Snapshot 2: Convertibles

Lately, I've had visions of myself in a convertible.  I had one 36 years ago, when I bought a brand new burgundy MGB.  I couldn't drive a stick, but I saw myself in the "B" anyway, with its tiny windshield, three wipers, and a picnic basket strapped on the little trunk's luggage rack as I sped through the British countryside for a rendezvous.  Didn't seem to matter much to me that I had no idea how to drive a standard, that I was living in northern West Virginia at the time, and had no boyfriend with whom to picnic.

It was after earning my masters degree and taking off for a new life in Wheeling (is there some irony in the name?) that the romantic images started coming.  So a friend's husband drove my new car off the lot and out onto farmland back roads where there was very little traffic, and proceeded to give me driving lessons.   I learned quickly and soon had the top down and the wind whipping my hair.  I was free.  This relationship with my little car lasted approximately two years, until I had moved for a new job, and my new husband decided the car wasn't practical, so we sold it.  Big mistake.  I feel now that I had given up something beyond the car -- I had also lost my sense of entitlement to the freedom and excitement that it had provided me.

So flash forward these many years and now, once again, I want a convertible.  Since we live a great part of the year on the west coast of Florida, with some back lanes following the contours of the  Gulf of Mexico and island hopping along the Intracoastal Waterway, and the rest of the year back in West Virginia with curving roads and mountain vistas, what better time in my life for a convertible, the wind, and the freedom?

My husband, the car nut, needed little encouragement to begin a determined  search, exhausting to me, for every deal to be had, perusing newspaper ads, car lots, and online sites.  Our neighbor, Herb, was of a mind that I belonged in a Mustang, a notion that agreed with Greg, my friend, Cindy, and my Uncle Clayton in Tampa who insisted that I "buy American!"  But Greg also was hoping a BMW would be in my future.   We even test drove one that had so many bells and whistles that I couldn't for the life of me feel anything but overwhelmed, and perhaps a bit undeserving, a sentiment that my friend, Roy, vehemently refuted.  Nevertheless, I told Greg that I'd know my car when I saw it, just as I had immediately identified and bonded with my last car, a glossy black Bonneville.  The man is a sweetheart, but he was having a hard time being patient for me to come around.

Another complication was that a previously nagging sporadic shimmy had us believing that, at over 160,000 miles, the old Pontiac couldn't hold on much longer, so we were thinking we'd be forced into a new car (to us) anyway.  Lo and behold, a local mechanic Greg has great confidence in came through for us, finding and correcting a fairly simple spark plug problem, and now the old Bonne drives like a top.  So no rush, right?  Another thing is that Greg and I have owned several Bonnevilles, and we love the look and feel of them.  Well, this next part is a tad bit peculiar . . .   (Then, again, I am certain that my dates with serendipity haven't expired:  see an earlier post of that notion.)

A couple of Mondays ago, after delivering a table to Mrs. Bartholomew, Cindy and I had lunch on the deck of Sloppy Joes on Treasure Island.  Afterwards, driving onto St. Pete Beach, Cindy exclaimed "There's your car!"  I turned to look at a sweet silver-blue Pontiac G6 convertible with a "for sale" sign on its door.  The peculiar part is this:  just as Cindy yelled, and whipped her SUV around the corner to backtrack to the car, I was listening to a cell phone message from Greg telling me that if we're nearby, we should stop to look at a Pontiac convertible an individual was displaying for sale at St. Pete Beach.  Yep.  I was getting a double serving of "buy me."

Long story short:  Greg and I met the owner that same afternoon, when we discovered the car had a hardtop, a feature we love but had felt was out of our price range.  This one was stylishly low and it slipped easily into the trunk;  we took a test drive, shook hands afterwards, and drove her home.  The owner, Tom, followed us, received a check in good faith, and waved 'bye.  There we stood in front of our garage with my convertible, and an oddly calm certainty that this is the one I was meant to have.

This one suits me.

Watching kite-boarders from my "new" Pontiac G 6

Snapshot 1: Mrs. Bartholomew

As evidenced by most of my posts, I'm striving to live in the moment, to not delay enjoying life until some cloudy future;  I am instead determined to make time for family, friends, music, art, sightseeing, yes, the obvious things, but also those details, perhaps surprises, of life that previously I might otherwise have overlooked.

This past Monday, my bud, Cindy, and I carried a blond round table with bamboo legs from Cindy's sister's shop into the home of Mrs. Bartholomew.  A petite widow --her head haloed in pink plastic haircurlers-- she gently moved about her small second-floor flat which was bulging with knicknacks and the clutter of life:  lotion bottles, stacks of mail, odds and ends spilling across the kitchen counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the dining area.  Her lit Christmas tree was standing at the living room window, and strings of lights, tacked two feet from the ceiling, circled the whole room of flower-wallpapered walls.  Cotton "snow" adorned sideboards with angels and a manger.  As she watched us scan the space, she smiled and admitted, "I've been decorating."

The table we delivered was to replace her mahogany stained rectangular dining table that was a bit large and overpowering for her small living/dining room.  Once we carried our table through the front door, past the kitchen and sat it in its place, she softly entoned, "Oh dear, it is quite low, isn't it?"  Cindy offered that it would be no problem to cancel the sale.  But, pulling up a dining chair, Mrs. Bartholomew sat down, laid her hands on the table top, thought a moment, and then suggested, somewhat tentatively, that, despite being lower than a traditional dining table, it might indeed work.  I could see uncertainty behind her eyes, and so I offered that it looked sweet in her space, perhaps suggesting a proper height for teatime or coffee.  She responded, barely above a British whisper, "I do like my tea."

It was as we said goodbye, and were headed back down the hallway to the elevator, I looked back, smiled and waved to her as she stood at her open door, that I noticed her bright pink polished toenails peaking out from her slippers.

October Weekend

Nature's gifts are simple pleasures, meditations, and if we are open to them, they allow us to enjoy all of the senses, returning us to a time not dominated by television, cell phones, and computers.  On an autumn weekend with our friends, Billy and Shari, we were attuned to each other and happily sharing this time, enjoying the mountain splendor along our drive from our homes in Fayetteville, eastward into Pocahontas and Greenbrier counties in West Virginia, and the rolling countryside that borders Virginia.



This weekend was almost a full month after our visit with our Florida friends, and the mountains were ablaze with color.  Along the way, the views took our collective breath -- with riotous russet, ruby, rose, gold, mustard, orange, salmon, and rich dark evergreen, brilliance that was laughing and rolling across the mountains and the valley bowls.  We leaned out of the windows madly snapping pictures in the October sunlight of colors that could never really be captured.


An extra perk is that where we were headed had no cell or Internet service, and at our cabin, the television sat quietly, its only purpose appearing to be a vehicle for dvds, which we didn't bring and weren't interested in watching.



Billy and Shari, both National Park Rangers, have lived in some of the most beautiful country in the United States, from the wilds of Alaska to the wilds of Key West, and were eager to see more of West Virginia.

Billy and Shari at Watoga's lake

Our first stop was at Lewisburg for TOOT (not a drug, but it oughta be illegal!).  Taste of Our Town is a yearly fall downtown event where main shopping streets are open only to foot traffic, and folks are seen surrendering to the sights and aromas of wonderful cuisine of the local restaurants and caterers:  and even I, a vegetarian, found at one table, plump and tender spinach ravioli in a tomato/cream sauce, and further down the street at another table, a soft tortilla wrap, bulging with avocado, cucumber, and lettuce, smothered in wasabi mayonnaise-- the experience was crunchy and freshly delicious with a bite.

While Greg, Billy, and Shari tested locally-produced beers at the outdoor biergarten, I headed across the street, bypassed tables from two West Virginia wineries (can you believe it?), to enter a favorite pub/restaurant of mine, Del Sol, for their signature Bloody Mary.  And while there, I sat at the crowded bar to watch WVU's first score, a field goal, against the University of Connecticut.  Back outside, beside the biergarten, we stood near a flatbed trailer which was parked at the sidewalk bordering the parklike grounds surrounding Carnegie Hall (the Carnegie family built this one, too).  The trailer served as the town event's stage for musical performances, including one by a Fayetteville friend.

When we had been sated, on we traveled to the cabin that another Fayetteville friend had graciously loaned us for the weekend;  it sits in the woods near the Greenbrier River and the tiny village of Seebert, itself just outside the entrance to my favorite West Virginia state park, Watoga.  The cabin was very comfortable with two bedrooms, a living/dining room dominated by an 8-foot wide river rock fireplace, hardwood floors, a tiled modern kitchen and bath.  The rustic decor included interior wood doors constructed with Z-bracing and black metal latches.  The cabin sat on a large piece of land, I'd guess well over an acre;  and at the back was a storage garage;  behind it, we found a rack with canoes and kayaks.  The land was ringed by forest, and a narrow gravel drive lead to other cabins on their own acreage.

After we unloaded our bikes and carried in our supplies and clothes, Greg disappeared.  I walked outside onto the wrap-around porch and down into the back yard to find him overseeing the slow progress of a  5-1/2 foot black snake which had been sunning himself in the yard.  Greg was guiding him, by encroaching on his space slowly and kindly, holding aloft a 6-foot long branch, watching him slide through the grass to the edge of the property.  I watched it curl around a tree and slip from sight into the undergrowth. I was surprisingly calm, merely curious.  This is a new experience for me in that I would normally have shrieked and run.  Further evidence of my transition occurred later.  That night, while we were sipping beverages seated at the fire pit, an 8-inch garter snake slithered from under my camp chair and away from us.  I watched with quiet interest.  Perhaps nature has finally calmed me into becoming one with it?

But let's back up a few hours, for between our arrival and our nighttime chat, we had driven to Marlinton, stood in line for an hour at the Marlinton Opera House (built in 1910)  to nab tickets to a Leon Redbone concert for that same evening.  We discovered when we entered that the seats weren't assigned, so we walked straight to the front, and found four seats one row from the stage.   What luck!  And the concert was a hoot, with only Mr. Redbone, his guitar, and a terrific player on an antique upright piano.  We felt as if we'd magically whisked back in time to Vaudeville, the house completely full with what we figured was about 500 happy attendees.

The next morning we celebrated with mimosas, gratefully cuddled in the living room in front of the fire which was chasing away the chill of the previous night.  But the sun was climbing, the chill was lifting and we were ready to be out to enjoy the day (no jackets required), biking on the Greenbrier River Rail Trail, where we passed occasional cabins with porches and decks overlooking the lazy river.

Riding on the Greenbrier Rail Trail

It was a good day!

Cheese and crackers were extra tasty shared on a great boulder at the river's edge;  breathing deeply of the forest and river, we watched fish swim at our feet with the trees' reflection of gold and russet in the sparkling water.  Our weekend was much too short.

Greenbrier River

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A Fall Visit

Our home in West Virginia affords us opportunities, within a very short drive, to experience intense and earthy beauty, much of it the natural kind, but also much of it crafted by the hands of artisans.

Early fall color

I so enjoy seeing West Virginia from the eyes of others, and when our friends, Jim and Cindy, came for a visit, their first to the state, Greg and I determined to show them as much as possible without overwhelming or tiring them, in the few days they were with us.  It was in mid-September when they landed at Huntington's Tri-State airport following a flight of just under two hours from their home in St. Petersburg, Florida.  (Huntington sits at the western border of our state, moments away from Ohio and Kentucky, and just under a two-hour drive from our home in Fayetteville.) They were looking forward to seeing us, but they were also hoping to find fall in its glory, but, unfortunately, the mountains had barely begun their transformation, except for just a hint of gold and rose at some of the higher elevations.

Still, we were determined to introduce them to beautiful things, starting in Huntington.  After a nod to the lovely campus of Marshall, and poking our noses into a couple of downtown shops, we shoved open the door to enter Huntington Prime, our son's restaurant which occupies the first floor of the historic West Virginia Building on Fourth Avenue. This is also the tallest building in Huntington, and Michael showed Jim and Cindy his soon-to-open dining space on the top, penthouse, floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows providing an eagle's view of much of the city, campus and the Ohio River.  Next was an early dinner, supremely delicious, accompanied by Michael's eagerness to please, and by his attentive staff.

Then on to our home -- from Huntington, leaving the Ohio River, next to the Kanawha, and then up the curving mountains to the plateau where humidity is at bay and the temperatures are usually about five degrees cooler than in the valley below.  Our drive began in Cabell County, and then through the counties of Putnam and Kanawha, before arriving at our destination, the county seat of Fayette.

Along the way, we pointed in the direction of a world-famous glass plant, Blenko;  further, into South Charleston, we indicated the once busy chemical plants that had earned the area (in my lifetime) of having been the chemical center of the world;  and then, finally, past the gold dome of the state capitol.

From Charleston, we enjoyed the great Kanawha River, with its breathtaking falls at Glen Ferris, passing the photogenic stately old stage coach inn that is still in business.  Then on to the mouth of the Kanawha, where the Gauley River meets the New; we passed the grand Cathedral Falls, and then we began the climb up the mountain.

Side note:  Our state was born of the Civil War, separating from Virginia in 1863 with the signature of Abraham Lincoln.  Fayetteville had seen much action in battles;  there are soldiers in unmarked graves, an earthen foundation of a fort, still many relics to be found, such as belt buckles, buttons, mini balls, and the like.  Even our own home sits where once was a gun emplacement, and if you look out at the road that passes by our front yard, you just might see through the mists of time, the horses, cannons, infantry, and supply wagons trundle up and settle into position here beside the house.

In no particular order, here are some of the things we shared:

We took our friends on a local tour -- including the upward view, as well as the crossing of, the western hemisphere's longest steel arch bridge, the site of our yearly "Bridge Day," the state's largest single-day
festival.  Crazy people from all over the world congregate on the New River Gorge Bridge to throw themselves off and fall almost 900 feet to the sandy bar at the edge of the New River.  I don't care if they are wearing parachutes and it's perfectly legal that one day of the year.  They're nuts.

New River Gorge Bridge

Close to home, we kept Jim and Cindy busy:  they enjoyed seeing the most photographed grist mill in the country at our Babcock State Park.

Babcock State Park Grist Mill

And, from the deck of a whitewater rafting company's restaurant, we looked through the pale early evening  into the New River Gorge, where only a few brave souls were still testing themselves in the rapids below.

Touring Beckley's Exhibition Coal Mine

One of our breakfasts was provided by some of the Greenbrier Resort's trained chefs at Tamarack (the state's showpiece visitor center).   We saw the "islands in the sky" from the top of the slopes at Snowshoe Ski Resort Village, and marveled at the mega-dishes at Greenbank's National Radio Observatory.  On this trip, Jim and Cindy went from the heights of the ski resort to the depths of a coal mine . . .




But one of their favorite things was relaxing in our living room, looking through the bay window, and taking pictures of our chipmunks with their bulging jowls.  These little guys were on a mission to store every last morsel of our birdseed, an activity which has earned them all names of vacuum cleaners.

Kirby, or his cousin, Hoover (can't tell them apart)

For such a short visit, we, like the chipmunks, crammed in as much as possible in a short time.  Guess our friends had to rest up quite a bit after this.

Serendipity All Over the Place

My posts have described the values of travel, and one of my favorite discoveries is that all I need to do to receive some wonderful gifts is keep my eyes open.  Of course, discoveries are everywhere and I don't need to travel to foreign lands in order to make them.  And often, I can enjoy discoveries vicariously, through the eyes of my family and friends.  When I travel, I am more focused in the moment and not preoccupied with bills to pay or errands to run, so, the signals are clearer, not jumbled up against daily living.  Traveling, whether far from home or near, then, becomes a form of meditation.

Earlier I related a wonderful trip that included a visit to Siena, Italy, and the moving ceremony in the square, celebrating the return from Lebanon of Tuscan paratroopers.  Well, from Siena, Greg and I traveled by train to a much smaller Tuscan hill town.  The train deposited us at the station down below in Camucia, a small town about two miles from our destination.  We waited there for a local bus to take us the rest of the way.  At the train station we had met a lovely Michigan couple, John and Pat,  retired educators who joined us for coffee at a shop near the bus stop.   We continued getting acquainted while the bus climbed the hill through the gate and into the old town where it deposited us at a small square.  From there we separated to walk to our hotel, an old monastery (again with the church hotels!).  Because it was early evening, the reception office was closed, but on the door, someone had left a note telling us and another family which rooms we had been assigned.  

As in Siena, the hotel was very old;  although our room was chilly and spartan, it was clean, with twin beds and crucifixes.  We were satisfied with our accommodations once again, especially when we saw the killer view from our arched window.  Our hotel was perched at the edge of the hill and the valley stretched out below us, facing away from the town, and into the countryside.  I've seen paintings with such views!

Our window

View from our hotel window

The next day was actually cold, but it didn't chill our enthusiasm.  We were in Cortona!  Under the Tuscan Sun!  (although, not a very warm one)  While exploring the tight streets and finding so many hidden passageways, steps, tiny shops and cafes, we ran into fellow travelers, John and Pat.  Yes, we were all having quite a lovely day, and yes, we were cold!

Then, wait, what is that sound?  Trumpets were sounding a fanfare, drums were beating . . . no, it couldn't be another parade of Sienese paratroopers!  Were they following us?  Then, the pedestrians in our little street stepped back and revealed young people in costume blowing long-necked horns;  we saw drummers, flag-bearers, dignitaries in costume.





Something really cool was happening!  Next, burly men appeared, carrying old heavy crossbows (ballesteros) on their shoulder.  The parade gathered in a square, this one named Piazza Signorelli - once again, dignitaries at chairs, flag bearers, musicians, all gathered, and the ensuing crossbow competition began.  Just as I felt with the Sienese celebration, I was so grateful that the town had provided me (ME!) this wonderful entertainment.  How did they know that I'd just arrived?

The targets are in the background -hope nobody comes out of the door!

After we watched the contest for some time, I needed to get warm, so I left Greg, who was too enthralled with it all, and stepped into a little bar-cafe that faced the square.   Just inside, hanging on the wall to the immediate right-hand side of the door was a small poster of Uga, the George bulldog.  Found out the bartender's son is studying engineering there.  Small world.  Go Dogs.

A Writer's Prayer

(Here's something I've been working on;  I hope that you like it!)



Spirit within, embrace all that I am.
Direct my thoughts, speak to me in this space
that I may have the words to enter the heart,
delight, inspire, or open the world,
and feel the grace.

Hear me, oh my soul.
Let the drums beat the heartsong for me to say.
Give me wings to fly above the clouds to look,
where I may gaze back, in night or light of day,
down to the rolling sea, swelling and pulsing,
and to the slow-flowing river and the singing brook.

Find my way upstream to the bank where the wise one sits
watching his thoughts skim in and out.
Or I'll slide down sunbeams, point my pony for the sunset,
then turn my attention about.

With the eagle, I'll swoop and soar,
feel the sunlight on my face, the breath of life in my hair,
and then sky-dance in the moonlight.
I'll back-kick through thunder, twist and roll in your wind.
Then return again to where the mighty oaks bend.

Let me bask in no limits, no fear of the storm.
If you'll let me stretch back,
find the sunlight once more.
That I may breathe in sweet pine, languid fields of soft grass,
and watch bees buzzing as I secretly pass.

Make me an earth explorer:
I'll shrink to a child's secret fairy
to wriggle into the warm soil, find seeds with promise,
and hidden gems I'll carry.
I'll wink and swirl among creatures at play
in lucent white sand or claret red clay.

I'll travel where few have thought to go,
and calling forth songs of my heart,
up to the tops of mountains to start
to join my voice with heaven that sings.
If you'd give me fins, feathers, or wings,
to birth in this life more magical things.

Aunt Anna's Transition

This is September 21, 2011, approaching the one-month passing of my dear aunt.  So, now I'd like to celebrate transitions, to recognize that closing doors are indeed doors, portals to new experiences.  Aunt Anna passed away on Tuesday, August 23, at 5:05 pm, and Friday, August 26, the family began the formal process of saying farewell, remembering her life well-lived, as she touched ours so profoundly.

The funeral home's "visiting" room where we gathered was far larger than was needed, for most of those attending were family.  My aunt has outlived most of her friends from the garden club, church, and community.   It's been many years since Uncle Clayton sold his last boat and withdrew their membership from the yacht club.  During the visitation, the grown children of Aunt Anna, of her sisters and brother, my dad, were busily catching up since many of us live several states apart, and as usual, have busy lives with new retirement for some, grown children, and for many, a wallet full of pictures and stories of grandchildren.  We could hear around the room, "We have let so much time go by" and "It's so good to see you."

And, of course, we fondly reminisced.  One of my memories brought smiles:  Auntie Anna's mobility challenges of the most recent years had her spending most of her time whizzing around her house's first floor in a wheelchair.  Greg and I enjoyed watching her in her kitchen, sometimes from a vantage point in the tv room looking back through the door to see her busily foot-pulling her chair back and forth.  Greg and I agreed she brought to mind a carnival duck-shoot, and she was the duck, only she would be singing as she came in and out of view of the kitchen door on her way to the kitchen sink or back across to the laundry room.

As one of my dad's four sisters, she carried "the gene" as do I:  we love to eat out.  We look forward to it and we plan our day around it.   And for meals at home, she had enough of her old world shopping attitude from her parents to feel the need to visit Publix daily where the staff all knew her by name.  It was serious business to sniff the canteloupe, and closely eye the pork chops.  Once or twice she told me how to select eggplant by whether its bottom had a recessed dimple, indicating the female, or a flat end, the male (if I remember correctly, I believe the better one has the flat end because the eggplant has fewer seeds, and is therefore less bitter.  Although, it seems to me, that equating bitterness with being female is counterproductive.  So, let's just forget that for now . . .).  

Saturday at 2 pm we gathered once again, this time at Tampa's Christ the King Catholic Church in its sleekly modern chapel, where the early afternoon sunlight streamed through turquoise, blue, and green stained glass windows, and onto the pale blond pews.  Following the brief service, including Mass, we were led, with three police-car escorts, to the graveyard several miles away for our final farewell before Anna was interred in a third floor crypt.  At age 92, Uncle Clayton held up splendidly and joined us at his home for a traditional Lebanese feast provided by Byblos, a local restaurant.  The rest of the afternoon, into the early evening, we stayed together, holding each other in the combined love of family and funny stories, until exhaustion set us on our way.

Now I can feel Aunt Anna's warming presence, as I have often felt that of my two wonderful parents.  And even though I can't call her on the phone or visit with her in her kitchen, I know that her spirit is near, alive and well.