Editor’s Note: We had scrambled dreams in our night at Refuge Farm. My sister’s lovely daughter traveled to be with her. My brother, stalwart that he is, dropped his affairs in New England, and made it to Alaska to be with our sister last night. “Telling stories,” were the words he used to sum up his time with her. He said she seemed to be “winding down.” He had been awake for more than a day to get there, and I hope he gets some rest as this event combines sadness and affirmation. And love.
Marlow provides context this morning on all our lives, and of the places we lived them. And of family.
– Vic
We spent a late July week with my kid sister and her husband on a mountain top near Whittier NC. From this perch, we could see four or five Smoky Mountain ridge lines that lead to the morning sunrise.
It was no vacation we were taking; it was living. The easy kind. Our week’s nesting place was up so close to the top of the ridge line that only eagles could climb up that high. We would not suffer from a lack of peacefulness and rest.
Intermittent soft morning rains slipped down through the surrounding forest cover and the smell of mountain trees was so strong that we could almost lick it off the air. No rumble of trucks or autos along the steep, narrow, switchback roads where our abode sat disturbed our serenity. 1000 feet beneath us in a narrow valley and along the sides of the near vertical ridges men swung high tech sticks at little plastic covered balls straining to guide these errant objects into small cups hundreds of yards in the distance. Only those in houses close to the tee boxes or greens heard these swingers’ shouted expressions of occasional joy but mostly those of ignominious failure.
Our crew wasn’t exactly military in our sense of duty regarding chores except for cooking. Each day my brother-in-law made a stupendous breakfast while W and I did the honors for most of the evening meals, making sure to cook favorites as well as at least two new entrees our hosts had never had. Meals unfolded in deliciously short bursts of labor as parts were spiced, allowed to come to room temp, cooked, sauces made, sides and mains assembled and then plated. Evening meals could take as long as two plus hours to create from scratch since we brought a number of purposely canned, pickled or fresh local produce to serve as the basis of garnishes, sauces, mains or sides.
Between long stretches of waiting for something to steep, marinate, brown, or cook down, we’d have the last meal’s bountiful leftovers to tide us over.
During these times, nobody was pressuring us about nothing. So, we got to see things most flatlanders don’t get to see — clouds of hummingbirds marshalling to take their turn at the feeders, raptors soaring at eye level less than 100 yards distant, the rustle of a black bear or two foraging out in the bushes, and really weird looking, monstrous roadside shrooms. It was a beautiful thing.
Clearly, this was a place city folk could get used to. The un-curtained floor to high ceiling windows of the conjoined dining room, great room and kitchen up front had the immense advantage of allowing guests to see out beyond deep space to beyond infinity. We all could watch what was about to appear in a collective reality.
The place had cell, internet, satellite TV and landline phone, yet none of us took messages, unless specifically requested. This put us at a distinct advantage over pursuing I.R.S. agents, lawyers and their commercials, irate flatland neighbors, and various urgent problems from places of employment we had left behind.
Replenishment and refreshment also came easily along with daily trips to mountain valley towns.
What we saw and heard down there was at times almost quaint in its old timeyness and the ongoing battle between man, his nature and Nature.
Whittier NC sunrise
As we were departing one small Main Street store in Sylva, we observed a 12-year-old looking lad enter, march to the cash register counter and say forthrightly in a soft Carolina accent, “Sir, you don’t know me, but I stole this necklace from here yesterday,” as he handed over the goods. In a flat and calm tone that betrayed his being forewarned of this particular “Come to Jesus” event, the clerk said, “Well, let’s see what we got here.” We closed the shop’s front door behind us, certain that some penitential counseling and chores were in the offing. What a wonderful place and people of the old, old-school natural ways.
Smoky Mountain smoke
We drove along US 74 most every day, up and down its mountain ridge lines that were fun to navigate and whose narrow flatlands were irregularly dotted with old timey junk stores, flea markets, Cherokee Indian souvenir shops, local artisan pottery workshops and sales shacks, and junkyards filled with oddities and scrap. One such hard-by-the-roadside digging site for mountain rocks and shale for local home building up along mountain sides was in a never-ending battle with the local kudzu. This stand-off had been ongoing for some time as the enterprise’s old haul trucks, when they were no longer of further use, had been left off to the side. One victim we’d been tracking the past three years likely has one year left before the Asian weed finishes it off.
Man vs Nature — Kudzu Wins
1950s era Cherokee reservation motel along NC route 19a;
just down this narrow curvy road was another old motel whose front sign commanded
“Death to bumper humpers!” I almost crashed I was laughing so hard.
W, brother-in-law and kid sister under the Bridal Veil waterfall along NC route 28
One last item but with no photo due to circumstances not under my control — we were barreling our way to our Savannah home surprisingly fast though I-26 construction zones when one electric road sign shouted this warning to us: LANES SHI:T AHEAD. I smiled upon recognizing that there would be no censorship of that South Carolina author’s speech, political or otherwise, possible.
In tribute to this week, its salutary effects, and our life going forward, here are a few last thoughts about life going forward.
It was good to see them western Carolina hills baby, it’d been a long long while
W and I’re both a whole lot older, had enough of pandemic time
Things’ve become a whole lot different now since those long past good ol’ days
And we’re seeing some troubles
Since the country went and split onto its separate ways
Maybe we’ll say hello to each other at some other time instead
Cause we’re hunted by the thought police,
And my ex and maybe family think I’m dead
Some social media nobody likely spread the rumor that maybe I’d lost my life
‘Least that’s the way I think it happened and what I told my W(ife)
Now here I was still showing up again and talk’s getting’ round
But I can’t see me leaving this Coastal Empire town
If they think that I want trouble
Then they’re crazy in the head
Cause I ain’t wanted by the real police
I don’t give a shit if the ex and the millies think or want me dead
They never call or write me, so to them I just up and disappeared
None of them know what’s happening
Where I’ve been for all these years
Now if trouble’s what they’re lookin’ for
Cause trouble’s where they been
And I can see the kind of trouble they could get themselves in
They better pay attention to every word I said
Cause I ain’t wanted by the real police
I don’t give a shit if some think or want me dead
So goodbye to them, and I’m glad we got to talk
But I’m faithful to my W and I don’t ever break the law
I don’t know where we’re headed for
But we know where we’ve been
We’re Smokies refreshed and we’re back to our Savannah ways again
And I ain’t wanted by the real police
I don’t give a shit if any think or want me dead
Copyright © 2021 From My Isle Seat
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