Place Blog #5: Wishing for Solitude

Baby pink camellias. Butterfly bushes. Bradford pear tree blossoms. Tiny leaves on the weeping willow where two weeks ago the limbs hung, bare. Daffodils. The temperature has risen above 50 degrees every day for the past few weeks. Beware the ides of spring. The geese forage for food. The geese swim in groups of three to five, little armies on patrol. The breeze cools my face, flushed from the knowledge of last summer's heat wave. I mourn winter.

A couple poses for photos, probably for their engagement. I feel my eyes roll. Her dress is too small for this weather; she tries not to hunker down into herself, looks like she wants to suck the chill bumps in with her breath and practiced smile. I hear several birds calling but I'm still unable to identify them by sound alone. I wonder about all the mulch they put down under the willow oaks and why. Won't it just wind up in the pond? Sediment.

There's a solitary white duck making his way to the geese. I wonder where she came from. I don't know why I assume it's a female. She follows close behind a group of four -the last link in the chain, dangling. A tow headed child wobbles toward the pond. Another group of geese scatter. I miss my quiet, rainy days here. There will be more and more people coming as days mount into warmer months. They've already turned the fountain back on and for a moment, I understand that cantankerous old Ed Abbey. Just leave me be. In the woods. To the woods. With the birds and the squirrels. But I won't abandon my car or live in a yurt, either.

A large goose sits down about twenty feet away. He preens. His neck bends impeccable shapes, reaching everywhere it needs to. Another dries himself in long strokes of beak down feather and simple shakes from head to tail like my dog the minute water hits him in our porcelain tub. Their heads glisten dewy black. The sitting fellow tucks his beak for a moment, then comments on the two that are either trying to mate or trying to fight, it's hard for me to tell from this angle. He repeats the pattern. I wonder if he ever gets rest.

The couple snuggles on a bench across the way. "Dude, this tree's kind of badass," she says, and climbs in.

It's a crepe myrtle. I'm allergic to their pink and white flowers. They bloom all summer. I'm starting to dislike them. I'm grouchy that way. The goose's tail feathers catch the breeze, tilt up. I long to run my hand over his neck and back. He moves further away.

Prompt Blog #5: The Trouble With Charlotte

I found a document written and published by Mecklenburg County entitled "State of the Environment Report" 2010. I spent a considerable amount of time reading some disturbing figures about population growth and the general environmental impact on our air, land, water, and waste facilities of such sprawl and over-development. It is true that Charlotte is not the same as it was in 1977, the year I was born.  According to this report, the Charlotte Metro area's "developed acres per person" back then was .056 acres. In 2010, the figure reached a staggering .41 acres developed per person. This one statistic says it all. Charlotte is suffering from over growth. While some cities like Chicago, Detroit, and Cleveland have been reeling from population decline, Charlotte has acted like a magnet for many of those employed by major banks who chose a more affordable cost of living than New York City. This does not account for all of Charlotte's growth to be sure, but it is rare to meet someone who was actually born here. Bank of America, IBM, TIAA Cref, Wells Fargo, and many others bring people in droves. While the city is suffering from the recession, it doesn't seem to be slowing development. I tried my hand at expressing how I feel about all this with a poem.

The Trouble With Charlotte

A rage in its center, pulsing upward

beating outward, veins reaching

all the way into the wilds

of South Carolina

a city willfully bellows,

sucking the air in

scratching it out in our throats

in the flat lines and hill sides

in the four wheels and escalades

on the bank side

north side oozing, thick with cholesterol,

ozone, and particulate matter,

erect heads, not even plastering,

pestering the carpool lane

to the IBM and Wells Fargo Complexes

Bank of America

spreading, like a galaxy of half walls and gray carpets

and industrial waste

scented with blue shirt starch and the steam of

chain restaurants stacked high with pseudo meats

and lifting burnt forests with a ball point pen

so soccer moms and dads and football players

can drive forty-five minutes to that new Brazilian

steakhouse that flies in seafood from Alaska;

sinking a fork into eighty-three pounds per person

vehicular emissions

south side biding their time in country clubs

licking up tidbits of the sewage treatment plant

over by the mall

and carrying the 3,325 pounds of trash

per annum, per body,

per pottery barn home delivery;

east side’s dredging up the past, talking about roads

and mass transportation and needing

a way out,

a way in,

west side’s gentrifying, newly developing,

putting a fresh coat of paint on re-use, mixed-use,

smart-use development, writing its spin,

a small town kid wanting to be “world class,”

desperate to fit in

the trouble with Charlotte is

all that breeding and importation

of the bodies and the breaths of

those born here or north or west and looking

for a better way of living

more square footage

for less

more acreage

for less.

Place Blog#4: Keeping the Anxiety at Bay

It's warmer today. More people are here, mostly pushing strollers. There's more animal activity. In the distance, there are sirens. Closer, there are starlings moving in unison, sounding an alarm.  I can just see them in the tops of pine across the creek -across the park where the land was graded into steps. Where I used to stare at the sky with my older brother.  I'm missing him today. He's freezing in Brooklyn, I'm still here in Charlotte. Still here, after all these years of hoping I'd be gone, too.

I walk a little ways down the green way, down the dirt trail by the creek.  The ground is hard, littered with gum balls from the Sweet Gum trees and the remnants of dead leaves. They're starting to get spidery and thin.  Today, there's a solitary mallard pair.The male stands guard while the female sleeps, her beak tucked in her wing. There's a patch of indigo near her tail feathers I never noticed before.  The male watches me. I walk on, my feet heavy, my shoulders slouched. I'm tired of the stress of a house in disarray and the pressure of impending work.  It's a struggle to be in the moment. A struggle to keep the panic attack from moving into my chest. I focus on breathing and walking and getting outside my dusty head.

The creek has momentum today.

I walk past a squirrel's tail. I hope he's okay and that somehow, I might come across a slightly grouchy bob-tailed squirrel. But that is unlikely.

I find a bench in the sun where the creek curves. Behind me, they have installed what they're calling environmental art to protect the creek bed from silt, debris, and other pollutants. It looks like a rolled up net of leaves. A snake made of tree remains. Birds are calling all around me. I don't hear any Carolina Chickadees though I was hoping to finally be able to identify a bird by sound alone. A cardinal lands on an infant cypress, but he doesn't stay long.

A small squirrel (with tail) runs up the tree next to me. Rather than lower limbs, the tree seems to have only sprouts of limbs, twigs really.  They look like twigs sticking out of a snowman. She alights and stops on one that's barely big enough to hold her. She's only about twelve feet away. I watch her eat her nut, hold it in her paws, drop pieces of shell, stare in my direction.  For a minute or two, she sits and eats. I try not to move. I think about how some people hate squirrels and some find them adorable. I'm usually one of the latter. At least I am until they start digging up bulbs I planted or knocking over bird feeders. She scrambles to the top of the tree. I'm grateful for the moment we spent together.

I walk back toward the car and spot a Carolina Chickadee with a family of Cardinals. I still don't hear its song.

Place Blog Prompt #4: Carolina Chickadee

I thought I was going to write about the Black Capped Chickadee, a tiny bird I thought I had been watching around my feeders and in parks for several years. Like many other novice bird watchers, it was one of the first birds I learned other than Cardinal and Robin. Its lustrous black cap and bib, its soft gray feathers. I was attracted to their spunky personalities, how they’re always seen with other small birds like titmice.  How they grab a sunflower seed and fly away. Grab a sunflower seed and fly away. Diving, sharing, leaving. But my research led me to the discovery that I don’t live in their range; they only come about as far south as Virginia with the exception of a small territory in the Appalachian Mountains. What I’ve been admiring and pondering all these years has been the Carolina Chickadee.

I’ve lived here all my life and had no idea there was such a creature as a Carolina Chickadee. This seems appropriate, reflective of how I’ve resisted what’s right in front of me.

The Carolina Chickadee is cousin to the Black Capped Chickadee and it is said that these are tricky birds to distinguish even for seasoned bird watchers. Their wings are slightly browner and they do not have white fringing. Other than that, their appearance is very similar. A black cap and bib and an abundance of gray. They are small birds at 4.75 inches long with a weight of 9-12 grams.

I have dreams where they get in my house and I carry them out within my cupped hands. Their tiny talons digging in my palms.

But the main difference between the Carolina Wren and its cousin is its call and song. It’s call is said to be faster and higher pitched. Its song has four notes as opposed to the two noted song of the Black Capped Chickadee.

Fee-bee-fee-bay

Carolina Chickadees are not migratory; they are permanent residents of the Southeast. They flock together with nuthatches, warblers, and as mentioned before, titmice because they call out when they find a good food source. They are supportive creatures. They feed on insects such as aphids, wasps, spiders, ants, and bees in the spring and summer and nuts, seeds, and fruits in winter.

They can thrive in suburban areas but they prefer areas wooded with alder and birch trees. They are fragile and susceptible to hawks, owls, and cats.

Despite their vulnerability to predators, they show strength in their ability to withstand severe winters by reducing their body temperatures to induce torpor, or hypothermia, to conserve energy. Humans should not disturb them in this state because the stress could kill them. During this time they are awake, but unresponsive.

A trance-like state induced by severe winter.

The stress builds, the stupor lingers.

We are bound to our tree cavities.

Fee-bee-fee-bay

http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Carolina_Chickadee/id

Place Blog #3 -Impatient for Spring

I have seen a lot of Robins today –maybe 100 or more on the short drive to the park. A car next to me clipped one and my heart sank. I thought of Dillard’s water bug and how I refuse to read books about animals because they almost always end badly.  Pop used to say when you saw robins, that meant spring. Last week, my father-in-law said the finches were starting to turn from green to yellow and that meant spring. I find I am impatient. I’m overwhelmed by all that has to unfold  between now and then –with my home, with school. I find I am annoyed by the cold.

Today, the sun is shining in a cloudless sky without warmth. I walk to the stone bridge, dodging goose droppings. I sit the edge of the bridge. The wind cuts at my hands, my ears, and my chin. I am unprotected and my hair is still wet. Only my feet are warm. I’m grateful for my riding boots.

The pond moves like custard. My blood feels the same. The creek is low and offers a mere trickle; its rocks are more visible today. Where before they went unnoticed, now they have come to the show to stand and contrast things –the water, the debris, the trash. There are no mallards today. The creek subsides.

I can hear music lapping against the meek sounds of water. Myers Park Methodist is around the corner. I picture an organist practicing for a Sunday service, a throng of robed children kicking each other in between songs. But these are memories of church in childhood and not reality.

The geese talk amongst themselves and move with the thick water. They don’t care about my presence today. A couple wobbles on roller skates; they stop and look at me. I guess it must be strange to see a girl sitting on a bridge, writing, staring back. My butt may be frozen to the bridge and isn’t interested in birds or strangers, only warm things. Static-laden blankets. Potato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Staying in bed with three dogs and three cats, not being able to move because of their sand bag effect. But there is peace here listening to church music and the trickling water, even if it’s a cold peace. My new home is still in chaos, but at least we’re in it. I am grateful for the moment, even with a numb chin and runny nose. 

Place Blog Prompt #3: A Field in Rock Hill

This is a story about a relationship with a place I just left last week. Rock Hill, SC is about an hour south of Charlotte. It is rural. It is suburban. It is conservative. Yes, you can see the occasional rebel flag there as well as trailer parks, cars on blocks, and various other stereotypes. My husband and I only moved there because I had planned to pursue a PhD in rhetoric at The University of South Carolina in Columbia. The place was a compromise between Columbia and Charlotte. Ben worked at Wachovia at the time. We’d both drive about an hour. But we didn’t think it through. 

When we moved there, we gave up all the pleasurable symptoms of living in a growing city. Restaurants. Proximity to cultural events. Parks. More than one Starbucks. What Rock Hill had to offer was invisible to us for the first few years we were there; we were so focused on what we had lost. We spent most of our time driving back to Charlotte to go to dinner, to movies, to meet friends for lunch. No one but my in-laws would make the trek all the way out to the small town to visit. We had a lovely home with more square footage than we felt we deserved, and no one to share it with.  Three weeks into my PhD program, I quit. The house and the town became prisons. We became depressed. We stayed inside.

Ben took a job with HP which would allow him to work at home. Working at home is a blessing and a curse. We spent more time in that house.

A year after we moved in, Ben’s mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I drove an hour north to teach at UNC-Charlotte. We stopped talking to most of our friends in Charlotte. We stopped talking to each other. I blamed myself for moving there. We were terrified.

Then, in summer of 2010, we got a border collie named Desmond. Border collies are energetic and this one was traumatized from the neglect of his previous owners. He was heart-worm positive. He was ten pounds too thin. We began to nurse him back to health and in that process we started our long walks, just dog mom and Desi. I taught him to walk on a leash without pulling; he just wanted to please and have a job, being the herding type. We developed a routine. I would rise early and walk him before the heat of the day took hold. By 10am in the summer, you can barely breathe from the wet heat in South Carolina.

We walked to the front of the neighborhood to a field –a former farm, what kind I’m not sure. There’s an old water pump at the entrance to the field, ten foot blackberry bushes at the rear, and peach and persimmon trees. Come July, we’d take grocery bags for fruit. I kept pits to plant. We would walk in unison without thought falling into a rhythm of dog and human breath and sweat. He would mark all the trees. We would rest beneath a relatively young Sugar Maple with moss growing at its base. I watched him scan the landscape, notice birds and grasshoppers, and found a sense of peace in the daily changes in grasses –the dew soaked spider webs spread like pox across a body, the dandelions when they bloomed and coated the field in their butter yellow haze. I learned that field's nuances. I saw dead birds and deer tracks, caught a glimpse of a fox one morning and wondered if he were the Fantastic Mr. Dahl wrote of.  I got annoyed when the mowers came and clipped everything even though it meant I was less likely to get ticks and I’d have less “nature” to pick out of Desmond’s fur. We walked for several miles a day. When we returned home, we were breathless and ripe. He slopped up water and lay down with all fours stretched out next to me as I did yoga stretches. My downward dog drew nose kisses. It was on those walks that I learned to appreciate the subtle quiet of Rock Hill and a sense of ease grew anew in our household.

Place Blog #2- The Only Human in the Park

I am grateful to be the only human at the park today. The rain is slow but heavy as it hits the ground and the pond. I find the only dry spot at the back of the stage used for summer concerts and plays. Little Sugar Creek is moving with purpose and climbing the banks as I sit here. It rushes over rocks and I hope the rain continues it's slow pace. I would prefer not to get caught in a flash flood with a lap top and my husband's jeep.

The mallards are active today. They scurry against the current, poking at the banks where leaves and debris have collected.  They're mostly sticking together, the ducks -three females and five males. One male stands off to the side of the creek about fifty feet down. All I hear is water. My fingers grow numb and breath surrounds me. I wish I had a home to go to and hunker down in. It must be teetering on the edge of freezing rain. Visiting on another day would have been wise.

The birds are getting more active. I saw several Cardinals on my walk in, a lot of finches and smaller birds, and one red crowned bird I couldn't identify. I know it wasn't a woodpecker; it was too small. I had never seen this bird before. His frame was slight, his feathers washed in shades of brown -all save for his head which boasted a brilliant ruby cap. Somewhere close by, a bird says "chirp-y chirp-y" in quick successive beats. A crow calls from the top of a pine tree. If I only had a blanket and a cup of coffee, this would be a perfect reading spot. I read on the stage at the park in the rain. Sounds right. Sounds good.

The rain comes faster now. There's a squirrel in one of the Willow Oaks alerting me to movement. He sees the couple and their dog before I hear them. We watch them walk past. Their voices seem to loud. I stop. The squirrel stops. The pass, moving in shepherd sized strides on grass that's just showing a hint of green. In two weeks, we'll be able to see the tops of tulips coming up around trees and flower beds but today, it is cold and I can't feel my fingers moving. I wrap my fists in my sweater. I wish my coat wasn't at the dry cleaner's. The squirrel moves again; he and the birds just want me to leave. I think of my last birthday; we spent it here, eating cupcakes on the hill across the pond, sunning ourselves like madmen without spf, amazed by buttercream, dreaming of words and possibility.