First stop, Japan, a.k.a. Tami and Arlo’s house by the pond. Arlo, Kristen, and Tami put out sandwiches and deviled eggs, and Kersten brought a plate of coconut almond macaroons. Great way to fuel up for a woodsy hike!

As Tony, Susan, Megan and I were walking down to Japan from Susan and Tony’s house (Inkberry Hill Farm), we were passed by a car peopled by men in dark suits. Our first thought was, Mormons? but it turned out a pre-party party was already going on at Japan.

Tami’s mother’s partner, George, passed a few weeks ago, and his and Anne’s families would soon be elebrating his life at The Plant. I had a whale of a good time yakking at a whole new group of people who hadn’t already heard my stories. Kudos to Tami, Arlo, and Kristen for making both parties happen!

Per Carrie’s request, we stopped at Delphi to see the gardens.

Kersten and I have grown close from years of weekly walks and hikes.

Tony led the way from Delphi to Inkberry Hill via new trails he and Susan made in the ten months since they moved into our neighborhood.

The trails lead to the green burial ground at The Sanctuary of the Burrow, were many of our beloveds rest and where Bob and I will ultimately spend our last days in earth.

Susan and Tony put out deviled eggs, pineapple, watermelon, and cheese and crackers. The temperature was pushing up towards eighty, so the watermelon was just what we all needed. Tony and Susan had new windows installed last weekend and I think Susan picked the perfect color blue to set off their yellow house.

When we were sated, we took off down the Elephant Trail.

Turning right before reaching Stinking Creek, we hiked up and over The Beeches trail. I’m not gonna lie, I was often short-winded. Every time I stopped to take a photo, I had to run to catch up. Also, I’m seventy and it was hot.

At the top of the hill stands a group of mature beeches, hence the trail’s name. Thank you, David, for taking my picture.

Another right and now we’re on the Northwest Passage, heading south towards our place. Our crawlers had stopped to discuss some point of interest, but by the time I caught up they had moved on. Eleagnus is my best guess, as eradicating it and other invasives is top of mind for all of us.

It’s pollen season and our footwear grew more yellow with every step.

Last stop, Trouts Farm, where Bob and I put out drinks coolers, a hummus and veggie plate, cheese, chips, and crackers.

Our back porch on the north side of the house is perfect for entertaining with its wood flooring and eclectic chair collection.

How nice to spend the day with friends, and even nicer to reach my favorite rocking chair and pull off my shoes and socks.

Here are links to previous Trail Crawl photo essays:

[Trail Crawl 2022] * [Trail Crawl 2019] * [Trail Crawl 2018] * [Trail Crawl 2017] * [Trail Crawl 2016] * [Trail Crawl 2015] * [Trail Crawl 2014] * [Trail Crawl 2012] * [Trail Crawl 2011]

Twenty years ago, I’d have taken to the streets in protest, but today, given the firehose of outrages, I wouldn’t know what to write on my cardboard sign. Outrageous headlines sizzle across my laptop screen like multi-headed dragons. So, I look for diversions. I try and keep moving. I go to the gym, walk, dance ballet, work in the yard, shop for groceries, come home and cook.

My friend, Susan, recently re-introduced me to my sketch pad, a fabulous diversion. Susan is a real, for-hire, portrait artist who paints in oils. She kindly invited me to make art with her—twice at Jordan Lake Dam, and most recently in her studio.

She set me up in a comfy chair on the second floor of her old farmhouse with its cherished northern light—light that doesn’t change value as the sun tracks across the sky.

We draw actual objects as opposed to doodling out of our heads, so I brought a wooden elephant from home. Across the room, Susan immersed herself in the plump essence of a baby bok choy. For a blessed hour, I focused soley on dark and light values, doing my best to coax an inanimate being to life.

Bob and I came of age in an era of moral clarity in which good people protested against racism, sexism, and war. Fast forward to now, and we are mired in the same tar pit of might-makes-right, but we lack the exhilarating ferver—the focus—we had fifty, or even twenty years ago.

In my defense, I say, “I don’t know which dragon head to go after,” and “It’s all so fuzzy, this shit storm of outrages,” and “What good would it do?” and, “If I think about it too hard, I’ll lose my mind. How will that help anyone?” and “Best I keep my head above water, best I focus on the people close to me.”

I often think about the good Germans, about how they turned blind eyes to Hitler’s rise in power. See How Hitler Dismantled a Democracy in 53 Days. I used to think a Nazi holocaust could never happen here in the United States.

But now, with talk of imprisoning migrants at Guantanamo, I’m not so sure. And so, like German citizens of the ’30s, I see what’s happening and avert my eyes, focused instead on making soup and drawing elephants.

We were also thinking of Jimmy Carter because, just before Sunday dinner, we had learned of his death. “One hundred years old,” we said, “My my.” And, “Too bad we passed up that plate.” The last time we carried the trash, we nearly brought home a plate with President Carter’s face on it.

On that day, there had been two men standing next to the trash compactor when we walked over with our garbage. One, a taxpayer like us, had just handed a commemorative plate—the kind of thing you hang on the wall—to the attendant. “You need this plate,” said the attendent with a smile that revealed some missing teeth, and I took it from his outstretched hands to be polite. “It’s got all the presidents up until Carter,” he said. “Carter was my favorite president,” I said, but Bob and I both agreed that we couldn’t use it, and I handed it back.

I cast my first-ever presidential vote for Jimmy Carter in 1976 and was thrilled when he won because I believed his values resonated with mine. He proved me right during the four years of his presidency by choosing diplmomacy over violence, by installing solar panels on the White House, and by advising Americans to save energy by turning down the heat and wearing sweaters.

My mother was also pro-Carter. So much so, that she got on a bus full of Pennsylvania college students bound for Washington DC to witness his inauguration. She took notes and wrote it up for the Shippensburg University Slate. Thanks to her, I can almost taste the air from that day.

Here’s a sample from Inaugural Traveler Finds Hope for America :

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

A year or so later, on a drizzly May 3rd, 1978, Bob was lucky enough to meet President Carter. He and a friend had made a solar collector out of scavanged material, including beer cans for a class at the University of Colorado’s School of Environental Design. When Jimmy Carter saw the collector, he quipped that his brother would have approved (brother Billy famously loved beer!).

It made Bob happy to meet Jimmy Carter because he felt that Jimmy was what our country needed. Like me, Bob felt that their values aligned.

Sadly, Ronald Reagan won the next election and reversed direction. He had the solar panels removed from the White House, he slashed coroporate taxes, cut finding to the Solar Energy Research Institute (now NREL) where Bob hoped to someday work, and did away with energy credits. Bob’s undergrad in Environmental Conservation became nearly worthless, prompting him to pursue a business degree.

Ultimately, we decided to take our chances and carry the trash. After we emptied the trunk, we sauntered over to the Swap Shop for a look-see and some idle chit chat with the attendant. He pointed at the flag and said, “Someone asked me why I had it like that.” “At half mast?” I said and he nodded. “Because of Jimmy Carter?” I asked and he nodded. “Now I wish I’d have taken that plate.”

He got a strange look in his eyes and started walking towards his office. “Do you want it?” he asked over his shoulder. “Yes!” I said, following like a puppy. Turns out he decided to hang it in his office until he could find a proper home for it. He pulled it off the wall, handed it to me, and I gave him a gleeful squeeze.

All that matters is the familiar heads bobbing through the woods, sunlight sparking bright patches at our feet. We are all happy for this warmer day.

It was Tami’s idea to walk on Christmas. This year, we start from our house, hiking across one of the feeder creeks, over the hill, across the dam, and up the driveway towards the yellow house.

Susan meets us on the road, and she and Tony lead us up their new trails which are edged in straight lengths of downfall.

We all gasp when we reach the labyrinth. Tony and Susan have cleaned up the old Sunday Circle, embodying its spirit in a spiral. We linger, several of us walking the maze, feeling gratitude for the earnest energy assembled here. Matter become energy. All those rocks, each one lifted into place.

We continue towards the burial grounds where Zafer lies with Chris, and Mark, Lyle’s parents, and Tami’s father, Ed. I move from bench to bench, beaming a silent “Merry Christmas” towards each pine straw covered mound. I think about their essence, the sound of their voices, and picture their molecules dispersed.

Bob is laying on the ground forty feet away and I get up to see what’s going on. “I’ve picked out our gravesite,” he says. “Come lay beside me.” I kneel on the soft earth, stretch out, and stare at the sky through the tall pine crowns before closing my eyes.

My friends murmur contentedly nearby, our buffer against the uncertain world outside the neighborhood. Nothing else matters but the feel of the earth cradling my hips and shoulders, the warm shaft of light at my throat. A cardinal sings and I exhale deeply.

PORCH TIME

We opened our doors at 4:30 with the sun still high above, and two hours later when we began eating, it was still pretty and bright.

When Arlo and five of his friends emerged from the woods in their work boots with food and a couple of guitars, I felt as if I were watching a movie. They looked like the rescuers striding through smoking rubble after an apocalyptic disaster. I’m not exaggerating, my vision grew blurry with emotion for an instant before I remembered my manners and waved cheerily.

In retrospect, having just turned seventy and finding myself uncharacteristically exhausted by 2:00 PM on some days, the sheer vigor of this next generation brings me great comfort. I feel as if they’ve got our backs, us older folks, and that it’s okay for us to slow down.

SPOT PICS

Spot, our greeter, had his work cut out for him and kept Bob busy snapping “first time to Trouts Farm” pictures of the newcomers.

TIME TO EAT

There was so much food! Salads, fruit, bread, casseroles, tempeh, meat, and beans.

I cannot say how many friends have eaten with us in our little dining room but it has been years since we had more than eight people at the table.

Lyle’s Potluck Podcast captures my joy above the roar of 27 people having a good time:

MAY AND JUNE BIRTHDAYS

Bob bought a unforgettable triple-layer, gluten-free Lemon Lavender Cake to help us celebrate six May and June birthdays.

Shelley, Camille, Kersten, Arlo, Zach, and Hannah made birthday wishes and blew out the candles.

All animals share food to show each other that they are friends. A horse new to the herd, for example, gets run around by the lead mare until she decides they belong, and then she lowers her head to eat. New acquaintances say, “How ’bout a cup of coffee?” The alpha wolf brings food to the den and shares it. Eating together is the most powerful way to signal friendship and the easiest way to build community.

After everyone left, Bob and I tidied up, savoring bits of stray conversation and getting one more taste of cake before tucking into bed, spent and happy.

The space seemed so much larger now without the enormous biodiesel tanks. Lyle had left the high perimeter catwalk in place, power-washed the thick coat of grease off the metal steps, and converted the second-floor lab into a bar. Matt, Bob’s former boss at SCS Global, had been Piedmont Biofuels Coop’s Executive Director for Lyle back in the day and it seemed the perfect venue for Bob’s retirement party.

Thirty-five SCS Global employees had flown in from the Americas, Europe, and Asia for a three-day retreat and to celebrate Bob’s illustrious stint with the company. Every one of them were garbed in a Hawaiian shirt to match the one Bob wore. Many had brought snacks from their country, strange-tasting cookies and candies, coffee, clothing, and even something for me: a bass-relief plaque of the white church at Suchitoto, El Salvador.

There was plenty of local color as well—close friends and people we hadn’t seen in years. Only two wore Hawaiian shirts and that was happenstance. The atmosphere was joyous. Bob holding court, the crowd swelling, cups of free beer, handshakes and hugs, laughter echoing from the high steel ceiling, bouncing off the catwalks, people balancing plates of food on their laps.

Matt took the mic and welcomed everyone, then turned it over to Bob. Lyle, standing beside me leaned over and said, “Uh oh, here comes Bob. Get the hook!”

“If anyone has a story,” Bob began, “of the stupidest thing you heard me say or the stupidest thing you saw me do, I invite you to come up and share it.”

Andy was already walking forward with his hand in the air. Bob went and sat off to the side on the stage. “Bob is the only person I’ve ever seen work the phrase, ‘anal leakage’ into a business meeting with people he didn’t know.” I searched Bob’s face for signs of chagrin as everybody roared.

Lyle went next, making us all laugh with a story about needing Bob to retire so he could sell more beer. Matt read a retirement tribute in the style of Kurt Vonnegut that he’d crafted with the help of ChatGPT. Trip teased Bob about his early bedtime. Ina told us how she came to realize that Bob wasn’t just a guy who liked to talk a lot, but that he was weaving a story, like a tent, and bringing her and everyone else inside.

Eddie from Brazil spoke about his first virtual meeting with Bob in which he was confounded by casual attire, and how he came to appreciate Bob’s informal approach. “He was normal,” he said. Normal, not formal. Colorful, not drab, allowing others to relax and be real human beings.

And that is what Bob does, he shows up barefoot in a colorful shirt, puts you at ease, allows you to be human, envisions a better world, and invites you to join him.

STARTING OUT

FIRST STOP

ONWARD

MEGAN’S BOTTLE TREE

SECOND STOP

ON THE MOVE AGAIN

STINKING CREEK

THIRD STOP

FOURTH STOP

Another year savored and digested!

Here are links to previous Trail Crawl photo essays:

[Trail Crawl 2019] * [Trail Crawl 2018] * [Trail Crawl 2017] *
* [Trail Crawl 2016] * [Trail Crawl 2015] * [Trail Crawl 2014] * [Trail Crawl 2012] * [Trail Crawl 2011]

We lived at Oilseed for two years before moving four miles down the road in December of 2009. Eventually, the other Oilseeders moved on and the land owners took possession of the houses.

Early on the third Sunday of August, we parked at the end of Bill Thomas Road and walked into what had once been a thriving community, ready to turn and run if we encountered squatters.

Bob used to mow this land and now here I am twelve years later, walking across the overgrowth with our old home behind me.

In addition to mowing, Bob grew potatoes.

He grew loads of other vegetables, including shitake mushrooms.

This is what our trailer looked like shortly after we moved in.

And here is what it looked like last month.

Camelina rests on its wheels, steps and occupants gone, a ghost house, windows open, an empty shell swirling with memories of friendship and community.

I think back to when our younger, more athletic friends did cartwheels across the lawn, back when Camelina had steps, and vinyl skirting to hide its wheels.

We opened the door and peered in at what had once been a hub of activity, our old kitchen, all tore up and abandoned.

Nostalgia washes over us as we remember the good times we had at our old kitchen counter.

Our bedroom windows and the blue boat with a hole in its side. I remember lying on the other side of that blown-out screen listening to a whippoorwill one dark moon night.I also remember the day we decided to remove the garbage from the boat. Some of us thought we might fix it and go out on the lake, and some of us just wanted the trash to go away.

This was the lower house, where Ian, Jessi, Greg, Adah, and Jack lived.

Tim, Jack, Adah, and Link went dumpster diving at night and brought back embarrassing amounts of food.

We cooked.

We ate.

We rotated Sunday potluck between houses, so every third week the gang gathered at our place.

Jessi and Ian made a baby! One birth, no deaths – that’s a pretty good run.

We went for walks. (Dana ran ahead and took this photo)

We went to music Festivals! Shakori’s Grassroots Music Festival is one of the reasons Bob and I moved to this area.

Matt was the Mayor of Oilseed and he kept us all on the same page and working together. When someone new wanted to move in, he took them from house to house to introduce them and later we would decide as a group whether or not they were a good fit for Oilseed. I don’t recall saying “No,” to anyone.

And now there is an empty field where the lower house once stood.

This was the road from Bill Thomas Road to the upper house.

The road looks so much the same now that I half expected to meet one of our friends with a covered dish or a musical instrument.

We called the old farm house the upper house because Camelina and the lower house were downhill. This is where Matt, Dana, Link, Jessica, and Simon lived, where we came for potluck when their turn came, and where we met for our monthly pow wows.

This is what’s left of the upper house today.

It appears to have burned down, whether accidentally or intentionally. Gone, too is the little horse barn where some Oilseeders kept chickens.

I’d like to say, “Easy come, easy go,” but instead I’ll say that we breathe life into the places we touch. Cherish today’s energy because life is fleeting and you cannot turn back the clock.

But all is not lost. Five years later, Oilseed lives. Anchored no longer by infrastructure and space, the community we shared flourishes in our hearts. We feel it when we see each other at weddings, or at the gym, or when we check in virtually each month.

~*~

A history of Oilseed in ten chapters

(see video in “Settlers of Oilseed” and “We’re Not Amish”)

A VERY WARM WELCOME

MISSING LINK

KILL POSSUM, SHOW CHICKEN

MAKING CAMELINA

CAMCORDER AT LARGE

LINK AND THE BONE HEAD

SETTLERS OF OILSEED

WE’RE NOT AMISH

FARMERS ROCK

Death of Oilseed

If you enjoy stories about nature and inspiration, please get yourself a copy of “Nature’s Healing Spirit: Real Life Stories to Nurture the Soul.”

Carl lives on a wooded promontory with a view of the flood plain. Mainstay in an ever-changing world, he’s been standing tall for decades. Yesterday I walked the half mile through the woods to spend time with him. I went in the morning before it was hot, armed with a spider stick, and prepared to retreat if accosted by too many black gnats and mosquitoes. But summer storms have reduced the spider webs to bearable, and mosquitoes and gnats were also at a minimum.

My legs are strong and sure on this familiar trail. I hit my stride about five minutes out. I’m drenched in living earth, fragrant with pine needles and leaf mulch. Generations of trees surround me, from tiny sprouts to giant sentinels. The air hums with woodpeckers and cicadas. I swing my head to the left when a squirrel rustles in the undergrowth. Sometimes deer startle me, leaping up and blasting away like gunshots. Once I came across a fox, scratching fleas. Another time, a Barred owl swooped down to take a better look and flew back to its perch to keep an eye on me.
Carl receives me in his reassuringly taciturn way, eyes forward. He reaches out with solid, steady limbs and I feel safe. Without a word, Carl and I are in our happy place once again. He is a beautiful example of his species, an American Beech. Or perhaps he is, as I often joke, a son of a beech. Nature gave Carl markings that resemble a human face on the side facing the stream. He has a jaunty mustache with a twig sprouting from the corner, like a pipe stem or cigarette. This year a praying mantis chose to build an egg case on his cigarette.

Old forest lore referred to the majestic beech as Queen of the forest. Their trunks are smooth and straight, mottled with white and gray spots. They have the peculiarity of retaining their leaves all winter, only losing them when new growth pushes them out. Their leaves provide a spark of ocher in the cold, monochromatic months. Surely this tenacity is one of the things that appeals to me as I walk towards the winter of my life.

The neighbors pooled their resources a couple of months ago to build a cedar bench for my sixty-second birthday. Lyle and Amie loaded it in the tractor bucket and carried it to Carl’s side. Jason and Doug dug holes and sunk the legs into the earth. It is sturdy and wide and smells like my mother’s cedar hope chest.

I climb on and sit, legs dangling. The size of Carl’s bench turns me into a youngster. I lay back and peer up through the understory at the sky. My heart swells and my eyes get moist. Time stops. I’m alone and connected. There is only this moment and this place and yet I’m aware of all the moments of my life. All the good ones, anyway.

I think about my friends who cared enough to add this bench to my favorite spot. I recall our many shared meals, the birthday candles and wishes, and remember delicious Sunday dinners at Nana’s. My thoughts wander forward to our daughter Emily’s wedding and our first glimpse of her baby boy. I think about Bob and how lucky I am to have a partner that gets my twisted sense of humor, and how relieved we both are that he is well and recovering his smile.

I caught part of the TED radio hour the other day. They were talking about aging and time. As we age we become more positive, yet joyful occasions often bring a tear to our eye. We find ourselves experiencing the past, present and future simultaneously. Surely holding our grandson for the first time will trigger a montage of feelings; all the way back to Emily as a tiny girl, and fast forwarding to imagine little Nolan as a grown man.

This is why I visit Carl in his special place. To think, remember, imagine, let go, connect, rejoice and weep. Carl seems to understand, he never questions. He just stands there with his cigarette and looks off across the ages.

I often visit the mix of Rhode Island Reds and golden Polish hens at Judy, Helen, and Ted’s and return home with eggs. The other day I brought home a dozen from my friend Shaine, who took me for a tour of her evolving chicken pen: a roofed shelter so tall I didn’t even come close to having to stoop.

Shelley, too, has re-populated her chicken pen in this time of hunkered-down food insecurity. It’s a smart move, given rising egg prices and a reluctance to mask up and wander the grocery aisles in search of protein.

So, when Shelley’s mornings yield to the demands of a new school year, I suggest we replace our weekly cool-of-the-day walk with some afternoon Chicken TV. Amy joins us, and I bring a bowl of shishito peppers fried in sesame oil and seasoned with tamari.

Amy had brought her lunch, so when she’d eaten as many peppers as possible she tossed one to the roving rogue hen who ate it outside the pen in full view of her envious audience.

Laughing, we threw the rest of the peppers into the pen, inciting a flurry of activity: a race to the finish with the birds gulping down peppers in one bite before picking up another and running off with it.

After things settled down, we dabbed our eyes and resumed our quiet conversation, insulated from the workings of the outer world, tuned in only to the scratch and peck beneath the rustle of Shelley’s backyard shade trees.