Putting Out Fires

A long standing fixture in Craig’s office accoutrements is an oversized poster of Frank Lloyd Wright standing imperially amid the construction of the Guggenheim. Although near the end of his long life and his hair wispy and white underneath his porkpie hat his figure remains imposing. The photograph, in black and white, lends to the striking representation of architectural genius. I never liked this poster and its prominence in Craig’s workspace. My dislike has nothing to do with the genius. A print of one of Wright’s renderings of Fallingwater has lived harmoniously in my home for years. And I match Craig’s enthusiasm on our explorations of Wright’s Usonian houses. I did my duty to Wright. I read the Natural House. I watched the PBS documentary and poured over a number of biographies and architectural criticisms spanning his long career.
Am I allowed to draw a line?

Perhaps my dislike grew out of the transient nature of the poster. One day Frank Lloyd Wright glared from Craig’s drafting table. Another day he loomed above Craig, sunlight streaming around the edges like an illustration of a saint from a children’s book. Craig loved working under the scrutiny of Wright. He drove him, urged him to reflect on his own work and blocked the sun at key times in the office.

Wright resembles a disapproving uncle, smug as he is with the hat and cane obviously aware of his own genius and the certainty that no one will quite live up to the bar that he raised. I can hear his voice, the flippant remarks he made over the years to journalists, the condescension to everyone in his stare, the chagrinned smile. Could there be any one more severe than Wright’s intimidating presence in the office?

Perhaps not but his match now has a prominent position in the studio. James Montgomery Flagg’s forest ranger (think of his iconic Uncle Sam but with a full-length body and forest service uniform) points admonishingly at the blazing forest behind him but gazes intently out (at me). The poster’s message only underscores the ranger’s expression: Your Forests - YOUR FAULT – Your Loss! Added to the burden of being without genius of my own is the weight of human carelessness in regard to our natural resources and my uselessness in all of it.

Anyone who knows Craig also knows that he does nothing casually. He does not dabble. He dives in wholly and unequivocally. And his offspring, “Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.” (Pied Piper of Hamelin, Robert Browning)

Currently, under the tutelage of this piper-like parent, my children fanatically seek to prevent forest fires and work fervently to spread the message of fire safety to anyone who will listen. Of course, like their father, they must also look the part. Smokey the Bear tattoos gaze from offspring forearms and full-length miniatures peek, at times, from navel regions. Little Smokey the Bears dangle from key chains on school bags and stickers decorate notebooks warning of every individual’s culpability in forest fires. Even Rem peddles through parks with a cautionary bumper sticker on the back of his bike reminding other tikes that Smokey is counting on them.

Rangers in far-reaching offices around the region unknowingly send my family into a Mardi Gras- like frenzy when they hand Craig a few dated trinkets or a handful of bookmarks and stickers. Craig doles out loot to the new forest service spokespeople and spins tales told to him about the ins and outs of protecting and managing land. Unnoticed, I swipe a tiny Smokey flashlight/keychain and head upstairs.

A Week-end Away

Craig and I took the kids camping over the holiday week-end after a long hiatus. Despite our secret wishes that bad weather or some other obstacle would prove insurmountable and force a cancellation, nothing stood in our way.  Nothing, that is, other than our own reluctance to drag the camping boxes up from our basement, plan and shop for a week-end in the woods and load the van.  Eager children willing to help and accommodating in every way dissipated our dread along with surprisingly organized camping gear and magnificent weather. We drove to an old favorite camping spot on the Tennessee side of the national park and the family quickly acclimated to life in the woods.

We allowed the three-year old to set our pace for the week-end  and after some exploration around the campground we found ourselves drawn to Cosby Creek and joined the sun already at play with the water and boulders.  Lise moved quickly up the creek, overturning rocks in a hunt for salamanders while Miren followed with the camera, rock-hopping and searching for photo ops. Rem, stick in hand, soon clamored to the top of a boulder and loudly challenged each of us to a duel as the water swirled below him. Craig tried to oblige them all as he wielded a stick towards Rem, assisted Miren in composing photographs and exclaimed over Lise's successes. I found a comfortable rock near Rem and, moving a sycamore leaf so that I might sit, searched for the tree that the leaf  had once belonged to.

Among the poplars and maples I discovered the sycamore tree, its base thick as it rose from the boulders at the creek's edge.  A blanket of moss united the boulders and trunk where it bent toward the water in accommodation of a stump or a trunk long missing.  Beyond the void, the trunk rose into two towers until, reaching above the canopy of rhododendron and dying hemlocks, it stretched again as one in a mass of intertwined branches. Curled sheets of bark, an even shade of brown, lay discarded on the forest floor and in the rock crevices in the creek below.  Substantial leaves, still green, sat sprinkled among the dried leaves, spent acorns and bare sticks of seasons past.  Raised veins ran across the back of the leaves, solid skeletons against  seemingly fragile fabric.  I played with the leaf in my hand, traced the veins with my finger, and flipped it over against my palm to enjoy the satisfying ornamental and symmetrical characteristics.

In the afternoons the campground grows quiet.  Only the occasional rustle of leaves where a squirrel or a bird searches the ground and the faint, constant drone of insects penetrate the stillness that settles in the shady dense woods of loop B.  Earlier, in the morning, the place buzzed with activity.  Rem and I walked the road soon after waking and watched as people loaded cars and set off to continue journeys while others revived fires and settled around them with mugs and plates piled with eggs and bacon.  We followed a group searching for the Low Gap trail head, ready for a day's hike, their full water bottles bulging from side pockets of packs.  Someone snored loudly from an orange tent.

Rem shouted greetings to those who wandered past our campsite, his face stained from the hot chocolate he drank while waiting for his breakfast.  His feet were propped on a flat rock close to his little blue folding chair.  Craig returned from filling water bottles to comment on the snoring from the orange tent and we began preparing breakfast on the plastic red and white checkered tablecloth.  The occasional bark from a dog (not Tam) or the stuttered start of an old car periodically drowned out the morning bustle.  Lise reluctantly emerged from the tent an hour before her more reluctant sister but after a hot breakfast and some movement to counter the cool morning chill we headed out.

The campground activity dispersed along trails and creek beds, even into the nearby towns and a comfortable quiet settled onto the empty tents and smoky fire rings.  We returned from exploring an old cemetery and playing in the creek for a leisure lunch. Before long, Craig took the girls off on another hike while I read read Hemingway to a sleepy toddler until he fell asleep.  The tent zipper noisily pierced the air as I left Rem snug in a sleeping bag to return to a chair under the maples and oaks. I continued with Hemingway under a magnificent blue sky that drew my gaze often from the stories of Nick Adams, Africa and war. The filtered sun cast shadows over the book and marked the passing of time along with the turning of pages.

Slowly, the campground stepped out of its hushed state as campers returned from their wanderings to light fires and start dinners. Craig appeared with Miren and Lise, all of them soaking wet from an excursion in the creek.  I closed the book as their rush of stories filled the spaces of our site and the girls, famished, found snacks and expectantly fantasized about dinner.

Summer Bounty

The stalls that I frequent at the farmer's market near my home burst with color and abundance typical at this time of year. Bushels of ripe peaches, not quite ready to make way for apples, line the paths of the market floor. The intoxicating scent boasts a mix of sweet fruits, pungent onions and the distinct garden smell of vegetables newly released from plants. Yesterday, I found a pretty pile of bright green okra that looked both supple and tender.  While I gathered enough for a favorite summer dinner of smothered okra, Rem quietly bagged enough peaches for a dozen pies.  With some encouragement, he relinquished much of his harvest and helped pick out tomatoes to accompany the okra. 

"Soon," I explained to Rem, "all of the open-air stalls will be filled with pumpkins and apples."  Rem took my hand and peered to where I motioned.  The mountains, still thick with green, rose above the market toward the bright blue sky.

"And I will be a spooky ghost!" Already excited about Halloween, Rem teeters between wanting to be a ghost and a beautiful butterfly with wings.  Everyone in our household encourages him to embrace the ghost. We like our Halloweens scary.

A battle also wages in my head with this place that for now marks difficulty and uncertainty. I wake up done with it, wishing to make a fresh start somewhere else and then, on long morning walks with Rem and Tam, as the smoky fog gives way to clear blue skies and the day's initial chill lingers I am once again struck by the beauty of this place. The neighborhood rises and falls beneath canopies of hardwoods that will soon transform into brilliant yellow and red umbrellas before giving way, bare-branched to glimpses of the mountains beyond.  Beyond the sidewalks, the last colors of summer, highlighted by morning glories and black-eyed susans rise above the grassy yards and the spent blossoms that bowed to August's heat. 

Rem shouts from his cushy stroller seat an enthusiastic good morning to everyone we meet on our walks. His greetings are returned with equal enthusiasm from neighbors, other dog-walkers, even construction workers (many homes that rested on generous lots now sit squeezed between new construction that seems to rise instantly on the over-divided green spaces).  Dogs bark from houses and back yards and Rem fusses Tam for not wishing her friends a good-morning in return.

My children received the most amazing musical gifts this week and I am struck yet again. The beauty of the people within my small circle surpasses the exquisite landscapes that stretch beyond; a bounty as prolific and colorful as the market stalls.