Harbinger

Still eating last season's pumpkins, only looky what my eyes beheld upon cutting into one of these bad boys last Sunday:

Spring is upon us. The seeds don't lie. Neither does the sun, finding its way higher and higher in the sky as the month rolls on. The screech owls don't lie, their nightly ghost-like whinny increasing in frequency. Nor do the daffodils, their little erect tips reaching out of the thawing earth toward the sky. Yin is beginning to yield to yang. Their perfect balance will smile for a picture soon, on the vernal equinox.

Asheville Bike Taxi

Cool October eve in Asheville. Children playing in the front yard after school. Parents jogging or speed walking, one at a time. Clouds shifting. Leaves turning. Air chilling.
One Jessie Lehmann catches a dream. Fly in a web. Spinning spider.
Her short legs pedal to full extension. Seat high. Ponytail swaying. Freak Show on the Dance Floor blasting. Fist pumping.

I take my place on the clean, new seat of the freshly awn-covered, golden sunflower hued Asheville Bike Taxi. I feel the chilly breeze on my face and the smiles of the neighborhood children and joggers as we cruise. The peace sign Jessie is flinging to passersby is no joke. The smiles are flowing like the waters of the French Broad. True. Simple. Elemental. I can't stop laughing and clapping to the beat. Unadulterated fun.

We tote a couple of groups of kids up and down the road. A 3-year-old rides on her older sister's lap, mouth hanging open in awe. By the end of the ride she is dancing with her head and grinning. An 8-year-old boy runs alongside the bike taxi, attempting to high five his budding riding. The funk is perpetuated. Fists are pumped in the air enthusiastically. People love this yellow pedal and sun-powered mobile!

After a while the ride is over, and the taxi gets safely tucked into the shed. Smiles all around. "Welcome to my new life," I am told.

There is magic in America yet. Don't let them convince you otherwise.

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www.ashevillebiketaxi.com

Ritual

It's been a while now since I met a very nice gentleman at the Depot in Marshall who, in a roundabout way, first introduced me to what has become a favorite wild food of mine. There was a night, back when I lived in the infamous garage apartment on Hickory Flats (The "G.A."), when I sat in my neighbor's Kia, slapped on a little red lipstick with her, and we rode over to the Depot for a memorable night of dancing, cakewalking and people watching. Oh the people watching that could be done at the Depot then...They just don't make em like they used to; I'll leave it at that. Anyways, after the Depot we headed back to her house where I propmtly got drunk on her husband's homemade wine, and we sat in the kitchen telling stories and laughing and carrying on. My mind is just a wee bit fuzzy from that night (clear throat awkwardly), but I think that was the night that particular neighbor friend sent me home with an Ingles bag of paw paws given to her by her friend at the Depot. (Disclaimer: it is possible that I am getting two different nights confused here, possibly even from different years.)

Regardless of the nitty gritty details of the timing of which Depot night what happened, one of those nights back then I experienced my first paw paw ever. And it came from the trees of a very nice gentleman from the Depot, who has sinced moved from those trees, but the trees remain. And year after sweet year, I drive over to those trees in mid to late September and let the warmth of the angled autumnal sun remind me of all that is simple and precious about communing with a place in real time. A year passes. Time for another visit. The yard with the paw paw trees lies in front of an old farm house. No human inhabits this place anymore, and the weeds are taller than me in places. There is an old rose surviving next to the house, its aroma sweet and sad and emitting memories that I have no place in, but long for nonetheless.

I have not read Michael Pollan's book, The Botany of Desire, but I read the introduction. This year when I was reaping the harvest of the almost forgotten aforementioned paw paw trees, I couldn't help but think these trees really are having their way with me. I collect their fruits without fail each fall, and then I distribute those fruits far and wide, aided by my petroleum fueled modes of transportation and my generous nature. I am a seed spreading machine for those two trees- making sure portions of the bounty end up in various counties all over these mountains. And each recipient of the harvest in turn consumes the sweet alluring flesh and then does exactly what the trees want it to do- deposits the seeds in new fresh soil, thus enhancing the gene pool of the range of whatever nighttime fly or beetle paw paw pollinator might inhabit this particular place. I think I am looting some mad paw paw booty for myself and my people, but what I am really doing is spreading the seed of this strain of Asimina tribola to places much farther than the tree possibly ever dreamed of. Badass, Michael Pollan. Badass.

Old house with paw paw trees to the left

This time of year, you will find me busy trying to find all sorts of ways to enjoy North America's largest native fruit. Blended with whole milk to make a paw paw smoothie (my favorite), eaten plain as a snack with some wild nuts such as chestnuts, combined with other fruit and liquor to form a paw paw colada (watch out) or just eaten straight up plain as is for breakfast. Countertops, dashboards and refrigerator shelves are all lined with paw paws in varying degrees of ripeness. And also, you will find me geeking out on reading and quoting things that other paw paw aficionados have written about this bodacious Appalachian berry. Check these for some most interesting info!:
http://www.clemson.edu/hort/peach/pdfs/northamericanpawpaw.pdf
http://markgelbart.wordpress.com/2010/10/01/the-paw-paw-a-favored-fruit-of-the-mastodon/
Turns out, paw paws are quite nutritious. Apparently they are quite old too- the second link talks about 50 million year old paw paw fossils!

Parallel Stalking

Ha. Got your attention. Now I can tell you about birds some more. (I rub my greedy little hands together here.)
This morning I went on a brisk walk up Sapling Mountain. I had intended to get a really early start and be part of daybreak, but apparently I slept through my alarm. I headed out at about 7:15 with my mind set on walking to the crossroads (up on Sapling Mtn.) and back for the purpose of cardiovascular exercise. I enjoyed the feel of the cool, damp morning air as I huffed up the mountain, and I enjoyed the warming of my body and the quickening of my heart rate. I walked with my thoughts.
Well, I got up to the crossroads, turned around, and was bopping back down the mountain. About halfway down, I finally remembered that a morning walk in the woods is a fantastic opportunity to pay attention to my suroundings and inhabit the present moment. There are so many other opportunities to walk around with my head part way up my ass- like in Asheville or at Ingles, but being in the woods calls for some good old fashioned awareness, mainly because there's just so bloody much happening to be aware of. And interesting stuff too. Flushing fungi. Foraging fowl. Puddling butterflies. Troublesome turds. Tricky tracks. Creative adaptation. Natural cause and effect.
And relevant too! How could studying the rest of nature ever be considered merely a hobby? Our human community and individual selves are just as subject to the laws and patterns of nature as the next guy, be that next guy a lichen or a female luna moth.
So I finally remembered to pay attention, and it was like someone flipped on the sound switch. There was a two-note high pitched bird sound coming from the top of a 6 foot embankment that bordered the road I was walking. I didn't recognize the sound, so I stopped and looked for the bird. The call sounded over and over. I stalked closer and closer to the embankment, each time stopping to recalibrate my depth perception of sound and trying to narrow in on the exact location of its source. (Oh, to have ears at different levels like an owl for this very purpose!) It drives me crazy how a bird can just hide right in front of my eyes in some foliage. I stalked closer, determined.
In the meantime, on the other side of the embankment, all manners of birds were going crazy sounding their best birdy alarms. A male cardinal frantically swooped down to an overhead branch and absolutely went apeshit. Woodpeckers downhill were warbling out some dramatic alarms, and left and right could be heard a symphony of random "cheeps" and "chirps" and "buzzes." I confusedly wondered to myself  'is all that racket because of me?'
My silent question was answered a moment later when a bobcat's cat and forebody came slinking up to the top of the embankment from the other side. Dark, gritty, wild. That cat took one look at me and manuevered a silent and seamless 180, hightailing (or rather bob-tailing) it back out of there toward Juanita Stump's place.
Well, I'll be.
With the help of some sturdy exposed tree roots, I hoisted myself over the embankment to look for the bobcat, which I knew I wouldn't see again. I could hear the path it was taking down the mountain through some underbrush by the traveling treetop parade of interspecies bird alarm noises. I discovered a sort of parallel 4 wheeler road on the other side of the embankment. Also from that side I could easily see the source of the mysterious 2-note bird call- a fledgling cardinal sitting helpless on the ground at the top of the embankment, its little undeveloped head tuft fluffing up as much as birdly possible as it hollered out.

Or maybe not helpless. Somehow that little guy's life was spared by my remembering to pay attention in the woods. Not that I favor the life of a baby cardinal over the life of a bobcat, but a hunt was intersected there. Two cats at the top of the food chain met on an embankment from parallel stalking experiences. And I got the bird, which I consider just a random stroke of luck because there is no doubt in my partially unaware mind who the better stalker is.

The rest of the walk was spent getting rained on and enjoying the spectacular beauty of the scenery. Old cabins and barns hint of dusty memories of a time when the human residents of this mountain paid attention to the woods as a way of life. An old store sets on top of Chapel Hill, making a home for spiders and birds. Deeply hued ironweed blooms in its time, setting the stage for the fall of another summer.

 

Man, oh, man

This is me, smiling as broadly as possible with my little mouth, holding a GIANT SIZED three-prong reishi (Ganoderma tsugae) that I found not a 2 minute walk from my kitchen door on the root of a dead standing hemlock. It's on its way to becoming a double extraction (extracting first in grain alcohol and then in boiling water) to serve as a health and longevity tonic for me and my clan. I admit, I am having a hard time taking a knife to it because it is so absoultely bizarre and stunning in its entirely fungal glory.



Solution

There were three problems:
1) A back bumper on my trusty little Toyota pickup that was rusting plum off (and being held on by a single thread of tetnus with a yellow strap),
2) Lovely summer drives through the mountains (aka- commutes) were being disturbed by annoying tailgaters, particularly ones of the teenage boy and redneck lady variety, and
3) My busy summer schedule had me feeling a little too confined to my proverbial "box."

The solution to these three diverse and seemingly unrelated problems came to me as a single item with a wide array of delightful implications...

A new good-damn bumper.

First, a quick backstory: For approximately the last year and a half, I have been hassling my friend and co-worker Zoe, who is a lady of many talents, to make me a new bumper. First she was planning on it, but then she moved out of her metal working shop and it seemed impossible to do. I still hassled her a bit more about it though, and finally she said, "Dana, I can't make you a bumper." I mostly gave up on the idea, and just let my bumper rust and rot as I drove through the mountains, day in and day out.
Then one day earlier this summer, Jenna my sister saw my bumper and exclaimed, "Dana- what the $%^* is wrong with your $%^-@#$* bumper!" I told her that it was rusting off. I went on to tell her that originally Zoe was going to make me a new one, but that it wasn't going to work out because she didn't have a workshop anymore. Jenna, being the true and trusty good dedicated sister she is, had my back. "Do you want me to call Zoe for you and take care of it?" she asked. I said sure.
A two minute phone call later I was next in line for a custom made bumper. For those interested, the phone call went a little something like this:
Jenna: Hey Zoe. (pause) No- it's not Dana, it's Jenna.
Pause
Jenna: You need to make my sister a new bumper because her @#$%-ing bumper is falling off!
Pause
Jenna: (in a real sweet and sing-songy voice) Thank you Zoe.
Pause
Jenna: (in that same sweet and happy voice) I'm doing preeeeety good Zoe.

Simple as that.

In no time flat, Zoe had produced a bumper for me that:
1) saved me from that awful jury-rigged eyesore of a rusty piece of crap that I was rolling with on my tail end for so long
2) hooked me up with a bad ass piece of converted weight-lifting equipment and old car parts that I'm hoping one glance of will have even the boldest of tailgaters reaching that foot for the break, and
3) hoisted me out of my proverbial "box" for two exciting and unforgettable evening sessions of bumper work in two unique locations.

Session one: The removal of the old bumper and prep work for the new bumper
Location: The driveway, back porch and kitchen of Zoe's shared punk house of amiable chaos and prolific creativity
Tasks accomplished: Old bumper removal involved some manipulation of rusty bolts, some metal cutting with an angle grinder and some old fashioned sweating and grunting (paired with ample giggling); new metal brackets were fashioned and measurements were taken for the welding of the parts
What I did: Examine the floor to ceiling art displayed on all walls of the house while making commentary, ask a lot of detailed questions about the art and the housemates, take pictures, laugh a lot and hand Zoe tools when needed
What Zoe did: All the work (and laugh a lot)




I left at dark that night last week feeling pumped up from having spent an evening out of my little world and jazzed about the upcoming bumper installation session...Read on.

Session Two: The welding of the bumper
Location: Deep Six Cycles shop in south Asheville-
Tasks accomplished: Holes were drilled in the new brackets after measurements from Session One were confirmed correct; Brackets were resized to accomodate smooth tailgate opening and closing; New bumper was "tacked" to brackets on the actual truck sight; Welding was completed on a table in the shop, and bumper was secured to truck with bolts
What I did: Look around Tom's shop curiously while asking both him and Zoe a plethora of questions, take pictures, listen to death metal and Johnny Cash, check out Tom's motorcycle friend's brown recluse bite, tell stories, occasionally hand Zoe a tool
What Zoe did: All the work; be a bad ass






Much chuckling and marvelling at the world beyond my little cubby-hole of a life was done all evening. I felt like a tourist on a staycation over there in the motorcycle shop, and I relished every minute of it, inhaling deeply the refreshing smell of motor oil and auto parts and admiring the craftspersonship of both Zoe and her metal mentor Tom. One of my favorite things to do is watch someone work, particularly when that person loves their work.





There you have it. The lovely new bumper. I may be dreaming, but it seems to me that since it has been on, people behind me have been slowing down just a little bit before passing my slow granny driving ass. The only things I have left to do are spray the bumper with some rust inhibiting finish product, figure out a way to grow some tiny succulents back there on the new boy and hook Zoe up with delightful treats for a long time to come.