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I’ve mentioned the deer; that we see them daily. Usually two or three at the edge of the wood, but occasionally six to eight, and sometimes they’re headed down the road toward Milt and Joanne’s. This doesn’t grow old. When Santina whispers “Deer!” she says it with two e’s and I stop whatever I’m doing to tiptoe to the window. Usually they spot me before I see them; and when I’m at the computer their cupped ears flicker with every keystroke.

Sadly, we also often see them dead along Route 40. Something there is about the other side of a four lane highway that draws deer to their death. Something in the lushness of the vegetation or the inviting way the oak leaves shimmer; and no one there to caution: “Yeah, but the road.” And so it goes.

In a similar process I was drawn to the world of insurance sales. The vision of a comfortable living with the prospect of being vested after three years (having the option of quitting and receiving residual income for the next 10 years, the first three or four of which could be enjoyed without need of income from any additional work) proved irresistible. Doing the math that would have given me six years, maybe seven, to finally figure out how to make a modest living as a photographer.

Yeah, but the road.

Fortunately, I put just one hoof on the highway before backing away. I don’t discount that there are insurance jobs out there that may be far more palatable than that that I signed on to. And perhaps I will yet pursue one, if I can do so on a part-time basis, but right now I’m subscribing to every job posting email service known to man. Each morning I scan descriptions of scores of local jobs for which I am not qualified, or which surely represent yet another form of death. But a strange thing is taking place.

It started with fulfilling a promise. I’d offered to do an oral history piece when we were in Colorado last fall. The story was taped and photographs taken, but my color printer, in storage a thousand miles away, hadn’t been cranked up for going on three years.

It’s running now. After replacing most of the ink cartridges it’s printing cleanly. Further, I’ve just discovered a wonderful local source for framing supplies -- I’m back in my element. With the first of this new generation of oral histories completed I believe I just might have a marketable service. Especially in Asheville where a degree of affluence exists in the retirement and tourist populations. And since great suggestions are offered every time I describe the work, I mention it here as well.

Special thanks, as always, to those who faithfully urge me to find a way to pursue my passion.

At the tail end of my Keene State College years, after having worked at the Ellis Hotel on Elm Street, and the C. L. Lane Bucket factory in West Swanzey -- but just before I set the record for monkey bars produced in an 8 hour shift at Whitney Brothers in Marlborough -- I took a job at a tannery in Winchendon, Massachusetts.

I carpooled in with a bunch of regulars. The foreman, a big guy named Zwolinsky whose daughter was a college classmate, led me up some scaffolding to a place where a bird's eye view of the parking lot might be had if one chose to look -- which we did not as the footing was precarious and the task was to dump 80 lb. bags of sugar into a feeder vat before (or perhaps after) opening petcocks to release steam and sulfuric acid into the mix.

Having gotten that tea brewing Mr. Zwolinsky escorted me to the bowels of the factory where a series of ten coal fired ovens required constant raking with a long handled shovel because a shipment of bad coal was clogging the ovens, reducing the heat output. I did that for the rest of the morning.

At lunch six burly men all named Moose, whose lives were spent hoisting heavy hides from the dipping tanks, silently crammed sandwiches into their mouths as fast as they could go, their hands and forearms multicolored like those of children run amuck in Easter egg design. A man not named Moose and not much older than me, though already a veteran, leaned forward to offer advice: "This here's not bad work for me, but once you get through college don't come back here." I nodded as Zwolinsky beckoned for me to follow. I was relieved to see that I was to work outside.

But not relieved for long. A whole railroad car of bad coal awaited. Normally a chute would be opened in the center of the floor of the car and the coal would slide out. This coal had no slide, so my job for the next four hours was to encourage the coal to vacate the car.

At the end of the day I scrunched into the back seat of a Chevy and was dropped off at the corner of Elm and West streets. Someone said "same time tomorrow", but I had the presence of mind to advise them not to wait too long. Off to my left was Court Street where I had an apartment. The campus lay half a mile in the other direction. Feeling a need for the distraction of a few hands of whist at the Student Center I turned right -- only to glimpse the reflection in a display window of someone from a minstrel show.

Prior to insurance sales this was the worst job I'd ever had. But even just two days of selling end of life benefits to indigent seniors, with a scripted approach that felt less like sales than coercion, proved entirely too dispiriting to continue. So . . . short career.

Santina and I have been up to our armpits in this river crossing, but we've finally reached shallow water and we're rejoicing; appreciating the sunlight, the regular appearance of deer, sweet relationships with new neighbors and friends, and the occasional 12 hour visit from Sophia.

During the past few days we have finally closed on our construction loan (not without last minute defensive maneuvering from our frigging contractor), and we have overcome a seemingly insurmountable bureaucratic obstacle in order to clear the way to refinance with the local TD Bank. Everything is falling into place, and short of the possible initiation of litigation by a subcontractor who placed a lien on the house for work never paid for by the contractor, a river of ugliness is finally behind us. We rejoice, but briefly.

On Sunday I head for Vero Beach for a 4 day training period with Senior Life Services. Only 30% of the trainees survive Year 1 but for some reason I expect to be among them. Perhaps because the people SLS works with are my people. For those who remember stories of the Ellis Hotel -- it's these people. For those who remember my oral history work from the early 90's -- there were plenty of these folks in that group. And the process is similar, sitting down and talking to people in their living rooms. So we'll see.

As of this afternoon our Matrix has NC plates. My cell phone number has been changed (to 828 200-5089) to facilitate work. And Santina has found the hair dresser she's always been locking for. We're here for a bit.

I go out in search of the wonders of nature, but those don’t begin to match the wonders of the US Postal Service.

First thing I did when we arrived was to plant a post and put up a mailbox with a nice 67 on its side. Within moments I discovered a piece of paper taped to the inside of the box reading 67 Cranesway Drive — which I hadn’t imagined I’d needed to specify, but no sense leaving ourselves open to receiving mail for all the 67’s in the country. So that was nice. As was our mail carrier, Patrick, when he came requesting a signature for delivery of a bank foreclosure letter. An avid outdoorsman with some connection to New Hampshire as I recall.

Then there was the 6 and the 7 that I carefully selected from Lowe’s and painstakingly screwed to the righthand post of our front porch. It was only when I stepped back to admire my work that Santina pointed out the 67 that had already been nailed to the lefthand post. Patrick’s work? The clerk at the post office says absolutely not, he’d never have time for that. So we don’t know who did this.

But now we’ve really run afoul of the law. We have a collection of odd stamps on unused envelopes — things dating from the Carter years that never got posted. A pair of scissors and some Duco cement gave them new life, and made us feel quite thrifty; but it was apparently our mail carrier who affixed a sticky note to those outgoing letters warning that the reuse of postage stamps is a federal offense; the article of law cited. And the note in a wonderfully meticulous hand that I hope someday to duplicate.

We now know that stamps are not to be used if they will not stick of their own volition. And that if you bring those dusty stamped envelopes to your post office they’ll happily provide you with replacement stamps (wouldn’t it be nice if they’d just print that information on the stamps in the first place?)

And then there's the issue of when the mail is picked up. Some days we put mail in the box at 8:30 am and it's still there the next morning. Other days we don't receive delivery until late afternoon. Thankfully a local postal clerk was able to clarify: "If the carrier doesn't have mail to deliver he won't necessarily pick up . . . well he should." Which was pretty much my thought.

More recently, the 67 Cranesway taped to the inside of our mailbox has been removed and in its place there is a piece of paper with our names on it — and a stern message not to remove same. So we’re trying to remember not to. But there’s one more strange thing which has to do with a crudely fashioned, hand painted sign at the beginning of the long driveway we share with our neighbors. It has our neighbors’ number, 47 Cranesway, and an arrow. A couple days ago the number 67 was added to the sign. The neighbors have no idea who would have done this, but the 7 in 67 has a cross on it, the 7 on the 47 does not, suggesting that more than one person is keeping tabs on the goings on down here in the land of Everything’s Not Quite As It Seems.

There are images we cling to, which is what photography is all about — from those early don’t-move-don’t-blink-hold-still daguerrotype portraits to shots of the Earth from space. It’s all about retaining our experiences here, and the need to share that. Lacking a camera we still make do.

Forty three years ago I spent a couple months at Fort Jackson, Columbia SC. When Santina and I drove by in transit from Myrtle Beach I looked for familiar sights but saw none. My memory of Fort Jackson is that of on-going discomfort; but there was one experience I do cherish. Well into a forced march on a steamy South Carolina afternoon, while trainees straggled, some dropping by the wayside, I was suddenly and inexplicably suffused with the taste of strawberries. A bit of personal contraband that certainly brought a smile to my face; something tucked away and hung long ago on the wall of memory.


Roads are designed to take you from one place to another, but the Blue Ridge Parkway transports same-place travelers to a singular green world and proceeds to display that world from every possible angle. A goal of mine would be to set a tripod up at a favorite spot (some place with a bathroom) and take one picture every hour to capture the movement of sun and clouds. Framed prints could include the words of fellow travelers who’d also momentarily escaped the point to point narrative of life.

I’m standing in the Earth Fare parking lot looking for a grey Subaru Impreza driven by a man named Trevor Pratt. He’s easy about the connection, but this is a very big parking lot and we’ve never met. I don’t know my way around so I took it as a good sign when Trevor suggested meeting outside Earth Fare. Santina and I come here often for lunch and groceries, but today I’m wearing a tie — first necktie in a couple years, thought maybe I’d thrown them all out when we moved south, but then I found a few; and the one I’ve chosen is looking good, no spots as far as I can tell. Trevor pulls up. The Subaru is a bit of a beater and Trevor is dressed casually, which is a relief. My sport coat slides into the back seat without fanfare and we head for the hill country.

Trevor is from Seattle but he’s been in Asheville for a decade. He can do the accent and the senior life insurance business is old hat for him. So are the mountain roads; he’s braking soft where I’d be braking hard, and accelerating where I’d be braking soft. And he’s quick enough to spot the gravel driveway for the first call; doesn’t look like a driveway to me. But he slaps the Impreza into low and it churns on up through the rubble. I’m thinking the necktie was probably not a good idea; Trevor agrees. So off it goes. As we round the bend we see two houses, one at the top of a rise and another beyond at a similar elevation but with a serious gully between the two. We pass ducks on the loose, a big dog. Trevor assesses the first house and decides on the second — which wouldn’t have been my choice, dog or no, because I’m more concerned with the issue of getting the car back to the main road.

“Mrs. Johnson?” Trevor asks. “Yuh, who’d you be?” “I’m Trevor Pratt, would you be Ida Johnson?” “Oh no, that’d be the other house.” So back we go. I’m impressed with the Subaru. The Johnsons are sweet people. And the dog is friendly enough, though we’re careful about turning our backs to him. The house smells of deep seated tobacco and the television is on. Televisions, I will learn, are always on.

Ida is 62, Harold 67. It’s Harold (34 days my senior) that’s got them worried. He’s in good humor but years of heavy smoking and working with asbestos have left him in serious straits. Referring to information on the mailer Ida had filled out and returned, Trevor starts his pitch. There are a couple of things he suggests to help ease their burden, the big one being to contact two drug manufacturers to see if they will provide medication free of charge. When family income is low enough many of the manufacturers apparently do this, and they’re able to write that service off. Saving $150 a month would be monumental for the Johnsons. I think they will follow through if they aren’t too intimidated by the process.

As Trevor sidles up to the question about final expense coverage — which is the only thing the company actually makes money on — Harold, who is having trouble breathing, excuses himself, heads to his bed for a spell; and it soon becomes obvious that Ida makes no decisions without Harold. So the uncomfortable fact that they have no money to cover funeral expenses is just left hanging.

We take our leave, Trevor jockeys the Impreza around, and we head back down the driveway, past the Muscovys, and onto the paved road.

When a 3 year-old first learns about giants from the story of Jack and the Beanstalk he just says “Shazamm !” But when that same child turns 5 or 6 and has developed a working understanding of the law of gravity he reconsiders and says: “ af a mo! what’s this then? A man-beast as big as a steam-shovel? a creature who when he bellows out ‘fee fi fo fum!’ can be heard from here to Pocatello? and we’re to believe he hovered above the Earth in his own personal cloud, without so much as the grit from his hobnail boots showering down on passersby? So what power might he have possessed to do all this?”

And of course it’s the power of imagination. It’s the power that allows us to see wonderful things that aren’t really there. It’s the power that allows us (with great infrequency) to actually accomplish things that might be considered impossible. But imagination tends to ossify — to the point where we can imagine ourselves incapable of doing things we very well can.

And so it has been with me in the search for work here in the high hills of western NC. It was with heavy heart that I sent the check to enroll in a NC life insurance agent licensing course. It was with limited excitement that I passed the test, received the license and began applying for work online. But to my amazement Regional Managers for two different insurance agencies shook my hand on Friday, each flattering me beyond reason and urging me to forsake the other and sign with them.

So I hereby bid adieu to the my recent Jack and the Beanstalk life and walk wide-eyed into the rosy world of Snow White, where I am advised I will walk down corridors of mirrors, each one affirming that I am fairer and more beautiful than the one before. Well, well, well, what next? Or forget what next, could I not just linger here a bit; me and the other dwarfs?

With all the conflict and strife Santina and I have been subjected to it took us a full month to just get out on the trail and enjoy the cleansing beauty of rushing water. I imagine it was much the same for the Donner Party; that the splendor of the pass failed to register till they got beyond their troubles.

A really important step in the process of uprooting is to carry something of significance with you. The Dust Bowl refugees, for all their threadbare troubles, took their music. Neil Armstrong buoyantly waved a tiny American flag as he flounced across the surface of the Moon. The early predecessors of Fernando Magellan, on the other hand, left port without their lemons, and you see what that got them. Santina and I had no connection to Western North Carolina, knew nobody; not on our first trip. So it was with some trepidation that we considered moving to Asheville.

What we would ultimately bring for transitional objects were our bakery signs, some Dan Dustin spoons, and a blog site. And it was only during preparation for our second trip that I discovered old friend Todd Smith was living here — I learned this from someone in China, but that’s another story. While we waited to move into our house Todd and Debbie graciously put us up and fed us breakfasts of Todd’s famous rice flour waffles. In the move from Todd and Debbie’s to Cranesway Drive it was that recipe that I preciously carried with me. Now we have waffles more mornings than not. And when I prepare them I mix the batter with one particular Dan Dustin spoon. And, not to complicate things, it should be noted that Todd also has a history with spoon making — and that he was once a student of Dan’s. And my friendship with Todd has no connection to my friendship with Dan. Kind of makes you wonder just how big this world really is -- whether Neil Armstrong actually shared all that he could see.