Switched At Birth

Holding The Mirror

I've been continuing to read the many stories in personal mail and newspaper accounts of the impact of this summer's and fall's hurricanes and floods, and am working now on developing a story sharing experience with folks in our episcopal church parish. As bloggers, we are all accustomed to telling our stories, and sifting our experiences via the written word. Not so with most folks. As Tom Montag's (The Middlewesterner) life work reminds us, everyone has important, moving stories to share. More than 6,100 homes were destroyed in the Pensacola area alone. Displaced folks are living in travel trailers, motels, and tents, and with relatives, friends and near strangers. Endless stories. Sharing them reinforces our humanity and helps us to evolve beyond the bottomless pit issues where only the names change.

"There are heroes in the seaweed There are children in the morning They are leaning out for love And they will lean that way forever While suzanne holds the mirror". . . from Suzanne, by Mr. Leonard Cohen, bless his talented heart.

Maybe holding the mirror is something we can do, in our blogs and our off-line writing lives.

About a week ago, Denny Coates (author and former Book of Life blogmeister) and Kathleen Scott (fabulous photographer, writer and Denny's soulmate) added comments -- one to a post called "Full Circle" and the other to "Behold" in which they wrote poignant post-hurricane updates from their home base in Vero Beach, Florida. Comments often get lost in the flow, so I'm re-posting them here:

from Denny. . .

"I've been so busy that I haven't written much about what has happened here.
But I can clearly see the value of your journal-like posts about what has
happened in your part of Florida. The impressions need to be captured. We
need to keep writing, begin writing again.

 

After the second storm, when we were able to return to the island, we saw
everything blown over, blown down, broken and all the leaves on everything
had been blown away. It reminded me of winter up north. It was
disheartening. As Kathleen put it, "It hurt my feelings."

As soon as we could, we stood everything up again and reinforced the soil,
not knowing if this would do any good. A few weeks after Jeanne, nearly
every tree and bush has new leaves, at first tiny, then pushing up as young
branches. Even the bouganvillea, which was cut to a stump with a chainsaw,
has sprouted about a dozen new leafy branches, each about three feet long.
The habiscus bushes, bare only a couple weeks ago, are covered with leaves
and some flowers. I know these plants have well-established root systems,
but I'm amazed at the life-force asserting itself. Maybe some won't make
it...we'll see.

Each day, we do something else to move forward. Each day, nature reasserts
itself with more color. Before long, the last of the debris will be picked
up and the streets will be clean. Eventually, things will be even better
than they were before."

 

from Kathleen. . .

"Our plants are budding again. Most of
the natives and many of the tropicals and most of my heirloom roses will
make it, I think, a powerful testament to life. Makes me feel good
everyday to see life coming out of the destruction from the two hurricanes."

 

Kathleen is right. My three scraggly rose bushes are blooming. Many of the leaves were shredded, but by God the brilliant blooms make a statement. Same for the damaged magnolia trees, where spring green new leaves are profuse, here at the Halloween end of October.

Flood-borne suffering spawned by the hurricanes hit our friends in Canton, North Carolina hard, that beautiful smoky mountains place where we spent seven summers in the Rice Cove community of Beaverdam. Yesterday, I read an affecting moment by moment account of the Hurricane Frances' related flood there, written by Becky Johnson, staff writer for the Smoky Mountain News, a small weekly paper. It's called Remembering The Flood, and I highly commend it to you. This is not a bloodless recitation of facts.

And finally, for today, a friend from Beaverdam wrote me a few days ago with some updates on the community and the Beaverdam Methodist Church folk and our former neighbors. The author, Betty Driver, is a recently retired high school teacher and long-time choir director at the church. When the phrase "salt of the earth" was coined, Betty might have been one of the prototypes.

excerpts from Betty. . .

"We are fairing well here now for the most part. The road still has some dangerous washouts, but that is about all the damage left here on Beaverdam. Harold and Hilda have a temporary bridge and can get in and out if a bit precariously. The church ceiling is still patched with plastic. They will have to take the steeple off to repair it and then patch the roof which involves a crane. They are trying to get all the people together to do the job. . . The town of Canton is slowly recovering although it will never be the same. The businesses are cleaning out and many will not be reopening. There is still no dry cleaner open. The debris removal is almost complete, but in some cases only shells remain from the town hall on down to the stop light going up to the post office. People are still in the process of cleaning out homes and some rebuilding is going on, but it will be a slow process which you can imagine since you can see it first hand. I have been working at the recovery center a few days a week. I have heard some very sad stories especially from the poor and the old. One girl was about to loose her leg and had lost everything in the flood. Her story was enough to make it difficult to keep a professional face. I almost cried. Another old couple came to get cleaning supplies and food. The lady was distressed that she had to have some help. She said she had never had to ask for anything before. Both the Baptist and the Methodists have building teams working in the area, but there are 400 homes to repair of tear down. People are having trouble finding places to go. FEMA is here and will not let some people rebuild. They may be the lucky ones since their property may be bought by the government. . ."

I salute us all this morning, all over the planet, in our common living, loving, struggling noisy humanity. Even the seemingly mundane is precious, and all we sinners are saints, too.

10:19 AM in Day Book, Longleaf Preserve, Pensacola Scene | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

 

 

Message From Our Friends In Canton, NC

I just received this from Betty Driver, our friend and former neighbor in the Beaverdam Community of Canton, North Carolina. Most of the news has been about panhandle Florida and coastal Alabama, but clearly, Ivan's reach was far and wide.

"This is just to update you on our situation here. I am sending it to both addresses since I don’t know how your will be accessing your email. Pensacola was bad according to the news. I hope you home and family are OK.

The flooding here is unreal. I praise God to be alive and undamaged. Many of our neighbors are homeless. The roads are washed out and businesses are flooded. You have never seen anything like it. There are 8 confirmed dead so far and there will probably be more. They are searching a development which slid down the mountain in Franklin for bodies. A 13-year-old child from Canton wondered away from home and had not been found last time I heard. Beaverdam Creek was out over its banks and nearly flooded Shane Thompson’s trailer. It was more like a river. The roads and even the interstates are collapsing. The side of Beaverdam Road is collapsing. Trees are hanging from power lines. It is a real adventure to drive to town. We have our power back, but we are on a boil-water advisory. Our church steeple is still leaking and we have some damage to our sanctuary again and water in the fellowship hall. Hopefully it will dry out for Sunday. It is minor compared to the rest of the community. You might like to go to ashevillecitizen.com or wlos.com to see the pictures and read the news. Harold and Hilda Rice are stranded. Their bridge has washed away. The have the house just behind the trailer park at across from the end of Rice Cove. Linda and Harvey Worley have a tree down on their house. Carol Sorrell’s family lost all their vehicles when a tree fell on them. Blue Ridge Paper is flooded again. The water was up 14 inches higher than last time. I guess you are glad not to be here. I don’t know which sounds worse, Pensacola or Canton. Pray for all of us."

 

 

05:23 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Betwixt And Between

Lucky for me, we're holed up in a Holiday Inn not too far from our (former) mountain home (a/k/a Serenity Sunrise) which has high speed internet access. Early tomorrow morning, we'll head on down the road, back to the flatlands and our beloved piney woods. Maggie is stretched out on her bed here beside Buck and me, snoring following her room service pizza snack.

Thank you all for your kind, sweet and thoughtful comments.

More, soon, from Longleaf (a/k/a Serenity Sunset).

09:41 PM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Maggie Knows

Maggie is channelling me. She knows something is going on. Peering first in the glass doors of the snow porch, she has watched as I remove books from the shelves and pictures from the walls. Wandering down the steps of the deck and back again up steps to the glass door by the kitchen, she observes as I take cans, bottles and pasta boxes out of the pantry. Her nose looks large as she presses it into the glass. Later I see her looking in the double French doors on the lower level. She is watching as Buck wraps paintings and mirrors in special glass packs.

If you have a dog, you know how they are. They like routine, and get anxious when their owners seem to be behaving in a more intensely neurotic fashion than usual.

Maggie watched forlornly as I took off in the van for the grocery store down the mountain, and was awaiting my return just where the hill breaks into the flat spread of the driveway, brow furrowed.

I think dogs don't know what to do when they sense something funny is going on. So, they just go and do dog things. Buck fired up the grill for me, while I rubbed some spices on a whole split chicken. The coals cooked down, I added some mesquite chips, then put the chicken on and closed the lid, opening the vents just enough to ensure lots of smoke and no burning.

Hearing the sound of dog steps trotting up behind me, I turned, looked and burst into laughter. There was Maggie, looking like the Devil Dog From Hell. She had been down to the cow pasture, rolled in the perfumed patties, then buried her face in the cool cast-off gray white ash from last week's charcoal fire, her chocolate face dusted as though with confectioner's sugar.

And then, naturally, she wanted to come in.

After supper, I gave her a make-shift bath. She is lying on my feet right now, chin on Buck's thigh, content to know we are here for her, even if most of our worldly belongings are packed away in labelled boxes, almost ready for the movers, sitting here eating ice cream bars in our deconstructed home.

Wild Violets and Bloodroot

 

The wild violets aren't blooming yet, here in this tiny stretch of flat ground by the house. But I've enouraged them, and oh my, how they have spread, in and amongst the blue hill salvia and the juniper. Two years ago I transplanted delicate blood root from their colony out back. Now, just look at them in their heartiness.

 

A Place for This Time

He was drawn to the window wall and stood there, gazing toward the far mountains, hands clasped behind his back. He and Buck went out on the deck, while his wife and I sat on stools at the kitchen island bar, she asking questions and me providing answers for the mundane but essential details of life in this house.

I could see her husband talking with Buck, shoulders slumped into his chest and belly swayed out over his pants, in that way of too-long deskbound newly retired executives. His mannerisms and short, ash-blond hair reminded me vaguely of the actor, Brian Dennehy. Stubby fingers chopped the air as he talked. Every moment or two, he turned back to the view and rested his elbows on the deck rail.

His wife of more than forty years watched him from where she stood with me in the kitchen. "It's always been his dream to have a glass house in the mountains," she said, a trace of something in her voice. Wistfulness? Worry? "He had better live at least ten years, because I don't plan to move again. They're going to have to carry me out of here in a box, or down the hill to the old folks home."

We all walked around the house together. Buck and I demonstrated the many light switches, how the fancy faucet in the kitchen sink worked, the quirk in closing the dishwasher door, where the satellite dish wiring enters the house, and the various other small details any of us could think of. Then it was time for them to go, to return to their home several states away, pack up and return to move in on June 11. The house will be empty and ready for them, by then, only a bottle of champagne and fresh Smoky Mountain Roasters coffee beans left in a basket on the kitchen counter.

We gathered at the top of the steps near my desk, looked through a French door to the tree-lined ridge, and stood there in silence. He spoke quietly: "I had a bout with non-Hodgins lymphoma about four years ago. Went through a round of chemo." Thud. I felt it in my belly. I could see Buck tighten, too. We waited. "Last month, a spot of something turned up on the Cat scan. I may need to go through another round." He hit the subject lightly, and with considerable grace, but there it was.

They came early the next evening to meet with a contractor to talk about adding another set of exterior stairs and a garage. We went out to visit with them for a few minutes and wish them safe journey. Just before leaving, he shook our hands, and this man -- who I suspect is considered by many to be undemonstrative -- hung onto Buck's hand an extra beat, looked at both of us intently, and said, "You've just given us everything -- everything. Thank you."

Upstairs, alone again, Buck poured a scotch and water for me and made himself a Manhattan. We stood in the kitchen and looked at one another. Finally, I spoke. "This man needs some time here, looking out over these mountains."

"Yes," Buck agreed. "They need this place at this time more than we do."

Note: In this blog post archive recreation project, there is no way for Comments to organically appear the way they did in their original incarnation. Because I have a photocopy of the original posts and comments, I am going to add the comments after each re-created post whenever I can. Comments are integral to the interactive loveliness of the blogging process. Maybe we'll reconnect with some old blog buddies.

Comments

That's really, really, beautifully done.

Posted by: dale/May 27, 2004 06:08 PM

"You've just given us everything -- everything. Thank you."

These words brought tears.

Posted by: Penny/May 27, 2004 06:56 PM

Nicely told, again. Thanks.

Posted by: Tom Montag/May 27, 2004 09:59 PM

This is one of those rare posts that has become a story, intact. And a signature moment in your lives. I love the beautiful simplicity of your writing. Of the hundreds of writers I have enjoyed over the years, I love this sort of thing best.

Posted by: Denny/May 28, 2004 07:56 AM

It's easier to let go knowing that it will be a peace-giver for the next family.

Posted by: Kathleen/May 29, 2004 04:37 PM

A very poignant piece and so beautifully written.

Posted by: susanne/May 30, 2004 03:56 AM

Hey, Beth, this was an incredible piece. Why not submit this one to Sun Magazine? Do you read Sun?

Posted by: Fran/May 30, 2004 05:39 PM

Your thoughtful words and sensitivity brought tears to my eyes: "They need this place at this time more than we do."

You are such good people. You deserve the very best in your new life in Florida.

Posted by: David St. Lawrence/June 2, 2004 07:55 PM

Life Is Like That

He wasn't lying in lurk, hoping to find some unsuspecting human to bite. If so, he would have been coiled and ready to spring up, striking an ankle, back of the knee, or femoral artery.

The timber rattlesnake was stretched out full length, interposed between the asphalt driveway and some low bushes gone wild, thinking, I suppose, that he was completely hidden and safe.

When we arrived Thursday evening, Buck had backed the van into an asphalted extension of the driveway that provides a smooth pathway to the front door, and makes unpacking an easier task. There wasn't much room on the driver's side for walking without stepping on the crown vetch which had been hydroseeded years ago to prevent erosion.

We talked and laughed Friday afternoon as we locked the front door, preparing to go down the hill to pick up our stack of mail from the post office, stop by the moving company's warehouse to pick up packing boxes, and go to the Ingles grocery store in Canton. Buck walked briskly to the van, opened the driver's side door, stepped up -- then hesitated -- "I forgot the part," (a replacement for some minor repair to a bathroom sink). . . and he stepped back down to the asphalt.

I was on the other side of the van, about to get in, when I heard him utter a short, but emphatic, string of expletives. Reversing course, I walked to the back of the van and we met as he was motioning me over and pointing at ground near the van's door. "I almost stepped on that big snake," he said.

I've read the expression about someone's heart being in their mouth. Now I know how it feels.

Only the last foot of the snake was visible, well-fed and tipped with six rattles. He began to move, slowly disappearing into the vetch.

There was a dangerous moment, when Buck's life was endangered and so was the snake's. Time stopped for a minute. My head buzzed. I had to fight the desire to take a weedeater to the hillside. And then we continued on with our day.

Life is like that. There is always a piano hanging out a window tethered by defective rope just waiting for some unsuspecting mortal whistling a tune as she walks down the sidewalk to walk under it just at the moment the edges fray.

Death is what we live with. What we try to live with without going crazy. Our own death. Inevitable. Witness how old friends deal with aging and imminent death. Generally speaking, not a pretty sight. See the snake in the grass and know your number is not yet up. Just a friendly reminder that it is flashing on some cosmic screen.

Like that snake, there are threats all about. By the same token, there are dazzling gifts, too. All are there to help me solve the puzzle. Just because I don't always see or find them doesn't mean they aren't there for me.

07:37 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)

He wasn't lying in lurk, hoping to find some unsuspecting human to bite. If so, he would have been coiled and ready to spring up, striking an ankle, back of the knee, or femoral artery.

The timber rattlesnake was stretched out full length, interposed between the asphalt driveway and some low bushes gone wild, thinking, I suppose, that he was completely hidden and safe.

When we arrived Thursday evening, Buck had backed the van into an asphalted extension of the driveway that provides a smooth pathway to the front door, and makes unpacking an easier task. There wasn't much room on the driver's side for walking without stepping on the crown vetch which had been hydroseeded years ago to prevent erosion.

We talked and laughed Friday afternoon as we locked the front door, preparing to go down the hill to pick up our stack of mail from the post office, stop by the moving company's warehouse to pick up packing boxes, and go to the Ingles grocery store in Canton. Buck walked briskly to the van, opened the driver's side door, stepped up -- then hesitated -- "I forgot the part," (a replacement for some minor repair to a bathroom sink). . . and he stepped back down to the asphalt.

I was on the other side of the van, about to get in, when I heard him utter a short, but emphatic, string of expletives. Reversing course, I walked to the back of the van and we met as he was motioning me over and pointing at ground near the van's door. "I almost stepped on that big snake," he said.

I've read the expression about someone's heart being in their mouth. Now I know how it feels.

Only the last foot of the snake was visible, well-fed and tipped with six rattles. He began to move, slowly disappearing into the vetch.

There was a dangerous moment, when Buck's life was endangered and so was the snake's. Time stopped for a minute. My head buzzed. I had to fight the desire to take a weedeater to the hillside. And then we continued on with our day.

Life is like that. There is always a piano hanging out a window tethered by defective rope just waiting for some unsuspecting mortal whistling a tune as she walks down the sidewalk to walk under it just at the moment the edges fray.

Death is what we live with. What we try to live with without going crazy. Our own death. Inevitable. Witness how old friends deal with aging and imminent death. Generally speaking, not a pretty sight. See the snake in the grass and know your number is not yet up. Just a friendly reminder that it is flashing on some cosmic screen.

Like that snake, there are threats all about. By the same token, there are dazzling gifts, too. All are there to help me solve the puzzle. Just because I don't always see or find them doesn't mean they aren't there for me.

07:37 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)

Wild Turkey

It was dusk, and the light was fading fast, when I saw her from the kitchen window. A large wild turkey hen, feeding in the remaining seed fallen from the dried up oats and wheat. We have seen turkey tracks in a more remote, southeast section, but never here. Watching her, Buck observed that it can only mean one thing: she has a nest in the nearby scrub, possibly even amongst the saw palmetto stands there.

We had been back for several hours, unpacked the van from our long drive, Maggie running around to stretch her legs on the flat ground. And yet, here was this wild turkey, one of the most elusive and wary birds around, feeding in our back yard.

I saw her again yesterday morning. We'll be returning to North Carolina this weekend to finish packing up the house. We'll keep a close eye on Maggie until then. The brood should have a good chance to survive until they can fly.

 

It was dusk, and the light was fading fast, when I saw her from the kitchen window. A large wild turkey hen, feeding in the remaining seed fallen from the dried up oats and wheat. We have seen turkey tracks in a more remote, southeast section, but never here. Watching her, Buck observed that it can only mean one thing: she has a nest in the nearby scrub, possibly even amongst the saw palmetto stands there.

We had been back for several hours, unpacked the van from our long drive, Maggie running around to stretch her legs on the flat ground. And yet, here was this wild turkey, one of the most elusive and wary birds around, feeding in our back yard.

I saw her again yesterday morning. We'll be returning to North Carolina this weekend to finish packing up the house. We'll keep a close eye on Maggie until then. The brood should have a good chance to survive until they can fly.

 

Gift From The Mountains

Mornings like this in the misty mountains have made the vision of roots deep in the pine forest possible.

 

 

A Day Off For Dreaming

What is it about moving that is so exhausting -- even before you have done any actual physical work? An anticipatory mental tiredness was creeping into my spine, radiating out, creasing my forehead and, oh my God, making me grumpy! Hard to believe, I know, but true.

Buck to the rescue! This woman needs a nice long lunch, to sit in dappled sun and shade on a stone terrace, at her favorite restaurant.

Over a succulent little chunk of salmon, accompanied by a modest wreath of roasted red pepper, grilled zucchini, yellow squash and potato slices, and a spoonful of barely steamed baby spinach, I uncoiled and relaxed.

We talked and dreamed over our building plans at Longleaf. It's going to be a house full of surprises, with an honest to goodness library and a third story observation room (accessed by a spiral staircase), wiindows and a balcony all around for tree, bird,wildlife and night sky viewing. That's our dream. Now when the builders' bids come in. . . we may have to rethink, but for now we are trying to think, dream and plan for living, not for resale, and for integration into the landscape, and pure fun.

At sunset yesterday, we sat on the deck with Maggie dog, continuing to talk and dream until past dark. Lovely day.

This morning, renewed, I'm flying around, pulling out drawers and flinging open closets. I found a brand new pair of long white butter-soft leather gloves with pearl buttons, still in the original package. They belonged to Buck's mother. They remind me of a slower time, when we didn't feel funny about the elegance of hats, gloves and long gowns. In the picture below, they are resting on a glass display case filled with old miniature spoons, a fan, and other small objects. These are part of various collections gathered by Lois's second late husband, Jack, who was a commander in the Navy. He was once administrator of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Jack died before Buck and I met, but I am a careful curator of his collections. Their very eccentricity makes them precious.

07:16 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

What is it about moving that is so exhausting -- even before you have done any actual physical work? An anticipatory mental tiredness was creeping into my spine, radiating out, creasing my forehead and, oh my God, making me grumpy! Hard to believe, I know, but true.

Buck to the rescue! This woman needs a nice long lunch, to sit in dappled sun and shade on a stone terrace, at her favorite restaurant.

Over a succulent little chunk of salmon, accompanied by a modest wreath of roasted red pepper, grilled zucchini, yellow squash and potato slices, and a spoonful of barely steamed baby spinach, I uncoiled and relaxed.

We talked and dreamed over our building plans at Longleaf. It's going to be a house full of surprises, with an honest to goodness library and a third story observation room (accessed by a spiral staircase), wiindows and a balcony all around for tree, bird,wildlife and night sky viewing. That's our dream. Now when the builders' bids come in. . . we may have to rethink, but for now we are trying to think, dream and plan for living, not for resale, and for integration into the landscape, and pure fun.

At sunset yesterday, we sat on the deck with Maggie dog, continuing to talk and dream until past dark. Lovely day.

This morning, renewed, I'm flying around, pulling out drawers and flinging open closets. I found a brand new pair of long white butter-soft leather gloves with pearl buttons, still in the original package. They belonged to Buck's mother. They remind me of a slower time, when we didn't feel funny about the elegance of hats, gloves and long gowns. In the picture below, they are resting on a glass display case filled with old miniature spoons, a fan, and other small objects. These are part of various collections gathered by Lois's second late husband, Jack, who was a commander in the Navy. He was once administrator of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Jack died before Buck and I met, but I am a careful curator of his collections. Their very eccentricity makes them precious.

07:16 AM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)