I was I hated to move away, knowing it was a very special experience, one none of us has with any regularity.

I'm at the Days Inn on the Rock Hill side of York for the night. I'd forgotten about the clientelle. The sound of diesel trucks will begin early in the morning, workmen getting a pre-dawn start on the day. How hard people have to work isn't enough part of my awareness, sad to say.

Trial and error

The best part of having to attend a convocation meeting this afternoon in Greenwood was not the presentation I made or the interaction with old friends I'd not seen since leaving the Church of the Ridge, although both of those aspects of the afternoon were rather pleasurable. No, the best part was the drive -- 45 miles each way -- and getting to listen to NPR. On the way to Greenwood I caught the better part of Garrison Keillor's weekly monologue. Delightful. On the way home, however, I was almost transported by a discussion of the diagnostic process on "The People's Pharmacy."

While it was about medical diagnosis, it gist of the discussion had to do with not knowing, with trying the most obvious thing first, with being wrong and beginning again. One line had me laughing out loud (still in the realm of medical diagnosis): "If you hear the sound of distant hoof beats, think horses." So, if it looks like strep, it probably is. Start there. Tell the patient, however, that if the antibiotics don't have him feeling remarkably better in no less than two days, call back, come back because it isn't strep. What else might those hoof beats be is the question? One more thing: Be clear about where you are. Those hoof beats, if you're on the plains of Africa, could be zebras!

Oh, how I hate making mistakes, to the point that I hide them when at all possible. During my drive home this afternoon, however, I didn't hear anyone saying to be sloppy or caviler or not care. What I did hear was an exploration of the reality that we don't know everything there is to know; part of the joy of life is the process of figuring it out. Trail and error.

Part of the entertainment of the discussion for me was finding myself thinking about the computer solitaire game, Free Cell. The rule of thumb at the outset of a hand is to uncover the aces as quickly as possible. The sound of hoof beats ... Do the obvious, right? But, sometimes the player gets herself to the point that no more moves are possible. The player could give it up as lost. Or, the player can back up to a point where other options were available OR even back all the way to beginning and simply start over. The good thing about Free Cell is that every hand IS playable, winable. The hard part is that some of those winable hands start out in very unobvious ways.

I need to lighten up. To entertain backing up sometimes, to reexamine the situation, the question, the problem. I need to play with ideas, with the possbilities. The process of working something through, staying patient and observant, is more the point than getting it right the first time through.

Now, let's see if I can live that! Ah, hoof beats ...

Positive exposure

Clergy conferences -- like all conferences, I suppose -- are uneven at best. Although time with one another, since we're all busy in our own places, is a value in itself, the topic's value and the atmosphere of the venue are significant variables.

I am so pleased to have participated these two days. The faculty of 14 is a fascinating, diverse, stimulating group, each one with whom I had conversation challenging, optimistic, smart, all of them I'd be happy to get to know better. This exposure has been beneficial, answering two important, even crucial, questions Tal and I have not been able to get answered satisfactorily since I stopped working. I'm leaving the Hilton feeling greatly hopeful, more whole.

Although the faculty came to the Diocese of Upper South Carolina from all over the country -- Arizona to Florida, Indiana to New York -- with specific topics to address with active and retired clergy, what has impressed me it not exclusively those topics -- health care issues, fitness strategies at all stages of life, financial options. Their interests are intense and varied, as well -- gardening, needlework, hiking, NPR (specifically "Car Talk"), public education. Those two areas, their interests and their specific areas of expertise, has left me feeling flooded with riches.

Amendment of life

As I sat in front of the computer in my second floor Holiday Inn Express room at the corner of Taylor and Huger last evening, I became aware of a new sound in the mix of the air-conditioning, television, traffic: the staccato spatter of rain on the window to my left. I went to bed extra grateful for having driven to Columbia late in the day. Now and then a hunch turns to brilliance.

The feeling of good fortune continued as day broke, the rain continuing and the treadmill downstairs beckoning despite the fluffy comfort of the big bed. The fitness "center" (considerably smaller than my room) featured a stair climber, stationary bike, treadmill, television and a thermonstat set on 62 -- perfect!

It's been a long time since I've attended a clergy event. This one equals our annual fall diocesan clergy conference. Rather than being in the mountains of North Carolina as usual, we're at the Hilton -- lovely and hospitable (but not the mountains). This day and a half of presentations by people from the Church Pension Group, focusing on wellness, insurance, pension, are helpful in terms of the facts. More importantly, I think, is our having been stopped in our tracks with crafted and well-organized time to work on processes which all of us, clergy and everyone else, tend to avoid and/or put off.

The first speaker in my group read a quote from "What Color is Your Parachute? in Retirement" by Richard L Bolles. It went something like this: Will you plan the retirement you really want, or will you accept the one that just shows up?

Well, isn't that the question? Although I'm not officially retired, as in collecting a pension, Tal and I worked through what my stopping work would mean, so I'd say we did pretty well with the first part of the question. But, the second part? I know full well I'm not managing this time of luxurious freedom very well. Overscheduled, unnecessarily stressed, not enjoying life very much, I have to fix it, and soon.

Roses on my mind

I am writing from Columbia tonight. The clergy of the diocese are meeting tomorrow and Saturday. I came over late in the day to save myself having to be out of the house by 6:00 in the morning, not to mention braving Columbia's incoming morning traffic. I'm thinking of Tal -- and roses.

Tal arrived home from his semiannual, Monday through Wednesday, Santee golf outing late yesterday afternoon. An intense time by all accounts. Three days. Three rounds of golf. He found the house neat and supper preparations -- rosemary salmon, his favorite -- underway. AND, thanks to his ongoing, almost year round patience, there were freshly cut roses from our yard adorning the dining table.

As I was making my way through the day -- working the list, I noticed those roses a number of times. At lunch they were in my line of sight, between me and the shiny black of the piano. I paused in my tasks to retrieve the camera. This shot, not showing the entire arrangement, is my favorite, the roses set on the piano and me standing in a chair looking down on them.



So I'm here and Tal's there. Something's wrong with this picture. I'm thinking of him -- and the lovely roses he grows.

Truth in fiction

In the midst of cleaning and golf tournament stuff yesterday, I also dipped into a new murder mystery. The temptation was to ditch the tasks of the day, but I practiced great grueling discipline, reading only briefly.

I enjoy fiction more and more, sometimes for the story, but more for the truth the stories express. There are, of course, no new story lines; every one of those is used again and again and again. Frequently then, the story line between the covers of the book are remarkably familiar. Self recognition does come as something of a shock. In ways that tend to surprise us the same things happen to all of us that happen to everyone else.

Within those stories between the covers of the book are also reactions and feelings and reflection and learning. And, in those things we can recognize ourselves as well. If we want to, that is.

Anyway, page 76 in my new book ... "One thing I already learned in the ministry: everyone hit sinkholes in the journey, those places along the road where reason turns to bog."* I know that. I KNOW that. But, reading it yesterday turned into one of those moments. There's something in the way the character (and the writer) think it/say it that struck a match, illuminating in a flash my recent ruminations.

Reason turning to bog. That's not to let the rude or the cheater or the closed minded (or myself) off the hook. But, it does invite me to kindness and to patience. Now please do note: I didn't say anything about "best" friendship or any friendship at all for that matter. Just giving others the benefit of the doubt, sincerely. Who knows what might have turned reason into bog?

*"A Deadly Thing, They Say." Leslie Winfield Williams. Munsing OK: Tate Publishing, 2007

At home

There is SO much to do I don't even know where to begin. When I woke up this morning, that was my first thought. My second thought had to do with the possibility of not getting up ...

If someone were to utter that lament in my direction, of course, I'd have something helpful to say, like "what's the most important?" or "just start," so that's what I've done. Asked and answered those two questions.

Primarily, the house needs to be cleaned and details for the All God's Creatures golf tournament (the 4th Annual, I'll have you know) given some attention. My strategy? Do one until I cannot stand it anymore and shift to the other. Here toward the end of the day progress has been made, but -- naturally -- nothing's really finished.

But then, is it ever?

Reversing ourselves

Worship yesterday was at 8:00 and 10:00, the parish still on summer schedule. After a final conversation with the individual we were there to interview we set out on the two-hour drive to the airport, reversing ourselves way too soon and getting to appreciate our surroundings far too little.

The trip east was pretty straightforward, although we missed a turn or two approaching the airport and finding a filling station near the car rental return lot was a bit of a challenge. Although we were travelling late in the day, our initial flight and connections began on time and ended early. Tal arrived in Augusta at 11:50 to find me wearily standing on the curb. It had been a very long day; getting home was such a pleasure.

Tal has already departed this morning for Santee on a three-day golf outing. Glad we saw each other even for a very few hours. I think something might be slightly amiss with our calendar control!

Now, for the mail, a walk and lunch with a friend (at Barristers). Oh, and maybe a nap.

It's damp

Well, it's so damp in my hotel room that the cover of the soft book I'm reading curled up tight while I slept. While I watched during a particularly intense downpour yesterday evening, the water outside my patio door rose at an alarming rate, coming rather close to running under the door.

Almost as wet inside as it is out (keeping the compressor on helps with the humidity, but then I'd need to wear wool), nobody seems to mind. In fact, the locals are gleeful as the rain continues. Even the wedding party and guests staying in the hotel make a run for it to the shuttles in all their finery with surprisingly good cheer.

Our visit? Going well. All I can say ...

Out west

While I cannot be specific about my whereabouts, Texas is a big place. So, there you have it.

Once our delayed flight touched down early yesterday afternoon it was apparent I, travelling very light, have forgotten one thing. I keep two small umbrellas in the pocket behind the seat in the car I drive, both of which are safely still there. And, it's raining in Texas for the first time in two years. Pools have been closed all summer. No watering or car washing has been allowed in well over a year. Running fountains is forbidden. I spotted a Walgreens on the way to scope out the parish we'll be visiting. So, now there will be three umbrellas in the back of the car.

The landscape and architecture are spectacular, beguiling. Trouble is, we're going to have no time to do much but admire it from the car. And, there's a second, bigger trouble: I'm the driver.

Reseated

This day started off a little out of kilter. Dear Tal got me to Augusta's Bush Field in plenty of time for me to meet my flight -- with time to spare. By 7:40 everyone scheduled to be on the 8:00 flight to Atlanta was aboard. The flight attendant had finished her recitation and had closed the door when we were told of a ground delay in Atlanta. As the minutes passed hopes of making my connection in Atlanta -- to begin with only 37 minutes -- faded. And, the seat on that connection, I had chosen it so carefully.

Passengers erupted off that little plane when the door was opened in Atlanta, hitting the corridor on Concourse C at a dead run. One look at the Arrivals/Departures monitors at the top of the jetway told me all I needed to know. My flight west had already taken off. At a help station just steps away, however, I simply waved the bar code on the boarding pass that I'd printed at home last night under the reader and out of the machine came an apology and a new boarding pass for the next flight -- only an hour to wait -- to my destination. There was time to find the gate and even a cup of coffee. And, (surprise, surprise) to meet the rest of my party, both of whom -- one originating in Columbia and the other Greenville/Spartanburg -- having also missed the flight.

But, that carefully chosen seat ... The travel agent arranging all the plans for the group of which I am a part had reserved three seats for us, together, on the 757 (which features three seats on either side of the aisle). With me in the middle. The mere thought of that for several hours made my head hurt; I didn't think I could stand it. So, when I checked in last night, I moved myself to another row where a window was available.

My seat on the new flight was a window, but, oh my. The aircraft was not a 757 but an MD88. Do check out the cabin plan. Seat 37D is, indeed, a window. Right by the port engine. Ah, the discomfort of a middle seat as opposed to temporary deafness.

So much for planning. I can't help but laugh.

Too much of a good thing, maybe

We all have our addictive behaviors. Frequently, those of us self-described as morally upright and productive folks see these behaviors as nothing more than good habits and many of them are. But, all of us have our own addictions -- such as a quick and staunch denial of any validity in the suggestion. Ouch!

The thought isn't new; it, like everything else I might happen to say or write, isn't original. I was introduced to it while in seminary. Gerald May's now classic "Addiction and Grace" set it out fearlessly and was one of the primary challenges of my middler year. Much earlier in history Ignatius of Loyola's focus on human attachments in his Spiritual Exercises had much the same theme. And, in real life, a dear friend who read voraciously was challenged by her spiritual director to give up reading for Lent one year, his observation being that her thirst for knowledge, her focus on knowing, was beginning to take a dangerous position in her life. Addictions of alcohol, nicotine, drugs are not the only options out there. We can be addicted to power, to money, to exercise, to food, to people, to worry, to control, to being needed, to admiration, to being right, to putting one's self last, to electronic gadgets, to Facebook, to shoes.

I thought of all this and more early in the day when I took Tal out to breakfast at the beginning of a long list of errands, Monetta to Aiken. We went where? To my new favorite, to yesterday's lunch spot, to Barristers. I think I'm sort of addicted to the place and to how I feel when I'm there.

And you thought I was going to get too serious ...

Lunch spot

Last week I was introduced to a new lunch spot by a transplanted-to-Edgefield friend. The place -- Barristers, open since July, is darling, the food delicious, the proprietor, also transplanted-to-Edgefield, gracious. I always enjoy time with this particular friend. This visit, however, was different and I think it had to do with the place. When another friend suggested over the weekend that we get together for a conversation and lunch this week, I suggested Barristers and now I know it's the place. Even with a difficult topic to discuss, I liked being in that spot, feeling like lingering.

I've been doing a lot of thinking on long daily walks about myth. While, in truth, I don't know every much on the subject, not having, for example, read everything the late and legendary 20th century mythologist, Joseph Campbell, wrote on the topic, I wonder if myth isn't a driving force in the lives we lead. Each one of us has a personal myth; it says something about who we think we are. Groups, nations, religions all have their myths. Those myths speak at some level to a truth, often more accurate at the would-like-to-be level than they are factual.

One of our national myths, it seems to me as I despair over the news when I can make myself watch, is that we are a peaceful, peace-loving people. We'd like to be, perhaps, but are aren't, perhaps never have been. We're always at war somewhere. Crime -- violent-to-whitecollar (violent in its own way) is a foregone conclusion at every level of society. And, we we are seeing with increasing force and clarity that we are a people unable even to talk to each other, to be civil, our discourse and debate (terms largely misused) hot, loud and mean. I wonder where we are going to end up.

What I liked so much about my lunches at Barristers, I know, is all tied up in my own myth. That little restaurant with its air of calm speaks to me, to the person I would like to be -- but am not, at least not enough of the time.

Mumbled hellos

The telephone hasn't been my friend today. We've had the usual calls, none of which were the problem. No, the telephone rang this morning at 12:15 (yes, that's 12:15AM in the morning). It was a call for Tal which woke me up pretty completely, unsettled me, in fact -- enough that I got up and read for a couple of hours finally falling asleep in Tal's big blue recliner during the wee hours. Then, at 5:45 the same person rang the telephone again.

The good news is that I managed not to break a leg getting out of the chair to answer that second call; the bad news is I was up for the day. While I expect the telephone to ring during waking hours, I had to suppress a momentary rancorous flicker every time I answered it today. Grrrr ...

It's not the telephone's fault, I realize. While I don't have any idea what was gong through the caller's mind, I'm not going to lose any more sleep over it, I hope.

Tal's treading lightly, but considering offering a telephone etiquette course!

"beside 'er"

Don't you sit down beside me!!!

We have spiders, specifically two black and yellow arigiopes -- one in the tea olive at the bottom of the stairs off the back porch and the other, whose web features an egg sac, above the garage window. I knew about the one at the back of the house. It's in the same sight line from the porch as the hummingbird feeder.



But, it wasn't until late this afternoon, while Tal and I were walking around the house with the person who is going to powerwash the gutters and soffits and paint the trim, that we spotted the second arigiope AND all the other spider webs. A little embarrassing, to tell the honest truth. But, it is late summer ... Even more embarrassing is my concern that power wash and paint is going to be mighty destructive to these and a variety of other creatures.

Here's one that won't be affected by our home improvements ... in tree next to the drive way. The web's a dramatic tunnel attached to the tree and a nearby flowering weed. So far, I've not see the inhabitant. Thank goodness.

Adaptability

Today we were to have been away for the better part of the day. Labor Day Sunday on Lake Murray. But, an early morning telephone call let us know that the collective plans needed to be changed. That's OK. We're adaptable. BUT, that time away included the main meal of the day. Rats! And, the ball bounced back into my court ... Truth is, I didn't want to cook anything beyond the peach cobbler (the last of the Ridge peaches for this season) we were taking with us. Oh, well.

Lucky for me there were packets of frozen fish fillets in the freezer -- caught by Tal and his son, Bruce, on one Ridge pond or another (probably Satcher) and cleaned, packaged and delivered to our freezer already frozen by Bruce. Talk about spoiled, don't 'cha think?

Anyway, a pat of butter in the skillet and the fillets dusted with lightly salted flour. One minute on the first side, one and a half on the second. Add to that a salad featuring volunteer tomotoes and left over corn bread ... Tal was utterly astounded and I was pretty pleased.

I wish all change-of-plan around here worked out so well!

Oh happy day

Today marked the opening of dove season. Blessedly, the only way we participated was to hear the shooting in the distance through the afternoon. We were up early, though ... to go fishing. It has been at least two months since I've wet a hook. And, I haven't been to Happy Days Pond since before I retired. That's at least 18 months. Needless to say, I was ready long before first light.

Our friends made it a wonderful return. All we had to do was arrive with our gear. The boat, tied to the dock and loaded with battery, electric motor, net, paddle, was ready for us. The coffee maker was even set up; I simply pressed the power button and let the welcome aroma waft into the early morning -- two mugs, two spoons, various sweeteners along with a note of welcome on the counter next to the Mr Coffee.

We caught fish, not in huge numbers and not huge in size. But, look at the brilliant color on that bream! We saw hawks, great blue herons and wood ducks. Another bird in flocks of a couple dozen at a time, swift and graceful with straight wings, skimmed the water, wresting our attention from the fishing again and again with their aerobatics. I assumed that they were drinking, but now that I'm home with the Sibley*, I suspect they were swallows of some sort, maybe purple martins, capturing the insects that dotted the water the whole time we were there, which looked a bit like raindrops on the surface of the water.

It was a good morning and we were slow to leave. This is a photograph taken from the porch of the cooking shelter where we rocked awhile and enjoyed a second cup of coffee. The beautiful view across the pond, the welcome we felt even in the absence of our friends, the deep comfortable chairs, the coolness of the morning and the flavorful coffee -- all of it in combination made for total contentment.



* The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America. Written and illustrated by David Allen Sibley. Knoph, 2003.

Advance notice

A two-engine, 32 car freight train went through Ridge Spring this afternoon while I gallery sat. I could hear it coming before it appeared, and, given the gallery's location -- off Highway 23 and slightly behind the Civic Center, I couldn't tell its direction until the first engine appeared directly across from the standing-open front doors, headed toward Columbia.

I never tire of the sound. My pulse quickens at least a mere bit at the first hint of a train's heavy rumble, of the faint far-off warning of the two-toned, almost discordant horn.

It's always been that way, my earliest memory of trains being summer vacations at my mother's parents' home in Milford MI. Hot, still summer nights in the upstairs bedroom, east-facing and overlooking the Atlantic and S Houghton Street intersection. How many trains tore through that little town each night? One, maybe two, I suppose. But, I remember it as the single most significant feature of Milford nights. That and sometime in the night the sticky sweat of that unairconditioned space giving way to a delightful coolness and a crisp sheet drawn up by morning. The gallery is unairconditioned, too. Hence, the standing-open front doors. Another connection, I suppose.

Until this summer and our Alaska excursion, the only trains I'd ever ridden were in metropolitan areas, basically buses on tracks, getting around San Francisco, Portland, going from Lafayette Hill into Philadelphia and from the Alexandria area to New York City and Baltimore. The extent of my "real" train travel had occurred only across Hungary, France, Belgium and in Great Britain where the schedule is convenient for the traveler and accurate to the minute, the experience in general one of remarkable hospitality. (Well, I might not include Hungary in that front, remembering now bayonet-equipped firearms toted by military personnel and confiscated money ...) Here on the east coast when distant friends have wanted to travel by train for a visit we've been required to be at the station in Columbia at 2:30AM to retrieve or to drop off, a schedule that doesn't count as convenient for anyone.

It's all romance, I know it is, this fascination. The tracks hugging the river under a towering cliff along the Hudson or the Columbia, that undulating line just under the horizon, likely some 100 miles away, on the Great Plains, the lonely whistle echoing through the hollows along the Appalachian Trail.

Someone is going somewhere, to interesting unknown places. I want to go, too.

Outpatient

She's going to be fine, my friend, now minus a gall bladder and glad of it.

The attacks came a week apart, the first one unexpected and ferocious enough to warrant scheduling today's surgery, the second debilitating enough to require three days of hospitalization -- until today, when her husband brought her to University Hospital for outpatient surgery. Now comes the period of recovery, which I hope she and many others can honor.

It's been over a year and a half since I've waited with a family during surgery. Conversation comes and goes. Not small talk; serious conversation. The periods of silence are often long and, if we're able to endure it, can be profoundly companionable. And, the nicest things happen: The staff remarkably attentive and focused. Sunlight slanting through the blinds filling the room where we waited with diffused light. A friend arriving at mid-day with scrumptious, warm pastrami sandwiches that hit a hungry spot. A wan smile from the patient as she woke up, recognizing people who care so much for her standing by her bed.

I've loved being here today.

Such is love

We got up early today, waking to still delightfully fresh weather. It was a morning full of unspoken anticipation. Tal has been pondering over a new set of golf clubs for months and months, talking to golf pros he trusts, trying out various brands, to me perplexing mixtures of heads and shafts, returning to his old, in reserve set occasionally, all the while biding his time, not wanting to make a precipitous move or to make a costly mistake.

One last conversation. Hitting a final bucket of balls at Mount Vintage late yesterday. A decision made. The set located. Today was the day.

Even though we were out in commuter traffic from the Ridge to Aiken and Augusta and even though we stopped for a Huddle House breakfast along the way and even though we had to contend with I-20 still under construction along our SC/GA route across the Savannah River, we arrived to make the purchase a good half an hour before the store opened. As we sat in the car outside the locked building, I found myself smiling inwardly. That my sweet husband, approaching his 83rd birthday and generally desirous of very little, is able to be this excited about a purchase fills me with delight.

Once the lights came on and the establishment opened, I wandered among the bags, clubs, shirts, shoes while Tal and the salesman did their thing. Again, I was aware of my own pleasure, the set he had wanted having been set aside as promised after he called yesterday and the lone salesman attentive despite several customers vying for his attention, the rest of the staff having been slow to arrive.

What I think I realize here at the end of the day, having had time to ruminate on the experience, is that such is the nature of love. I want the best for Tal and it has done my heart good today to see him full of anticipation. That's part of it. More importantly, though, is seeing him treated well, even honored, in a world that sometimes discounts and overlooks its older citizens. All too often, even if I don't make a move, I feel the urge to step in, to make sure the clerk, the person behind the counter or the desk, is paying attention to this dear, dear man. Today, I didn't have to do a thing but accompany him and to offer congratulations on this long-studied purchase.

It's been a good day. I look back over it contented and grateful.

Hints

Mid-day yesterday during a break in the desk work (that never seems to end) and in anticipation of my piano teacher coming to the front door shortly after 6:00PM, I ventured out to sweep. That entrance to the house is the least used of the four and tends to gather leaves, mud daubers and spider webs. While I was at it, I also swept the walk from the porch to the driveway – that too narrow stretch of concrete, also neglected, littered with magnolia leaves and the remains of the crepe myrtle’s long season of flowering. In less than ten minutes I had worked up a bit of a sweat.

At the appointed hour, when I went to the door to greet my ever patient teacher, I was astounded. The temperature had dropped drastically. There was a hint of fall in the light breeze. My visitor was animated with joy, hardly able to contain herself. We stood on the steps breathing it in before entering the house and settling at the piano.

Of course, hints of the change of season have been regular of late. I’ve just not quite noticed them to the point of truly seeing them. Vines erupting off the tops of untended signs and fence posts, slender arches of growth groping for nonexistent support. The tall grasses beyond the ditches along the roadsides in full seed, golden when backlit in the early morning and late afternoon sun. Leaves assembling in asphalt and concrete eddies along cart paths on the golf course and neighborhood streets.

Yesterday afternoon was my wakeup call; last evening my end of summer alarm clock went off. I’m not a fan of summer. A better way to say that, I suppose, is that summer is not my favorite season. But, there is definitely part of me that hates to see it go. I shall miss especially being touched by how fast everything grows – from the grass around the house to the young pines along the driveway, their several growth spurts through the spring and summer months truly remarkable.

But, the hints of the end of summer and those feelings of loss are also – and importantly – hints of the beginning of fall, a very wonderful time of year in its own right. Slowing. Looking inward. Simplifying. Now that the end of summer alarm has sounded, I’ll be paying better attention. I hope.