Frozen
Lake James
From our canoe, the white high-water mark of the lake is above our heads: it has been an abnormally dry year. Etched in the earth, the
lamina hints of an unreadable story to the untrained eye. The 150 miles of wooded shoreline offer a variety of indigenous trees. We
marvel at the tenacity of the white pines which have split the thick, striated rock. How could these 60 foot sentinels ever begin a foothold?
Trees of this stature at water’s edge seem more reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest than North Carolina.
Around the next bend a willow stretches low, searching the shallows with graceful, green fingers. Boulders are more prevalent here, and
muddy banks replace massive stone. A zephyr dances over the water, sending a thousand sparkling messages to the willow, which
caresses in response. We are reminded of our spiritual home, Hurricane Hole, St. John, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. There gnarled
mangroves and boulders gave contrast to turquoise-clear waters, and other humans were rare in the early years of our visits.
An angler nods from his dinghy as we silently pass. Our paddles tell us we are in 4 inches of water, and, aloud, we compliment his ability.
He laughs, and says his prop is probably shot. Lake James offers an array of fish: bream, walleye, large and small mouthed bass,
crappie, bluegill, muskie, catfish, sunfish, perch and muskellunge. Because it is such a large body of water, 6,510 acres, its varied
underwater terrain offer sportsmen a multitude of bays and inlets for a particular catch.
Lake James was formed by dams built across the Catawba and Linville Rivers in the early 1900’s. It has been a source of hydroelectric
power for Duke Power Company since that time. In 1987, Lake James State Park was established, a 565 acre tract. Camping is offered
from mid March to mid November in 20 campsites, two of which are handicapped accessible. Each site offers a fireplace, grill, picnic
table, and tent space. Running water is nearby. Restroom facilities and showers adjoin the concession stand and park office. Examples
of indigenous plants and animals are on display in the office, and rangers offer planned tours regarding the ecosystem on most
Saturdays. A designated swimming area and a covered, 12-table picnic shelter available for rental are other amenities of the park. Two
short hiking trails originate here, following the shoreline to either the Sandy Cliff Overlook or the Lake Channel Overlook. Observant hikers
are rewarded with glimpses of wildflowers - pink lady slippers and indian pipe being two of the most breathtaking. The latter resemble
miniature Meerschaums, ceramic in their fragility, which rise in clusters, and push the soft leaf cover up from the forest floor.
In our canoe, we follow the curve of the shore to the headwater where the Catawba River feeds Lake James. From its initial beginning as
a spring near Old Fort, the river follows a 450 mile path to the ocean. The purity of the water ensures the crystal-clear environment of the
lake. The Continental Divide borders the west of McDowell County. From here, Western North Carolina rivers begin their journey to the
Atlantic.
Our canoe noses into bubbling shallows, only to turn back. Perhaps if the river was at its normal level we could have made it through
without reverting to portage. We are too lazy to bother, and retreat to explore other aspects of the lake.
On a peninsula near the railroad bridge, we explore a shallow shoreline of snags. The stark, black branches look like sinewy arms and
hands reaching in desolation from oozy mudflats to reach the crystalline blue sky. Suddenly, one of the branches breaks away and lifts
into the sky! The six foot span of wings transports the stick-like legs and neck into an aerodynamic ballet of grace and perfection. The
great blue heron circles, then roosts high above in the protection of a stately pine. If we had not visually followed its path, we would not
have recognized the long neck, head, and bill for anything more than a dead branch at the top of the tree.
A train rumbles overhead, and the air reverberates with the raucous, guttural call of great blues as fifteen birds simultaneously take flight.
They are joined by white egrets; a smaller, more “bird-like” avian. “We may have to take up painting,” my husband says, smiling.
We are glad we have chosen this shallow area near the western bank to explore. Marinas dot the lake farther east. Boats with motors,
canoes, and even guided-tour boats are available for rent. In these deeper areas of the lake, water-skiers and jet skis abound. Private
boat access is offered at Hidden Cove, Canal Bridge and Linville Access Area. We prefer to roam this serene, less populated area around
the North Fork Access. Many island of various sizes rise from the lake, offering secluded picnic sites available only by boat. Having
previously spent 14 years on our own 75 foot schooner in the Virgin Islands, we delight in finding similar places of solitude so near our
new home.
We choose to picnic in our canoe, tied to a tree branch along a shady bank. Our appreciative silence gives way to discussion of
meaningful aspects of life. We talk of our own acre pond, newly constructed, and our hopes that wildlife will be drawn to its banks. We
wonder why it has taken us so long to spend a day here when the lake is only 8 miles from our door. We question our dedication to all of
the “should-dos” of life, and our small allotments of time for introspective activities. As the water laps gently against the canoe, I close my
eyes and lift my face to the sun’s rays. Gold-red sunbursts paint closed lids. Being in nature offers a renewal of my spirit that is
inaccessible in any other way. When I connect to the earth, I connect to the divine. It is a nurturing akin to a child feeding at her mother’s
breast. I breathe deep and open my eyes to my husband’s gaze, a caress of love that needs no words. He opens his arms, and I rest in
his embrace. Our hearts beat in rhythm, seemingly one. I could stay in this moment forever.
At day’s end our faces glow with the warmth and color from the sun, matched by our mood. Sitting tightly together on our return trip in the
truck, my hand rests lightly on his thigh. As we round the curve in the road that borders our dam, we stretch to the upcoming view of the
mountain’s reflection on our pond. Rising from the water’s edge, a great blue heron takes flight.
~©Gabrielle M. Thompson c 1997
Nature Meditation in a Small World
Awareness as a state of grace is only possible when we are in a be-here-now reality. But when that opening happens, it has an ethereal
quality because being truly awake is to see God in everything.
I find it difficult to be aware with any regularity. Meditation helps me focus, when I can still my mind. A walk in the forest is another approach.
The forest is a tapestry of visions and Lilliputian worlds of mysticism and majesty, a fairyland at our feet. From the first Trillium, Lady's
Slipper and wild Iris of spring through the wondrous, fecund carpet laid by summer, many delights abound for eyes willing to search the
undergrowth.
Running cedar swirls in riotous chartreuse, reminding me of Fourth of July fireworks. The kelly-green ferns are knee deep, with curling
tongues of new growth. When I was seven, I saw my first forest ferns in Oregon. Their feathery beauty was the most remembered aspect of
the entire vacation. I marveled at the delicate pinna, and the tiny brown "eyes" on the under edge.
When I look closely at the ground, I notice the citrus moss follows a pattern resembling miniature palm trees. It covers rocks and decaying
logs in a microscopic forest within a forest. Verdant algae flows from its edges, recalling tiny meadows. Silver, grey, and brown lichens
form boulder-like protrusions along the edges, and shelf fungi glitter golden in the filtered sun.
On cool mountain mornings, or during gentle rains, mists swirl through this world adding droplets of moisture that become stained glass
for the fairies.
Mushrooms explode in showy clusters or singularly, each intent on besting its neighbor. The most vibrant - the red, yellow, orange and
pink - remain small caps. Those whose colors are the more mundane tan and browns use size and shape for their splendid signature.
Clusters of small, white Indian pipes reflect their name with a ceramic quality: fragile, almost translucent, and cold to the touch, like a
Meerschaum yet to feel its first match.
In the glens, small eyes watch me, and my Irish heritage fantasizes that special rocks and shelves in the creek belong to civilizations of
spirits. A native showed me the real fairies that congregate on still, moonless nights above the forest creeks in mid-May. Millions of
phosphorescent insects, the size of a grain of rice, glow in currents of continuous, eery green luminescence along creeks; all moving
together in the same direction, at the same speed, and the same distance above the earth, forming rivers of light through the trees. When
I've asked other North Carolinians if they have seen them, most of them look at me as if they were expecting a punch line. In summer,
Foxfire is another such gift of nature. Its green bonfire brilliance conjures images of the Beltane fires of old.
When I am in nature, I sometimes feel a vibratory pulse in my body, an actual alignment with the energy flowing, swirling, and ebbing
through and around me. These precious times are occasionally experienced in meditation or in creative pursuits such as writing, but less
often. It's as if God offers a shortcut right outside my door. All I need is the desire to walk and let the beauty fulfill me.
~ Gabrielle M. Thompson
© 1996 Gabrielle M. Thompson
FALL IS…
Fall is…
Trees, glorious trees! The dogwood blushes, with red lipstick seeds promising abundance in winter. Tulip poplar leaves, shaped like
upside-down angels of yellow and green, float on the breeze. The sugar maples’ carrot tops rival the vibrancy of natural redheads.
Sourwoods dress in crimson lingerie with their summer blossoms drying like seed pearls on their breast. The green-gloved
rhododendron wave gaily good-bye, knowing the others must go while they remain with the tailored evergreens.
Fall is…
The smell of wood-smoke on the air, the promise of what is to come. It drifts lazily against the bluest skies of the year. Zephyr-launched
leaves of burgundy, bronze, copper and gold pirouette, and collapse to earth in piles, to crackle softly underfoot.
Fall is…
Bright-eyed children with pink cheeks; cuddly clothes you’ve missed; hot-mulled wine; talks around the fireplace; cornucopias filled with
nuts, squash, Indian corn and pumpkins; haystacks with straw-stuffed men decorating edged-brown lawns; chrysanthemum, colored
cabbage and pansies before the first frost; wakening in darkness; dew-soaked mornings giving way to hoarfrost; quilted clouds tucked
softly in the laps of the mountains; mists every morning transfiguring the pond into the River Styx…And evening darkness falling much too
soon.
Fall is…
Black bears visiting the porch on their last winter forage, squirrels with fluffy tails busily stuffing cheeks with acorns, the gift of apples at the
forest edge for the deer, and the dogs’ thick winter coats forming again.
Fall is…
Carving jack-o’-lanterns, ghosts, goblins, and black cats; followed by turkeys, Native Americans, Pilgrims…And the sweet anticipation of
Christmas and snow!
Fall is…
Cocooning, reading, and a time for introspection. It is the time I give greatest thanks for all my blessings. Just as Spring’s emotion is joy
in the beauty of new growth, Fall evokes the deep warmth of love of family and appreciation of all God’s gifts.
© Gabrielle M. Thompson
Winter is...
• Seeing vistas of rolling, deep purple mountain ranges, one after another in endless progression, against a slate sky revealed through
barren branches of trees whose leaves decorate the forest floor.
• Journalizing in introspection as I relish the quiet of the season and the enforced stillnessof my endless duties and interests. Having
time for my soul’s growth and listening to the quiet within.
• Purring cats cuddled by the fire, stretching in ecstasy as I stroke their back or rub their ears. Dogs leaping through snow drifts,
chasing one another through sugar-spun mounds that twinkle in breaking sunlight.
• Hearing the morning alarm, dreading the cold that awaits me as I race for the switch on the thermostat. Flying back to bed until the
heater can work its magic. Repeating the gist of the scenario an hour later with my automobile.
• Following spoor of deer, pale with lichens and moss that sustain when grasses fail in killing cold and frost. Counting tracks in the
snow leading to the creek branch, where tender greens peek through the crisp white blanket.
• Waking to ice storms and praying the electric power will hold as we watch crystal palaces from our windows, and trees that bend low
with the weight of glass that encapsulates the branches in sparkling rainbow beauty.
• Wrapping in wool, watching steaming breath against ruddy cheeks and gleaming eyes as cold bites the tender skin that is left
exposed. Walking in heavy boots that repel the damp chill, trudging through the wasted landscape that awaits spring’s kiss.
• Reading seed and garden catalogs and dreaming of warmth and green and growing again. Watching the sun as it spurns and
returns—bringing back longer days and the sweet promise of awakening.
• Knowing the love of my family and its sustaining essence, filling my heart with light and happiness. Winter is gaining insight as I
acknowledge all of my blessings and give thanks for all that I receive, all that I am, and the love of God that shines within.
© Gabrielle M. Thompson
© 2000 Gabrielle M. Thompson
Christmas is...
• Finding, in attic boxes, ornaments collected in celebration of each year of our child’s life, and remembering her exclamations in past
years as she unwrapped every one. Decorating the tree’s fresh fir branches with the abundance of what we’ve given her, and what she has
made—treasure that cannot be bought.
• Singing carols along with all our tapes and CD’s, even the bargain basement Wal-Mart brands that sound as if they were recorded in
a garage. Watching favorite Christmas movies on the VCR/TV—both versions, if there are remakes, to decide what parts we like best.
• Stringing LIGHTS!! Icicles of white lights from the roof tops, windows ensconced in rainbow colors, and the tree—a centerpiece of
glowing joy to the world. Our Christmas tree-shaped candelabra, radiating red-and-green, and the yellow-gold flames of the wood stove
reflecting upon its protective glass.
• Relishing CHRISTMAS VACATION! Sleeping late, reading, playing cards and games, stringing cranberries and popcorn garlands,
laughing, talking, visiting friends, kissing under mistletoe, walking in new fallen snow, returning home for hot toddies by the fire, and
appreciating all of our blessings. Buying the right gift or, better yet, making it for the one you love. Gaily wrapped presents finding their place
under the tree, in larger and larger boxes to foil the guesswork that comes with age.
• Baking sugar cookies with red and green sparkles and gingerbread men with white icing eyes, cooking fudge and licking the bowl,
kneading bread dough to fill with raisins and nuts or guava paste, reminiscent of our island days.
CELEBRATING CHRIST’S BIRTH! In twenty-four hours—beginning with Christmas Eve—joining with family and friends, dressing up, going
to church, opening Santa’s gifts, eating ritual foods of cinnamon and spice that evoke childhood memories, and basking in the fellowship
and joy that is the promise of God’s gift of his son to us all.
© Gabrielle M. Thompson
North Carolina Mountain Trout
Imagine stepping back in time, to another century, hooking a trout from a Western North Carolina stream. Oak, willow, hickory, poplar, and
elm trees abound, as pure water rushes over your feet and the fish takes the line. Your heartbeat exhilarates as you lean into the play of
line. Sunlight sparkles on the water, an epiphany of a fisherman’s concept of heaven. In those days, the fish on the line would have been
a brook trout, properly called a char. In olden days, it was the most widely distributed indigenous species in North America. It had a large
mouth, violet mantle, dark mottling and red lateral spots that were distinctive against its dark greenish-gray body. The struggle for
existence and growth was oppressive, and its average size was only 12 inches and 1 to 2 pounds in maturity. The life of a char was
difficult at best. During fall, their spawn, where the female scraped a hole in the stream bed to lay her eggs and the male deposited his
sperm, was only abut 5% effective for hatchlings. Coupled with the non-sustainable logging practices of the time, the construction of
dams, and increased population, habitat destruction was the result. The wild brook trout suffered defeat, and only exist in a few remote,
undisturbed streams. They are, however, raised in commercial operations to supplement restocking efforts.
In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, rainbow trout were introduced to local streams from the West Coast. Indigenous to the Rocky
Mountains, they were known for their fight and taste. They have been stocked in lakes and streams of every state. Rainbow trout, or
Oncorhynchus mykiss, have over 100 varieties of the species. Our local variety has an iridescent-pink dorsal stripe. On the West Coast,
these fish migrate to the ocean and are called steelheads. While in saltwater, they develop a bright sliver coloration. They return to fresh
water streams to spawn. Rainbows grow faster and larger than brook trout. Within their first year, they attain the 12 inches and 1 pound
weight it can take their cousins an entire life to achieve. By the time a rainbow is 4 years old, it can weigh 20 pounds. The record holder is
31 pounds, 6 ounces (caught in Lake Michigan in 1993.) A steelhead was caught in Alaska that weighed 42 pounds, 2 ounces.
Male rainbow trout mature in the first year of life, unlike the female who takes another year to develop sexually. Males develop a hooked
jaw called a “kype,” resembling a salmon. In the spring, they fight over females, inflicting serious wounds which may result in death. The
fertilized egg hatches into a sac fry after about 2 months. It lies helplessly on the bottom for a few weeks, absorbing the yolk sac. At this
point, the surviving fish is called a parr, and is approximately 1 inch long. It begins to swim, and search for food. As the water warms, it
grows up to an inch each month. A voracious eater, it can consume fish half its length. Crustacea and insects are other dietary
supplements.
Commercial trout production began in North Carolina over 40 years ago. Our state is second only to Idaho in production; however, North
Carolina trout is mainly grown on small farms with cold, clear water and a great deal of hands-on care! Approximately 100 farms produce
an average of 75,000 pounds of trout per farm, per year. There are big farms with trout in concrete raceways, and natural, small farms with
earthen ponds. Also, our local rivers are stocked yearly for the avid angler. The trout grown in these natural earthen ponds eat similar
diets to those of the wild, but are usually supplemented with high protein feed. Major growers rely solely on store-bought feed. Many local
residents say they can taste the difference!
The North Carolina State University Cooperative Extension states that rainbow trout have been found to contain high levels of omega-3
polly-unsaturated fatty acids, which reduce the risk of heart attack. Eating 2 or more portions per week reduce the risk of heart disease.
Natural Health Magazine (April, 1999) shows farm raised trout as higher in omega-3s and lower in any stored toxin than the majority of fish
or shellfish, including wild trout. So, while you are here on the Blue Ridge, enjoy some of our locally grown trout in our fine restaurants.
You can even take some home for that fabulous friend who has been tending the homestead while you were gone!
© Gabrielle M. Thompson
Published in Parkway Milepost, 1999
Frozen
Cerulean mist envelops the holler
as daybreak announces the passing of the storm.
My eyes strain through its enchantment
to the bent-back form of the hemlocks,
weighted in cocoons of ice,
anticipating the rescue of dawn.
As the sun crests the mountain,
the mist lifts and swirls
like white dervishes in mad disarray
escaping the darkened hillside’s crevices
floating ever-upward in joyous abandon.
The light breaks full-force on deciduous trees
whose tubular-sheathed branches of clear, sparkling ice
ignite in crystal-fired beauty that overwhelms the passion of the sky.
The firs grovel in their white shag chains
feeling the stroke of the sun’s rays and their promise of redemption.
I cautiously follow my driveway,
careful of my footing on black-ice surprises.
I stop periodically to gaze upward at the mare’s tails’
pronouncement of change and thaw
while maples and sourwoods drop rivers of tears in the melt.
At the pond, a heron stands sentry
awaiting the warmth that will encourage activity
and bring his daily meal to the surface or bank.
Yellowed grasses hold dew-encrusted spider webs
radiating rainbows with a promise of color’s return.
Gabrielle M. Thompson, 2006 Victoria Press
Being
Trees reflect in a kaleidoscope of color
upon the zephyr-kissed surface of the river
umber, rust, vermilion, and gold fracture
in the sparkling mirror of the water’s surface,
offering short-lived beauty in the chromatic light.
Pepper, tongue lolling from a smiling mouth
dripping tiny rainbows onto her silken, ebony coat,
studies the opposite bank.
Her ears perk and mouth closes, silencing her pant, when attention is drawn to the movement of squirrels on the far shore.
With a glance at the chilly expanse of water,
she blinks away the thought of chase.
I bask beside her in the last remnant of fall’s warmth,
watching the canoe on its tree-tether wave to and fro, to and fro
in the breeze that beckons us to further adventure.
It cannot shake me from my complacency,
from feeling content just to be.
~©Gabrielle M. Thompson
Victoria Press 2005
Nona and the Moon (A short story about Grandfather Mountain)
My mother left on my second birthday. She gave me to my Nona, my grandmother, “with a pitifully small cardboard box of clothes and half a
bag of disposable diapers” according to Nona’s often-told story. Nona said Mama took so many drugs, it’s amazing I made it through
those first two years. My mother had not been married to my father, but lived with him for three years. He had abandoned us on my first
birthday. I’ve never been much on celebrating birthdays.
Life with Nona wasn’t ever easy, but we loved each other, and survived. Our old trailer leaked the cold all winter and was a tinderbox in the
summer. Nona worked at a kid’s camp, slinging hash through the summers, and I went along and helped wherever I could—two for the
price of one. In the winter we made do with what we could preserve and dry from the vegetable garden they let us grow at the camp. Like I
said, it wasn’t easy, but we managed. At least until the last few years.
Grandmother was adept at wildcrafting and could locate any herb in our mountains to cure whatever ailed us—I’d never had so much as a
baby aspirin pass my lips. In fall, we’d take our old burgundy Plymouth up to the Grandfather, the oldest mountain on this continent, and
search the crags for the plants that would see our health through another year.
I asked her once why we lived her, in the foothills below Grandfather Mountain, instead of on the reservation, since she was half-
Cherokee. She said she’d left there as a child after her uncle abused her, and she was never going back. Even when the casino was
built and they started handing out money to everyone, I couldn’t convince her to return. “A person’s got to stand on their own two feet, make
their way,” she would say. My father sent a Christmas card when I was twelve, but never offered a penny for my care. Nona wouldn’t ask.
We figured Mama was dead.
Nona said she’d never leave the Grandfather. In early spring and fall, he was shrouded from our view in mist, but in the summer and
winter he towered over us, his hard gray profile carved with gorges deep, like the tracks separating my grandmother’s cheeks and mouth.
In many ways, she seemed as ancient as the mountain she loved.
I loved the mountain, too. Especially in winter, when it stood silhouette against the gold lame of sunset, the deciduous trees skeletal as
they climbed its cliffs. When the full moon rose over the cragged edge, Grandmother would say it was a reflection of my round, Cherokee
face. My hair, thick and straight to my waist, mirrored the surrounding night. “You’ll take your strength from that moon, girl. Say your
prayers to that moon. It watches over you like the Grandfather watches over me.”
One certainty I grew up with was that Nona would never take up liquor—she had always told me that she couldn’t handle even a bit of
booze or drugs. But, she started drinking when we got the letter. Mama wanted to see us; she and her new beau were coming for a visit.
She was an artist now and lived in Oregon, painting pictures of the fern-filled forests, which she sold to tourists. Grandmother said,
“Maybe you were right. Maybe we should have moved back to the reservation instead of staying where Doris could find us.”
I wrote her and told her not to come. I didn’t want her. I didn’t want to see her. She’d waited thirteen years to let us know she was alive;
well, we just didn’t care anymore. We’d buried her, in our hearts, long ago.
I got a work permit that summer, and the camp had to start paying me for my time. Just as well. Grandmother’s morning headaches
made her pretty much useless. By afternoon, though, she would come around enough to be able to help in the garden, only to fall to the
bottom of the bottle with the encroaching darkness. I tried dumping the wine down the sink, but she’d just climb into the old Plymouth and
go buy more. We didn’t have enough to spare for what she managed to drink—so there was no point in pouring it down the drain. We
fought, too. Nona had never been a yeller, but in the depression of drink she would scream about how everyone took advantage of her all
her life—me included. It was payback time. I could support her, now that I was able.
When school started in the fall, I had trouble keeping up. I studied in my room as much as I could, but Nona invited “friends” over who
brought beer and leered at me when I’d venture into the front room to turn down the volume of the radio or television. She would yell at me,
tell me to fix something for dinner, and I would go back to my room. The drunken bickering beyond my closed door would last long into the
night. More than once, the blue flash of the law brought me out of a semi-sleep as neighbors fought back against the revelry or screaming
fights. The only time Nona ever got violent with one of her buddies was when an old coot grabbed my ass as I passed through the room,
cheese sandwich in hand. She chased him out of the door with a fry pan, aiming for his head, smacking his shoulder. That was the best
laugh we’d had in months. My studies weren’t going well, but band was my joy.
Marching across the football field, playing the clarinet, I was somebody. I never had enough of anything to be noticed at school—a poor kid
is often invisible, which beats being picked on. I didn’t mind being solitary; it was my nature. A trombone player took to tripping me, easy to
do as uncoordinated as I’d always been. Jimmy was eighteen, and a junior. He was born wearing a baseball cap, puffy through the
middle, and drove a truck with a gun rack in the back window. He’d flipped it coming down high school hill the first week of school. He’d
been airlifted to Johnson City for concussion. Seatbelts were not his style, and he’d been thrown out of the cab. After the homecoming
game, Jimmy invited me to Wendy’s. His dented-but-running Ford truck was filled with discarded wrappers of past burgers and fries and
crusted-over milkshake cups. I didn’t know which smelled worse, it our his breath when he kissed me, chaw lodged under his lip.
Doris showed up on Christmas, having come across country by “the dog bus.” She said that dogs were about all that rode it anymore. “I
wanted to drive out, but Regie said his car wouldn’t make it across country and back. That’s probably true, but I think it was his excuse not
to have to come along. But I had to see you—oh, I’ve missed you so much!” She brought lots of photographs and a few paintings,
showing us the fertile green of her place. Rained a lot, she said. Nona acted like Mama had never been gone. Friendly as can be. I
wanted to stay mad, but Doris had a way of getting around you, making you smile even when you tried your hardest not to.
Grandma didn’t drink as much, and we went sightseeing, Doris footing the bill. I’d never been in the paying part of Grandfather Mountain,
and Nona insisted we all go up to the top on New Year’s Day. We bundled up and were on the Mile High Swinging Bridge at 10:00 AM,
freezing to death even thought we’d dressed for the cold. It was 17 degrees and the wind chill brought that down to 6 degrees. The winter
sun shone with a brilliant glare and the sky was that special blue that makes you feel like life is worth living, so the cold was tolerable.
Once we crossed the bridge to the massive boulder on the other side, Nona said a prayer to Tanawha, or Great Hawk, the Cherokee name
for the Grandfather. We raced back down to our old car, the only one in the parking lot. The wind shook the Plymouth and seeped through
the cracks around the doors. Nona made us be still and listen. At first, we thought it was the wind’s moaning she wanted us to hear—
then we caught the low, sonorous bell-tone that emitted like a clarion call from deep within the ancient stone. Doris asked if the sound
was the bridge vibrating in the wind, but grandmother smiled, and started the engine. “The Grandfather,” she said, “is 65 million years
old. He has his hidden secrets, and powers, which he shares with those who invoke his name.” At the nature museum, we watched
movies about Mildred the bear and the history of the mountain, followed by lunch at the coffee shop. In the animal compound the bears
were hibernating, of course, but the cougars curled together below the overhang in their compound, licking one another. The deep rumble
of their grow-like purr floated softly on the breeze. We drove from there down to Charlotte, where we spent the night in a motel, another first
for me. Doris and Nona went to the Comedy Club, and I was happy to stay in the room and have the television remote to myself with all
those channels—we could only pick up two fuzzy ones at home.
Doris agreed with Nona that Jimmy was a pitiful excuse for a boyfriend. He came over a couple of times, but his slovenly appearance and
sullen responses were all they could talk about after he’d leave. That, and the fact that he always had to be touching me—putting his arm
around my shoulder, pulling me onto his lap, pushing my hair out of my face, stuff like that. I had to hear every kind of lecture on sex, even
thought I told them we weren’t doing the big nasty. To be truthful, I didn’t much like kissing him. But, he was the first person to ever pay me
any attention, and I did like that.
Doris had to spoil it all before she left, begging me to go back with her, give Oregon a try. “Suit yourself,” Nona said. I told her I wasn’t
leaving. When the drinking got so bad afterward, I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice. But it was payback time. I couldn’t leave her.
I was sixteen on Valentine’s Day. Jimmy gave me a thin band of silver and asked me to marry him. I wanted to be engaged, just kinda
wished it was somebody else. I wasn’t sure if he really wanted to get married—we didn’t have any place to live as man and wife and he
bagged groceries at the Food Lion after school—or if he was just tired of playing with my titties and wanted to move onto the real thing. I
took the ring as a birthday present and told him I’d think about the other.
Nona decided it for me. On the first of March we had an ice storm. I’d gone to bed, leaving her with her bottle and remorse. Sadness and
tears were her accompaniment when she was drinking alone. She’d finished the bottle and must have decided to go for another. I woke
up to the blue flash, this time in silence. The Plymouth had skidded out of control at the bottom of our hill and, not wearing her seatbelt,
Nona had gone through the windshield.
Doris didn’t make the funeral, but offered me a bus ticket west. Jimmy came to console me and never left. He throws food wrappers and
his dirty underwear on my floor. Easier to pick up than empty bottles.
I watch the full moon caress the Grandfather, and my lethargy tells me I’ll stay. The trailer and this little spit of land are all I have left of
Nona—that and her stories. I scattered her ashes from the highest peak of Tanawha. Now it is her face, not mine, I see in the rising
moon. I imagine the camp will hire me back for the summer. Jimmy says he loves me. I’ll survive.
© Gabrielle M. Thompson Victoria Press 2002
