April 15, 2024

In Taylors, S.C., not far from our place outside Greenville, is an old neighborhood called Southern Bleachery Mill Village. We learned it was built to accommodate employees of the Southern Bleachery, a textile processing mill built in 1924, 100 years ago.

The mill was the largest employer in Taylors until it closed in 1965. A historic marker on Mill Street notes that the mill’s “overseers” lived in eight large houses on a hill called “Boss Hill.” The neighborhood, near the center of town, is still there, but the plant now is an industrial relic, an old brick hulk in a collection of old brick hulks.

The sounds of textile processing no longer echo through the village. An airy, plant-filled coffee bar, where customers sit unbothered and tap on laptops, occupies a couple of hundred square feet of the ground-level space. A fundamentalist church called the Studio is at the far end.

The Bleachery building is just off Mill Street, which is lined by other old factory buildings, some in use, some sitting empty. Farther down the block are three more aged industrial sites, branded Print Works No. 1, Print Works No. 2, and Print Works No.3, facing each other across a parking lot. The Print Works buildings now are occupied by an events space called The Venue, a brewery, a restaurant, an electronic-games arcade, an ax-throwing business, a couple of others.

These enterprises are a local slice of the new business culture that grasps at the strangely romantic appeal of America’s long-ago roaring industrial economy and grafts it onto other ways of making money. Those ponderous brick structures that once housed massive weaving and stamping machinery and emitted deafening noise and choking fumes now are space for software developers, market researchers, and meeting planners. The hawking of professional services has replaced the manufacture of goods.

This isn’t new and it’s going on all over. More than a century ago the mile-long mills of Manchester and Nashua, N.H., Lowell and Lawrence, Mass., and other New England textile towns were abandoned when the owners moved South looking for cheap non-union labor. Eventually the industry, including the dozens of mills in nearby Greenville moved to still-cheaper Southeast Asia. The mill structures are now expensive offices, condos, and apartments.

The massive steel and coke mills of Pittsburgh and its environs, which emitted cancer-causing smog that coated buildings and turned the sky red, have been replaced by health-care institutions, universities, and high-tech businesses.

Relentless technology breakthroughs and economic reality pushed all this change. When I got out of the service I took a job in a small typesetting plant in Hartford. The person who hired me warned that I wouldn’t like it. The place, which still used obsolescent monotype machinery, was on its last legs. A couple dozen employees remained, subdued and sullen and waiting to be laid off. I left just before the place shut down, doomed by modern high-speed typography.

In 1977 I drove from Nashville to Sweetwater, Tenn., site of the Lost Sea, America’s largest underground lake and a big tourist attraction. I was on a work trip to visit Sweetwater Hosiery Mills, a still-surviving textile operation that made mainly socks. The plant used an assembly line on which about a dozen women fitted newly knit socks on wooden forms to stretch the wool. The socks then were picked off the forms and packaged by other people. That was their job, at the minimum wage, all day long.

Years later we drove through Sweetwater. I detoured from the tourist-centered downtown to pass the site of the mill, then abandoned and boarded up. The socks business, like all such businesses, went overseas.

Back in Taylors at Southern Bleachery, the parking lots are generally filled on weekends by patrons of the brewery, restaurant, and other businesses. The Venue often hosts weddings. A Crossfit gym and a baseball practice space share a building on the opposite side of Mill Street. I guessed the rent for that off-the-beaten-track spot is cheaper than for space in a shiny new building on a major city street.

One side of the Bleachery building is decorated with a graphic quoting novelist, poet, and Black activist Alice Walker: “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” Walker won the Pulitzer Prize for The Color Purple in 1982 and the National Book Award in 1983. She has been widely acclaimed for her civil rights advocacy, but also criticized as anti-Semitic for her praise for anti-Semitic figures and writings and her attacks on Judaism.

The graphic was painted by a group called AlliedInArt, which describes itself as “a series of actions designed to harness the arts as a force for unity and positivity. From posters to films to murals, this project is a reminder that thought, creativity, love, and beauty will always prevail.”  A marketing company, EP + Company, supported the project. The graphic further credits Adrian Meadow, who’s with EP, and Frankie Zombie, a local artist.

The graphic adds color to the dull brick, but the sentiment puzzles me. I didn’t, and still don’t grasp the connection to thought, creativity, love, and beauty. Walker being the source, it promotes Black political and social activism. But it seems out of context for the site, the wall of a building which some folks are working hard to bring back to life. But to AlliedInArt the site probably didn’t matter.

We see political sloganeering everywhere; in the South it’s generally Republican-oriented, here and there a Confederate flag. The Walker quote is a departure. The Color Purple was well-received by some literary critics, but not all. (Walker refused to allow the book to be published in Hebrew or the film to be released in Israel.)

That oddity aside, the whole site doesn’t require much more exploration. Beyond the Bleachery businesses in the Print buildings, Mill Street dead-ends in a parking lot bordered by woodland and a swamp on one side, more abandoned mill buildings on the other. They wait, no doubt, for more enterprising folks to think up bright new ideas to turn them into something else. 

Moving on from the Bleachery complex and a couple of miles up Main Street you encounter Wade Hampton Boulevard, a more typical suburban thoroughfare. It’s lined with fast food outlets, gas stations, quick-oil-change places, Wal-Marts, cellphone-repair stores, the usual array of boxy, neon-lit businesses that benefit from no zoning.

Wade Hampton runs north to Spartanburg and south into downtown Greenville, the retail gauntlet becoming more intense, more demanding of your dollars with every mile. Either way, you want to turn back to the Bleachery, poke about the old places, read the historical markers, maybe sit for a while in the coffee bar. With your laptop.

April 8, 2024

Passing North Lake now brings joy. It’s almost always a deserted, not to say lonely place at the upper end of Paris Mountain State Park. A few days ago a stiff breeze churned the surface into rollicking, surging waves. Dark overcast hung above. On the west side Paris Mountain rose, thick with new green.

A path circles the lake through thick woods on the west side, thinner growth on the east side. It’s not a large body of water, maybe 25 to 30 acres, so just barely a lake. At the south end the water extends between two narrow spits of shoreline, the mountain looms above it. The surrounding forest rises and falls with the terrain. On sunny days the lake flashes through the trees, deep blue in the shade close to shore, shimmering, gorgeous azure farther out. The water at the shoreline is crystal clear, the bottom visible ten or more feet from shore.

The path, like most Southern woodland paths, is soft and easy on the feet, unlike those of the mountain terrain of the Northeast. The place is always quiet. Few hikers persevere down the switchbacks from the upper trails, which would mean a stiff climb to return to parking. The lake path is set off by five primitive campgrounds just off the water, almost never used.

The park is really not much as state parks go, just over 1,500 acres and within the city limits. In summer kids swim in Placid Lake, the smaller lake near the visitor’s center. North Lake is deep within the park. The sensation of remoteness resonates. The forest is a boundary between the lake and nearby suburbs, city streets, factories, and a busy commercial strip. That is what forest does, isolate nature, the real world, from the dreck of civilization, the unreal world.

We may think that. North Lake speaks to us as other isolated places speak to us. The isolation may prompt disquiet thoughts and ancient memories, as if we look at a pretty place then make it something else.

It may be North Lake’s humble size that summons wonder, but the bigger, bolder ones also are on the edge of wildness. Northwest of here is Lake Jocassee, an enormous clear-water man-made lake, largely surrounded by private property. I approached a couple of times from a corner on the north end on a forest path near a pretty waterfall called Laurel Falls. The wilderness end is lonely and silent. I stood on the shore, a single small boat powered by an outboard motor bobbed a hundred yards offshore, the owner sat waving a fishing rod.

You still want to see the tourist lakes, along with everyone else. A dozen years ago we drove along Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park and then Flathead Lake just south of Glacier, near Kalispell, Montana. At Glacier we got out of the car and gawked at that classic postcard view. Flathead is the largest lake in the state, bracketed by chic vacation homes.

Decades ago we’d sometimes visit Tim’s Ford Lake in Franklin County, Tennessee, another engineered lake; creating it required flooding a cemetery and a church, which now rest at the bottom.  In summer 1983 my parents visited from Jersey, we stayed in a cabin near the lake. Dad and I rented a boat and puttered out in the lake to fish. We caught nothing.

A few years earlier I went fishing with Sandy’s father and uncle in her uncle’s big outboard on Tim’s Ford, we caught nothing then, either. The lake and its world conveyed peace, but mystery.

Way earlier, eons ago—as a Boy Scout I canoe-hiked New York State’s Fulton Lakes Chain, Tupper Lake, Long Lake, and Raquette Lake. They are inland seas, yet still modest even for New York’s vast Adirondacks region. The shoreline of all three from the canoe in the center was a thin pencil line. The isolation pressed in on our three-canoe expedition. But teenagers must look at wilderness differently. When we pitched camp in the evenings, we’d skinny-dip in the chilly lakes. It was all about fun.

Compared to Great Slave Lake (who’s even heard of it?) in Canada’s Northwest Territories, the Adirondacks lakes seem like puddles. In 2010 Michael and I flew to Yellowknife, the provincial capital for a fishing trip (Jan. 29 post). Great Slave is North America’s deepest lake, something like 2,000 feet of depth, and nearly 300 miles long. Looking out from our island campsite 60 miles from Yellowknife, Great Slave seemed never to end. The wilderness we saw, like most of the world near the Arctic Circle, had not changed in thousands of years. That’s isolation.

Ten or twelve years ago we flew into Burlington, Vermont, rented a car, and drove along Lake Champlain to the Canadian border. We passed through Winooski and across to Grand Isle, getting our tourist’s fill of that massive lake, massive, that is, for New England.

While at college I knew people from Laconia, in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region. It was around 2012 or 2013, I think, that Sandy and I drove through mid-north New Hampshire forest and through the depressed downtown of Laconia, perched between Lake Winnisquam and huge Lake Winnepesaukee, which brings New England’s upscale folks for the summer. We stopped along Winnepesaukee and watched them rev up their big speedboats.

Two years ago we rented a tiny place on Lake Hartwell, part of the South Carolina-Georgia border, for our anniversary. The water shimmered in sweltering August heat. It was a weekday at the peak of summer, but the place was deserted. Serene, but deserted. 

All that is most likely over, in these lingering, fading anecdotes of memories. Now there’s North Lake, surrounded by its park forest, a tiny metaphor for all that wide, shining water, all that wilderness silence of so many places that convey pure, wild beauty. So this is what we have in this gorgeous place: silence, loneliness, but then too, a sense of rest, and peace.

March 31, 2024

A week ago, on Palm Sunday, the priest read from the Gospel of Mark.  Holy Week services beckoned at the start of the Triduum, the evening of Holy Thursday through Easter, the day Christians commemorate and reaffirm the truth of their faith.   

This year, Holy Week came with prescriptions for benzonatate, azithromycin, doxycycline, and methylprednisolone for the lungs, then polymyxin B sulfate for the eyes. A second 30-day supply of erdafintinib, trade name Balversa, arrived.

The week followed the Moscow terror attack then the Baltimore ship-bridge collision. Yet the past two weeks brought rousing adventures:  a trek to Black Rock Mountain, propped up by strong, passionate friends, then the Alabama-Tennessee trip with the grandsons, reported here last week.

Holy Week builds to Christ’s resurrection from his awful death on the cross. It is there, offered in all the Gospels, which invite sublime, mysterious joy, but also understanding: joy emerges from pain and darkness.

A week ago, on a chilly, overcast morning, we drove to an Urgent Care. The nurse practitioner unfurled her stethoscope and listened. She detected my heart murmur but found the lungs clear.

“Try Flonase,” she said. We have tubes of it lying around the house. Then the conjunctivitis “pinkeye” attacked, sealing the eyes shut overnight. We ran from the house to pick up the polymyxin drops.

On Tuesday we read of the heroism of the pilot of the cargo ship careening towards Baltimore’s Francis Scott Key Bridge who at 1:30 AM sent a Mayday to officers on both ends the bridge. Withing minutes they shut down bridge traffic, saving lives.

The 2,700-foot trek up Black Rock Mountain in North Carolina’s Plott Balsam Mountains came in mid-month. It was my fourth Black Rock junket. The horn sounded, starting the race. More than 160 runners launched up the first climb. I lurched forward, coughing. Elise and Todd, good-hearted fast people, stayed close up the rocky switchbacks.

The trail unfolded before us. They sprinted for one- or two-hundred-yard patches, stretching their powerful legs. Beyond the treetops the valley below glowed in pale-blue haze. After three miles of fireroad we found the quarter-mile single-track trail to the summit. Elise flew up, Todd hung back with me. I climbed, in ten- or twenty-yard stretches, reaching for logs, branches, roots.

Flashes of blue sky appeared. The trail leveled off, the red marker flags led us under the final granite overhangs that took us down then up to more climbing, descending, scrambling to the massive boulder at the summit. We crawled up and stretched, and blinked in glorious sunlight at the panorama from the peaked roof of western North Carolina.

We maneuvered down, pulled by gravity, around and over the twisted roots, rocks, fallen logs. At the fireroad, the volunteers waiting with their ATVs gave us a cheerful wave. We turned south for the wild three-mile near-3,000-foot descent. I found my pace and stride. We flew down, the forest falling away behind us. We hit the intersection with the approach trail, then saw the flash of parked vehicles through the trees at the finish.

The Triduum arrived Thursday in bright sunshine, as Spring transformed nature. We stood for the start of the Mass of the Last Supper, the commemoration of Christ’s last miracle, the first Eucharist, the arrest, the scourging, the midnight interrogation. We stood for the agony that presaged the nightmares of two millennia and those still to come.

The choir intoned Psalm 116: “How can I repay the Lord for all his goodness to me? The cup of salvation I will raise; I call on the name of the Lord.” The lector read from Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, 23-26, when Christ offered the bread and wine: “This is my body, this is my blood, do this in remembrance of me.”

The lines are the perennial remembrance and reassurance of faith. John’s Gospel then tells the penetrating story of Christ kneeling to wash his apostles’ feet, saying, “what I am doing you will not understand now, but you will understand later.” The priest reenacted this solemn task, kneeling, in his white vestments, to wash the bare feet of twelve young men on the altar. He kissed their feet.

The priest spoke and raised the cup. We prayed for the victims of the present moment, those newest in our minds and in the headlines, all the terror attacks, all the victims we know, those we don’t know, those still with us, others who have departed. The Mass ended in silence, the Eucharist carried to a nearby place, remaining for hundreds who stayed to pray. The solemnity of the night lingered.

We stayed warm, gulped our medicine, daubed our eyes with the drops, swallowed tylenol to sleep. In the morning we watched the dawn of Good Friday, the pale blue sky promising warmth, Spring’s arrival.

The Triduum moved forward through the aftermath of tragedy, the search for the missing in Baltimore, the missile attacks in Ukraine, Gaza, Israel, the nightmare political news, the lacerating, relentless cruelty of cancer.

Then memories returned, distant and recent, of good-heartedness of children, kindnesses of old friends, grateful moments with new friends in the warm sunlight at Black Rock, the joy of the grandsons in Chattanooga. Then the Triduum, and Resurrection.    

March 25, 2024

The route from Atlanta to Huntsville breaks from I-75 north at Adairsville, Ga., and follows S.R. 140 northwest. It takes various designations as it zigzags through Amuchee, Summerville, and Cloudland before climbing rugged country and entering Sweet Home Alabama. We stepped on it and flew across that depressed, ramshackle corner of the Crimson Tide State.

South of Adairsville, though, we detoured from the interstate onto a winding rural road to see giant Lake Alatoona, a picturesque 12,000-acre reservoir that provides hydroelectric power, drinking water, and flood control to a three-county area near Cartersville. The area was the site of a minor Civil War engagement in October 1864 that accounts for a circle of stone war monuments near the water. We looked around, saw no one else, then left.

Crossing into Alabama, we saw signs for DeSoto State Park, where Sandy and I spent a sweet campout weekend in October 1978, still on our honeymoon, more or less. But we never went back.

Eventually the route crosses the broad Tennessee River, which circles down from the Land of the Lakes in the northwest corner of Tennessee into Alabama, then meanders northeast through Chattanooga and then Knoxville.

We turned onto U.S. 72 and passed through Scottsboro, site of the notorious “Scottsboro Boys” case, in which nine Black teenagers were accused falsely of raping two white women in 1931. They were quickly convicted and sentenced to death, but the Supreme Court overturned the convictions. Still, the young men spent years in prison. A Scottsboro Boys Museum and Cultural Center opened in the city in 2010.

The mission was a roadtrip with the grandsons to the U.S. Space Center in Huntsville, a must stop for anyone, any age. The Center shows off with appropriate hoopla and grandeur the history of the U.S space program, its amazing machines and brilliant people. We walked past a Saturn V rocket, one of only three remaining of 13 originally built for the Apollo project, and flown between 1967 and 1973. We gawked in wonder at this triumph of engineering ingenuity created by the thousands of Americans who supported the work.

Huntsville itself wasn’t worth an extra day. Downtown appeared as a collection of sandstone municipal buildings mixed with some block-style apartment and condo structures, and a few streets of antebellum-type homes. The city center was mostly deserted, as if the locals shared our opinion. We walked a bit just to say we did, visited an antique hardware store and, to treat the boys, an ice cream parlor.

Wednesday was Chattanooga day, barely a two-hour drive. The route returned us to U.S.72 for a straight shot northeast across monotonous flatland into Tennessee and onto I-24. The mountains emerge on all sides and the Tennessee River reappears at Nickajack Lake.

Chattanooga was the big city to Sandy’s childhood hometown in Franklin County, 60 miles west. She looked for work there briefly after college before ending up in Nashville, where we met all those years ago. Not likely I would have visited Chattanooga. Life works out the way it does.

The mighty Tennessee curls around the city in the shadow of 2,400-foot-high Lookout Mountain, site of the three engagements of the Chattanooga Campaign in November 1863. Confederate Gen. Braxton Bragg had decisively defeated the Yanks at Chickamauga in September. Bragg commanded his forces from atop Lookout Mountain and nearby Missionary Ridge. He cornered Union forces in Chattanooga.

In October Lincoln named Gen. Ulysses S. Grant commander of all western Union forces. His first move was to fire the Union general who lost at Chickamauga. His second was to bring in Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman.

In three November fights, the Battle of Orchard Knob, the Battle of Lookout Mountain, which Union Gen. Montgomery Meigs called the “battle above the clouds” or “hell in the heavens,” and the Battle of Missionary Ridge, the Union forces routed the rebels and sent them retreating south.

The Yanks already had defeated the Confederates at Gettysburg, breaking the back of Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. The war’s outcome already was in sight. The Union victory at Chattanooga forced the rebels to retreat south, opening the way for Sherman’s March to the Sea.

The boys and I rode the mile-long incline railway to the top of the mountain and walked the three blocks of fashionable East Brow Road to Point Park, a National Park site, which overlooks the city and the river. I didn’t have a pass, but the ranger smiled and waved me in.

The park is set off by the New York Peace Memorial and circumvented by a walking path along  the dizzying view of the city, anchored by Confederate cannon that in November 1863 commanded the Point.

We browsed through the visitor center, which displays a massive ceiling-high painting, “Battle Above the Clouds,” by artist James Walker, commissioned by Union Gen. Joseph Hooker, who is shown astride his white steed in the center of the canvas.

It was chilly atop the mountain, as I guess it must have been on those cold November nights in 1863 when Confederate soldiers stood guard there, training their artillery down on the city. Ironically, when the attack came the aimpoints of the rebels’ guns could not be depressed sharply enough to target the Yankee troops as they moved close to the side of the mountain.

We averted our eyes as the incline railway car headed back down the mountain, all of Chattanooga before us.

We did get to Ruby Falls, the underground waterfall discovered in 1928 by a local man named Leo Lambert. The Southern Railway had sealed an opening to a cave on Lookout Mountain. Lambert thought he could open the cave for tourism, but accidently discovered a new tunnel that led to a natural underground waterfall. He blasted a ten-story elevator shaft through the mountain rock, widened the tunnel, and named the place Ruby Falls after his wife. It’s now advertised on billboards around the South.

We rode the elevator to the tunnel and walked the half-mile to the falls. The dimly lit passageway, requiring folks taller than 5’7’’ to duck, shows the bizarre rock sculpting of millions of years of wandering mineral water. Suddenly it opens to a wide chamber where the falls dumps a constant stream spectacularly from the peak of the hundred-foot-high cavern.  We stared, amazed and a bit nervous, then turned back into the tunnel, relieved to find the elevator.

March 18, 2024

The birthday album glowed with photos of me with friends from the Crossfit group, which uses the tongue-in-cheek name, “Beast Mode.” It offers poignant shots of the group posed at holiday gatherings and other special moments, all of us smiling. It includes a few of me attempting to exercise, no smile in sight.

It features some family photos, Sandy and me, and of grandsons Noah and Patrick. The album includes a couple of nice shots of me with a friend, the album’s developer, a creative young woman, Elise, after some running or exercise event. The photos show her brilliant smile, me with a dazed expression, trying to hold back exhaustion. 

She built the album around an Old Testament verse: “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” (Isaiah 40:31). The accompanying page features a panoramic photo of Alaska’s snow-covered Mount Denali towering over surrounding forest.

I looked again through the collection of photos. I reread the citation. I don’t recall, after the Beast Mode workouts, ever “soaring on wings like eagles.” I definitely do feel weary and faint, which is putting it mildly. I’m usually slumped on a bench catching my breath.

How is this passage, eloquent and consoling, relevant to the BM team’s demanding routines of heaving barbells, stroking on rowing machines, climbing rope, jumping on boxes—and pullups, pushups, situps, sprints, wall walking?  

We all know exercise is better for you than sprawling on a sofa wielding the remote or tapping on your cellphone. And for those present in the Beast Mode gym, the endorphin addiction has taken hold to one degree or another: if its hurts, it will feel good later. You stagger out of the gym, get a shower and a good meal, and you recover, more or less. You feel better.

“Staying active” is the first rule in the senior citizen’s health-care manual. Most YMCAs offer “Silver Sneakers” or other exercise classes for oldsters. The nation is enduring a pickleball craze. Who plays? Mostly old people. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” my oncologist says.

Elise, in assembling the album, examined probably dozens of photos, I didn’t ask. She couldn’t help noticing that while working out and afterward I’m panting and cross-eyed, and never wearing a sunny, cheerful smile. Yet I was present. I was at Beast Mode. I was a witness to the mystery. I could have chosen instead to stroll on a treadmill wearing earbuds, zoned out on pop-40 music.

The mystery really is nothing less than discovering the secret of life. But we seldom stop to make the connection between confronting challenge, hardship, pain, and understanding our place in the world, which we know is filled with challenge, hardship, pain. Even if not grasping the mystery fully, we have at least a sense of what it means.  

Elise understands the purpose of all that pain. She, like the others, accepts it, learns from it, and uses it to push forward with life. We discover that hardship and pain steels us. The challenge of Beast Mode only begins in the gym. The acceptance of it, the summoning of the fortitude to persevere, begins in the heart.

The Isaiah passage, line 31, is the last line of the chapter. Earlier, line 28: “… The Lord is the eternal God, creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint and grow weary … he gives strength to the fainting, for the weak he makes vigor abound.”

Elise created a theme. She includes, next to a photo of me on a forest trail, a sentence the Oxford and Cambridge scholar C.S. Lewis wrote in a letter to an American poet, Mary Willis Sherburne, who he never met, in June 1963: “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.” The line is in one of the last of more than 100 letters Lewis wrote to Sherburne, beginning in 1950.

The album is a gift to me, but it offers a message that rises beyond the smiling faces of people going through exercises that summon for me nervous memories of Marine Corps training. The message is offered in the photos, the words of Isaiah, the words of Lewis: a message of faith that carries us forward, beyond the busyness of careers and family, where most of the Beast Mode team are, to the twilight of life.

So we stumble out of the gym at the end of each session, gasping for breath, some of us asking what in heck is this all about, why are we doing this. Then we go on.

C.S. Lewis died just five months after he wrote that line to Sherburne. And so we go on, moving forward in the faith to which Elise is leading us as she reveals, in her photo selection and arrangement, the truth found in Isaiah and Lewis. We face challenges, hardship, pain. Only then, understanding.