This was my birthday present to myself, fresh from my Virginia-canvassing-and-family trip, and amped up–only a week later–by democracy’s powerful showing in the November 4 elections.
Notice I didn’t say Democrats (though they did well, and I’m glad). Nine months in to this presidency, people on all sides of politics–including no politics at all!–are starting to coalesce around the basic idea that things should work. And democracy, as Churchill famously said in 1947, is “the worst form of Government…except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.…” [ellipses added for emphasis]
In other words, for things to work (fairness, food, airplanes–that sorta thing), we need democracy. And when you look at election results more focused on immediate outcome than on party, here are some promising signs:
Maine anti-mail voting measure loses
Progressive DAs in Philly and NYC win
Colorado funds free school meals and SNAP support with taxes on the rich
Detroit elects first woman mayor
Cincinnati rejects JD Vance’s brother after endorsement
GOP Redistricting in Kansas failed
Charlotte approves transit tax
Maine passes gun control
Turnout in blue district US House election in Texas higher than 2024 Pres (thanks to Common Power for this compilation)
See what I mean? I have a lot of company in thinking, the IDEA of democracy is having a moment right now. And for democracy to work, we need all hands on deck.
“Wait a minute,” I can hear you saying. “I loathe phone-banking, and I’m donating all I can to things like food banks and my church. And now you want me to do take on ‘democracy’ too? I am SO not that person.”
Au contraire. I maintain that if you are looking out for vulnerable people; if you are protecting green spaces or animals; if you are reading to kids, or making art to share, or donating to organizations that multiply those values, you ARE a democracy standard-bearer.
I mean–don’t forget (or underestimate!) voting! Do all you can to keep your loved ones from feeling that voting’s not worth it. Point them to this book if they need a little inspiration…
I’m giving this book to everyone who’ll take it!
On my walk today I stopped to make a roadside bouquet. November in Washington State = pretty limited wildflowers. But the low-rent, multicolor assemblage I collected reminded me, there’s so many ways to be a flower!
You can be bright, demure, prickly, robust, delicate, complex or simple–and you can still call it democracy. Just do SOMETHING, keep doing it, and keep talking about it.
As Joyce Vance says, we’re in this together. And as Gretchen Wing says, “For things to work, we need democracy.”
What are some of your ways of participating? Anything new, anything especially challenging or rewarding, or both? Please share as many as you feel like.
I know–Quakely isn’t a word, but it fits the Paul Simon reference better than the actual word, which is Quakerly. Which is what My Sister The School is.
I can’t possibly capture the entire, joyous 3-day anniversary celebration in one blog post, and I won’t try. What I do want to capture, briefly: how true that rag-tag ol’ Quaker school, started 60 years ago by 6 people (two of them my parents) in order to prove to the State of North Carolina that yes, people of all colors and backgrounds could learn and grow together with more happiness and grace than those who were separated by race…
My folks–Peter & Martha Klopfer, in the middle–kicking off a Founders’ Panel with some quiet “settling in”
…that school abides, true to its roots.If you don’t know what I mean by “roots,” take another look at that panel of 4 folks up there. Longtime influential Principal Don Wells (left) and longtime influential teacher Thomas Patterson (right) are dressed as one might expect from panelists, as is my mom. But Dad? He’s dressed for a track workout. Because that’s just who he is. And the school is what it is.
This creek separates Middle School from Upper. And I was overjoyed to see it still hold balls and frisbees, just as it did back in the early 1970s.
Like a number of my fellow “oldies,” I’d worried, in recent years, that CFS was getting too big for its britches. It has sports teams now–with uniforms and everything! And tennis courts. And a performing arts center. At our humble old school?
But throughout my weekend, spending days with decades-old friends and going back to my folks’ farm across the pond every night, I rejoiced in the hanging-in-there-ness of the whole place.
Like Raj, the Last Equine Standing at my folks’ Tierreich Farm…(which will one day go to the school)…
Age 37! And he can still canter!!
…and my dad, who uses the golf cart to get to his walking workout at the new CFS track, but makes his dog get her workout on the way there (just as me & my sisters used to get ours–OK, minus the leash!)…
Good girl. Good boy.
…and Mom, still getting hers by running, at age ALMOST-90!
You’ve outrun me, Mom. I had to give up running for my knees 6 years ago!
Quakers don’t tend to live by tenets, but if they did, #1 would be Simplicity. What you see is what you get. But keep striving for truth, which is constantly revealed. Don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t assume you have it all sewn up because you’ve operated successfully for 60 year. Sit down, be quiet, listen…
These are (mountain) laurels. Don’t rest on them. But do smell them & take their picture!
…and who knows? You might age as gracefully and thoughtfully as my sister the school. That’s what I’m aiming for!
Next up on Wing’s World: New England and New Scotland (Nova Scotia)!Thanks for ridin’ along.
That’s Fino on the left, Raj on the right. They’re all that remains of the small herd that’s resided at Tierreich Farm in Durham, NC–a.k.a., the place where I was born & raised–for the last 60+ years.
In fact, “they” aren’t even “they” any more. Since I took that photo last month, Fino passed away, at 28. That’s a good age for a horse. Amazingly, surviving Brown Boy Raj is still kickin’ at AGE 37.
Who would’ve guessed such a nondescript, scrawny little guy could endure into what are usually known as Donkey’s Years?
Especially since Stevie, World’s Cutest Ass, passed away last fall–at 37!
My point is, you DON’T expect superlatives from scrawny little horses. Nor from Durham, North Carolina. It’s a humble kind of place. This was especially noticeable after flying there directly from our sojourn amidst the bright blue waterfalls of La Huasteca, in Mexico.
The Mate and I go back to visit our old lives (the place where we met in 1977 and fell in love a couple of years later) every March. To see my Amazing Mom…
almost 90!
…my equally Amazing Dad…
…seen here doing his 3 laps with his walker & The Mate. Dad’s almost 95.
NC-style BBQ, hushpuppies, slaw, greens, okra…you get the picture!
Oh, and since the semi-finals (which Carolina made it to before falling to That Team That Shall Not Be Named Duke) were on Pi Day…
Happy 3/14, and Go Heels!
But I realize I haven’t explained about the Grey Girls. Here they are, resting up with Dad after his walk.
That’s Bela on the left, Senta on the right. Norwegian Elkhounds, with a German-American.
During our 9 days in NC, The Mate and I helped romp the Grey Girls, patted the Brown Boys, cheered for the Heels, and hung out with my folks, eating (humble) pie.
Including this: what you get when you use purple potatoes for a Shepherd’s Pie!
Note: those potholders, above, came from La Huasteca. Using them in my mom’s kitchen felt surreal, like…”Where we really just there?”
Aquí
Granted, the NC woods are not THAT, especially before spring takes hold. But they hold a special, humble grip on my heart.
and on my…nostrils?
I’m undyingly grateful for our viaje Mexicano. But even more so to be able to come “home,” year after year, to this.
Somebody say spring?
Extra note: you may have noticed many of these photos are weirdly small. WordPress suddenly started doing this, and none of the articles I’ve read to fix it have helped. If you understand WordPress and think you can help me keep my photos large, please email me at gretchen.wing@gmail.com.
No, scratch that. I’m writing this BECAUSE it’s Election Eve in America. And even though I went back to my home state of NC a couple of weeks ago largely for political reasons, I’m feeling the need tonight to celebrate a bunch of non-political stuff from my time there.
Herewith, in no particular order: WONDERFUL THINGS IN NORTH CAROLINA.
Red leaves in October. We do have fall color, here in Washington State: gold, yellow, and, uh, yellow-gold. Not red.
Maples!Dogwoods! OK, you get the idea. I miss red.
2. Rolled ice cream. What the heck is rolled ice cream? is what I asked when one of my fellow canvassers in Greenville started raving about it. So I had to find out.
First, they pour your choice of flavored syrup + mix-ins onto a super-cooled surface.Next they add cream…chop and stir……flatten and spread to the width of that circle, and then–voila!–use that spatula to scrape curls…of ice cream into rolls of yum, with toppings! Didn’t get the proprietors’ names, but I was so impressed with their delicious innovation. Look them up in Greenville, NC!
3. NC-style BBQ. This place in Greenville is such an institution, the road is named after it.
Turns out eastern NC “cue” is about as good as the Triangle’s…
…but those weird-shaped hushpuppies got NOTHING on Allen & Son’s in Pittsboro.
I came to Pitt County, in eastern North Carolina, to ask questions of folks who hadn’t yet voted.
Specifically: Greenville, where the Tar River meanders, in no hurry to be anywhere
“What are the top issues on your mind and heart, heading into this election? Tell me more about that.”
“Do you agree that the economy works better when everyone has access to opportunity?”
“Have you heard of Josh Stein? He’s running for governor.”
In four days of canvassing, I had probably 75 doorstep conversations: most short; some dispiriting, more uplifting. But in the process, I came to feel that my home state was actually canvassing me…ringing my doorbell, asking me these questions.
“What does it mean to be from a place?”
“How much of a Southerner are you, really?”
A: enough of a Southerner to recognize cotton; not enough of one to realize how much grows in my home state!
I combined this canvassing trip to NC with visiting my parents and my three high school besties, in Durham—the wealthier, more educated center of the state. But once I said goodbye to my dear ones, I was 100% in the zone with my blue-state teammates from Common Power (if you want to get involved w/ them yourself, now’s the time! Click here) in flat, cotton-fielded Greenville—a place as new to me as it was to my non-Southern team.
Seriously: was all that cotton here all this time? How come I never noticed it while driving to the beach in the 1970s? Answer: I probably didn’t recognize it w/o the white fluffy stuff.
Common Power’s model is to team with local organizations and become their worker bees. Our org was Advance Carolina,
…and our liaison was Ms. Danisha.
…or you can just call her Ms. Powerhouse
We rotated carloads of door-knocking teams each day. Here’s mine from my second day, taking our lunch break:
The guy who offered to take our picture cheerfully told us he didn’t think a woman was able to lead the country. Sigh.
Even though we were talking mostly to registered Democrats, we ran into some bummers. Bummer #1: Donald Trump came to town, to rally at Eastern Carolina U.
His merch tables were all over town.
Those folks sure like their merch!
Bummer #2: young Black men who told us, A) I don’t believe voting matters; B) God’s in charge anyhow, so whatever happens will be His will; C) some combination of A & B (which I personally took to mean, C): I don’t wanna vote for a woman, I just don’t want to say so).
Some neighborhoods were less well-to-do…
But after a day or so, I got good at turning those interactions into real conversations–by pushing back a little, with humor; by asking more questions; by remembering the mantra “Every conversation an invitation.” And every one of those men hung out and talked with me, so open, so friendly…like we were visitin’ on their front steps.
Because of those conversations, I’m 100% sure I “moved the needle” a little with at least one male voter per day. Multiply that by the # of volunteers out there, and there’s our “margin of effort”: the thing that will make the difference in this election.
…while other neighborhoods were much wealthier. I enjoyed the contrast between these houses with those ol’ cotton fields right behind them. Black families live in these homes.
When Team NC packed up and left, I volunteered to stay an extra day and a half to make up for joining late (because of my family/friends visit). And that’s when the tables turned a little.
Advance Carolina sent me even further east, to Bertie County, a place I knew only because I’ve ordered raw peanuts from this place:
There, in the tiny town of Windsor, I was supposed to be a poll watcher, not a canvasser. Only problem: there was nothing to watch.
In fact, I had a good long wait before we even went to the polling place…so I took myself for a walk along their cool swamp boardwalk.
More learning: this is a Tupelo tree! I never knew that’s where the word came from (remember: Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi).
Then, when we finally got to the polls, it was just a bunch of folks sittin’ and visitin’. No scary MAGA pickup trucks circling the block. Locals of both races were greeted, most by name, as they arrived, and thanked for voting as they left.
[not pictured: the polling place; I didn’t care to violate folks’ privacy. But imagine the shade of a nice, big magnolia tree.]
a sentiment most eastern Carolinians would probably agree with, MAGA or not
Me? I was as useful as a fly on the wall. At first I was frustrated. I drove all this way to get WORK done! I could be out there pounding the pavement, chalking up more doors! What a waste of time! Etc.
But as I drove back to Greenville, I considered: those folks were modeling exactly what I had found to be the most effective political work. They were visitin’. Telling stories. Asking how so-and-so was doing. Teasing, laughing. Doing community.
What’s your all-fired hurry? the Bertie County folks seemed to be asking (not that they were paying me any attention). What’s with all the checklists & efficiency? Can’t you see this is how we’ve survived all these decades, here of all places?
Photo from the NC/VA border, ca. 1970 (courtesy musicmaker.org)
Ten years ago, after driving across the country to NC, I wrote a song about my complicated relationship with the South. Most of the lyrics are on the dark side:
Gone to Carolina in my mind, but my heart’s gone mute
One look at a poplar tree and I’m thinking of strange fruit.
This red clay was my stompin’ ground—hardly a boast
When every cotton field is haunted by sharecropper ghosts.
Chorus:
Yeah, it’s another song about the South, y’all,
Just trying to sort my feelings out once and for all.
How can someone feel so in and out of place?
That sweet sunny south where I first saw the light,
If she’s my ol’ mama, I’m a teenager in flight.
Do I want to hug her neck…or slap her face?
big cypress dressed in flounces of poison ivy
But now, as I head home to my blue state, filled with new thoughts about my old red—no, purple!—one, this verse feels more appropriate:
The woods are thick with poison ivy and trumpet vine
More tangled up and twisted than this loyalty of mine
For a countryside that’s suffered more hardship per square mile
Than any place I know—sucked up with sweet tea and a smile.
I still doubt Kamala Harris will win North Carolina, even after all the efforts made here. But I do think she will be elected. And if that happens, I’m going to summon all my powers of visitin’ to help get us through the next steps.
This sign’s in Durham, not Pitt County, not Bertie. But we’re getting there!
Stevie passed away last week, at the age of 37, in his rural North Carolina home. You may remember Stevie from various posts over the years:
Stevie, World’s Cutest Ass
I missed the chance to say goodbye, arriving at my folks’ farm a week too late. Son Two, who happened to be visiting his grandparents then, did get that chance.
Son 2 (and Son 1) go way back w/ Stevie; this is 11 years ago.
For the first time in decades, there were no furry ears to cuddle–usually my first stop after dropping my bags upstairs.
When my folks bought this land way back in 1959, my German father named their little farm Tierreich, which translates to Kingdom (or Realm) of the Animals. They proceeded to fill the place up with critters, and it’s remained that way for 65 years.
Horses. Goats. Barn cats. Chickens, geese, ducks, guinea fowl. A couple of bottle-fed deer (from the research herd at Duke). Somebody’s sheep who got left here. One tempermental llama, whom only my dad liked.
Not pictured: Salvador Dalai Llama. But here’s Hank the goat
Once or twice we raised an animal to eat–Chuck the steer, Sir Toby the pig–but my father hated killing and butchering so much that we abandoned that path.
LOTS OF CRITTERS. And that was just the barnyard. In the house you’d find: more cats. Canaries, budgies, finches. Guinea pigs, rabbits, gerbils, hamsters, tropical fish, a flying squirrel, and a hedgehog. And roaming between house & yard…two to four Norwegian Elkhounds.
…like Erda, in her youth. Joined by an occasional Standard Poodle.
They ran the place. If you look at the photo wall in my folks’ family room, you’ll see that most pictures include animals. They still run the place.
My family & other animals
But there are fewer of them every time I come home. Gone are Stevie’s various goat buddies…
Like Daisy–pretty, but pretty bossy!
…and soon, all too soon, Erda the Ancient Elkhound will be making her own departure.
Mad props: she made it to 15!
Among the larger animals on the farm, that will leave two smaller, younger elkhounds, and two elderly horses: Trefino, nearly 28…
Seen here with my Amazing Mom, waiting for a new set of shoes (probably his last)
…and the little Arab, Raj, who Mom thinks is even older than Stevie–maybe 38!
Madder props to Raj!
I’m not at all sure that either of these gentle old equines will be here by my next visit, next spring–an arresting thought.
On my walk in the autumnal woods today, I was musing about how that will feel, when I saw this double ruin: old broken springhouse on the left, old broken oak on the right:
How the mighty are fallen
Man-made or Nature-made, everything falls to ruin eventually. Where do beloved pets and farm animals fit in this spectrum? Of nature, yet shaped by humans, all–our dear Stevie, old Erda, old Fino and oldest Raj–are part oak, part springhouse.
And may they all rest in peace for the peace (and joy, and comfort, and rides, and laughs, and hair) they have given.
For the past couple of weeks on this beautiful island where I get to live, I’ve been enjoying the appearance of some rambunctious fellow inhabitants.
Foot included for scale. If this is a Fairy Ring, those must be some hefty fairies!
I would call them visitors, but it’s obvious that these Short-Stemmed Rusula have been here all along…at least in spore form. Underground. Waiting…for some signal inaudible to the rest of us, which must have been given—suddenly, urgently—about three weeks ago.
Come on up, the air’s fine!
I’ve been walking these trails for fourteen years now. Mushroom seasons come and go, but I’ve never seen anything like these: so many, so huge, so close together.
Hahaha, the forest is ours!!
These shroomy monsters come bursting through the crust of the soil full-sized—no cute babies that you get to watch grow or unfurl. And in their thrust, anything on top simply gets lifted: soil, rocks, even good-sized tree trunks.
Like this.
Which, of course, sets my brain along its favorite metaphorical paths.
Next week, I am heading to my home state of North Carolina to join a host of volunteer canvassers already spread out around the country. They—we—knock on doors, talk to folks, try to energize them to vote and help them over any voting obstacles they might face. Sure, we’d prefer them to vote like us, but the real goal is democratic participation, which is…
But my point here is how much CP is suddenly needing to act like the mycelia beneath those mammoth mushrooms: it’s calling for heavy lifting.
You mean like this? Oof.
See, before, when I canvassed in 2022, we knocked on “friendly” doors: registered Democrats. People whose only beef with us, if they had any, would be that they’re tired of being nagged, or maybe we woke up the baby when we knocked.
But these days, given the potential suddenly presented by the 1-2 combo of 1) Trump-fatigue (or outright revulsion) among traditional Republicans (especially women) and 2) the big-tent welcome of the Harris-Walz ticket (hey, they own guns!)…these days, I say, CP is being asked by its on-the-ground state partners to knock on doors of registered Republicans. Even homes with Maga flags out front.
Which means my time in NC might be more challenging than I was expecting. (See previous photo)
The other day I attended a training for folks like me, headed into the field. A handful of volunteers fresh from the white suburbs of Philadelphia and some even-whiter counties in Montana had this to say:
“This is about talking to people. We’re all Americans. We have to start there.”
“Every conversation an invitation.”
“After you knock—listen more than you talk.”
“Folks are looking for any excuse to vote for a person whose character they respect.”
They cited example after example of folks who might have appeared “hostile,” based on their yard signs or their vehicles, actually opening up and talking.* Maybe not agreeing to vote for Harris/Walz, but finding common ground on a certain issue with a down-ballot candidate.
*[Sometimes, if a woman answered the door, these volunteers said, she might murmur, “Come back when my husband’s not here.”]
I thought: wow.
That’s a lift I can handle!
I also thought, Not only is this good canvassing advice, this is good human being advice. This is the kind of human I want to be–able to knock on any door and hold a conversation with almost anyone. (Note the “almost”: folks who are outright hateful to your face? Nope. See ya.)
I don’t know where those mushrooms get their power. But I do know that when I head on out there next week, I’ll be using those volunteers’ advice as my own heavy-lifting mojo. Every conversation an invitation.
No matter the weather when we get to Tierreich Farm, where I grew up in the Piedmont of North Carolina, we always go find the trout lilies.
Who, me?
Warm as this year is, they were past their peak, though we still found plenty down at New Hope Creek. And, as with almost every constant-seeming aspect of our stay here, they got me musing on how much continues, 6 decades on…and how that background throws into relief anything new.
Constant: my folks’ ridiculous driveway, which never bothered me before I drove a 22-foot-long van.
Vanna sez, “I’m driving over THAT?”
Don’t worry, Vanna. We’re parking you on this side and walking across. Because of…
…this drop. Yep.
Constant: my 93-year-old dad’s enthusiastic curiosity about ALL new gadgets, including Vanna herself. New: these days he needs a golf cart to go see things.
Dad & Mom, meet Vanna.
Actually, Dad’s a perfect combo of constancy and novelty. The fact that he had a stair-elevator installed in our basement stairs = a surprise. The fact that he really enjoys it = not at all a surprise.
I tried it. It is kind of fun.
Another example: he was one of the first I know to avail himself of the amazing technology in electric-assist tricycles (new). And he uses his just as he used to use his legs when he was marathon training: 20+ mile loop, with stop for a treat along the way.
I had to work hard to keep up with this guy!
My 88 year-old mom’s constancy exhibits itself in her physical fitness, her dedication to the woodsy life, and, I have to say, her beauty.
These tiny bluets, also known as Quaker Ladies, always reminded me of Mom, for their simplicity and lack of ego. (Though “Women” would work better than “Ladies.”)
Hi Mom!
Speaking of Quakers, something new at the farm is this track, built into what used to be our back pasture. Slowly, my folks are donating the remainder of their land to Carolina Friends School; this track is just the latest piece of that evolution.
If you’d like to understand why this land is going to a Quaker school instead of to me and my sisters, click here for a little history.
But Stevie, World’s Cutest Ass, remains as constant (and cute) as ever–thank goodness!
Pushing 40! There’s a reason people say “donkeys’ years”. (Unless they mean donkeys’ ears?)
I adore the ability to know a stretch of woods so well, I can look up into a huge old oak and know that the thick-looking middle part used to be a hole…which, over the decades, I have seen grow in, and close up.
You’ll have to trust me on this one.
Off course, the most constant part of The Mate’s and my Road Trips is their raison d’etre: worshipping at the altar of watching Tarheel basketball with our fellow Tarheel fanatics. Again, for those of you new to Wing’s World, click here for a brief recap.
Some food is also involved. (NC-style BBQ; collards; slaw; hush puppies & fried okra.)
One new thing I noticed, in DURHAM, of all places–home of arch-enemy -rival Duke: this supermarket display, featuring Carolina’s AND Duke’s colors.
How open-minded! Maybe this diversity stuff is taking hold after all. Or maybe they just want to sell more soda.
Another new thing, on the disturbing end of the scale: the heat here. 70-degree weather in March is quite common in this part of the state (as is snow and ice storms…click here on that topic). But 80 degrees? When the woods haven’t leafed out yet? That just feels WEIRD.
Pictured here: Gretchen trying to make the most out of too much sun in trees.
Unsettling as climate change is for all of us, I still take heart in this single tiny flower I met down at the creek. Not only is it persevering in the heat…it’s also just about the right shade of blue.
The Mate and I know already what fortunate folks we are. But when we come back to the Blueridge of NC, we REALLY know it.
Our friends’ big blue backyard
Thanks to accidents of history and confluence of taste, we have an embarrassment of dear friends in these mountains, and this year we were able to spend time with most of them.
Vanna, not so much. Our first set of friends live up at 3,500 feet; the drive up was only half as terrifying as the drive down. And their driveway?
fugeddaboutit
Because they’re wonderful people, our friends were able to secure a parking spot for Vanna at the edge of a neighbor’s property. We left her there for 3 days, schlepping our stuff the remaining 1/4 mile up the mountain on foot.
What happened to dancing w/ her what brung ya?!
This mountaintop neighborhood is a wealthy one. Some of the houses are, in my opinion, ridiculously large–especially when I learned that this one is empty more often than not.
But I have to admit, it’s pretty enough that I took its picture.
The lots up there are large enough to protect the sense of mountain-ness, and care was clearly taken in building the road.
Shouldn’t all roads be like this?
Aside from the fact that we adore our friends and they spoil us rotten, this was simply a very peaceful spot to hang out. It’s always hard to leave Butler Mountain.
Yes, that is the moon hanging out, waiting to say Good Morning to the sun. Honestly.
But our next stop was a picnic date with one of my VERY oldest friends (from Middle School) + husband + sister, down a few thousand feet at the French Broad River, which flows through Asheville. We chose this spot because we knew we couldn’t get Vanna into our friends’ driveway either. (slightly embarrassed eyeroll)
Lucky for us, the French Broad boasts a terrific bike path! And it was a gorgeous day. All this plus good friends & a picnic too.
Asheville is super trendy right now, and expensive, but I did find myself intrigued by this row of what I take to be “Tiny houses” down by the river.
Cute, right? But probably not a Tiny Price Tag.
From there we journeyed an hour to the northeast, to the South Toe River valley, home of the Celo Community and the Arthur Morgan School. I wrote about my Celo history two years ago; you can read about it here if you’d like some background (or just to learn more about this cool place).
South Toe River
THIS friend’s driveway was, finally, fully Vanna-accessible…as long as we took it slowly.
Also magically mossy. Believe it or not, our friend is not an Elf.
The sunny blue of Asheville departed at Celo, but the wintry woods are just as beautiful in fog.
The Mate doing his best impression of a rhododendron
To know these woods with such intimacy…to stare at them from a kitchen window or a sofa, to walk right out the door, to say the names of the creeks and the peaks…this, to me, is a privilege far beyond the simple joy of SEEING this place. That is our greatest gratitude, to the friends who have sunk roots here, allowing us to return again and again.
Till next time, White Oak Creek! Don’t you change.
Campering may be different from camping, but in one respect, road-tripping in Vanna Grey is no different than in any other vehicle. When it comes to route, THE WEATHER IS IN CHARGE.
And thanks to climate change, late-February weather has tricks up its sleeve we’d never have dreamed of when we started this road-tripping business a dozen years ago.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. We left Albuquerque on Thursday in bright, innocent sunshine. If my Adventure Buddy Beth hadn’t been leaving too, we’d have been mighty tempted to stay.
‘Bye, Albu-quirky! Miss you already.
Drawing us forward, though, was a reservation that night for one of our favorite road-trip discoveries: gorgeous Palo Duro Canyon.
Pictured: Palo Duro in 2017. Not pictured: Palo Duro in 2024.
Imagine the prettiest little cousin of Grand Canyon, only 30 minutes from Amarillo (the big ugly child of a cattle feedlot and a monster truck rally).
But I shouldn’t be saying mean things about Amarillo. Right now it’s an endangered oasis in a hot desert of suffering, thanks to the million-plus-square-mile fire that was burning out of control just north of there. Just when we wanted to drive on through.
[Not pictured: The Smokehouse Creek Fire. Nor all the fires in Oklahoma, along the length of I-40…the route we’d planned to take.]
Weirdly enough, the top of the Texas Panhandle was also getting SNOW that morning—good for the fires, I guess, but one more reason for us to keep ourselves and Vanna out of trouble.
[Not pictured: “Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice.”]
So we ditched all plans, and our camping reservation (sob) and headed SSE to Roswell (not pictured: aliens), then straight east into…big sigh…West Texas. Which, as it happened, was delightfully snow-free, and NOT ON FIRE.
[Not pictured: West Texas, or the motel we defaulted to when we couldn’t find a campground that felt like it catered to—well, folks with discretionary funds and time. Vacationers, not those planted by necessity. I’m glad those campgrounds are there for those who need them. I just didn’t want to stay there.]
[Not pictured: those campgrounds.]
Our second day driving through Texas, we did score a decent bike path on the outskirts of Dallas…
(Not pictured: the stench from either a dump or a sewage plant—or both)But at least there were turtles!
…and a pleasant campground at a state park near the Louisiana border. We got there as darkness fell, and next morning I forgot to take a picture, so…
[Not pictured: Eastern Texas’s Martin Creek Lake State Park]
Next day we got another nice bike ride in Shreveport, Louisiana.
It’s the Red River, but it’s doing a pretty good Mississippi impression.
Along the way, I noticed that the clover we were zooming past all seemed to have spotted leaves. On closer examination…
Happy St. Pattentines Day? St. Valentrick’s Day? “I love you; good luck!”
It was a Tarheel Men’s Basketball Day, and since we’ve been missing a lot of games due to travel, we decided to treat ourselves to a motel in Clinton, Mississippi with a TV. Afterward, I took myself on a walk around the nearby campus of Mississippi College and made the acquaintance of some attractive trees.
when it’s such a relief just to have something to photograph#treenerd (Doesn’t it seem like this one needs a swamp instead of a lawn?)
The trees didn’t care about the Heels’ victory as much as I did.
On our last day that doesn’t include my home state of North Carolina, we managed to combine both recreation and camping by stopping at Oak Mountain State Park, just outside of Birmingham, Alabama. We’ve stayed here twice before and I’ve recorded our admiration for the park’s trails both times.
The place rocks. #geopun
Spring was busting out…
Sometimes this is all you need. Which is good, because this is all you get.
…including my favorite southern treat, the redbud:
Rather than swim with Black folks, white folks all over the country FILLED IN AND DESTROYED THEIR PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS. The largest such public pool in the U.S. at the time? According to Dr. McGhee, it was right here at Oak Mountain, and it’s now an equestrian field. Next to which we camped.
(Not pictured: a huge public swimming pool filled with multi-racial families.)
Talk about erasure! We’d enjoyed the place twice and would have continued to blithely enjoy it without knowledge of this despicable history, had it not been for Dr. McGhee’s scholarship. I highly recommend her book; it will actually fill you with more zeal than despair.
But for now? It’s on to North Carolina, and all the friends and family and fried chicken and Tarheels that entails. I can just picture it. See you there!
Oh, so you finally remembered to take a picture of ME? This whole NC thing better be worth it…
Wing's World 