Chapter 18 - march 2010 - hikes

©2011 Tom Weathers

Brenda did not want me to hike on Crowder's Mountain trails. She was afraid I would fall, get hurt. So, three months after she died I started hiking. I needed the diversion. Everything I did was basically a diversion. It was doing these hikes that I became aware of difficulty with my left knee, which was diagnosed as cancerous in November and which was replaced by an artificial knee in December. Arguably if I had not done these hikes and become aware of my knee I might not have gone to the doctor until after it was too late,

These are blog posts from the first hikes.

On Crowder's Mountain With Belarusians

Hiked Crowder's Mountain. That's a state park about 25 miles West of Charlotte. Managed to make it to the base of the Pinnacle this time. On the way back down I met some interesting people.

Rocky section of trail - have to be careful here not to turn ankle or twist bad knee.


Near Pinnacle - viewed from the backside. The other side is sheer. That's where the climbers go. I got to base but hearing loud voices above me I decided not to go through undignified contortions my bad knee would have required to hoist myself over last big rock.


Picking my way back down trail, I heard the same voices behind me, getting louder and louder. I decided to sit on a bench, eat my lunch and let them pass. Instead the clamored up beside me. The girl, a high school junior from Charlotte on an outing with her father explained they were formerly from Belarus. The father told me that it's a little country near Russia. The girl told me what she does in school and what she plans for her life work. She also offered some views of the world at large. We walked together back down the mountain, encountering a young man who seemed taken aback at first then smiled and spoke. When the trail split the Belarusians went one way I went another. But before that we told each other our first names and the father said, "God bless you Tom." Although I don't believe in that sort of thing, I told him, "God bless you Oleg". I might have gotten his name wrong because they seemed to be discussing that when they disappeared down the other trail.

Hiking a Different Trail

I hiked Crowder's again today, this time on a longer but less strenuous trail.

The terrain reminded me of the woods behind the house in Shelby where Doane Hulick and I played when we were boys. The same oaks, pines and other trees I cannot name. The same outcropped house-size boulders.

We pretended the rocks were forts and imagined fighting off unseen bad guys. Sometimes we carried real (but deactivated) weapons given to me my uncle Bob. Sometimes we were the ones charging up the steep slopes - plunging headlong through briars, proud of the blood.

Boys.

Today I saw five teen-age boys resting before making their final trek to the top of the mountain. One complemented me on my cane. ("Hey dude, I like your cane.") He might have been sarcastic - maybe not. Before he saw me, he was demonstrating a point with a clumsy karate kick. It had to do with Obama I think. When they left, one little fat guy with sad unruly hair stayed behind for a minute - perhaps gathering energy to go on. Catching me studying him, he said, "Have a nice day sir" then went on to join his buddies.

Not long after that a manically cheery old white guy whom I had encountered earlier running up the trail came running down the trail and said something manically cheery to me. I think he also made a joke to the three young people sitting nearby (it was a popular, busy spot) about how I was his son and he had given me an hour head start and he still beat me up and back - at least I think he was talking about me.

Crossing a couple of little streams I heard raucous frog croaking - echoing everywhere. Frogs yelling at each other (or for each other).

I also saw three dogs, two that were young, vigorous and friendly and one that was old, tired and suspicious (and overweight). The owner of the old dog asked (in response to my comment about old dogs and old men) if the dog could borrow my cane.

And I saw a yellow butterfy.

We Go to Mountaintop

Larry, Chucky and I climbed the Crowder's mountain peak and the adjacent peak - the one with all the cell-phone towers. Going up Backside Trail was really steep with steps cut into the side the mountain. Both Larry and I were queasy about going down that way (I was concerned about my knee and he was worried about vertigo) so we decided to go the down the alternate Rocktop Trial. Turns out the name fit. One section of rocky ridge was so bad that Larry and I (and a young woman in a group crossing at the same time) had to crawl on our hands and knees. On further we heard a number of sirens. According to the evening news a 23-year old man fell doing practice climbs. On Crowder's Mountain we chatted with a pleasant young man about that age who said he was going to do some climbing.

Larry eating peanut butter sandwich on Crowder's Mountain.



Chuck eating power bar.


Hawk soaring. Charlotte skyline - about 30 miles distant - barely visible on horizon.


Couple lunching near edge.


Crawling on my hands and knees over rough terrain. Larry and young woman crawl in front of me. Others walk.

Chapter 17 - march 2010 - random box (cleaning out the attic)

©2011 Tom Weathers

Contents of wooden box.

I started going through the attic in preparation for the next big move.

I had no reaction to most of the stuff. Old books that I did not think enough of to keep downstairs left me cold. Memorabilia from past offices no longer moved me. Papers that once seemed important now seemed trivial.

All that stuff was consigned to Goodwill - or the big green roll-out garbage can parked beside the front door.

But some of it was different...

I cried when I leafed through the snapshots of Brenda and me that Yancie had taken and that I didn't remember.

I laughed when I picked up the framed studio portrait of the younger woman with whom my father kept company after my stepmother died (the woman was wearing a saucy hat and smiling provocatively over her shoulder at the camera).

And the small wooden box stuffed with random articles made me wonder. It contained several pictures, tattered and worn now of Genie, the little girl from Baltimore and me - an "art" shot of a girl from Celanese in the 1960s - a model airplane engine and an electric train motor - three 50-year old bullets from my last pistol - a folding knife from a camping cook set - a key fob awarded to me by Celanese in 1965 - a penny.

(I think the model airplane engine and electric train motor were all that was left of my attempt to demonstrate the invention "airplanes without wings".)

I always had unfortunate fascination with pretty women.

Also in the box was a page I had written (probably in the 1960's) titled "An Absurd Credo" in which I announced "The only confident mind is an insane mind" - and went on to proclaim "When God was destroyed on the absurd altar the human soul was freed from useless hope."

And there was a diary in which Yancie had written two entries. One was about a happy day with her mother at the Department of Transportation office when they went to lunch and spent all of her 20 "dollers" at Roses and Circus World. The other was about an evening at Wendys and the Dairy Queen when she was accompanied by her friend Amy and despite getting into trouble with the adults wrote "he! he! ha! ha! I had a really great DAY".

Asides
I take back my laughter at pop's late-life girlfriend. As someone would say, I am indulging in the arrogance of presumption. Besides, the girlfriend was a nice person who gave as much as she got. And her picture wasn't all that bad.

Looking for a theme to explain the things in the box, at least four of my items were expressions of grandiosity. The absurd paper was grand because it presumed that my opinion was worth writing down. The engine and the motor were grand because they were once intended to demonstrate the impossible. The picture of the Celanese girl was grand because it was pretty grandiose of me, a technician from the basement labs to approach this girl, whom I didn't know, and say, "May I take your picture" And the pictures of Genie and me were grand - well, just because that's always been my reaction when I see them.

I don't know about the bullets. In my own defense I don't think they represent anything.

Chapter 16 - feb 2010 - west palm beach (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers

My last stop on the Florida trip was to see Joe Gettys, who migrated to West Palm Beach from the Center of the Known Universe more than 50 years ago.

Asides

My sister and I followed my father to West Palm Beach in the summer of 1956, after my mother died the previous Christmas (my father went down in the Spring). This is what I wrote in The Life and Times of Professor Ennui Pidawee about arriving in West Palm Beach:

...The first thing I noticed when getting off the bus where my 12-year-old sister and I had spent the last 20 hours in relative silence was how bright things seemed. The terminal, an ornate Mediterranean-style structure not far from the West Palm Beach yacht basin glowed white hot. It was as if my pupils had been dilated. Everything seemed sharp, like a photograph with too much contrast.

We moved back to Shelby in 1959, the day that Joe moved down from Shelby. The last time I visited (before this trip) was in August of 1965 when Brenda and I ventured out of Shelby in our black, un-air conditioned MG 1100 sedan. We stayed one day. The trip back took 18 hours. (The car was slow.) I wrote in an earlier post about that.

Pictures

Joe who lived up the street from me in Shelby when we were children. The day that I left West Palm Beach he moved and has now been there almost forever. He worked for Pratt and Whitney testing jet engines. I always refer to him as the "rocket scientist" which is pretty close to the truth.


Joe and Nancy on our way out to eat.


The building at the back of the house on the right was Joe's first apartment in West Palm Beach. This is where Bill H, Coleman, Frank and I descended in 1961 in Frank's Fiat 1100 sedan - where I borrowed Joe's 57 Corvette to go out with a dusky Greek girl named Dodson Aphrodite. The next week, back in Shelby, I called Brenda and this time managed to work up enough courage to stay on the phone.


Old Palm Beach High building where I graduated in 1957. It is a locale for dreams that overlap reality.


Princess - the 19-year old cat who only drinks running water, which I provided at 5:30 in the morning.

Chapter 15 - feb 2010 - south beach (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers

On Thursday morning (the second day of the Miami adventure), we drove down the barrier island known as Miami beach and stopped to walk around the southern end, called "South Beach". The upper part of Miami beach is distinguished by big new hotels and by some old places like the Eden Roc that I remembered from my last trip here in 1959. South Beach is mostly smaller older places done in Florida pastel art deco. Even in the unseasonable cool, South Beach was crowded with exotic people from all over the world. English was not the language most often heard. Sexual orientation was not always clear. We ended up doing more walking then lunch in the Coconut Grove section of Miami. Also nicely restored, also exotic, Coconut Grove was a little less crowded than South Beach, maybe a little more mature. (It was on leaving Miami that we had the Porsche encounter.)


South Beach street scene shot accidentally in B/W from window of Bill's car - this might not be far from Princess Anne hotel where I stayed with friends for $1.00 night in 1959.


The place in the middle is where chainsaw work took place in Scarface - picture shot from across the road where Pacino's buddy waited in the convertible while drug dealer cut off guy's arm in the upstairs room - WmP turns out to be a fine tour guide. He knows where the good stuff can be found.


Upstairs lobby of little hotel beside chainsaw place.


In the same lobby where I try to appear cool in front of Scarface picture and end up simply fat and slumped.

South Beach art deco.


Down the road in Coconut Grove near a place with velvet furniture and figurines of flying ghosts - that's where we had lunch - see Bill's post for more words and pictures.

Chapter 14 - feb 2010 - hollywood (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers

We got into Hollywood midday Wednesday. Hollywood is just North of and seamlessly joined to Miami. After I checked in at a Holiday Inn near Bill's house (which in true Florida fashion seemed bigger inside than out) we toured the beach part of Hollywood Beach. We ended up at a little Cuban place in Fort Lauderdale for dinner. Bill was a fine tour guide.


A picture along the Hollywood beach front shot by jovial tourist. The first person we asked to shoot our picture looked up from her book, shook her head and kept on reading.


This was the jovial tourist. Notice that unlike the rest of us this fellow is not bundled up against the unseasonable chill. Perhaps he was from a colder climate - Canada maybe.


We encountered people who did not appear to be tourists sitting on the sea wall, eating ice cream, watching us watch them. (As I write this more than a year after the trip it occurs to me that I took no notice of the ocean during these travels. It was a simply a strip of blue in the background.)


This is a picture of Bill in front of one of the many renovated places along Hollywood Beach boardwalk. Pastel is the color of South Florida.


Here is another picture of Bill bundled against unseasonable chill. We talked about about everything, South Florida architecture, tourists, writing, various ghosts of times gone by. At this point, a year out, I don't know how much Brenda was in mind - if she was like the ocean just beyond the seawall, not noticed but there. (I imagine that if one returned to the boardwalk at night when no one else was around the ocean would them loom large.)


This is a picture of Bill at a little Cuban place where we had the best flan ever. At this point I think we had been talking about Lulu publishing and how to sell books.

Chapter 13 - feb 2010 - lakeland (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers aka Viejo

I arrived in Lakeland Florida Tuesday, the fourth day of the trip.

(I broke up the long haul from Phenix City with a stop in Gainesville, Florida. I remember absolutely nothing of that. But I do recall following my GPS through south Georgia, crossing field after empty field, miles removed from any town that I had ever heard of, feeling isolated. I had lost my context. According to the GPS I was going in the right direction on the correct road, but it was empty knowledge )

Bill Moore rode the Amtrak from the Miami area to meet me. We were joined by his old friend and fellow writer George Graham who lives in Lakeland. In Bill's terminology, this was the Writer's Tour part of the trip. Bill and I drove back down to Hollywood the next day (Wednesday morning). We went past Lake Okeechobee but never saw it because of the levees. We stopped in Moore Haven (a haven for lost Moore's?) and shot a picture of Bill standing in front of a sign.


Lakeland Terrace hotel. I arrived at 11:30 that morning. Driving down from Gainsville along a deserted back road selected by the GPS I encountered seven or eight deputy cars. Sometimes they appeared from behind, sometimes from side roads. All were going South, like me. Knowing how I sometimes drove my Subaru WRX I felt guilty although I had not done anything, at least not where they could have seen me (or so I assumed). One followed me for many uncomfortable miles.

There was a Park in front of hotel. Killing time before Bill arrived I walked. I encountered friendly old folks, a family feeding ducks, and several street people bundled up against 50 degree temp. I was only a little uneasy. It was the unease anyone would feel along in a strange place. I didn't think about it.

The park was filled with sculptures. Baroque music played from nearby speakers. It was a classy place.


Downtown I ate chicken, rice and garbanzos at a Cuban place called Pipos. I considered asking friendly Latinas from Cleveland at next table if they would let me take picture then concluded they might not be that friendly.


Still killing time waiting for Bill I visit another park in the center business district of downtown Lakeland.


Returning to the lake I encounter birds, all turned into the unseasonably chilly winds.


The Amtrak station was across lake. A girl, a dog and sculpture appear in the foreground of this picture. Expanded, the picture reveals that the girl is at least as sculptured as the sculpture.


I shot a picture of Bill as he got got off the train. He has aged since he and I rode the Amtrak to New York City. But he has held up well. His Cuban travel mate - the lady who initiated a fight for better seats - recognized me as "viejo" before he did. See his Senora Alavarez post for a description,


This picture shows Bill and his friend George Graham after several hours of stories. George was a newspaper man for most of his career then worked for a time editing technical writers including Bill. (Note that most places have forgone the luxury of having editors.) George now writes a fine passionate liberal blog.

Chapter 12 - feb 2010 - phenix city (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers

I left Saturday morning. There was snow on the streets. I had to detour around a wreck in Mt. Holly and sit in stop and go traffic on I-85 through Gastonia while people slowly made their way on the slippery pavement. At that point, if possible, I would have turned around and returned home. The trip did not seem to be worth the effort.

My first stop was in Phenix City to see cousins Joe and Mary, and their spouses Brenda and JD. Mary and JD drove up from Mobile. I had not seen any of them in over 12 years.

Family History Aside

Grandparents BK and Molly Parris moved back and forth between Phenix City, Shelby and Asheville. I am not sure where my mother, aunt and uncles were born, but it was in or near one of those places. Aunt Margaret, Joe and Mary's mother, stayed in Phenix City, marrying there. Uncle Bob moved back to Phenix City in 1956 after my mother died. It might be useful to know that according to my mother the Parrises fought on both sides of the civil war and one of our maternal ancestors was a Cherokee. There was family glory. But it wasn't straightforward.

Snapshots and commentary

Aunt Margaret's old house. She's been dead since 1998. Uncle Bob lived in a trailer out back and had a meal with her every day. At least twice my sister Mickey came here looking for something. In the late 1950's a few years after our mother died Mickey (who was maybe 13) rode by herself on buses to visit Aunt Margaret in Phenix Cirty and Uncle Ken and Aunt Virginia in Danville Virginia. In the early 1960's she ran away from Women's College in Greensboro for unspecified reasons and went to Phenix City. Upon receiving a call from Aunt Margaret, my father and I drove from Shelby to Phenix City. Sitting on lawn chairs out back behind the house we talked more than we ever had; we actually became friends. But she never did tell me why she ran away from Women's College.

Cousin Joe's house. My GPS got me to the neighborhood. I called and he waited for me in the driveway.

Cousin Joe - the old wrestler. As a young man he resembled Paul Neuman and drove like a mad man. He knows everybody in Phenix City and half the people in Alabama. I suspect he sees into us all.

Cousin Mary Like her mother, joyfully immersed in the drama of her life and family.

Brenda - Joe's wife. Her role is to take care of everybody. An even better driver than Joe I would rather ride with her than anybody. She keeps a very neat house.

JD - Mary's husband. He did two tours in Nam. He tells fine stories and bad jokes.

Joe at Uncle Bob's grave. Bob was more like an older brother than an uncle. He taught me about guns, showing me how to shoot all the rifles, shotguns and pistols in his extensive arsenal. I don't shoot anymore but I remember his lessons. (Once I was struck in the thumb by a sliver of lead from a defective Harrington and Richardson .22 revolver. Bob begged me not to tell my mother of whom he was afraid.) My father suggested that Bob was a fool. I suppose in some ways he was - certainly he was not comfortable in his own skin. I thought that I would grow up to be like him.

It was a day devoted to cemeteries. We walked to Cousin Buster's grave.


Buster's grave. He was a smart gentle man with a well-developed sense of irony. When we were children he pointed out uncomfortable truths (for example that my father, his Uncle Tom, was funny but flawed).

Aunt Margaret's grave. She hid her ironic insights behind a sweet smile. Buster might have gotten his irony from her. I got my sense of irony from the Parris side of the family. Sarcasm came from the Weathers.

Chapter 11 – feb 2010 - introduction to florida trip (trip 2)

©2011 Tom Weathers esq


Bill's picture of me in Hollywood Florida.

This was the first big trip. Later there would be others.

The Idea

The Florida trip took place in February of 2010. I don’t remember where I was when the idea came to me. Everything seemed possible because nothing seemed to matter. Everything was the same. I contacted cousin Joe Hunt in Phenix City Alabama, friend Bill Moore in Hollywood Florida, and friend Joe Gettys in West Palm Beach Florida. They said “Sure come on.”

The BedroomMy plan was to finish the front bedroom before the trip. I would get rid of or relocate Brenda’s stuff, rip up the old carpeting and expose the hardwood floor, and shift bedroom furniture as needed. I wanted to at least spend a few nights in these refurbished quarters before leaving. I hoped that I would feel better although I no longer remembered what that sensation might be like.

It didn't make any difference.

It was a visit with ghosts from times gone byIn seven days I stayed in four motels and hotels and two houses. I met one large dog, five cats (two of whom didn't emerge from under their owner's bed) and 10 people. I drove about 1,700 miles at speeds up to 90 MPH and almost got killed in Miami by a speeding Porsche. I saw the place where Al Pacino as Scarface was threatened by the chainsaw-wielding drug traffickers. I went to many areas where English was the second language. I saw Ferrari's, Bentley's, Lamborghini's and Freightliner pick-up trucks. In Phenix City I saw a hill full of ancient shark teeth and in Palm Beach I rode down a lane cut through a huge stone outcropping, like a canyon in paradise.

Death Trip
Of course it was a death trip. Any trip involving older people who may never see one another again is a death trip. Hell, (I observe with bravado) even a going-away lunch for a departing co-worker is a death lunch insofar as there are people who may never see one another again. But in this case there were the inevitable health issues. Everybody was getting older (except maybe Bill Moore - or so it seemed) and getting old is rear-guard action which can only be prolonged, never won. Bill swears I didn't have a pale companion hovering just out of sight behind my left shoulder. But I have seen the pictures. (Hell, in that B/W picture taken in Hollywood I could be DEATH.

Death Car

Regarding that business with the Porsche. Maybe I did exaggerate. Maybe not. Bill was driving (with brio and panache) his wife's Mercedes around a long sweeping curve at the end of I-95 in Miami when the Porsche appeared out of no where. If everybody had stayed the course he (she?) would have hit us somewhere between the right front fender and my door. The closing speed was certainly over 100 MPH. But Bill and the Porsche both twitched and we passed with feet to spare. It happened so fast there wasn't time to be afraid. (My one impression - not a thought - was that Bill's car was going to get messed up.)

Hotels/MotelsLying down on king sized beds in front of innocuous TV shows (for some reason I found myself watching old episodes of NCIS) was like taking a drug which wiped my mind clean until I woke up at 4:00 or 5:00 anticipating the next day's adventure. It was not until later that I had sleep apnea episodes and sometimes woke up really confused.

Structured TripThis was not a free-form wander. I had to show up in Phenix City on Saturday, Lakeland on Tuesday, and West Palm Beach on Thursday. In most cases I followed directions provided by the nice lady in the GPS device - or when that was not available, at least a route suggested by Google Maps. I had hoped to get lost in the trip, just me, the Subaru and the rhythm of the road. That only happened on twisty segments of interstate going through Atlanta, Miami and Jacksonville - when I was lost in unease and anxiety. The other kind of lost might require a different trip - sans schedule, sans interstate, sans cities, sans GPS - where I really allow myself to get lost.

Chapter 10 - jan 2010 - scattering ashes at hatteras (trip 1)

©2011 Tom Weathers

The site of the old lighthouse - where we scattered Brenda's ashes.

Yancie, Randy, Allie, Evan and I went to Buxton on January 1, 2010. I don't remember much - how we arranged passengers in our cars, if we stopped at Carborro on the way over or met Henry and Grace on the island.

I remember that things were odd. That hasn't changed.

I remember that it was cold.

We scattered Brenda's ashes at the site of the old Hatteras lighthouse. I stood in the center of the circle of stones, scooping up handfulls of the dry powder which was blown by the cold wind into the morning sun. Yancie did one handful. Some of that powder whirled back to brush her face.

My sister's ashes were scattered here in the winter of 2000. She and Brenda always liked one another so we imagined that Mickey would welcome Brenda to this place. (A storm blew through the night that Mickey died. I imagined that nature reflected her passage - that she was being welcomed by the wind warriors into the afterlife - that she would become one of them.)

Randy, Yancie's husband was there as was Henry, my sister's husband. Henry's wife Grace stayed with Allie and Evan and helped Allie write a story about how the wind tossed her hat into the ocean when she and I were walking by the ocean.

Henry believes in the possibility of reincarnation which might explain the eight feral cats who greeted us one night in the motel parking lot on our way back from dinner. One of the cats was likely possessed by Brenda and another by Mickey. A little tomcat (possessed by nobody) with a wounded face followed me to my room where I gave him left-over fish.

Snapshots

What the surf giveth...


The surf taketh away.


Muted early morning colors.


Allie pretending to be blown over in the cold wind. A few minutes later her cap was blown away, into the ocean we think.


Evan at the Island Perks Diner across the road where we ate most of our meals. He is playing on somebody's Iphone.

Allie playing on another Iphone

This was Sunday morning before taking the long ride back to Gastonia. Oddly I don't remember anything else. How often we stopped - where. What the children did.

Yancie's Notes

I am leaving space for Yancie's notes - she remembers more of the trip.