Clover and Honeysuckle

Sometimes I wonder why I love spending summers in this raggedy cabin.  Except for the stunning view of the Nantahala—Land of the Noon-Day Sun--there’s little to recommend its shabby 700-square-feet.  Thrown together with plywood and a staple gun, it was designed in the late 1960s by developers looking to make a quick buck off “Floridiots,” who trek to the Blue Ridge Mountains in June, July, and August to escape the heat and humidity. 

Each summer at Pine Log begins with a new bug infestation—this year’s carpenter ants look healthy enough to carry off my screened-in porch on their collective backs; a half-inch layer of pollen lets me know the dogwoods bloomed well even if I wasn’t here to see them, and let’s not even think about the black snake—a “good” snake everyone assures me-- that lives in the basement. 

There is hot water for my shower and a flush toilet.  A refrigerator and stove.  So it’s a cut above camping.  But it lacks many of the comforts of home.  There’s no television or Internet.  There’s no air conditioning.

And I think that’s what I like best about it, the non-conditioned air.

 

When Willis Carrier invented air conditioning in July of 1902, he forever changed life in Florida. Summer in the panhandle, where I live during the school year, means a tightly-sealed house with the a.c. set on 72, errands in air-conditioned cars, and outside activities that must be done very early or very late—oh, and don’t forget the mosquito repellent.  

   

Up here in Warne, North Carolina, the air smells of clover and honeysuckle.  Trips to town—it’s about 30-minutes to anywhere—mean curvy roads that open onto pastures of newly-cut hay, grazing cattle, and red clay plots where husbands and wives hoe weeds between the rows of crook-neck squash, pole beans, and tomatoes.  

Mornings are so cool I need a long-sleeved shirt to throw over my pajamas.  If it does get hot, a box fan, a good book, and something cool to drink will see me through to sunset. 

    

I also like being able to hear summer: the morning-song of cardinals and thrushes, humming birds zooming to the feeder, the distinct laugh of the pileated woodpeckers that nest in the 100-year-old pines.  Yesterday, I heard something moving through the woods and looked out to see a couple of deer making their way down the hill.  Neighbors say that a bear’s been prowling around, too, but I haven’t heard it yet.  When my friend, Pat, leaves to play cards at the senior center, I hear her tires crunching on the gravel road, and I know she’s safely back home when I hear them again.  

I feel more a part of the world here.  When I’m not out walking through the woods, noticing the last few blooms on the Mountain Laurel or the buds swelling on the Rhododendron, I spend my days on the porch, where only a thin layer of screen separates me from towering trees, waves of daisies and Queen Anne’s lace, and a view of the blue rolling hills. In fact, that’s where I’m writing this, fighting to keep my concentration because of the shrill call of a broad-winged hawk.  When it’s finished, I’ll drive to the library in Hayesville to upload it.  I’ll do so with all my windows open.