A lovely respite in the afternoon.
1 comment on An Outdoor Cafe, An Aperol Spritz, And Postcards
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Cicadas have fascinated me since childhood. I remember one summer as a little girl, when the sound of cicadas was deafening, their hum incessant, and the tangible feel of their vibration in the air.
I remember hearing adults complain about the cicadas. The noise. The dead carcasses. The crunch. I remember thinking, “How lucky to witness this! To be alive when they decide to surface!” Cicadas are cyclical insects, emerging from underground every 13 or 17 years, essentially to mate.
And I always called them “chee-cah-dahs.” Which is not the correct pronunciation. But it’s what I was drawn to call them.
They’re back this year. I see them on my walks. I hear them humming, hoping to attract a mate. I marvel at their orange beady eyes. I adore their wide transparent wings. I mentioned how I love when they appear to a friend, and they looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “You mean “see kay dahs”?
Yes, I guess I do. 🙂
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. ❤
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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.
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August Wilson‘s “Two Trains Running” was in town for one night at the Diana Wortham theater in downtown Asheville. It was a spectacular performance from The Acting Company. August Wilson is a phenomenal writer. His plays make you think, and then think some more.
Maybe a spoiler? Read on…
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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?
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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
