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There have been major historic figures who lived with very strange phobias. You’d think that unwarranted fears might have gotten in their way, but perhaps they just spurred these people on. George Washington battled with taphephobia, a fear of being buried alive. Alexander the Great suffered from ailurophobia, a fear of cats (had the Persians only known). I myself struggle mightily with late onset jargonophobia, an unmitigated fear of the deterioration of language.

I suspect I had been carrying the germ of this condition for decades but it only rose to the level of consciousness four or five years ago when a sales manager I answered to discovered the term "at the end of the day". It became his clarion call, punctuating and re-punctuating every sales meeting until I could no longer hear the phrase, or even watch him coiling to unleash it, without emitting a small shriek. I changed professions, but there is no relief from the paralyzing grasp of jargonophobia.

The phrases now grow shorter and I find myself quickly escalating into full Munchian mode as I dodge the linguistic grenades of "bucket lists" and "man caves". Not to mention "wow factors". I am quite certain I would not survive all three of these in the same sentence (note my caution here).

I do cling to the vague thought that suffering from a strange phobia may yet signify fame in my future. But Washington and Alexander were high energy individuals, while all I really want, at the end of the day, is to brush my teeth and get to bed.

The thing about waterfalls is that they, like other forms of music, can transport you from one emotional state to quite another; pummeling your problems, washing your worries, and generally setting you straight.

In New Hampshire where I come from, when water falls it falls cold. When my wife and I decided to get married thirty something years back, and when we also took on the writing of our vows, and when I found myself absolutely stuck on what exactly I ought and ought not to be promising (and was beginning to suspect I might be embarking on a sizable mistake) it was to the mountains and the clarifying world of cold, rushing water that I went.

Angel Falls at the head of the Flume Gorge in the White Mountains was discovered in 1808 by someone’s 93 year-old grandmother who had wandered up into the mountains looking for a good fishing hole. When she returned home (fishless) and told her family what she’d found they refused to believe her. Which tells you something about them (or perhaps something about her). At any rate, while it is a curious story it cannot hold a candle to the western North Carolina one of the besotted Cherokee brave who flung himself from Blowing Rock only to be returned somewhat later by a providential updraft (though it seems a person who can believe this story is likely on a mission to believe).

All ancient stories aside, thirty-odd years ago I sat basking in the sun, perched on a rock wrapped round by spring snow at the sharp plummet of Angel Falls, and just waited. Waited till the words started to drip, then trickle, and finally flow, washing away all doubt and fear. Just like that it came together; the marriage happened without further hiccup or hesitation. So that’s that story; and of course everything’s been just peachy ever since.

When kale comes calling in black pants and white shirts, delighted to find you home and eager to discuss the merits of vegetarianism, throw wide your door for the simple chance to sample something well beyond your sphere.

I was out on a hike, minding my own business, when I overheard a young man describing the science behind the flat bottoms of the cumulus clouds that had gathered overhead like a flotilla of cotton laden barges. “Warm air rises, and as it rises it cools until it reaches its saturation point and then it forms clouds. The flat line is where the change happens, that’s the dew line.”

I thought this revelation might trip some distant memory of 8th grade science class, but there was no sudden: ‘Oh, of course, the dew line!’ Indeed 8th grade has largely slipped into the realm of undocumented rumor. All I remember is a couple of teachers. First, a hulking Science and Phys Ed teacher named Miss Nelson who surely had a first name but was known matter-of-factly as Moose. It was Moose Nelson who prophetically uttered: “Russia schmussia, the country to keep your eye on is China. When things get dicey in China there’ll be a price to pay!” That was 1959. And I do keep an eye peeled.

The other was Robert Halloran, a short, huge-bellied, red-faced, wheezing student teacher who had us read "Great Expectations" in class, and who shockingly informed us of the inevitability of carrying some variety of parasites in the gut — an affliction which I have always assumed was rather actively claiming him. Mr. Halloran was known as Stumpy.

Moose and Stumpy. Rocky and Bullwinkle.

So with these memories and a rekindled thirst for knowledge I googled ‘dew line’ when I got home. What I received was a whole page full of articles on the Distant Early Warning System, that cold war line of defense that anticipated Russian missiles arriving via the north pole. The theory being, as I recall, that an early warning would give you time to locate a grade school to break into and curl up under a desk — or better yet, you might lunge into an air raid shelter from which, if you managed to survive two weeks on canned food, you would then emerge to check the status of the corn and tomatoes in your mother’s garden.

I imagine that the DEW line still exists, now manned by a skeletal crew of men in their 90’s who dress each morning in khakis, do some light calisthenics, and take steaming cups of coffee to their various front porches, where they sip and slowly scan the skies.

Legend has it that Robert George, who ran Evans Printing Company during the middle part of the previous century, once donned his coat, gripped his briefcase, and tipped his hat to the receptionist as he pushed the street door open to the low light of a late winter afternoon — only to return almost immediately. “I thought you’d left for the day, Mr. George,” the receptionist said. “Couldn’t leave,” he explained, “still got eight minutes on the meter.”

By the time I joined Evans in the mid 70’s it was Robert’s son Morton who ran the company. And Mort was visited by no such compunctions; so this trait isn’t necessarily passed down. Mort George was a wonderfully stout, sea captain-bearded, curious man, perpetually primed for laughter. He drove one of the few AMC Aspens that were ever actually sold; a car Mort was quite pleased to own. It was a small round car that much resembled him, and the wraparound glass mirrored his extroverted personality.

We never did establish a strong rapport. “So Craig, how’s your Volkswagen?” was Mort’s stock attempt to engage me, but it was a non-starter; I was not then the talker I have since become. Further, I knew nothing about, and cared little about, cars; still don’t. Nor could I bring myself to reciprocate with: “So Mort, how’s your Aspen?” I probably should have. Given the choice, Morton George would always opt for laughter.

Hope you’re still out there Mort, the world has need of you.

There is a coolness in the air now, it’s long sleeved shirts for morning walks. Evening symphonies are closing down as the cicadas pack their instruments. Concussive black walnuts, too green and round to be natural, plummet from on high and bestrew wooded trails where only the box turtle walks with impunity. Percussive acorns loosened from the high oaks hovering over our parking area rain down, hammering our cars and gathering in the windshield wells.  In aviaries, looking up comes at a calculated risk — but that risk is magnified here. And the real rain, when it comes, which is often and with short warning, can be Singaporan.

Tuesday was a slow day in Uber Asheville, but rather than sit around waiting for the phone to ring I took the opportunity to bone up on Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s not a bad one as disorders go — which is to say that it is, after all, seasonal. So it comes and goes, like mosquitoes. What did surprise me was learning that there is a summer version of SAD. And the summer symptoms are pretty much the reverse of its more popular winter cousin: weight loss instead of weight gain; insomnia rather than oversleeping; agitation not lethargy. So, very different indeed — but none of these are choices you’d happily make. And as a result a serious industry has emerged to address and combat the disorder.

What you probably don’t know (and might perhaps choose not to) is that a 2007 study ranked New Hampshire highest on the country’s SAD scale with an estimated 9.7% of the population affected. I would have guessed Alaska. Perhaps Alaska was just too far away to be included. Or maybe Alaskans are simply a breed apart. Yesterday I did provide a ride for a man who had just driven down from Anchorage. 4500 miles. He described his premature excitement of crossing into the US, with 2000 miles still to go. And the near giddiness experienced as he entered Iowa. Probably not a man subject to Seasonal Affective Disorder.

As for me, I’m keeping my eye on the winter. I plan to get plenty of sunlight bundled up on my back deck. And since snowfall is minor in the Blue Ridge there will be no excuse for not exercising. But really, when you get down to it, there’s not a demon here or in New Hampshire that could withstand a regular dose of this spot in Asheville’s River Arts District.

Yesterday I officially embarked on my late life, two-pronged career as Uber driver and oral historian; listener to stories all day long.

This has indeed been an eye-opening week. It started with accompanying Santina to a Unitarian Universalist Church service on Sunday. I have long enjoyed claiming that my last non-Christmas church service was Easter 1958. I’m sure this isn’t true, but I do enjoy saying it. Perhaps I will continue to.

I went largely for the music which is directed by our fine neighbor, Milton Crotts. As the church swelled my discomfort grew, but it slowly dawned on me that the discomfort was not attributable so much to a deep seated dislike for religion (though I do confess to a deep seated disinterest), as to a minor(ish) condition of agoraphobia — which would be a fear of crowds; and not, as it sounds, a fear of agriculture. I have no fear of agriculture whatsoever. I’m quite fond of agriculture. I even like the feel of the word ag-ri-cul-ture as it pinballs out the mouth. It’s an old-fashioned word, like ‘dungarees’, which is what I called them growing up; and on the knees of mine you can usually find evidence of agriculture.

It also occurred to me during that service that if I am to promote my oral history work I will need to become involved with the larger society, of which the UU Church is a part. So a question arose as to whether I would actually stoop to use the church as a marketing tool! And indeed I would, but the fact is I met some very nice people there. People I’d be delighted to talk with over a cup of tea. People with stories that run both parallel and perpendicular to my own.

With this fuzzy feeling of potential change, I approached the troubled waters of setting out on my first Uber drive. The largest complaint from Uber riders concerns drivers who don’t know their way around their city. And I don’t. So procrastination was actually in order. But at some point you simply have to trust. Like falling backward off a ladder into the supporting arms of friends — an exercise I participated in without qualm some 30 years ago.

Fortunately my first rider, a young man, local teacher, was fully prepared to provide turn by turn back road instructions to a distant destination. For his efforts — and for having been my first rider — he was presented with a freshly baked loaf of bread, which took him, I am quite certain, by surprise.

My second ride was a group of four young medical people from Washington DC who were headed downtown for a wedding reception. Somewhere south of the city they all piled into my Matrix (I didn’t dare look), and we arrived safe and sound after a few more lefts and rights than absolutely necessary.

So, here we go, into the woods.

For countless millions of years the Earth whirled through space listening only to the low grindings and gurglings of geologic change. From those rumblings sprung rivers and mountains. Eventually plant life; and well into the spin cycle — animal life.

The appearance of early animals resulted in no major shift to the planet. Animals came and animals went, rumblings continued, the mountains grew, continents re-arranged. But then came man with his need for order, and the world has never been the same.

As a member of the current evolutionary strain I often struggle to find my way from one end of the day to the other. And why is that? Lack of order. Being a millipede or a muskrat would be a pretty straightforward thing. And while moose are said to be unpredictable, they don’t even begin to unpredict like human beings do. Human beings complicate a potentially simple existence by identification with politics, religion and sports teams (sometimes classified as a subset of religion).

Sadly, those complications are further compounded by occupation. The deer that watch me from my driveway have no need to choose a way of life, no practical knowledge of style, no dubious electronic skills; they just move about, always in seeming harmony. I, on the other hand, spend most of my time attempting to understand what it is I should be doing. Right now I can happily advise that I am about to become an Uber driver. An Uber driver is a good thing to be because it allows me to set my own schedule; which in turn allows me to pursue oral history work and writing bits; which might lead to my ultimate goal of becoming — not a driver, not an oral historian, but a muskrat.

Until about fifty years ago the guiding principle with purchasing magazine advertising space was to buy the space your budget suggested and then fill it, as you might a pair of pants, until it began to seem unsightly. But in the 60’s Volkswagen began buying big space and putting remarkably little in it. Thumbing through a magazine you’d recognize a VW ad even before you saw the copy — not so much by what it was as by what it wasn’t. Good exercise for the brain, and somehow reminiscent of the game Battleship where every incorrect guess provides very precise information about where something isn’t.

During the Space Age distance began to be measured in light years; sometimes thousands of them. Even one light year is, of course, impossible to imagine. I found it grounding to think of a light year as the length of time it would take an ant to walk to Argentina.

More recently the concept of black holes was introduced. Black holes aren’t particularly about distance, but getting your mind around a black hole is akin to considering how long it would take an ant to walk to Argentina if you first factor in the length of time required for an ant to realize that it has an interest in visiting Argentina.

And now we know that those black holes are not actually full of nothing, they’re full of mysterious dark matter — yet another concept that has me tripping on the threshold. I find it helpful to consider black holes as swirling vortexes into which all those old VW beetles were drawn.

Meanwhile I’ve become the embodiment of the Battleship game, confidently calling out my insurance agent coordinates only to hear an internal voice say “Nope.” Learning who I am by coming to terms with who I am not. It’s not all bad. Exciting things are brewing.

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.

The DMV is just down the hill from us. Maybe a quarter mile. We stopped in to get our North Carolina drivers licenses last week. While Asheville may be the friendliest place on Earth their DMV is a dead zone. Which should have been anticipated. Bureaucracy being such a great leveler.

We brought ID supposing that a New Hampshire license with a backup credit card or Medicare card would suffice, but no. They wanted an original social security card, a birth certificate, or a passport in addition to the license. And if your middle initial was shown on one but your middle name was spelled out in full on the other God help you! Might as well just go back to 1946 and start all over.

When you get to be my age the licensing process cannot be taken for granted. "Press your forehead against the bar and read the fourth line to me." "Can't read the fourth line; second line looks like: y h l m x." "OK, what do you see to the left of that line?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Nope.” “What’s going on with that eye?” “Glaucoma.” “Okay, let’s try the right eye.” And of course the right eye did just fine. There is a couple I met 30 years ago through a dear friend. Bright people. Engaging. Good to be around. But now I hear that things have gone all fuzzy for Bill; he’s had to give up his practice, and his wife checks in on him. My eyes are much the same, one essentially doing the work of two.

Then there’s the mug shot. I do not excel at these. They tell you to smile if you want to, but the DMV is not a smiling place, not to mention that my simulated smiles play as addled smirks (also I was not exactly sure where the camera was); so rather than enter a 5 year relationship with a likeness that clearly doesn’t get it, I sat stoically until I was told to leave.

New Hampshire licenses are quite hideous; stark photographs wrapped round by huge, horsey type; the overall graphic design reminiscent of Soviet architecture. Clearly the work of someone with advanced glaucoma in both eyes. But my North Carolina license arrived yesterday and it is, by contrast, a breath of fresh air (or “free are” as they say down here). Type that draws you in, sharp flashless photography, a nice little border around the photograph, and a ghosted bi-plane in the background.

When I look at the photograph I do not see someone who is necessarily criminal. I see a little old man looking slightly surprised, and perhaps caught in the middle of a thought that he should not share. But harmless. Someone you could trust — though the eyes are a bit too close together, surely closer than they used to be. When we are young we have a certain verdancy that helps cover up physical design flaws. As we age that all gets stripped away leaving us as open and unprotected as the coast of Newfoundland. But there is a certain beauty to that. I am told.

Some spring morning several decades gone I stood spade in hand, staring at earth I’d just disturbed; the sod weak, more weed than grass, the soil a Twix bar texture of frost and gravel. To the surface of that rubbled ground rose 50 grey zombies, each staggering uncertainly before righting itself and taking flight. Bumblebees. So different from the well preened queens who rule the pollen and live in Mardi Gras.

We said goodbye to our dear cat Lucy today. Only 12 years old but failing rapidly to tumors and lesions, we had her put, as they say, to sleep, and buried her on the hillside below our deck where we can share a thought with her -- and where she might have some sense of the deer that appear at dusk at the wood's edge.

I am a long time advocate of cremation but I am thinking this evening that there is something satisfyingly solid about a piece of stone with a few letters and numbers etched in it. Something that says unequivocally: I was once here. If it encourages a certain introspection, or a photograph, so much the better. And if that stone in its pleasant surroundings should occasionally prompt the spreading of a blanket for a picnic lunch we might just have to reconsider where we draw the line between life and death.

We awaken to birdsong in a house shared with subcontractors. Deer and electricians frequent the property. In one week all major construction issues will have been dealt with, leaving us, the birds and the deer to sort through nuances of life in a land of dappled sunlight.

Santina and I are enjoying getting to know Asheville while we wait for the final inspections on our house. The house is looking great and all of our neighbors have been wonderfully welcoming.

History is around every corner. The source of the healing sulphur springs that established Asheville as a health spa in the early 19th century are rumored to be just down the hill from us. And if you walk up the hill toward the Asheville School you'll find even more history in an enchanting graveyard that includes a slave cemetery, some Civil War soldiers' graves, a tribute to WWII soldiers, a Remington horse-and-rider statue (for some reason) and any number of little reminders that death need not be such a solemn occasion.

While there have been no deaths directly attributable to our move to Asheville, the beaches of South Carolina are littered this past week with the wreck of a certain beauty. Non-stinging we are told -- which adds to the allure. Big as softballs. And so many. What piece of celestial reasoning sends these otherworldly bodies floating in?

We are enjoying our last weekend* in Myrtle Beach with Jane and Alan. Heat and humidity have now joined forces in the Lowcountry; we plan our activities accordingly. Time to head for the mountains.

* or so we say, but don't you know it ain't over till Edie Brickell sings:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RzhTN9zW3w

There's more than one way to engage the enemy.

17th century Scottish Highlanders, opting for direct confrontation, discarded their kilts and went shrieking into battle wearing only their shirts and wielding double edged claymoors. The Highland Charge had its moment, and it may have saved on the dry cleaning, but like The Who smashing their instruments on stage, the initial effect became hard to duplicate.

History is also full of brilliant diversionary tactics where a bunch of guys go off and make a lot of noise to turn the enemy's head, and while the enemy is assessing that problem the real problem smokes them from the blindside. A variation of that exists in today's politics where a traditional Republican candidate, while pondering whether to shake one fist or two at those free-spending Democrats, runs the risk of being whacked by one of his or her own 2x4 wielding Tea Partyers who consider fist shaking an offensively wimpy response.

In the Battle of Cranesway Drive, Santina and I like to vary our tactics. After making our Highland Charge and snickersnacking our claymoors we've stepped judiciously aside to re-fasten our kilts and assess our progress. The threat of suit has indeed brought our warring contractor and bank together. The contractor claims -- and our flooring man confirms -- that a truce has been signed that allows the bank to pay the flooring company our flooring allowance (money the contractor cannot come up with). So this is good.

The flooring material arrives today and installation begins on Monday. With luck it's completed by Friday when our household goods are delivered. Meanwhile our bank, with whom we have a Tea Party/Republican relationship, has gone all quiet on us; phone calls and email enquiries notwithstanding. So what do you suppose those guys are up to?

Chapter 13 -- Waiting for Godot,
or Hitch Hiking on a Road with No Traffic


Back in my formative years, before I'd become aware of the various errors of my ways (before I'd even made most of them), Tony Megaro and I hitch hiked from Fort Benning, Georgia to Savannah to buy leather dye to finish the pocketbooks we were making for our women. It's all I actually remember about the OJT part of basic training. That and spending time in a darkroom. I was supposed to be training as an electrician but there was no such training, which likely explains my enduring wariness in the presence of waffle irons and my utter fascination with bug zappers.

We did get a series of interesting rides to Savannah. Also nearly got run over sitting on a curb by a driver who apparently didn't like our looks. And we actually found leather dye, almost immediately; but rides were hard to come by on our return. As darkness descended we parked ourselves on a lonely road under a well lit billboard for a speedway. Cars were pulling in for the evening event so we figured that sooner or later they'd also be leaving, and we were banking on that. Buster, the local sheriff, blue lights flashing, pulled up and asked us what we were up to. We explained but as he rolled up the cruiser window he was shaking his head.

When the races finally ended cars and trucks started streaming out. Our hopes rose, but then plummeted when the billboard lights went out, leaving us in pitch black on a fast road made faster by a thousand homeward bound, blood-surging, stock car aficionados on a stretch of macadam infamous for its pedestrian deaths -- 16 in the previous 12 months are the numbers I remember.

But we hatched a plan, because Tony was very resourceful. We stood down off the road, Tony with his underpants -- because they were white -- wrapped round his extended forearm, and me feebly striking matches each time a pickup roared by. Eventually the park emptied out. As we glumly considered our options a lone car slowly approached. I was striking our last match when the blue lights came on. Buster. "Get in. Whatcha got in the bag? Wouldn't be marry wanna would it?" "Nope, leather dye." Which seemed to satisfy him and he drove us back to the base.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Santina and I continue to stand under our own billboard waiting for our contractor to do what we really no longer believe he intends to; which is to finish our house. We've told him next Friday or else. Completion is oh so close, closer than the backside of the Berlin Wall, but we don't have decades to tear this one down.

Purty colors, real purty, is what the beefy guy in the red pickup shouted from the top of the drive. He had to say it three times, partly because of the distance, partly because of the drawl, and partly because I was preoccupied with thoughts of how to murder our contractor without getting into too much trouble.

But the big guy is so typical of the kind of reception we experience from strangers in Asheville. This is just a genuinely friendly place. We do hope you'll come for a visit once the house is finally done and the body disposed of.

Even as Santina and I were cautiously rejoicing late Friday afternoon we got word that our contractor has revealed that doesn't actually have enough money for the final finishing of our home. How are we not surprised?

This instance of snatching victory is not without historic precedent. During the long struggle between Rome and Carthage the Carthaginians with their sharp spears and impressive catapults had the Romans in frantic retreat when they found themselves short of both spears and rocks. All might have gone well enough, and the world might be a different place today, had the Carthaginian king (Punic III) not been such a Python fan; had he resisted his lamentable temptation to launch amphorae seconds, hastily gathered lawn furniture, and the odd arbor vitae at his fleeing foe. All of which gave the Romans pause. Get me a shrubbery indeed!

We're choosing to view Friday's news as one more frost heave on the highway; an issue between contractor and bank. Not our pro-blem. We'll see.

Living in the Land of Kafka . . .

The eternal question is: When are you moving into your house? And as we shuffle along in Kafka's long grey line of semi-expectant souls the answer remains the same: Maybe.

This has been a week of high activity as our contractor rushes to appease the bank, the city of Asheville, the county of Buncombe, the state of North Carolina, and perhaps us. A Certification of Occupancy is our goal for Friday. This seems possible. The bank's goal is completion of house and all attendant inspections by Monday, which is not possible and failure will trigger great unpleasantness.

Santina and I head for Asheville on Monday to assess the situation and consider moving in. Our cat Lucy says behind, boarding at the vet's. Our household goods in storage since July deliver on the 30th (which assumes a good filing system), but our floors will not have been installed by then. And the various powers that be are poised along Cranesway Drive, monkey wrenches cocked.

Every British murder mystery worth its salt ends with all suspects being summoned to the drawing room. They arrive dressed for tea and are variously anxious, confused, aloof, or irritated. The detective, who may have seemed overmatched, becomes beetle-browed in the process of delicately peeling back the layers of evidence. Once the identity of the killer is brought into sharp relief he or she has the option of repenting, spewing accumulated bile, or bolting for the nearest door. One time in seven (because that's how many supects there are) you and I get it right and feel quite smug.

While Santina and I cannot see just how many pages remain in our particular mystery we are certainly headed for the drawing room. Unlike the pattern of British mysteries we are not altogether certain who has been murdered, or whether the murder has even taken place yet.

There is the mindbending mathematical fact that continuously halving the distance between Point A and Point B results in your never reaching Point B -- which is something I always tried to keep in mind while sliding sidewards in heavy traffic on black ice on Rte. 89.

The concept seems more believable when applied to our moving into our house in Asheville. Originally it was three months out, then it became a series of one more months, then just a matter of weeks. The response to yesterday's question about when we'd receive our Certificate of Occupancy was "Monday or so" which roughly translates to: Certainly not Monday.

We'll see. Glad for gardens to walk in.

And the Certificate of Occupancy doesn't mean the house is complete but only that we can move into it.

If you visit Brookgreen Gardens midweek during the school year expect to find the place heavily populated by early boomers and slower moving devotees of the big band era. Every single one will be carrying a camera of some description, here and there you'll see a tripod. Most will be walking though some will be touring on trolleys. Expect an occasional daredevil on a Segway, and watch that you don't trip over the one lone soul slithering on his belly (which'd be me).

It's been a while.

During this slent interlude I have been gently housed by good friends Todd and Debbie in Asheville. My mission there was to investigate house progress, meet with lawyer, discuss the logistics of re-financing with a local bank, meet with a new general contractor and/or alternately consider taking on the responsibilities of the general contractor, and maintain a singular focus throughout in order to not go crazy in a particularly obvious way (I am not good at this).

And I could not have done it at all without the support of Todd & Debbie and their friends and relatives; the advice of Irene who is a trooper; the active concern of neighbor Dana; the warm welcome from Milton and Joanne -- our neighbors on the other side; the sobering but compassionately delivered news from advising general contractor James Carr; some to-the-point legal counsel provided by Brian Gulden; a heartening connection with Judy Bond of TD Bank who made me welcome and gave us hope; and of course from Santina who tended the fort, fed the cat, and kept me afloat when my sails got snarled. Santina has taken to calling me Don Quixote, which seems to fit.

In crunch time our bank in Alabama also commited their support in this process -- which is essential in extending timelines.

Latest news is that work is proceeding on our house and we have expectations of being able to move in before the month is over. More to come on that for sure.

Santina and I are like the oyster who, assessing the lump that's invaded the living room, tries to recollect the grit that got it there. And the mind has an amazing capacity to create experience at the hint of evidence.

Our house construction problems are rapidly devolving into legal problems -- all hinging from an early revision to our building contract. On the revision the promised delivery was changed from 180 days to 365 days, which came as a shock when the contractor sprung it on us a week ago. And since the bank the contractor guided us to requires completion of construction within 120 days of their loan, the contractor gets to sit on his hands and let the clock wind down. And when it does the bank calls the loan (takes the house), the contractor is left with any of our money not spent, and we're out of luck. None of this good.

So the question I have is whether in fact we did notice they'd altered the maximum time, and whether I did not notify them of the error at the time; on an email address that I can no longer access. Funny how this aging mind goes from complete blank to vague recollection to the certainty of what I was wearing and who the Red Sox were playing on that fateful day. What, indeed, are we to believe?

Clotted cream it was that set everything in motion; the French slyly claiming it as their own creation to the great surprise and blubbering exasperation of the Brits who sought to defend their solitary culinary foothold. A Great Debate ensued with much shouting and finger pointing. Bombastic experts provided conflicting historical evidence, each succeeding claim topping the previous by half a century or more till the French pounded their collective fist and brought everything to a momentary halt with the presentation of a disgusting bit of maybe-once-white-dried-something extracted from the crop of a prehistoric bird discovered quite fortuitously in a boggy area on the outskirts of Nice. There being no further ground to explore in that direction, the debate swung from the origin of clotted cream to who was going to damn well have whatever clotted cream there was.

The challenge of an epic tug-of-war was hurled by the British and accepted by the French. 14 red blooded souls set sail from London, each one hand selected from prestigious rugby and darts clubs, each one a bulking marvel of cornfed fitness; legs like tree trunks and nuclear arms.

The French team was no match for the Brits in size. Relying instead on guile, the cunning French schemed distraction of their grunting adversaries with clever limericks and promises of Beaujolais. The tug-of-war had barely begun when two of the cleverest Frenchmen dropped the rope to engage croissants, and a third called time out for a bathroom break -- but there are no timeouts in tug-of-wars so the French team was dragged mercilessly across rough ground, into the English Channel and clear across it before the lagging three caught up and slowed the route.

On the shore of Brighton the tide did turn as waterlogged Brits howled their laughter and rolled in the sand to 'There was a young lady from Kent' and those French guys saw their chance and darted back into the water . . .

And so it goes with our struggle, back and forth. One minute we've got the upper hand and the next we're in the muck of deep despair. It's us against the contractor, then us and the bank against the contractor, then somehow the bank against us; and possibly even us and dreadful contractor against the bank before we're done. Nothing's easy. And we're not squabbling over clotted cream here.

My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather (on my father's side not my mother's -- hers was a short tempered, florid faced butcher with a drawerful of dull knives) -- held the post of gillie on a heather festoon estate just east of Kirkcaldy on the Firth of Forth.

Legend has it that on a spring morning when the clouds were roiling black, and shortly after the birth of his second son, my many-grands, Donnel Buchanan by name, was attacked in a clearing by a pack of wolves. Dropping to the ground and curling into the fetal position he commenced peeping in the manner of woodcocks, and from the ball that was his body he thrust his right hand, wiggling the fingers to effect tail feathers. This so confounded the wolves who were not, after all, customarily particular about the nature of meat (feathered or un-) that they warily circled round him for the better part of half an hour before disbanding and dispersing into the forest. Donnel continued with the peeping and wiggling till he was well certain that the wolves were gone. Then rising to his feet, he dusted himself off, adjusted his tartan, smiled his satisfaction, and was struck down by lightning. So you won't catch me smiling just yet, but things are definitely turning for the better in the housing department.

Monday afternoon, despite a no-no-no-wait-wait-wait plea, we filed with the Better Business Bureau and threatened legal action. Tuesday morning we received a promised detailed production schedule calling for all inside work except flooring and tiling to be complete by March 31; everything complete by April 23. We countered with an April 7 move-in date (inside fully complete) and April 23 for completion outside. No response on that yet, but the roles of turtle and alligator were becoming murky.

Wednesday we called the bank and learned that while we'd been hurling barbs, the bank has been going at the contractor with sickles; and that the schedule we'd received was one that the bank in fact had demanded (and they're not happy with it). So if there's an alligator in the pond it'd be the bank; and that alligator has his yellow eyes trained on the rounded carapace of our reptilian contractor. Life is looking brighter.

(And it was all orchids again last night.)

The Whinny From the Back of the Barn . . .

I referenced my anger in Chapter 2 but I should explain that I am no more familiar with full fledged anger than I am with the four minute mile. My most recent previous memory dates from the late 80's when an altercation with my former wife revealed a number of things about me that I had not known. None of which I will be sharing here.

In retrospect, regarding the contractor, I confess that I hate to be taken advantage of; and that my anger was generously daubed with the embarrassment of having allowed it to happen. But there's a much deeper issue at play, it involves a core belief: that I place limitless faith in individuals; and none whatsoever in groups. Suddenly I was being challenged to re-evaluate. And I hate challenges. But enough about me.

Sunday evening as I was admiring my new laces an email fluttered in. It came quite unexpectedly from our contractor's henchwoman. In it she expressed apologies for delays in getting back to us and then continued with a clearly imaginary progress report which she never would have sent had she first communicated with her employer, who at that point knew we had reports from confederates in Asheville and that the jig was up. Lies or no, it was very nice to hear from Ms. HW. I went to bed happy, dreamed of orchids.

Hi Irene (who should receive a citation already). I have added you to my email list to keep you in the loop.

And Todd, Chris, Missy & Dan -- I know I said I'd foist this blog on you for one post only, but I can't very well let you off a moving bus, so consider yourselves held captive till we reach our next scheduled stop.

******************************************

Chapter 2

I bought these sneakery things a year ago. They're the best, everyone should have at least one pair (brand name Oboz, look for them -- not cheap). Only thing is: you could tie redwoods with the laces. And on Friday the snakeskin-like outer coverings of both laces separated from their rubbery cores leaving long, loopy strands, rendering me virtually immobile.

It was also on Friday that our dicey relationship with our contractor thoroughly unraveled. On Friday the contractor's alternating pattern of stoney silence and terse, obfuscating messages became laced (sorry) with progress reports that we knew to be flat-out false. Flags went up. We emailed, threatening legal action; no response. An instant message was launched and bounced back as undeliverable.

3:00 Saturday morning I awoke with the certainty that the horse had already left the barn, that our contractor had done a runner, that we'd been left holding the bag of whatever a horse might chose not to carry off. Santina said I was over-reacting. I envisioned turtles and alligators. Saturday was a dead day. Sunday morning was no better. I contemplated our barren moonscape years to come. But then Santina took me for a walk on the beach and on our return we stopped at a mall; I bought a pair of fancy laces -- with their plastic locking mechanisms they're billed as great for young children and also for elders, both of which I happen to be.

I can tell you that I took a certain pleasure in cutting out the old laces and threading in the new. Granted, it's a small step for mankind, but it felt like the perfect start for whatever comes next.

I know I haven’t stopped talking about Brookgreen Gardens since we discovered the place, but it is genuinely worthy of comment even though the gardens have yet to present themselves. We’ve visited four times and you’d think maybe that would be enough to see everything — until a little research reveals that Brookgreen encompasses 9100 acres and includes more than 1400 sculptures. Many of the sculptures date from the first half of the 20th century and feature the work of Anna Hyatt Huntington who, with her husband Archer, created the estate in the 30’s. I’m sure there are a few pieces I have yet to see but Glenna Goodacre’s bronze triad “The Water Bearers” cannot be surpassed.

We’re anxious to start sending emails from Asheville but we’ll certainly return to Brookgreen when the gardens are in bloom.

Brookgreen Creek, a minor version of Kipling's great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo, once irrigated coastal rice plantation fields. Today a sign warns: 'CAUTION: No Swimming or Wading. Illegal to feed Alligators.' Yesterday Santina and I stood on an observation platform searching for early season signs of life; first in the murk flowing just below our feet, then in the reeds across the way, and finally (why not?) in a camouflaging tangle of Methusalahan tree limbs.

A dear friend has asked me to list my three favorite things about Myrtle Beach, and I've been thinking about it. Right out of the chute I have to say that the carp from the previous post didn't make the cut, me not being much of a fish fan. But I'm happy to report that a poet friend offered the following carp caption: "the hungry ghosts (as the Buddhists understand them: our dangerous relentless craving)." Is that not perfect?

So anyway, I'm really liking the Myrtle Beach weather. We did have some chilly days but now it's bright sun and 70's. At some point on most days I can be found dozing, stretched out here in Jane and Alan's backyard, risking sunburn, a paperback A-framed on my chest. I could go on, but don't want to seem to be one of those sorts who rub things in.

Secondly, every Myrtle Beach woman involved in the service industry, regardless of age (hers or mine), calls me 'honey' -- which is really sweet. If I sense a funk coming on I know I can go out and buy a doughnut or something and come home feeling just super.

Finally, and this pushes the boundaries (but whose blog is this actually?), I love Myrtle Beach's proximity to Brookgreen Gardens just down the road in Pawley's Island. Brookgreen has vaulted to the top of my list of Places I'd Never Even Heard Of Before. Sprawling majestically across the acreage of four former rice plantations, it features wikipedia sculpture gardens -- everyone and every thing that's ever been. A walking tour describes plantation days. There's a guided flatboat tour through the marshes, a small zoo that is decidedly non-zooish, and an aviary I just might retire to.

So those'd be the top three.

I'm really not quite sure what to say here . . . captions welcomed.

South Carolina stands out for its incredible flatness. If you drive from Myrtle Beach in the northeast corner of the state you will need to get well west of Columbia in the smack dab center before resting easy about rogue waves. And the terrain northwest of Columbia on Rte. 26 toward Asheville rolls very gently till you reach the exit for Landrum SC on the North Carolina border. Only then do the mountains that form the bowl that cradles Asheville rise up to make a statement. Only then do the semis begin downshifting and flashing their hazard lights. If you roll your windows down a cool breeze blows through and beneath the groaning of those trucks, if you listen oh so carefully, is a subtle, haunting melody that just might be springing forth from banjos.

In the land of far away and long ago there is ice and there is snow. But here on the flatland coast of South Carolina I photograph plants loosely described as pampas grass and admire the flight of a pelican whose bill, as someone famously wrote, holds more than his belly can.

Our house is not nearly complete, so here we linger, our animation suspended -- broken only by the yelping of a neighbor's dog and the passing shadows of incoming planes, their portals plugged with happy faces of early tourists; the formal list of which, you'd now find, includes us.

One of the best ways to break up a long road-trip is to spend part of it on a ferry; which is exactly what Alan and Jane treated me to on our drive back from Myrtle Beach. Everyone on board seemed at ease and happy to be afloat.

But that was last week. Now I'm back in SC and heading to Asheville. When I return tomorrow I'll be all full of house stuff, so I want to mention the ferry while it's on my mind; in the event that you also have a road-trip on the horizon, or that you've been tinkering with starting a business that affords people pleasure.

One of the first things you stumble into when visiting South Carolina is the potential for confusion. Take Myrtle Beach. There's Myrtle Beach the city (established in the early years of the 19th century, population now hovering around 30,000). But to many people Myrtle Beach simply means golf; 100 local courses keep you ducking. And of course there's also Myrtle Beach the beach, which is part of a 60 mile stretch of uninterrupted sand known as the Grand Strand that extends south past the township of Pawley's Island (which is also the name of an island within that township). Quite confusing.

So my tip of the day is: you can shorten your South Carolina luncheon experience considerably if you modify the popular expression "please pass the ketchup" to "please pass the ketchup to me."

The Big Bang sent everything eternally outward, but in our small pockets of the universe things tend to move toward. We are drawn to people who interest us, even at our peril. Whole careers are spent refining work to better fit who we think we are. And we allocate more time for sliding toward rather than stepping back from identified weaknesses. So this move of Santina's and mine -- a move away from what we know and love -- runs a bit against the grain. I view it as a cosmic chiropractic adjustment. Better that than a response to the gravitational pull of the planet Jupiter.

We've arrived safe and sound, dodging snowflakes and sleet. Happy to be in a warmer part of the world, in a cozy home, and in the gracious company of good friends.

No matter where you’re setting out to, do it with grand expectations, a spring in your step, and flowers in your hair (or tucked behind your ear). It will not always be so, but there is sweetness in the struggle.

Each early summer resembled those before. Long sunny days filled with outdoor adventure and always the baseball. Every summer culminating with the bittersweet Hopkinton Fair when a horde of certainly gypsies brought their loud and colorful world to us; and when they left they left us with school, the promise of winter, a taste of death.

Little changed. Every day was pleasant. The only time it rained was that one evening when the sky suddenly darkened and a bolt of lightning struck so close that the momentary flash caught me crouching under swaying pines, my arms wrapped round my head. There was also the summer the neighbor’s barn burned. We kids were ushered to an upstairs window — like being invited to a public execution — where we silently solemnly witnessed the flames, and more than flames, billowing black clouds of smoke, and the overwhelmingly sweet smell of hay, which is with me still. And oh, the soccer ball punted in a high arc that bounced once at a great distance then landed on a flimsy stand that held my Grandmother Bohanan’s prized green china coffee cup; and how the coffee spilled — which was the least of my troubles; the cup shattered, as did my grandmother’s gaze — and it all contributed surely to her assessment that I was more Pleadwell than Bohanan. So there were hints of death even in the summer, but it was all part of the fabric of life. Calves were born, cows died; and Sumner Tilton came in his green truck to cart off those unfortunates born of the wrong gender or beyond their usefulness. If we didn’t become philosophers we did become philosophical, valuing every day under the browning sun and our timeless seasons spent together.

Nuff Said

There are advantages and disadvantages to blending in. It’s a personal choice. One big plus is that it greatly diminishes the possibility of being spied by a hawk and ripped from home, eyes bulging, bits of door frame dangling from your paltry claws. There is that. And there’s a certain comfort in surrounding yourself with like-colored objects, cinnamon tea from your favorite earthen mug.

On the other hand, risking the hawk is not all bad. What value might you place on a fleeting Google Earth view of home and distant mountains?

After a rousing evening of Speed Scrabble we set out in the scholarly pursuit of words starting with a "q" but not with "qu". The are several out there. You should be able to make qat, qindar, qoph, and qigong stand, but Scrabble played right is the ultimate game of style. If you can ever manage "qiviut" I urge you to call a halt to the proceedings, bow respectfully to your opponents and declare yourself winner.

qiviut: (From the Inuit) the wool of the undercoat of the musk ox.

There are certain things I do automatically as a human being. I always tip waitpeople, even those who are inept. When someone sneezes I say god bless you (I say it with a small “g” and nobody seems to mind). I hold the door for people.

As a photographer I rail against the obligatory. I’m horrible about taking familial group pictures. I do photograph arresting sunsets, but I’m never proud of it since they require no particular eye. And lobster buoys painstakingly arrayed around the entrance of Maine commercial enterprises set my teeth on edge. But I do include one here, and I do so for three reasons. First: because the photograph was taken in a wonderful place called Cape Porpoise — a name strong enough to pile all the lobster buoys in Maine against. Second: because I need to allay concerns of well wishers who, should they notice the omission, might fear that I have missed the full experience. And Third: to quash the mumbling of cynics who are beginning to hint that I have never really been in Maine at all.

My mother once said that the crash of thunder was just Henry Hudson and his band of merry men playing ten-pins. I had never considered that.

When I was older and could work my brain around, I realized that what she said was simply not true, but that it made a pretty good story. Nowadays when I hear Henry Hudson invoked I give it no credence at all, and I’ve come to think that it isn’t even such a great story; bowling actually sounds quite different from thunder (blindfold me and I’ll get it right 8 or 9 times out of 10). But the real question I am dealing with, and I think every one of us should be, is just exactly what are Henry Hudson and his merry men doing that they should want us to think they're bowling? That’s the question; and I certainly do not suggest you’d want to know the answer.

Things are winding down. Even as winter tightens its boa grip we've made plans to leave New England mid-February to stay with friends in South Carolina while the final touches to our home are made.

Who can say when we will pass this way again?

Historians now debunk the concept of the Dark Ages as a period when man’s imagination shriveled, a time that gave rise to nothing of great importance. Change may have come slowly but all was not war and pestilence. Education, even inspiration, happened.

I can imagine a 10th century European baker, his day behind him, standing on a point like this to momentarily appreciate the sound of waves and the late afternoon play of light on rocks. And since people of those times were more attuned to nature’s cycles, he might well have realized that two days hence sunrise and high tide would occur in close proximity; and that the sight from the point would then be entirely different. He might have thought to himself: if the plague doesn’t get me I will return, I’ll have a look.

We’re into the grizzly phase of winter. When the holidays go you’re left with the cold and the wind. The beach house has a rain gutter that sings in the gale while an external vent flap plays the snare. Occasionally the whole house shifts its weight, a subtle reminder of the transient nature of all things, which should include winter. So there’s hope. I’m a three season person at heart.

In a glance Sherlock Holmes could tell what you had for breakfast, when you had it, and why you didn't have more. A snowy owl can do the same. The major difference between the two: deduction. The snowy owl has no power of deduction, it just knows.

The other major difference -- aside from the neck thing -- lies in the overwhelming urge to just snuggle with a snowy owl, despite certain knowledge that you'd get you eyes pecked out.

Snowy Owls have arrived Biddeford Pool. I joined a loosely aligned lot of bird lovers lugging long lenses; all parked along the side of the road and gathering wordlessly. None of us young. One in full camo -- and smoking a cigarette. All eyes trained at the same angle. Up. And from the up stared back the bird. Unruffled. On a mission. And who among us could not use a little overlooking?

Our race reaches the 3/4 post. The process has not been smooth. We've had exasperating delays made worse by silence ("What we have here is a failure to communicate"). Had we known what we were letting ourselves in for we would likely have bought instead of built. As Meriwether Lewis said: "I mighta took the train."

Be that as it may, and provided the erosion potential is properly dealt with, we're very excited about this Asheville home-in-the-making. Updates provided by the following unexpected sources have indeed been heartening:

1. our realtor from several years back.
2. a neighbor on Cranesway Drive.
3. a cousin from NJ whom I have yet to meet -- who took it upon himself while in Asheville to track down our site and send a photo; this a week ago on the coldest day in creation. Even in Asheville.
4. Todd Smith. Todd's not exactly unexpected. We're old NH friends and we'll be living 2 miles apart in West Asheville. But see the link below where I am able to post multiple photos from Todd. (I believe you can access the post without being a FB member)

www.facebook.com/CowAndBoule

Take care !

With the proliferation of references to local sports teams in recent posts I may be risking your disapprobation from suspicion that the Cow & Boule is transmogrifying into a cyber sports bar; a place you might enter with your cap on backward to slurp Budweiser Light and chomp on wings. If so, let me hastily disabuse you of that notion. There will be no chest thumping and no high-fiving, no belching, no index fingers thrust skyward here. The Cow & Boule was, is, and shall remain an oasis of genial discourse and contemplative introspection.

This is neither the place for ninth inning rallies nor two minute drills. The Cow & Boule remains a bastion of the entirely familiar, steeped in norwegian expectation. We avoid the sensational and disdain commercial jingoism; gravitating instead to eloquent understatement as exemplified by Harold Campbell, founder of the Campbell's Soup Company, who, when inundated by a rabid sea of supporters in Philadelphia, doffed his homburg, raised one hand till the din subsided, and humbly stated: "We do what we can and we can what we do."

If you were attentive to your fairy tales you're seeing this window and expecting to catch a glimpse of Rapunzel. But if you're a New England Patriots football fan rising happily from last night's rousing playoff victory, you recognize the subject of the photograph for what it actually is: the legendary Window of Opportunity.

And if you are a bit of a philosopher, someone who thinks even beyond football, you will understand that you have such a window yourself. And that when the sky is as blue as you see it here, there's something you really ought to be doing. I would not know what that is. But you certainly do.

So?

Everything under the sun has been photographed. But the quest for an arresting landscape has everything to do with subject and sun. The practical answer to the question about the best time to take pictures on the coast of Maine in January is: when you're able to wiggle your fingers. But the rule of thumb (sorry) is to make use of the critical first and last hours of the sun's presence, when the light is most dramatic. That being said, you see lots more photographs of sunsets than sunrises. The cold tones of predawn are not so inviting -- and then very quickly the sun is up and the day begins. Sunsets can linger, bathing the world in golden tones. We like that. And it's good to have a hit of it before tuning in the evening news.

Can there ever be too many photographs of Nubble Lighthouse?

I think not.

But let's get back to baseball. In the previous post I suggested that following baseball and the process of learning share no common ground. Sorry, I lied. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nearly all my early learning experiences are tied to baseball. And the lessons available to a child rooting for the Red Sox in the fifties and early sixties -- seasons filled with memorable characters, batting leaders, inept managers and underachieving teams -- had to do with false idols and misplaced hope. Disillusionment and humility were the logical byproducts. So we'd look for the kernel of wheat in a barrel of chaff. Breaking even counted as success. And so it went year after year. Rooting for the Red Sox was the modern day equivalent to cheering for the Republican Party. But what is ingrained early is what we carry with us, perhaps even modifying DNA.

I am living in my very best decade; learning something every day! now that the baseball season has ended. One tends to live and die during baseball, leaving little room for learning. But once the season is finished I emerge wide eyed into the world, a groundhog in reverse. Not that I am writing to you about baseball. Not today. But be forewarned.

Today I write about the tides. I am no student of them but have found myself capable of learning. Among the tides are neap tides and spring tides. They occupy opposite corners. When the gravitational pulls of the sun and the moon are at odds the conflict results in nondescript ocean tides. When you were a child perhaps your father wanted to climb Mt. Washington but your mother wanted to go shopping; so you ended up visiting Aunt Maud. That's the neap tide, a bit of cold porridge.

But the spring tide, which has nothing in particular to do with April and May, occurs when the gravitational pulls of the sun and moon are in harmony. Then the tides rush wildly. This is what it would be like had your parents' weekend compromise been the ocean (which would have been where you'd hoped to go all along) -- and had they blindfolded you till you got there, and then taken the blind off with a shout of "Surprise!" and had that unveiling coincided with the very moment that you happened to realize your pants were on fire. That's the spring tide. And it's grand!

If your life is moving a bit too fast, or conversely, seems locked in place, I invite you to stop by for a cup of tea on the back deck. We could reminisce about the good old days, re-tell those faux pas from eighth grade reading period -- did they call it Oral Reading? (and shouldn't we first consider the attributes of the walleye who coined that phrase?)

You could start with the classic one: Carol's misreading of the sentence: "Then she spied it, one of Mr. Fenn's big carp." I would howl and offer Ernie's curious inside out reading of the sentence: "She set the pot down helplessly." And then you would recount some bit that I had never heard, one that involved a classmate I barely remember and hadn't thought about in 30 years. This would cause me to pause to ponder how much of our school experience had actually been shared; but then I would catch myself and pour the tea.

And before we moved beyond the fun-with-words aspect of our common past we would contemplate a game of Scrabble, that wonderful game that can be happily played outdoors even in the presence of a light breeze; but we'd decide against it because playing Scrabble would change the focus. And could lead to arguments -- though in this festive mood I'd likely allow the use of NARNIA or DASNT if you would turn a blind eye to MRFENN.

I call this photograph Moonscape, but it could just as well be titled North Korea because one place is as foreign as the other to me. That being said, a tip of the hat to Kim Jong Un who has declared his country stronger today given the elimination of factionalist filth. And who could argue against that. Filth is filth, we all strive to avoid or eliminate it.

And in making the statement publicly Kim is effectively committing to stay the course, to maintain his high standards -- much as you or I would do in making a New Year's resolution. Mind you, it doesn't really do to make difficult resolutions silently because remaining resolute almost always requires the support of friends and family. So I urge you to make a stand, resolve something! And following Kim Jong Un's lead, say it loud and say it clear, whether or not your whole family is there to hear it.

The New Year brings one revelation: Google Earth now shows our house lot cleared -- though they can't yet pinpoint where #67 is on Cranesway Drive 28806. It will be interesting to see how long it takes them to register the exact spot and to show the house completed, with Lucy sleeping on the back deck (which is also where you should expect to find me).

Downsizing is the pits. Too many choices. For me it was dozens of early framed prints. Some were given away, some disassembled and taken to the dump, but most were packed in boxes and many of those will never see the light of day again.

Mother Nature does not have this problem. She's perpetually making and destroying her own artwork. When the seas rise there's no: "Look at the little rill I've made, shan't we savor it a while? If not forever at least for a fortnight?" There's none of that. And it's because there is art in the destruction as well as in the creation; which makes me think, sports fans, that my own ambivalence will disappear when I have learned to throw framed prints 40 yards, on a line, in a perfect spiral.

In the 1870's, Eadweard Muybridge, who kind of made up his name (and also murdered his wife's lover), utlitized a complex series of strobe lights to photograph a galloping horse, proving to one and all that the act of galloping includes a phase when all four feet are off the ground. The photograph posted here made me think of that, though it was created in an instant, on a whim, required no flash, and involved two legged seagulls who do not gallop -- and to my knowledge no serious debate exists concerning both of those feet leaving the ground when in flight. But it does show certain phases of movement; and here I see personal relevance. Were I to execute a series of these every morning, even every morning for a year, I would sadly never take flight, but I would surely overcome the minor shoulder pain that afflicts me.

The photograph shown here is actually one in a series of nine, each one quite remarkable in its own right -- and all shamelessly captured while Santina took it upon herself to hurl bits of burned pancake offerings skyward. I'm posting all nine images on my site. To see them all, and to see them at a viewable size, click "Home" above and then click onto the individual images.

Across the street and downbeach a jetty juts into the sea. It was constructed, I assumed, as a nice spot for me to go to have a think. But when I went, and as I thought, I noticed a similar jetty just across the way, one for which I would have little use. Research revealed that the two jetties mark the mouth of the Webhannet River, like some giant dental device. They are intended to provide a clear channel to the Webhannet River Boat Yard. Problem is they don't actually, or not forever. The silt still settles back in, boats bottom out, moorings are no more.

For the two months we've been here colorful platform dredges have been droning nonstop, gouging into the silent, unsuspecting silt and sending salty concoctions through a mile long serpentine plastic conduit to deposit the spewing mush back onto the beach. The beach is in fact only a few hundred yards from the dredges, but that's where the altered movement of sand caused by the construction of the jetties has made the beach fat. A mile upbeach the shoreline becomes thin and boney -- that's where all the downbeach sand has come from, and why the people up there aren't so happy. So far no one seems to be focusing very closely on what is happening back at the jetty end, where houses that once had nice ocean views are now developing dune views -- which are not so bad but certainly weren't what those people had bargained for. And the dredges drone on. You get a silly kind of dance when you connect the neck bone to the knee bone.

Life changes when you set out to capture something as ephemeral as light. Time of day takes on added significance; cell phones become populated with apps that predict weather, determine direction, pinpoint sunrise and sunset, chart the phases of the moon and the rising of the tides. Habits modify. Dish washing for instance. Once a finite chore with a predictable beginning and end becomes decidedly nebulous when a certain quality of light glints at the window and draws the photographer magnetically toward camera and door knob. And on those occasions when the core of that attraction proves to be iconic, as is the case with lighthouses, it is no longer a solitary pursuit.

Cars arrive, tripods unfold, pensive people silently check sight lines and settle in their spots. With approaching sunset tripods are adjusted, test shots fired. The day darkens. Photographs are taken. Someone speaks. Someone chuckles. Between shots they put on gloves, stamp their feet. With no clear end point people look to the sky, consult their watches. Concern finally turns to dinner and to the warmth of a car. Departures are made silently or with a nod or a wave and a "see you again".

I'm coming to the realization that the risks associated with the building of a house are not so different from those of climbing Independence Monument. John Otto was the first person to climb the monument in 1911. Everyone thought he was some kind of nut. Which he was. But that's beside the point; having a house built neither suggests nor requires eccentricity -- though perhaps it helps. Now we're hearing end of February as the completion date. This is not good.

When I first viewed this image I thought it reminded me of hope, but upon further reflection I realized that a person shouldn't actually have to be reminded of hope -- hope is one of those basic internal functions, like blood circulation or respiration, which were it to stop would be cause for mourning.

So I will rather say that this photograph speaks to me of hope, because a photograph can speak to you; and you, of course, may also speak to it, in many parts of this country.

There is frequently beauty to be found in powers strong enough to grind us to cornmeal. We are grateful, indeed appreciative, of the opportunity to view them safely. And I find it reassuring to consider that somewhere down the line we all become a molecular part of this greater thing.

It is literally the lull before the storm on the coast of Maine this morning. Noncommittal skies and pensive seas consider the occasional walker, bundled against a chilling breeze in an 8 degree freeze. It's not really a morning for a walkabout with a camera. Dylan's words are with me: "Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship. 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."

Things are picking up steam in Asheville. We've got water and power at our house site now. Delivery of modules is scheduled for tomorrow. And with this movement comes the bittersweet sense of our time winding down in New England. Rather than hanging in suspension we are now sliding toward something.

Nubble Light in York, Maine was constructed in 1874 to safeguard ships at sea (but perhaps you knew this). It may well be the most popular Maine lighthouse, in part because it is picturesquely separated from the mainland by a channel of choppy water. But the park it occupies is also snuggled in among multimillion dollar houses on the stretch between York's Long Sands and Short Sands beaches, placing it in prime Maine vacationland. During blue sky days of high summer, tourists flock here and line up to take pictures. But on rainy December afternoons no such lines exist -- as you step out of your car to face the grey sky and the roiling sea you feel as if you've just entered "The Shipping News".

Whether it's an artist affixing her signature, a salesman proffering his box of chocolates, or a defensive back imprinting a wide receiver, we're all hoping to leave a mark. Here at the beach those marks are constantly changing, which is a very good reminder about the way things are.

Every place we've stayed during our housebuilding interim period has offered remarkable sunsets: house on the hill in NH, house with a view of the Grand Mesa in Colorado, this beach house in Maine. It won't be so easy from the woods in Asheville; might have to put my shoes on. But the Asheville School, at the top of our hill, with splendid gardens and a long view of the mountains, just might measure up to what we've become accustomed. Do stay tuned.

The walk along the Marginal Way from Ogunquit to Perkins Cove has been a significant one for me. That mile walk and I go back a lot of years. In June, July and August it sees constant foot traffic. You can get out of the stream temporarily by claiming a bench with a view, or by scrambling out on the rocks where crashing waves overpower the conversations of passersby. But in December you're glad to encounter another hardy soul getting a bit of exercise.

Bundled up and moving at no one's pace but your own allows opportunity to observe detail, to see small. And what you see of course is life on the backside; the withered husks of summer. There's beauty in it; also a certain appreciation when you're feeling comfortably in step with that progression.

Big News !

Santina and I are really Really REALLY glad to announce that there is now a foundation in place for our house in Asheville. The house modules should arrive next Wednesday, and things should move right along once they do.

This is your family tree; that's you and your known relatives in the foreground. Stretching out behind are clusters of ancestors that formed your social DNA, each cluster common but different; all now silent and fixed, save for an occasional knowing nod at the sight of a familial gesture.

On days when the wind is less than fierce the sanderlings still flock in to dance in the tide and eat whatever it is they find there. Seems like a good life, devoid of fear; no shark induced traumas, no hawks zeroing in, no open season. So . . . why do you suppose there aren't a lot more of them? Hmmmmm?

Wells Beach, 19 degrees,
high winds,
Atacama dawn.
Bend with it,
find picture,
hurry home --
hot tea, olive bread
toasted from When Pigs Fly;
seek couch, carefully
count fingers.

Day before a holiday; and a very good day not to be flying. Happy Thanksgiving ! Take good care out there.

The questions are three:
Are you in Asheville yet?
No
Do you still expect to get there?
Ummmm . . . . yes
When?
January

The good news is that construction has finally begun.

Equally exciting is the launching of this new blog with its attendant website. I am pleased to have a place to offer my photographs for sale; and I am also very happy to offer our non-Facebook friends a way to track our travels, while perhaps facilitating a more effective way of staying in touch. I will continue to post links to this site on Cow & Boule for those who prefer the familiar.

(photo: Laudholm Farm, Wells Maine)

No man is an island. Of course. We know that. But who among us has not wished to be the next best thing; a lighthouse? Or more accurately, a lighthouse keeper. Or at the very least, a light housekeeper?