Circling The Globe

     September began, as all Septembers do, with it's frenetic influx of activity. The beginning of a new school term ushered in new schedules, new books, new assignments, and  new activities. After just a few weeks of all this newness, we needed something old, so Mom, Sissey and I headed to the ancient hills of the Appalachian mountains. It was to be a quiet weekend of lazy, coffee mornings and meandering, afternoon drives.
     Our only mission was to find the whereabouts of a backwoods cult that lived deeply embedded in the smokey blue forests-- a group we had studied in one of Sissey's classes and that had piqued our interest. We knew the general direction of this hillbilly clan and were hoping to find the locale of their intensely private, close-knit, and incestuous compound for no other reason than we wanted to satisfy our curiosity by seeing where they lived. So on Saturday, we headed for the forest, driving cautiously around twists and turns, taking only one wrong road before finally finding the landmark Sissey's professor had given us: several rickety trailers meshed together, with a toilet perched on top  as a smokestack. This curious sight marked the beginning boundaries of the compound. We had found the clan.
      A man-made mountain of decaying cars, rusting bikes,  and a dilapidated school bus formed a formidable fence around the entrance to the community. A few pick-up trucks blocked the dirt drive, where several barefoot children were passing a puppy back and forth as they ran through the dust. The paved road ended here, and our only option was to turn around in the drive-- which was occupied by unfriendly and glaring characters who neither returned our hesitant waves nor our nervous smiles-- or to keep on driving down the dirt road that headed into the hills.  I wasn't about to ask this crew to move over so we could  make a three-point turn, didn't want them to think we had come just to stare, so with a timid wave, we headed on down the dirt road as if that had been our original destination all along.  Having no idea where we were going, I just prayed that a trunk load of buckshot would not be  our only communication as we cautiously crept past the clan. 
      The road was now rutted, unpaved, and desolate, but  power lines  ran along it's edges, and we figured it would eventually lead us to some civilized place. After about an hour of driving deeper and deeper into the woods, I admit I became a little nervous about our ultimate destination.  I had been secretly praying that we weren't headed into a hillbilly trap, a hidden gorge where curious gawkers vanished, never to be seen again, and kept reassuring Sissey that , yes, I did know where we were , and yes, this was a real road.  We kept following those power lines, my only plan being to keep moving forward  until we came out somewhere, which in the philosophy of mountain driving usually works. Eventually, my theory tested true, and the dirt road became gravel, which turned into a rough macadam, and finally, a certified, Department of Transportation "Stop" sign loomed at the crossroads ahead.   I put on my blinkers and turned right toward paved roads, yellow lines, and houses. We actually passed a car at this point, and I muttered a quiet "Hallelujah" as I knew we were back on the road to civilization.
      Once an adventure is safely endured, it gets into your system and you want to repeat it, so the next morning, hankering for another bumpy drive, we decided to take a detour on the drive home and wander through an area known as "The Globe." For those uninitiated in backwoods touring, there are many mountain communities quietly tucked into the nooks and  crannies of lumbering hills, reachable only by rough trails of dirt and gravel.  These drives through canopies of elms and oaks, among groves of rhododendrons and mountain laurel, past trickling streams and secret waterfalls, around hairpin turns that leave your stomach on the curve ahead--these are the drives you want to experience in the mountains, these are the drives we would seek out on our weekend get-aways, these are the drives that beckoned to our city-souls. So with pimento cheese sandwiches packed on ice and our suitcases loaded into the car, we decided to take the road less travelled on our journey home from the hills. That Sunday morning, we had set our sights on circling "The Globe."
     When we left  home on Friday, we had packed lightly for our quick weekend trip, grabbing just the essentials needed for two days travel. Some things had been forgotten, but we ran to the Walmart in Boone and picked up the essential undergarments, the only trouble being the pack of underwear I grabbed included not just the appropriate and proper shade of white but also one pair of hot pink cotton panties. Scandalous, I agree, but sometimes you just have to live on the edge.  That morning, as we had packed to head home, Mom was horrified to realize she had to wear those "horrid pink panties," and as she dressed, said, "I certainly do hope nothing happens to me while I'm wearing these!" I laughed at her as I loaded the bags into the car, eager to get on the road and start our last adventure of the weekend, not really concerned that my mother was dressed in the pantaloons of a tart. I just wanted to get started on our trip to "The Globe," and I certainly didn't expect anything to happen.

     We drove slowly down the parkway until reaching the turn that would take us into the thickly wooded area, bumped off the asphalt onto the washboard road, and started the trek down into the Wilson Creek Gorge.  It was a beautiful, crisp morning and as the sunlight filtered through the thick growth of trees, it left a dappled pattern of yellow light against dark green leaves. We "oohed" and "ahhed" as we drove, pointing out waterfalls, patches of iron weed and Joe-Pye, an occasional burst of early fall foliage. We passed not a single car, not a solitary soul, not one hint of the outside world.  It was a perfect drive on a perfect Sunday morning.
      About halfway down into "The Globe," Moma suddenly gasped and said she had a terrible pain in her hip, the same hip she had broken in May.  She rubbed the affected area and I slowed down a bit to ease the bumpiness of the drive.  Several seconds later, she again gasped and said the pain was terrible and she needed to get out and stretch her leg.  I found a spot on the road where I could ease the car over without tumbling down into the ravine, and we got out. She walked towards the back of the car, gazed over the edge of the mountain as she stretched, commented on some trash someone had tossed down the hill, then suddenly,  gasped again and grabbed onto the back of the car.
      "I don't feel well," she groaned as I rushed to her side.
       "Moma, what's the matter, what's wrong?" I asked.
      She moaned again, " I don't feel well at all," and she slumped further forward. 
      I grabbed her under the arms and tried to pull her towards the front seat of the car.
      "Moma, come on, let's get you seated in the car, " I cried, frantic as I tried to move her forward. She was dead weight, not budging an inch, and slumping further and further onto my shoulder.  I tried to hold her upright, but suddenly, her head flopped rearward, her eyes rolled back, and she crashed to her knees.
     "Sissey, call 911!" I screamed, my hands shaking so hard the skin almost fell off.
      "I'm trying!" she cried, "But we don't have a signal.'
      "Keep trying, keep trying!" I hollered, as I held onto Moma and tried to feel for vital signs.
      "Oh Sissey, she's not breathing! I think she's gone. Moma's dead!" I yelled, panic-stricken and frightened as I tried to hold her up.
      We were alone in the woods and I was holding what I thought was my dead mother in my arms.  I just wanted to curl up and die with her, not knowing what to do. I couldn't move her, couldn't lift her into the car by myself, couldn't let go for fear she would tumble down the side of the mountain, couldn't get a signal to call 911, couldn't get to Sissey's walker to get her out of the car, couldn't even think as to what to do next.  It was at that exact moment we saw the first sign of human life since we had turned onto the godforsaken road that led into "The Globe." A mountain man in a pickup truck appeared out of nowhere, an angel in a Ford with a white mustache.
      "Help! I need help!" I screamed as I flagged him down with one hand.
        He stopped in the middle of the road, rolled down the window, and slowly said, "Can I hep ya?"
       "Yes, yes, help me, help me! I don't know what's wrong with my mother."
       He strolled over to the car, took a look at my still unconscious mother, and drawled out in a slow mountain voice, "Do ya think it mite be sumpin' she et?"
      I couldn't help but stare at him, slack-jawed and stunned.
       "Hell no it ain't sumpin she et," I wanted to scream at him,  but afraid to anger the only hope for help we had, I frantically answered instead, "No sir, I don't think it's something she ate. I'm afraid she might have had a stroke or a heart attack. Please, help me get her up."
        He calmly lifted her into the car, then told me, "You'd better turn on 'round and head back up the road, cuz thare ain't nuttin down thatta way."
       Like a bolt of lightening, we tore out of the holler in Mom's little Buick, still trying to get a cell signal, searching for the paved road, crying and yelling and full of panic. By the time we got to the top of the mountain, Mom had opened her eyes and started talking. By the time we reached the road to Blowing Rock, she was back to her old self.
        "I am not going to the hospital," she protested when I told her where I was headed.  "I just want a cold co-cola and to get back home."
       "You're going to the hospital, Moma. You're going."
        "Well, I'm not going to one up here. You'll have to take me to Charlotte."
        I didn't care which hospital we went to, as long as she remained conscious until we got there.  I barrelled down  Highway 321 with shaking hands and a heavy foot, not caring if the police pulled me, actually sort of hoping they would, just wanting to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I had one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on my cell phone making frantic calls, one eye on Moma and the other on Sissey in the back seat.  There had to be angels in that car as we made that mad dash down the hill, but I was focused on one thing and one thing only: get Moma to the hospital, and get her there fast.
        About halfway there, perhaps thirty minutes outside of Charlotte, Moma calmly turned to me and said, " I knew something would happen to me in these panties. Beth, you're going to have to pull over on the side of the road.  I am not going there in this pink underwear.  Stop a minute so I can change."
      I looked at her and yelled, "Oh No! You've had a stroke!"
      That was the only explanation  I could think of. She had to be incoherent, delusional to think I was going to stop for a wardrobe change.  I was driving at the speed of light to get her to the hospital as quickly as possibly, hopefully before she lost consciousness again, and she wanted me to pull over so she could change her underwear?
       We made it to the hospital in a little under an hour, with no stops for the pink panties. I  grabbed a wheelchair and rushed Mom into the emergency room, where my sister and Dad were already waiting. The nurse whisked her off to begin assessing her situation, check her vitals, and place her in an examining room. It wasn't long before the doctor entered our crowded little cubicle.   The very first thing Mom said when he began to examine her was, " I am just so embarrassed over this pink underwear," as if he really cared what his previously comatose patient was wearing beneath her hospital-issue cotton gown.  I sweetly looked over at her and said, "Moma, I've got your black thong in the bag. Would you like that?"
     And that was the last we heard of the pink underwear.
     After two days of testing, the only thing the doctors could determine was that Mom had experienced some kind of vaso-vagal syncope. In other words, she fainted-- out colder than a dead possum on a country road-- possibly a result of bumping down old mountain roads on her recently replaced hip, possibly caused by pressure on a nerve and a drop in blood pressure. Whatever it was, she had swooned like a professional and had definitely fainted.
     But one thing was for sure. It def-nit-ly warn't sumpin she et.
    

Jump, Carolina, Jump!

     Sundays in the south can be rather slow, creating a perfect post-church scenario for lazy drives and long naps, so today, being a holiday weekend and all, we did just that. First, we stopped for a fabulous, family dinner at the Front Porch, where I really wanted the crispy, crunchy,golden brown, fried-to-perfection chicken, but feeling guilty, ordered the healthier baked version instead. That, of course, left room for steamed cabbage, broccoli casserole, raisin carrot salad and a hot buttered biscuit, which is what we call the "Weight Watchers" platter down here, because I didn't order the chicken fried.
     Feeling fat and full, we needed to drive around a little to let all that food settle and digest. We had picked up Uncle Henry earlier for church and lunch, so we dropped him back at the assisted living facility, or as he not-so-affectionately calls it, "The Prison."  He currently resides there until he completes physical therapy rehab, at which point Dr. Sam will set him free and let him move back home. He is, of course, counting the days.
     We dutifully signed him back in, wondering as always what they would do to him if we didn't sign him back in. Would they set him out on the porch and make him stay there until we came back or give him some demerits or maybe a spanking? I don't know, it just seems silly to have to sign a grown man in and out, as if he is on probation, but rules are rules, and we complied. The front chairs were packed with lonely souls, the ones who had no place to go, and they were all sitting by the door to see which lucky residents were getting picked up or dropped off for the afternoon.  It was sad and depressing, as always, to leave him there.
   My husband had never visited one of Chester's many claims to fame, our regional airport, so the drive home took a detour for that destination. Our community may be small, but our airport has one of the largest landing strips in the south, with several mile-long runways which were built to accomodate cargo planes during WWII.  As you might expect, there are no commercial flights and very little private air traffic coming in and out of Chester, but two major ventures have resulted from having a regulation length air strip in a rural community: gliding sailplanes and sky-diving. Today was a big day at the hangar, with sky-divers from up and down the east coast gathered for a holiday weekend of jumping out of airplanes with nothing but a nylon windsock between them and death.  As an added bonus,  a team of gold-medal skydivers were there practicing formation jumps and swoop landings. These were the big honchos of the parachuting world, and watching their butter-soft, spot-on landings was an impressive sight.
     We stood by the edge of the airstrip and watched the jumpers suit up, march across the tarmac, and climb into the waiting plane. With the side doors still open and the jumpers waving to the watchers, the plane taxied across the runway, soared into the sky, and began the climb to it's desired destination of 13,500 feet. We watched the plane climb, climb, climb, then begin a long, slow circle, higher and higher, finally leveling off and turning back towards the airport.  Small, black dots began appearing in the sky, the black dots gradually grew into colorful sweeps of para-sails, and before long, we could make out the dangling legs of the jumpers.  They glided gracefully through the sky, with some of the more advanced turning summersaults and twisting in spirals on the way down.  Upon landing, it wasn't hard to distinguish the professionals from the novices, as the former made gentle, smooth descents and the latter crashed hard and clumsily into the dust.
     After we had watched a few jumps, one of the managers, a former Special Operations soldier with several tours of duty in Afghanistan, came by to talk to us.  As a result of a severe war injury, he had spent several months in a coma, then a wheelchair, and  finally a walker. Fully recovered and jumping for sport now, he understood the frustrations of limited mobility. He was excited to see Sissey there and eager for her to experience the thrill of jumping out of an airplane and floating gently back to earth. He said there were still spots available and asked if we were ready to go up. I wasn't quite dressed for sky-diving, still wearing the crisp white skirt with a coordinating  teal and camel jacket in which I had been singing hymns earlier. Plus, in the event of a hard, dirty landing,  I wasn't too eager to ruin the fabulous Rangoni pearlescent Italian flats that I had picked up on my last trip to Charleston.
     "Don't worry," he said, "We have jump suits available for you. You can just suit up here and be good to go."
     My second worry was that there was a weight limit, and having just eaten a full Sunday brunch, I was a little concerned that I might be too heavy for a safe lift-off. He assured me, however, that I was within the safety zone, although he hadn't seen the plate of chicken I had consumed earlier, so I had my doubts about his professional judgement on that one.
     Finally, if we were jumping today, it was going to be a group effort, as I was not willing to meet my maker alone in case of an equipment failure. It was going to be one-for-all and all-for-one or not-at-all; we would take the risk together or it would be a no-go.  I had some major concerns, however, about how Sissey would make the landing. We would be jumping in tandem with a professional, he explained, and when it came time to touch down, we would have to lift our legs up and hold them straight out as the pro made the touch-down. This would keep the level of bodily harm to both ourselves and the tandem pilot to a minimum and ensure the safest possible reentry to land.  At this point, the manager said he needed to clear it with his boss, to make sure that it would be possible for her to make the jump, but he did not think it would be a problem.
     "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back," he told us as he headed into the hangar in search of his boss.  A few minutes later, he returned.
     "Well, I have some good news and some bad news," he began, and I could quickly tell which way this conversation was headed.  Much to his dismay, the boss would not give the clearance for Sissey to make the jump.
      "It's a liability issue," he said, "but more than that, if something did go wrong, it would be devestating for the tandem pilot."
      I agreed with him, but wanted to add it would be pretty devestating for the jumpee and her parents as well if anything went wrong. 
     "The good news," he continued, "Is that there is a facility in Fayetteville that has a free-fall wind tunnel. You can go there and get the experience of free-falling without the risk of a crash landing. It's a pretty impressive place, where they train professionals and amateurs, and it would be a great place to get a chance to jump."
      He was as disappointed as Sissey that today would not be the day she would leap from an airplane and glide back to earth.  I had some mixed emotions, feeling both relief and regret, but with my well-shod feet planted firmly on the ground, I headed back to the safety of the car, ready for a nice long nap in my warm, safe bed.
      And somehow, I knew that we'd be calling Fayetteville tomorrow.