Alpine.

The shadows come early here, and they stay late. Even in the warmest breezes of midsummer, there is a slight sour tang to the air that speaks of coolness. A warning: this will not last. So you hold each day as it comes, like a petal that you know will lose it's color and wilt in your hands. But you cannot help it, and you cannot leave. For the brilliant blue sky and the jagged edges of the peaks are as much a part of you as an arm or a foot. When you close your eyes, they make up the landscape of your mind. The hawk soaring--a tiny speck on the currents of the wind. And far down the valley, the river tumbles over rocks, sending up an echo of greeting.

Winter is coming on fast now, the snow creeping steadily closer on it's descent down the slopes. The brilliant blue of the glacier ice on the peaks is disappearing under fresh, white snow, and there is--more often--the crack of an avalanche on some unseen face. The animals grow shaggy under their winter coats, eating voraciously. But still, the sun is warm. You can sit on a rock outcropping, with a roll of hard bread and some cheese, and feel the warmth on your face--turning your cheeks pink. In those moments, you don't feel so alone. Even though the thoughts of the crowds far below, or even the small village on the opposite hillside, fills you with trepidation. It isn't always easy, when the winter comes, to be so alone. Alone in a hut, warm and secure, that hunkers against a hillside. No way to get out, once the snows begin. With all the wood stacked on the side of the house to get through the winter, and the cows nestled in their stalls. The warmth of fresh milk and alpine flowers, hung upside down to dry, holding your hand through another long, lonely winter.

Day... uh....

It has been a long time since I've written. The well dried up. Seemed to have hit the rock bottom of my creativity and imagination.

It was depressing to know the true depths (or not) of my abilities.

So I had to decide: force myself to keep writing, and feel frustrated in the process and unhappy with the result? Or step away. Close the laptop. Wait and see if more would come.

So that's what I did.

And for a long time, nothing came. Not a thing. I would try, on occasion, and find nothing there. So I tried to be patient and keep waiting.

Then this past weekend, I took Thing 3 and got on an airplane to fly to meet some good friends up in New England. It had been a cloudy week here in Charlotte. The very definition of muggy, without a single ray of sunshine. Not typical for here. I was looking forward to the flight and the utter assurance that we would pull above the clouds and see the sunshine, even if it was only for a couple hours.

We boarded the plane and found our seats clear at the back. The flight wasn't full, which was nice. I put Thing 3 in the seat next to me, which was open, and stretched out. Waiting for take off. Then I saw a teenager coming up the aisle. He caught my attention because he looked familiar, and out of place. He looked like the kind of teenager who should be hucking hay bales in hometown. He looked like the kind of quiet teenager that would be much more comfortable all alone on a mountain then on an airplane headed for Baltimore and beyond. In my head, I knew he was a cowboy. This is not a title I give lightly. True cowboys are very rare. They work on farms and ranches. They are quiet a respectful. Cowboy is a title you earn through back breaking work in sweltering heat and freezing cold, not something you buy at a Western Wear Outfitters. This was a cowboy. He nervously found his seat. Struggled with the buckles. Looked about apprehensively. Not long after, I noticed another figure coming up the aisle. I knew immediately that he would be sitting in the seat next to the Cowboy.

He was older. Well into his sixties, if not seventies. His face was lined and had a deep, permanent tan. His silver hair combed carefully. He looked just as nervous as the Cowboy, who I'm guessing was his grandson. He clutched a blue duffel that had written on it "THE SPA at ARCHWOOD" in a familiar font, circa 1986. He saw the Cowboy with relief and nodded. He
"Excuse me, ma'am"-ed himself past the flight attendant, and settled himself into the aisle seat. The Cowboy showed him how to put on his buckle. They were looking around, quickly--like chipmunks or prairie dogs.

The engines revved. I handed Thing 3 a "TAKE ONE" copy of a Herz rental car pamphlet to chew on and continued to watch what was happening directly across the aisle from me. The flight attendant stood in the aisle for the safety demonstration, and they hurried to grab the safety instructions from the back of the seat pocket in front of them.

Their first flight. A grandfather and his cowboy grandson. I wondered where they could be going. What could be so important that it would get this grandfather on a plane, after so many years. The Grandfather stood to get his blue duffel out of the overhead bin after takeoff and I noticed the tag still on his navy blue jeans. Brand new. From Walmart. I wondered if some sweet wife somewhere had bought them for him--for his trip.

And suddenly, I wanted to write again. I had something to say. Something to write about.

I was breaking through the clouds into the sunshine again.

Day 42: Charleston

Years ago, I took a class on African-American Women's Literature. My professor, one of the world's experts on Zora Neale Hurston literature, was a petite white woman from New Zealand. She had a passion for Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, and Toni Morrison, among others. She vehemently told us that we--a bunch of preppy white girls--were not their intended audience. Their literature was meant to keep us out, and they would not like us if they met us. The dean gave her great leeway in her research, and so she traveled often to her favorite city, Charleston, South Carolina. She was looking for remnants of Gullah culture there, and she told us of local African-American men who showed her where the slave cemeteries are--under parking garages now. She showed us pictures of intricate wrough-iron gates, the creations of Philip Simmons.

That was the first I'd ever been made aware of this city, a beautiful, beguiling place, with a dark, sinister side: the Venice of the South. Driving down on a late summer day, you may find a parking space on East Battery, near the park. Here, the Cooper and Ashley Rivers meet and rush out to the open Atlantic beyond. Ancient, gnarled oak trees line the roads and provide shade. Civil war cannons, filled with cement, stand sentinel as you gaze out to the harbor and realize, almost with a start, that Fort Sumter and the beginning of the Civil War, are floating in the water in front of you. Behind you, there are elegant homes in every hue with all the porches facing eastward, toward the harbor breeze. Strictly controlled by a preservation and restoration society, each home--even when connected--is unique and distinct. Here, hardwood doors are lit on either side by flickering gas torch lamps--a nod to an earlier, more enlightened era. Cobblestone alleyways run behind the homes, punctuated with gates that lead into demure, inviting gardens. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.

It is entirely possible, in this city, to envision women in hoop skirts or colonial flounces. It seems, sometimes, like you can hear the echo of carts and the horses clattering down the streets. There are still shadows of the gentlemen and ladies as well as the slaves, the pirates, and the poor that walk these streets. It is the kind of place that makes you believe in ghosts. Even today, all the locals seem to know each other--calling out greetings across streets and exchanging warm hellos. It is easy to be enchanted by it's quiet, charming beauty. But it is hard to overlook the slums that crowd just outside the tourist section. As you pass very young men selling roses woven from palm leaves in the middle of a weekday, and you wonder, for a moment, why they aren't in school. Whenever I visit, I feel like I'm surrounded by characters from a book. Stories just begging to be told. It is no different than many of our old cities--Harlem in Manhattan or the French Quarter of New Orleans. Maybe just friendlier. Charleston, like America, is a living contradiction of darkness and light.