Of Patience and Hope

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We have just finished a wonderful Spring Break together here in the mountains. Captain and I always love when you visit…it certainly increases the energy level around here! For sure, one of the highlights of the week was the fly-fishing adventure that Captain and Boo enjoyed on the Elk River down in the valley between Sugar and Beech Mountains. Although Boo, you caught more trout (three Browns, I believe—two native and one stocked), your excitement paled in comparison to that of Captain.

For the days leading up to the trip…and now in the aftermath…Captain has been like a kid making a list for Santa Claus. He’s constantly watching fly fishing videos, reading up on the streams in our area, and researching the best brand of waders to purchase. This is a resurrection in interest of sorts for him. Starting probably 30 years ago now, he joined a group of men—lead by your great Uncle Bryant—every May for a week of camping in the Pisgah National Forest at the base of Mount Mitchell and of fly fishing on the Toe River. It was a most highly anticipated annual event for Captain and the ritual continued consistently for twenty years until Bryant’s untimely death in 2000 at the age of 55.  

Some point along that way, I gave Captain a fly-tying kit with the thought that making his own flies might be fun. I’m not sure how much he used it back then, but for quite a few years now, it’s been either idly tucked away in storage boxes or nestled among other “keeping this on the possibility of using again” stuff in the closet. Today…in line with all the other focus on fishing…Captain retrieved the kit from the closet and opened it up to inventory the contents. Among the hooks, feathers, beads and other paraphernalia that go into making an enticing lure for any unsuspecting trout hiding out under a rock somewhere, he found a folded single sheet of paper. It appeared wrinkled and fading in color, with one corner slightly torn.

Having no recollection of what it could be, he opened the folds to find a tribute entitled “Elegy for Rev. Dr. SBK, Fisherman.” It was written to honor your Uncle Bryant by Hayes McNeill, one of his closest friends…and one of the regulars on the May camping trips. Bryant loved everything about fishing—the challenge, the solace, the commune with nature, the camaraderie of friends. I know that his spirit is eternally exuberant at the prospect that you, Boo, are fast becoming quite a fisherman yourself.  And so, I want to specifically share Hayes’ words with you. I think if you pay particular attention to the first sentence, you will be a better one.

Elegy for Rev. Dr. SBK, Fisherman

(1945-2000)

More than in trout or in bass, fishermen deal in patience and in hope. So maybe your afterlife is flycasting Heraclitus’ stream. Enveloped in a chill tumble of light and suspiration, you officiate in full regalia, hip-deep in a mossy nave as the sun lifts shafts of mist under vaulting dapple.

Or maybe your eternity is bass-fishing—a perpetual fall afternoon in which breezes riffle the green chocolate lake. You sit in the warm sun, becalmed and utterly as one with water, wind and sky; you drift ever farther from us…but always remain in sight.

Mastering the Masters

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It's the second week of April...which means the Masters (the most premier annual major golf tournament, in my opinion) is about to start in Georgia at the storied Augusta National Golf Club. Within its holy confines are challenging holes designed by Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts on property once called Fruitland Nursery. Every fairway is lined with majestic pines that shed their needles to make beds of treacherous footing should anyone hit an errant golf shot that finds its way underneath their branches. This time of year, the dogwoods and Formosa azaleas signal the arrival of spring with a blazing underbrush of white, pink and fuchsia. Those who attend the tournament can easily come away with a sense of complete satisfaction...even without seeing a single swing of the club...just from the sheer beauty of the place.

For anybody not a member of Augusta National, it's difficult to get tickets to the Masters, and quite expensive. When we lived in Columbia, SC...only an hour away from Augusta...we were lucky enough to be given tickets on a few occasions. I don't remember exactly what year it was when we went for the first time, but I will never forget the conversation we overheard while sitting next to the #15 green, watching the golfers try to hit their second shots from the fairway of the par-5 hole in hopes of making it over the pond guarding the green and giving themselves a possible eagle attempt.

There were two women in folding chairs right next to us. so engrossed in such serious, concerned chatter with each other that the tournament seemed superfluous. Their consternation revolved around an imperative question--what were they going to do when their mother died? For years, these sisters had enjoyed the opportunity to come to Augusta every spring...for free...because their parents were members of Augusta National. When their father passed away, the membership continued with their mother but the rules of the club prohibited it from being passed on to the next generation. Instead, it would revert back to the club. Although the mother was in good health at that point, she was in her eighties and the prospects of this familial perk coming to an end loomed large in the future.

From what we could gather through our eavesdropping, they had settled on two possible solutions to the problem. Their first was relatively simple...when their mother died, they would not tell anybody. They would have her taxidermied and pay someone to drive her around town every now and then so people would think she was still alive. The yearly membership check to the club would be written out of her bank account...surely one of them could fake the signature.

The second, more imaginative option required some outside help and cooperation. Their mother had an octogenarian bachelor friend who was a member of Augusta National. One of the sisters had a two-year-old granddaughter. Why not have the two of them get married? That way, when he died, the membership would transfer to the granddaughter and they would be set for life.

This would all seem ludicrous had the two women not been dead serious. Of course, we have no idea what happened. I'm sure the mother is long gone by now. Every year, as I watch the tournament on television and they show play on #15, I scour the faces of the people sitting next to the green to find them. If I ever do, I surely hope they came up with some other solution than sacrificing that poor little granddaughter for the sake of Master's tickets!

(On April 12, 2015, in a blog entitled "Best Masters Ever," I wrote to you about taking your great granddaddy Cottrell to Augusta National to see a practice round before the tournament started. It is truly my very fondest memory of anything associated with the Masters.) 

What'd He Say?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We went out last night with our friends Rick and Freddie Bloneshine, a couple we met last summer through tennis. Although they have been coming up to our area for years from Florida, our paths had never crossed. They recently decided to make the mountains their permanent home and what a delightful addition they have made to our pool of buddies. Our evening excursion took us up to the nearby town of Blowing Rock for dinner and a bluegrass jam at the American Legion Hut.

Since moving here, Rick and Freddie have immersed themselves in the community, volunteering at the local Chamber of Commerce and acquainting themselves with opportunities to help through non-profit organizations. Apparently, in the mix was the Seven Devils Volunteer Fire Department where Rick decided he should offer his services. As we drove up the winding curves of Shull’s Mill Road to Blowing Rock, he recounted to us the experience of attending his first meeting with the group—comprised of mostly lifelong locals.  

“Well…it was like being in a two-hour session with everybody speaking what sounded like Russian.”

Rick had hit what I call the “Brogue Wall,” whereby those of us born and bred in the South…who talk funny to almost everybody who comes from another part of our country…run headlong into the nuanced, muted, almost indiscernible pronunciations of the simplest of words that flow from the mouths of natives in these here mountains.

I’ve had such an encounter myself. Almost ten years ago, Captain and I decided to move our residency from South Carolina to North Carolina. There were several underlying reasons which precipitated the decision…not the least of which was a viable option of health insurance for Captain…and when we inquired about how to accomplish the switch, we were pleased to find out all you had to do was get a North Carolina drivers license. However, our new chosen state wouldn’t just give it to us…we had to provide our Social Security cards and take a written test.

We went to the DMV in Newland, our county seat, located in a cubbyhole tucked amongst other governmental offices in a rather nondescript building downtown. Folding chairs lined the wall outside the DMV door and there were several patrons sitting in them—ranging from silver-haired seniors like ourselves to nervously twitching teenagers. We grabbed a couple of seats and waited our turn.

In  a few minutes, the manager of the DMV came into the hall…the quintessential stereotype of the southern law enforcement officer…just like he stepped right off the set of “Smokey and the Bandit” (yeah…I know…you have no idea what that is)…with his bulging belly stretching the buttons of his shirt to their maximum capacity…and half-moon reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The only thing missing might be a wad of tobacco tucked obscurely between his gum and cheek. He called the next in line to come into the office.

Soon, it was our turn. Captain came fully prepared with his Social Security card in hand. I, on the other hand…not being able to find mine…hoped to beg my way into taking the test with copies of tax returns. Nope! He wouldn’t budge. No smile…just deadpan officiousness.  I’d have to come back another day. (This proved to be beneficial in the long run. Captain had trouble with the test and had to take it over. I learned that I had to really study for it.)

It took several weeks to get my card. When it came in the mail, I drove back down to Newland to find him there…just as we had left him…same uniform, same dour expression, same glasses.

He invited me into the office and instructed me to take the chair in front of a computer screen on the wall opposite his desk. I took a deep breath…remembering Captain’s experience…and, upon his signal…looked at the first question as it popped up on the screen before me. For the next twenty minutes or so, I plodded through the test, especially sweating bullets when an obscure reference to the speed limit for farm vehicles demanded an answer. Finally, after going back over all the questions, I told him I was through.

I remained seated behind him as a printer whirred softly and spit out my test results on a piece of paper. He peered through the half-moon glasses and began grading it.

“Well…looks like yuh done passed.”

“Whew!” I responded.

“Now…I gots tu ask yuh sum q’estions.”

“Okay.”

“How ole ur yuh?”

“62.”

“How much yuh weigh?’

“130 pounds.”

“C’lurse yur eyes…”

This one stumped me, and I contemplated what he was saying for a moment before I complied with his request…closing my eyes. I sat there with my lids shut waiting for him to say something and wondering what closing my eyes had to do with anything.

“Whut c’lurse yur eyes?” he finally spoke in that same monotone, deadpan, “nothing you do can excite me” tone of voice.

I slowly opened my eyes.

“Hazel…my eyes are hazel!” I answered, realizing through my embarrassment what he had asked.

I laugh every time I remember this story…but I bet I don’t laugh as hard as he does. Can you imagine what he was thinking while I sat there with my eyes closed? Maybe he figured I had to ponder real hard to remember their color…or that maybe I had mirrors on the inside of the lids so that I could see the color! I would love to hear what he told his wife that night when he went home from work.

Yes, sometimes even the most southern of us can't interpret what these mountain folks are saying. Probably makes them a lot smarter than we are.