A gazillion shades of green

There are no words, no pictures, no way to possibly describe how beautiful the Pisgah National Forest and the Blue Ridge Parkway are in the rain.

We had spent the morning at MR Motorcycle getting the tire replaced. The rain had poured down in sheets as we rode to the shop, and while they worked on the bike, Bill took off his boots and poured the water out. He replaced them, and a few minutes later, had to do it again. This time he wrung out his socks, which couldn't have been wetter if we'd gone swimming in a lake. We were absolutely drenched. We had stopped often on the trip, going into coffee shops and other places to get warm. But in July in North Carolina, raining or not, everyone had on their air conditioning, so we were better off outside.

So we sat on the bench outside the shop, covered at least by the eaves of the building, and waited. While we sat, though, we could see blue skies to the left, and it appeared the weather for the day would improve. We excitedly planned our afternoon--the Pisgah National Forest and some of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and on to Maggie Valley Bikewear to thank them for their help yesterday and to eat at Chris-the-tow-truck-driver's parents' restaurant. From there we were going to go to Cherokee before heading back to the inn.

Soon enough, the sun came out fully, the parking lot dried up, and we were going to have a beautiful day. I was getting a safe, new tire, the sun was shining, all was good. Neil came out to say, "He's balancing up your tire now. Shouldn't be too long and you'll be on your way." And as we waited for those finishing touches, we watched the clouds roll in, the sky blacken, and the rain started again.

By the time we pulled out of the shop parking lot, the rain came down steadily, and we pulled into Asheville traffic and headed off to the Parkway. I was breaking in a new tire, and when they handed the bike back to me, there was a bright yellow piece of paper attached to the key that said, "We have installed a new tire. Drive gently for 100 miles, taking extra care at turns and when stopping. We recommend EXTREME CAUTION," with those last two words in a much larger font and all caps. Hello, people, we're in Asheville. It's all turning and stopping.

We swung on to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and I drove gingerly and gently around turns. It's actually perfect, with the 45 mph limit, and on a Friday in the rain, there were hardly any other cars. The motorcyclists, relatively few though there were, were very friendly, with enthusiastic waving and beeping as we drove past. We made a wrong turn at one point and found ourselves on a much more challenging downhill, with tight tight curves, and lush greenery right up against the road. The mists and the rain brought out the gazillion shades of green, and the wet wood made for a higher contrast in the browns, blacks, and grays of stems and trunks. We stopped at a narrow waterfall where a stream fell through the thick vegetation and traveled under the road, flowing straight in spite of the essing turns of the pavement. We looked up through the fog at enormous trees stretching tall and straight over head. We marveled at the many shades of green, more than I could have believed.

I love to think of how people lived, how these roads and paths were originally cut on foot, and then eventually horseback. How people before us might have first happened on these lands, seen the beautiful forest undisturbed. The Witch in me feels the energy in the trees, the resonance in the rocks, the strength in the habitat. It was beautiful and moving and spiritual and amazing. The sound of the rain on every leaf, the stream's trickle, the pavement's tick as the rain bounced off... There is no way to describe how beautiful it was.

We realized our mistake (thank you iPhone maps app!!) and turned back up the hill. For me, I am much more at ease traveling up hill, and I felt confident tilting the bike, swooshing around curves, pulling ourselves up the wrong-turn road and back onto the Parkway.

We had a similar experience coming out of Cherokee many hours later when a wrong turn sent us through a wooded area with a large stream/nearly a river on our right. The greens were an intense contrast against the brown and bubbling water, and the road bent and curved alongside the flow, with trees bent over, creating a tunnel of green. Again, we rode on for some time before turning back into Cherokee to find the right road.

We had also been to Maggie Valley to thank the bikewear folks -- I introduced myself as "yesterday's damsel." They were incredibly sweet, and we promised to return. Please be sure to stop by and give them your business any time you find yourself in Maggie Valley.

Cherokee was also fascinating, and we promised ourselves we would return when we had time to stay for several days to soak up all that the town had to offer. This was the end of the relaxing part of our journey. Our tomorrow would be an early rise, packing, checking out, and then many, many hours of riding back to Durham. I knew we would be beat by the time we got back. Rest was much needed, and we looked forward to a soak in the deep, claw-footed tub in our room.

Andrew's Geyser

When you are afraid of everything, you have to make a decision about how you're going to live with fear in your life.  The easy thing might be to avoid the things that make you scared.  But if you're truly always afraid, then you won't be doing much. 

The alternative, of course, is to carry fear around with you, like an extra appendage.  Do the things you would normally do, with the weight of the fear getting in the way or getting cumbersome at times, but acknowledging that it's there and it's not going anywhere.

I'm lucky, I guess, that I became afraid at a very young age, so I never realized that extra appendage wasn't meant to be there.  Like a cat's relationship with its tail, it never occurred to me it should slow me down.

So when we were looking at google maps in preparation for this trip, and we saw Mill Creek Road that essed with insanely tight turns up the mountain, and when we zoomed the satellite view in and couldn't tell if it was paved, when we were looking that over, and I was thinking, "I don't know if I'm skilled enough to do this," what I said out loud was, "Even if it's not paved, let's give it a try.  Worst case--we turn around and find a different route." 

So Bill and I packed up our now-dry clothes Thursday morning, enjoyed the complimentary Marriott breakfast, and set off.  It was still raining, but we were warm enough, and traveled through Wilkesboro and Lenoir.  After a bit we stopped at a grocery store with a coffee shop and were able to get a mocha.  I texted friends, "Sweet weepin' Jesus, we found a Starbucks!"  We were wet (have I mentioned it was raining?) and tired.  But even through all that, I realized, I was also having a wonderful time.  If you know me, you know I'm a total wuss about weather, but this trip has taught me how magnificent things can be, even in the rain.

And soon, we arrived at the most challenging part of our journey.  Mill Creek Road, off State Road 1400, past Andrew's Geyser.  When we reached the turn-off, Bill pulled over on the side of the road and stretched his legs.  "This is it," he said.  "Get ready."  I got off as well, and we took off our helmets, scratched our heads, got the blood pumping throughout our numb and tingling extremities.  From where we sat we could see paved road.  We kept our fingers crossed.

After a few minutes' rest, we geared back up, swung our legs in the saddles, and headed off.  Here the forest creeps onto the road, with the underbrush coming right up to the road itself.  It's about a lane and a half wide, and within a hundred yards or so, we were on gravel.  Hard packed, but again, raining.  The gravel was muddy and slick.  Near the inside of turns, the gravel had been washed out by rain, creating that washboard effect.  We climbed slowly up the hill, twisting and turning, using the entire lane to maximize our traction on the wet gravel.  I remembered watching the Long Way Down when Ewan (hi Ewan, hottie!) and Charlie Boorman were slogging through ridiculously difficult conditions.  They would fall and just get up and keep going.  I tried to keep that in mind.  At these speeds, falling would be an inconvenience and could damage the bike, but I would not get hurt.  Thoughts of my own perfectionism had to be banished, and knowing when it was done, we would have accomplished it--that's what I focused on.  I also missed my Nighthawk and Bill's Vstrom, bikes that are designed for this kind of travel.  Our cruisers were truly tested by this, as the center of gravity is low and our feet stretched out in front of us prevent the maneuvering you really need to really do this right.  We had to muscle our handle bars to get around the turns, and at times the washboarding effect covered the entire road, creating a bumpy up and down as we went. 

The forest and underbrush were thick here, and the road narrowed.  We passed a sign that said, "Single lane ahead--sound your horn," and Bill started beeping.  We came upon a one-lane pass that was covered (like a tunnel) and curved.  There was no way to see what was coming, and we beeped furiously, slowly rounding the bend.  There were several of these covered turns along the way, each one more nerve-wracking than the last.  But we only saw two other vehicles on that road, one a pick-up truck that refused to yield and sprawled across most of the roadway.  At first I was angry that he took so much room, then I realized he was probably as afraid as we were, given the difficulty controlling tires on the slick, muddy gravel.

At one point the view opened up, and there was a large grassy field with an enormous water spout shooting straight up.  Andrew's Geyser, I presume.  We rode by, relieved for a moment by relatively easy passage, and then tucked into the dense forest patch again.  Soon enough we reached the top, victorious.  Neither had dropped the bike, and we'd made it.  "I'm so proud of us!" I shouted over to Bill, and we both made victory fist pumps above our heads. 

Now for the trip back down, with gravity pulling us and the slick gravel having as much decision-making power as our steering in terms of where our bikes went.  The curves wound tightly on one another, and the bikes performed beautifully, and soon enough, we were on pavement again.  Woohoo!!  We'd done it!!

Not the afternoon I had in mind

So after the amazing ride through Mill Creek Road and past Andrew's geyser, we had an afternoon ahead of us of Asheville, Waynesville, the Pisgah National Forest, and our ultimate destination, the Balsam Mountain Inn--a gorgeous wooden manor-style inn described as "creaking and cantankerous" on its own website.  

We stopped for lunch in Black Mountain, and a friendly patron warned us--stay away from Asheville--those drivers SUCK.  We figured we could handle it, but YOWZA.  The Asheville drivers were brutal, rude, and downright nasty.  Bill and I already hate Asheville for lots of reasons, but this sealed it for us.  We couldn't get through there fast enough!

But then we were traveling down flat, open-country roads, and things were starting to feel better.  We left-right-left-righted through Canton, and headed again down 110, which is flat and wide open.  I started to hear a strange sound like a low whistling.  It sounded like an air noise, not an engine noise, and I remembered I had loosened on of my saddle bag clips, so I reached down to see if it had moved oddly, but it appeared to be in the right place.  I felt my helmet, checking to see if some leaf or something was making the sound.  I wiggled my head, leaned in to the engine, checked around.  I still hadn't pinned down the sound when we pulled to a red light.  The sound stopped, and the bike shook a little as it stopped.  We were turning right, and as soon as we did, I felt the handlebars shimmy, and I realized what the sound was.  You can't see your tires when you're sitting on the bike.  Or at least, you can't see them and hold the handle bars too.  But I suspected a flat, and sure enough, I had to fight the bike across the tiny bridge next to the intersection, and I swung left into the parking lot of the Jukebox Junction.  Bill, with no way to know what was happening, rode on.  I inspected the completely flat rear tire, swung off the bike and removed my helmet as I headed the few feet back to the road.  It took only a minute or so to see Bill heading back to discover the problem.  He parked next to me, and we set about making a plan.

Thank the gods and Steve Jobs (again!) for the glory that is the hand-held, internet-surfing iPhone, and I googled "motorcycle shops Waynesville."  Our goal had been to ride through the Pisgah National Forest before calling it a night, but really, we were just about 30 minutes from the hotel, and it was Thursday, so things weren't looking too horribly bad.  We called several motorcycle shops but none answered, so I sent Bill off to find the one that appeared to be nearest.  I figured everything is easier to negotiate in person.  We didn't want to leave our valuables in the saddle bags on my bike, so I stayed with it.

As I sat for the next two hours on the large rock in the parking lot of the Jukebox Junction diner, I frequently checked in with myself.  I was safe, I was physically comfortable (as much as I had been at any point on this trip, given that I was wet, but I wasn't cold), I was happy and content.  Honestly, I wasn't even all that bummed about the flat, given that we were indeed close to our destination, we had a second bike to get us around, and things were going to work out.  And I wasn't even all that bored, since we had seen so much and done so much, the forced wait just felt like a break.

The bike shop Bill had set off for turned out to be a junkyard and no real help, but he found the Maggie Valley Bikewear shop, where the people were nice, where they had a phone book and a phone (Bill's had died by then).  They were delightfully nice, helped immensely, and about an hour after he'd left me, he called to say there was a tow truck on the way.  He had called every tire shop around, and the best bet for us was MR Motorcycle in Asheville, where they had a tire in stock, could change it today, and we'd be back on the road by 6.  They later called themselves "The Vacation Savers," and they were right.

Soon enough, Chris, the NICEST TOW TRUCK DRIVER EVER showed up to SAVE THE DAY.  He picked up the bike and me and delivered us both to the shop in Asheville, talking the whole time about the dangers of riding, how he used to have a bike but scraped too many of them off the side of the road to keep it.  We talked about the 24/7 nature of his job, his wife's support and flexibility, her love of riding and how sad she was he sold the bike.  He commented, "Can you imagine if that had happened while you were on the interstate?"  I told him I rarely ride the interstate, which is true.  It's just not that much fun, and it's much more risky.

He pulled the truck over before we got on I-40 and rechecked the straps tying the bike down.  We talked about accidental death insurance and how gorgeous that part of the country is.  I told him I was feeling great--the ride had been awesome, the flat was an inconvenience, but this was all good.  What a great day!

Bill and I had agreed he would check in to the inn and drop off his saddle bags in case the bike couldn't be ready tonight, and I would be able to attach my bags to his.  He would then meet me at the shop in Asheville.

Chris dropped me off 30 minutes before closing, and they agreed to get me back on the road, though it would be a bit after 6.  Bill eventually showed up (we had been out of phone contact), and we were happy to be reunited.  Soon enough the bike was ready to go, and we headed off, hoping for dinner and a hot bath at the beautiful inn.  Bill kept telling me how gorgeous it was, and I couldn't wait.

We talked at length about how to get there.  The only reasonable way was on the interstate.  Bill had just come through there and warned me it was brutal, but the alternative was a nearly two-hour trip all the way around everywhere, including back through Canton, and I just couldn't do it.  We headed off.

The speed limit on that section of I-40 is 60 mph, but no one, and I mean no one, drives slower than 75.  It was a steep mountain pass, truck drivers jockeying for position as they climbed aggressively up the hill so they could take best advantage of the coming downhill, and it was pouring down rain.

I was a tiny dot of a little red rear light in horrible visibility, out-racing the optimal speed of my engine, winding up a crazysteep hill, the wind whipping, water on my visor, squeezed between trucks, and feeling the rattle of every cross wind, every truck tail wind, trying to stay to the right, begging to slow down but knowing the trucks needed me to keep the pace.  We reached speeds of 80 at one point, with me cursing the craziness of all this, when I felt the front end wobble.  I hoped it was my imagination.  I kept on.  The front end wobbled again, and then didn't stop.  A slight shake at first got more intense as I kept going.  I slowed to 75, then 70, checking my mirrors to make sure the trucks saw me.  The handle bars shook violently, and I held tight, keeping the bike moving straight forward.  The trucks could see me, apparently, and moved past me on the left.  The handle bars were shaking violently in my hands, and I pulled to the right side of the rightmost lane, slowing to 60, avoiding the slick white paint line and the rumble strips.  At this point we were cresting the hill, and I'd seen signs for an exit coming up.  I kept checking my mirrors, and the trucks, realizing some sort of distress, were giving me clear space.  Bill, who had been far up ahead as I slowed, pulled back, offered me the thumbs-up sign.  I did not return it, holding tight to the shaking handlebars, focused only on making it to the exit as we careened crazyfast downhill, twisting to the right with the curve of the road.

Would the tire hold out?  At what point would the rubber shift under the rim, or rip out completely, bounce the rim into the asphalt and throw me from the bike?  How long could I go 60 on a flat tire?  How long would I remain in control?  Would I have warning?  Should I pull onto the shoulder in the rain on the edge of this pass, or will I make it to the exit, which I could now see? The bike was still under my control, and Bill, powerless to help and not knowing what was going on, kept trying to signal me.  I was afraid to even shake my head for fear of disrupting the balance of my rim on the now-thin sheet of rubber between me and I-40.  He pulled off on the shoulder, but I didn't think it would be safe there, so I continued to the exit.  He got back on and followed me then, and I was able to pull over, look down, and see the flattened rubber.

I'd made it.  I was safe.  Bill was safe.  "Rubber side down," as they say.

I burst into tears. 

Bill reassured me and I got off the bike.  We called Chris again, who laughed at our funny joke.  Oh, no joke, and within what seemed like three minutes, he was there again to save the day.  And this time had his wife with him.  The dealership now closed, Chris agreed to keep the bike on the flatbed over night and meet us at the shop in the morning.  He helped us get the saddle bags off my bike and onto Bill's, he led us to the Sagebrush steak house, and he congratulated me on staying safe.  He would then call us periodically through the weekend to make sure we were safe.  He is my new best friend.

Turns out they had replaced the inner tube, not the whole tire, assuming that was the only problem.  Unfortunately, the belts had separated inside the tire and chewed the first inner tube, and then the second.  The shop covered the cost of the second tow and redid their work for free, charging me only for the tire itself.  The bigger issue for me was that we had to get back to the shop the next morning.  The rain came in sheets, and again, the only reasonable way to get there was on I-40, through the horrific mountain pass, with the trucks, in torrents of rain. I clung tightly to Bill, who, poor guy, could barely breathe as I squeezed my whole body against him.  Because the best thing to do when riding in horrific conditions and you're terrified, is to suffocate the driver.

Hot tub madness

When is a hot tub not the best thing in the world?  I mean, really. 

After lunching in Mount Airy (the real-life Mayberry), and swooshing through more country roads, Bill and I pulled in to the Fairfield Inn in Elkin, North Carolina. We had ridden all day in the rain, with a moment here and there of sunshine.  But mostly, rain.  Our socks were drenched, our pants were soaked, and although our upper bodies were kept dry by our gear, our hands, helmets, and lower bodies were drenched and cold.  We had been hugging our bikes through turns, squeezing clutch and brake, and our muscles were crying out.

One thing that I learned on this trip is the level of commitment.  Once you set off on a bike for four days of riding, there's really no turning back.  Oh, of course, you can literally turn back, but you're on the bike.  To do so means riding all that way again.  OMG.  We were so tired and sore.

The hotel staff couldn't have been nicer, and we checked in, donned our swimsuits, and hit the hot tub.  Holy canoli, the sensation of sinking into that hot water, feeling everything relax...  There's never a bad time for a hot tub, but wow.  This was great.

Once dressed again, we asked a nice staff-person where we could get a good steak dinner.  He started ticking places off on his fingers, "We don't have any of the big chains.  We don't have Appleby's, Chili's, Outback.  Now I love Appleby's but I really like Chili's.  Outback is a little high.  We don't have any of those places."  Bill perked up hopefully.  "Texas Roadhouse?"  "Nope.  I keep telling them, we need a big chain.  Like Outback.  'Course, Outback is a little high." 

Seriously, this went on for several minutes in the hallway, the guy naming all the places we couldn't go for dinner, until he finally mentioned the Dodge City Steakhouse.  "Now, it got some bad reviews a while back, but they have new owners, and I've been there four times since the new owners, and I've been happy every time." 

He gave us directions and then it took about eight more minutes to extricate ourselves from this conversation, and we went upstairs to discover it was raining--pouring--again.  Aye carrumba.  We debated, and I checked the internet to get excited about the restaurant.  Only to discover it's only open on weekends.  Oh dear.

Bill called the front desk and discovered that a local Italian place delivers to the hotel, straight to the room, so we called, ordered, and had salmon and a delicious creamy mushroom chicken delivered.  Guy knocked on the door, we let him in, and he says, "I'm guessing you're the guests came in on those bikes out front."  Yep, that's us.

After dinner we hit the hot tub again, this time highly entertained by staff drama.  Some argument had ensued prior, and the aftermath of dude on the patio staring silently off in the distance, crushing his soda can in his hands before stalking off dramatically, unfolded in front of us.  We heard other staff, also enjoying the hot tub, processing the experience, unconcerned that two guests were hearing every word of it.  The very young woman soothed the very young man at the heart of it all, and the other men (boys, really) weighed in.  Yack yack yack.

Along with the hot tub, cable, and BED, the hotel also had a CLOTHES DRYER.  All praise the Marriott chain!!

Life in a Ziplock bag

I'm a hardcore over-packer.  For the most part, my travel is by car, so I'm inclined to just load up everything I might need.  Clothes for every weather event and every occasion.  Shoes to match every outfit.  All my full-size toiletries, like shampoo and soap and such.  I pack coolers of food and sodas, bags of snacks, and everything you might want, ever, to eat at a picnic.  I mean, why not?  Where I'm going has sheets and pillows and towels?  Well, I can bring my own, just in case we are struck by some unexpected bedding and towel emergency.  After all, I can just pile it all in the car, and I don't even have to unpack it if I don't need it.  And forget luggage.  Paper bags, plastic bags, or even just random items in the back seat.  It all comes with me.

So when Bill suggested we take a motorcycle vacation, honestly, one of my biggest worries was how to pack four days of my life into two small saddlebags.  I had just watched "Long Way Down," where Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman travel all through Africa on motorcycles, and I saw how they packed tents, clothes, and all their supplies on their bikes.  (And in three accompanying SUVs, but let's not focus on that.)  "I can do this!" I told myself with no conviction whatsoever.  And sure enough, I procrastinated like any anxious person doomed to failure does.  But Tuesday night came, and there was no turning back.  I took out four Ziplock freezer bags and told myself what didn't fit in them, didn't come.  Aye carrumba!!  But I managed to squeeze in seven days' worth of clothes (yes, for a four-day trip, I know, I KNOW), but I even included jammies and swimwear.  I squished the air out of the bags before I zipped them up, and lo and behold, I looked like a super-packer!!

So I proudly loaded the saddle bags up Tuesday night, squeezed in a few more empty ziplocks for wet clothes and dirty clothes, and went to bed excited for the trip the next day.  Yay motorcycles!  Yay Ewan McGregor!

Until about 3 a.m. when the sound of a horrific downpour woke me to find Bill checking the radar and weather report (modern technology is AMAZING) on his phone, and oopsy.  Rain ALL weekend ALL over our route.  We had originally told ourselves we would take the car if faced with bad weather, but come ON, I'd packed in Ziplock bags!  We couldn't turn back now!

So after an anxious and fitful night's sleep, we awoke to the rain still pouring down steadily, gathered up the animals for feeding time, showered, and slowly donned our gear and waterproofed ourselves.  I'm proud of us that we never for a second considered the car, although I whined about the rain gear. It's just so uncomfortable and ugly.  Not at all the motorcycle babe look I'm going for.

And off we went, stopping of course for coffee and by about 8:15, we were sitting in rush-hour traffic on 54 heading to Graham in the rain.  Wait.  What?  Oh right, it's Wednesday!!  So, yes, rush hour traffic, right past both our offices, and then off! on country roads to Graham, then to 87 north through Burlington, and by now we'd been on the road like an hour or more, our tummies rumblin, and jeans damply stuck to my legs.  The rain gear worked fine, but North Carolina this time of year is somewhat like the inside of a clothes dryer, and while rain gear keeps rain out, it also keeps sweat IN.  So, this is all to tell you that we stopped at the West Webb Curb Market, which looks like a hole-in-the-wall convenience store, but when you step inside is an enormous general store with a crotchety old lady who will scramble you up an egg, fry some bacon, and curmudgeoningly throw it on white toast for you.  The rest of the folks there were very sweet, keep their bathroom clean, and wished us safe journey on our way out.  The sun was making an occasional appearance by now, and one thing I realized was that even in the rain, I was having a great time.  I love love love the bike (you may have gleaned that from previous posts), and the roads of North Carolina are just exquisite.  Even in the rain.

We swooshed on for several more hours, and eventually the rain dissipated, and we rolled north to nearly-Virginia, and then cut west, south, west, north, and so on, following a route carefully construed to see as much as possible and end up in Mount Airy for lunch.  The green fields, the pines, the jungle-like stretches where huge and lush greenery encroaches on the shoulders and shades the pavement, the corn fields, the tobacco fields, and the endless supply of churches all glide past, the sound of the wind drowning out most thoughts, and the bike responding like it's part of you.  This, this could go on forever and be wonderful.

And then we made it to 89 North toward Mount Airy.  The curves on this road fold tightly in on one another, and the grading creates bowl-shaped loops all intertwining to give you the sense of being the ball in the old game Mousetrap, that slid and rolled and swooshed through the track.  The trees leaned over the road and we were basically in a jungle tunnel (well, the North Carolina jungle, if you can imagine), and since we mostly had the road to ourselves, we could slow as we needed, bend and twist, lean and tuck, scraping our pegs and floorboards along the way.  At one point there's a turn onto 66 that takes you about 350 degrees--no lie--to the right.  There's a stop sign first, so you're starting from stillness, but then you're on a road of even more intense curves, but this time we were following a logging truck who had obviously traveled here before because he was barreling down the road in front of us.  Nothing good could come from that, so I was glad when we eventually turned off, back on to 89, and eventually into Mount Airy.  In those moments I felt kinship with the adventurers of the world who set off on long journeys to simply explore the terrain.  Mine might only be four days, and it might be my home state, but I've got to start somewhere.  Today North Carolina, tomorrow, well North Carolina! 

From Mummy to Barbecue in One Wrong Turn

So it all started with plans to go to Statesville last weekend to visit some of Bill's family. A friend of mine reminded me that there is a small museum in Statesville, and in that small museum in that small town in North Carolina, there is a real, honest-to-goddess Egyptian mummy. Now, I'm all in favor of visiting Bill's family and keeping in touch with these people who were kind to him when he was young, but now I've found there's a mummy involved--let's go!!

So this was our plan, to visit Uncle Linford, and, unbeknownst to Bill, I was going to try and convince him to drop me in town so I could find the museum and see the mummy.

You might know us well enough now to realize that this is not actually what we did that weekend. We got talking about how we would like to ride the bikes while the weather is wonderful, but I didn't want to commit to such a long trip, so agreed to ride on Saturday and go to Statesville on Sunday (when the museum would be closed, I was sure), but Sunday was mother's day, and well... We never did make it to Statesville, but there's always next weekend!

All this is to get us to Saturday morning while we sat at the coffee shop table and out came the iPhones and the Androids, and the google maps, and we were planning an impromptu ride on what promised to be a gorgeous, windy road to Carthage and a well-known Carolina BBQ joint. The men pored over maps, and the women talked gossip, and the men planned a trip and the women talked gossip, and then, off we went... to breakfast down the road, where we ran into friends and learned that some of us had promised to garden today but changed those plans in favor of the open road, southern BBQ, and Carthage.

But, it turns out, we didn't quite do this either. Unfortunately the gossiping women left the men alone to plan the trip, and we went left when we should have gone right, which was east when we should have gone west, and with a shrug of the shoulders, we were off at delightful speeds, the wind whisping past us, nothing but open air and open road, confidently, beautifully, joyously, in the wrong direction.

Which we figured out when we got in to Wilson. Now this was fine by me, 'cuz I've been trying for a year or more to ride to Wilson to go to a pagan store I know about and have wanted to check out. So I pulled out the handydandy iPhone and found the store I wanted while also finding Parkers BBQ, just down the road. Perfect. And off we all went, headed to Parkers.

The parking lot was packed--a good sign for sure--and we were greeted at the door by a smiling white guy who waved us in. The first room is a typical restaurant room with tables and chairs, and we walked with the host through this room to the enormous back room filled to the brim with tables, chairs, and scores and scores of white people. We held our helmets and our jackets squeaked, and our boots clomped, and all this became incredibly noticeable as people in the restaurant looked up, dropped their food-laden forks, their mouths agape, as they STARED AT US AS IF WE CAME FROM MARS. You could have heard a pin drop, which is why we did distinctly hear the woman gasp, "Oh. My. God." as we walked past. The silence of a 100 southerners NOT eating their BBQ was deafening.

REALLY?????

Are we REALLY that scary? The social worker? The resident coordinator? The respiratory therapist? The customer service specialist? REALLY???

I put my helmet and jacket down at the table, and headed for the rest room. It had been three hours, after all... In there were two girls--probably about ten years old. They saw me walk in, and one grabbed the other. They ran into a stall and slammed the door, locking themselves in, where they stayed till I left. I could just about hear their teeth chattering through the stall. Oh MY!!

But all that was no biggie. We are our own entertainment, and so we had delicious BBQ, we went on to the pagan store, and we had a WONDERFUL afternoon. All the riding left us happily tired and a bit sore, and that was all perfect!

Curse you, Red Baron!

The plane's tires skittered along the grass runway, and I could feel every weed, every divot, every clump as it gathered not-near-enough-speed, its propeller straining, the engine whining, the wind in my face... I wondered if I should not have believed the "one or two passengers" ad, but took comfort in the fact that there were indeed two seatbelts, so surely the plane could hold our weight. Right? RIGHT?

We were in a single-prop, red Waco biplane with no windshield, a la Snoopy and the Red Baron. We were even wearing the same leather headgear and goggles. Snoopy had only the scarf to set him apart from us. This was Bill's early birthday present--early because I couldn't stand the idea of being in an open plane and all the wind we would face in December. Brrrrr... So we picked this beautiful November day, when the leaves were at their peak, and the North Carolina landscape was a riot of color and texture, and our shaky little ride above the tree tops gave us a glorious view.

Of the prison in Butner.

Yep, Bill spotted it straight away. Well, first we took a shaky and rattly flight over Falls Lake, and then turned--wheeee--back toward Butner and Bahama. I say "wheeee" because turning in a plane like that means first you're leaning out the side to see the treetops and lake around you, and then you're SIDEWAYS in the air, and the lake and tree tops are now at your elbow. I had thought all week about how I might die on this flight, how it would be worth it to have done something like this, and how, well, if you gotta go... But now I'm looking at a lake at my ear, and I realize my death is imminent. What was I thinking?

Actually, it feels like you could jump out and land harmlessly in the water. Like a James Bond movie. The lake is there and the trees are there, and it feels like you could just hop out. Until you realize that the weird little lump on the sand over there? That black spot with the yellow around it? It's a HUMAN. And if it looked up and waved at you, you wouldn't be able to tell because it's too far away to distinguish something as small as an arm.

Death. Imminent.

Bill on the other hand, was worried about vomiting. As the plane had been taking off, skittering left and right, I had been sure we would not survive the trip. Bill had no such worries. Not one bit. He was simply worried he would throw up all over the beautiful red plane.

I was reassured, though, that the air in our faces and the smoother ride above the tree line wasn't bothering our stomachs. I felt fine. Absolutely. I was contemplating my demise, but I was not at all worried about my stomach. This was not like a roller coaster ride with swooping ups and downs. This was more like a recliner, while large expanses of landscape coast slowly by on an unimaginable scale. Even the turns--you only knew you were turning because you could see it, with the horizon tilting and the ground coming up on your side. The sensation, though, was all smooth and steady. This was cool, we could handle it.

And indeed, that's when Bill pointed out the prison. A huge white swath cut in to the landscape. Interesting architecture, I must admit. Triangles sit on top of squares, and it's an interesting design from this high up. I imagine (you may notice an emerging theme) that we might crash into the prison, and I think about how ironic that would be for Bill.

We continue along over trees and neighborhoods--the new kind with the ticky-tacky houses in their ticky-tacky rows, looking like Monopoly buildings--and over Lake Michie, and along along along. The air is pushing so hard against the plane that you feel like you can't breathe, except that when you inhale, there's plenty of air and you're fine. The hum of the propeller trying so hard has faded into the background of my brain, and I am actually enjoying the view of Central Carolina life from up here. I am looking for the top of Spruce Pine Lodge, where we will have our wedding next year. I'm hoping I'll recognize it, since it will be on the water, and have a large parking area. I never did find it, but no matter.

The trees were particularly beautiful in one stretch. The leaves were a blanket of soft autumn colors, the overcast sky let us look out across everything without squinting, and I thought I might not die. I might actually get used to this. I had a fleeting thought of pursuing a pilot's license. I remembered the house set along the runway and thought how cool it would be to live at a small airport. I wondered if I could make these people my people.

And then Bill puked.

At first he made the puffy-cheeked puking gesture like he was getting sick. And then I realized it wasn't a gesture.

Ever the gentleman who didn't want to mess up the beautiful plane, he tucked his face into his shirt and kept the mess to a minimum. And then he puked again. This time like he meant it.

Ahhh, such a great birthday present, don't you think?

He chose not to cut the ride short, and we finished out the 30 minutes with Mike, our pilot, unaware of Bill's plight. Eventually we turned back toward the highway, the grass runway visible just on the other side of it. In a few minutes, we had dropped out of the sky with remarkable speed, and were bumpbumpbumping along the grass again.

Mike was shocked to hear Bill had gotten sick. In 25 years of doing this, only three other people have had that honor. Something about the air and there being no windows--people don't get sick when there's plenty of air.

Bill, though, was the first to avoid getting it all over the plane. So there's that.

Anyway, we had fresh clothes in the car, and he changed up and all was well. (Until we got in the car on the way home, and a new wave of pleasekeeptheearthstillforamoment sickness hit him. He spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, and it might be the worst birthday present he's ever had.)

But I still recommend it. I loved it. And I didn't die.

www.carolinabarnstormers.com

September 1st

So it is no longer surprising to me that I might spend a day sitting outside the Wake County jail. With a purpose, no less.

It was a sunny, warm Thursday. Perfect, really, as it started out cool and inviting--the kind of late-summer day in North Carolina that hints at the autumnal delights soon to come. But by mid-morning, I was tanning a line into my arms where my sleeves were, sweat was beading on my neck, and I sought the shade of a scraggly tree at the sidewalk’s edge. I sat there for three hours.

When I had first walked up, I saw the adorable girl approach the frat-boy-looking guy at the next bench. He was barefoot and held his belt in his hands. He looked about 20, in baggy shorts and t-shirt, looking every bit like one of the eight gazillion college kids streaming about the Triangle every fall. She too appeared about 20, and was every inch of adorable, thin, blonde. Her natural-fiber wedges showed off her adorable feet, and her cropped pants and tank top had her looking like a youthful beauty who looked perfect at every occasion. She even looked perfect in front the jail at 9 a.m.

“How long were you in?” she asked our beltless friend. I noticed her wallet and papers in a large ziplock bag next to her. How does she get out of JAIL and still look better dressed than I on my best day?

“I wrecked my car last night. They brought me here.”

Silence as the pieces didn’t add up, and Pretty had to think about it. Beltless seemed to realize it wouldn’t fly. “I got a DUI.”

I passed them both, just as she got up to share his bench, and I wondered who you have to be to be that cute and pick up the barefoot wonder, hungover and dazed, the day after his DUI. I sat at the bench further down the sidewalk. I texted a description of the scene to my friend. He wrote back, “Even Hitler had a girlfriend.”

I read my book for a few minutes while the sun grew stronger, and eventually became aware that Beltless was gone, and Pretty was left alone on her bench. She leaned to her left, where she’d been sitting originally, and started chatting with a stringy guy who had his shoes and belt, but no front teeth. They talked for a while, and he moved over next to her, and I became aware they were exchanging stories of headline-grabbing murders that had happened in town. “Did you hear about those teenagers in Apex who all got together and killed that guy?”

I updated my friend on Pretty being abandoned by Beltless and now talking murder with Stringy, and that they seemed to be hitting it off. He responded, “Love in the ruins.”

They chatted a while, and suddenly I became aware of a loud, insistent honking across the street. A driver, alone at the intersection, leaning on his horn, his purpose unclear since he had no one in front of him except the red light. Pretty, interrupted in her analysis of local brutality, looked up. “DADDY!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet, arms over her head like a gymnast nailing the landing. In seconds she had gathered her things and run across the street. Before she would have finished the sentence she had started, she was in the sedan and they were driving off.

Stringy turned to me, “That girl does NOT belong in jail.” He told me the story of her getting out in 15 days--half of her sentence for multiple DUIs. Stringy, on the other hand, had not been in jail, but had been talking to the clerk of court about a mistake on his driving record. He turned out to be the most functional in the cast of the common-man drama I had just witnessed.

I texted my friend how lucky I am to witness this slice of life. He wrote, “Faulkneresque. If your own family won't have ya then who will?”

And then, “What a world, Jen. What a world.”

Bill and Jen's Most Excellent Adventure

I like best the feeling just on the other side of the swell. You've stood up to your neck in water, and the wave is coming--no breakers, as you've jumped past those and fought the current to get to the part of the ocean where the water is bumpy. You're on your tippy toes, and the wave comes, so you push off the sandy ground and let the water pick you up, and if you relax, it drops you--poff!--on the other side of the wave. That's my favorite part.

And that's why I spent hours of our beach trip in just that place in the ocean, where the water came up to my neck when I stood on tippy toes, and the waves were breaking behind me, and I just let the ocean carry me up and then down(poff!), up and then down(poff!). At Emerald Isle (as opposed to Atlantic Beach where we were the first day), I even found a sweet spot where waves came from the left and from the right, making a corner of swell in the water, and it not only dropped me down(poff!), but a little to the left or to the right. Poffwhoop!

But the ocean was only the sugar glaze on the Krispy Kreme donut that was our entire vacation. From just about the minute we left till we pulled back into our driveway, we had an enchanted time.

We took back roads both ways. If you know of the stretch of highway between here and the coast, you know it's deadly boring and really quite ugly. My friend Robin has seen every mile of I-40 from its origins in Barstow, California, to Wilmington, NC, and she said unequivocally, the ugliest, boringest stretch is that between Raleigh and the coast.

So we forewent the direct route and chose instead Highway 55. The same road that has our Food Lion on it. We went out of our neighborhood and turned right. All the way to the beach!

We passed Billy Bob's (which, we later found out, was a bar, pool hall, hot dog and burger grill, and general store). We passed the billboard for the agent "in tune with your real estate needs" and the picture of him playing saxaphone. We passed the cheesy church signs, the clapboard converted-barn structure with dark stains and a dirt parking lot that advertised itself as a bar, "bikers welcome," in the middle of a field miles from the nearest store, gas station, traffic light or other signs of life. But they advertised Karaoke on Thursday nights, and Bill visibly shuddered at the thought of the "music" emanating from the cracks in those wood boards at midnight.

In some towns, we could see homes torn apart by recent tornadoes--roofs blown off, frames mangled--right next door to untouched homes, still perfect, yards away from badly damaged ones. It was sobering to see them so close to our home.

We passed fields of tobacco and beans and corn. Huge manor-style homes beautifully landscaped separated only with a single row of trees from the trailers and shack-style homes of the Latinos migrating up the region to pick the tobacco as it grows. A "curb-appeal" house got us laughing out loud when we saw that the front of it had been refurbished, freshly painted, bright white with a red door--looked beautiful. But the other visible sides were run down, paint peeling, boards separating, mold growing. Behind the house was what appeared to be a church, in a state of disrepair that matched the sides. The odd juxtaposition caught us both at the same moment as we rounded the curve, and we bust out laughing together.

We also saw chimneys standing without houses, foundations still visible in crop fields, passed tiny white churches with beautiful windows, and old cemeteries gated off in the corners of crop fields.

North Carolina is such a pretty state, and 55 curves, slopes, sweeps through amazing greenery, history, strength, and beauty.

As we approached Carteret, the air grew heavy with the smoke of nearby forest fires, our throats itched, and the smell of ash and burned wood filled the air. Large metal power-line poles (heavy-duty and hurricane "proof") loomed out of the smokey dusk ahead of us, looking every bit like the scenery from a science-fiction movie.

We arrived late Wednesday at the home of Bill and Frances, friends who have generously offered us use of their home. They were still in Hillsborough until tomorrow, and had been for nearly two weeks, so we opened up the house, made sure the power had not been disrupted to the freezer, the digital tv, the internet. We checked on Frances's mom and sister who live nearby, walked down to the dock, threw the net for shrimp, and watched tv. What a glorious day and a relaxing evening!

The next morning we went to the local coffee shop where we'd been before, and over mochas, planned our jaunt to the beach (Bill and Frances live on the sound), and at a local cafe, Bill ate the best corned beef hash ever while I enjoyed my usual eggs, bacon, toast.

We found parking at Atlantic Beach, where the water was perfect--cool when you first get in, but easy to get used to, and the waves broke over our knees and against our tummies, making it easy to push past them to the lull of the swells. We found a sand bar where the water was up to our necks and rode the waves up and down. I was rubbing my face at one point, eyes closed into my fists, when I felt the water pull away from my body until even my waist was in the sun, and I realized with a sinking feeling the size of the wave that must be approaching, sucking the water away. BOOM!! I felt the water crash over me and tug me toward shore, which I let it do, until I could get my feet back under me and stand up, giggling at the picture I must have made, calm and unsuspecting as the wave rose well above my head. I'm basically afraid of water, but I like it anyway. Especially on a day like that when it's perfect.

The next day was Emerald Isle, but also some sight seeing. Bill and Frances had arrived by then, and they told us of a drive through the Croatan National Forest. Oh my!! Pine trees, tall, straight and growing in fields like surreally-sized grass, the forest stretches for 160,000 acres across coastal, sandy planes. We rode for miles, noticing where fires had scorched the brush, where hardwoods were taking hold, and different places where the pine trees were winning, and where the colors danced in the sunlight dappling through the tall stretches of needly green.

We also stopped at Christina's Collectibles, a delightful, pagan-owned store where Christina sells primarily wine, but also has a number of odds and ends, all of which gave us great decorating ideas for the house and envy for crystal and glass chandeliers outside of our price range. We made a mental note to return after we win the lottery, and Bill got completely distracted by Chablis, the lovey cat named for the color of both her fur and her eyes. Who can resist a monochromatic shop cat who loves attention?

Saturday we again took a leisurely route, and this time we headed up to Oriental, NC, where 55 ends. We checked the map in the process, and discovered that 55 peters out in Durham and doesn't pick up again west of here, so we drove almost the entire length of 55, and given the number of times we've driven to the end of 55 here, we figure that counts.

Oriental is an amazing little sailing town cut-and-pasted out of Maine. We agreed to come back one day and spend the weekend in their Captains' Quarters B&B. (Right before we bought another lottery ticket.)

Just before Oriental, though, we were driving on 306 north and the traffic slowed to a stop. Hmmmm... wonder why. Oh! A ferry!!! Bill's first ferry!! How fun! We drove on board, under the watchful eyes of the black-faced gulls, each perched on their own pole in the water until we left dock, when they hitched a ride on the back and side railings. I had forgotten how mesmerizing the water is that splashes up on the front of a boat as it cuts through the current. As a kid I could stare for hours at the rhythmic tossing and foaming against the front edges of the boats my dad took us out on. I did that again that day, sitting on the window of my car with my feet propped against the side of the boat. Bill went off to take photos and I saw him chatting up the little old ladies nearby. He definitely has a way with little old ladies...

It was on the way back that we stopped at Billy Bob's, just outside of Seven Springs. It is a bit of a ramshackle place, with a dirt parking lot, an obviously aging building that's falling apart, and some nice-looking people outside who make you wonder how it is they have nowhere else they need to be. It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday, and inside two men sat at the bar getting drunk. A younger guy obviously had a head-start and was bouncing around manically, talking to anyone who would listen, about his acts of strength and prowess. Bill noted the pool tables in the back, and I sat at the formica table with molded plastic benches while Bill used the rest room. Once we were both at the plastic table, the older gentlemen at the bar stared curiously (and not really nicely) at us, so once Bill's hotdogs were done to his liking (chili, cheese, onions, peppers, ketchup and anything else you can fit on the bun), we stepped outside to eat. The nice gentleman on the porch who had been having a neighborly conversation with the other nice gentleman on the porch teased us about not being allowed to eat inside, and I agreed, "They don't serve our kind here." We walked to a shady spot near our cars, on the edge of a beautiful green pasture with horses and a classic white house with black shutters. The nice gentleman on the porch followed us and struck up a delightfully friendly conversation. Turns out he's Bob of Billy Bob, and Billy, his brother, had started the business with him, but after about six months, the call of the road and his former life as a truck driver, bit him badly, and he left Bob holding the fort with his wife ("but not really 'cuz we never really got married") of eight years. We talked and joked quite a bit, about the horses, about small-town living, about owning a business. It was delightful, and we left feeling uplifted and happy about our state and the country side. In the car we joked about the clientele, the nature of the old fashioned general store, the genuineness of it all. "The bathroom doesn't even have a sink," Bill said, which kind of killed the mood.

Anyway, we wended our way home to find a hungry dawg (he doesn't eat when we leave), and nonchalant cats (Oh. You're back.) It was perfect since the holiday weekend meant we still had two full days to recover from the trip, and in my mind, it was the perfect vacation.

Poff!

Pow. Wow.

I'm partial to the under-seven crowd. I admit it. They were as decked out as their adult counterparts in skins and feathers, brightly colored streamers, and in response to the rhythmic drumming, they bounced. Bounce bounce bounce. Feathers springing, streamers flying, feet sproinging. Bounce bounce bounce.

Hardly as intimidating as the brown-skinned, war-painted fellows who preceded them, but every bit as intent, enthusiastic, and fiercely grimacing. Bounce bounce bounce. Tiny bouncers. Nieces and nephews of all of us. Warriors in the making. Under three feet tall. Strong. Steady. Determined. Bounce bounce bounce.

Seriously, what's not to love?

They were the last to enter the sacred circle in the opening ceremony. Before them came hundreds of warriors. First the Chief of the Lumbee Tribe and another dignitary carrying traditional staffs, then the Native American Veterans, carrying various flags, including the U.S. flag and a POW-MIA flag. Followed by Native American royalty in beautiful dress regalia and impressive headdresses, and then the warriors and dancers from scores of tribes. Over 400 participants filled the circle, surrounded by the heart-thumping drums and distinctive chanting of nearly a dozen singing circles, making this the largest Powwow in the eastern U.S.

I couldn't decide what I liked better--the fancy dancers with the streamers and bouncy feathers, the highly decorated big-bad-warriors with the bone breastplates, huge feather headdresses, face paint and holycrapyou'reterrifying demeanors, or the beautiful (BEEYOOTEEFUL) young warriors with their bare skin, light-tan leathers, tattoos and face paint.

Oh yeah, there were women too--beautiful dresses of many types--the jingles, the suede, the cotton, the shiny, and the staid. All with lovely headdresses, beadwork or animal skins and feathers.

The big-bad-warriors stood seven feet tall (at least) with their headdresses and many had painted their faces beyond recognition, adding to their mystique and the sense that they were killing machines. Well, until one of them smiled broadly and cooed at a tiny baby whose mother had asked for a photo.

The young men (did I mention how beautiful they were??) stopped to pose for our camera, face paint and posture not hiding their polite deference one bit.

I also watched the crowd--locals of Lumberton as well as travelers--piled into the bleachers. I wished to join the participants in spite of the relentless sun and (actually relatively mild for NC) heat. Behind me, a young man--about 13, I'm guessing--with magenta streaks in his short hair flirted with a young girl. I had seen them throughout the day walking among the crowd, and by afternoon they sat next to each other, heads bent together in a deep discussion (what do you think of the new Katy Perry song?), blind to everything around them, their fingers interlaced in innocent romance.

We walked around, met Native American artists, musicians, and practitioners, admired wares, made small purchases, enjoyed recognizing people from prior powwows. I was able to touch base briefly with an old friend who lives in Lumberton. Is it possible we met 23 years ago? He's still handsome and turning heads while we chatted, and it was the true spirit of powwow that we got to reconnect after nearly two years since our last face-to-face.

The dance competitions were amazing, and I learned many new things and left armed with research questions to learn more. When I got separated from Bill, who got closer to take photos, I watched two grandmothers chatting him up. Later he told me that they were commenting on the lack of undergarments among the beautiful young warriors.

My favorite moment, though, was the flash of movement I caught in the opening ceremonies--a staff turned sideways, and a nearby bone weapon turned on its side as well--a flash of tanned skin as two warriors fistbumped a greeting after too long apart, their faces broken into happy grins.

Bright, alert and responsive

I held him close to me and looked into his eyes. They were deeply sunken in, if it's possible for something so small to be deeply anything. They watched me, though, curious, and seemingly oblivious to their own sunken-in state. He is 10-1496. My first turtle. Well, the family had a "pet" turtle when I was a kid. I think he was just a turtle who happened to live in our yard, and I would hang out with him when I was out there. In kid time, it seemed like we had him forever, but it was probably just a few days. And then there was Floyd. I awoke from a nap to stare into the suspended face of Floydtheturtle staring back at me, Ismail standing behind him, "Can I keep him?" We bought him all the necessary accouterment, according to the PetSmart people, but we kept finding him upside down, limbs limp and hanging out, neck bent back... We would right him, and he would perk up a bit and hang out, but in a couple of days he had died. We assume he was dying when we got him because he had not hibernated appropriately that year. But this was my first legit turtle. 10-1496. And he was dehydrated. Hence began my first shift at the Triangle Wildlife Rescue Clinic. In the coming months, over 1,000 baby birds will find their way here, having been rescued from cut-down trees, unfortunate falls from the nest, and a myriad other fates that bring birds to the attention of their human cohabitants, and the babies will come through here needing to be fed every 15 minutes for 20 hours of the day. They start in little "nests" made of plastic baskets lined with paper towels, and then graduate to fledgling cages, pre-flight cages, flight cages, and eventual release as close as possible to where they came from. But on this day, it was too early in the season for the birds, and so here I was, caring for the ten turtles who have been rehabbing here since last year. Turtle shells regenerate, and significant shell injuries can heal over time, but they grow slowly and need a long recovery period. And even once they are healed and nature-ready, timing is important: we can't release them when they should be hibernating, so they convalesce for months at the TWRC. The senior volunteer training me showed me the turtle medical records, in green folders (as opposed to purple for mammals and yellow for birds), and went over the "turtle protocol" with me. These are turtles, people--the medical records are WET. I smile as I realize that no matter where I go, I can't get away from documentation requirements. Ask any social worker you know--we're ALL behind on our notes!! But like all good medical records, this one has a mini mental status exam on it. The senior volunteer says, in all honesty, "Mark here whether the turtle is bright, alert, and responsive, or lethargic and depressed." I think of the countless turtles I've moved from their suicide treks to the yellow line, and how they tuck in as soon as I touch them. I look at the volunteer. "I obviously have a lot to learn about turtles if you are telling me we can assess such a thing..." She laughed. "Oh yeah. You'll see." And sure enough, as soon as she pulls 10-1496 from his cage, he pops his head out, stares intently, looks completely in tune with what's going on. His eyes are sunken in, which is a sign of dehydration, but not unusual. I am struck by his papery skin, which she says is typical. We weigh him, and then place him in a second box which we've filled with an inch of water, that is carefully poured to make sure it's between 75 and 80 degrees. He's meant to soak in there for 20 minutes every day, since turtles don't get their hydration from drinking--they get it soaking. This turtle came with a shell injury and is marked "Cannot be released" because he is also missing a leg. And so I began my rhythm of taking the turtles out of their cages, placing them in their soaking bins, and cleaning their primary cages, which means changing newspaper, replacing water dishes, replacing food dishes. On my first visit, it was not yet spring, and the turtle boxes sat on heating pads. Today, as we prepare them for post-hibernation release, the heating pads have been removed. They were also much more active today. Last time, I met my favorite, "Wild Red," the red guy who, once I replaced him in his primary cage, began climbing on his hide box so he could ssssssllliiiiiiide down it--over and over. Today he was flipping himself over, swimming aggressively in the water, climbing on everything he could to get out of the box. Throughout today's cage cleanings, there were sounds of scritching, climbing, flipping, pushing, nudging, bumping, and insistent escape plans being formed. Someone called about a goose who'd been found limping on a busy Raleigh road. They brought her in, and I got to help with the initial exam. As long as by "help" you mean sit in silence and watch, trying hard not to get in the way. I was really thrilled that they let me sit in--I had assumed they would leave that work to the experts, but they were totally cool about letting me "help." The goose was obviously stressed and might have a broken hip. We gave her fluids, anti-inflammatories, and pain meds. They we put her in the ICU until the NC goose experts could come and get her. When I first got in today, I thought I would get straight to work on the turtles, but I was also let in to the ICU where we had a pileated woodpecker (huge and gorgeous) in a large cage, and the mocking bird brought in yesterday by Becky, the volunteer I was working with today. The mocking bird was "young and stupid," we're guessing, because Becky and her boyfriend were trying hard NOT to hit him with their car, but he was just hellbent on hitting that grate and they had to delay their grocery shopping to bring him to the clinic. Silly birds. But he was gorgeous and full of attitude and looked every bit like the mom in the "Are you my mother?" book, but without the scarf and purse. I also peaked in on the black racer snake who has nearly fully recovered from his injuries and thought of the green guy I found (healthy and well) in my living room the other day. The morning shifts also include preparing the turtle food dishes--little servings of tomato, squash, zucchini, scrambled egg, berries, kale, parrot food (soaked first in water to soften it) and omnivore diet (also soaked). At the end of the shift, everything is carefully scrubbed and soaked in kennesol, a strong veterinary-grade disinfectant. As I forced myself to think carefully about every surface I touched (or more often, didn't touch), and to think so hard about cross-contamination, and as I cut the food into little teeny tiny squares, I thought of the delightful contrast between here and Carolina Tiger Rescue. Going from some of the largest, most aggressive creatures on the planet, to the tiniest, most vulnerable... From the wildest animals native to the literal jungles of Asia and the planes of Africa, to the fellow city-dwellers who hang out in my backyard. I thought about the blocks of ice popped out of the tiger water dishes every winter morning, to the 78-degree mark on the thermometer of the turtle water pitchers. I thought about the feeding sticks at Carolina Tiger Rescue, which we use over and over, with the raw chicken and pork juices on the end, and the 50 different times I scrubbed my hands with sanitizer in one shift at the clinic. And I thought about the efforts being made to save the birds at the clinic while remembering the story of Romeo snatching a snack as it flew by. I guess eventually all the little pieces of my life make up some unified puzzle. Or maybe it really is just a mishmash of crazy things.

Sweet sugary goodness

I lay awake at about 3:30 this morning, an unfortunately frequent occurrence. I was in the bed in the dark, thinking middleofthenight kinds of thoughts, and slowly it dawned on me that my stomach hurt. I wasn't totally aware of it at first, but there it was. A distinctly uncomfortable state squirming its way into my consciousness.

"Why does my stomach hurt?" I tuned in to my belly. "What is that feeling?" hmmm...

Oh!! It's HUNGER! I'm HUNGRY!! Of COURSE I am!! I had a tiny dinner. Like eight hours ago. Hhhuuunnnngggeerrrrr.

I got up. Padded to the kitchen. In the 25-foot trek I thought of the Crunch Berries. Remember them? Captain Crunch, all square and mouth-tearing, and sweet deliciousness. Comingled with the sweet sweet sugar-bombs, round and pink and berrylike. Mmmmm...

One of the many nice things about living with a 43-year-old teenager is that I get to rediscover the simple things.

Like Captain Crunch and his berries.

I took down the box. Got out the bowl. Poured the milk.

The first bite took me straight to the past. Not childhood, for sure, because my mother would never have allowed Captain Crunch. But some feeling of summer vacation, probably college, when sweet cereals meant a carefree weekend for some reason, when all reason and adult decision-making was cast aside to make room for the "vitamin fortified" fluff of junk cereal.

They're different now. The berries are all sorts of colors, and the berry-to-square ratio is much higher. Ah, they always spoil a good thing.

I headed back to the bedroom, and was nearly through the living room when I saw him. He stood in the doorway, hidden, mostly, by the shadow falling diagonally across his body. The darkness and strange shadows hid most of his face. I screamed and jumped back, nearly spilling the crunch.

"You scared me!!!"

Eddie sat between us, his body a tense torpedo, his claws gripping the ground. His eyes, which I couldn't see in the light but imagined, looked from him to me, waiting for the answer. Tense seconds past. I could barely make out his frown in the shadows.

More silence.

I took a bite, but hesitated to chew.

His eyes settled on me. Pure fury.

"You stole my Crunch."

Meh. We'll get more. And I crunch crunch CRUNCHED myself to happiness.

Although he mentioned it again this evening. Apparently, this is serious business.

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Thank you SO MUCH for the Lowe's gift card!!

(What follows is a real, honest-to-goddess, thank-you note that I sent today.) Gene and Cathryn, I want to thank you so much for the Lowe's Gift Card you gave us for Christmas. I have a "real" thank-you note in the works, but it's been hard (no lie) to get the card, a pen, an envelope, my address book and a stamp all in the same place! So before way too much time goes by (I know--it's almost FEBRUARY!!), please accept this email as an expression of my heartfelt thanks. This is how much your gift card means to me... 

You gave us a generous gift of $25. Really, a TREASURE for us. And you know how much I love Lowe's. So we were sitting in the bedroom, debating what to use the gift card for, and I thought, "you know what, this room really needs a new paint job." It was the first room we painted when Ish and I moved in, and now it's got holes where the shelves fell out, and Bill and I have re-arranged furniture, exposing poorly painted places. And I would like to have a different color in the bathroom part. 

So I pulled out all the various paint chips I'd been collecting over the years, and I pulled out the tan colored sheets I would like to use for the accent color, and called Bill over. We agreed we would love a blue, provided it's not "Carolina blue" and we picked out "Chicory"--a nice, bright blue that leans toward navy and not too horribly far from cobalt. But brighter. Cheerier. For the bathroom area, which includes the sink section and the toilet/shower section, we chose "Honey kissed," which is basically a rich butter color. Nice and light for the tight space, but also a great complement to the brown sheets/accent color. 

And with my handy-dandy Lowe's card, I went and got the test cans because I've learned over time that I am horrible at imagining colors, and I need to do a real test section. (The two cans were about $5.) I ran in to Cathryn there, and I was glad to be able to tell her thank-you in person. We are going to paint the bedroom with your gift card! Yay!!! 

I put the chicory on the wall, and the honey kissed test spots, and I LOVE it. SO great. Thank you so much!! There's a little bit of a delay now, though, because really, if we're going to paint this room again, we need to smooth the ceiling. So I set the DVD player to play an astronomy "class" DVD, and I set to smoothing the ceiling. Unfortunately, there's a section over the sink where the ceiling had been patched, before my time, and it can't be smoothed--it will have to be redone. Which is cool, 'cuz Bill is a pro (literally) and has friends who are pros, and well, we'll get it done. And while we're at it, we'll redo the ceiling in the bathroom as well. 

Only, as Bill pointed out, we also need to replace the fan and the light fixture, which we should do while we're doing the ceiling, since we'll need to cut the holes to size. And I realized, as I stood there, that the cabinet under the sink is really wonky, and really, no amount of paint is going to make that cabinet look like new. And frankly, the sink is a kind of non-color. Not white, not a rich color, just kind of bile, blech, icky color, and, well, why don't we run out to Lowe's and see if they have a sink like the one I put in the other bathroom that was only about $125. And so we walked around Lowe's and found a half-dozen sinks with cabinets that were oh-so-cute and 26 inches wide for about $125. But in this bathroom, we really need the wall-to-wall cabinet that is 36 inches wide, and well, those are $500 or more!! That's like $37/inch!! Yikes!!

So why don't we just buy this adorable vessel sink that I love love love, and BUILD a wood cabinet underneath? We can do it!!! (Bill, however, went into a little bit of an apoplectic response at the thought and begged me to come up with a different plan. In the end, though, I won, and we'll have a wood-topped cabinet and a very cool vessel sink.) But hey, while we're here, you know, says Bill, I saw a freezer at Home Depot that was damaged and they were selling it for $150. Let's see if they've got something like that here... 

And so we were hanging out in the fridge and freezer section when we noticed a $700 refrigerator on sale for $300 because it's "damaged" (had a ding on the left side), and then we saw that the freezer that we need, similar to the damaged one at Home Depot, was only $160. So after some debating, we bought them both, especially when I saw that the total energy consumption for the two of them would be about $50/year. (Later I went on the Duke Power website and learned that my fridge is costing about $200/year, so I am looking forward to my savings!!)

So here's the tally so far... 

Refrigerator: $325 (with the hose to hook up the ice maker) 

Freezer: $160 

Paint: $75 (or so) 

Paint supplies: $50 

Adorable vessel sink: $140 

Wood for the cabinet (not including the blood, sweat and tears of making the door): $80

 Faucet (which is so cute and looks like a pump): $109 

Ceiling fan: $60 

Light fixture in the bathroom: $25 

Light fixture over the sink: $30 

New closet door (it has a big hole in it and we can't have that with the "new" room): $20 

New knob for the closet door 'cuz I've always hated that one: $30 

Ceiling repairs, including labor for the plasterer Bill works with: $100 

New hooks because we're getting rid of everything black and going toward brown: $30 

New sheets: $40 

New bedspread: Free (thanks mom!!) 

That comes to $1274. 

And the scary thing is, I'm not even kidding!! This entire email is TRUE!! And so, I sincerely say, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE GIFT CARD!!! Love you guys!!!