Stories of Bill and my visits to Lake Burton, Georgia
My Super Power
In 2012, my friend Mason invited me to spend Thanksgiving with his relatives in Fresno. It was the first Thanksgiving since both of our dads had died, earlier that year. Since he had family to return to (the same aunt's house he's been eating turkey at ever since he can remember) and I didn't, I was adopted for the day by his. They were lovely and welcoming to me, and I thanked them by managing not to break down in tears until I got in the car to go home.
Ah, the posthumous romanticizing of the family experience.
Perhaps the best thing to come out of that day was my friendship with one of Mason's uncles, Bill. And right about now, he's probably blushing, because for whatever crazy reason, Uncle Bill took a shine to me, and became a reader of this dumb little blog, an erstwhile pen pal, and a capital f Friend. He doesn't miss a post, and often emails me thoughtful, funny responses to what I've written, one of which I printed out and tucked into the corner of my mirror, so I can read it every day.
I don't want to casually or cheaply drop a phrase like "father figure", because wow is that problematical and pat and overly facile and all kinds of things I don't want to characterize my relationship with Bill as. That said, it's been really nice to have someone older and wiser checking in on me, as I stumble through life. As much as I love and miss my dad, there were some serious deficits in our relationship, which I'll probably feel keenly until the day I die. For one thing, I can tell you he certainly wasn't reading my blog and chiming in with the occasional bit of guidance. My dad was many wonderful things, but a fan of my writing he was not.
Bill has followed my romantic adventures with interest, amusement, and at times, concern. (No one likes to see their friends get hurt.) When October rolled around and he saw how attached I'd gotten to Terence, he said I should bring him with me back to Fresno this Thanksgiving. This invitation was co-signed and ratified by Mason, so I got to spend yesterday in the company of my three favorite men, among other wonderful people who treated near-stranger me and my complete-stranger +1 like family.
There was champagne, thrust into my hand within a minute of walking in the door, and lots and lots of wine. There were aunts and uncles and cousins and kids and a Pomeranian-Chihauhua mix named Tiny, who let me hold him in my lap long as long as I liked. There was turkey and glazed ham and everything you'd want to go with them, including my second taste of Aunt Janie's Lemon Lush pie.
I didn't sleep much the night before, so I wasn't at my best. I was overtired and overly emotional, and Bill's kindness and warmth - and his stories of working as a young man in downtown LA, a mere block from where I live today - put me over the edge more than once. Thank god for kitchen-adjacent bathrooms, to which a girl can beat a hasty retreat, splash some cold water on her face, pull her shit together, and return to a table full of laughter and love and just feel fucking grateful to be there.
I've said it before but it bears repeating. I suck at so much in life, but apparently my super power is making incredible people care about me, despite my not deserving it half the time. I came out of yesterday determined to do a better job of giving back the consideration I'm shown by those who know the absolute worst things about me, but love me nonetheless.
I guess that's kind of how family works, anyway.
Summer 2015
right up the road
Nestled in the northeastern corner of Georgia, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of the Central Appalachians, sits the quiet, unassuming town of Clayton. It comprises a little over three square miles, an area some 2,400 people call home. If you were a resident of Clayton and you wished to spend the day in another state, you'd have three to choose from: North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee. All are within relatively short driving distance, accessible by some of the most scenic stretches of highway in the southeastern U.S.
But if you lived in Clayton, Georgia - and in particular, on the shores of Clayton's manmade reservoir known as Lake Burton - I'm not sure why you'd want to leave at all.
On the Monday after Bonnaroo ended, Terence and I and a bus full of exhausted revelers rode from Manchester back to Nashville, where we boarded planes to wherever it was we'd come from. Well, not all of us. Not me. I stayed right where I was, in a hotel adjacent to the airport that I booked online, sight unseen. I ordered a pizza, soaked my festival-sore body in the tub, and fell asleep by 9pm. All according to plan, in other words.
In the morning I hopped a shuttle to the rental car terminal, where I loaded up a Dodge Journey with all the clothes Terence hadn't schlepped back home for me, plus my laptop, iPad, and Gorillapod. I started my sat-nav, crossed my fingers for an uneventful five hour drive, and set forth on what turned out to be one of the best weeks of my life.
I only had to stop for directions twice.
---
The route from Nashville to Lake Burton that Google chose for me that day starts out unremarkably. A few hours of flat-to-mildy-hilly monotony, southeast through Tennessee farmland, before beginning to flirt with the Georgia state line a few towns west of Chattanooga. That's where the landscape gets interesting. And by interesting I mean distractingly gorgeous. The green of the Central Appalachian mountains isn't like the green of other forests. It's an insistent green, brighter and younger-seeming than the woods out west. A green that threatens to swallow you up, if you dare step into it. And you'll have many chances to take that dare. SEE Ruby Falls beckons the side of a decaying barn, an invitation painted in huge letters, white on cheery, cherry red. Explore Breathtaking Ruby Falls urges the next, five miles down the freeway. SEE Ruby Falls, LOOKOUT MTN. The signs so frequent, so insistent you feel guilty disobeying them.
But your hosts are expecting you, and it's getting late. So you skip Ruby Falls, which is probably chock full of tourists, anyway. You have a feeling better, more seldom-seen sights await you. So you press on, through mountain country, then lake country, dipping in and out of states you've never set foot in, losing cell phone service, hoping your GPS hasn't betrayed you, wondering, if you had to, if you could even read those two paper Rand McNallys you bought in a mild panic at the general store, where the lady with the crinkly eyes assured you Yep, Georgia's right up the road! It's been a long time since that semester of social studies.
Though wow does your jaw drop when you enter Cherokee National Forest, snaking along next to the Ocoee River where sturdy lodges with canoes and kayaks out front promise adventure. Whitewater Rafting! Walk-ins welcome. Or the one that really tugs at you: Canopy Zip Line Tours. Maybe on the way back. Yes, you tell yourself. On the way back. I could even stay a night down here, rent a little cabin by the water. Why not? Haven't bought my return ticket yet. Play it by ear. For now, though, you have to keep going, tempted as you are to stop at the vacant pullouts alongside the road. Just listen to the rushing water. Just get a good look at this unbelievable place. But no. Bill and Hannah are waiting, the sun is sinking, and your night vision is terrible. You can stop all you want, on the way back to Nashville. And you will.
---
Bill comes downstairs barefoot, to show me where to park. A cocoa-colored labradoodle circles his legs excitedly. Ziggy! I carefully inch the SUV around the tightly curving path, trying to collect my suddenly scrambled thoughts as I look up and realize (Oh my god, it's right on the) that the home I'd been invited to stay at (water, it's actually RIGHT ON THE WATER) isn't in the suburbs, tucked away in some smallish town like I imagined, a quick drive or at best a decent walk to the water. It's an honest-to-goodness lake house. It's on the lake. This house is on the fucking lake.
I explode out of the car to greet the 87 year-old friend I've seen, before today, only twice in my life.
Breakfast at Lake Burton
Breakfast at Lake Burton is a casual affair. Coffee and conversation, mainly. Toast sometimes, sliced thin, from bread Bill bakes himself. Fished by Hannah, with a chuckle and a butter knife, out of the temperamental Cuisinart I'd replace if I thought they wouldn't scold the purchase. Bill bakes a loaf or two every other day, often giving the prettier one away to neighbors. Sourdough and rye, though he's still perfecting his sourdough recipe. Still trying to master those elusive San Francisco air bubbles.
Bill occasionally indulges in a slice of country ham, thick and salty, doctor's prohibitions be damned. Perhaps as a diversionary tactic, he teases me about how much sugar I put in my coffee, a cup of which Kim, he and Hannah's son, sets aside for me every morning. (Halfway through the week I notice that though the cabinet is also full of ordinary mugs, Kim always selects one of the elegant, delicate teacups for me.)
Hannah, eighty-seven like her husband, comes upstairs each morning having dressed with more care than I take most days, and freshly made up. She brings sliced strawberries to the table, or grapes, or cherries. Until I catch on to her timing and do it myself, she then sneaks into the room where I sleep to make my bed. Sometimes she joins Bill and I on the screened-in porch, an extension they built themselves on their home of almost twenty-five years. She tells stories about growing up in Oklahoma and Texas, with three sisters and a brother. About courtship and love in the fifties. About her job at the phone company - land line phones, that is - before she quit to raise four boys. On hotter mornings she and Kim eat inside, and if the sliding glass door is open I can hear them discussing the news, or family, or any of the dozens of subjects on which Kim possesses an encyclopedic knowledge. Current events, culture, local history, politics; you name it, he can teach you something about it.
Bill and I spend this time getting to know one another more. We start on familiar ground: Mason. My oldest friend, his nephew by marriage. We gossip with affection about his welfare, his health, his social and romantic life. Mason is the reason I'm here, having introduced me to his uncle a few years back over my first "orphan" Thanksgiving. Bill and I clicked like clockwork, and have stayed in touch ever since. This visit to his home in Georgia is the result of over two years of him urging me to come and me gently demurring. I want to, believe me! I just can't justify it right now... But then: Bonnarroo, right around the corner in Tennessee. I couldn't not come, when I was already only a state away.
We move from Mason on to other topics. Religion - our dislike of it, and the atheist writers and philosophers we admire for tackling it. Los Angeles - our respective experiences of it, mine as a thirty-something and his as teenager. Relationships - their challenges, the trivial concerns of modern dating vs. the lessons of a six decades-long marriage. He laughs at my funny anecdotes of life with Terence and Chaucer, and I pay close attention to how he and Hannah interact, trying to grok the secret to their happiness (spoiler alert: no secret, just a deep mutual respect warming their every exchange).
I treasure these talks. They are the moments Bill most reminds me of my dad, wearing the keen, bright-eyed look of an engaged listener. He asks about my upbringing, probing gently about my childhood, my parents, my brother. His curiosity is matched only by his consideration and tact; he wants to know what's made me me, but he doesn't wish to press any bruises.
For his part, he shares openly and willingly, even the painful bits. The loss of three sons. Three. I knew this about him, it was one of the first things Mason had told me, but I didn't know the details. And while those details aren't mine for sharing here, I will say that considering what he, Hannah, and Kim have gone through...well, a week in their company was enough to shame me out of self pity for the rest of my life. What are you gonna do, Bill says simply, when I shake my head, stumbling through the only condolences I can think to offer.
What you do, if you're a T----. anyway, is move on, head high and heart strong. You mourn the loss but celebrate the life. Over the week I spend in their house, he and Hannah share enough family lore with me, show me enough photographs of their sons - and their sons' wives and children, all of whom they are still close with - that by the end of my visit I could sketch the T----. family tree, if asked. And I'll leave knowing not only who those people are, but why they loved one another.
But I never feel like an outsider.
Quite the opposite, in fact. I am treated with such warmth and inclusion that, frankly, it makes my own family vacations seem miserable by comparison. The word that keeps coming to mind, despite my efforts to push it back down, is "do-over". After a while I give in and accept it. This is like a do-over, of all those trips to stay with uncles and aunts and a grandmother who never really liked me, relatives who never made me feel like I belonged. This is what family is supposed to feel like.
Kim, Mason's oldest cousin, is kinder to me than any of my own cousins ever was. The second morning of my stay, he gifts me a dream catcher. An elegant net of beads and feathers to hang in my temporary quarters, or just bring back home. I don't know where he got it, it may have been something he picked up years before and just held onto - but for whatever reason, he bestows it on me. He also gives me a magazine on photography (which from my endless snapping he's gathered I enjoy), in case the time change causes me insomnia. Another day he presents me with a local guidebook and thoughtful suggestions for day trips. Worried I'm not eating enough, he pushes bananas and apples at me.
I'm eating plenty, though. Am I ever. Shrimp and grits. Roast duck. Lamb lollipops and squab, which Bill dresses with herbs from his own garden. Yellow zucchini. Things I've rarely - or never - touched before. I'm drinking plenty, too. The first bottle gets uncorked around four, about the time I start pestering the cooks with offers to help (which are always rejected). Rose or white, followed by Bordeaux at dinner and Chambord on the rocks for dessert...or just Kahlua over ice cream. One night Bill and I and neighbor Woody even conduct a port tasting on the porch.
Neighbor Woody. I've been dying to tell you about neighbor Woody.
The first thing you notice is his cheerfulness, the sort of relaxed happiness that comes from years of good decision making - or at least being at peace with those years and those decisions. He wears thick bifocals, and has a way of tilting his head and smiling as he listens that suggests whatever you're saying is the best news he's heard all week. He's a staunchly conservative Republican. He's also one of the most likable people I've ever met.
Woody is Bill's best buddy, his partner in crime and his aide-de-camp. I found myself fascinated and inspired by their friendship, which persists despite fundamentally different world views and a nearly thirty year generation gap. I loved listening to them tell its story.
Woody actually got to Lake Burton first. He and his wife, both Georgia natives, visited Clayton on vacation. Saw the lake, fell in love with it. Pledged to someday have a second home there. Worked their asses off. Accomplished that goal. Bought a modest house at the more affordable end of the lake. Small, bare bones. No running water. That is, until Bill moved in next door, into a similarly modest house. Bill had a well. Bill invited Woody to tap that well. So began their 20+ year companionship. Together they watched Lake Burton grow. They saw the shore's original lake houses torn down, the land sold for a profit many times over that of its original worth. They witnessed the lake's revival - a huge infusion of wealth in the form of rebuilt vacation homes, left vacant most of the year. Indeed, there is an unavoidable sense of residents pitted against renters, in Lake Burton. Summer visitors and other part-timers come in droves. Drunk boating. Rich kids cramming the lake with speedboats, wave runners, water skis. They're loud and spoiled, and one gets the sense the year-rounds tolerate them with amusement if not exactly appreciation.
Would you believe this is just an introduction? I haven't even taken you down to the water yet.
Lake Tour
There's a town buried deep beneath the surface of Lake Burton. It wasn't a very big one, boasting a population of only about 200 people. But it was an important one, established in the early 19th century during the Gold Rush. By the time the Georgia Railway and Electric Company bought it in 1917, Burton had become a base for the local mining and logging industries, and the second largest town in the county. Most of its buildings were moved before the dam was closed and the reservoir flooded, but some were left to be destroyed by the rising waters.
It's eerie to think about, that underwater ghost town.
Almost every night of my stay, when the lake's western edge blushed with dusky pink twilight, I crept down to watch the water turn black. It takes a while. The surface shimmers through several shades of deepening blue, growing ever more still as boaters return to their docks. The shouts and splashes of lingering swimmers echo around the shore, which holds onto the last violet glimmers of light as if reluctant to let go. As if the silent, secret, watery town down below wants a sunset, too.
When darkness finally gets ahold of the lake, it's impenetrable. The mountains seem to close in, sealing everything in a deep tranquility that, with its southern strangeness, struck me as deliciously dangerous. God knows what kinds of spiders out there. What poisonous plants along the road behind me. And just beyond, in the hills, what wildness lurks.
I'd better go back inside.
Well, maybe five more minutes...
I've never been on a pontoon boat before. Which makes the dog I'm sitting next to the veteran, and me the n00b. I'm totally okay with this. I'm zooming around a 2,775 acre lake, in June, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my hand, hanging out with my favorite octogenarian. The man driving the boat is named Woody. The dog is named Zoe. I'm not the only one enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, I'm totally okay with being a n00b today.
Zoe and I are at the front of the boat, which is lined on all sides with deep, padded seats. I'm tucked into the corner of one such seat, and Zoe, a standard poodle mix whose poodle-ness dominates her DNA, is at my feet. I'm nervous for her - about her - but I don't need to be. She's clearly done this a million times before. Her ears, fluffy white puffs the fur of which looks expertly crimped, blow back prettily as she gazes at the lake from behind a small metal gate. She's probably in heaven. I know I am.
Bill and Woody are a few feet away, conferring about the community. I catch snippets of their talk. Who moved in where, and when. Who moved out, and why. The real estate gossip of locals. Every so often one of them calls out some fact about the lake's history, or points out an especially striking home. They needn't bother with that, though. I've barely blinked since we pulled out of Woody's boathouse.
The houses are jaw-dropping, each more spectacular than the last. The kind of houses that are beyond envy, beyond aspiration. Another world entirely. The one-percenters. Most are empty save for the few days a year their owners can unchain themselves from whatever high-powered careers financed them. Some tower boldly right over the water, imposing mansions of beam and stone. Some hide demurely behind trees, their massive plate glass windows winking in the sun that breaks through. Woody nods towards one. Twelve fireplaces, he says with a grin. I don't believe him, and quickly scan the castle-like roof. Sure enough, there are twelve chimneys. Twelve goddamn fireplaces. Who are these people? I pet Zoe and marvel.
Now Bill's humble jokes about living at the "ghetto end" of the lake make sense. All 62 miles of Lake Burton's shoreline are charming, but some stretches are truly majestic. My host and his friend watch me take it all in. The city girl. Long way from LA. They don't realize that my Michigan roots are tingling with delight right now. I'm only recently a city girl. And I'm not really a desert girl, or a suburb girl, though I've spent most of my life in those. And no way no how am I beach girl. I'm a lake girl. Lakes have always drawn me in like no other landscape does. Peaceful. Contained. Safe. I grew up on a lake and if I'm lucky I'll grow old on one, like these friends of mine. Who knows though, and who cares right now. I'm on a boat with a dog, and we've got wine.
The lake branches into multiple narrow fingers that we tool through slowly. It's endless in the best way, and I can't get enough of the green. Every last twig and leaf I put in the pocket of my memory, not knowing when I'll see such lushness again. The three of us point out our favorite houses. I prefer the more modest cabins set back a ways in the woods. I like the idea of running out their back doors, down to the water, jumping in without a moment's hesitation. Woody and I both admire a trim lodge with a pretty green roof; it belongs to a woman they know, and has for years. Bill makes fun of one of the gaudier-looking manors, generally agreed by locals to be the lake's biggest eyesore. A colossus of a thing, all weird angles and too much height, jutting out over a bend in the shoreline. They tell me about the mysterious millionaire (billionaire?) who bought the small island in the middle of the lake. Built a property up from scratch, and a low stone wall around it to fence himself in. Completely isolated. An empire of solitude and beauty inhabited a mere two weeks a year.
Back in the main body of the lake, we speed up. Woody drives us to where, over the fourth of July, everyone gathers to watch fireworks. Hundreds of boats. So much water traffic it takes hours to disperse afterword. Later Hannah will describe how, when the fireworks end, all the boats starting up at once is a chaos of rumbling motors and backsplashing. I decided I only needed to see that once, she'll laugh.
Noisy holidays and eccentric outsiders notwithstanding, these people love their home and their lake. They love sharing it, and showing off its many wonders. I'm suitably impressed and incredibly grateful to be here - but my gratitude has less to do with the view than with the company I'm keeping.
Highlands
The drive from Lake Burton to Highlands, North Carolina isn't long, just steep and winding. I suffer from wicked carsickness, so Bill agreed to white-knuckle it as my passenger and guide while I did my best to keep us from careening through a guard rail into the Appalachian mountainside. There's a country club coming up on the right here, very nice property, exclusive membership, all that jazz. Too rich for my blood. Really pretty though.
I'm sure it was pretty, but I barely glanced at it.
You know how carefully you drive when a -- well, when a senior member of society is in the car? Now imagine you're driving that person for the first time. On a narrow country road. And he's mentioned repeatedly how good a driver his granddaughter is, making you feel absurdly competitive, because being around him is triggering a kind of weird, quasi-filial reaction. Nothing bad. Rather nice, in fact; just not what you expected to find when you unpacked your cutoffs and sunscreen.
Okay well I guess that's a more complicated scenario to identify with, but you get the idea. I was concentrating.
Highlands is an alpine town of less than 1,000 residents high up in the Nantahala National Forest, just north of the Georgia state line. It was founded by a couple of surveyors who drew map lines from Chicago to Savannah and from New York to New Orleans, believing that the point of intersection would make an excellent trading and commerce hub. That point of intersection became Highlands, which at an elevation of 4,100 feet makes it one of the highest towns east of the Mississippi.
In other words, it's a great spot to cool off in the summer.
It's also a great spot to drink, because it's home to the Old Edwards Inn, a self-described "European-style resort" that seems to have earned a ranking on pretty much every 'U.S. best of' hotel list. And while I can't speak to that, as the only amenities I experienced were the terrace bar and its adjoining restroom, I will say they make a damn fine salty dog. Old Edwards Inn is on the National Register of Historic Places, which sets Bill up beautifully for some sort of age-referencing wisecrack. He'd make one, too, if he wasn't busy socializing with his blogger friend from LA and the couple seated to her right. Let's join them.
---
Tina is tiny. I won't fully appreciate how tiny Tina is until a few days later, when she's dangling helplessly in front of me on a zip line. But even now, everything from her doll hands to her Cupid's bow to her size five shoes seems diminutive. Everything except her personality.
Tina loves blue. And sparkle. Everything Tina wears is blue, or sparkly, or both. Drapey tunic, sleek leggings, heeled espradrilles. Rhinestones on her accessories, real ones on her fingers. Eyeshadow and nail polish that gleam like the dust of crushed sapphires. A bohemian rhapsody in blue. I suspect she's an Aquarius and purposefully dresses the part. I like her a lot. I've known her ten minutes.
Tina is an artist. She's swiping through her phone's photo album, showing me what she makes. She didn't volunteer this information; I had to ask to see pictures. Bags, jewelry, hairpieces. Brass hardware, peacock feathers, jewel tones, rich fabrics. Ornate and old-fashioned things. Things for women who like things older than themselves. And though I'm only seeing photos, it all appears well-made. Tina is talented.
Tina is originally from West Virginia. She reveals this with a wry, lopsided smile, as if to acknowledge there's something shameful about her roots. Actually, I'm totally intrigued. She thinks I'm thinking, Psshh, what a hillbilly. In truth I'm thinking, Wow, what a badass. I bet she's seen some shit.
Tina loves Bill, naturally. Everyone loves Bill. He's got a joke or a kind word for everyone, quick to self-deprecate and never taking himself too seriously. Smart as a whip, ready to defend his opinions but diplomatic enough to know when just politely listening is the better call. He's suggested this day trip to Highlands thinking I'd get a kick out of it, enjoy the mountain air. He's right on those counts but his notion that I want to go explore the three block drag of touristy shops (Go on! I'm fine here, I've got this nice young gentleman to refill my drink when I'm done.) is wrong. I'm content to just sit here, just enjoy his company. And Tina's, to whom I turn again.
Are you on Etsy?
No.
What?? Why not?
I don't knowww. Her accent thick on this. It's just a hobby, really. She smiles and shrugs, shrinking back in modesty. I don't know how much I could really sell. Though I did have a show recently! That was fun. Taps at the phone again, shows me a display table draped in black velvet, carefully arranged with her treasures.
You should open an Etsy shop. These are so pretty, really.
Thank you, that is so sweet of you. What about you? She flips the conversation, self-conscious from talking about herself at length. When I explain how I know Bill, my blog comes up. She's keenly interested. What do I write about? Do I make money from it? Who reads it? Why don't more people read it? Why don't I try to make a living from it? Same reason you don't have an Etsy shop. We agree: self-promotion isn't our forte.
Tina tells us a story about the freak accident she had in the spring. Slipped in the shower, alone in a hotel room, traveling by herself. Knocked the entire front row of her teeth clean out. Jaw wired shut for nearly a month. Dentists and surgeons didn't think they'd be able to reconstruct. But looking at her now, watching her elegantly spear salad greens and sip rose, you'd have no idea. I'm gobsmacked, not by her tale but by the tranquil tone with which she tells it. The woman must have nerves of steel. What's there to be afraid of, after something like that?
Her husband sits beside her, watching the game on a television mounted behind the bar. Swarthy and huge, dark ponytail and mustache. He listens with half an ear to our conversation, only occasionally turning his body to fully engage. When he does, a comment he makes leads Bill to correctly guess he rides a Harley. This earns Bill a proud nod and the rest of his attention. They discuss Lake Burton, boats, fishing. Southern stuff.
Husband, whose name I don't catch, rolls his eyes at something Tina says. Not nasty, just ribbing her. They've been together a long time. I get the sense they have wildly opposing interests, that the things they connect over have little to do with fashion or motorcycles. But there's a contentedness between them, a nice energy to be around. Like they've figured it out. Like they know they've got what the other one needs.
The four of us talk dogs; between us we have four of them. Phones come back out, get passed around. Everyone exclaims over everyone else's. The children of the childfree, the babies of the empty-nesters. No kids for Tina, either, and we click on that, too. We'll come back to that topic when we go zip lining, in fact. But right now she's talking about shopping. I have got to go check out such-and-such, on Main Street. Cutest clothes ever, candles and pillows and things too. Don't worry; she and her husband will entertain Bill while I'm gone. I smile; she's got that backwards.
Bill nods emphatically. Yes! Go! Don't you worry about me. Go explore! Have fun! Promising to return in 30 minutes (the town is tiny), I climb wobbily down from my bar stool. Oof. Good salty dog.
---
There is nothing of interest to me, in the twee shops of Highlands. I hate tchotchkes. I hate burdening other people with them, as gifts. And I don't need any clothes, though I dutifully stop in the boutique Tina recommended. A delicious-smelling candle tempts me but its heft makes me put it back down. Goddamn baggage restrictions.
I briefly considering hurrying down to the wine shop we passed on the way into town, trying to find a bottle of Sauternes for Bill and Woody. But it's getting close to the time I promised I'd be back, and chances are I'd make a poor selection anyway. Though they'd never tell me if I had.
---
Back at Old Edwards Inn, everyone has a fresh drink. Water for me, though; I'm driving. Knowing Bill will give me hell, I order a slice of chocolate cake. Partly to mess with him, but mostly because I've noticed how long hot food orders take here. When it comes it's a terrifying mound of whipped cream and sprinkles that I can barely put a dent in. Tina helps me though, while Bill shakes his head, pretending to be scandalized.
Tina asks what my plans are, for the rest of my stay.
Well, actually I'm thinking of going zip lining. We passed a place on the way up, they do canopy tours. Through the tree tops or whatever. I don't know how much it is or if they're booked up though...
Zip lining? Oh my gosh that sounds so fun, I want to go zip lining!
And just like that, I have a date for zip lining. I can't wait to see what she wears.
---
We stop at Dry Falls on the way back, so named for the walkway underneath where visitors can pass through untouched by the water. Bill, understandably shy of the stairs, waits on the walkway above while I pop down to see. Just head down right here, make a left around the corner, you can't miss it. Take your time, no rush. Seen it a hundred times myself.
Metal grid stairway, three steep flights. Narrow paved path into the ravine. You hear it before you see it. Feel it, too. That muggy, misty haze. Then the vista opens on a surprisingly impressive cascade of white foam. It's the first waterfall I've seen since the trip to Argentina with my dad.
The falls are pretty scarce of tourists, so while I hate making Bill wait, I linger, enjoying the spray and the solitude. Video for Terence, snapshots from every angle. This green though. I want to get it into my bloodstream.
Back upstairs Bill is admiring improvements that have been made: a new walkway running alongside the eastern end of the parking area, allowing for a nice view even this high above. We lean on the railing and look out. I tell him about Iguazu Falls, about the massive network of walkways running through the park, inches above the water. I try to impress him with the one fact I remember: Apparently when Eleanor Roosevelt saw them she said, 'Poor Niagra!'. He chuckles appreciatively.
I make a point of driving more slowly on the way home, so I can get a good look at the country club this time. Bill chats about the area, its history and the people who settled it. Hardscrabble, he calls them. Nothing grows easily up here. He points to the ropey green vines blanketing the cliffs we drive past. That's called kudzu. It's actually a weed. They brought it in to help shore up the bluffs but it ended up choking all the trees, killing them. I'm struck speechless at the perfection of this metaphor. Something that both supports and destroys that which it supports.
It's the second day of my visit.
Out of words
When my brother and I were kids, my dad would occasionally drag us down to the gulf coast of Florida to spend a few days of our summer vacation with relatives. These visits were awful. We hated Florida, with its flat, interminably boring stretches of highway, its unbearable humidity, its beaches crammed with condos full of the walking dead. Our grandmother was a miserable woman, spiteful and manipulative, so vicious to our mother that eventually she just stopped coming along. With one or two exceptions, our uncles and cousins were an equally nasty lot.
My mom had no living relations other than a couple of nephews in Brooklyn, so that was pretty much it for us. Those sojourns down south were our family reunions. Dreaded and dreadful. My parents divorced when I was ten, and by the time I was twelve, my brother had started down a road of crime that landed him in juvie - and then jail - almost constantly. The last time I saw my parents and brother in the same room was 1985.
The point of all this? Family is not my favorite f word. Family is not a thing I have known, for the better part of twenty years. Family is a feeling I had forgotten.
Then I went to Lake Burton.
I'm prone to sentimentality. I know this. I'm better about it than I used to be. I stop myself from infusing meaning unnecessarily into situations and relationships, from saddling them with undue pressure to fill some need in myself. I'm not a magical thinker. I hate magical thinking. But it was really, really hard not to feel like the time I spent in Georgia was the universe giving me something I missed out on, as a kid. It was really hard not to feel like a kid there. I'd send pictures to Mason, texting him excitedly about boating and swimming and zip lining, about my new friends and how welcome I felt in his uncle's home. I feel like my daughter's at summer camp, he'd joke. I'm so happy you're having a good time. I was afraid you'd be bored.
Are you kidding? I'm having the time of my life.
Mealtimes were when I felt it the most. A table set with flowers from the garden and wine from the cellar. Playfulness and good humor. The way I imagined it was supposed to be. Towards the end of my stay I made a game of steering the conversation to the subject of Mason's dad. I'd prompt Bill or Hannah as subtly as I could, then surreptitiously hit record on my phone so later I could compile and send Mason these remembrances of his father.
Hannah and Bill would talk about their sons, too, bringing them to life with boyhood anecdotes about hunting or fishing - and later, their adult misadventures. The things that made them who they were, beloved and difficult. The things that make them missed today.
What I'm having trouble expressing, what I've written into and then revised out of the above paragraphs half a dozen times is how, for the week I was at Lake Burton, I was made to feel like a member of this family. I'm not sure it's something I can easily explain, because it came through it little moments. Small kindnesses, gestures, exchanges. But I wrote some of them down, so I wouldn't forget.
My hosts got used to me slinking out of the house and down to the water at all hours, trying to see the lake from every cast of light. My afternoon walks began with much greater ambition than they ended with, though. Deflated by the heat I'd be home within the hour, sticky and thirsty. Mornings and early evenings proved much better for exploration. At the time I was afraid of being perceived rude, running out of the house all the time, but Bill later said it was nice that I kept myself busy, not needing to be entertained every minute. Indeed, the lake was entertainment enough. I'd plant myself on the roof of the boathouse, or the edge of an abandoned dock, and just sit. Watch and listen and think and breathe.
Despite it being high season, the lake was surprisingly quiet. Birdsong and insect buzzing occasionally interrupted by the shouts of children splashing somewhere down the shore. I took short videos of the lake's surface, or the waves lapping the docks, or the breeze in the trees overhead. I sent these to Terence and friends back home, timing them to arrive at rush hour downtown. Should you be having a stressful day, may I present tonight's episode of Lake TV...
We went into town a few times, for meals and drinks and to see the community. Bill was especially excited to show me The Laurel Bar, where he's had a wild night or two cutting it up with strangers as only an 87 year-old can. It's a cozy little spot. Wood-paneled walls, chandeliers blazing overhead, and deep sofas for lounging near the live music.
Woody came with us, and we three had a grand time telling tall tales over the cocktails. I learned about Woody's background in the shipping business, about the tornado that destroyed his first home on the lake, about his love of cooking and wine (I remember the two of us got unreasonably excited about how much we agree that most vegetables need only salt, pepper, and olive oil to be happy).
After a second round of drinks, Bill took stock of the scene, looking for mischief to get into. But the bar crowd was thin that night, and we decided to start trouble of our own back at the house. Bill produced three bottles of port, and we sat on the porch, sipping and laughing in the dark until late. I couldn't get over the fact that just feet from where we sat was the lake, deep and black, silent and still. The port was magnificent, a chocolate-cherry delight that clung to the inside of dessert glasses so tiny they'd barely fit a man's thumb. We passed the heavy, squat bottles across a red and white check vinyl tablecloth and I realized they'd probably been purchased years if not decades before. Saved for nights just like these.
On my way home from zip-lining I stopped in a farmer's market for supplies to make dinner - a hearty vegetable chowder I'd been making often enough back at home to be comfortable whipping it up in someone else's kitchen. Bill's a bit of a gourmet so I was keen to impress him with at least one meal before I left. It was Hannah's enthusiastic response that made my day, though. Meant the world when later she asked for the recipe.
The peaches at the market, though. Peaches for days and days.
One day there was a storm, and I spent several minutes edging along the railing of the porch, taking video of the rain pelting the lake. Positioning and repositioning my phone, trying to keep it dry but get the best angle. Bill looked up from his newspaper, laughing at my antics. I didn't know how to explain to him how intoxicating it all was to me, that I didn't want to forget a single sound or smell. After the storm subsided I grabbed an umbrella and walked around the corner to where the road recedes into a private drive, a place where the mountain comes down to meet the lake. The trees shed fat drops of water on my head, and the air tasted thick, like wet earth.
I thought of the years I spent living in the desert, hating the dry, scorching heat - a heat that withers and twists, forcing everything that grows into gnarled and dangerous shapes. I tipped my head back and looked at the canopy of green high above me, shimmering with rain and sunlight peeking through saturated branches. I remembered our yard in Michigan. And it was as if in this moment the dry years were pushed a little bit tighter together. Made a little less important, a little less powerful. Like they'd taken less from me than I remembered.
Bill has two dogs: a sweetheart of a labradoodle named Ziggy and a chubby, fiery little Papillon named Joey. They've got run of the house and a few different doggy doors that let them into the yard downstairs - from which they occasionally sneak to wander across the road and climb down to the boathouse. In the mornings Joey would plant himself at the edge of the porch, taking first watch, raising the alarm whenever anyone approached. Like the other Papillons I've known, he's ball crazy and terribly jealous. Hannah spoiled these little guys like nobody's business. They only had to sit and beg near the treat jar for her to indulge them several times a day. You know how there are dogs that act like pets, and dogs that act like kids? Yeah. Anyway, it was so nice to have something furry to cuddle on when I was missing Chaucer.
For every family story I was told, I was shown a dozen pictures to go with it. Framed photos filled every side table, and the shelves of several cabinets. Hannah or Bill would jump up to grab one of these. Here we go. This is Kerry right here, and his girlfriend. Several generations of history, of love and memories. At times I felt like a biographer, listening and seeing the story of this family unfolded for me in bits and pieces. Nothing secret, though it felt just as special as one.
Eventually Bill brought me downstairs, where he pulled out a carton containing a treasure of loose snapshots and memorabilia. He rifled through it, passing the more interesting photos to me, letting me piece together who and what and when. A wedding party: puffy-sleeved taffeta, hairspray, frosted lips. A portrait: graceful woman in a buttoned-up blouse smiling knowingly down the years between us. Mason's teenaged dad, leaning cockily against the hood of a roadster. This I take a picture of, texting it to him. I've always loved that picture, he says back. He looks like such a badass. I don't answer what I'm thinking, which is that they look identical, if not in feature then at least in attitude.
The lake is a series of whispered invitations. Narrow decks stretching out over the water. Stone-paved trails leading off into the woods. My fear of poison ivy and trespassing keep me mostly on the road though once in a while I venture off.
Is this your dock? I call to a man unloading groceries on his driveway.
Sure is, he nods.
Mind if I walk out on it, take a few pictures?
Walk on it, sit on it, dance on it, sleep on it. Whatever you want.
On Friday I drove out to Clemson, South Carolina, to meet some old friends of my dad's for lunch. It was an intensely emotional meeting that deserves its own post, if I can get around to it.
At any rate, I got back to Lake Burton that evening feeling deeply unsettled. I parked the car and tried to shake off the day before I went upstairs where Bill was baking, alone in the quiet house. He took one look at my face and knew I was upset. But I said something lighthearted, shrugging it off, and announced I was going for a quick walk before dinner. When I got back half an hour later Bill was waiting at the kitchen table for me, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Sit, he said. He looked me squarely in the eye and asked what happened in the gentlest, most fatherly way possible. And then he listened - just listened, until I was done.
Later that night I FaceTimed with Terence, sitting on the boathouse, far enough away from the house that no one could hear me cry. But my tears that night weren't sad; they were grateful. I tried to explain how parts of me were being put back into place, right side up this time, by my time at the lake, and with Bill. That the kindness and solicitousness he showed me as a matter of course - because he is a kind and loving person - were repairing things in me that I'd long since given up on repairing myself.
For dinner one night, Bill, Hannah and I drove to an Italian restaurant a few towns over. The drive was a nightmarish twist of switchbacks and narrow mountain roads, and I felt carsick almost immediately. Poor Bill felt terrible, and kept cursing himself for forgetting I don't fare well in the passenger seat. No no, I'm fine... I insisted, when the road opened up and I could see the horizon again. He assured me we were almost there, so I assured him I didn't need to take over driving. I hung my head out the window and took huge, gulping breaths of the sweet Georgia air.
By the time we got to restaurant Bill was furious at himself for putting me through such a rough ride, and I teased him by pretending to puke the second we got out of the car. He laughed, and I was perfectly fine within minutes. And I was really touched by his consideration. I love and miss my dad like crazy, I'd give almost anything to take one more road trip with him - but oh man, did he not give a damn about my tendency to get carsick. Not in the slightest. Sometimes I even think he had a sadistic streak about it.
The restaurant was a disaster of tinned tomato sauce and overcooked pasta served by an indifferent waitress. I don't even remember what I ordered. It was one of the nicest meals of my year so far.
And with that, I am once again out of words.
Fall 2015
late night arrival
The drive up from Atlanta is an easy, straight shot, but I’m watching the remaining minutes tick down on my GPS. So tired. Grab a Coke from a drive-thru. Is Pepsi okay? Dude, I don’t even know if we have soda in southern California anymore. There's a Whole Foods opening two blocks from my building next month, and good thing, because if anyone sees you buying regular chicken in DTLA these days you're written off as an environmental terrorist. So yeah, Pepsi's okay.
(I'm a little punchy from travel.)
Things start to look familiar, as much as they can in the dark. But these roads are snaky and long; I know one wrong turn and I'll be deep into someone's private driveway before I realize I'm off track. I know from my last visit that Google Maps is a bit wonky around here.
Twice I end up exactly as predicted: doing a three-point turn on a treacherously steep private road. I'm trying to stay calm but this is exactly why I didn't want to take a later flight. I hate driving at night. And rural driving at night? Shoot me now. Only not really, please don't. I'm getting off your property as quickly as possible, I promise.
The comedy of the situation hits me and I pull over to the text the friend who's to blame. The one who made me miss the red-eye last night and push my flight to this afternoon. We had this discussion, damn it. I don't want to show up at midnight, that's obnoxious, I'd said. Also stupid. It's really difficult to drive around there past sundown. I was laughed at. Okay, grandma.
I hate your guts right now, I text. I am so fucking lost. I take and send an ominous picture: my headlamps lighting up a few feet of dirt road and a patch of forest.
What happened to GPS?
IT'S A LAKE THERE ARE NO LIGHTS OR ROAD SIGNS
You shouldn't be driving at night in a place like that.
I just found Burt Reynold's body.
I heard you're a good swimmer.
The laugh chills me out. I can do this. I'm only praying Bill and Hannah haven't waited up for me. I feel like such a moron for coming so late already.
Finally, streets I recognize. Yes! I know the way from here. I relax enough to roll down the windows and start taking it in. Apple-crisp air, a whiff of dry smoke. Barely, just barely I can make out the colors on the trees.
I pull slowly into the driveway I can tell they've boxed their own cars into tightly, to leave me room. Peering up at the house, everything looks sleepy and quiet. Maybe they really did go to bed like I begged them to.
After stuffing the things that have spilled from them back into my bags, I quietly slither out the rental car door, bracing for the dogs' warning barks. They're quiet, though, and I'm encouraged. Maybe, just maybe, I can get my things out of the Jeep, across a (crunchy) leaf-strewn driveway, through a latched gate, up two flights of creaky stairs (and under the glare of a motion-activated security light), through a screen door and a sliding glass door - all of which has been left open in expectation of my arrival - without waking anyone up.
I will be...Ninja Ellie.
First, though, I take a minute to walk across the road and gaze breathlessly at the lake. Black-silver ripples. Heavy disc of a moon hanging above, giving it that seductive shimmer. Cold and beautiful and perfect. Too dark for pictures but I try anyway.
Okay. I said hello to Lake Burton. Now to sneak in unnoticed.
For the next several minutes I move through a painstakingly slow process of zipping, locking, unlocking, opening, reopening, turning off the left car interior light, turning off the right car interior light, and finally clutching my three bags as I tiptoe across the property and make a game of moving through the various barriers noiselessly. Like a game of Operation. And I win. I win! I get all the way upstairs and into the sun porch before anyone twigs to my entrance. And when they do, it's Kim, Bill and Hannah's son...because he has waited up for me.
It's almost 1am. He's on the couch, dead-eyed in front of the TV. He spots me through the window and waves. I can't decide if I'm crushed to have kept him up or just delighted to be greeted.
We hug hello. When he confesses to not having heard me a caffeinated surge of pride washes over me. "I was like a ninja out there, right??" I giggle like a maniac. Travel punchy like whoa. Joey, one of the dogs whose detection I avoided, sniffs Chaucer on my things. He wags excitedly, not even mad at me for outsmarting him.
Hilariously, Bill texts to ask where I am. At this point I am giddy over not having gotten the dogs started with my arrival. I text back, letting him know I'm here and safe. I can hear his phone go off when the message goes through; he's literally twenty feet away, downstairs. But the TV is on and I can hear he and Hannah are in bed. I don't want to intrude so I resist the urge to walk down a few steps and call hello to them.
So quiet didn't hear you come in...good night.
Like a ninja! I'll see you in the morning.
Then the big, amazing surprise: Kim has given me his room for my stay this time. He's temporarily moved to the basement, cozy enough but nothing like his own space, which is lakehouse quintessence. Oak-framed picture window, thick beamed ceiling, bookcases anchoring the walls and wildlife frozen in mid-flight/swim across them. And a queen-sized bed for me to snuggle down into, in this 45 degree weather. It's a grand room. A room that lives up to its surroundings. A room to write a novel in - or at least a blog post here and there, when excitement shoves sleep out of the picture.
It's okay though. Among his other acts of hostly consideration, Kim knows to make the coffee strong when I'm in town.
Buzzard Mountain Lodge
The best thing about hanging out with 80-somethings is their gift of perspective. Name a problem in your life - they've been through it. Think of the things you're anxious about on a daily basis. Money? Marriage? Children? Health? Chances are they've been there, done that. And if you're fortunate enough to be in the company of wise and warmhearted 80-somethings, you can probably get some good advice about those things. You only have to ask and listen and learn.
(The second best thing about hanging out with 80-somethings is that they DGAF about blogging or selfies or social media, and can carry on a conversation without interrupting it every five minutes to look at smart phone...but that's an axe to grind for another day.)
I'm in the company of three 80-somethings this week, since one of Hannah's three sisters is here visiting as well. Norma is another of Mason's aunts, and I've met her before at her home in Visalia. It was she who invited me to join Mason for Thanksgiving back in 2012, after my dad died; she's the reason I ever met Bill in the first place.
So that's Hannah and Bill, their son Kim, and Hannah's sister Norma. Plus two dogs and, it is suspected, a significant if dwindling population of seasonal fleas. Me being the easily-overstimulated, somewhat shy, homesick wuss that I occasionally am - that means lots of breaks.
I take these breaks in my room, or on the porch, or mostly, venturing around the lake. I know Bill's end of it by heart now, and the homes and driveways that run alongside. Everything's exactly the same except decked in the gorgeous golds and reds and oranges of fall foliage. I'm trying to take different pictures than on my last visit but it's hard not to shoot the familiar sights I wander past. I text Bill's friend and neighbor Woody a photo of his hammock, which is littered with dead leaves. Want me to rake your hammock for you?
Please do and enjoy the view until I get there. Take a nap for me. He's coming today (their lakehouse is he and his wife's second home) and word is Bill has blackmailed him into taking us out on the pontoon. I refuse to go unless we're accompanied by Woody's labradoodle Zoe and at least one bottle of wine, but something tells me these requirements won't pose a problem.
And I expect we'll have the water nearly to ourselves. There's been barely any boat traffic since I've got here. It's cold out there and it's really just the few perennial residents around these days, anyway. Which means I don't see a soul on my walks. Which makes my ridiculous selfie sessions much less embarrassing.
I lucked out with the weather. Clear blue skies the first day, and nearly eighty degrees. The sunshine set the trees alive with light, making them even more vibrant than I'd imagined. In the afternoon the wind picked up, and I was able to get some slow-motion video of leaves raining down one at a time. The second day was cloudy and chilly, so I had an excuse to wear my favorite parka. (And overcast skies always make for more forgiving portraits.) Bill jokes that his area of Lake Burton is the ghetto section, but he doesn't realize how ideal it is for photography. At one end there's a hair pin turn with a cluster of trees forming the perfect canopy overhead; at the other, by the marina, there's a narrow, quiet drive flush with color. Plus there aren't massive houses on huge plots blocking views of the water. "All those big estates have fancy names," he say. "Land's End and The Wilds and stuff like that. So I've decided I'm gonna call my house Buzzard Mountain Lodge."
My schedule is basically charge phone, explore, return to the house, hang out and talk/eat while my phone charges, then head back out for more exploring.
Hannah does her makeup at the kitchen table while I drink coffee and try (with futility) to get a cell phone signal so I can catch up on Instagram. "You're making me look bad," I complain. No makeup for this lazy visitor. I barely manage khakis and a nice sweater for dinner. "Well," she jokes, applying the same brand of mascara I use, "I don't want to scare the neighbors."
From the minute I emerge in the morning until I shuffle to bed Hannah plies me with everything she can think to. I am shown and re-shown stores of fruit, cereal, crackers. Assured I'm welcome to anything, anytime. Today she took me to a pantry off the dining room, and opened a low cabinet. "Looky here," she said. "Any kinda tea you want." She pulled out a few tins to read me their labels. Leafed through a box of assorted single-serve teas, naming them off. Pried the lid off some ginger peach for me to smell before she made a pitcher of it. It smelled like the night cream I wore years ago.
They all worry I don't eat enough, which is silly since I'm stuffing my face right in front of them. (LA keeps me healthy enough; when I'm on vacation all bets are off.) But I substitute coffee for breakfast, which is a most worrisome crime in their eyes. Most important meal of the day, everyone born before 1950 knows that. Plus I'm considered dead skinny by the older generation's standards. Though who hasn't had a grandparent fret over their thinness? I don't mind it. It feels like a kind of love.
Bill is like me: sensitive about his cooking. He watches to see how enthusiastically it is consumed; I do the same. And in me he's found the ultimate fan. I have genuinely loved every goddamn thing he's made. He's got a great taste for seasoning and a light touch on the burner. We're both meat lovers, too. When I wax effusive he grins gratefully. "Boy I tell you what," he teases. "These twisted sisters, they don't appreciate me one bit. No one ever compliments my hard work in the kitchen." The twisted sisters titter and Bill winks at me over the Bordeaux. They've been tittering over him for the better part of sixty years; of all the Back when I was ____ stories, I love the courtship ones best of all. Apparently when they were all in their twenties, he started inviting himself over for Sunday dinner, which turned into Friday dinners as well...then coming for meals almost every night. "I had to," he objects. "All my money went to pay my liquor bill." Another wink.
On Thursday he smoked ribs and I nearly made myself sick gorging on them. Homemade barbecue sauce, too, that he was afraid I wouldn't like. Honey and mustard and whiskey and other goodness whisked in a tall mason jar. Today I sat and watched him make a special loaf of gluten-free bread for his sister in law. Sift, measure, stir, pour into simple tin pans. Concentrating but relaxed; a ritual he respects and enjoys. I could watch it every day. When the loaf he makes for everyone else comes out too sour, he's quick to warn us. "You're gonna need a lotta butter," he says, as I reach for a slice.
"No way, I'm dipping it in the au gratin sauce." From scratch, not a box. Cheese and cream and milk and butter and boiled potatoes. Two heaping helpings. Yeah, I'm eating plenty.
Ziggy and Joey eat plenty, too, the scamps. You've never seen such spoiled little dogs. Tonight Hannah asked if she could clear my dessert dish. Vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberries and slivered almonds. "If you're finished I'm gonna give the rest to the dogs," she says.
"It's got Kahlua on it!"
"Oh that's okay," she laughs. "I don't mind if they get a little drunk."
They deserve it. Sweetest dogs ever. Joey the Papillon keeps guard outside my door at night and Ziggy, the cocker mix (Bill calls him a "Crapsalot"), greets me on the stairs when I come home. He also supervises my midnight snacking, sitting beside me as I nosh on the saltines and ginger snaps in the dark kitchen. Hannah, knowing my tendency to raid the fridge at ungodly hours, has left these out for me on the counter, along with peanut butter and cocoa.
The only thing sweeter, in fact, than the two little dogs is Bill's affection for them. They vie for his attention and his lap all day long, and he is unsparing with both. When we go for a leaf-peeping drive down to the end of the lake, Ziggy rides along in the backseat. His smile suggests he knows how lucky he is, to be here in this peaceful paradise.
I certainly do.
Sunday Dispatch
The fact that I've become close with my best friend's aunt's husband is strange and wonderful enough on its own, I think. One of those unexpected connections in life that keep it interesting. But there's an extra bit of coincidence that kicks things up another notch on the Well isn't that something scale, and it's this: both Bill and Hannah worked where I live, in downtown Los Angeles, decades before I was even born. They frequented places I do now, in 2015.
Hannah worked for the telephone company, both in Los Angeles and further north. You can hear the pride in her voice when she talks about it. From the multiple transfers she was granted to follow Bill as he career took off, it sounds like she was a well-appreciated employee. They tease one another about it now. Oh give me a break, says Bill, grinning at me when she pretends to be overcome by household duties. You haven't worked in ages. Hannah fires back: Well that's because we kept moving around. I transferred as many darn times as I could! Bill, more softly, reflecting: Yeah, but you raised my boys. That's the best thing you did.
As a kid, Bill shined shoes in Pershing Square - one of Chaucer's daily destinations. He lived in Boyle Heights, and a trip to Clifton's Cafeteria - a place I've been many times - was considered a fancy meal on the town. My mother used to dress me up like little Lord Fauntleroy, oh boy. I told him Clifton's recently underwent a massive, multimillion dollar renovation and reopened as a night club; two of its five floors have bars now. The ground floor cafeteria is restored to its former glory, too; I ate there with Kerry and Ross not a month ago. One of these days he's going to have to come visit me so we can go for some meatloaf and jello. And cocktails upstairs afterward, naturally.
Tonight Bill asked if I knew the old Sears building in Boyle Heights. I do; it's a famous landmark seen easily from the freeway. Terence and I would always comment on it, on our way to Whittier Narrows. It's nine stories tall, comprises over one million square feet, and has an interesting history involving Oscar de la Hoya's childhood (facts I Googled on the drive to Whittier Narrows). The full name of the building is the Sears, Roebuck & Company Mail Order Building, a mouthful that calls to mind flipping through catalogs as child, laying on the floor in my dad's den. There was no greater thrill than a package from Sears, circa 1980, in my home in St. Joseph.
Well, Bill used to work there. Back from the service, a fresh-faced twenty something, he got a job filling the exact sort of orders our parents used to place, pre-internet. Clothing, toys, appliances. He told me about the chute that ran down from the top floor to the basement. About how workers would scurry around, wrapping up dolls and bicycles on one floor, toasters and tools on another, and send them down the chute for packaging and shipping. Some of them - including Bill - even wore roller skates to get around quicker. We'd go whizzing around, every once in a while you'd plow into someone, though... He laughs, remembering.
You can't hear these stories and not feel an instinctive longing for simpler, sweeter times. Then you remember that no time is ever really simple, or all that sweet. Still.
Anyway, that was my favorite story from today. There was another fantastic one, told over wine and cookies after dinner, involving a broken ankle and a cake pan...but I probably wouldn't get any more wine and cookies if I told it.
I can hear the rain starting up. We knew it was coming this week, and it'll probably be going strong until I leave Wednesday. It'll probably cancel the boat trip with Woody, and maybe also the full moon night hike he and his wife invited me to join them on. But I can't help loving it. I've taken more leaf-peeping photos and videos than I could ever want, and seen every inch of the lake I can get to on foot. Some quiet time in the house reading will be nice.
I almost forgot: tonight we're having Thanksgiving dinner. Yesterday morning when I heard Bill ask Kim to bring up a turkey from the downstairs freezer so he could brine it, my jaw hit the floor. I knew exactly what he was up to. Bill, I scolded. You didn't. Please say you didn't get a turkey for my sake. I stopped there, just thinking the rest to myself. Because you know I'm not going to have much of a Thanksgiving this year. You know Terence will be with his family and my usual Thanksgiving crew will be gone. That's when he and everyone started claiming they cook a turkeys all the time. Except this evening there'll also be stuffing and cranberries, and Woody's bringing a pumpkin pie. So I'm not buying a bit of it. Not one bit. These people can pretend their hearts aren't as big as they are, but I'm no fool.
The magnificent Maple
I met the most magnificent maple. She lives down at the marina, right at the water's edge. In the summer she watches boaters come and go. Styrofoam coolers and cranked-up stereos. Water skis, life jackets, and excited shouts. In the winter, she sees snow silence the mountains around a still, steel-blue lake. In the spring she bears witness to winter's promises having been kept yet again. Rebirth and renewal, bloom and blossom. But I met her in the fall. And in the fall she herself is the thing to see.
The maple I met understands the inevitability of change. She meets it head on, with patience and grace. The wind chills her limbs and the sun dries her sap, and she blushes in anticipation of her impending bareness. Her blushes are a fiery riot of red and orange; they'll take your breath away. She captivated me from the moment I saw her, and I returned every day to watch her transformation.
I stood underneath her branches, close to her trunk, and looked up. I heard whispers passing between her and the sky, and the sun winked at me as if he too knew their secrets. A beetle cleaved to a knot in her bark, unbothered by what she was going through. Nature's apathy, writ tiny. At my feet were the leaves she'd shivered off, all sizes, their pigment faded to various degrees. Some as wide as my palm, and wine dark. Some no bigger than silver dollars, and peach, with pale pink tips. I couldn't help myself; I gathered them up by the handful. Each seemed more perfect than the last, and I piled them on top of one another, carefully aligning their maraschino cherry stems.
I carried these pieces of her away with me. They were still pretty, still smooth and pliable with the life she'd given them - but they were fast becoming memories to her, and I knew she wouldn't mind my taking what she'd already lost. Besides, I wanted to try and make something beautiful with them. It's always worth trying, I think, to make something beautiful of the things we lose.
The rain Came
Well, the rain came. Misty floating pillows of it, directionless and soft. Unthreatening, it promised not to interfere with anyone's plans. Then I guess it changed its mind, or just got tired of holding its own weight, and the tin roof above me became a drum. In the pitch black bedroom I pulled up the covers and listened. Each drop was a glass marble surrendered by a sky too full to keep them. Hundreds of marbles fell, then thousands, until the wind stepped in and picked up a slingshot, and the marbles hit with such ferocity I expected to see moonlight piercing through at any moment.
The rain loosened the soil on the cliff above the house, shaking down small stones and clumps of earth. I had the sensation of being buried alive, and with each crumbling patter I pictured faceless mourners tossing handfuls of dirt onto a casket.
It woke me up periodically, from feverish dreams that either made no sense or too much of it, I'm not sure which. One saw Terence embracing me lightly from behind, turning my cheek to kiss me with an adroitness I hadn't remembered ever knowing. He evaporated, leaving me melting and unsure, and standing at the edge of a shallow pond. Someone dared me to wade to the center of it. And when I did, I found a circle of my friends scowling at me in disappointment. I didn't know what I'd done; I only knew I'd confirmed their worst suspicions.
We had a sort of Thanksgiving. The family, myself, and three neighbors whom I tried terribly hard to impress. They must wonder who the hell I am, I thought uncharitably of myself - of them. What gives with this stranger, this interloper from across the country? She is not blood. Where is her own family?
Woody, of course, knows the answers to those questions now, and probably wouldn't ever have asked them anyway. He and his wife (tennis buff, no nonsense but quick to laugh) brought spaghetti squash, sea-salt dark chocolate caramels, a pumpkin pie the size of a manhole cover, and a bottle of Sauternes. The Sauternes really deserves its own post, honey bright and smooth and lip-licking sweet. It was my first, which made it special to me. And it was the first Sauternes Bill has had in decades, which made it special to him. He and Hannah used to order it as a young couple in California - I believe he said on trips to Mendocino. His face when he spoke of it - laughing about how little he knew of wines back then - briefly lost all of those decades. Woody, too, had a Sauternes story to tell. A group of nine friends, gambling one day on a $900 bottle they had to split, well, nine ways. $100 per man, for about a sip. Worth every penny.
Today the rain abandoned all restraint, laughing at me, spitting in my face as I stubbornly rounded up the last day's worth of photos. The wind turned Hannah's umbrella into a sail, and I nearly toppled into the water trying to take a selfie at the end of the dock.
I didn't have a great day today. Sleep has evaded me all week for a combination of reasons, twisting my nerves into a bundle that threatened to snap at the slightest provocation. And provocation came tonight, in the form of a nasty burn running the length of my forearm. I was making vegetable chowder (Hannah liked it so much the last time I made it) and I stupidly used a short-handled cup to ladle some of it into the blender. My elbow grazed the lip of the pot and I jumped, splashing piping hot soup onto myself, my favorite navy cashmere sweater, and the floor.
Everyone swarmed to help me. To clean up my mess, to treat my burn, to fetch me painkillers. Their solicitousness sent me sailing over the edge, and I had to brush tears - humiliating, childish tears - from my cheeks so I could see to finish my cooking. At the table the meal was subdued, heavy with the tone I'd set with my overreaction, and it wasn't long before Bill's gentle prying unleashed the truth underneath the ostensible reason for my tears. I was exhausted, anxious about returning home, lonely for friends who wouldn't be there when I got back, and generally in a storm of self-doubt.
Not exactly the note I wanted to leave on. I mean, I didn't say all that, though the subject of my breakup did come up momentarily. But they could see I was fraught with worry and sleeplessness, and Bill ordered me to bed early.
That was seven hours ago; only one of which I slept for.
Oh god, here it comes again. I wish you could hear it. Great gusting sheets, surging suddenly just now as if desperate to drown out my bleating self-pity. Or maybe gently wash it away. Maybe the rain is a friend tonight.
Anyway, friend or foe, it turned the lake and its surroundings into a crayon box today. It wicked the leaves down from trees that weren't ready to release them; they were still too bright, too alive. They lay stunned on the ground - a wet, waxy palette of goldenrod and ochre, strawberry and chartreuse. I feel guilty filtering pictures of them, like I'm adding salt to food that's already plenty seasoned. So only the tiniest bit, to make sure their vibrancy comes through loud and clear.
The sound of the rain, though - that you'll have to imagine. And now, for me, sleep - though maybe I'll have to imagine that.
