Random Car Memories

A Boy Scout camping trip to Kerr Lake, me and Dad sleeping in the reclining seats of the car because the tent got flooded, a blue 1974 Austin Marina which sounds cool and exotic and British, and while it was actually British, it was a P.O.S. that would not go over 45 mph and the EGR warning light stayed on all the time, and I don't think we ever did figure out what EGR meant.

Me and Mom running around the car to switch seats at a stop sign with a couple cars behind us, because I was just learning how to drive and it was a 1977 Chevy Nova with a three-speed manual and the stop sign was at the top of a hill (the one at Albemarle and Hobbs) and I was scared I was going to roll back into the car behind me.

My first car, a 1977 Datsun B210 Honeybee, which is just as cool as it sounds, and which was bright yellow (of course!) and which got handed down to my older sister (how does that work?) and which I later found out she drove on the beach in Florida, but Mom and Dad didn't know she was in Florida, and then it broke down on the beach and I think I need to talk to Sis to find out the rest of the story.

Mom looking cute next to my Honda.

My second car, a 1978 Honda Civic hatchback, which actually is probably my favorite car I've ever owned, and although it was pretty sluggish off the line, could corner like a demon and could handle snowy roads like nobody's business, and even if you drove off into a snow drift, as long as you had a couple of big guys riding with you, you could pretty much lift it out of the snow drift back onto the road if, for example, you were in Boone visiting friends and doing stupid shit.

My best friend's 1976 Trans Am with a big bird on the hood and a 455 under, absolutely the coolest car ever made.

Dad's 1977 F150 Balloon
Chase Vehicle, a story of it's own

My parent's 1969 Plymouth Satellite station wagon, a battleship of a car, with a back seat and a "way-back" (the cargo area behind the back seat) with a chrome roof rack which you would never need because you could carry an entire living room suite inside, the car we drove on beach vacations and visits to Grandma, Rhonda and I riding in the "way-back" making sure none of the other's stuff crossed the invisible line down the middle.

My Dad's 1977 Datsun F10 two-door station wagon, which was probably HIS favorite car ever, but which several noted Auto magazines have identified as one of the ugliest cars ever (2nd to the AMC Pacer), yellow with a vinyl wood grain decal down each side, and which he let me drive to school on the first day I had my license, and man I thought I was cool! but then the pretty girl from Band wouldn't go out to lunch with me so I went by myself, isn't that sad?

Chronicle of the Hunt 2014

[Because "chronicle" sounds more impressive than "story"]

When people ask what kind of shooting stick I use, I'm always a bit embarrassed to admit it's a 20-gauge single shot. Most people hunt deer with a high-powered rifle, which gives them probably three times the range. A good friend jokes that I should get a gun that will shoot further than I can spit. But today I put another deer on the ground, my third. It was a big doe (in my eyes, anyway) and fulfills my goal of getting one deer each year. It will be enough for plenty of green bean casseroles, chili soups and home-made pizzas.

My choice was largely driven by economics and simplicity. Even new, it's a sub-$150 gun (mine was less, from a pawn shop). I've got one shot, I want it to count, and I won't pull the trigger if I'm in doubt. I also love that I can break it open, making it obviously safe, no fiddling or searching for a safety button. Perfect for a newbie like me. Yes, it's got limited range, but my hunting grounds are thickly wooded. I've also come to learn how stand placement can make a big difference. I've gotten comfortable with it; holding, aiming and firing are natural, automatic. All that being said, I am not prepared to rule out graduating to something more substantial at some point.

A Visit to Greensboro or All the News that's not on Facebook

Kate and I took an early October trip to the Greensboro area, staying at Hagan-Stone, a little gem of a park and campground near Pleasant Garden. The leaves had the lightest dusting of Autumn. Fleece jackets and fuzzy sweaters added to a feeling of pleasant melancholy.

We had come mostly to visit my Mom, Dad and sister and her family, but also for a short get-a-away and some hiking through the park.

Mom and Dad are well into their elder years, but the kind of elder years we'd all be so lucky to have, with a nice home, places to go and good friends to see. Yet there is the tension between gratefulness for what you have and grief over what's been lost.

We treasure our time together, as well as our weekly phone conversations, realizing that our allotment of minutes for chatting and visiting is not as inifinite as it once seemed. We are all aware of that, and are wise enough to relish and savor them.

Sister married a sweet man, who also became a loving and involved father. Two of their brood have fledged, and we heard news of their adventures. We let all the "dog cousins" loose in the backyard, and they romped around joyously, then we sat down to break bread and reminisce. We see them far too infrequently, Kate and I caught up in our daily "priorities" which we so often get completely wrong.

Kate and I enjoyed our strolls through Hagan-Stone Park, the old farm ponds glassy in the morning, reflecting the traces of fall. There were brief moments of magic when all felt right and time seemed to stop. We posted pictures on Facebook showing the grand time we had.

But the Facebook posts did not include details of how our hiking stride has slowed, miles covered are fewer, and sore joints more common. We left out anxiety about the fragility of aging parents. We failed to report about the stresses of our jobs, that we were so happy to escape for a brief time.

We each have our share of daily struggles. Some share those freely with friends and Facebook, others hold theirs close. Mine include frequent spells of back soreness and tightness, plus a general sense that my life somehow doesn't measure up, combined with the expectation that lightening will strike at any moment. I am probably a classic candidate for at least a glass of wine each evening, if not something a bit stronger.

We also each meet with tragedy sooner or later. Some of us bear more than others. Likely most of you have borne more than me, and I'm not sure what grace or good fortune accounts for that. It's oft been said that God won't give us more than we can bear, but I wonder if those who experience violence, starvation and torture would agree.

There's a balance, isn't there, between soaking up the pleasures of the moment and acknowledging the grief we feel over opportunity lost, injuries and injustices, both received and given.

But instead of wine, I drink up forest strolls with Kate, conversations with Mom and Dad, visits with my dear sister and her sweet family, and relaxing in the camper on a sunny fall afternoon, the stresses of the world forgotten if only for a moment.

Stocking an RV so it's Always Ready for a Quick Getaway

If you are pondering the purchase of an RV, you may be wondering how much you will use it. My wife and I bought a used travel trailer a year ago. We've found that a key to getting maximum use is being able to "get out of town" in a hurry. We have developed a system where we can be fully packed and hooked up in well under two hours. There are five major components to that system:

My "Quite Fantastic" Mother

Few people would disagree that Mom's in general are pretty damn cool. I've known quite a few good ones, including my sister, mother-in-law, a dear neighbor when we lived in Raleigh, and a sweet woman named Jane who, in addition to raising two great sons of her own, did quite a bit of mothering to me during those stressful teen years.

My own mom deserves very high praise as well. On Mother's Day there are quite a few "Best Mom in the World" accolades given via greeting card, coffee mug and Facebook post. Since it seems that title has already been assigned, mine will have to settle for the "Quite Fantastic Mother" award. Below I've listed a few of the items from her nomination form.

She gave me great freedom to explore. I explored the woods and creeks near my home, and went on great sledding adventures with friends. I traveled miles from home on my 10-speed. If she ever worried about me, she hid it well.

She bought me books.

She cooked dinner for us each night, a real sit down meal with meat and veggies. And by "each night" I mean:  every. single. night. Bonus points.

She bought me comic books. Bonus points.

The love she gave me was deep, gentle and constant. It filled me with a peace and confidence that even today helps me navigate this troubled world.

I spent some time seeing doctors in hospitals as a child. She turned situations that could have been filled with boredom, pain and fear into a semi-pleasant experience. That feat probably deserves a medal of its own.

A couple of times during my late teens and early twenties she bought me round-trip plane tickets to Boston. It might be an exaggeration to say those trips saved my life. In any case, they were trips that took me to a place of profound love and acceptance that deeply shifted my perspective on life. AND I got to see the Boston Aquarium.

She carried crates of toys back and forth between me and my best friend's house, mostly without complaint (well, there was the one time she got just a tiny bit upset because they wouldn't fit in the back of the Pinto, but we can blame that on Dad for buying a Pinto [Dad, what were you thinking?]).

She bought my sister a pony. And by "pony" I mean an actual real live pony. Triple bonus points.

She decorated my room in red, white and blue wallpaper that I picked out myself. Quadruple bonus points.

Every once in a while she bought me Fruit Loops. Awesome!

She never once complained about the loud rock music emanating from my bedroom.

She sewed patches on the knees of my Toughskins.

Probably should have just started with the Toughskins thing and stopped there, because that's obviously all the qualifications she needs. Definitely a Quite Fantastic mother.

Caring for a forest

In February of 2002, after a two year search, Kate and I became part owners (along with a bank) of a small parcel of forest in Piedmont North Carolina.

The day we took possession was exciting, but also a bit strange. My own landownership experience had been limited to the quarter acre suburban lot. Like Native Americans negotiating with the European settlers, we wondered how a forest could be owned. Did our deed include the turtles? The water flowing through? Even now I sometimes get boggled by it's relative vastness. Regardless, our aim was to take care of the property so it would be in decent shape for whoever came along after.

You might think a forest wouldn't need much care. You might think nature, with her grand design and methods, would just as soon not be tinkered with. There is evidence, however, that humans have been interacting with and influencing the North American landscape for millennia. The "natural state" of a forest is actually dependent upon thoughtful human manipulation. It's almost like humans were meant to interact with the natural world.

These are the things we have done so far to care for the little parcel on which we live.

We took a walk - Being longtime trail hikers, we began to explore the property on foot, using the existing network of logging roads. We became more familiar with the features, topography, trees, plants and animals. Four-wheelers are nice, and I covet one deeply, but a walking pace is the right pace for careful observation.

We built a bridge - The property is dissected by a stream which, during heavy rains is un-crossable. A footbridge provided safe and convenient access to the entire property at all times.

We built another bridge - Our first bridge, an elegant structure made from pine logs and branches, eventually began to rot away. Footbridge 2.0 is made of treated lumber and has lasted well.

We built a couple trails - We began to create footpaths to places the logging roads did not reach. These paths gave us access to interesting features such as an old spring house, wildflower communities, and small waterfalls on the stream. Here's how we do it:  Building a Path Through the Forest

We took a few more hikes.

We got advice from smart people - Natural resource professionals from government agencies are a tremendously valuable resource. They even wrote us a detailed plan that spells out management tasks. We also sought advice from other landowners and private consultants.

We cut down some trees - Like carrot seedlings, pine trees need to be thinned. It benefits the trees, the wildlife, and other native plants. We hired a crew to do this tough work (a Forest Service program covered part of the expense). In some areas we had so many pine trees that they were only four feet apart, spacing which would have severely limited their future growth and health.

We cut down some more trees - We missed a few the first time.

We started a fire - Fire is tremendously beneficial to the loblolly pine forest ecosystem (and for some other forest types as well). It opens up the understory which otherwise can grow thick with sweetgums and non-native invasive plants. It encourages the growth of wildflowers and reduces the risk of a damaging wildfire. It's also fun as hell to watch! As with the thinning, we got financial help from the Forest Service.

We hiked some more.

We started another fire - You can burn as often as every three years, but it's kind of a production and you have to get professional help, so we've only done it twice.

We invited friends and family over to hike, hunt and explore - Sharing the property with others is one of the things we love most.

We cut down a bunch more trees - This time I actually thinned about 5 acres by myself with a chainsaw, a little at a time, over the winter. Later, I took a nap.

We built a couple more trails - Including logging roads, firebreaks and footpaths, we now have about 3 miles of trails.

We harvested firewood and deer - The amount we harvest actually has very little impact one way or the other on the overall health of our forest. Yet, the fact that some small portion of our subsistence comes from this forest connects us to it all the more intimately.

We kept on hiking - We observed the changes through the seasons and from year to year. We continued to learn more about the unique features of the property. We watched the wildflowers bloom and the deer run and the trees grow.

We took a few pictures - I almost never go for a walk without my camera. I have an extensive (if informal) years-long pictorial record of plant species, seasonal changes, forest growth, and more.

We sprayed a LOT of that supposedly nasty chemical that's poisoning the earth - Even if that were true (it's not), it is vitally important to control brush and weeds along the trails which can harbor disease carrying ticks, and annoying chiggers. Poison ivy is also a real nuisance. All my spraying is done with a backpack sprayer, which allows me to make very targeted applications, removing unwanted plants and conserving desirable ones such as native wildflowers and ferns.

We killed exotic invasive plants - We have done battle with ligustrum, kudzu, ailanthus, and paulownia, any of which can overtake an area, completely displacing native vegetation and destroying animal habitat. Cutting them back is next to useless. Herbicide treatment is essential.

We took lots and lots more hikes.

What's next?

There is a myth or misconception that forests can achieve some "natural state" if only we would leave them alone. In fact, however, forests are ever changing and we will continue to manage ours. In the next year or so we hope to thin again, cutting the weaker trees and leaving the strong ones to grow (this time the harvested trees will go to a paper mill). I hope we have a few more burns in our future. And in another couple decades we may clearcut a few acres.

Clearcuts have an image problem, largely I think due to unbridled and unsustainable logging of old growth forests in decades past (and no doubt still occurring in certain parts of the world). But I've come to believe they have a role to play. Across any given landscape, we need mature forests, young ones, clearings, and everything between. Different plants and animals prefer different habitats, so having diversity across the landscape is crucial. A final harvest also provides the opportunity to grow a new forest.

We do love this little patch of woods. Yes, one day many of the existing trees will become toilet paper and 2x4's. But our hope is that the land will produce fresh air, clean water and wildlife habitat for centuries to come, as well as paths for people to drink it all in.

NOTES:
1.  Here are the natural resource agencies that can assist forest landowners. I should have included the actual links to their websites, but you can use that Google thing...

• NC Forest Service
• NC Wildlife Resources Commission
• Soil and Water Conservation District
• USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service
• NC Cooperative Extension

2. My knowledge is really limited to forests in Piedmont North Carolina in the USA, and I would not claim to know whether any of this applies to forests in other locations.

The Dreadful Day Pepper Ran Away (Spoiler: We Found Him!)

Late one Saturday afternoon, Pepper ran away.

We had rescued Pepper from the Warren County Animal Ark just two weeks before. He is an exceptionally sweet mutt, about 25 pounds, with some Schipperke lineage according to the shelter and vet.

We had just stepped outside for an evening stroll and noticed a deer in the front yard. Pepper was excited, naturally. Frustrated by the leash, he began to make vertical leaps, spinning in the air like a gymnast. Adorable and amazing!

What we didn't realize (and which we would chastise ourselves about for hours later) is that his leash was attached to the ring holding his tags, instead of the leash attachment point on the collar. The thin wire pulled open from the force of his leaps. Pepper was off.

Pepper took off like a rocket down our long driveway toward the deer. The deer dodged into the woods, but Pepper continued up the driveway toward the road, having caught some scent or trail. I followed at a full run, but knew I had little hope of catching up.

We searched until dark, our spirits falling by the minute. I drove the neighborhood while Kate walked the trails through the woods. That evening, Kate strolled through the yard every hour or so calling his name. I left some lights on after we went to bed, hoping they would be a beacon for the lost pup. Neither of us slept well, and I got up a few times to peak out the front door.

The next morning, Pepper was still AWOL.

Kate and I were dejected. We of course rehashed all the things we should have done to keep from losing him in the first place. We cried. I chastised myself for crying over a silly lost dog, when others in the world face illness, violence, hunger, abuse. We cried some more. I wondered if he had decided that life as a house dog just wasn't his thing. I wondered why he had left us, if maybe he didn't really love us. We had tried so hard to do something good, rescuing a dog from possible death to give him a loving home and good care. We ached over what tragedy may have befallen him, alone to face coyotes, cars, big stray dogs.

We did all the things you're supposed to do when you lose a dog. I e-mailed the neighbors. We posted flyers. We searched some more. We made plans to check with the local shelters in the days to come. It felt cold and mechanical, as we were nearly drained of hope.

I told myself that there were a million other dogs that needed homes, and we would adopt and love another. I still felt hollow.

And then we found him.

Daisy and I were walking a distant trail on the property, which seemed a long shot since he had run fast and far in the opposite direction. But we hadn't searched there yet, it felt like I was maybe doing something useful, and it passed the time. I had been calling his name and whistling every couple of minutes, but not with much enthusiasm. Kate was driving the neighborhood.

He was practically next to me before I even saw him, wet from an evening in the rain. He was clearly ecstatic to have found us, and my heart melted.

I grabbed him by the scruff, and dragons could not have torn him away. I quickly secured him with a leash, although I think he would have gladly followed me home without it.

I called Kate, got the answering machine, screamed and sang the news, elated.

There are many joys far greater than finding a lost dog. There are far worse tragedies than losing one. There are untold numbers of dogs who live in shelters, on chains, on the streets, hungry or beaten. And that tragic fact pales when considering that there are 842 million hungry people in the world. We live in an age when so many lives are affected by war, violence, illness, and it is staggeringly mind numbing. Our best efforts to do good fall tragically short, or are met with complete failure.

Yet these are the things we can do; give a couple of dogs a good home, lend a hand to a neighbor, offer a shoulder to a grieving friend, join a group that fights for justice. These are the things we can do. And one day, I believe we will find that, in spite of the seeming futility of our efforts, it all made a difference.

 

See what I did there? I got another pet picture posted on the internet.