There isn’t a flower I love more than peonies. They are unnecessarily beautiful. Not just beautiful, but over the top so. They could be half as beautiful as they are, and still worthy of praise. The blooms open gently; the petals large and fragile, threatening to drop at any moment. The thing I love the most, though, is that you have to appreciate peonies when they decide to bloom. Those blooms don’t last long, and they are painfully beautiful. I ache to savor their beauty longer than the time they are present. They demand you admire them in the few hours they’re here each year. They don’t require much care; they almost thrive on neglect. They are their own plant.
In these parts, they generally don’t bloom until May. I recently staked the plants, anticipating the beauty that would appear soon. I left for Florida on Friday for a dear friend’s birthday. The plants were healthy. Lots of greenery and tight, oh so tight, buds. I returned home on Tuesday afternoon (still April!) and to my surprise and delight, many of the plants were in full bloom! I didn’t even bring my luggage in; I immediately went from plant to plant, marveling at the fullness of each bloom, inhaling the intoxicating scent, witnessing the tragic beauty that would soon be gone.
I carefully clipped each of the dozens of downed daffodils. The heavy rains, which we needed so desperately, had pummeled the blossoms into the ground. The oozy goo dripped from each stem as I snipped it. I tried, unsuccessfully, to direct the ooze to the ground and away from my hands and bare legs. Once inside, I carefully placed each stem in a vase, arranging by height and by color. The smell was intoxicating; such sweetness after such destruction.
I needed to get away. Historically, this time of year is a hard few weeks. The weeks leading up to Dad’s passing. It’s the same every year. I become teary, and agitated, and a sense of heaviness descends.
I drove on the highway, to a 4-lane state road, to a 2-lane state road, then parked at the trailhead. I applied sunscreen, doffed my baseball cap, and started walking. I remembered how much he loved the New River. I remembered how much he loved the outdoors. I saw sons hiking with their fathers and I cried silent tears behind my sunglasses. I wanted to be hiking with my father.
I remember the moment, almost six years to the day, when he hugged me and thanked me for being there with him and Mom. I remember my arms around him, shocked at how thin and frail he was. I remember thinking it was nothing, of course I was there, and we’d have many more days ahead of us.
I wish that had been true.
As I walked along the river, I talked to Dad. I told him I missed him as tears ran down my cheeks. I wished I could discuss current events with him, the state of the world. I wished I could talk to him about plantings, and what I’m thinking of doing with the raised beds this year. I think about how I moved back to NC eight years ago, anticipating Mom’s decline and ultimate death, and expecting Dad and I to spend many years together. I mourn the future that never came to pass.
I have inherited the love of the mountains from Dad. I walk along the Laurel River and marvel at its beauty. At its resilience. At how it is thriving after Helene. I say a silent prayer, thankful for what I’ve inherited.
An acquaintance from San Francisco realized we both now lived in Asheville. We reconnected, and she invited me to join her at a newly formed vegan supper club. What an absolute delight! We rolled our own sushi. We sampled sake. We shared memories of Hurricane Helene. We attempted origami. And we created community. ❤
Four of us met in San Francisco in the late ’90s. Over the years, one by one we left the city, until none of us lived there anymore. We continued to see each other, in pairs, in trios, and all four together, over the years. We’d end each reunion by saying, “This was a great idea!” Recently we convened in Detroit, a city where none of us had spent time. When I told folks I was going to Detroit in March, I received raised eyebrows, followed by the question, “Why?” Fair question, it was cold. Really cold. And a bit rainy/icy. And glorious.
We made the most of our 54 hours in the city. We enjoyed Detroit pizza (yum! still craving that crisp crust and delicious sauce). We walked along the river. We viewed Canada across the way (though couldn’t walk there yet; bridge to be completed soon). We wandered through the GM headquarters (delightful and unexpected!). Saw so. much. art. Outside and in. And Art Deco buildings. And Henry Ford’s Museum of Innovation. And so many delicious meals. Highly recommend Detroit.
This link was forwarded to me, and it’s fun to make a guess about where in the world you might be. It reminds me of the Carmen Sandiego game from years ago! And when you place the pin on the map correctly within a certain range, confetti flies. Who doesn’t love confetti?
Our local Art Museum is sponsoring an exhibit by artists who live and work in the areas affected by Hurricane Helene. I was overjoyed to see so many people at the opening. Events that bring people together are so important now. One of my favorite pieces from the evening was by Jon-Delia Freeman, a digital photograph titled “Pine Sap (Tears of Helene), 2024.” It was a reminder of all the tears that have been shed since September, and how we are all interconnected: people, animals, spirits, and the land.
“Pine Sap (Tears of Helene), 2024” Digital Photograph by Jon-Delia Freeman
During October, much of my time was spent among fallen trees. Picking up branches that had fallen in my yard, chainsawing trees that had fallen to the ground, chopping bucked trees into firewood, stacking firewood to allow it to season. There was one log that was particularly difficult to split. I used a maul, I used a wedge, I used an axe. And when it finally opened, this amazingly beautiful pattern presented itself. Even among the destruction, there is beauty.
Pattern in a split log in a tree downed by Hurricane Helene
I subscribe to Roxanne Gay’s The Audacity newsletter on Substack. It’s fabulous. Each newsletter contains links to thought provoking articles. And my favorite newsletter is the Emerging Writer Series, in which a new writer’s work is featured. I cherish the 15-20 minutes I’ve spent reading a new writer’s work. Sign up – you won’t regret it.
I was 16. I had had my driver’s license for mere months. I was driving to my sister-in-law’s house, across town, shortly after she had given birth to my nephew. The rain pelted down, a semi tractor trailer cut in front of me, I hit the brakes while also attempting to swerve out of the way. I learned quickly this was not a good combination. I remember spiraling out of control, maybe I shut my eyes, I thought I hit something, and then I was still. I got out of my car, saw I had no damage, realized I was okay, and I began to think maybe I imagined all of this.
“So… did I hit your car?” I asked the middle aged man standing outside of his brand new BMW with the paper tags. Then I looked down. I had sliced his car from front bumper to rear. I started crying. “I’m so… I’m so sorry.” He asked me if I was okay. I told him I was. He asked to see my license and insurance. I showed him, and he said, “I’m on the way to the airport. I need to get going. I know your Dad, and will reach out to him. Are you sure you’re okay?” I assured him I was and apologized profusely. He told me not to worry and to take care.
Today I was engrossed in making Samin Nosrat’s big lasagna for the ten guests I was expecting at 6 pm. The doorbell rang at 4 pm and I assumed it was a delivery person notifying me I had a package. I opened the door to two upset young people. They kept apologizing. “I’m so sorry; I’m so sorry…” They had hit my car parked in front of my house; the rear tire was severed, brake fluid leaking on the road, the car pushed onto the grassy median.
I remembered all those years ago when I was sixteen and frightened. I took a deep breath. “Are you okay? Let’s take a look.” I surveyed the damage, and asked if they could start their car to move it out of the street. They did, and the young lady had already called the police. My initial thought was that I was so grateful they had told me they had hit my car. Maybe they could have hit and run? I told them I appreciated them letting me know what had happened and invited them inside out of the nearly freezing weather. I gave them water and tried to make conversation to distract them from the shock of what had happened. They had come to Asheville from Charlotte to get tattoos. After a few moments of silence, I awkwardly asked, “So, how do you decide what to get a tattoo of?” And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like a 100-year old granny. They graciously answered, talking about favorite artists, designs seen on the internet, etc.
The police arrived quite a while later, and told them their car would have to be towed; it wasn’t drivable. We stood outside for a long time until the officer gave us a copy of his report, and said he’d wait for the tow company. I asked if we could wait inside, and he said yes. They told me they’d called their brother, who lived in Charlotte, to come pick them up. It would be at least 2.5 hours before he arrived.
I excused myself to continue to make lasagna and prepare for guests. I invited them to make themselves at home. He helped me set the table and center the long tablecloth over the leaves. He offered to fill the water glasses as I cleaned the kitchen. The guests arrived and I made introductions as if everyone was supposed to be there.
Folks piled small plates with appetizers and we chatted in the living room. After a bit, everyone came to the kitchen to make a plate and join around the table. We scooched closer together to make room for the two extra guests, and brought out folding chairs. Over dinner we talked about tv shows, dating norms, family dynamics, relationship norms. As we were clearing the dinner dishes to get ready for dessert, they told me their ride had arrived. He hugged me tight, and said this was like a real life Hallmark movie. He couldn’t have known that was the largest compliment he could have given. Hallmark movies were Mom’s favorites. Because no matter what the plot, things worked out in the end. And today worked out.
LoriLoo 