White clapboard house and washtub

Two vignettes and one wished for:

I put up calendars on the walls in my rooms, and many of them have scenes and paintings I like to look at repeatedly. They are soothing. They relax this restless soul, who from time to time takes a break from the computer to see what the world outside is like, or was like in another age.

I’m looking at a picture in late May. It’s of a white clapboard house in the country with a woman sitting on the front porch shelling peas. Windows are open to catch the breeze, wash is on the line drying. A cat is on the bottom stoop of the steps leading to the kitchen. Part of a big maple tree is becoming fully leafed out. In the yard and surrounding the house are flowers -- daylillies and impatiens. An old pump is in the yard, too, with a blue bucket attached to the spout to receive cold, fresh water from the well it draws from. Shadows from the sun create a mosaic of light and dark spot on the grass. The cat is looking directly at me. The scene is frozen in time. Sometime in the 19th century. Fifty years ago. 75. I can’t tell. But contained in that little world, depicted in that calendar painting, is a universe of right order, hard work, gentlesness of spirit, goodness of heart.

The other scene is in autumn. A country house, but large, a big porch this time, surrounded by tall trees. A white picket fence. A swing in a tree. Two boys and a girl on their bikes heading for the dirt road in front of the house. The dirt road winds into the distance toward low hills and mountains, among other houses, barns and fields. Maybe it’s Connecticut or New England. At least, that what it reminds me of, and of how much I would love to visit New England some day and drive down such a country road, so different from the ones in my own piney woods of Lowcountry South Carolina.

Another scene I’d like to see: An old country store with people gathered in front in chairs and on benches, leaning back, taking in a quiet, late summer afternoon in the country. Hardly a car passing by on the road. Inside are old-fashioned jars filled with candy, and long wooden counters, and hardware supplies, and general merchandise -- all you’d really need, mostly, for a simple life. And I’d stop my car and get out and walk in the front screen door with the Merita Bread sign on it, and head for the soft drink case, open the lid, put my coins in, and retrieve a bottle of the iciest cold, Orange Nehi drink that ever quenched a thirst in July, and with it eat some crackers, and walk around in the store, smelling the good smells, hearing the old floorboards creak as I walk on them, looking up at the ornamental pressed tin panels in the old ceiling from when the building was constructed in the last centry. And I’d sigh a sigh of relief and satisfaction, knowing that not all of these places were lost to the world of megamalls and hard-driven commercial appetites, and traffic and noise with not much quiet civilization left. I am transported out of the present, and I wish it would last.

Four Holes Swamp

Deep, dark, murky, forbidding? Not at all. Saturday afternoon was spent walking a boardwalk trail deep into the interior of a bald cypress/tupelo river system known as Four Holes Swamp, located in the rural interior of South Carolina. It is a place of soaring 1,000-year old cypress trees, and clear, tea-colored water flowing in braided channels through the bottomland to join with the main stem of the river/swamp system. It is an oxygen factory. The air is clean, and light filters down to illumine flowing water and sunken logs. Nothing is ever done by man to alter this pristine environment -- the last remaining such virgin stand of this type of swamp forest left in the world, spared decades ago by a far-sighted lumberman named Francis Beidler, for whom the protected forest is named.

The only sounds to be heard during my walk were birdsong. Approximately 140 species of birds have been found here as well as numerous species of trees, including an astonishing variety of oaks, hickories, and elms, many of which are suited to watery environments. But there are pockets of higher ground where upland varieties of hardwoods can flourish. It is a place of amazing diversity, a refuge for the soul and spirit. A visit there never ceases to lift me up and out of the sordid realities of the world outside with its work tensions, bad news in the media, traffic, congestion and pollution. Here you enter a realm free from all that. It has been left to the forces of nature, all 11,000 preserved acres of the swamp.

As I sat on a bench overlooking Goodson Lake, about half way down the trail, a man whispered for me to look up into the tree overhead. There I saw a nest with what appeared to be two fledging blue herons, quietly waiting for their next meal. What a sight to see in my binoculars! By this point there were occasional little breezes stirring the leaves, but only temporarily. It was generally a still day which only made the quietness of the place seem more pervasive. And it was not hot at all for this time of year in South Carolina. It was, in fact, a very pleasant day. I can’t say I’d want to be walking this trail in mid-July, however.

One of the amazing things about this place is the water that flows across the swamp in narrow braided channels or else in flatter sheets with just barely perceptible movement, at least at this time of year. In summer it will all be dry except for the main swamp channel. From the boardwalk you can look down when the sun if out from behind the clouds, as it was intermittently Saturday, and see perfect reflection of the trees and foliage in the water. With a slight wind, these reflections shimmer and then become still again.

All those who love this place -- and people from all over the world come here -- are watching the results of court and other actions designed to stave off two area developers who have taken advantage of non-existing zoning laws in the rural county this swamp flows through and are attempting to build a major motor speedway for car races just one mile from the borders of the preserve. It has been a two-year fight thus far, and, as of now, the end result seems hopeful for the preserve. It is inconceivable that someone would want to destroy the ingegrity of this place with noise and pollution from cars spinning around a track, but that is what has happened. There is no limit to the depths to which some people will sink in their contempt and utter disregard for the natural world and those who care deeply about it. To them that pristine forest is nothing but a bunch of woods and swamp that should be drained and developed. Nothing is worth saving to them.

As I walked the remaining half mile or so of the trail up through slightly higher ground in the swamp, past huge overcup oaks and soaring tulip trees, I saw half a dozen egrets, take flight from their watery perches and fly off into nearby trees. Then there was silence once again.

Forest trail

After a two hour drive through rural South Carolina countryside, green and lush with spring and on a day that was mild and cool with a gentle breeze, I arrived at the wildlife sanctuary. Before me was a two-mile long gravel road that led to a complex of buidlings, including an old farmstead and house. Around a bend, I headed toward the trail that led to the Savannah River.

Winding down this road I entered an area of near wildernes, or so it seemed. All sounds from the outside had long disappeared to be repalced by wind and birdsong. I pulled up to a picnic area alongside a small lake filled with huge cypress trees. I turned off the engine and soaked up the peace of this most special place I had wanted to visit for some years.

After a short time spent in contemplation and wonder at the lake, I made my way to the trailhead and entered a world of deep green, shade and the most astonishing array of birdsong I have heard in some time. To my left was a swamp bottomland forest filled with oaks of every variety and to my right was the cypress lake. Such a contrast -- two very different natural worlds on either side of the trail.

As I walked deeper into the woods, I found myself listening to the rustling of squirrels foraging in the woods. I spotted a small armodillo burrowiing into the soft earth, oblivious to my presence. Blue-wiinged butterflies danced ahead of me on the trail. And above all else, the wondrous songs of the birds that filled this forest of old growth trees, a place primeval and unspoiled.

Alone amidst this natural wonder, I found it very difficult to turn around and head back to where I had started. I wanted to hold onto the moments of grace found here. But life is change. The time for departure would soon be upon me. What memories I hold onto and cherish as I look back on that trip just a few days in the past.

Webb Wildlife Center

Of nature and mystery

I want to share with you a quote from another journal writer who gives eloquent testimony to the wonders of the natural world. She writes from the northern part of the U.S. Midwest:

"I can’t imagine not wanting to know this world of green-ness and birdsong. I can’t ever imagine that I have learned all I want to learn about it. As I looked out over the marsh and watched a heron fly overhead, I wanted to embrace this world and become part of it again, where eveyrthing matters and nothing seems foolish..."

I just thought these words spoke very directly to me and my own experiences. At the beach where I go to often to escape the cares of the city, my brother’s house faces on one side a vast marsh of spartina grass and tidal creeks, a flowing sea and estuarine world all to its own. It is over those marshes that we have watched many a glorious sunset. On the front side of the house, across the road is the ocean and the beach we have been going to for decades. It is a timeless place.

The other day I was sitting out there watching two pelicans soar overhead and then fly out over the ocean just offshore. They are magnificent birds with long wingspans that seem to belong to this place as much as the tiniest crabs burrowing in the sand or the seemingly modest clusters of sea oats holding down the dunes and preventing erosion. It is a world of salt air and the steady rhythm of waves breaking onshore.

There is no place I know where the tensions of the world, which can be so oppressive and stomach churning, are so gradually and steadily worn away and placed in the dustbin of negative emotions where they belong. Freed from tension, even if only temporarily, I am able to breathe more deeply of the clean air and set my sights on higher things than exist merely in this world of great perils. Of the beauty I seek, I can find it here in abundance, at this beach and beside this vast ocean.

Little Black Creek

Recently I wrote about a special river I liked to go canoing on years ago, Black Creek in the southern Mississippi piney woods. Along one stretch of that stream, one of its major tributaries, called, appropriately enough, Little Black Creek, joined the main river, at which point the stream increased significantly in size.

At the meeting point, the character of the river changed -- it became wider, the sand bars were more noticeable, and it had a different flow. When I came to this place, I’d bank the canoe and walk up Little Black Creek, whose swift flow over white sand felt good on my feet. I was tempted to keep walking up the stream and explore, because that is one of the fascinations of rivers and creeks -- those mysterious bends and turns where new scenery and landmarks appear constantly, the farther you explore up or down the creek.

I’d also walk along a trail beside Black Creek, occassionally clamboring down the steep bank to the river bottom where I might set up a chair and sit awhile to read and daydream. It’s part of a long hiking trail that goes through some of the most remote sections of that part of Mississippi. Actually, it’s almost got a wilderness feel to it, which is rare in the eastern United States.

I have a picture of Black Creek over my desk, and I am looking now at another picture I took back in 1987. It is a country road that passes through one of the prettiest settings I came across during the back country drives I mentioned in my first entry. It was wide-open pasture land, dotted with oak trees, slightly undulating. It extended for eight or ten miles, until it joined with larger secondary roads. This was truly a back road, as county routes usually are. Driving down this road on a nice Saturday afternoon with the window open, allowed me to really relax and wind down for a short while.

At about the midway point in this stretch of road, it crosses Little Black Creek, and I would invariably get out to look at the stream flowing under the bridge. The flow was always steady. It was swift as it rushed along between banks about 10 feet across. It’d stand there just looking into that tea-colored water and watch as it flowed along under that bridge. That’s one reason why, when I’d get out of the canoe and explore the mouth of this creek, a couple of miles down from the bridge, it would hold so much meaning for me.

Walking iris

My mother has the most amazing, stunning flower all over her back garden by the fish pond, and in numerous pots on her porch. It's called "Walking Iris" and it blooms about this time of year, but the gorgeous flower, white and lush velvet blue, only lasts for a few hours, usually from about 10 or 11 am until 4 pm. By late afternoon its white petals are slowly curling up. An hour or so after this the blue inner petals begin curling into a ball and then the entire flower just withers into a tiny knot at the end of the stem and basically disappears. You can almost see it unfold.

There were about a dozen blooms today. When I saw them they were all about half way through their metamorphosis. Tomorrow or the next day a dozen more will bloom.

I marvel at what this delicate iris tells me: life is precious and fleeting. It flowers and then fades. But next spring this beautiful creation will awaken again and allow me to gaze on it's loveliness and be enthralled once more by the complexity and mystery of life.

More on the Walking Iris, also called the Apostle Plant

Imaging the open plains

As I was driving through the rural South Carolina countryside, I kept looking for all the familiar landmarks, the old farmhouses, the pastures and woods filled with oaks and hickories and pines. I thought about how comforting this scenery was, how seemingly unchanging, except for the ebb and flow of the seasons.

But then, at one point I imagined I was not headed back to my apartment in metropolitan Charleston, which was drawing nearer all the time, but instead embarked on a trip. I would be driving for days, and soon enough the woods and trees and fields would give way to wonderful wide-open landscapes as I approached the Great Plains and headed west, farther each day toward the vast, empty deserts of Wyoming, and beyond that to the north, the great land of dreams -- Montana. I could look all around and not see anything to surround or enclose me. There would only be the everlastingly wide open spaces. Hour after hour the car would make its way west. The rhythmic sound of tires on the road, and the engine humming in the background, would lull me into a trance-like state. I would lose track of time, and it would not really matter where I was as long as I was "out there" somewhere. Mile after mile. The car window open, the wind buffeting my outstreteched arm and hand.

Hardly a day that goes by that I don’t see something that reminds me of my travels across the country years ago. The other day I opened a book and saw an old country house in Leadville, Colorado. I recognized it instantly. I had toured it years ago when I visited that town high in the Rockies. I picked up a used book another day just recently, and it was a collection of Mari Sandoz’s writing from Old Jules country in northwestern Nebraska. I had been there, too, in 1984. I remember quite well visiting a small museum upstairs in a department store on a small- town main street that was dedicated to her life and work. I see pictures of the Grand Teton Mountains, rivers in the Missouri Ozarks, haystack rock formations on the Washington coast. All places and sights I have had the good fortune to see at one time or another, and hope to see again some day.

Now my traveling days are greatly circumscribed by the many obligations and responsibilities of life. But if I see someone in their late 20s or early 30s trapped in a dead-end job and seeing no way out, I want to go up to them and say, "Quit your job. Get on the road. Travel. Work at temporary jobs. See the world before you get old and have to hobble around in an RV camp or ride along in one of those hermetically sealed, sleek, air-conditioned tour buses that whisk you from place to place and take a good bit of the adventure out of your trip. Be adventurous. Embark on your own type of prairie schooner saga, across grasslands, hills and mountains until you find yourself beyond that distant horizon looking out over a vista as endless as the blue sky. Stand there and let the wind blow strong and free, and let the dry grasses crackle under your feet late in the afternoon beside a stream like Grasshopper Creek in Montana -- Big Sky country at last.