The Week in Review

Photos by Dan.

Wing Haven

We're visiting the Iglfolks this week, and yesterday I left the compound for the first time since Saturday, when we arrived.

The draw was Wing Haven, a quirky garden and bird sanctuary in an unlikely location: a residential area near downtown Charlotte. I'd heard rumors that there were some nice old neighborhoods within the city's numbing, soulless sprawl, but this was the first time I'd seen anything historic there since the Ramesses II exhibition when I was in college.

From a decidedly inauspicious beginning in 1927 - one city lot with a single tree in the red Carolina clay - the garden eventually grew to three densely planted acres, an oddly successful mix of manicured formality and natural landscape. With narrow, comically buckled brick paths, it wasn't exactly wheelchair friendly, but I took my time and saw almost all of it.

Photos by Dan.

The View From Here

Photo by Dan.

Signing Bonus

Most outrageous addresses

When we left California, we took five and a half days to drive across the country. The last leg, Nashville to Maryland, would have been a killer even if we'd gotten an early start, but I figured it was my best chance to see The Hermitage. And I was so impressed that I convinced Dan, who'd stayed with the dogs, that he should take the tour, too.

In the wilds of Virginia that evening, when we were good and punchy but not yet delirious, I noticed a sign that almost sent me into hysterics: Butt Hollow Road (see No. 26). (The actual Butt Hollow is allegedly in West Virginny, butt I've never been able to confirm it, so this remains a hollow supposition.)

Three months later, we bought a condo nestled at the eastern foot of a steep, wooded hill, where the light fades hours before sunset. Not long after we moved in, Dan looked around and said, "This place is kind of a ... Butt Hollow."

Link from Riley.

Northern Exposure

Britain's Best Views: Hadrian's Wall

During the London semester in college, we did a seven-mile hike along Hadrian's Wall, starting at Housesteads. With cooperative weather, the vistas were stunning.

From Riley.

The Week That Was

Road Worriers

We're at the Iglfolks' for the week.

We had two new companions on the drive down: Sparkle and a TomTom GPS unit. Sparkle was quite good, except for periodic little anxiety attacks. It must be stressful not to know where you're going, especially when you've been wrenched from the only two homes you've known. But, then, how to explain Devo's love of road trips?

The GPS was also largely well behaved, except for twice, mysteriously, attempting to detour us. Clearly the system had been hacked into by evildoers. Had we been gullible enough to follow, there's not a doubt in my mind that we would have been raped and carjacked, our bodies dumped in a tobacky field, blood oozing from the gashes where our kidneys had been cut out. But they didn't count on the street smarts gleaned from my longtime "Law & Order" habit. Better luck next time.

Aside from some slight nagging, I was surprised by how mild mannered the TomTom was. Nary a trace of recrimination if you didn't do what it said. I guess that's why they're so popular. If I designed one, I'd make it thin skinned, needy, vindictive. Don't want to follow my advice? Suit yourself, Columbus. But don't come crying to me when you find yourself up Shit Creek.

Near Richmond we saw a car with antique plates being ferried on a flatbed trailer like a rare and prized collectible. It was a Chevy Vega.

Late in the trip, "Eight Miles Wide" came up on the iPod and I had an epiphany: "It's Sparkle's song!"

As we savored the raunchy lyrics, Dan suggested: "You should play it for my parents and see if they notice."

"I'll put it on the intercom," I said, remembering they'd installed an iPod dock. (Haven't done it yet, but I have three days left.)

The weather's been perfect, and we're having a great time -- no one more than Sparkle, who is every bit the mistress of her new domain.

Elation

Yesterday we went to check out Ben and Brian's new spread in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. The countryside is beautiful, even in January, and the house is on a high spot with views in several directions. With sections dating from the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries, the new owners are pondering what mark to make for the 21st. I saw pictures before they bought the place, and they've already made great strides. Leave it to the gays.

The local historical society is pretty sure the property was a stop on the Underground Railroad. It's about 25 acres, with fields, forest, a good-sized pond, and quite an array of outbuildings, including a little structure that was once the local post office. (That looks fairly sound, but most of the others are decidedly less so.)

The dogs had a blast exploring all this, and Devo, true to form, found some shit to roll in. I don't know what kind of animal it came out of, but the shit was green.

Good times.





Photos by Dan.

It's a Wrap

"Today's elf is tomorrow's gnome."
David Sedaris

A couple of years after my diagnosis, mindful that I'd be losing my manual dexterity, I happened upon some cashmere wraps at an outdoor market in Florence. Simple and unadorned, they were like small blankets cut to enfold a body. No sleeves, no buttons.

Perfect, I thought. I treated myself to an olive one, and my mom bought me a gray one as an early Christmas present. They've been my winter "coats" ever since. Warm and soft, it feels a little like staying in bed.

"Love the cape," people would say. There's no hood or closure, though, and the effect isn't nearly so elegant, especially now that I'm wizened and hunched. I look like a wheeled gnome or an unusually clean homeless person.

The other day, on a walk around the block, I remarked, "I could be masturbating under here and no one would know."

I wasn't, though. It was too cold, and dry cleaning's expensive.

Wipitz

Photos by Dan.

Off to South Cackalackee

Pray for us.

Flashback: England, June 2003

Six years ago, we took one of our best vacations. Unless you count a brief Canadian excursion at the end of our Alaska cruise, this was my last trip abroad.

As a rule, I subscribe to the adage about hoping for the best while expecting the worst. Though not the most original or courageous approach, it makes for few disappointments and frequent pleasant surprises.

For some reason, as I researched outings for our week in England, not only did that mindset slip away, I actually caught myself getting excited. Happily, this flagrant optimism went unpunished: The trip was even more fun than I expected, with nary a single real mishap. (Ask Dan about his fall!)

I’d never been to Devon before, but it was just as I’d pictured: a relentlessly hilly green patchwork of forest and open land dotted with sheep, horses, and cows.


After an overnight flight and a four-hour drive from London, Woolley Lodge could not have been more inviting. In the middle of nowhere, the little cottage appeared out of the mist, its garden in full bloom behind a massive wrought-iron fence. Warm light beckoned from a hallway lamp, and the key was under the mat. The place was freshly cleaned, and we were greeted by cut flowers and a tea tray set with biscuits. I thought I knew cozy, but this raised the standard to a completely new level. Quirky but charming, the lodge was a convenient base and a welcome place to come home to at night.

I thought it deliciously apt when we learned that Woolley Lodge is a remnant of a failed dream. The owner of the surrounding estate had grandiose plans to build a suspension bridge over his lake (you’d laugh if you saw it), to be approached by a stately avenue. Unfortunately, he fell in debt, died, and all that’s left of the scheme is an impressive pair of gates and the gatehouse: Woolley Lodge. It was occupied by an eccentric gardener and his Jack Russell terrier until the man died, and in the early 1970s the National Trust began renting it out to tourists. (The Trust has hundreds of unique properties, which are fun to browse through.)


We quickly learned that distances are far greater in reality than they seem on the map. Mostly this is because of the roads. I can only surmise that rural English road planners were paid by the number of hills and twists they included, with double credit for blind curves (triple if the road’s only wide enough for one car). Because this would not be challenging enough, most roads in Devon are hemmed in by steep, high banks. Covered in wildflowers, these are as beautiful as they are deadly. (The sense of confinement made it all the more striking when a break revealed a sudden panorama.) I won’t even address the dreaded “single track,” which requires pulling over whenever two cars meet, or the ubiquitous roundabout.


In the countryside, all driving is done at great speed, the theory apparently being that the less time one spends on the road, the fewer opportunities for an accident. Dan did all the driving, and it’s to his credit that I am here today to write this.


Once we’d adjusted our sense of distance, we fell into a comfortable rhythm of visiting one or two places a day, staying in Devon except for one foray into Cornwall. Most were National Trust-owned houses and gardens. (We’d bought a pass before the trip, and it paid for itself several times over.) All were beautiful, many spectacular, and they ranged from the 17th century to the 20th.


Although I’d done a lot of research beforehand, I was surprised by how much was physically accessible. (Hope for the best but expect the worst!) Each place we toured had ramps, some even an elevator—pardon me, a lift—and almost every garden had a designated route for wheelchairs. British Airways treated me like the queen that I am, whisking me past all sorts of lines. If you want to speed through an airport, get thee a wheelchair—or someone who uses one.


The trip was originally planned for last year, but we waited too long and the airfares shot up. This year things were cheaper—a silver lining on the cloud of global woes. And I’m glad we didn’t wait any longer, because you can do and see a great deal more when you can stand up and climb a few steps than when you can’t.


As refreshing as the sights was the change of mental scenery. I’ve been so disturbed lately by the Bush regime’s actions that it was good to get away, if only for a week. It was novel to watch news that wasn’t mindless cheerleading for the administration. Quite the contrary: They demanded accountability from their leaders, and no one cried treason. Imagine!


No matter how fun the vacation, it’s always nice to come home. In our absence, the Washington summer arrived with a sticky vengeance. The blow was softened, however, with a great diversion: the long-awaited delivery of Ingmar, my new Permobil power wheelchair. This Swedish-made conveyance is state of the art in comfort, flexibility, and performance. It’s even quite stylish.

Notre Dame du Lac

We're having a lovely time down here. With no alarm, we wake up when we like, and it's warmed up enough to have coffee on the deck the past few mornings, gazing over the water, watching the herons come and go. We take an afternoon nap, and in the evening we've been catching up on videos: The Changeling, Benjamin Button, There Will Be Blood.

Yesterday I unwittingly assumed red-state camouflage. We took the boat out for a picnic lunch, and I returned with my first sunburn in a decade. That used to be a rare occurrence with my darkish complexion, but years as a shut-in have left my skin ranging from the color of parchment to that of Muenster cheese. And now my lower arms and legs are bright pink. It's too elegant for words.

The lake's been strangely quiet, especially considering that Memorial Day is upon us. We saw more birds and turtles than people on our outing. We cruised by two properties for sale, one of them the oldest house in River Hills. Built in 1940 as a retreat for the Belk family, of department-store fame, they ended up retreating from it after a child drowned. A yacht club for years, it's now a home again - and a bargain, mostly because the current owners built a big new house in the backyard, which doesn't do much for the view.

Not such a steal is the other place, which perches demurely on the North Cackalackee side. Its claim to fame is that it was occupied by Mel Gibson while he was filming The Patriot. Perhaps he was drawn by the area's white, Christian demographic. Or by the refined architecture:


It's even ghastlier up close.

At night we're treated to an exotic serenade, courtesy of resident tree frogs. This convulses Dan and me with laughter, because they sound like the screamapillar from "The Simpsons."

And now, if you'll excuse me, my old fashioned awaits.

The War of Northern Aggression

Dan's parents have lived in the Palmetto State for nearly a decade now, but a number of our friends refuse to accept the fact. "When are you off to North Carolina?" they'll ask, or: "How was the weather in N.C.?" It's as if their mental maps stop at the border and they dare not venture beyond. Nothing I've said has made a bit of difference.

I don't remember this happening when the Iglfolks lived on the coast, near Charleston. The problem arose, I think, when they moved inland a few years ago. "It's near Charlotte, but still in South Carolina," I told people, who apparently tuned out in mid-sentence.

Like Sarah Palin and Russia, the Iglfolks can see North Cackalackee from their house; in fact, that's pretty much their view. But they don't live there ... except in the minds of a troubled few.

Anyway, we had a great time, and now we're back in the Holler, where oddly balmy temps and some deferred Christmas shopping got me out of the house a couple of times today.