Pappy

One year ago today, at around 5:30 a.m., Pappy passed on to the next level of consciousness that our souls encounter, whatever that might be. I had received a frantic call from my mother the morning of July 7th, telling me it didn't look good and I should drive home immediately. When he had fallen a few weeks before and was taken to the hospital, I cried and told my mom "He won't come back out of there. He's going to die in that hospital." That wasn't my pessimistic side talking, that statement felt as true as anything.

I literally dropped everything and drove as fast as my little four-cylinder car could go. Around 11 p.m., mom called back and said "you need to be here immediately." I knew he had precious little time left. When I arrived at the hospital, the old brick building shrouded in fog on the hill above Pottsville, he was already unconscious. I sat down by his side, my eyes burning from the trip and stinging with tears, and I squeezed his gnarled hands. He gently squeezed mine back, likely the body's normal reaction to pressure rather than him knowing someone was there who loved him. I leaned in close to his stubbly cheek, his weathered ears, and I said, "Pappy, it's your granddaughter Becky. I just got here and I want to tell you that I love you. I want you to know that I appreciated hearing all your stories about our ancestors, I enjoyed your jokes. Thank you for the legacy you've left behind."

Grandma had been driven from the Reading Hospital to be by his side. She sat in her wheelchair, stroking his tanned hands and jagged nails, and said "Such hardworking hands." She would sigh, and say, "Oh, Pappy." She'd turn to us and say, "He was so handsome!"

Right before 5:30 a.m. on the 8th, he opened his eyes towards the ceiling, closed them, and the bright green heart monitor flatlined. I slid down the wall that had been supporting me, sat on the cold floor staring at him, a hospital blanket covering my shoulders and I shivered. I had never seen anyone die before. We spent another hour talking about good memories of him, of his first few dates with Grandma which were quite funny and helped ease the grief for a bit.

Pappy was a man of few words, but those he spoke he meant. His dry sense of humor, his interest in history and family, his little winks and finger waves, his ingenuity and frugality are all aspects that have been incorporated into the lives of all our family members.

"He is a good peeler of peaches," Grandma declared with obvious beaming pride one day as they canned peaches. In her book, that's a great compliment.

I have a great love and appreciation for the old ways of life, very likely due to being steeped in history and still-working antiques at Grandma and Pappy's farm. I am attracted to men who can work hard with their hands, who know how to treat the earth well, who are able to repurpose items laying around for a new useful task. I know this comes from Pappy.

Impatience

In this era of immediate gratification, it's really tough to be content with the process of improvement; of being on the road to self-improvement but not at the end goal yet. I want to be good at things right away. I don't like the fact that I'm currently unable to play the banjo very well, or that I still haven't knitted a sweater, or that I'm not fully healed from emotional scars dating back years ago.

I'm adding to my list of things I want to do this year: be more patient. Enjoy the process, know that someday I will be able to play this gorgeous banjo as well as it deserves to be played; that someday I'll knit a sweater to be proud of; and that eventually time will help heal my wounds.

Bring your dancing board

There's something so compelling about a place in the mountains where people bring their own 2'x2' wooden board to dance in the fields.


Taking a step back: I began my week on the PA farm, playing banjo on the porch with my dog and my mom, the pasture lit up with fireflies glowing. We made and canned strawberry jam from berries picked out of mom's little garden. My first foray into the canning world!


I headed south to Arlington to visit my lovely great aunt. We enjoyed the creepy thrill of minor keys of Bach played on the huge pipe organ at the National Cathedral, then explored the Bishop's Gardens behind the gothic structure. Unusual sage, poodle-like cedar trees, and eye-popping orange flowers adorned the stone-enclosed back gardens. Arlene was her usual hilarious self, being a younger, hipper version of my klutzy, accident-prone and generally unaware-of-her-surroundings sister, my beloved grandma. It was a comedy of errors moment on the elevator with the floor buttons which resulted in her closing the elevator door on an elderly gentleman who uttered some very foul language. She blamed it on the elevator. I also attended her friend's 80th birthday party, and it was about how you'd expect an 80th birthday party to be. Neither one of us could figure out that DVD player, either. But there was lots of laughter, love and in-depth discussions, which is what I love the most about "Matilda."


Finally found my way back onto I-81, heading south deeper into the hills of rural Appalachia, until I reached my destination: Trillium Cabin on Greasy Creek, no town name, closest to Dugspur and not too far away from Floyd, VA. Second home to Richard, Queenie and Wiley, a North Carolina man and his two dogs. Banjo on the porch overlooking the mountains, the sound of the creek coming up the hill lured the cabin guests into chilly waters running over smooth rocks glittering with pyrite. After a few discussions about geology and aquatic entomology, we settled into the flow of the creek. Only after a lengthy intense yoga session have I felt so at peace. Sitting on the porch afterwards, my mind was completely clear of any particular thought. I was fully in the moment.

Friday night we headed into Floyd, a tiny version of how I imagine Asheville was about 30 years ago. The Floyd General Store hosts a Friday night jam, every week for the past 60 or so years. The store was full of spectators and dancers of all ages, and the bands spilled out onto the sidewalk. People clustered around to listen and dance to each jam, mostly old-time, some bluegrass. Lots of fiddles, banjos, an autoharp, a base, guitars, a washboard (!!!), and mandolins. We danced squares and clogged on the open floor, listening to the band whipping us into a frenzy. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Out under the stars, the bands played on the street well past the jam's hours.

Saturday we headed to Elk Creek, VA, by way of Galax. The Grayson County Old-Time Fiddle Festival is located on a big field at the top of a mountain, with a 360-degree view of the surrounding hills. Campers pull up chairs and jam outside their living arrangements. Each jam consisted of very friendly folks who were quite willing to invite us to play with them, even though they never met us before. There was even a guy playing a homemade washtub base! Amazing musicians entered the competitions for flat-picking guitar, old-time banjo, bluegrass banjo, fiddle, and clogging. The sunset was a spectacular shade of melon pink, and the thin clouds stretched in long lines to the horizon. Stars speckled the sky and we settled into our hooded jackets to ward off the chilly mountain air. A girl about 14 years old played Foggy Mountain Breakdown so fast and clean that the guitarist could hardly keep up with her. Little children showed off their budding talents as cloggers, and the crowd clapped and cheered for each dancer and musician. Dancers brought their own dancing boards to clog on, and I spent hours soaking up the music and the scenery.

I sometimes wonder if I ought to be living in southern Appalachia rather than in New England. They both appeal to different parts of me, and I'm not sure I'd be fully happy with one or the other. But I've always said, of all the places I've traveled, only the Blue Ridge Mountains seemed like I could settle there happily.

Amazing hikes

I've gotta say, I've had some seriously gorgeous hikes in the White Mountains the past two Saturdays. Open granite domes, 360-degree views of lush valleys, surprisingly tall peaks, rock formations that look like natural slate stairs, delicate lady's slipper plants, a moose and fledgeling ravens just learning to call and fly. Sometimes, I just feel so incredibly lucky to live in an area where I can day-hike in the White Mountains and return home to make a fabulous pasta dinner with wine in the comforts of my own home. And then spend all of Sunday not being able to move my legs from extreme soreness!! I'm not in hiking shape yet. Updated goal: hike Mt. Lafayette by fall, one of the taller, more rugged peaks around.

simplicity

I cannot even begin to tell you how satisfying it is to eat a salad constructed of lettuce you've grown from seed--buttercrunch, mesclun mix, arugula--a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt...

I love how the simplest little things in life can be the most wonderfully fulfilling.

continued Great Work

"One of the most essential roles of the ecologist is to create the language in which a true sense of reality, of value, and of progress can be communicated to our society." -Thomas Berry, "The Great Work"

This one sentence brings so much validation to my life's work and it makes me proud to be a science writer.

The Great Work and errands

Thomas Berry wrote a book called The Great Work in 1999; basically, he says that the great work of our time will be nature and our environment. I started it yesterday and found a great paragraph to share:

"The Great Work before us, the task of moving modern industrial civilization from its present devastating influence on the Earth to a more benign mode of presence, is not a role that we have chosen. It is a role given to us, beyond any consultation with ourselves. We did not choose. We were chosen by some power beyond ourselves for this historical task. We do not choose the moment of our birth, who our parents will be, our particular culture or the historical moment when we will be born. We do not choose the status of spiritual insight or political or economic conditions that will be the context of our lives. We are, as it were, thrown into existence with a challenge and a role that is beyond any personal choice. The nobility of our lives, however, depends upon the manner in which we come to understand and fulfill our assigned role."

My friend Adam Benson once said, "If it wasn't so scary and foreboding, they wouldn't be called 'dreams'; they'd be called 'errands.'" My errand, as of the day we visited Acadia National Park and talked to a park ranger about ozone depletion and air quality, is to devote my life, in one way or another, to The Great Work. Today I write about mercury and methylmercury cycling and bioavailability in Great Bay to inform the public.