From the waterfall to the deluge

The worst thing about coming home from a vacation is not the stuff we brought home with us--dirty laundry, empty wallets, and a messy car, plus mosquito bites, sunburn, and an annoying burn--but what we left behind: the grandkids' smiles, cheese-and-crackers picnics, long hikes and waterfalls and Fallingwater's stunning wonders.

But mostly time, unfettered and unscheduled time free of meetings, reading, and a garden wanting weeding. We filled our time with plenty of hiking, canoeing, and rock-hopping, but we also did some serious loafing and staring into space. We sat beside the river just so we could listen to water splashing over rocks. We sat on the outdoor deck of a riverside restaurant and watched butterflies and bees move from blossom to blossom. We sat on the porch of our Bed & Breakfast and chatted with a couple of strangers who turned out to be friends with my husband's cousin.

Now we're home and that's all over--and worst of all, there's no longer any good excuse to avoid the big pile of work demanding attention. Why isn't the solar electric fence keeping the raccoons out of the corn patch? What will we do with all these overgrown cucumbers? How will I ever finish the syllabus for my first-year seminar when the common elements keep being revised? When will I write my conference paper? Who will fill the birdfeeders?

The questions keep piling up, drowning out the joy and relaxation of our Pennsylvania vacation. After all the waterfalls, we now face a flood of annoying tasks, with no relief in sight. Won't anyone toss me a lifeline? We're drowning over here.     

Open doors, welcoming paths

U.S. 40 bridge over Youghiogheny River Lake

My photos from this trip suggest and obsession with roadways and doorways, bridges and barriers. At the Flight 93 memorial, a jet-black path follows the doomed plane's flight path through an opening in massive angular walls, while the palisades at the reconstructed Fort Necessity open on a circular space much too small for 200 soldiers. On the appropriately named Ferncliff Peninsula, a path through green ferny woods bends through rhododendrons and under limbs but seems to end at a fallen log, while the National Road bridge over Youghiogheny River Lake opens up vistas of glassy water welcoming our canoe.

What doesn't show in the photos? The moving stories told by a park ranger at the Flight 93 memorial, or the sense of vast silence and emptiness where the crash occurred. The photos don't show the other park ranger at the Fort Necessity site, who reminded us of the importance of story in history by making a silent field speak. 

They don't show the crash of water over rocks or the way the platoon of inflated rafts far below us on the river spun around like water striders.  They don't show how hard it was to get a photo of that peculiar blue blossom, how I had to stoop and squeeze between rocks near the river. The photos, fortunately, don't show my sweat or sunburn or mosquito bites, but they also don't reveal how marvelous it felt to dip my feet in cool water in the middle of a hot afternoon. If I could find a way to wade in running water at about 4:00 every afternoon, I would be a much happier person.

Too bad I can't take the Youghiogheny River home with me. With all the dirty hiking and canoeing clothes I'm taking home, it would never fit.

High bridge over Youghioheny River

Approaching the Flight 93 memorial

The opening shows Flight 93's flight path

Wildflowers at Flight 93 memorial

We're standing on the high bridge, looking way down

What is it? Really hard to photograph, that's what.

Where did the path go?

Palisades at reconstructed Fort Necessity.

Ohiopyle and the Yough are barely visible way down in the valley.

Situation normal

Why change it to Cucumber Falls?

To get to Confluence, Pennsylvania, we had to take a left turn at Normalville, which sounds like a euphemism for some sort of shady behavior:

"What ever happened to Uncle Fred?"

"Well, you know, he's been on the run ever since he took that left turn at Normalville."

What can I say about Normalville? Not much to it except a high price for gas, although come to think of it, it wasn't any higher than the other high gas prices we'd seen since entering Pennsylvania. It was just kind of normal.

But we didn't stay in Normalville. We turned left and at Ohiopyle, and if someone can tell me why a state park in Pennsylvania is called Ohiopyle, I will have learned something today. 

Ohiopyle is not at all normal. In fact, thanks to some highly abnormal rock formations, Ohiopyle is a great place to see kayakers zip through rapids and rafts full of teens get stuck on rocks and then try to free themselves in highly comical fashion, and it's also a great place to hike through shaded groves of mountain laurel to see Cucumber Falls (formerly known as Keister Park--no fooling!) and stick your feet in the water to cool off because the temperature is abnormally hot, even for July.

And our Bed & Breakfast in Confluence is a great place to cool off after a hot afternoon of hiking in the hills. It's also a great place to play Name That Warbler, since the lampshades in our room pose a challenge. I'm not a pro at lampshade warbler identification, but I'm thinking black-throated blue and Kentucky warblers. Doesn't everyone feel compelled to identify lampshade warblers? Nothing abnormal about that.

Tomorrow we'll try to get the canoe out before the heat cranks up too high, but tonight we're looking for a totally dull and uneventful evening in Confluence. Because apparently you don't have to stay in Normalville to have a perfectly normal life.

Lampshade in our room. Totally normal. Name that warbler!

Ohiopyle falls

 

Cucumber Falls

Butterfly and mountain laurel

 

In search of the elusive yellowthroat

My only decent shot today.

One of these days I'll post a photo of a fencepost and call it "The One that Got Away." I swear there was a bird sitting there a minute ago! 

This morning I stepped up the hill behind our house to see if I could track down the common yellowthroats that have been witchety-witchety-witchetying away up there all summer, but those little yellow birds have a very clear sense of personal space. I walk around the low bushy trees where I hear them chip and they hop to the other side; I glide silently toward the other side and they plunge deep within the thick foliage. 

I move slowly, one eye on the birds and one on the ground, scanning for poison ivy, and suddenly a bright yellow bird shows itself clearly at the end of a prominent branch--with the sun shining right behind it so all I get is a dark silhouette. Or it hops to the top of a fencepost but zips away the minute I raise the camera. Or it shows itself behind a branch and I get a photo with a leaf obscuring the bird's head. 

I keep reminding myself that the hunt is more important than the result, but wouldn't it be great to have my persistence rewarded with a clear shot of this lovely little bird? I've got sweat dripping into my eyes and poison ivy around my feet and I'd really like to have something concrete to show for my efforts.

Glide again. Slide to the side. Listen for the chip. Glory in the witchety. Maybe someday I'll get something more than an empty fencepost.

Don't call me Henry (or diss my hydrangeas)

I’ve been wanting to write about this and that--the birds, the garden, the usual stuff--but a short story by Joy Williams in a recent New Yorker stopped me in my tracks. It’s called “Stuff,” and the main character is a mildly ridiculous old guy who takes great pride in the column he writes for his local newspaper:

Henry wrote about the seasons—companionable winter, radiant spring, mellifluous summer, and the tinglingly vivid fall. He wrote about hydrangeas—though he was wearying of hydrangeas—and twice a year he was depended upon to write about the equinox (the moment when a precise division between day and night occurs should not pass unnoticed). He wrote about screened porches and baked-bean pots.

He enjoyed a modest but loyal following as one of the town’s steadfast and honorable lights….Only last year, he had been on the cover of the telephone directory, looking kind, fit, and comfortable.

Naturally he cannot be allowed to remain comfortable in his complacency, but he’s not well equipped to deal with mortality when it sticks out a leg to trip him up. Stuff happens! And when it does, hydrangeas don’t help.

Who wants to be remembered (or, more likely, forgotten) as the guy who wrote about screened porches and baked-bean pots? Surely there’s something more edgy and earth-shattering, more likely to expose injustice and inspire action!

But what I really want to write about today is how great my garden is doing, how much we’re enjoying the zucchini quiche, fried okra, broccoli salad, and kale, how remarkable it is to see the red stems of the Swiss chard glowing brilliantly in the sunlight, how much hope those little green tomatoes provide.

I have nothing to say about hydrangeas except to wonder why mine have not  produced a single blossom this year, and I don’t even possess a screened porch or a baked-bean pot. I guess that means that unlike Henry I’ll never appear on the cover of the local phone directory, a sort of fame I’m happy to forego. There are worse fates than being mildly ridiculous, and if that's all I can hope for today, I'll take it.

Teacher, advise thyself

A colleague wanted to speak with me in private. “I’m looking for a sage and I thought of you,” he said, and I wanted to point out that sage isn’t really my style—I’m more a basil or rosemary kind of girl. But he wanted sage advice so I put on my Senior Faculty hat and tried to give him some. I didn’t have any clear solutions, but I think I helped him formulate the question and determine where it should be directed. Just doing my part to keep the campus machine running smoothly—even if there’s no measurable reward.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to just phone it in. Let’s face it: there are no more promotions available, and in the absence of merit pay, I don’t have much external motivation for writing and publishing and designing new classes and serving the campus in a hundred little ways and a few big ones. Why not just lean back and coast? 

I find this especially tempting this week as I’m struggling to finish the syllabus for a brand-new service course I’ve never taught before and may never teach again while also working on a conference paper and designing a presentation for a campus workshop—not to mention spending an entire day at a planning meeting. In July! Without compensation! What kind of fool am I?

I’ll tell you what kind of fool I am: I’m the kind who can be sweet-talked into volunteering for way too many new initiatives and programs and who then runs out of time to tackle more interesting challenges. And frankly, this has to stop. Which is why I’ll be asking Faculty Council this fall to look into the amount of time faculty are being asked to contribute to campus activities during summer, when we are not under contract and are therefore working without compensation. Support for summer research has declined while demands on faculty time in the summer have increased, which puts the squeeze on those of us who are trying to pursue a rigorous research agenda.

It’s too late for this year, of course. This summer is just shot, and my work isn’t even half done. But it’s time to put on my Senior Faculty hat and give myself some sage advice: from now on, just say no to uncompensated summer labor.