Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and Me

In a recent comment, my friend Jayne from Journey Through Grace asked me how Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I met. Well, like most of my stories, it’s a long one so I decided a post was the best way to tell it.

I’ve told my children this story a million times because (1) it’s part of the history of their lives (2) you know how it is with us old folks—we tell the same old stories over and over (3) I want them to be mindful of the miracle of their existence (4) I want them to know that they should never let bitterness close their minds and heart to love and that sometimes it is worthwhile to make yourself vulnerable and (5) I want them to learn to always listen to their intuition because sometimes that’s how God speaks to us.

It was 1986 and I was leaving a good job in Winston-Salem to go east to Raleigh. The year before had been especially difficult. I was grieving the loss of my mama that year—a loss that was not unexpected but hard nevertheless. And I was facing the end of a marriage. Although it was not a happy one, I still felt a keen sense of loss. I was moving partly to be closer to my daddy (who was sad and bewildered after the passing of my mama) and partly to get away from my ex-husband, who was abusive when we were together, but after I left him turned on the charm in an intense campaign to get me back. I was struggling to regain my footing and to regain just a bit of my self-esteem, which was never that high to start with, but at that point, was lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

One of the things I always enjoyed when I lived in the Raleigh area was reading the personals in The Spectator (a local newspaper that is no longer published).  I read them strictly for fun. Sure, there were plenty of the I-love-romantic-walks-on-the-beach-in-the-moonlight variety, but there were some really creative ones, too, and I loved imagining the stories behind them. The one thing that never entered my mind was answering one. Believe me, getting a man was the last thing on my mind at that time after what I’d endured with my ex. Plus, anyone who knows me well knows just how painfully shy I am and how completely unlikely it would be for me to answer a personals ad. About as unlikely as running away to join the circus. Or becoming a topless pole dancer. Not gonna happen. Nope.

So, anyway, I was reading the personals one day as usual when I came upon this one:

Neglected SWM, good teeth, brown eyes, glossy coat, very affectionate and loyal needs sensitive, intelligent female companionship. Amateur writer and naturalist. Do you like dogs, cats, birds, mulch, and country living?

I laughed out loud at the first sentence. It sounded more like a dog looking for a home than a personals ad. But I really like dogs, so I read on. Writer? Check. Naturalist? Check. Dogs, cats, birds, mulch, and country living? Check. (Although I’d have to admit that I’m considerably fonder of dogs than cats). And I also liked the fact that he didn’t list shallow physical requirements, but was seeking the more enduring qualities of sensitivity and intelligence. That’s kind of rare in a personals ad.

And then, without stopping to think why I shouldn’t, I wrote out a short letter, complete with my phone number and addressed it to the box number in the ad. It was so odd, almost as if an occult hand was writing instead of me. It seemed…well…inevitable, somehow. Then, knowing that if I waited until morning to send it I’d chicken out, I drove eight miles into town just so I could drop it in the mailbox before I lost my nerve. The minute I put it in the mail slot, I felt an overwhelming sense of panic. What had I done? What was I thinking??

A month passed without a word. And I was kicking myself for doing such a foolish thing, for making myself so vulnerable to rejection. Obviously, I had taken leave of my senses, but it certainly wouldn’t happen again. No sirree. But then one night, the phone rang.

It was a telemarketer.

Ha, ha…I’m just kidding. No, it was him. The neglected SWM with brown eyes and good teeth. My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it in my head. His name was Tom, and he had the most beautiful voice. And although initially I felt as though I was having a heart attack, pretty soon I relaxed and we talked like old friends. And talked. And talked. Turned out he hadn’t called sooner because he’d gotten so many responses that it took time to sort them out.

So, this post is getting too long already and you know the rest of the story anyway, don’t you? But I’ll tell you this: I fell in love with his Welsh Corgi Sandy before I fell in love with him. When I first met Tom in person, Sandy ran up to me and jumped up on the fancy white first-date pants I was wearing, marking them with a pattern of muddy paw prints. Tom said he knew right away that I must be the girl for him because I laughed and crouched down and hugged Sandy then. Tom said he’d never seen Sandy take to someone so quickly.

I guess this is where I should say, “And they lived happily ever after.” But that wouldn’t be entirely honest. We’ve had a lot of hardship in our 22 ½ years together, and it’s taken a toll. Sometimes heartache and suffering bring you closer; sometimes they tear you apart. I think I could say that it’s done both for us. But through it all, we’ve had an abiding love and affection and respect for each other that I think no amount of misfortune can destroy.

So I tell my children this story again and again, but not just for their sakes. I tell it because it helps me to remember that it was surely the hand of God that brought me together with Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man. And that no matter what we’ve been through, our love is stronger than our pain. “Wherefore they are no more two, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” Matthew 19:6 It helps me to remember that sometimes miracles occur when we least expect it and that we should always be open to them. And always open to hearing God speak, no matter how He chooses to do so.

Perhaps you’re wondering about the picture. Yep, that’s me—it was taken shortly before I met Tom, when a friend and I were goofing around one night. One thing I didn’t mention was that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I exchanged a few letters before we even met. In one of them, he finally asked what I looked like. So I sent him this picture. I thought it really represented me better than some fancy, dolled-up studio photo would. He wrote back, “Thanks for the picture. I see you are a woman of mystery—I like that. And you have such distinctive eyes—intense and passionate, yet probing. The glasses give you an intellectual flair. And I do so love a woman with a strong nose…”

And I do so love you, my sweet Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man.

What We Did on Our Autumn Vacation: Part Three

(Swan at Junaluska)

One thing I failed to mention earlier about our trip to Graveyard Fields was that after we’d hiked to the bottom of Upper Falls and were admiring its beauty, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man pointed out that there was something he called a “trail” going up to the top of the falls. But “trail” was much too kind a word for this slimy mud slick with a few gnarly tree roots that desperate fools could grasp as they clawed their way to the top. “Ha,ha…that’s not really a trail,” I said. “What kind of fools would take that?” (Never suspecting that I would soon know the answer.) Then I tried to distract him by gushing about how lovely the falls looked from where we were.

But Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man is an adventurous sort and would not be distracted. He said, “Come on…I’ll help you. Let’s see what’s up there.” I eyed the mud slick. It was practically vertical—what was he going to do, carry me? I’m just not a vertical trail sort of girl. I’ll take horizontal or diagonal, thank you very much and leave vertical for all you daredevils out there.

But I’ll do almost anything to make Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man happy, and really, who wants to be a stick-in-the-mud? So up our intrepid adventurers went! Wait, make that: So up our two silly old arthritic fools went! I’d like to say we scampered up like mountain goats, but it would be more accurate to say we fought our way up tooth and claw, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Shouldn’t.

It was a pretty traumatic experience, so I don’t wish to discuss it further except to say that (1) as bad as it was going up, it was ten times worse coming down (2) waterfalls are really best viewed from the bottom (3) a stick-in-the-mud beats slick-in-the-mud or stuck-in-the-mud or perhaps stooge-in-the-mud every time and (4) if you’re going to slide down a mud slick, don’t wear light-colored pants.

Anyway, after that debacle, I was seeking something a little tamer for our next adventure. Preferably something civilized and horizontal. I found it at Lake Junaluska. Whan I went to their website, the first thing I noticed was a verse from the 23^{rd Psalm: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul.” The second thing I noticed was that even though Lake Junaluska is a retreat and conference center run by the United Methodist Church, they made it clear that they welcome all—regardless of faith or color.}

And indeed, our souls were restored as we walked the 2.6 mile path around the lake. The day was cool and blustery, but our hearts were warmed by the friendliness of almost everyone we met and the peace we felt as we walked beside the still waters. I know I’m idealizing the place, but it really was such a balm to our weary spirits. I kept thinking about how much I’d love to live there, but quite likely the houses there are way out of our price range. At least I have the pictures here to remember that sweet day by.

But, of course, in this week of Thanksgiving, I’m reminded of the importance of being thankful for what I DO have. I think a lot about Philippians 4:11: “…for I have learned, in whatever state I am, in this to be content.” This verse has special meaning when you know that Paul wrote it from prison. It’s so easy to see what others have (whether it’s money or talent or beauty) and think, “If I only had that, I’d be really happy.”  But true happiness comes from within, not without.  It is a choice.  And everybody knows that neither money, talent, nor beauty brings happiness. You only have to look at Hollywood celebrities to see that truth. But learning to be content with what you have (and to be thankful for it) bestows a far more profound and lasting joy that sustains you through whatever life throws your way.

So, I wish you joy and peace this Thanksgiving season. May your souls be restored by the love of friends and family, and may you find contentment whoever and wherever you may be.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Even the ducks of different feathers flock together there.

A view of the lake

Dogwood berries

In the background you can see the lovely footbridge across the lake.

We loved this delightful topiary.

And I obviously loved the ducks.  Even gave up my Ritz bits for them…

This cross, which sits high on a hill above Lake Junaluska, is alight at night.  I hope to see it alight sometime.

“And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness overcame it not.”

John 1:5

What We Did on Our Autumn Vacation–From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

Part One: The Ridiculous (SILLY POTTY PUN ALERT!!!  READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!)

(Our shiny new toilet)

Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I went on vacation last week. Of course, I guess, in modern jargon, you’d call what we did a “stay-cation.” After all, we slept in our own bed every night. But we barely did a lick of work all week, ate a lot of junk food, slept in, and had great fun, so it was a vacation to us. And when you live in Paradise, staying home really isn’t so bad.

As regular readers know, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man dearly loves a roadtrip. So, naturally, we went out most every day. Even on the days we were running necessary errands, it was fun because…well…we have fun every time we go out together, whether it’s to buy a toilet or to hike up a mountain. And we did both on this vacation!

Yes, we started our vacation with a bang when we went to our local home improvement store to look at toilets. They had them lined up with spotlights shining on them, like automobiles in a showroom. There were at least twenty or more there, arranged on the commodious warehouse shelves, gleaming in all their glossy porcelain glory. It seemed a waste though that the toilets were high up on a shelf out of reach. I’m not privy as to why they do that—are they actually afraid people would sit down and try them out (take them for a test drive, so to speak) if they kept them on the floor?

A lot of people these days raise a stink about the fact that we’re having a movement towards low-flow toilets and pooh-pooh the idea, but we were ready to take the plunge. We were bowled over, but flushed with excitement at all the choices. But in the end, we decided to go with the flow and use the…umm…process of elimination to choose our toilet. Our #1 choice was one that boasted of being able to flush 20 golf balls. I mean, what a comfort to think that if we accidentally flushed a bucket of golf balls, that they would go down the first time! That’s sort of like twenty holes-in-one!

But that one was a little out of our price range (sort of like golf.) So we settled on #2, the one that said, “Rated Best Flush!” on the box. After all, like they say—a Royal Flush beats a Full House every time!

The excitement continued when we got home and went to install it (even though we were a little wiped out.) No problem doing the job—all you need is a “Can Doo” attitude. Anyone that tells you otherwise, well, they’re full of it. When we were finished, we were so excited that we had to sit down. But in the end, after we got to the bottom of things…everything came out alright.

Part Two: The Sublime (This story guaranteed pun-free.)

Well, if you’re still reading, after that shocking display of potty pun humor, I’ll tell you about our trip to Graveyard Fields on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s a lovely place with two good-sized waterfalls (three, if you count nearby Skinny Dip Falls). Unfortunately, not a single picture I took of the waterfalls turned out, and I’m not skilled with photo-fixing software. So, if you want to see some decent pictures of Graveyard Fields and the waterfalls, go here.   Or for lots of wonderful pictures of waterfalls, you should check out my friend Betsy’s blog.

Unfortunately, too, all the trees were bare up there, so there wasn’t much bright color to excite the eye. But there was beauty to witness and capture nevertheless—in all the shapes and patterns that Mother Nature provides in any season. In the bark of trees, in shifting shadows, in sunlight in and out of clouds sweeping across the mountainside, and in the swirls and eddies and sparkles that the wind and sunlight make in the clear water that washes clean the river rocks. That was what thrilled us most all day—watching the interplay of sunlight, rocks, water, and wind. Even though the bright colors of autumn were gone and even though we never captured the true beauty of the waterfalls, we didn’t mind. Because there was such beauty and life and energy in the swirling current, in the eddies of the river, in the scintillating water. In the sunlight, in the rocks, in the water, in the wind. All we needed was right there.

Fire. Earth. Water. Air.

BRBCG FAQ (TMI?)

Astute readers (and, undoubtedly, all the readers of my blog are astute) may have suspected that the photograph in my previous post isn’t really me. And, of course, you would be right, although the hair is not entirely unlike my own at the moment. (By the way, I think that picture is from a movie. Not sure which one, but it looks Monty Pythonesque to me).

Though lots of folks do post photos of themselves on their blogs, others leave you guessing. And so the mind conjures up a notion of what a person might look like which may be nothing at all like they actually do. It’s funny how our minds so readily form an idea of how someone looks based only on their words. One of the reasons I love reading blogs is that I’m so curious about lives that are different from mine. And that curiosity often makes me wish that folks had a Frequently Asked Questions feature on their blog, because so frequently I do have questions about them that aren’t answered in their posts.

So I thought it might be fun to imagine a few questions curious readers might ask me if they could and to answer them. Quite likely, I’m flattering myself to think you’d be all that interested in knowing more about me, but if you’re not, that’s okay. You are now free to stop reading and go watch You Tube or something. For the rest of you, here goes:

(1) So, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, why don’t YOU put up a picture of yourself?

Well, first of all, since I run away when someone points a camera in my direction, there aren’t that many current pictures of me around anyway. Which is just as well since the photos that people do manage to snap also make me run away. I feel as though the stories of what I’ve been through in the past 30 years are all written on my face. However, if you’re curious, that’s me in the above shot. I put it there because I had to put something up to illustrate this post. Daddy took it in our backyard when I was sixteen. Check out that plaid maxi-dress!! If you’re wondering about the weird mark on my forehead…well, Daddy had this picture stapled in a scrapbook. I wish I could ask him why he stapled it right in the middle of my forehead instead of in the corner or something, but I can’t since he’s passed on. Maybe that will be my first question when we are reunited in Heaven:  Why, Daddy, why? Right in the middle of my forehead! What were you thinking??

(2) Why do you call yourself Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl? Aren’t you, like, 51 years old?? I mean, you ain’t no spring chicken, lady!!

Hmm…good point. Maybe I should have called myself Blue Ridge Blue Collar Geezer or Blue Ridge Blue Collar Granny. But really, I just liked the sound of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl. It rolls trippingly off my tongue. And you can see I was a girl once…a long, long time ago.

(3) Okay, how about a silly question, BRBCG….what are three things about yourself that you’d be embarrassed for people to know?

Only three? But there are so many! Okay…One: I still read Rex Morgan, M.D. and Mary Worth in the newspaper comics every single day. I have no idea why. Two: From about age 8 to age 11, I dressed myself like Pippi Longstocking.   She was always one of my favorite storybook characters. Pippi was a free spirit—she was “different” and she made no apologies for it. She also kind of raised herself, which, to some extent, was true of me in my earliest years. I identified with Pippi, so after I started earning good money at age 8 from working in tobacco every summer, I bought my own clothes and dressed as close to Pippi as I could. All I really needed was a little monkey named Mr. Nilsson. Three: When my children were small and I was fixing them a sandwich or something, I’d sometimes take a bite (Hey, I was hungry!). When they’d question the missing bite, I’d tell them it was a Giant Rat that did the deed named Raggedy Rat. “That Raggedy Rat is a rotten rascal!” I’d exclaim. I thought I was fooling them, but they later told me they always knew who the Real Rat was.

(4) Speaking of your children, why do you so often brag on them? Don’t you think that kind of shameless pride is a bit unseemly?

Yes, I suspect it is. But I’ve never been one for false modesty, and I am real proud of my children. We’ve been through a lot of hardship, financial and otherwise. Yet they’ve accomplished a great deal in their young lives. More importantly, they are kind, caring, and compassionate people who have many, many friends. Ooops…there I go bragging again!

(5) Why do you write such long posts, BRBCG? We lead busy lives—we don’t have time to read tomes.

Ummm…well why have you read this far? Oh, sorry…you’re right. I do tend to go on. Maybe I can blame my Southern heritage. When we Southerners start telling a story, we get a little wound up sometimes and carried away. I’m really grateful that there are still people out there in this age of TwitterTweets who will read my lengthy posts. The funny thing is that in person, I’m very quiet and don’t talk much at all. Say, speaking of that, isn’t it time we ended this post?

(6) Good idea. So why haven’t you ended it yet?

Well, because I wanted to ask if any of my readers had questions for me. Because then they could ask them in the comments, and I would do my best to answer them. Unless they’re too personal or something. And the questions can be silly or serious. Because Lord knows, I am both silly and serious, often at the same time. Of course, again, I may be flattering myself to think I’m interesting enough to inspire questions…

(7) OMG, BRBCG…why is this post still going on??  When are you going to end it??

Now.

Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man Takes Us For a Ride

The last of our family road trip adventures was to celebrate Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man’s birthday which, unlike the other birthdays, really IS in August. We had no idea where he’d choose to wander, but we did know for sure that it very likely would involve two lanes, four wheels, and plenty of fossil fuel. The man loves to drive. And, boy, does he love his road trips.

Sure enough, before the day was over, we’d driven over 250 miles, down the Blue Ridge Parkway and on curvy country back roads. In fact, we drove all the way to the southern end of the Parkway, then into the countryside a ways before meandering back to the Parkway.

But even though much of our day was spent going forty-five miles-per-hour, there was still plenty of time to take a more leisurely pace on foot. After all, no Blue Ridge Blue Collar Family Road Trip is complete without a hike. First stop: Waterrock Knob at Milepost 451.2.

The beginning of the trail to the summit of Waterrock Knob is paved and quite civilized looking, so it somehow gives the impression of an easy stroll, a painless promenade, a serene saunter. HA! It didn’t take me long to realize that the handrail they had there wasn’t just to steady yourself. It was there so that people like me could heave themselves up with their arms when their legs and lungs wouldn’t go any further. No easy ramble here—really more of a wheezing, shuffling trudge I’d say. At least in my case. But ultimately very rewarding, once I was able to breathe again. I wasn’t too surprised to read that, at 6,400 feet, this trail goes higher than any other trail on the Parkway.

(Rock and ferns at Waterrock)

The next stop was the Devil’s Courthouse at Milepost 422.4. It was not what you’d call an easy leg-stretcher either, but at least I didn’t feel in need of immediate medical attention at the top. It’s a lovely trail, with nice plants growing on both sides, including the pretty pink turtlehead. We were all amused at the juxtaposition of two particular sentences in the description of Devil’s Courthouse in the excellent Guide to the Blue Ridge Parkway that I always take along on our Parkway travels. It reads:

According to Cherokee belief, the devil had a courtroom in a cave inside this mountain where he delivered judgment to those who went astray. To avoid damaging rare plants, please stay on the trail.

We were very, very careful to stay on the trail, and I’m happy to say, didn’t go astray a single time.

(Pink turtleheads and white wood asters)

As we headed back home on the Parkway, Tom saw a sign for a side road at Elk Pasture Gap (milepost 405.5) that said something like: Caution! Steep, winding, curvy and generally-nail-biting road! Avoid like the plague if you’re driving an RV or towing a trailer! When I read that and saw the gleam in Tom’s eye, I knew for certain we’d be taking that road (NC 151) back home.

And what a lovely road it was, especially in the gloaming of a hot summer day. We glided down the cool, tree-shaded road, the late-day sun illuminating the trees at a golden slant, the only sound the low hum of our motor and the rustle of the wind in the trees and the birds singing their last song of the day. There was even a tiny waterfall spilling over the rocks on the side of the road that we saw as we rounded a curve.

It was a perfect end to my day with those I love best. The kind of moment that makes you sigh with satisfaction and pleasure, where you feel like there has never been a better moment than right here, right now. And you close your eyes and smile and breathe a simple but profound prayer:  Thank you.

(Oxalis and ferns)

(Hoary Mountain Mint)

(You never know what you’ll find around that bend in the road.)

Benjamin the Birdman and His Birthday Adventure

My children are back at college now. I miss them keenly, but at least they left a bit of themselves behind. Ariel, her wonderful new paintings (if only we had more wall space!).  And Benjamin, a CD of some of my favorite guitar pieces he plays (including Ave Maria that he plays in the style of the late, great Chet Atkins). And, too, I have my pictures from our weekend birthday roadtrips. I smile as I look through them—-remembering a quiet moment shared, a new wildflower discovered, or how red my face got on the climb to Waterrock Knob. The photographs seem almost like postcards I’ve sent to myself from the past.  Having a great time! So glad I was here! Love, Beth

For his birthday roadtrip, Benjamin chose to explore a place we only recently heard about—the Sandy Mush Game Land. It contains 2,600 acres that are actively managed with clear-cutting and controlled burns by the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission to provide a favorable habitat for certain animals. The best thing is that it is open to the public, and they even provide parking. It’s apparently quite popular with birdwatchers, which is how we discovered it in a wonderful book that recently came out called The North Carolina Birding Trail: Mountain Trail Guide.  It comes in a Piedmont and Coastal Plains version, too.

Long-time readers of my blog may remember that Benjamin is a very enthusiastic birdwatcher. He’s always liked birds and watched them intently even as a baby, but developed an obsessive interest in them around age four. That’s when we discovered he could read (very well indeed, too!) when he started reading to us from one of our bird books for adults. So we bought him bird song tapes and more books, and before long, he could identify most birds by hearing just a few notes warbled from the trees. I recall one sentence in particular from the bird tapes (which I remember because it really caught Benjamin’s fancy and he’d rewind the tape and play the sentence over and over):

The Eastern Kingbird very often sings while sallying forth in quivering flight.

Of course, we all love birds in our family, and Ariel is quite knowledgeable, too (possibly from hearing Benjamin play his tapes over and over). But Benjamin is the real Birdman. When we’re out hiking and hear a bird, I’m likely to say something inane like, “Hey, that’s a real pretty birdsong, isn’t it?” But Benjamin will stop, cock his head to the side (looking a bit like a bird himself) and say, “Hey, that’s a warbling vireo!” And then I’ll nod my head sagely, as though I knew it all along. Not that I fool anyone.

We didn’t really see any unusual birds on our trip—just an indigo bunting or two and a galaxy of goldfinches on the gossamer seedpods of the bull thistle. But no matter. We had the forest and fields and mountains and birds to ourselves this time. And we had each other. And that’s a gracious plenty.

(Tom in the drill sergeant hat he got at the surplus store and Benjamin in the Stevie Ray Vaughan hat he got at a yard sale)

(The partridge pea flower.  I think.  Please correct me if I’m wrong)

(Ariel on the light-spangled forest path)

(We could see remnants of an old farm there)

(The gossamer seedpod of the bull thistle)

Seeing God in Everything…and Everyone

(It seems I’m always bringing up the rear in our hikes. That’s Ariel, Benjamin, and Tom well ahead of me.)

It’s August and that means one thing in the Blue Ridge Blue Collar household—–roadtrips! August is when both our children are usually home from college for a visit, so we reserve the weekends for adventures, mostly of the hiking variety. And since both of our children are generally at college in the thick of exams for their birthdays (which occur in April and May), we celebrate them in August. And since Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man’s birthday actually IS in August, I end up baking a cake every weekend, and August ends up being one long, wonderful cake-eating binge. So it’s a good thing that we all love to hike so we can rationalize all that cake- eating.

It’s always been a tradition in our family that we get the roadtrip of our choice(within reason and budget)  on our birthday weekend. Since Ariel’s birthday is earliest, she got to choose the first junket (I’ve always wanted to use that word!). We all love the Blue Ridge Parkway, so it’s no surprise that our roadtrips often involve the Parkway. This year, Ariel chose to go to Black Balsam Knob, which is just off the Parkway at Milepost 420.2. For directions and some amazing autumn pictures (much better than mine), go here.

The little road that you turn on (off the Parkway) is deceptive. The pavement is cracked and overgrown, and it’s easy to believe that no one has traveled the road for a very long time and that you’re going to have Black Balsam Knob all to yourself. Here’s where I should confess that I’m a slightly anti-social hiker, or as I prefer to call myself, a contemplative hiker. Oh sure, I enjoy brief chats with folks we meet on the trails and I love talking to my favorite hiking companions, but I’m really there to commune mainly with the One who makes all that beauty possible—God. And my favorite hikes have always been the ones where we’ve had the place mostly to ourselves, such as our hikes last year at Craggy Gardens, which you can read about here, here, and here.

Anyhow.  As we traveled up the desolate road, my pulse quickened with excitement, thinking of all that lovely solitude. But I was quickly disabused of that silly notion as we rounded a bend and came upon upwards of twenty-five cars lining both sides of the road. Good Lord. So much for my momentary fantasy of a serene and undisturbed hike.

But no matter. I said a little prayer before we started our hike—-a variation of the same prayer I pray every single morning:

 God, please help me to see You everywhere. Not only in the mountains and flowers and sky and rocks, but in every soul I encounter on this hike. Even if, in the midst of all this beauty, they’re talking loudly on their cell phones or their surly children are whining about being bored. Help me to remember that they, too, are Your beloved children. Amen.

And we did encounter a good number of folks. And some of them were very loud. But I was able to silence my inner curmudgeon, and we had a peaceful and lovely time. And I was even able to commune with the One Who made this all possible and to give Him my most fervent thanks for the blue layered mountains that seemed to stretch to infinity and for the clouds that tumbled across the sky and for all the wildflowers growing in a tangle on the bald. And, while I can’t say I thanked Him for all the many people there, at least I didn’t curse their presence.

Hallelujah.

(Bee on Filmy Angelica)

(The really cool bud of the Filmy Angelica)

(This one stumped me.  Fireweed, maybe?)

The Long Days of Summer Are All Too Short

(Morning glory leaf on my porch, illuminated)

Well, hi there!  Sorry to be absent from the blogosphere for so long, but things have been pretty busy at the Doublewide Ranch, what with houseguests and yardwork and garden tending and searching for unsuspecting souls to unload our squash and zucchini on.   That was one of the nice things about having guests—–the squash disappeared a lot faster.  Maybe that’s the way you could get rid of houseguests that overstay their welcome—feed them squash at every meal!  *Laughs maniacally*

Many thanks to those of you who wrote asking about my finger and for your kind comments on my post.   The finger’s okay, I guess, though the fingernail part of the injury seems to be healing rather slowly, necessitating that I still wear a slightly bulky bandage to protect it.  It didn’t help that I had a little run-in with yellow jackets while mowing last week, and they, of course, nailed me on the same hand that had the run-in with the hedgetrimmer.  Thank goodness I’m right-handed.

Anyway, my typing is still a little slower and more tedious than usual, so I hope you won’t mind if I let my photos speak for me.  One of the places we took our guests was to the wonderful North Carolina Arboretum.  I was absolutely enchanted by these blackberry lilies we saw there.  And what most enchanted me was not the flower (though it was lovely),  but the delightful spiral of the spent bloom:

And the wonderful buds of the swamp hibiscus:

And the exuberant song sparrow who serenaded us when we stopped to rest:

Back at home,  our chipping sparrow was looking chipper, as always:

Our goldfinch amused us by trying to take a little string for her nest:

And we were delighted by more spiral flowers in these morning glory buds:

We relished regarding this rabbit in repose:

And it was in a rare moment of repose that I was able to get this shot of a hummingbird moth on my petunias.  I really like it a lot.  I hope you do, too.

Signs and Wonders and Marvels and Miracles

(All photos below taken in my yard)

I’ve always loved the story of Gideon in the Old Testament.  Gideon was the unlikely hero that God chose to lead an army to deliver the Israelites from the terrible oppression of the Midianites.  (The Israelites were so afraid of the Midianites that they were hiding from them in caves in the mountains). When the angel of the Lord first appeared to Gideon and told him that he was chosen to “save Israel from the hand of the Midianites,” Gideon’s response was incredulity.  “Oh my Lord, wherewith shall I save Israel? Behold, my family is poor and I am the least in my father’s house!”

But God persisted, so Gideon asked for a sign.  First, a sign that it was really an angel of God talking to him (instead of some imposter angel).  Gideon brought bread and meat as an offering, put them on a rock, then watched as the angel of the Lord touched them with a staff.  A great fire arose from the rock and consumed the bread and meat.  So he was satisfied that it was the Lord alright, but that wasn’t enough for Gideon.  No indeed.  He then wanted a sign that God would not only lead him to battle, but give him victory.  He asked that a woolen fleece that he put out would be drenched the next day with dew, but the ground around it dry.  The next morning, Gideon wrung an entire bowl of water out of the fleece, while the ground around it was bone-dry.  

So, at this point, Gideon (1) had an angel appear to him as he worked in the wheat field, (2) had said angel cause a mighty flame to arise from a rock, and (3)had gotten the Lord to perform Gideon’s own personal magic fleece trick.  But was that enough for Gideon?  No sirree.  Gideon, though he was shaking in his sandals, had the nerve to ask for one more miracle!  This time, he asked that the fleece be dry, while the ground was wet.  By now, I imagine God sighing and rolling His eyes, but, again, He complied and made the fleece dry, while the ground about was soaked.  And, at last, Gideon was satisfied.

I love this story, in part, because I identify so strongly with Gideon.  It’s so hard sometimes to keep the faith, especially when you feel that you’ve had far more than your share of hardship.  Especially when you see so many bad things happening to good people.  Especially when you have Midianites in your own life, making you want to hide in a cave, like the Israelites did.  But what I love most is the fact that God, although He must have been somewhat vexed at Gideon’s lack of faith, still had the compassion and mercy to give him the sign that he asked for, not just once but three times!. I think that means that God understands our doubts and recognizes that we are only human. The story of Gideon has given me solace the past couple of weeks while we’ve been going through a difficult time and I’ve been struggling with my own faith.  Because, during that time, we thought for certain that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man, my husband Tom, had cancer. 

It all started when Tom was referred to a urologist because of very high PSA levels.  His PSA was 40—-a normal one is 4 or less.  Not a good sign.  Some of the information I found on the internet suggested that almost all men with a PSA over 20 have cancer, and PSA’s much higher (like 40) probably were advanced cancer.  So I was anxious to start with, but became even more so after the urologist said that Tom’s prostate on examination was very hard and lumpy, and he scheduled an immediate biopsy. 

After the biopsy, the doctor (who was a very kind and straightforward sort) showed Tom the ultrasound pictures of his prostate, comparing them to an ultrasound of a “normal” prostate.  He pointed out the dark shadows on Tom’s, which he indicated was not good.  What it boiled down to was this:  he was trying to tell Tom, in so many words, that he was almost certain that he had cancer.  With the extremely high PSA, the hard lumpiness of the prostate, and the suspicious mass on the ultrasound, cancer was almost a sure thing.  The doctor also began to talk about having bone scans, which are done to check whether cancer has spread to your bones. Obviously, the doctor was trying to prepare us for the worst.

It’s funny how the mind, when confronted with a hard reality, begins immediately to search for signs of hope and reassurance, for signs that God is near.  At least, that’s the way it is with me.  That day, after Tom told me all the doctor had said, I immediately thought of how we had seen five rainbows that week from our porch.   Those of a more scientific bent might say, “Well, yeah…you had rain every single afternoon.  Rainbows are a pretty good bet!”  But, for me, every rainbow is a wonderment, a marvel, a symbol of hope.  And we saw Tom’s favorite airplane—the B-17—fly over our house that day, too. You don’t see that everyday.  Plus, we won two dollars with the lottery ticket we picked up that day.  We never win the lottery. 

Some might call this grasping at straws.  But who’s to say what’s random and what’s not?  Who’s to say whether signs and wonders and messages from our greater power really are?  Even if most of us haven’t been lucky enough, like Gideon, to have an angel visit us in the wheat field, I believe that God sends us messages all the time.  I guess sometimes, we just don’t notice, and He has to knock us upside the head to get us to pay attention, to get us to listen, to get us to see.

We got the results of the biopsy two days ago.  Since Tom, as a maintenance man, has to work in the field, I was the one to call the doctor’s office for the results.  I had my questions about prostate cancer and its treatment all written out, ready to hear Tom’s Gleason Score and the staging of his cancer.  I already had sort of come to terms with the idea of his having cancer and was ready to talk about how to fight it.  But I was still a nervous wreck.  It took a while to get the results because everyone I spoke to—the receptionist, the nurse, the doctor’s secretary—told me, after looking at Tom’s record, that I needed to talk to the doctor.  They all sounded rather grave when they said this, which further heightened my anxiety.  Then, I was put on hold with some sort of Britney Spears-type pop music playing.  Now I don’t care for that kind of music under the best of circumstances, but this time it made me want to tear my hair out and run screaming from the room.  But I couldn’t.  Because, in a few minutes, a doctor was going to tell me something that would either make me the happiest woman in the world or one of the saddest.

I heard someone pick up the receiver. “Hi, Mrs. _______?”   My heart quickened and I began to shake.

“Yes sir.”  I could hardly breathe.

Thank God, he got straight to the point.  “The biopsy showed no sign of cancer.” 

I gasped and very nearly hollered in his ear, but managed (with great effort) to restrain myself. He went on to tell me that Tom had a somewhat rare condition called granulomatous prostatitis which apparently mimics prostate cancer in every way, causing an elevated PSA level, a hardened prostate, and areas on an ultrasound that are indistinguishable from cancer.  Only a pathological analysis of the biopsy samples revealed what it actually was.  Tom was fortunate, in more ways than one.  In some cases, men with this condition have had their prostates removed because of a mistaken diagnosis of cancer.

After I hung up the phone, Benjamin and I began to jump and holler and whoop and giggle and dance around the room like utter fools.  We were actually afraid we might break something—we were much too giddy to be inside.  So we went for a walk.  When I stepped out into the sunlight that day, I felt like someone who had been in a cave.  Everything looked especially bright—our big purple-pink coneflowers, the daisies dancing dazzling white in the field, and the ferny, lacey red and pink yarrow.  The world looked so fresh and new and beautiful that day.

You know, I’d never have the nerve to ask the Lord for a special sign like Gideon did, especially not three times.  But I’m quite sure God sends them, just the same.  Remember the heart in the grass?  Well, it’s still there.  I looked.  It looks a little different now, but that’s okay.  My heart’s a little different, too. 

That day, as Benjamin and I walked around, still giggling with pure joy, we saw even more signs and wonders.  The butterflies were here at last.  They’ve been scarce this year, and I’ve missed them, but the Great Spangled Fritillaries are flittering now in great numbers to my coreopsis.   And the bee balm that wouldn’t flower last year is just now showing its first blooms.  Soon, it will be covered with pink and red flowers that the hummingbirds especially adore.  And the morning glories have begun climbing up the porch lattice again, with those heart-shaped leaves that seem to convey a divine message of their own, apart from their luminous glory blossom. Natural events, sure…but signs and wonders just the same. 

But the greatest sign and wonder came later that day when Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man stepped out of his work truck whole and healthy and happy and alive.  And wet. The sky had opened up that evening and it was pouring rain. Tom got drenched as he ran up to the porch, so I got wet too when I threw my arms around him and held him close.  I laid my cheek against his damp hair and closed my eyes and thanked God for rain and sun and fritillaries and bee balm and morning glories and hearts in the grass.

And for giving me, despite my doubts, despite my wavering faith, despite my fear, the sweet miracle of Tom. 

Whereas I Shamelessly Exploit My Husband’s Injury To Achieve Only Modest Fame

Tom’s foot with one sad toe (by Benjamin)

Our local alternative weekly newspaper, the  Mountain Xpress, has a feature called Blog Log, where reporter Brian Postelle chooses certain local blogs and a particular post on those blogs to highlight for the week.  My blog’s been chosen several times, and I’ve got to tell you—it makes me inordinately happy.  Perhaps I’m a little silly, but it’s really nice to be recognized, however modest the fame may be.  It is particularly gratifying because, although we have a very active blogging community in the area, I don’t really fit with the general blogging crowd here.  I’m sure they’re all very nice, but they are a hip, savvy, and trendy crowd.  And I…well…I am not.  So I don’t fit in.

Anyway, it’s been a while since Brian mentioned Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl on Blog Log, and it’s got me a little down in the dumps.  The truth is, the only posts of mine he seems to like are the funny posts.  And, well, these days I’m feeling about as funny as fire ants at a picnic.  As funny as a big zit on prom night.  As funny as screen doors on a submarine.  You get the idea. 

Because Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I have been a little anxious lately.  Big cuts are being made where he works, and he is still classified as a “temporary” worker.  He is also the most recently hired.  So we’re feeling a mite vulnerable.  Plus, they’ve cut his $12/hour pay and gone way up on our insurance, while our benefits have been sharply reduced.   So we got the poor-boy-beans-for-supper-again blues, and I just don’t feel like being funny.

So here’s where you will see me shamelessly exploit Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man just so I can maybe be in Blog Log again.  You see, Brian Postelle also has a fascination for blogger injury stories.  He said so himself here. And I offer as proof the fact that he featured my post about the time Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man stopped bleeding with a condiment, not one, but two times on Blog Log.   So here I present the sad, sad story of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and his tragic toe injury:

Since Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man works as a maintenance man, I worry a right good bit about his safety.  He has a lot of roof leak experience, so he’s the man they turn to when there’s a persistent leak.  So he spends a lot of time on ladders and roofs (I always want to say “rooves.”)   He likes it up there, but it makes me nervous, especially considering our luck for the past twenty years. 

So it finally happened—he got hurt about a month ago.  But it wasn’t falling off a roof.  Nope, so often it’s the little things that trip you up—in this case, an extension cord that he tripped over.  He then, in regaining his balance, managed to somehow come down hard on his toe and sprained it badly.  He came home limping like Grandpappy Amos on The Real McCoys.  (Does anybody else remember that show?)   When he showed me his toe, I got that weird chest-tightening I only get when someone I love hurts themselves.  It was one ugly digit, let me tell you.   Completely black—almost gangrenous looking—like his toe was going to wither and fall off in a matter of days. 

And, unfortunately, he is afraid to take time off from work (See Paragraph 3 above).  So he’s been gimping about for a while now, and while he’s some better (and his toe is unwithered and firmly attached), it still hurts quite a lot.  So, really, I’m not just posting this to get on Blog Log.  Certainly not.  I’d truly be grateful if anybody has some ideas to help a seriously-sprained toe.

But…there is no escaping the fact that I’m shamelessly exploiting my husband’s injury and milking it for all it’s worth just to see my name in print.  I’m kind of like that kid in grade school who was always raising their hand and waving it frantically to be recognized. Desperate, I tell you.  Heck, I’d even resort to excessive flattery to see my name in print. And it’s not even my real name.  That’s the saddest thing. I mean, my name isn’t really Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, of course.  It’s Beth, with a “B”.  Like Brian, with a “B”.  As in, Brian Postelle, the very fine reporter and creator of the entertaining and delightful Blog Log in that most outstanding and venerable newspaper, the  Mountain Xpress. 

That’s Beth.  With a “B”.  As in blog.  As in bold and brazen. As in Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl.