My Most Difficult Book Post

As soon as I finished Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens, I wrote about it. I have edited what I wrote several times since then. A true girl child of my culture, it is very difficult for me to speak critically in public. Only in the last few years have I realized how much this cultural silencing has cost me.  I love that there are still people who read a book and feel passionately about it. I never want to discourage anyone from reading anything. But since this is my blog, and since I well and truly suck at pretending, I'm going to tell you my experience with this novel. 

I don't remember exactly when this book first came across my radar, but when I read a description of the story, I thought, "OMG, this book is so me." After a few months waiting for it to arrive from the library, I dove in eagerly. For the first fifty pages or so, I told myself I was disappointed because I had set my expectations too high. I convinced myself I could ignore the inauthentic dialogue, relax and appreciate the beautiful passages about nature, and enjoy the development of a main character I loved. The plot, however, continued to devolve into melodrama, and the annoying dialogue got even more annoying. By the time one of the characters drove from the North Carolina coast to Asheville to get supplies, I was almost mad enough to throw the book across the room. Instead, I returned it to the library unfinished.

Over the course of the next few months, multiple people told me how much they loved this book, and I thought, well, maybe I've been unfair. So I re-ordered it and finished reading. As much as I love the character of Kya, and as much as I love the descriptions of nature and the themes of the appreciation and preservation of wilderness, I cannot love this book. In addition to the melodramatic plot, the dialogue is almost insulting. I have lived in North Carolina my entire life. Not once have I ever heard anyone use the term "Alabamee" for Alabama. If this was meant as a joke, it's not funny. And going to Asheville from the coast for any kind of supplies, what is that about?  I can't even begin to address the insertion of bad poetry into the narrative because I can't begin to understand why anyone would do that or why any editor would let it pass.

I've spent a couple of weeks trying to understand why I am so disappointed in this book. I think it's because it could have been so good. It could have been elevating. Owens could have taken Kya and her surroundings and gone the route of Kent Haruf or Anita Brookner. Instead she went full on Michael Crichton. Good intentions and a great ability to describe the natural world do not make up for the missteps in a book I really wanted to love. 

Tompkins Knob North on the MST

Cascades Overlook MP 271.9 on Blue Ridge Parkway

“But life holds mystery for us yet. In a hundred places we can still sense the source: a play of pure powers that—when you feel it—brings you to your knees. There are yet words that come near to the unsayable, and from crumbling stones, a new music to make a sacred dwelling in a place we cannot own.” ~Rilke

I think the hike we took yesterday is going to end up being my favorite relatively nearby hike, which I define as being an hour drive or less. This hike in in Jeffress Park, which is only about 2 miles north of the Parkway entrance at Deep Gap just east of Boone. We parked at Tompkins Knob Parking Area at MP 272.5 and entered the Tompkins Knob / MST Trail going north toward the Jesse Brown Cabin and Cool Springs Baptist Church. It’s an easy 500 feet of trail from the Tompkins Knob Parking Area to the cabin. There’s a lovely little spring and spring house down behind the cabin on its southeast side.

After passing through the clearing by the cabin and the church, the trail continues on for another easy half mile through a lovely wood to the Cascades Overlook at MP 271.9. This overlook is one of the most beautiful views I’ve seen on the Blue Ridge Parkway (see above).

From here we entered the Cascades Trail, which is a short loop down to the Cascades Waterfall. This trail is usually fairly busy. Unfortunately, half of it has been closed for about a year now, so until they open the east side of the loop again, it’s an out and back instead of a loop. The half that is open meanders beside a beautiful mountain stream on the way to the falls. The Cascades Loop Trail is a mile total, so I assume the half that's open is about a half-mile.

At the far end of the Cascades Trail, the Mountains to Sea Trail (MST) splits off and continues north into the woods. We got a little off track here because the "blaze tree" is down and looks to have been down for a while. MST forks very soon after you exit the Cascades Trail, like maybe twenty feet? If you come to a clearing with a maintenance shed near the BRP, turn around, you missed the fork. After some rambling around up and down the Parkway itself (which the dogs did not enjoy), we went back and found the MST fork and walked another half-mile or so north. This is a beautiful section of the trail with some lovely views through the bare trees down off the mountain to the east.

I don't know our total mileage, but I would guess 3 to 4 miles, considering our rambling around lost for a while. We were on the trail from 11:30 to 1:30, taking plenty of time to take photos, visit the waterfall, and let the dogs play in the creek. One of the best things about this hike is that you can tailor it to your hiking ability. You could park at either Tompkins Knob or at Cascades Overlook for less than a mile of hiking, or you can continue on the MST as far as your feet will take you. This hike would be a good start for anyone who is intimidated by hiking, as there is a lot of payoff for not a lot of work.  The elevation change on this part of the MST is hardly noticeable. We had a lovely day in the woods and were able to finish our current co-read, The Castle of Otranto in the car on the way up.  I'll try to get a book post in again soon!

Love Is The Only Answer I Know

Yesterday, I learned of the death of a person who was much too young to die, a child who was part of my life for two decades as I mothered a son who was part of his life. In the process of mothering our own children, we all mothered this son.

Some deaths are inexcusable, unforgettable, untenable. When I was 21, one of my younger brothers died. When that happened, I thought, OK, that's it for me. No more trauma. Then I continued to be alive, and I discovered that life is trauma. To be alive is to be traumatized, repeatedly.

When my son was born, I wanted him to have the childhood Yeats described when he wrote, "when I was a boy with never a crack in my heart." I expect this is what we all want for our children. If you're lucky, this works for a while. Then life happens, something like yesterday happens, and we're all left trying to figure everything out all over again.

To my baby boy, I don't know how to help you with what just happened. I hardly even know how to process it myself. I wish I had answers. I wish I could lead you back to an uncracked heart. But the truth is that you and I were both just lucky to live this long without your heart cracking like this.

Is there anything any of us can do to find meaning in this? I don't know. I think everyone's answer to the question of meaning is different. What have I done? I've tried to be there for my kids. I've tried to reach out to people. All we know for sure is that we have each other in the here and now. All any of us can do is love each other while we are still in the here and now. Love is the only answer I know. 

Who Am I, Now That I'm Not Mothering?

Every day, I wake up and think, "I am going to be a better person today!" Then life happens, and I go to bed wondering, "What exactly happened here?"  Very rarely do I end the day feeling like I have met my goal of personal betterment. Recently, I've tried to enact a week-long deductible on all emotional reactions. If I ever feel compelled to confront anyone for any reason, I invoke my week deductible. Partly, this is a personal cooling-off period, because I do tend to run hot and cold. But more importantly, it is because I've found that truth is usually revealed very slowly. 

Let's take my own life experience as an example. When my son was born, my goals for him were that he 1. not die; 2. not end up in jail; 3. not impregnate someone before he was ready to be a father; 4. not end up a drug addict; and 5. not end up sleeping on my couch.  I realize these feel like "givens" to a lot of folks, but at that point in my life I felt like Chicken Little. I fully expected him to die before he reached the age of five. 

I wasn't prepared for what would happen if he met all those goals, because I wasn't able to think that far ahead. He was my first child. When he was born, my mother had been dead for only about five months, and my younger brother had been killed a little over four years earlier. Somehow, I thought I was supposed to be able to find a way just to be okay with all of this. After all, I'd always been the strong one. What a crock of shit. When your life explodes, you can't walk away and pretend like the fire didn't touch you. I've been treading water his whole life and had no idea I was stuck in a rip tide. 

When the distractions leave, the scars will show. Only now, his life-time later, do I see how damaging it was for me, in my early twenties, to have been led to believe I was supposed to be able to handle all that trauma on my own. I never stopped to think about who I would be when I wasn't mothering. It's funny that my goal for my kids was for them to move out and move on, never giving a thought to how that would involve their moving out and moving on from me. I didn't realize how rarely they would be in my life once this goal was met.

Every day now, I try to recreate myself into someone my children can be proud of, into a person they won't dread calling. It's not an easy task when your only real vocation has been to be their mom. When I start to berate myself because I feel so damn useless sometimes, I remind myself that there are two good people in a world that happens to need good people who are there because I've been able to stumble through the last twenty-five years more or less undiminished, and I forgive myself.

Surprise! But Why?

"Write About a Time Someone Surprised You"

Today's writing prompt was hard for me, because most of the surprises I've had in my life have been bad ones, and I don't think that's the kind of surprise this prompt is referring to. My people have not spent a lot of time trying to surprise me, because they know I do not fancy surprises, and I expect they fear my wrath. I can be very scary when provoked. 

My best friend Regina did surprise me once. It was soon after she and I had been to Paris together. She offered to invite some other friends to her house and to make raclette for me for my birthday. We had experienced raclette for the first time on that Paris trip, and we both fell immediately in love. Raclette is basically a polite way to swill melted cheese like cheap beer. And there are potatoes! What's not to love? She even bought a raclette set when she got home. The main reason this surprised me is that Regina doesn't care for cooking, and she cares even less for throwing parties. I wish I had known then what I know now, which is pretty much the same as saying I wish I had been a different person for most of my adult life. (If you're under 40 and reading this, welcome to the party.)

We never had my raclette birthday dinner because I couldn't find time to work it in around my boyfriend's schedule, a boyfriend, mind you, who never changed his schedule to work around me. Even at the time, I knew this was messed up. Still, I did it. I prioritized a person I haven't spoken to in about seven years and who I'd only known for about 18 months, over a woman who's been my best friend for over 20 years now. How many good things have I missed in my life molding myself to fit around men who, stuck in their perpetual adolescence, never work anything around me and aren't even aware molding has been done?

Why do we do this to ourselves?

If you've ever seen me wear high heels, make-up, or uncomfortable clothes, you can be sure I've been trying to please some damn man who was probably in cargo shorts, tennis shoes, and a tee shirt the whole time and who has never given even a passing thought to the state of his hair or to his particular personal odor. So when you see me now at the Food Lion in baggy pants, tennis shoes, and a tee shirt with dirty hair and smelling like I haven't bathed, realize this is what growth looks like. I draw the line at cargo shorts. At least for now.