"I Didn't Write a Book This Summer" and Other Potential Themes for my Back-to-School Pity Party

Those heady days of early May when I had all the time in the world on my hands: gone. Azalea days, blank-slate days, days begun with big plans to kick out a draft of an autobiographical novel by summer’s end: gone. It’s not that I wasted it all; no, I conceptualized, noted, even wrote some. I recovered from a hellaciously busy academic year. And so often, when life came calling, offering road trips or street walkin’, I put the notebook down and chose action over craft and reflection. Time passed like the miles on the odometer. So where did it go?

A lot of it went into my mouth. I had some of the best meals of my life this summer, starting with our mid-May trip through Tennessee and back. On our first day in Nashville, Laura and I checked out a Travel Channel suggestion for down-home country cooking: the Loveless Cafe on the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace. http://www.lovelesscafe.com/ . The place was no secret. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, we still faced a 1.5 hour wait, which allowed us to browse the gift shop and write postcards. Yes, the gift shop. I grew concerned that we had fallen into a tourist trap, but when our buzzer went off and we were ushered through the wainscoted dining room, its gingham-covered tables laden with plates of biscuits, country breakfasts, chicken and ribs, I knew every body in the joint was there for the real deal. We got a corner table, comfortably seated between tall paintings of Johnny Cash and Jesus. The biscuits – the specialty so heavily promoted on TV shows by their baker, Carol Fay – came hot and fast, and were high-risen, moist, butterlicious. I’d like to sleep on a bed of those biscuits.

And the fried chicken touched my soul. Really, I’ve tried to describe it with the terminology of both religious epiphany and sexual ecstasy, but words fail. It was perfect, period, and any variation in its preparation might have compromised that perfection. How much care and experience must a cook bring to the fryer to get it so right? Further down the road, I had the best ribs of my life at A & R Barbecue, and some stunning sweet potato pancakes at The Arcade, both in Memphis. I washed it all down with some fine swill, too, like Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel and scuppernong wine from Asheville, North Carolina.

And there was song. Laura and I kicked off June with and unprecedented three-night run at the 9:30 Club, probably my favorite venue in D.C. Maybe the bands that play there are just big enough, or the ticket prices just high enough, so the crowd isn’t afraid to show a little enthusiasm. (I get regularly pissed-off about D.C.’s disaffected audiences.) Since I’m like a dwarf, “seeing” shows is relative. We arrived pretty late for the Doves concert, so I’m not really sure how many Doves there were up there, but not only was their sound studio-tight, the show featured a video-screen backdrop where captivating images of urban alienation and psychic apocalypse (and hand-bones) accompanied the trippy performance. Night two: The Hold Steady, the band that rocks my heart out. I put a flask down my sock and got up to the stage early for a great view of the keyboardist and bassist, of Craig Finn’s animated delivery and of all the sing-along kids with their fists in the air. The day after, I woke up late feeling spent and empty. The sun hurt. I couldn’t imagine going at it again. Laura and I walked the blocks around the club sipping a Rogue, not quite adjusted to night life, but adjusting. In the cool dark club, a quilted curtain hung behind the stage, a bright, warm, abstract backdrop for TV on the Radio, who opened with their haunting “Love Dog.” Never have I seen a more musically beautiful rock show.

Mind you, my summer wasn’t all eating and rocking out and hyperbole. I did work a few weeks at summer arts camp and even made a painting of my own, something I haven’t done in years. And I did wrestle some words onto the page, writing at campground picnic tables, in the heat of my high-rise apartment, at Mayorga Coffee, in the middle of Rock Creek. I like the solitary nature of writing, but when you’re writing constantly about the people and places you’ve loved, you stoke a deep social craving. So off we went to Michigan in early July, and to Minnesota in late July to reconnect with family and friends. In Ann Arbor, Chris Palmer hosted a little barbeque in his backyard. We spent a fun day getting giddy for the party, stringing his ’71 VW bus with party lights, laying blankets down beneath the heavy-fruited mulberry tree, chilling the Michigan craft-brews and checking email to see who all would show. Pete and Heather Lee came early. We hadn’t seen Heather for five years. Pete, however, kept things consistent by showing up with a bottle of Pucker. Some things have changed, and some things never change, but during those hours of reunion, the ache in my heart that has, to some degree, existed since we stopped sharing cities and sharing lives was temporarily soothed. And then Mike and Sue showed up with Aidan and a croquet set; Suzanne and Paul came, celebrating new jobs; Barb and Tim brought the kids who have grown into fine young citizens; Kyoko and Jason brought Sakura and we made camping promises; Ben and Dina brought their boy Benjy and a good supply of Stroh’s. We laughed and drank and danced too much, and yet, the night was too short. But so sweet. And it proved that my memories are not overly-romantic, and my pickiness when it comes to friends is not unjustified. I looked around myself in Chris’s backyard and saw some of the most fun, most interesting, best-hearted people in the world. And that’s what I meant to write about; I’m most disappointed that I didn’t record and arrange more memories (and fictionalize them just enough to protect our reputations).

As I wallowed in that disappointment (which is not as strong a motivator as one might think), contracts for academic year 09/10 arrived in the mail; I revised syllabi; I watched each day growing shorter with a low-grade sense of panic. I started a list of things to look forward to in the fall, things like football, paychecks, season 3 of Mad Men, Oktoberfest beer. But with time on my hands the final weekend before back-to-school, did I buckle down and kick out a few chapters? You bet I didn’t, because some newer friends invited Laura and I to camp in the Catskills, and we’d never camped in the Catskills before, and we were eager to build upon our acquaintance with those particular fun, interesting, good-hearted people. We were eager to cool off, see the stars, climb the peaks, build the fires. We got rained on all weekend, and the drive was long, but I loved the thunderstorm-camaraderie, the clean smell of the creek mist and the green, piney smell of the mountain top, the laughter and the beer. That’s my problem – if it is one: I split my bets. When it comes to wine, women and song; food, friends and the road, I live like there’s no tomorrow. When it comes to fulfilling writing goals, I live like I’ve got all the time in the world. The rewards of the former are so immediate; the rewards of the latter, so uncertain, if not altogether unlikely. So be it. All I can do is perpetually re-commit to those elusive writing goals. Who knows, maybe Fall 09 is when the draft gets done (in between teaching comp classes at American and Maryland). But I know one thing for sure: Come Labor Day Weekend, you’ll find me up on the Allegheny Reservoir, enjoying the company of two of my favorite co-campers, Laura and Chris. We’re going to get out on that water and up in those hills, and every fire-cooked omelette and hobo pie will warrant an impromptu ode.

Shenadoah Trip, July 2009

"In the long history of humankind (and animalkind, too) those who have learned to collaborate and to improvise most effectively have prevailed." –Charles Darwin

“I adapt to any and all situations; that’s why they call me the pimp of the nation.” –Kid Rock

Perfection isn’t rare when you’re easily pleased like me. Any trip to Shenandoah National Park, with all its flora, fauna and spectacular views from Skyline Drive, defines a perfect summer weekend. Laura and I hadn’t been to the park since October, and when other plans fell through on a late July weekend, we jumped at the chance to do an overnighter. Laura said she was counting on plenty of bears and blackberries, and I went to bed Friday night with the camping bin packed, and visions of wild blackberry pancakes sweetening last moments before sleep.

And I woke up at three in the morning, miserable. My seasonal allergies (April through October) are so severe that I sometimes can’t tell whether it’s allergies or swine flu. I’ll spare the details, but symptoms persisted through morning, and when we hit the road, I was feeling anything but perfect. Even a fresh-from-the-hot-grease, apple cider donut from Apple House couldn’t fully elevate my spirits.

Still, I was so happy to enter the park at Front Royal and feel the slight cooling from elevation as we wound our way up Skyline. It was even hazier than usual, humid and in the 90s in the lowlands. But a relatively cool spring with plenty of rain had all the greens full and lush, the roadsides thick with wild bee balm, black eyed susans, tiger lilies, coreopsis, yarrow.

We made it to Mathews Arm campground ahead of noon and found a newly vacant, densely wooded site. We set up our small tent, the REI Half Dome, mostly mesh and great for warm summer nights under the stars. Camp made, we entered the brush. Wild blueberry bushes abounded, but the berries were all green. Firewood, however, did not abound. I spotted two logs with potential, and we had at them with our tip-broken handsaw. And man, was it hot. By the time we’d cut two logs, we were both sweating like boxers in the tenth round. Much as we like the manual labor and getting stuff for free, we were actually going to have to buy wood. “We should’ve replaced the saw,” Laura noted. And so began the list of things we should have brought but didn’t, including:

Can opener (had to hack into can with knife)
Eggs (had to buy)
Syrup (went without)
Fruits, vegetables (to cut the sausages and starches)
Some form of dessert (had no s’mores, no hobo pies)
Food for two lunches (had only dinner, breakfast)
Small backpack for hiking
Change of underwear for next day

While Laura drove up to Elkwallow to buy wood, I lay down in the tent to try and recover from the bad night’s sleep and heat stroke. When she returned, we threw a bottle of water into her big backpack and set off on a hike to Overall Run Falls, the highest falls in the park at 93’. Let’s say this was our sixth time camping at Shenandoah – we’ve attempted to find the Overall Run Falls at least three times before and failed. But this time I got a map with explicit instructions from a ranger, each turn highlighted, additional notes written in. And off we went, into the humid woods and up, up, up some rocky ridges. The hike got long; we heard no trickling water. Doubts arose. By the time we figured out where we’d gone wrong, we’d made one big strenuous circle, not to the falls but to the parking lot at the bottom of the park. I went ahead and cried a little.

But such sorrows can be assuaged with a cold beer and a good fire, so back at the site, we produced both. A deeper look in the woods brought forth plenty of kindling, what you need when the fire is young, and we settled around it, feeding it, listening to the hiss and crackle. It was burning perfectly. Ice cold Budweiser made a perfect thirst quencher. But Laura had her eye on some fluffy, rolling clouds. “Should we put the fly on the tent?” she wondered, and I said, no way, that it wasn’t going to rain. And it was as if my words drew the vapors straight down from the sky. Suddenly we weren’t beneath the clouds but within them and we got good and drenched getting that fly on the tent in time to keep our gear dry. We sat out the cloudburst in the car. The fire was intact when we emerged because I’d put down the grate and stacked wood over it. It was nothing to get it raging again.

Luckily, we’d gotten our rain shelter back from Kyoko and Jason, and they’d taken excellent care of it. It’s basically a large tarp with a center pole and four corner poles, and the picture on its packaging makes it look neat, sturdy and easy to assemble. In fact, it never worked as intended, and setting it up is always an exercise in cooperation and improvisation, meaning an awful lot of cussing takes place while ropes get tied to trees, and the flimsy poles bend under stress. I was shoving the center pole (and its pot-lid topper – another jimmy-fix) up toward the sky when the next storm split open directly above me and I left the pole to the lightning and ran screaming toward the car.

But a funny thing happened the next time the rain cleared, afternoon sun drawing steam from pavement and perfumey milkweeds. Just as we got the shelter worked out and discovered with glee that the Half Dome’s floor was still dry as a bone, our neighbors began to pack up all their wet tents and head out. People were giving up.
“Hah! Quitters!”
“Yeah; wow, some people are so soft-core. This isn’t even too bad.”
“No, not too bad at all.” We got awfully superior about our coping abilities.

So we poured one shot in honor of the rain shelter, under which it was possible to remain outdoors on a summer night of fickle weather. We cooked chilidogs and campfire potatoes, dousing the hot, tender potatoes in chili and shredded cheddar. Oh, and the salty sauciness did a damp body good. We even saw some stars before we slept, though storms rolled through until morning.

But what a bell-clear morning it was. Laura made a huge stack of moist, sweet pancakes, Bob Evans links and scrambled eggs. With all that fuel to run, we decided to have a perfect Sunday, to make up for all of Saturday’s foibles. Forget damned Overall Run Falls, we drove south on Skyline to the Hawksbill Mountain Trail. It, too, had its superlative feature – at 4050’, it’s the highest summit in the park. And it was a lovely hike, perfectly steep and taxing for the first mile and a half. At the summit, there’s a 360 degree view from an overlook called Byrd’s Nest, the craggy, exposed summit rock contrasting with the smoother lines of surrounding Appalachia, all verdant after the night’s rain. I lay on a ridge, rock disappearing beneath me. The rock was sun-warm, the wind was cool, humidity lifted. This was the reward, and I felt like I’d earned it, not just by my legs but by perseverance.



We took a longer route back to the trailhead, hiking part of the Appalachian Trail along a scenic ridge. When we came down from the mountain and headed back up Skyline homeward, we finally saw some bears, one single and one with a cub. Bears are easy to spot on Skyline Drive, not just because their solid blackness stands out, but because traffic in both directions backs up so folks can get a glimpse and maybe a photo. So when we ran up on such a traffic jam with no big black beast in sight, we were puzzled. I rolled down the window and a man walking toward me yelled “Snake!”, pointing down. A few feet from the car, it slithered through the grass, stretched long, its rattle raised in warning. Crotalus horridus, the timber rattler, highly venomous but relatively non-aggressive, it was the first rattlesnake I’ve ever seen in the wild.



We all need places where we go to re-create ourselves, where we find respite, refreshment, renewal. I know that sleeping on the ground among deadly creatures doesn’t do it for everybody, but it does it for me. My yoga instructor always asks, “What did you experience on the mat that you can take with you off of the mat?” I ask the same of camping trips: what did I discover in the woods that I can take out of the woods with me? The desire to re-create is a quest, after all. And when you know you love a place, and you go to it with gladness, with expectation, with an open heart, you want it to be perfect. What if it isn’t?

Chances are, there will come times when it won’t be. And I don’t want to summarize with some Sally Sunshine platitude, the old “best-way-out-is-through” business. (If the rain had never let up, perseverance would look like the wrong decision.) But I’ve never been let down by my best efforts to be patient within a situation, by using whatever I’ve got to make the most of it. When I’m camping, I’m determined to have a good time, whatever the conditions, so I’ve learned to cuss the rain tarp into functionality, to protect a fire so it can burn long, to laugh off the storms with a beer and some hot nourishment. What parallels can I draw between the realities of camping and daily realities? If so much depends on attitude, I figure I’m better off betting that perseverance brings unexpected rewards.