Cy and “T”‘s pond at dusk

It occurred to me last week, as I preparing to hit the road for a couple of weeks in Vermont and Massachusetts, that I hadn’t been home to New England during the summer months since about 2002.  After just two days in Cornwall, Vermont, I’ve decided that such a long absence can never be allowed to happen again.  It is beautiful here.

The drive up wasn’t so much beautiful as it was terrifying.

I left Atlanta at around 9:30 last Thursday morning, fully intending to waste a good bit of time along the way in order to arrive in Vermont at around 6:30 Friday morning.  Within 20 minutes of leaving, however, I was confronted with a massive traffic jam in I-85 just north of Atlanta.  The kind of traffic jam wherein one shuts off one’s engine and reads a book.  After sitting for just over an hour in the stifling heat (and during that hour the rain began to fall, necessitating the closing of my car’s windows), the traffic began to move and I began to revise my time-wasting plans.

After the delay, my GPS still had me arriving in Vermont at about 4:30 AM, so I took a side trip to Vesuvius, VA, to try to determine what had happened to a campground there that I enjoyed several times between 2000 and 2005, but which had mysteriously fallen off of the internet (and I had stopped receiving emails from the owners) after that time.

Rain coming in at St. Genevieve Cemetery in Shoreham

After driving to the site, which, in the George Washington National Forest, is about 20 miles off of 85, I was dismayed to discover that it is most definitely no longer open for business.  The grounds that used to be home to about 30 very nice campsites appear to have been more or less abandoned.  The house that used to house the registration desk and a small camping-oriented store now looks as if it’s a single-family home; and the two tents that were pitched nearby were reminiscent of the setups that I used to have when I “camped” in my family’s yard.  If that is the case, then the couple who owned the campsite have given it up – their only child was an adult in the early years of this century.

I’ll continue to investigate what happened to the Tye River Gap Campground – after all, there is still a shabby-looking sign on the way to Vesuvius which reads, simply, “Camping –>.”  The last emails I got from the campground-owning couple, however, were narratives of what their only son was going through during his deployment in Iraq.  The morbidly-imaginative part of me has thought, since the emails stopped, that the son may have been killed in that worthless war; and that the grieving couple either split up and left or simply sold their property to try to escape from their memories.

After the trip to Vesuvius, I decided to spend another hour at a Cracker Barrel restaurant, where I had a leisurely meal, read a few chapters of a book on my iPhone, explored the country store attached to the restaurant (those of you not in the US may not understand the concept of a Cracker Barrel.  Look it up), and once again hit the road for Vermont.  My GPS now told me that I’d arrive between 5:00 and 5:30, so  everything was looking great as long as I set a moderate speed.

Just before Bethlehem, PA, however, the storms began.  I’m not talking about little rainshowers here.  I’m talking sheets of water falling from the sky.  I’m talking hydroplaning at 20 miles per hour.  I’m talking all lanes closed due to rollover crashes, strobe lightning that left you blind for two seconds at a time, and a cacophony on the car’s roof that made hearing the radio impossible.   There were no rest areas, so my only option was to plod along with everyone else on the highway.  The rain eventually slacked off a bit, but it didn’t stop entirely until I was on the New York Thruway nearly three hours later.  In celebration, I stopped at a service area for some coffee and a “health break” (in Georgia that’s what we call the act of pooping) and to let my nerves loosen up a bit before getting back behind the wheel.

As soon as I did that, however, the rain started again.

Old grist mill at the Middlebury falls

I ended up rolling into Cy’s driveway at a little after 7:00 in the morning, simultaneously exhausted and jacked up (from the caffeine and from the fact that I was here).  Cy and “T” gave me some more coffee, visited with me, and presented me with a handout with phone numbers and instructions to follow while they were away in Maine for a wedding (they left around noon on Friday and I expect them back later today).

I tried, unsuccessfully, to take a nap during the afternoon; but was unable to fall sleep until nearly 11:00 Friday night.  When I was awakened by one of the cats at 6:00 AM yesterday, I was not a totally happy camper.

After feeding the animals, I installed a new wireless router for Cy and contemplated going back to bed.
The sun was shining brightly, however, so after a shower and some coffee, I hit the road for Middlebury, where the brass band will play next Thursday.

After a few hours of walking around and shopping, I decided to go to Shoreham – just because.  Along the way, I stopped at Evergreen Cemetery in West Cornwall for some photos.  Upon arriving in Shoreham, I decided to visit the Shoreham Village Cemetery (hadn’t been there since I was in elementary school).  Spent an hour or so there and then drove a big loop down Watch Point Road and over to 74…where I stopped at the Lakeview and St. Genevieve cemeteries for more pictures.  While there, it began to rain again, so I headed back to Cornwall.  I took a long circuitous route through Vergennes (on 22A) and back to Middlebury (Route 7), arriving back at the house at about 6:00 PM.

Spend the rest of the evening playing with the animals, watching television, and surfing the net.  At around 11:00, I fell into bed.

I don’t think I moved until 8:00 this morning.

For quite some time now I’ve been planning on throwing a tent and some supplies into the car and heading for someplace with trees, dirt and a river.  With temps in the 90’s in 18 of the last 20 days, the heat was starting to make me clinically insane.  Mountain air and a cold mountain stream were not just something to do – they were a medical necessity.

So last week, I posted a few messages on Facebook and invited a few friends to head out with me for the weekend.  Two guys immediately agreed, we decided on a spot in the Joyce Kilmer National Forest near Robbinsville, NC, and I made plans to get the supplies I needed and sneak out of work an hour early on Friday.

Friday rolled around and I heard from one of the two guys (Brett) that the other (Ben) had backed out, and that he (Brett) was going to go someplace closer.  I was okay with that – until he informed me that the closer place was a trailhead, where he would park his car before hiking a couple of miles to a waterfall.

Normally, I’d be fine with that setup, but I’d already packed my car, hadn’t bothered to bring things for hiking, and had no intention of trying to carry a bunch of loose odds and ends two miles up a path to stand under a waterfall.  My stated intention was, had been, and continued to be, “I am going to park my car, set up my tent, start a fire, and sit in a river.”

So Brett went his way and I drove to Joyce Kilmer, arriving at about 7:30 Friday night.  I parked the car, I set up my tent, I started a fire.  I was sweating to death.  I got naked and fell in the river.

You’ve seen the old “Nestea Plunge” commercials, right?  The dude (or dudette) falls backwards into a pool and goes, “AHHHHhhhhhhhh.”   Yeah.  That was me on Friday night (sans the backwards plunge).  I sat down in that river, which was probably about 50 degrees, and 12 years fell off of my life.   Friday night, the air temperature in the mountains fell to around 60, and I actually woke up in my tent at around 3:30 Saturday morning because I was cold and needed an extra blanket.

Bingo.  Joyce Kilmer is now officially my favorite place on earth.

Saturday dawned cool and sunny (temps in the 60s), and I slept until close to 9:00, which was a nice change.  I love my cats, but I don’t like the fact that they have no concept of  “weekend.”  I spent the morning gathering sticks and logs and preparing my fire pit for Saturday night, then walked around and shot some pictures, ate a few crackers, and settled in to continue reading As I Lay Dying.

Early Saturday afternoon, it clouded over and started to rain a bit, so I moved everything under my tarp and took another skinny-dip.  I’d just gotten back to my chair and was preparing to read a bit more when a truck went tearing past on the camp road and I realized that it had been Brett.  When yelling and waving my arms failed to stop him, I got my keys and chased him up the road, catching him after about 5 miles.

By the time Brett got back to my camp, we were in a downpour.  We spent 10 minutes or so stringing up his large tarp so that we could both stay dry, getting soaked in the process.  Upon seeing us complete our task, Mother Nature immediately stopped the rain.

I took a bath in the river.

Brett apparently had decided that hanging out with his newphew on the hiking trail where he’d gone wasn’t all that relaxing, and so he’d come to see what I was doing.  He also brought two ribeye steaks with him.  After we’d built a roaring fire, we cooked the meat over it – and it was amazing.

Shortly thereafter, a young music teacher with a penchant for kayaking during his summer vacation pulled into the site next to us, and the three of us ended up sitting by the fire talking about nothing (in between occasional dips in the river) until I crashed at around 11.

Early Sunday morning, the skies opened up again, but the rain stopped by 9:00 AM or so.  By 11, we were packed and ready to head home.  When I left my campsite, the temperature was 65.  When I arrived home at about 2:30, it was 93.

I want to go back now.

TWD

Well, the rest of last week sort of flew by, but not necessarily in a good way.

Tuesday’s rehearsal went okay for me.  The solo horn player didn’t show up, so I tended to play a bit louder than I normally do, hit most of the high notes that have been eluding me, and actually got a compliment from the director.  There were a bunch of holes in the band, however, and it’s really tough to tell what we’re going to sound like in New England in a couple of weeks.

I dearly hope that we don’t suck.

Tuesday was Betsy’s last rehearsal with the band.  She’s spent most of the last few weeks getting ready to move to Texas, and moving day was yesterday.  I had dinner with her and John on Friday night – and retrieved the carpet shampooer that I’d lent them (minus the upholstery attachment, which has apparently been sent to Texas – doh!), then said goodbye and wondered where I’m going to find another cemetery/football/music/literature friend to hang out with going forward.

Ocmulgee River, Macon, GA 12/26/2010

She’ll play with the band two more times (in VT and MA at the end of the month), and then she’s back to TX to start building her new life there.  With any luck, she may be able to get back to the east coast sometime this fall to shoot a football game or two with me, and we’re still on the brass band board together – but I guess most of our interactions going forward will be via phone or email.  Don’t see many early-morning treks to middle-Georgia cemeteries together anymore.

Sigh.

When I got up to feed the cats yesterday morning, I glanced out the kitchen window and was delighted to see that my back yard was chock-full o’ kittens!  There were three half-grown ones and three very tiny ones, all of whom were having a ball rolling around in the dew, chasing bugs, jumping on each other and generally being adorable.  I only noticed one watchful mama kitty, but I’m fairly sure that there must have been another one somewhere.  When I opened my (upstairs) window to try to take some pictures, however, all seven of the little buggers scampered.

About an hour later, I decided to give my front lawn a much-needed mowing.  I’d hoped that, by starting at 8:00 AM, I might be able to mow the thing in relative coolness.  “Relative” being the key word there.  85 degrees is, after all, relatively cool compared to 95.  It’s still incredibly hot when one is pushing a mower around and pruning trees and picking up sticks.  By 10:00, when I put the mower back in the shed, I was completely soaked in sweat.

I got a little surprise while re-shedding the mower, however.  One of the tiny kittens – a little ball of tuxedo – had decided to explore my shed while I was mowing, and I surprised it when I barged in with the mower.  It cowered in a corner of the shed for a few moments before seeing an escape route and hurtling out into the sunshine for an instant before barreling underneath the shed.   Had I been thinking more clearly (I think I was suffering from heat stroke at the time), I might actually have closed the shed door and tried to adopt the thing. Not sure how my two cats would take to a new baby brother or sister, but I’ve decided that (unless I can get a pure-bred Maine Coon) my next cat will be a tuxedo; and that one was just TOO cute.

After mowing, I went grocery shopping and then spent most of the rest of the day on the couch downstairs, alternately napping and watching Angel (my current series du jour).

This morning, I’ve down a couple loads of laundry and am trying to decide whether to do some housework (dishes to be washed, carpets to be cleaned, furniture to be moved, etc) or practice my horn (either tuba or tenor) or just go out somewhere – to take pictures or to play darts or maybe a bit of both.

Before I decide, however, I have to do some more laundry.

TWD

Yeah.  I know.  I pen an entry on Thursday night, in which I say that I’m going to try to get back to daily updates, and then I don’t write anything else for 5 days.  I’m a slacker.  I know.

The worst part about doing that is that I honestly forget what I’ve been doing every day.  It’s a ritual of sorts.  I wake up between 6:00 and 6:30, go downstairs to feed the cats, go back upstairs to pee, turn on the news, and forget everything I did the day before.  I know that the throngs of people swarming this blog each day think that my goal is to write things for them to read, but the truth is that I’d like to keep this thing updated just so I’ll know what the hell I’ve been doing with my life.

Now that I’ve cleared the air, I’m happy to report that I’ve done basically nothing since last Thursday.  Friday was a typical work day, followed by a typical do-nothing evening.  Saturday was given over to yard work and gushing perspiration.  Sunday was the annual Sausage Fest at a brewpub in Roswell.

Actually, Friday night wasn’t a complete waste.  I began reading – and generally enjoying – Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.  This was Betsy’s idea, and I believe she’s been harboring it since I told her a year or two ago that I’ve never read more than about two pages of Faulkner in my life because I can’t stand the way he writes.  She gave me a copy of AILD a few weeks ago and insisted that it wasn’t that bad. 

Spam.  Brussels sprouts.  Faulkner.  Three things that I hated as a kid and three things that I decided that I needed to try again as an adult.  So far, I can report the following: 

• Spam no longer makes me vomit and may actually be useful for low-maintenance camping food; but I’m not going to rush out and buy a bunch of it just in case I want to fix myself a big ol’ spamburger at home. 
• Brussels sprouts remain the single most disgusting plant on the planet. Anyone who eats those things and claims to like them is a liar.  A damned liar, even.  Seriously, Brussels sprouts are just plain nasty.  The simple act of thinking about them makes my tongue shrivel up.
• The jury is still out on Faulkner.  As I Lay Dying has, for the most part, kept my interest.  Yes, there are some chapters that make me shake my head and whisper, “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ALL ABOUT?!?!?” but I have finally learned to recognize and appreciate the sheer genius of Falkner’s writing.  I could write 10,000 words a day for the next 20 years and I still wouldn’t have the literary rhythm of the gentleman from Oxford.

Moving up to  Saturday for a minute: I managed to get my wood chipper (the one that won’t start) into my car (an Audi A3).  This was not an easy thing to do, but I did it.  I then drove to a small engine repair place in Duluth and asked them to make the chipper work.  They indicated that they’d be happy to if I gave them about three weeks.  That was fine with me.  So.  They now have my broken chipper and I still can’t cut any brush.

After bringing the chipper to the shop, I spent most of the rest of the day doing things outside in the extreme heat.  Picked up pine cones.  Trimmed a few bushes (and piled up the clippings).  Washed my car (I do this about once every three years whether it needs it or not).  Sat on the deck.  All typical things designed to give me heat stroke, and I think I may have accomplished that.  I hit the sack at about 7:30, was asleep by probably 7:45, and was out of it and nearly incoherent when a friend called me at about 9:00.

On Sunday, I did pretty much nothing until about 3:00, when I drove to the 5 Seasons Brewpub in Roswell and watched Mercury Orkestar perform at the pub’s annual “Sausage Fest,” and event in which some people bring in samples of their sausage recipes and everyone else votes on them. 

I think I’ve said before that I’m not overly fond of Mercury Orkestar, which is a “Baltic Brass Band” (read: a very very very very loud gypsy band). but Betsy, John and various other friends are in it, so it seemed like a good way to spend an afternoon.

Yesterday was Monday and today is Tuesday.  ‘Nuff said.

TWD

Holy crap!

That picture over there pretty much tells the story of how my week has been.  It was taken shortly after I left work this afternoon.  While I’m sure that the reading on the thermometer was a bit high (actual air temperature was probably around 95), my car’s thermometer is a pretty good indication of how hot it FEELS when you’re sitting outside for more than a few minutes.  I am so ready for a couple of weeks in New England at the end of this month.

The heat hasn’t helped my mood any lately.  Nor has the discovery that the frame around my front door has rotted to the point that I can no longer put off repairing or replacing it.  Nor has the fact that, when I went outside to clean the mold off of my siding last week, I discovered that there was a tree next to the house doing its utmost to grow through my renter’s window.  Nor has my complete inability to get my chipper running (which means that, when I pruned the aforementioned tree, I couldn’t do anything with the resultant brush pile except throw it off to one side until I get the stupid chipper fixed).  Nor has the current political climate (in which we apparently have to cut out all those big-ticket items like public radio and funding for the arts, but we have to keep paying for two wars that are doing nothing except pissing off the rest of the world).  Nor has work, which continues to weigh pretty heavily on my shoulders.

But hey – I had some fun over the last two weekends.  On May 21, my nephew Wesley got married in Central, SC (that’s the name of the town, in case anyone’s wondering), and he “hired” Betsy and me – along with 14 other brass players – to play some seriously kick-ass arrangements (by Greg and Wesley) during the ceremony.  I was, frankly, a bit worried that the ensemble would be staffed with high school students and older folks who pull out their horns once a year; but I was really pleasantly surprised by the quality of the group’s sound.  Let me tell you, 16 decent brass players honking their heads off through Crown Imperial makes for a pretty impressive wedding ceremony.  I’m looking forward to hearing a recording at some point.

Last weekend (on the 28th), Betsy and I hit the road again – this time for Greenville, SC.  We spent the day watching the Highland Games at Furman, whereat large men (and large women) in kilts entertained us by throwing telephone poles, iron weights and sheep around; all while being serenaded by a series of bagpipe bands of varying size and ability.

After the games, we went to a baseball game in Greenville’s West End, where the Greenville Drive (a class-A affiliate of the Boston Red Sox) dismantled the Kannapolis Intimidators (no idea to which team they are attached).

I took this picture of a Mexican restaurant with my phone, then edited it with Photoshop Elements for iPhone.

Monday was Memorial Day (no work), so I drove down to Macon, where Betsy and I took in dinner at a Mexican restaurant (a picture of which accompanies this paragraph) and a movie (The Bridesmaids).  The last movie I actually saw in a theatre was about a year ago, I think.  I do enjoy going to cinemas, but the cost never ceases to amaze me.

The heat, however, is really the story of the last couple of weeks.  Walking outside is like stepping into an oven.  I’ve been pretty much forced to turn on my air conditioning every night (something that I really hate doing) because it’s simply too hot in my bedroom to sleep.  I’ve taken to filling my bathtub with cold water as soon as I get home from work and getting up once or twice during the night just to sit in it for a few minutes and cool down.  Then I’ll crawl back in bed and spread a wet towel on my chest (or back) and let my ceiling fan do its best to help me sleep.  I’m sure that this is probably bad for my health, but I just don’t care.

Between work and bedtime, I’ve mostly just been zoning on my couch downstairs (where it’s about 15 degrees cooler than the bedroom).  On a few occasions, I’ve ventured outside long enough to do some yardwork that just can’t be put off.  During those forays, I’ve ended up so sweaty that, upon returning inside, my clothes immediately go into the hamper and my body just as immediately gets plunked into the tub of cold water.

All this to say, of course, that DAMN, IT’S HOT!

As it’s now pushing 11 o’clock at night, I shall end this drivel and go sit in the tub for ten minutes before retiring.   And I think I’ll make a promise to myself to try again to update this little blog on a daily basis for the next month or so.

TWD