Thinking about Neighbors

It is late (or early morning perhaps) when I write this. It's been in my mind for days now as I attempt to absorb the tragedies that surround us.  Eleven people shot down as they prayed together in a Pittsburgh synagogue, two killed in a Kentucky grocery store, all taken from their families and from all of us because they were somehow different from their killers, thus targeted.

I am thinking of what it means to be neighbors.  Is it necessary to know the politics of those with whom we live?  Does it have to make a difference if those who live next door believe in a different god, think differently about politics, have skin that is a different hue?  If they nod to us politely or smile when we pass on the sidewalk, is that not enough to believe that we inhabit the same space and are thus interdependent?

I wonder what makes us neighbors.  Is it just the proximity of our homes?  Or is it that we share this city, this country, this planet?  How do we grant each other the respect and the kindness that allows us to live together despite our differences? How do we find the gift that is, in fact, our differences, those unique qualities that we contribute to the overall quilt of humanity?

When I think of neighbors I remember two little girls who came to live next door to us and allowed us into their lives.  I see their faces as they sit on the hearth in our living room and tell us about their day, words falling out so quickly as they tell us about their dreams, one imagining a life as a marine biologist, the other more reticent, but sure that horses are in her future.  I cherish these memories and remember their glowing faces as they sat on our hearth and spun their dreams like webs into the future. 

I think of the neighbors that shared our cul-de-sac and celebrated holidays on our driveway because ours was the only flat one in a hilly neighborhood.  I remember shared hot dogs and hamburgers and the time we set the neighbors' bush on fire with a bottle rocket gone astray.  They were not angry, just grimaced, then laughed because we were neighbors and there was no harm intended.

I think of the neighbors who cooked dinner for me and my voracious young son when I was a single mom, taking us into their family, teaching us their secret to cooking barbecue pork so that it melted in our mouths, comforting us when we were burglarized, always there for us.  They were open-hearted, protective and loving, the epitome of the neighbors one would always hope to have.

I remember the neighborhood of my childhood, when we shared home-grown tomatoes and eggs from backyard chicken coops that were common in South Georgia in the 50's.  We were not in lock-step, but attended different churches, came from different places, yet accepted one another because we shared a street and an alley, played as kids in each other's yards, understood our interdependence.

It's a powerful concept, this definition of a neighbor.  It can be unfortunately exclusionary, shutting out those who are different.  Alternatively, it can be the glue that binds us together in a way that benefits us all.  When we look beyond our individual hopes and fears, embrace our differences and find the common good, a neighborhood can enrich and strengthen us all.  When we expand that concept to include the broader neighborhood of humanity we will find the best of us in all of us.  I dream of that day when we lose our fear of what makes us different and embrace what makes us neighbors and enriches our lives, our humanity.

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, 

my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. 

You will always find people who are helping.'"  Fred Rogers

Fall Afternoon Musings

Fall is my favorite season.  I have always felt the magic of the leaves as they turn from green to an array of yellows, reds, oranges and golds.  It is a season in which we retreat from the heat of summer in the South to share cooler weather and the spirit of holidays from Halloween through Christmas to the New Year.  Though I'm not much of a football fan, I still love the way family and friends gather to watch the games together, cheering through the wins, bemoaning the losses.  Fall seems to me like an annual winding down time to gather around the fire and hunker down into the slumber of winter in anticipation of the rebirth of spring.  It's the season that suits me best.

This fall is less restful.  Our country is in a time of political turbulence that I can't remember since the 60's.  We are a people divided.  That's not a new thing as we are so diverse and ever-changing, rarely in lock-step unless attacked from without by storm or threat of war.  What seems new is the vitriol, the viciousness in the expression of our differences.  This week it's pipe bombs, but there have been too many disturbing stories, too many hurtful and hateful times over the past year.  It's disheartening.

So I turn away from the hatred to think of those things that I love, the people and the moments that inspire me and bring balance to my brain and nurturing peace to my soul.

I think about the innocent joy of a small child, just perfecting her walking skills enough to bend and pick up, one at a time, the fallen leaves on our deck.  She carries them to the railing and carefully drops them to watch them flutter to the ground below.  She turns and I see the thrill in her little round face, her mouth a perfect oval of amazement that becomes a smile.  I am renewed by that smile, given hope by the innocence.

I enjoy the moment in the bookstore with an 8-year-old who loves to read and, though often a child of few words, speaks excitedly when we find two books by one of his favorite authors that he has not yet read.  His eyes are alight and he begins to read one of the books as we wait in line to pay for them.  I am reminded of my own love of reading and I am reassured that this young one is filling his mind with the words that will spur his imagination and love of learning.  His excitement continues when we get a coupon for a free cookie at the bakery.  Life is not just about books and he's a kid who loves sweets.  We have a good afternoon and I have a special memory to cherish of our time together, made even better with the lingering scent of the ginger cookie he chose.

Happiness is just a click away on a rainy Saturday as I return to the playlist of music that reminds me of days long gone, the parties that old favorite songs filled with fun and dancing to exhaustion. I can almost smell the smoke of those days when we didn't know that smoking would take such a toll.  I can savor again the taste of rum and Coke, the drink of choice long before we could imagine a taste for the wine that supplanted it.  I remember the bell bottoms, the mini-skirts that scandalized my father, the long hair that fell into my face in the exuberance of the dancing.  It seems funny to me now that I am accessing these old favorites on my laptop when we heard them on our stereo, sometimes causing the needle to jump if there were enough people bouncing the floor with the frenzy of the dance.

As I listen to the music, one of my favorites from the Youngbloods plays.  Its refrain seems apropos for this time:             "Come on people now

                              Smile on your brother 

                              Everybody get together

                              Try to love one another
                              Right now."

Recorded by the Youngbloods and released in 1966, "Let's Get Together" had been performed by the Kingston Trio as early as 1964 and recorded on the first Jefferson Airplane album in 1967.  But it is the Youngbloods version that  has lasted, used in a number of movies, most notably "Forrest Gump." For me, it brings to mind the anguish of the Vietnam era , a confusing time when many Americans questioned our government's decisions, a time something like today. 

I will vote my conscience on November 6 as I hope many others will.  My rainy day musings end with a hope that we will come through these difficult times to a better place where we can "get together."

Father's Day 2018

As Father's Day 2018 nears, I am reminded that my dad would have turned 110 years old this year. Though he died more than 30 years ago, he remains so present in my life that I can almost smell the blend of Old Spice and cigarettes that surrounded him most of my life.  When I enjoy fresh tomatoes or asparagus, I remember how he loved puttering in his gardens and fussing when we wanted to take the tomatoes before they ripened so that we could indulge our love of fried green tomatoes.  There are so many memories to be cherished.

            My father was a contrarian through and through.  He formed his opinions through his own filters, reading voraciously, listening to what was being said around him and making his own unique judgments.  He had opinions about almost anything one could name and was never shy about sharing his perspectives.  He would often position himself in conversations as the devil's advocate, forcing others to defend their positions.  Their defenses would be tested, because he could wear a saint down before yielding.

`           Some of my earliest memories are of listening to the radio, not just for the dramas and comedies of the day, but for the news as well.  Daddy never censored what we heard there nor did he do so when we got a television. Of course, we were children in the 50s so there weren't many "racy" offerings, but he didn't worry about whether we heard something in the news that might distress us.  He wanted us to be informed.  He expected us to ask questions if we had them and he had answers.

            He was not just a contrarian in words, but in the way he lived his life.  Unable to finish college because of an illness and the financial demands of the Depression, he went to work and tried many jobs, from a brief stint as a jack-of-all-trades at a newspaper to time overseeing a road gang to the one that lasted, a postal service worker moving the mail via the railroad. 

            He was a bachelor until he met my mother and married her when he was in his early 30s.  From the beginning of their marriage, theirs was a partnership in which roles were exchanged according to time available.  She was a working woman most of their years together,  gone from home during the day.  His day often began in the wee morning hours and ended early as well.  Thus, he was the one home when we came in from school. 

            He also cooked and cleaned as needed.  There were few expectations in our home that were based solely on gender.  We were given chores to do and learned the ropes from both parents as both took them on.  Perhaps the only thing I never saw my father do was to iron clothes, but I might just have missed that.  Mama was the more inventive cook, but he enjoyed cooking on the grill and could muster up breakfast, lunch or supper when needed.  He took his cooking skills into his work with the Boy Scouts, always ready to cook over a fire when camping.

            For all his bluster - and there was plenty of that - he was a softie.  He cared about and for people, animals and plants, not because it was expected, but because there was abundant love in his soul.  Like most of us he was not always comfortable with change, not at all sure that  societal and cultural changes were good, especially those of the 60s, those that were affecting the way his children's opinions began diverging from his own.  But he accepted, grudgingly, that he had raised us to think for ourselves.  Even when family bonds were strained by our differences, his love for us was steadfast. 

            On this Father's Day as on all those before, I am grateful for the man I called Daddy.  At least once a day I think of something I would like to ask him or share with him.  And every day I feel the comfort of having him forever in my heart.

           

Thanks to Those Who Have Mothered Me

I have been luckier than many.  I've had four women in my life who have "mothered" me -- given me love and advice, taught me lessons, shown me patience and paved the way for me to become a mother, too.  These women--my mother and the mothers-in-law of two marriages and the older sister who took me under her wing--have given much and made such an impact on my life.

Mama

The mother who bore me gave me her feisty spirit as she pushed and pulled me through childhood.  She knew tough love before they wrote the book. Her intelligence was a beacon and her tireless care a gift for my siblings and me.  The tales of her leaving home and family in Atlanta as a young woman to find work and an independent life in southwest Georgia were part of family lore.  She loved her parents and brothers, but valued her freedom and the possibilities for a career.  She met and married our father.  Their partnership was an example to us all.  Not bound by the "traditional" roles for husband and wife of their era, they were true partners, each strong-willed and outspoken.

She went back to work when I was in elementary school, but there was no sense that we were "latchkey" kids as our father went to work early each day and was home in the afternoons when we came home from school.  Mama was an accomplished cook of southern staples, but counted on Daddy to grill often enough so that we learned our cooking from both of them.  They shared duties around the house and were wise enough to engage we three kids in chores as soon as we were capable of helping out.  For some years, my father's father lived with us, his later life folding seamlessly into our younger ones.  Somehow everybody was fed and clothed, taught to enjoy fun and humor, as well as responsibility.  Looking back, Mama and Daddy's teamwork made it all seem simple when it's clear today that money was tight and our middle-class life didn't happen without struggle.

The mothers-in-law that have enriched my adult life were from my Mama's generation and brought many of the strengths of their time.  These women had experienced the deprivations of the Great Depression and the sacrifices of World War II.  None of them had the advantage of a college education and all had worked to help support their families.  All of them put family first and encouraged their children to value education and a strong work ethic.  My mothers-in-law welcomed me into their homes on the arms of their sons, extending themselves to make me feel welcome and part of the family.  Both became friends to my mother and, interestingly, both became friends with each other.  Long past the end of the first marriage in divorce, my first mother-in-law continued to share her affection with me.

Pat

The fourth mother of my life is my sister, Pat.  Five-and-a-half years old when I was born, she has always been my champion.  She taught me "the ropes" in childhood, motivated me with her grit and determination through my growing up years and has inspired me as a woman.  Always a leader, she shined a light on a path that I have attempted to follow.  It has been an important incentive for me to live up to her example.  She has always made me proud.

In fairness to my four "mothers," I have not been as easy as I might have been to mother.  Whether by genetics or just my own native orneriness, I have challenged them all one way or another.  I have, in fact, resisted all forms of maternal control and admittedly deserve to be seen as the proverbial "ungrateful child" at times.

So on this Mother's Day, I owe them all my gratitude.  Thinking about what they have given me humbles me.  There are lots of schmaltzy greeting card sentiments about mothers that are available in stores.  None of those seem to say enough.  It is not the perfection of a woman that makes her a good mother, but the striving for the best for another.  There is, I think, in that striving, an honest effort to see in one's child his or her particular strengths and needs and guide the child accordingly.  There are no manuals that cover all the particulars of parenting, but I feel lucky that these women and others I've watched and admired, have made their own discoveries, drawn their own maps and given their kids a chance to live happily and successfully.  

So thanks to Mama and to Margaret and to Willie Mae and my dear Pat.  Whatever I am, the brush strokes you've added to the picture of me are the ones that make me better.

Unforgettable Stella

            

We came to remember a beloved wife, mother, grandmother and friend, our Stella.  We gathered together on a rainy Sunday afternoon with the fog hanging so low that it obscured the treetops and enveloped the roadways in a soft gray blanket.  But within the warmth of our gathering there was light and, amidst the tears, joy.

            We watched the video of photographs and music lovingly assembled by her granddaughter.  For some who had known her only in recent years when her hair had grayed there was surprise when they saw the younger Stella with that abundant dark curly hair that was envied by many.  For those who knew her better back then, but had not seen her in recent years, there was recognition that she had changed as we all do with aging, but joy that her smile was as big and happy as ever.

            For all of us there were oohs and aahs over the baby pictures we had not seen and the high school beauty we had not known.  There were so many photos that included some of us, laughing together as we did so often.  There were the pictures of Stella dressed for costume parties, showing off her creativity and her sense of humor.  There were photos full of the love and pride she felt for her family.

            As those gathered remembered her, there were tears and laughter in almost equal measure.  We wept for our loss of this indomitable soul of fun, this tiny embodiment of love and life.  We laughed as we thought about our times together.  For someone who was small enough even as an adult to squeeze into a child-size chair, she created a big presence wherever she went.  Stories were told and her abundant spirit was very much alive in the room.

            The conversation flowed among those who had known her for more than forty years and those who knew her for just a short while.  "Do you remember when she...?"  "I will never forget the way she..."  "She made me feel so welcome, she made me laugh, she was so feisty and so sweet, she had a way, I knew we would be friends..."  These were the words of remembrance, the legacy of a woman who made a difference in the lives of all who knew her.

            And as we remembered, we drew closer to one another.  We embraced those we had known for years and reached out to those not met until love for her brought us together on that rainy day.  We ached to hug her and in lieu of that, we hugged each other.  We comforted one another as she would have comforted us.  Her spirit was not just with us, but it moved us to find solace in each other.           

 Our memories of Stella will be both poignant and powerful.  Already they flood in as something reminds me of her.  An old song brings back my friend, as will a silly joke, a glass of wine, a pair of earrings, an old shirt and a thousand other memory triggers.  The memories of our friendship are in my mind as sights and sounds and feelings like the squares of outgrown clothes my mother used to sew into the patterns of old-fashioned quilts.  And as the quilts warmed cold nights, these memories will fill the empty space Stella leaves in our lives.  She will be with me and part of me from now on and I will both yearn to have another hug or laugh and be grateful for all those we shared.

            Rest in peace, beloved unforgettable Stella.

Five Things My Father Taught Me

           

It is said that actions speak louder than words.  That always reminds me of my father.  He was a thinker and a talker, but more importantly he saw things that needed doing and got them done.  While I remember many things he said to me, I remember more importantly the lessons learned by watching how he lived his life.

1.     Family Matters.  We are born into families that nurture and sustain us and we create families which we are responsible to nurture and sustain.  These ties of blood and commitment demand much of us and give much in return.  They are ours to foster, ours in which to find ourselves, make mistakes within and in which we will forgive trespasses and debts accrued.  We owe our family  honesty which might cause us to argue among ourselves.   Honest disagreement is healthy.  We will, however, defend one another against any pain and suffering to the best of our ability.  I saw all those tenets played out as I watched my father interact with both his family and my mother's family.  He spoke his mind in all cases, whether it was comfortable for others or not.  They all also knew that he would open our home to them with warmth and give them the proverbial "shirt off his back" in support of them when needed.

2.     True Friends are Extended Family.  Daddy grew up as an only child, thus appreciated the value of friendships.  We kids heard stories about friends throughout his life with whom he shared adventures as well as the simple pleasures of debate when they were serious and partying when they were having fun.  Some of my earliest memories are those in which I saw my parents playing canasta with friends or heard my father talking with visiting friends late into the night.  He was a friend of many years with the principal of my elementary school, too.  That was a relationship that probably kept me out of trouble as I knew any transgression on my part during the school day would be communicated to Daddy quickly.

3.    Our Community is Our Responsibility.  If something needed to be done, Daddy didn't wait for someone else to volunteer. He often worked nights, so he had days free.  I know he slept, but in retrospect I'm not sure when he had time.  He volunteered with first the Cub Scouts and then the Boy Scouts from the time my brother became a scout till long after my brother was grown and out of the house.  Scouting was a passion of Daddy's.  He loved the outdoors and liked introducing kids to it.  As he did with his own kids, he did with the scouts.  Late in his life, Daddy volunteered with a scout troop of special needs kids, an experience that touched him deeply.  He was a also mainstay of the PTA's in our schools, loved running the fundraisers, cooking the hamburgers and hot dogs on a grill and playing host.  That was just an extension of neighborhood gatherings that were a part of our lives back then.

4.    We are Our Brother's Keepers.  Daddy was only partially a product of his time. Born into the segregated South early in the 20th century, Daddy believed in "separate but equal" but had no tolerance for the idea that any human was less than another. He occasionally  took the initiative to speak quietly on behalf of those whose voices were not being heard, intervening when he could offer a solution that would make a difference.  For a man with a sometimes bombastic personality, he worked on behalf of others without fanfare.  He did not claim to be an perfect man, nor was he.  He just did what needed to be done.  We were far from wealthy, but he could always find a few dollars for someone who needed it more than we did. 

5.     Life Itself is a Gift.  Daddy was not a religious man, but had a certainty in his unique beliefs that was deep and thoughtful.  Illness made him leave college after only a few months, but he educated himself throughout his life.  He read widely and loved history, geography and philosophy.  He was fascinated with "what makes us tick," from how our minds work to what natural remedies might "heal what ails us." My impression is that all those interests fueled a sense that he belonged uniquely in this world created by what he referred to as "our Maker," that he was living a life of discovery, not so much to explore the broader world, but to examine the world within his reach with curiosity and reverence.  He seemed always to be searching, reaching for that next sight or sound or breeze that comes to remind us that we are alive and it is good.  Behind those very blue eyes was a being in touch with his world.

            On this Father's Day in 2015, I appreciate my great good fortune in the father to whom I was born, who nurtured and sustained me for the years he was given on this earth.  He was honest enough to understand his own shortcomings, but played to his strengths most often.  He encouraged his children to be true to ourselves and strive to make that truth positive and meaningful in whatever ways we could.  As we celebrate this day I am thankful for my husband who is a father to our son, for all those I know to be loving fathers -- and I remember Daddy.  I am inspired anew by all of them to celebrate the good in all of us. 

At the Top of the Hickory Nut Gorge

              

               Follow US 74A from Lake Lure up through Chimney Rock and Bat Cave as it climbs its winding way until you come to the upper end of the Hickory Nut Gorge.  You'll find yourself in Gerton, an unincorporated community that traces its roots as deeply into North Carolina's history as some of the oldest trails that thread through these mountains.

               Here there are hardy citizens whose families have lived in this spot for centuries.  Here, too, are newer folks who came into these wooded hills to find the peace of nature only to find that its beauty captivated them and they couldn't leave it behind.   Some live here just part-time, when they can get away from other places where they have found work, places where most of the residents walk upright on two legs and don't know a hemlock from an oak.  But here is where those lucky city folks really live, coming fully to life here amid the tall trees and steep slopes, here where that sound outside isn't the newspaper boy, but just might be a raccoon or a fox or even a bear.

               It would be easy to treat US 74A just as a way from Lake Lure to Asheville.  It's a pretty drive, though its hairpin turns are not for the queasy.  But it's worth taking your time to savor both the roadside points of interest visible from the highway and the special places that you'll find by wandering down some of the side roads.

            

The "Welcome to Gerton" signs going toward Asheville are followed in short order by the Post Office on the right and a fire station on the left.  Though unincorporated, Gerton has its signs of order and civilization.

               

                       In no particular order, you might want to stop to take a photograph of the Bearwallow Baptist Church.  It's a picture postcard opportunity, this little white clapboard church with a wooden bridge across a rill in the front yard.  If you check out their Facebook page before going, you'll see their slogan, "Searching for Souls since 1868," prominently displayed.  There's history here for sure.

               
              Just up the road is "Hillbilly Sam's" place.  It has the look of the backwoods about it though it sits immediately adjacent to the highway.  Sam's sign says that photos are possible; we've heard small fee for the pleasure might be appreciated.  Sam, who is most often shirtless, clothed only in his jeans and a prodigious beard, was not in sight on our last trip, so no hillbilly photos for us.

              

            The Upper Hickory Nut Gorge Community Center building once held a small store that we visited years ago.  Though the store is gone now, the center remains.  A sign at the door says it was home to the first Adopt-a-Highway program in North Carolina as designated by Governor Jim Martin in 1988.

              

               On up the road a way (just were you leave Henderson County and enter Buncombe County) is the marker for the Eastern Continental Divide.  It marks the height here as 2,880 feet at the crest before the highway descends on the other side of the ridge toward Fairview, Reynolds and Asheville.  The Eastern Continental Divide is an invisible line separating the two watersheds of the Atlantic Ocean, one whose rivers flow over 2000 miles to the Gulf of Mexico and the other whose rivers flow about 300 miles toward the Atlantic Seaboard.  You can see other such markers through these mountains, each marking the height at its particular location.

               Now, back to those side roads.  You can take Bearwallow Mountain Road and follow it over the mountain to end up on US 64 between Bat Cave and Hendersonville.  Parts of this road are unpaved, leading to a hiking trail that will take walkers up to the summit.  The pavement picks up there for a beautiful drive past both bucolic scenery and a very high-end development with those coveted mountain vistas seen for miles around.

              

              Our favorite side road thus far is Bearwallow Cemetery Road.  Up the road a short distance we found the cemetery of Bearwallow Baptist Church.  Rising above and around the grave markers are trees that reach for the heavens and create a natural cathedral vault.  Though you can hear the sound of cars on the highway nearby, that noise is muffled and peace settles over the hillside as you step into this resting place.

              

As with such cemeteries the world over, history is written in the family names on the tombstones, each marker telling a story of its own, however simple.  There are stories of love and loss, touching memorials to marriages and births followed too quickly by deaths.  There are stories of service and sacrifice, including those who served in the American Revolution, the U.S. Civil War and World Wars I and II.  Whatever their battles in life, now they find only peace here.

               This is a place of remembrance, lovingly kept, its grasses mowed, stone walls gently bringing order to the ground in which loved ones have been laid.   It tells the history of this place and its people. including those who have farmed, fished and hunted in these mountains from the birth of our country till today.  It seemed to us the soul of this place lies here at the top of the Hickory Nut Gorge.

           Photos by Mike  Lumpkin