April 13, 2026

I walked out the front door and saw the tree. I thought I saw the future.

It’s not exactly a tree, really just a three-foot-long stalk anchored in a 12-inch plastic planter. It sat where I had left it near the garage nearly five months ago, in late November. Through the bleak winter I walked past it without seeing it. Now a dozen green leaves fluttered along its full length. It was alive.

A week before Thanksgiving I registered for the “Turkey Trot” run around downtown streets. The race was sponsored by a non-profit, TreesUpstate, that encourages tree planting and cultivation and green-space development. It donated free trees to the runners. I took one and tossed it in the van.

Trees, along with front lawns, are part of the suburban mystique. Families who venture from crowded cities seeking space, safety, and good schools in commuter subdivisions hope also for the traditional tree-lined street. They hope for gentle shade in spring and summer, for the cheerful, vibrant colors of fall.

Climate dictates. In the desert Southwest local drought-resistant species, cacti and other things, may be all homeowners expect. But in most of the country the suburban vision is shade-abundant oaks, maples, sycamores, and others, creating a sense of lush, verdant comfort and beauty.

Trees weren’t always important. The history of America’s migration to the suburbs dates from the end of World War II and the wildfire spread of so-called Levittowns, started by New York builder Levitt & Sons. Their homes were built to cookie-cutter designs, Cape Cods or modest ranches, stamped out inside of a week.

In those years builders bulldozed forests and fields to make room for construction. Many if not most of the Levittown-type neighborhoods went up in sterile treeless spaces. The developers sold mostly to young couples, who used the husband’s veterans benefits to afford the home.  

My parents were among them. When I was three or four they made the life-changing decision to move to Ridgewood, N.J., from a small New York City apartment. The neighborhood I grew up in fit the pattern, boxy Cape Cods, postage-stamp yards. The selling price was around $10,000. This was 1953.

The subdivision was, and I think still is, called “Ridgewood Lawns.” I recall, my memory helped along by old photos, the front yards were dirt. It was up to the new owner to plant grass. The developer put in thin maple saplings along the sidewalk. Seven decades later those saplings are fully grown monsters, providing the classic tree-shaded look for the enjoyment of the current residents, who likely were not born in 1953.  

Our Nashville and Virginia yards had big trees. While we lived in those places we thought of the landscaping as the abiding, unchanging background to our personal space. But over the years we recognized that time has no anchor. Before we were born those trees didn’t exist. Now the giant trees that shaded the front lawn and backyard of our Nashville house are long gone. Trees grow, they die, people cut them down.

Our lot here is bordered on one side by a large hedgerow, but no trees shade our small square front yard. The across-the-street neighbor has a small tree. Up and down the block you see one or two, a yard a few doors away has several. The look is largely bare. In the summer the sun beats down, I wait until evening to cut the grass.

Occasionally we would talk about having a nice shade tree in the yard. It was one of those ideas that would pop up then be crowded out by something else. Now I looked at my three-foot-high stalk. The new leaves were a bright, healthy green. We could do this.

We called the local utility service that will mark underground utility lines. In Virginia years ago I had tried to excavate for something and cut the buried Verizon line with my shovel. We did without the service until the company sent a guy to repair it a week later. A charge was added to our bill.

Within days, technicians from AT&T, Spectrum, and Duke Power showed up and spraypainted red, orange, and yellow streaks across the lawn to mark their lines, some curving from front to back. The discovery was unnerving, a lot of power runs under our patch. Still, it seemed there would be room for the tree.

Then it rained, one day, two, three. The painted lines washed away. I peered at the lawn, trying to reconstruct them from memory. I called again. Again the techs showed up and painted the lawn. I found a spot I thought was safely away from the lines and dug nervously into the concrete-like Carolina clay.

My back ached as I shoveled. Six inches, eight inches, ten inches. I breathed deeply. A white pickup marked Greer CPW pulled up at the curb. A fellow in a hardhat and yellow vest got out. I leaned on my shovel. The back of his shirt had a label: “Detection Validation.”

“Hi, I’m with Public Works,” he said. “I’m here to check the line marking. We want to be sure it’s been done right.” He fetched his detection device and spray gun from the truck and stared at the ground. He followed the painted lines up and down the yard, his device beeping. He walked close to my hole.

“Whoa, this guy’s a little off,” he said. He was three feet away from my digging. He painted a new line. “This is fiber optic,” he said. He looked at the hole. “You’re okay,” he said. “Glad you called us. Have a good day!” He stowed his gear and drove off. I stuck the tree in the hole, filled it in, watered, and added some mulch. I wondered about the roots reaching the fiber optic.

The next day, anyway, the leaves were still green. We imagine it towering, full, and luxuriant. That will not be for us. It may not survive. But maybe it will. Ten or twenty years from now a future owner, perhaps a young family, will enjoy it.

April 6, 2026

The priest knelt and washed the feet of twelve men seated at the altar, a rite performed at the Mass of the Lord’s Supper at thousands of churches on Thursday of Holy Week. When the Mass ended he left the church in silence. Acolytes removed the altar cloths. Some people filed out, others remained on their knees. The Triduum began.

Last week news reached home about U.S. and Israeli bombs and missiles hitting civilian homes and schools. Two generations of senior Iranian officials, murderous barbarians while alive, now are dead, although someone apparently is in charge over there, still launching missiles and drones. U.S. forces shipped in ammo from South Korea.

U.S. government tough-guy talk risked garbling the Easter message. A couple of thousand civilians are dead in Iran and Lebanon. Trump’s bizarre statements about the war and indifference to the human cost insult the foundation of religious faith, even while church pews were packed and the Pope repeated his call for peace.

All faiths, Christian and non-Christian, acknowledge human history as a path inclined between suffering and redemption, a war between good and evil, heaven and hell. We know this from the primary sources, the Old and New Testaments, the Torah, the Qur’an, the Vedas and Bagavad Gita, the dukkhas of Buddhism.

Now at Easter, Christians confront the scandal of the Resurrection, or to the skeptics, “resurrection.” The scandal is unbelief, if the scope of gratuitous suffering unleashed by the Trump war gives new energy to cynics.

Christ’s rising from the dead on Easter morning, reported in all the Gospels, in Paul’s epistles, and in Acts of the Apostles, is the bedrock of Christianity. But the Gospels emerged from a spoken tradition passed down over many years in many languages. Academics who study Scripture believe Mark was actually written around 70 A.D., Matthew and Luke in the 80s, and John around 90 or 95. All decades after Christ.

Stories change over time. Bart Ehrman, distinguished professor of religious studies at the University of North Carolina, once a committed “fundamentalist” Christian who accepted the inerrancy of the Bible, makes the point that Jesus’ followers who claimed he rose from the dead may well have believed that he rose from the dead. After all he was supposed to be the Messiah.

Erhman, talking to The New York Times’ Ross Douthat, says that in the time of Christ the Jews believed the Messiah would be a revolutionary leader who would create a new kingdom on earth. Getting arrested, humiliated, beaten, and dying on the cross proved that Jesus was not that leader. They said he would rise from the dead and, Erhman says, kept saying it.

The professor has an example: he once was giving a lecture when he saw his father in the third row. His father had died 15 years earlier. He thought he saw his father. In the same way, he says, Christ’s followers who claimed to see him for 40 days after the Resurrection actually had a vision or a dream that they saw him. After all, people simply do not rise from the dead. In the same way, a man does not walk on water or perform the other miracles Jesus is said to perform.

But the Resurrection accounts, Douthat adds, don’t say anything like, “Now we proclaim Christ risen.” So there is always doubt, doubt that the Resurrection happened, that a man walked on water or gave sight to the blind. Doubt, always.

But not a case of mistaken identity. History shows us that the Resurrection in following years created a creed based on Christ’s message to “love your neighbor” that spread from Jerusalem to Judea, Syria, Asia Minor, Greece, North Africa, Rome, Spain. Eventually it altered history.

Erhman says he’s an “odd duck. I’m an agnostic, I’m an atheist, a Christian atheist and I’m a New Testament scholar, which is weird.”

He is an odd duck. He cites the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 25-37). A lawyer asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus answers, “A man … is attacked by bandits and left seriously wounded. A priest walks past him, then a Levite, neither help the man. Then a Samaritan traveling by was moved to pity at the sight. He binds the man’s wounds and takes him to an inn to be cared for.”

Jesus asks, “Who was the man’s neighbor?” The lawyer answers, “The one who treated him with compassion.” Jesus says, “Go and do the same.”

Erhman adds, “This was Jesus’ teaching, and I subscribe to that idea. What bothers me is that so many Christians … don’t follow his most basic teaching.” Later he adds, “I don’t believe in God. I absolutely don’t believe in God or any supernatural powers. But I do think the teachings of Jesus are something I want to replicate in my life as much as I can.”

Through Holy Week we worked at chores, yard work, other things. When the van wouldn’t start at the state park, a young ranger showed up with jumper cables. She explained she had never jumpstarted a car. She guessed at attaching the cables and tried three times, no luck. I was set to call a tow truck when she said, “Let’s try one more time.” It started.

That day a veteran trail hiker here in town received a cancer diagnosis.

We paid attention to the querulous hunt through ancient texts for nits in this parable or that one. Then we witnessed the poetic power of the Easter message, the beginning of faith. We heard again the story of the empty tomb, which in time transformed the world.

March 30, 2026

It occurred to me about 8:45 last Saturday morning that I did not belong at Black Rock. The crowd waiting for the 9:00 start were mostly twenties, thirties, forties, in light wicking shirts or summer running gear. I was in my thermal jacket and leggings, wool cap, and gloves.

Thick forest surrounded us at the end of Fisher Road in Sylva, North Carolina. I felt a chill. Cold is my experience at Black Rock over the past six years. The winterlike air penetrated my thermals, gloves, and cap. I thought of the temperature dropping at altitude, icicles hanging from rocks.

We were in the middle of the Plott Balsam Mountains, which stretch west from Asheville. The Black Rock idea, called “Assault on Black Rock” by race director Brian Barwatt, a local guy, is to “run, hike, or crawl” three and one-half rocky miles up the West Fork Trail from the start at 3,000 feet of elevation to the summit, at 5,800 feet on the third Saturday in March. Then reverse and fly down the East Fork Trail, completing a seven-mile loop.

The rest of the field all looked like trail-running veterans like me but in a better mood. Many were with friends, chatting and laughing.  I knew I would be solo on the course. I felt a familiar kind of darkness. I breathed a short prayer.

Sandy was with me, she took a quick photo. We said hello to a few folks. One old guy asked my age. He said he had a year on me. I had noticed on the list of entrants a few sixties-plus people.

The pack gathered near Brian. He stood on a rock giving a pre-race briefing, which I couldn’t hear, never heard him in the last five years. I guessed he’d talk about the trail markers, red for up, yellow for down, and buckles for anyone who finished in under ninety minutes. The first runner who finished under an hour would get a $400 prize. So far it’s never happened.

At 9:00 AM we set off, the pack flowing past the gate onto West Fork, which starts with a northbound straightaway. A few folks hung back, then passed me. I moved deliberately, watching the trail but casting my eyes forward. The trail disappears into misty forest.

In 2021 the old Virginia neighborhood running group, called the THuGs, gathered in Waynesville for a reunion, our first Black Rock. Brian asked folks to estimate their finish times and start in waves, slowest first, then mid-level, fast, and fastest. I started with Kevin and Bruce in the first wave in near-darkness. We got only a dim look at the slope. Kevin and Bruce moved ahead of me. A mile along, the others, first Chris, then Paul and Kirk raced by.

It was in the thirties, but I guessed temps would rise with the sun. Instead the cold dogged me, near the summit my legs locked up. I rode down with the EMTs. A month later, in gentler weather, I returned with a friend and finished the course. The ThuGs reunited for Black Rock the following year, we all did well. I finished in just over three hours.

Sandy and I returned in 2023, I was on my own. The pack flowed ahead, I stayed with a couple of people for a mile, passed them, they passed me. We talked a bit and exchanged photos. In ‘24 I recruited two friends, Todd and Elise, athletic, fast people who could have flown over the course. Instead they stayed with me on a hard day. I slogged, fighting a cough and cold. We finished well behind the pack.

The three of us did better last year, the weather worked out, we ran and hiked as a team, took a breather on the summit, and raced across the finish in about four hours. We got a nice lunch in Waynesville. We talked about the race, family news, the future.

I hoped for a repeat now, as I waited for the start, my sixth Black Rock. I had trained by hiking a couple of steep trails in the past two weeks. I knew it wasn’t enough.

As I moved up the first quarter-mile I recalled my birthday nearly a month earlier. Another year, more payback of strength to nature. Since 2020 fast hiking or jogging sets off radiation-induced bronchiectasis, my lungs heave with the labor of breathing. But there it is. Black Rock is a “granny gear” hike, one foot forward, then the other. The trail turned west for a couple of level hundred yards, then whipped around to the east and climbed.  And climbed.

I picked up my pace then eased back, sucking air, gulping water from my hydration pack. The switchbacks grew sharper, steeper. Just past the one-mile point I passed a road guard sitting in her ATV. I overheard her speak into her radio: “Runner passing.” Not exactly a runner.

I moved on, a creaking human machine. The thought occurred, why? I had signed up when registration opened, as I had the previous five years. When you look at these things there’s a sense that you better get in before the event fills up. Then you get in and guess you’re ready, after years of trail races. Or there’s plenty of time to get some training in. Failing that, granny gear, short strides, one foot forward, then the other. The whole point is, get it done.

At three miles the trail levels out for a quarter-mile then rounds a bend to the intersection with East Fork. Three teenagers sat trailside handing out bottled water. I waved I was okay. “Stay on red, follow yellow down,” one yelled. I moved forward over soft, level trail, jogging, then running. I thought about the single-track. Runners were flashing past on the way home. “Looking strong,” I muttered. “You too,” they yelled.

At the cut in underbrush that opens to the single-track, three EMTs sat in their ATV shooting the breeze, waving at runners descending from the summit. “Up there, one-third of a mile to the top,” one said to me, pointing at the mountain. I didn’t mention I’m a five-timer on this.

The single-track is barely visible, straight up over stumps, gnarled roots, tangled vines, rocks, pits, relentlessly up through the bush. I lunged and grabbed for roots and hanging branches. I paused, took water. A few folks descended around me. “Looking strong,” I kept saying.

Then I was alone. The slope eased a bit, the summit now in view beyond house-sized rocks. The trail winds over, under, around the rock walls and stubby snakelike trees. Foot-long icicles hung in the crevices. I paused at the base of the summit, a massive block of granite, then pulled myself up and crawled onto the surface.

Now the sun shone warmly through a gentle breeze. I sat up, closed my eyes for five minutes, took a couple of photos, then launched from the granite. I landed feet first, wobbled, then headed for Fisher Road.

March 23, 2026

Five years have passed since we moved into our place. Five years today, March 23. We closed on the house Feb. 26, 2021. It poured rain that day, we signed everything, went to lunch to mark the occasion, then headed back to our apartment. It then had been three weeks since I finished a month of radiation therapy, three months since the rib-cage operation.

The next day we started loading the boxes we had crammed in the apartment into the van. We hauled them the six miles to the house and piled them in the garage.  The grandsons, Noah and Patrick, greeted us with signs and smiles.

It was then and still is the right place: Greer, South Carolina, one level, so no stairs, gas heat, the front yard bordered by mature greenery, no landscaping needed. The second and third bedrooms are small, closet space is limited, but the garage doubles as storage. It’s just the two of us.

The house had been empty for five years since the previous owner, an elderly widow, moved to a nursing home. We never met her, her nephew dealt with us on the sale. The house was sold to help pay her living expenses.

The place had a strange feel to it. When we tried to set up the internet and couldn’t get the connection, the provider told us there had been no online account since 2013. The lady had dropped the service and lived her remaining time there with neither internet nor email.

The widow’s furniture remained in the house when we first walked through. It was feminine-looking, imitation-antique stuff, well-worn wingback chairs, dark wood endtables, and so on. The master bedroom walls were decorated with flowery wallpaper, long faded. The two smaller bedrooms were painted lilac and pink.  

I found a Bible on a desk, thumbed through it, and scanned the faded handwritten notations. A photograph of a woman stood on a nightstand. The nephew said it was the widow’s daughter, who had passed from cancer some years ago.

We found a painter who painted the walls and removed the popcorn ceiling. We hired a mover to deliver our living room and bedroom furniture. Within a month of our move-in the water heater failed, we replaced it. In July the air conditioning system clanged and roared but provided no cooling. The HVAC was obsolete and could not be repaired, we bought a new system.

The new neighborhood was at first an alien world. We knew no one. The new home was smaller than the Virginia house, where we had accumulated all the stuff that moved with us and would not fit in the new place. Dozens of boxes and excess furniture remained in the garage. The garage was a kind of fun thing, we had never had one.

The backyard was enclosed by a beat-up picket fence. In our second year we looked for a contractor to replace it. We hired the lowest bidder. After we paid him I noticed the picket sections were nailed to the posts in straight rows rather than adjusted to the contours of the terrain, giving the pickets an odd crooked look. A year later picket nails started popping. But I guess the low bidder saved us a few bucks.

In time, we met some neighbors: next door, another retired couple, refugees from Cuba. The fellow is an engineer who got his training in the USSR, on returning to Cuba he fled to the U.S. We’ve seen him sunning himself in the yard in his Speedo. On the opposite side, a single guy who manages a pet store, across the street a friendly young woman with two teenagers.   

We got a few bids on adding a sunroom to replace the beat-up 10×10 deck. After seeing the bids we dropped the idea, I guessed I could refinish the deck instead. For three weeks I spent a half-day or more every day sanding, repairing, and restaining the deck. Since it faces the fierce Carolina sun through the summer, we never go out there. My repairs already are looking old.

The postage-stamp-size lawn is level. We bought an old-fashioned pushmower, the Home Depot clerk looked strangely at me. No gas needed, nor battery, nor cable. Pushing it across the front lawn attracts attention from the landscaping crews who manicure our neighbors’ yards. It’s a stiff shoulder workout. The lawn is getting thicker, the pushing harder.

That first summer we planted sunflowers, marigolds, and zinnias behind the house. They sprouted almost overnight in the rich Carolina clay. Within a month the sunflowers reached eight and ten feet, the marigolds and zinnias bloomed and spread like vines, filling the space with wild color we never saw in our Virginia yard. Giant hostas appeared in thick rows on three sides of the deck, giving a vernal cast to my fading repair work.

The marigolds and zinnias now show up magically in the spring from seeds left in the dirt by last year’s crop. For fun I planted green beans and that down-home Southern classic, okra. The green beans shriveled on the vines, the okra grew and grew. Sandy breaded and fried okra until it wore out its welcome.

In the third year we replaced the homebuilder-standard vinyl kitchen countertop with a stone one with a nice pattern to it. Last year we hired a smart young contractor to rebuild the bathrooms. We called him back to fix some glitches, he was happy to do it.

A friend recruited her daughters to paint the still-unpainted fence, the grandsons and a couple of other kids pitched in, we bought the paint, brushes, and ice cream for a fence-painting party. The boys and girls turned it a gleaming white.

On September 25, 2024 Hurricane Helene hit the Southeast. We were in New Hampshire, where the sun shone brightly. Our daughter Marie sent us a video showing the remains of a giant tree limb that fell from the neighbor’s yard, crushing three sections of our fence. Some folks around town lost power for two weeks. Nearly 50 people died in the state, more than 100 in North Carolina.

After the cleanup I salvaged some unbroken pickets and nailed them back into place. From a distance they look almost even.

We’ve thought again of the sunroom idea. Medical appointments are pending. With Trump bombing Iran, oil prices through the roof, stocks crashing, it’s still a no-go, at this five-year mark. We’re working on six.

March 16, 2026

The Stumphouse Mountain Tunnel penetrates about 1,600 feet into the mountain in northwestern South Carolina near Walhalla, then ends at a brick wall and a rusty iron gate.  We trudged the full length of it with flashlights, inhaling the cool damp tunnel air, stepping carefully along the muddy floor. We reached the end and squinted through the gate into a black void.

The state government’s plan in 1855 was to build the tunnel, 5,860 feet long and 236 feet deep, through the southeast face of Stumphouse Mountain in order to lay track for a route from Anderson, S.C., to Knoxville for use by the Blue Ridge Railroad. The idea was to benefit businesses in Charleston that wanted a shorter trip to Ohio than the complicated route through central Georgia and Tennessee.

Something like 1,500 workers, mostly Irish immigrants, and their families settled in a work camp called Tunnel Town which, it was said, had “more saloons than churches.” A Catholic priest arrived and, appalled at the conditions, persuaded the site boss to fire any worker who got drunk. He built a church, St. Patrick’s, the first Catholic church west of Columbia, to serve the workers.

The Irishmen hacked away at the steel-hard blue granite with hand drills, hammers, and chisels. Because of the hardness of the granite the workers could get through only about 260 feet per month. The work went so slowly the money ran out and the work stopped. The men of Tunnel Town drifted away.

While the state and the builders looked for new funding the Civil War began. After the war the state had neither the interest nor the money, and the project was abandoned. St. Patrick’s church eventually was destroyed by fire and scavengers.

The tunnel is said to be one of the most visited parks in the state, which seems odd for an unlit shaft through solid granite 1,600 feet long, in a state of many beautiful places.

The story of the tunnel’s name is as strange as the name itself. We learned it derives from a legend of no specific timeframe: a Creek woman named Isaqueena who had been captured by Cherokees fell in love with a white man who lived in Greenwood County, about 90 miles south of Walhalla. When she heard the Cherokees planned an attack on his settlement she escaped with the fellow, the two hid in a large hollow tree, hence “Stumphouse.”

This version is based on a poem written by a Rev. J.W. Daniels in 1898 entitled “Cateechee of Keowee,” which says Isaqueena’s name was changed to Cateechee. She later escaped the Cherokees by pretending to leap into a waterfall near the tunnel, now called Isaqueena Falls.

The next chapter gets even stranger. Sometime around 1940 a professor at nearby Clemson University (then Clemson A&M) guessed the cool, moist tunnel air would be perfect for curing blue cheese. Yes, cheese. He passed the idea along, and the school’s Dairy Department (yes, there was one) started research on methods of making blue cheese.

In 1951 Clemson bought the Stumphouse Tunnel and commenced Operation Blue Cheese. The cheese was made at the school using milk from the college’s herd of cattle, and shipped the 30 miles to the tunnel for curing. I read that in 1953 2,500 pounds of Clemson blue cheese was cured in the tunnel. By 1956 the Clemson Dairy Research department had built a climate-controlled space and the needed equipment. The curing process was brought on campus in 1958 and the tunnel was again abandoned.

Today, the university says, the school’s cheese department (Department of Food, Nutrition, and Packaging Sciences) sells 25,000 pounds of blue cheese annually. Clemson leased the tunnel to the Pendleton Historic District Commission, which turned it into the park site.

We had driven over to Walhalla with the grandsons, the idea being, as it often is, to see unusual places, to recharge, but now also to break away from war news. The tunnel park is a few miles north of town on U.S. 28, which curls into rugged country towards the North Carolina state line. It was sunny but chilly.

We drove down a winding access road through thick woods to the parking area. We climbed the steep hill to the tunnel entrance and took a few uneasy steps inside. The shaft is 25 feet high and 17 feet wide. We turned on our flashlights and moved forward across the muddy floor, cringing as cold water dripped on our heads from the overhead.

As we walked slowly through the darkness, we navigated the rough ruts and ridges of the tunnel floor, which along the walls is covered with water. The sunlit entrance receded behind us. Soon we could make out the locked rusty gate that prevents further progress. We peered through the gate, the tunnel extends further into blackness. We took deep breaths and turned and headed back to daylight. 

We walked back down the hill, glad and relieved to feel the sun’s warmth. We found a picnic table, got out our sandwiches, and ate lunch. We noticed a few other visitors, who wandered up the hill toward the tunnel entrance.

The boys and I walked the quarter-mile along a steep trail to the falls. We peered over a ledge at the rushing water, which disappeared into the forest below. Looking out maybe 60 miles at the horizon, we could perceive the change in the terrain from the rugged northwest to the gentle roll of the central Piedmont, which miles farther extends into the flatness of the coastal Low Country.

We stopped at a cute place in Walhalla for ice cream. A chess set sat on the table, the boys played. The shop owner and a few customers chatted. We relaxed, letting the afternoon tension settle.

As we sat waiting for the boys I recalled Sandy and I had driven out to Walhalla about a month after we settled in our Greenville apartment. I was getting over surgery. We looked at homes in a lovely old neighborhood. We knew it wouldn’t work, nearly two hours from the city, the hospital, the kids. But it was lovely. Strange, but lovely.