Hurricane watch and Liska's storm

A beautiful morning, the Spanish moss almost motionless.  A great blue heron flaps off the bulkhead. Cicadas chant, an osprey chirps peevishly overhead, and dragonflies and hummingbirds zip back and forth through the humid air. The creek is flat and still, except on the edge of the far bank, where there's a muddle of feeding fish making bubbles, like blowing through a straw into Coca-cola.

I saw these small fish when I was out in the kayak the other day.  Not sure what they are.  A school of them skims along, visible only by their helmet-like foreheads, dark eyes, and little pink mouths cupping the water's surface. Flurrying toward me, agape, they brought to mind the piranhas of old spy movies. Devouring flesh of victims in seconds! Leaving only scoured bones! In a word: creepy. But when this cluster of voracious grazers noticed the yellow kayak in their path--if fish can be said to "notice"--they nosedived as one--floop!--and disappeared.  If they reminded me of hungry piranhas, my boat probably reminded them of a hungry walleye.

Meanwhile, a hurricane is bearing down on all of us creatures here in sunny New Bern. This according to NOAA and The Weather Channel and New Bern's iconic Skip Waters, Chief Meteorologist for WCTI.  Otherwise, you'd never suspect the risk of an exponentially more chaotic version of the fish plowing and roiling the placid creek.

Waiting for the gale on a windless day reminded me that our grandmother lived through the Galveston, Texas, hurricane of 1900.  The city was virtually leveled.

In those days, there were no warnings from StormTrack12 HD Live Doppler. In addition, the Local Forecast Official at the time recalled that "the usual signs which herald the approach of hurricanes were not present in this case."  The morning before that stupendous storm, people went about their business as usual, maybe even enjoying the beach. But in the middle of the night, the official reported "unusually heavy swells from the southeast, intervals of one to five minutes, overflowing low places south portion of city three to four blocks from beach. Such high water with opposing winds never observed previously." 

In thinking about calms-before-the-storms, then as well as now, I Googled my maternal great-grandfather's last name, and found a treasure.  My grandmother's sister, Sarah Helen Littlejohn, at age 8 wrote an account of her family's experience in this bygone horrific hurricane. You can read the actual handwritten manuscript on-line:  "My Experiences in the Galveston Storm."  Six pages or so in, there is my grandmother's (unusual) name, Liska: "My youngest sister Liska sat on a little chair with her head bent on a pillow."

My sister Kathy called today from Ohio to find out about our pre-storm preparations. I mentioned my discovery of Sarah Helen's document as preserved on the web. Eerily, she said that just a few days ago, she too had made the same discovery, also doing a search for E. G. Littlejohn after a conversation about hurricanes.

My forebears survived the storm, although an estimated 8,000 other Galveston residents did not. 

Galveston after the 1900 hurricane.

Over a century later, my friend Maureen happened to make a career move from New England to Galveston. I visited her once, but didn't look up my great-grandfather's former address. I believe the house still stands, though. (Maureen endured Hurricane Ike in 2008. After overcoming incredible obstacles to restore her ruined home and to reconfigure her professional life again, she moved away, to inland California.)

New Bern isn't coastal.  Its location, flanked by rivers and sounds, is referred to as the Inner Banks, mostly by realtors attempting to cash in on Outer Banks cachet. So we are unlikely to experience anything as catastrophic as Liska's storm. But it's strange to me that on this quiet morning, where even the creek seems to be holding its breath, the whispers from her girlhood blew in.

St. Jo

Waiting for Pony Express Museum to open. Then on to Hannibal.

Mountains, plains, grasslands, forts

Abandoned windmill, Pecos. Aermotor has been in business since 1888.

Always hard to leave Santa Fe. Walking in Pecos, tapas for dinner, fine weather (wildfire smoke mostly keeping its distance).

But, today was a driving day, so we were on the road early through landscapes right out of my once-beloved The High Chaparral  (though that was Arizona), and stops at national historic spots so we could stamp our National Park Service Passport booklet.

The high desert was beautiful.  Then grasslands stretched out for miles on end, no sign of civilization except a ranch house here and there, sometimes inhabited, sometimes abandoned--intriguing yet inaccessible Rural Decay. Cattle dotting the land like insects on the fur of an enormous tawny lion. Stopped at Fort Union--a cool ruin now in the middle of nowhere, but once a busy stop on the Santa Fe Trail. Lunch at a trendy, healthful cafe in Trinidad, Colorado--a neat town, like Northampton in the Olde West, i.e.: flyer for a holistic veterinarian posted on the cafe bulletin board. Climbed over a mountain pass, and swooped down on the other side.  We passed through the Comanche Grasslands and visited Bent's Old Fort in late afternoon.  After the barren vistas, it was startling to see corn where the Arkansas River could provide irrigation. Temps crept over 100 sometimes.

Disappointed with photos I've taken, not being up to the challenges of Western scale and light, wide open spaces and high contrast.

Fort Union, New Mexico

We reached our destination on the former edge of the Dust Bowl--Lamar, Colorado--around 5:30. From a Thai restaurant on the wide Main Street, we watched a real prairie thunderstorm blow by through plate-glass windows on three sides, while cars pulled up to the window of the drive-thru liquor store across the street.

Intermezzo

What a pleasure it is to be at Las Brisas de Santa Fe: doves cooing on a cool quiet morning with coffee on the patio instead of "free" raisin bran bolted down in the lobby of a chain hotel before hopping into the car.

And we had a good night's sleep here, as opposed to our night in Amarillo. There, the night clubs revved up--it was Saturday night, after all--but that was not a problem. We only heard the occasional throb from a hip-hop-mobile until about 2 a.m., when we were awakened by a preacher's harangue, magnified so that we could hear every word, blasted into Polk Avenue from a bullhorn:  "....the bible says so!  You will burn in hell fire, FOREVER!   The only way is through Jesus Christ..."  blah blah etc. etc.  Without parting our draperies, we assumed he was publicly castigating the cattle-country "meat market" crowd as they left the clubs to sleep until time for church. Welcome to Texas.

Adios, Texas.

From the Asheville hotel room, on the 4th of July, you could see an intermittent glow where fireworks were ignited at some low altitude. Because they weren't rocketing upward, the buildings blocked the real display, and all you could see was a kind of Northern Lights against the blackness behind the shadowy, boxy cityscape. This made me think of Plato's allegory of the cave, where constrained observers only see shadows dancing on a cave wall, but they think it's reality.  That is sort of the overall effect of our drive West, where even "taking our time," not barreling through 6 states as quickly as possible, we only caught a glimpse of our surroundings, accepting the surface and making assumptions about the rest.  There just wasn't enough latitude to stray from our itinerary--and indeed, we only scratched the surface of that--and enjoy serendipitous discoveries.  All in all, more traveling than touring.

But still, there were some fine experiences.  My ode to Asheville:

Urban chic and mountain roots,

Little short skirts with sturdy boots.

In Nashville,

loved hearing The Silver Threads at Layla's, late afternoon--some of the band members play four hours there then go on to another gig. Eileen Rose belts out Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn.

 The lead singer (Mandy Allen?) of Savannah at The Second Fiddle announced that "the only place you can come where the band can play a song they don't know and it sounds like the original is Nashville." They also introduced patrons to the local tradition of "holler and swaller":  raise your glass, whoop, and take a drink. "Raise your left hand and wave at somebody you don't know," they said to the audience. "That's called Southern hospitality," then sang "put some gas in my truck/butter on my biscuits," [Josh Thompson] "I love good cold beer/and mustard on my fries," [Eric Church] and Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." A gray-haired couple danced to a Ronny Milsap song in the back of the club. After singing "heads California/tails Carolina," Miss Allen called out, "Where are my Carolina people?," having asked where everyone was from; they work hard to please even sometimes sparse weeknight crowds. These great musicians play only for tips, a Nashville custom. We wanted to write our own country song with lyrics to the effect of "cash on the bar/is better than a credit card" after seeing how people pay for one Bud Lite with Visa. That's somehow a much less personal, comfortable transaction than leaving some bills out for the bartender to deduct from. But we didn't get further than that.

The Silver Threads

Savannah

Hatch Show Print was cool.

Walking back from there in the morning, I stopped at a corner with two down-and-outters with bags of cans, who turned to see who was behind them. "Morning," I said. "Making my way back," one said, cigarette stub bobbing in his lips, "to the Shelter. I'm not a millionaire, you know."  "Not many of us are," I said.  His seedy companion muttered, "Yeah, gov'ment took it all."

Do you think they vote Republican?

We drove directly to Sun studios.  Really amazing to stand on the very linoleum where rock 'n' roll was born.

Lunch at Central BBQ was a treat.

In Little Rock, cruised the impressive Clinton Library. There, also, happened to be a gallery exhibit of wonderful photographs, large black-and-white prints, of Elvis from 1956. Then we visited Central High School National Historic Site.  Later, we had "six degrees of separation" moments:  at a trendy wine bar we met a community leader who is friendly enough with Clinton to have been teased by the former president about his flashy designer socks, for which he is now acclaimed in his city.  In our hotel, Tim fell into conversation with a guy from Chicago whose father (now deceased) was a freshman at the Stoneham, Mass., high school when Tim was a senior there.

On the way to Oklahoma City, we paused at Fort Smith for the historic site commemorating the despicable history of U.S./Native American relations, and the taming of the white frontier. In Oklahoma City, walked through the well-designed and moving Memorial, but felt no need to see the related museum.

We highly recommend Russell's truck stop in Endee, New Mexico. Diner decor, swiveling stools at the counter, a vintage car display, immaculate, friendly.

The highlight of Amarillo was Cadillac Ranch--I'll save that for another post. Time for breakfast.

Greetings from Amarillo

Picnic table at Oklahoma rest area, Route 40.

We are on the 4th floor of the historic Fisk building in downtown Amarillo, Texas.  Amarillo used to be named Oneida, and when the name was changed by popular preference, many inhabitants painted their doors yellow in honor of the meaning of the Spanish word.  Looking down Polk Street, we have a view of two great neon signs:  the Paramount theater and the Acapulco Mexican Restaurant.  The streets are as empty as if someone hollered that the gunslinger was comin' into town so everyone should hightail it into the nearest saloon. But it's just that it's Saturday afternoon in a city center, and about 104 degrees outside.  Oh, there was one guy going into the tattoo parlor earlier. Let us hope that Tatums Night Club, just below, is not too happenin' on Saturday nights.

Tim and I pretty much agree that the only city we've seen that might have long-term appeal is Asheville. Maybe it was just because it was the 4th of July. Maybe the low mountains reminded us of the Flat Hills of our New England Homeland. But there were lots of people with baby carriages.  Street musicians.  "Arts" neighborhoods.  Music galore--as accessible as it was in Nashville. 

One of the highlights of our trip was the story we heard about the veteran Bluegrass Boy, Ralph Lewis, age 83, whom we saw play the mandolin with astonishing facility at an Irish-esque pub with "The Sons of Ralph."   They'd played at the wedding of the daughter of a guy in a baseball cap, sitting next to us at the bar (whom we later learned was a prominent Methodist minister). One time he asked Ralph how he liked traveling around the world as a performer.  How was Japan?  He liked the food.  How was England--what was his favorite part? "Buckingham Palace," Ralph said.  "Oh, did you take a tour?"  "No, we played for the Queen."  "You mean she came to one of your concerts?"  "No, we played for her, in a room."  "A personal audience? Did she like it?"  "Well," said Ralph, "she was tappin' her foot.

 The tour of  Thomas Wolfe's house was absorbing, since I started the intensely autobiographical Look Homeward, Angel in honor of the visit. Alas:  the actual angel (from his father's workshop) now resides in another town, and the door knobs were nondescript metal.  But it looked just as it did when it was the boarding house, Old Kentucky Home, that the fictional Dixieland was modeled after.

Another highlight was the view from the Sunset Terrace at Grove Park Inn, an historic resort where once Helen Keller, FDR, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Bill Clinton, the Obamas, and other celebrities found repose.  As we sat calmly eating salad in the stone fortress, open to the air, a storm swirled and lightning flashed in the distant mountains. 

I'll now sign off, and Tim will interrupt his reading of a history of the Dust Bowl, in order to get supper at a nearby splurge-y restaurant.  The outdoor seating at the Acapulco might be a little toasty this evening.

Smoke

Even though the 30,000-acre wildfire in Pender County has been dampened by some passing thunderstorms, we're still affected by the smoke, miles away. It's like being under siege, depending on the wind direction.  Today there's a haze almost like morning mist, but sluggish, acrid, putting everything behind a scrim.

Yesterday morning was clear enough that I worked outside for a few hours.  But afternoon tennis was cancelled due to the smokey atmosphere on top of heat--94 degrees, which ordinarily wouldn't deter The Empresses as long as we had plenty of water and towels!  Last night, the sun was just a reddish blot as it set.  Then in weird pre-tornado-like light, an enormous brown cloud engulfed the sky, lumbering west to east.  This morning, we again agreed to cancel weekly women's doubles. Even indoors, you can feel a subtle stinging of the eyes and clogging of the throat.

Poor firefighters and homeowners in the vicinity of the blaze.

Considering all of the recent oppressive and sometimes devastating natural disasters--piles of snow, floods, tornadoes, tsunamis--one takes a deep--well, sort of--breath and understands that this is not so bad.

We are preparing for a drive Out West, so we should be escaping it for awhile.

Except we're headed for Santa Fe, where in nearby Los Alamos, wildfires also rage.

This is Scotty Country

Scotty Country

Okay, here's the confession of a retiree that'll make you say, "Get a job!"

Tim and I had followed "American Idol" this year with what we like to think of as a healthy, mature combination of enthusiasm and skepticism.  While we admire the talents of several of the young contestants, we followed North Carolina native Scotty McCreery's progress from audition to finals with the ardent loyalty of new immigrants to his state. We were tickled when Mr. Scotty bashfully addressed the glamorous Judge JLo--whose mega-stardom usually opens the door to uninvited familiarity from most fans--as "Miss Jennifer."  It's a Southern thing, previously mentioned in this blog.

So, when we found ourselves visiting family in Durham on the very night Our Scotty was anointed as the winner of Idol voters' hearts and...um, minds, we decided to cruise through his nearby hometown of Garner the next day.  It would be on the way home, after all.  And would we ever again in our lives be (knowingly) so close to the birthplace of an idol, however manufactured?  We wanted to see for ourselves his backwater origins and the degree to which Team Scotty and the Blue Crew had helped propel him into pop paradise. According to the Raleigh News-Observer, Scotty's "Idol" run "has meant a springtime of excitement in Garner. Mayor Ronnie Williams has said it has been the best thing to ever happen in the southern Wake County town of 26,000."

Despite this raft of residents keeping it afloat, and its proximity to comparatively cosmopolitan Raleigh, there is a certain "Last Picture Show" quality to the heart of Garner, North Carolina.

"A springtime of excitement" in Garner, North Carolina.

However, we probed further, venturing deep, deep into suburban Garner.  There we glided anonymously past the spacious, pleasantly treed-and-pine-strawed lots of substantial homes, two senior Scottyheads on the prowl--one, indeed, old enough to qualify for the senior discount at Harris Teeter. It made me consider that professional paparazzi probably always feel like you did in high school as you secretly patrolled the street where lived your secret unattainable crush.

"'He’s still the country boy he was when he went to Hollywood,'" said a young fan.
As much a country boy as Beaver Cleaver was, anyway.

 

If historic downtown is the heart, then Scotty's neighborhood must be the soul of Garner, exuding a more confident and prosperous--and now, triumphal--air, this air being, as we saw for ourselves, the wind beneath Scotty's ascendant wings.

 

I left suburban Garner with nary a glimpse of Scotty's dog, nary a sighting of Scotty's well-worn baseball mitt abandoned on his front lawn.  But I did feel satisfied that a young musician who made good was garnering--so to speak--the same kind of attention that an athlete would in becoming a top pick for the pros.

It's nice that those in the know say that Scotty is, currently, a nice guy.  Even after his big win, he went back to Garner under cover one day (just like us!) to take his Advanced Placement English exam.  His mom publicly announced that he will go to college.  According to WRAL in Raleigh, Krispy Kreme gave 2,400 donuts to help Garner High students and staff celebrate Scotty's victory.  So he must be a nice guy.

The Town of Garner is considering developing a map indicating places where Scotty "went to school, worked and prayed," WRAL reported. "Town officials have heard anecdotal stories of ...visitors looking for places where McCreery would hang out."


Oh.....really?

We read somewhere that Garner supports the arts--well, at least music programs--in its schools, and that their quality played a humble part in Scotty's success.

Thus, this is not an embarrassing account of celebrity chasing by someone who should know better.  Rather, this post is a rallying cry for better access to better arts education for our youth.