Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 58

The Same Only Different

Heading down to Myrtle Beach, SC, for anything other than a relaxing good time certainly isn’t typical for us fun, wacky folk, but that’s what Ms. B. and friends Terry & Beth ended up doing over the weekend. Our friends Gerry & Bridget, who have hosted us at their beach condo any number of times, have sold said condo, and they generously invited us to take any of the furniture, since they no longer had any need for it. So, Terry & Beth acquired a U-Haul trailer for just that purpose, and on Friday afternoon, we all trucked ourselves down to the beach. Now, we did actually manage to work in a little fun — some good eating and drinking, as well as a wee smidgen of geocaching per me — but we did indeed spend most of our time hauling big-ass furniture out of the place. And then we trucked back to the Triad, unloaded stuff first at Terry & Beth’s, then at Kimberly’s, and then at mine. Lord, all that hauling just about did these old bones in. Maintaining social distance during moving was pretty difficult, but we had all kept ourselves totally isolated during the preceding week, and we wore masks whenever close contact was inevitable.
At the end of it all, I was able to completely overhaul my living room, which you see in the photo above. It’s taken a ton of work, and there may be some tweaking on the whole business yet, but Casa de Rodan has taken on a bit of a new look. Same place, only different.
Sleep. Sleep is good. Whew. Droolie approves.

Midland With a Twist...

Saturday, September 12, 2020
 ...a pandemic twist, I suppose. For two weeks, Ms. B. and I have been in relatively strict quarantine, venturing out only for groceries, which we’ve ordered in advance and picked up curbside. Her parents in Midland, Michigan, have done the same thing. So, figuring we’ve all performed our due diligence, safety-wise, Kimberly and I hit the road for Midland to spend a few days with her folks, whom we have not seen since January. For us, it’s the first time we haven’t flown on a Michigan trip. The drive took just over fourteen hours, including several pit stops, a picnic lunch, and a handful of geocache stops. Not nearly as many caches as I generally pick up on shorter trips, but I didn’t want to prolong what is already a lengthy drive. A few of the hides proved memorable, at least.
Entrance to Big Walker Mountain Tunnel on I-77 northbound
We set out about eight in the morning, under very gray skies. Rain spat on us several times along the way, but at least we didn’t have to contend with any massive gullywashers. Cache-wise, we came upon The Hotel California (we were living up it up... AND we managed to leave); a birdhouse — or so it appeared — that turned out to be a tiny cat’s outhouse; a benchmark that was not a benchmark; and a few more or less traditional hides of varying difficulty.

At our pit stops, we found that, in Virginia and Michigan, most people took the sensible precautions — wearing masks, maintaining social distance, scrubbing up thoroughly, etc. I was unimpressed at our couple of stops in Ohio, where masks were mostly unseen; at least one unmasked, disgusting fucker did his business and didn’t bother to wash his hands before wiping his slobbering mouth; and one slovenly couple made a brazen show of coughing their lungs out inside the rest area. It’s not charitable of me, I know, but I am far from above wishing karma would visit these useless asses with a vengeance. For the most part, though, the trip was mellow enough, the weather not too shabby, and the caching fun.

Once settled in at the Bruggers’, Kimberly and I opened the inevitable bottle of wine and sat up with her folks until sometime in the wee hours, enjoying good company and conversation.
Abandoned motel in New California, OH, the setting for “Hotel California” (GC8JR05) Unfortunately, the cache wasn’t in the tower.
Sunday, September 13, 2020
I crawled out of bed before too late this morning, had a bite of breakfast, and then took off on one of Del’s bicycles to hunt some of the neighborhood caches that have popped up since our last visit back in January. Michigan weather is nowhere near as hot and humid as North Carolina’s, but even so, a long ride, both on and off road, damn near melted every bone in my body.

After returning to Casa de Brugger, I scrubbed up the melted remains and joined the rest of the gang on a drive to Sanford, a few miles to the northwest. Back in May, after massive rainfall, the Tittabawassee River, which runs through Sanford and into Midland, swelled to epic proportion and smashed through the Wixton Lake dam in Edenville, just north of Sanford, and the Sanford Dam, which resulted in a massive flood that devastated much of Sanford and Midland. We had visited Sanford on our wintertime visit, and today, we spent some time surveying the damage. Much of the town is still closed down, and Sanford Lake is totally gone, replaced by a huge plain of mud, the river a mere trickle through its center.

My hat’s off to the people of Midland. On our return trip, we had to make a supply run to Meijer , and I would estimate that 99% of the people in the store wore masks and showed due respect for other people’s personal space. I personally saw only two maskless dolts, almost certainly the best show of solidarity against COVID-19 I have seen anywhere. Midland does have a lower infection rate than most of the rest of the state of Michigan. Thank you, good people.
Sanford Lake Dam, four months after the Tittabawassee River blew through it Rodan’s-eye view from “Yes, It’s Really Up There”
Monday, September 14, 2020
The morning bike ride in Midland has become a most welcome activity, especially when there are caches to be found. Apparently, a number of new ones had come out since yesterday, so the almost-coveted first-to-find honors remained to be claimed. I headed out pretty early and snagged several FTFs. I also did not find a few, partly due to fawlty coordinates and partly due to old dude’s blindness. Although it started out finger-numbing cold, by the time I returned to Casa de Brugger, I had become another sweaty, melty, horrifying mess.

During the afternoon, the family decided to head over to nearby Auburn, to an extensive gift shop called Warmbier Farms . I had done some caching out that way on a previous visit, but happily, the area has been re-stocked, so while the folks did their shopping, I headed after the newer hides. I know, shocked, right? Tree-climbing caches are among my favorites, so I found much joy — and a cache — from fair elevation at “ Yes, It’s Really Up There ” ( GC8Q6AQ ). In fact, I found triple the joy on this particular ascent. It was a pretty good-size pine at the end of a rural road. Upon my arrival, I didn’t immediately spy the cache, so I just started climbing. Ah, there it is. Not too low, not too high. Pleasing placement, it is. I managed to grab the container and sign the log with no problem — then, as I rehung it, the blasted thing slipped off the branch, and... plummet. Well, down I go, grab the container, put it securely in my pocket, and climb back up to the proper level. Reach into pocket, and... well, I thought it was securely in there. Sigh. Back down the tree. At least the container was easy to spot both trips down. Once again, up we go with the container. This time, I re-hung it without mishap. I had actually gotten tired of climbing that tree, believe it or not.
Crabby apples at a cache near Warmbier Farms
That wasn’t quite it for the caching adventures. Ms. B. and I had to return to Meijer later for some supplies for tomorrow’s Chicken Marsala, which I am cooking for the family, and a few nearby caches still awaited my attention. My favorite was one of high difficulty rating (4 out of 5), which I found by lucky accident. Ms. B. was waiting for me in the car, so I had resolved to spend no more than a few minutes on the hunt. As soon as I entered the woods, coordinates began bouncing mercilessly. This is a target-rich environment, so I feared hunting a cache of this difficulty level would likely prove an exercise in futility. I decided I would come back and hunt this one when I had plenty of time. I kinda needed to pee, and since I was alone in pretty dense woods, I figured, well, let’s do it. I was just finishing up when I noticed something a hair more symmetrical than the ubiquitous foliage nearby. And what do you know — my gaze had, quite by chance, fallen on the cache. Saved by a pee break!

I spent the rest of the evening indulging in our regular Midland traditions: working on my upcoming Ameri-Scares novel ( New Hampshire: Ghosts From the Skies ); drinking wine with Ms. B. on the porch swing (reserved for good-weather trips, of course); and hanging out with the folks watching TV until the wee hours. I would be hard-pressed to imagine a more relaxing, enjoyable time.

Tuesday, September 15, 2020
Why yes, the morning bike ride included more caches. This time, I headed south toward the Midland Grand Curve Trail , which runs east-west along US Highway 10 Business. First, I stopped at a cache at the edge of Stratford Woods , a puzzle cache I had solved years ago but had not had a chance to hunt (it is considered “non-winter friendly,” which in Michigan means business). The trails I found were overgrown, but I decided to see if I could ride them all the way into the park proper. I soon discovered this was not to be; I tried several options, but they all petered out into vast expanses of mud (note the destruction of the dams on the Tittabawassee River referenced upstream). So, reluctantly, I turned around and made my way back to the main road and the paved GCT, which was good for several more finds.

Whenever Ms. B. and I visit her folks, she and I like to provide a dinner or two. I had opted to give Chicken Marsala a shot, since it’s one of my favorite dishes to prepare (well, personally, I prefer Veal Marsala, but Kimberly does not share my fondness of the small dead cow). The family had once again headed out to find treasures, so I made myself at home in the kitchen and, I have to say, this batch hit the mark.

During the afternoon, we took Kimberly’s car down to a nearby shop to have her tires checked out, as they appeared to be losing air. Happily, that issue was resolved quickly and relatively easily. She was then good enough to accompany me to three of the caches I couldn’t find yesterday. Today... success! We turned yesterday’s frownies into smileys. Then, with the weather as perfect as perfect gets — temperature in the mid-60s, low humidity, and a lovely breeze — we took a leisurely bike ride around the neighborhood. I can’t express how perfect an antidote this has been, at least for now, to the anxiety, pressure, and grief that have followed Mom’s passing in July.
Chicken Marsala, probably my best effort yet. Y’all don’t get any.

Wednesday, September 16, 2020
Seriously, I’d hard-pressed to remember when I have last enjoyed entertaining myself as much as on these solo morning biking/geocaching outings in Midland. Today in particular, after a decent night’s sleep (a rarity even in this more relaxed environment), I headed out into a beautiful, temperate morning, with a fair breeze and little traffic to contend with. Yesterday, I had claimed a bunch of caches on the Midland Grand Curve Trail east of Swede Avenue; today, I headed back to the trail, to the west of Swede. I targeted several others in the area, which meant more traffic and more muggles, but even then, it was anything but oppressive. I snagged fourteen caches, I think it was, and passed a most entertaining boneyard on my outbound ride (see below).

Later, Ms. B. and I drove over to Midland City Forest, where we put in about a three-mile hike — yep, caches for the old feller, and nature photography for the nice lady. Found a good many hides and got in some decent exercise. And for the evening, another round of wine and quality time with the family.

Yep, that little dot is a magnetic nano
on a lightpole, about 20 ft. up

Thursday, September 17, 2020
This morning’s bike ride fell more into the “challenging” category than the “exhilarating” one. It started out beautifully: I rode up to a cache I had failed to find on one of our more frigid excursions here a couple of winters ago. This time, it took some hunting, but I finally made the find. A relatively short distance away, there is a cache called “High Enough?” (GC8WYBG). The name is apt, for what we have here is a magnetic nano stuck about 20 feet up on a light pole. At least one previous finder shimmied up that pole, but I felt it more prudent to improvise a tool of the trade, which I did. Yessir, I came, I saw, I conquered, I replaced the cache as it was intended. A couple of years back, I had to perform a similar feat at a nearby Midland cache; I made it happen, but it required far more effort than this one did.

I hunted and found several more caches, but it wasn’t long before the trouble set in. I’m pretty sure Del’s bike has not seen use like I’ve given it in... well... probably ever, and now the chain took to falling off every time I hit a bump. Of course, this started about the time I reached the farthest possible distance from home base — several miles, at this point. I managed to get the troublesome bastard back on each time, though on a couple of occasions, only after considerable difficulty. Without tools, I couldn’t do but so much in the way of reparations. I did manage to nurse the brute back to Casa de Brugger, though I damn near lost my phone in the process. I apparently dropped it while working on the chain; fortunately, I knew exactly where it must have fallen, so I was able to head back and promptly reclaim it.

Once able to avail myself to proper tools, I dusted off the old talents (I was a proficient bicycle mechanic in my adventurous youth) and hammered the rear wheel back to sufficiently increase the chain tension. I hope. Kimberly and I took a ride around the neighborhood this evening, and the contraption functioned swimmingly. I trust it will for Del when he goes out to ride the thing!

Once again, we all enjoyed an evening of wine; fantastic food; stimulating... uh... yeah, that's the word... television; and some wonderful bonding time. Another late night for us old folks, it was.

Friday, September 18, 2020
As all good things must come to an end, so did this trip. Since I first met and got to know Del and Fern, back in 2010, I have felt comfortable and at home with them. But it didn’t take long for me to consider them family; and I have it on good authority the feeling is mutual. Each and every time we get together, I consider the occasion special, particularly since the Bruggers accepted me into their lives never realizing the sorrow, heartbreak, and outright horror they might be in for. But somehow, on this trip — maybe because my mom is gone now — I felt a deeper connection, a sense of belonging and acceptance I haven’t known since I was a kid. Indeed, this week, I experienced a youthful exuberance from spending so much quality time with these good people I have come to love and aspire to honor. Now, make no mistake, I am a crass old fart, and I fear I sometimes open the mouth and insert the foot, but for better or for worse, I believe the family understands where I am coming from. I do hope. As I told Del when we left this morning, I try to be good but it’s so hard that it hurts. Still, I think the Bruggers can only have a positive effect on me.

It goes without saying that Ms. B. and I had a long drive home. We took a different route back, primarily to compare time and quality of the roads. Today’s route was easier and marginally quicker. It also took us down Route 35 through Gallipolis, OH, and Point Pleasant, WV, where, back in 2018, I had spent some of the best solo time of my existence while researching my Ameri-Scares novel, West Virginia: Lair of the Mothman. Since we were passing through on such a long trip, we couldn’t spend a decent amount of time in the area, but I did snag a very cool cache in the shadow of the Silver Memorial Bridge — this one on the Ohio side of the Ohio River.

Back home now, and I must soon return to chipping away at the mountains of minutiae involved in settling Mom’s estate. I don’t yet see the light at the end of the tunnel, but from some of the information I have gotten, the tunnel, at least, may not be quite as dark as it portended. There be hope here.

Be good, be safe, and wear a fucking mask.

The Silver Memorial Bridge over the Ohio River, from the Gallipolis, OH, side.
The geocache host can be seen in the photo.

Found a Birdie

“For the Birds” geocart in Alamance County, NC. Found ’em all.It’s all about personal circumstances: the ever-deepening sense that life is a vastly different animal now than it was only a few days, weeks, or months ago. Maybe it’s because that, now that Mom is gone, the door to one chapter of life has closed and another has opened. I don’t really know what it is; my sensibilities seem to shift day by day. It’s weird. It’s disconcerting. It’s awful. It’s beautiful.

Somehow, that fact hit me hard today — while geocaching. Now, let me tell you. I’ve been caching since early 2008; I’ve had a bazillion transcendent experiences out there in the wild. I have gone out solo, with big groups, with little groups, with the best of friends, with relative strangers. I have discovered some the most beautiful settings that exist on Earth. I have shared laughs, sorrow, frustration, and excitement with folks damn near as goofy as I. I have discovered spiders bigger than Montana. I have seen the world from heights that would have terrified me even as a child, when I was absolutely fearless. I have found serenity deep in pitch dark storm drains. I have driven utterly ludicrous distances to be the first to find a new cache. Call it weird, but venturing out into the world to seek hidden containers and sign my geocaching handle — Damned Rodan — on little slips of paper brings me a unique joy. Geocaching moves me. It’s passion.

I got off work early today, and since there was a new geoart (a series of caches whose icons on the geocaching map create a specific design) a half-hour or so away in Snow Camp, I decided to give it a go on my own. The caches that comprise the geoart (“For the Birds,” it’s called) are all park & grabs — meaning they are hidden so you can just drive up, hop out, quickly find the cache, and sign the log. Generally, such hides are far more fun with a group of folks, more for the social experience than the challenge of actually hunting the caches. Going solo after park & grabs usually falls into the “eh, it’s okay” category. But with all those Death Cooties roaming free out there, I am still not keen on piling into a vehicle with other folks to claim smileys. Yet, today, all by my lonesome... I had a fookin blast. An oddly euphoric experience. Inexplicable, on the surface. Revealing, I guess, if I were to become ridiculously introspective. I’d say I won’t, but I think I already have. Fuggit. Circumstances today were such that I could hardly have enjoyed myself more. The caches in this series lurk along the rural back roads of southern Alamance County. Today, there was virtually no traffic (something I had forgotten was even possible), and going from cache to cache, making the find, and signing the log turned out to be as zen an experience as any I can remember. No stress. No anxiety. No anger. No grief. Just unmitigated satisfaction.

I will take it. Tomorrow is another day. As I deal with the aftermath of Mom’s passing, I keep finding increasingly complicated tangles of red tape to untangle. It is a long, slow, frustrating process; if you have lost loved ones for whom you have assumed responsibility, you may understand what I’m talking about. The issues will get ironed out. Too often, my problem is convincing myself that I don’t have to take care of every detail right now. But that is my nature. It has its benefits and its drawbacks.

Anyway, I welcome this little oasis of joy. May there be plenty more for me and for you.

That is all.

Writer’s Cramp!

But it was fine enough reason to get a cramp. A great big box full of signature sheets for Borderlands 7 arrived the other day — Saturday, I believe it was. On Sunday, I put in a marathon session, signed the lot of them, and shipped them back to the publisher on Monday. Borderlands 7 is due for release from Borderlands Press on October 1 and will include my story, “Escalation.” Getting into Borderlands has been an aspiration for many years, and I’m proud to have done so with this particular tale.

After a lengthy and highly frustrating delay, Mom’s death certificates finally arrived, so I have been immersed in trying to get things moving toward settling the estate. This promises to be a long and involved process, but at least it feels as if some progress is finally being made.

I’ve inched a little farther forward on my next Ameri-Scares novel — New Hampshire: Ghosts From the Skies . Not as far forward as I would like or really need to, but recent circumstances have hardly been conducive to the fiction writing. I plan to keep plugging along in the coming weeks and get this one in the bag. I believe it’s shaping up to be quite lovely. I have been informed that there are new, promising developments with the television adaptation of Ameri-Scares, so I hope this means good things in the pipe for Elizabeth Massie et moi.

Of course, there has been some geocaching in the bargain. A number of new caches have come out in the area, and a couple of hiking trips to Durham and elsewhere have helped me burn off a few superfluous calories. There are still plenty left to burn though.

Last week, The Martinsville Bulletin ran my article about my mom’s death from COVID-19, which I had adapted from my blog entry, “ Wildfire .” They re-titled it “ My Mother Is Gone from COVID-19, and You Need to Do Better ,” which I’m not mad about, but at least they ran the piece as I wrote it. It is not altogether polite. It isn’t meant to be.

And we’re off.
One of my favorite spots along the Laurel Bluff trail here in Greensboro.
A crumbling old structure amid a forest of bamboo. Big Bambu!

Well, That Wasn’t Fun

The Socially Distant No-Dead-Weight Irregulars — Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), and The Terrible Old Man (a.k.a. moi) — had originally planned a geocaching adventure in Durham today, but a last-minute change of minds led us to a new cache — called “Bentley Does the Nat Greene Trail” ( GC8YHX7 ) — on the Nat Greene Trail in Greensboro by friend Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob) instead. We converged on ground zero, where coordinates kept settling in two different spots about 25 feet apart. So we focused on those two areas, checked out all the terrain between, and extended our search area by a considerable distance. Nada. After forty minutes or so of scouring the site, we hit on an idea provided by the cache page, which was so obvious that only a bunch of blind bats could have overlooked it. Actually, we probably should have named ourselves The Three Blind Bats. However, we did act on this obvious idea and soon had the cache in hand. It was a toughie, to be sure.

Thanks, Dog!

After our return to the trailhead, the adventure continued in less-than-pleasant fashion. Due to lack of parking space in the too-small lot for the trail, I parked on the side of the road along with quite a few other vehicles. What I didn’t realize was that, underneath all that oh-so-innocent-looking grass, there was a big old pool of mud. This resulted in the Rodan Mobile becoming unstuckably stuck. A call to AAA set things right, but... mercy... what a bother. I hope Dog is pleased with himself.

Thanks, Dog!

And now, back to working on my latest Ameri-Scares novel — New Hampshire: Ghosts From the Skies .

First-to-Find in Goblintown

Yesterday after work, I headed up to Martinsville to deal with some pressing affairs following Mom’s passing. Nothing too taxing at this point, at least. And afterward, friends Stephen & Samaire Provost came over to have a few drinks and some stimulating discussion — everything from writing, publishing, memorable days from the past, and current events. We were very conscientious about social distancing — we sat outside on the front porch, about ten feet apart, each with our personal supplies of hand sanitizer. Stephen even wrote an excellent blog that grew out of the event — “ What If We All Drove Drunk? ” No, none of us drove drunk. And we didn’t behave carelessly, even after a few drinks.

This morning, I awoke to notification of a brand-new cache having been published — just up the road from Martinsville at Fairy Stone Park . The timing was propitious. Fairy Stone is one of my favorite places to hike and hunt caches, and the morning turned out to be just right for it. Well, except for the extraordinarily high humidity, which made me feel like I was breathing mayonnaise on the hike. It wasn’t too far (just under two miles round trip) or too rugged, but it made for some good morning exercise. And I got to see a section of trail I’d never been on before: the dam on Goblintown Creek, which is one of the tributaries of Philpott Lake , where Fairy Stone is located. There is a huge, carved granite Fairy Stone on the lake bank there, which can be seen from some distance. It makes for an unusual and striking landmark.

At ground zero, I struck gold quickly — a little too quickly, as the cache container was sitting out exposed and very close to the water’s edge. I think all our recent rain helped the cache migrate somewhat from its hiding place. I put it back to it will hopefully remain both in place and out of sight. I did, in fact, dirty up the pristine logbook with a most gratifying FTF (first-to-find). First-to-finds don’t really mean much, as it’s not like you earn anything extra for the effort, but they’re fun enough to snag when I can get ’em.

A while back, writer/editor Holly Kozelski at The Martinsville Bulletin had reached out to me because she was putting together some stories about the personal impacts of COVID-19. She asked if I might contribute an editorial since Mom passed away due to complications from the virus. So, I performed some serious surgery on my blog entry titled “ Wildfire ” from some weeks ago and submitted it to her. The piece just came out in the Bulletin. (You can generally snag a freebie or two before they ask you to subscribe.) ’Tis here: “ My Mother Is Gone ...”

Together with Stephen’s blog linked above, the two form a pair of interesting companion pieces. Makes me think we might be onto something.
A lovely morning on the trail — except for trying to breathe in that freaking monstrous humidity. Dark clouds over Goblintown. They didn’t hang around long. A big honking fairy stone The Terrible Old Man

Cachin’ Away the Clusterfuck

Sure enough, 2020 has been pretty much a clusterfuck since it began, and it’s most assuredly not going to miraculously turn around anytime soon. Now that Mom has passed away, I am engaged in the long, uphill battle to get estate affairs squared away, which promises to be grueling. As yet, I haven’t even gotten the death certificate(s), as I understand things are running way behind due to so many people dying of COVID-19 in NC, plus the ongoing issues with the postal service. Sometimes, I reckon it’s enough to make the Pope say “goddamn.”
A rushing little waterfall near
“Old Men Can Be Devious”
Still, through it all, there have been a good many shining moments, mostly involving geocaching, which—more than any other personal activity—pulls me out of the shitter, at least during the time I’m hard at it. Early during the pandemic, a wealth of new caches came out locally, which offered numerous opportunities for getting out in the woods and hiking. There haven’t been quite as many of those in recent days, but at least there are still some around to get me out of the house and active. A couple of times recently, including yesterday, I headed down to Randolph County, where a bunch of mostly park & grab caches have come out. Car caches aren’t as invigorating as hiking caches, but, regardless, they offer their share of fun, and a fair number of them have taken me to unique and memorable settings.

Today, I joined up with the Socially Distanced No-Dead-Weight Irregulars—friend Natalie (a.k.a. Fishdownthestair) and friend Scott (a.k.a. Diefenbaker) to hunt up a new one placed by our devious friend and frequent geocaching partner Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob). In fact, Old Devious his own self came out to watch us stumble about on the hunt. This cache—called “ Old Men Can Be Devious ” ( GC8W9F1 )—lurks in one of Old Rob’s favorite geocache hiding spots, namely a brier patch. And what a brier patch it is. A regular laughing place, in fact. As Rob says, “No blood, no fun.” Finding the cache took no little effort, but based on the amount of blood I shed, it was a helluva lot of fun.
No blood, no fun. Geocaching, Old Rob style.There was, of all things, an earthquake this morning. 5.1 on the Richter scale, if I’m not mistaken, the epicenter out near Sparta, in the mountains of western NC. Everyone in Greensboro seemed to feel it except me, even though I was awake at 8:07 AM, when it occurred. Now, a lot of folks indicated that their houses shook and their animals paid the event special mind. Me, I was apparently so involved in a discussion with Frazier and Droolie about why there is/is not a Great Starvation that it passed unnoticed. Kind of a bummer.
Lots of water in the woods after tons of recent rain The old post office in Cedar Falls, Randolph County, site of one of the new caches Neat little waterfall in Randolph County

Reflections

This one is very personal to me. Several years ago, when Mom was just starting to lose her memory, I decided to write for her, on Mother’s Day, some reflections about our times together. Ms. Brugger helped me make a special crafty card of this for her. As simple as it was, I believe Mom valued this gift more than any I had ever given to her. This is my love letter to her.

Dear Mum,

My earliest memory of you was being abandoned in the Kroger parking lot on Spruce Street. On shopping day, you’d go inside the store — I suspect for no more than five minutes — while I stayed in the car. I remember pressing my face against the window and crying for you to come back because I didn’t know what went on inside that building. I figured it must be some awful place where mothers went in and never came out again. Then, when you did come out, I wanted to sing for joy — but of course I couldn’t sing because I was too young to even talk.

As a kindergartner, I loved riding in Dad’s old black and white Ford because it belched exhaust like a rocket. You used to laugh when I’d say “Daddy’s car go vroom!” Also from about that time, I remember a birthday when you decorated the dining room with squiggly balloons and got me a white frosted birthday cake with Roman Numerals that resembled a clock face. Julie Beth Jones’s dad gave me a plastic fishing pole, but I already had one just like it, and I made a point of saying so. You fussed at me because you said I was old enough to know better. I was, but even then, little was more gratifying than airing a good grievance.

In the summertime, we’d often go to the swimming pool at Lynwood, down by Dupont. That’s where I learned to swim. I remember you leading me by the hand across the hot gravel parking lot to the pool, you wearing a big, floppy pink hat. You sure did look funny.

Sometimes, you’d take me down to the Park-Mor restaurant on Memorial Blvd, where we’d get pizza, which we ate in Dad’s old black and white Ford. To me, that car was a rocket ship. I’d wear my raincoat and the space helmet I had inherited from my cousins because it was kind of like being an astronaut. And many a Friday, Dad would take you, Alan, and me to the Broad Street Hotel restaurant. Alan and I thought the stairs leading up from the front desk were scary because it was so dark up there. The place seemed truly mysterious, but I don’t imagine any kid could have loved a good mystery more than I.

Throughout the 1960s, the Fireman’s Bazaar was held at Brown Street Field, across from the old high school. Going there was always exciting. I remember riding the ferris wheel for the first time and being pretty scared, but Dad went with me and was very reassuring—except when he warned me the ferris wheel was old and rickety and that I ought not breathe too hard because a big wind might blow it down. Yeah, there was no way in heaven or hell you were going to get on that thing. But once, when we went to Six Flags Over Georgia, you ended up boarding the Dahlonega Mine Train ride with me, not realizing it was a roller coaster. It wasn’t all that big, but it was fast, and you kept telling me to “hold on tight!” I ended up loving it. I think you did not, although the worst that actually happened was that it messed up your hair.

I’m sure you know how much I loved visiting the grandparents in Gainesville and Atlanta. In Gainesville, whenever our Papa came home from work at the dry cleaning plant, I’d hide behind one of the living room chairs. He’d hear me breathing and exclaim there must be a puff adder in the house. I recall your mom, Neenie, playing organ at the Old Hickory BBQ restaurant. I found this pleasant enough, but it wasn’t rock and roll. Summertime visits were great, but Christmas was the most special time of all, the most memorable being the year the alarm clock didn’t work right. Excited beyond words about Santa Claus’s visit, I woke up sometime before dawn. Well, hours and hours would pass, but our apparently defective clock showed that only ten minutes had gone by. You always taught me to be helpful and responsible, so I ran the clock forward a few times. To this day, I have never understood why that one clock read seven a.m. when all the others in the house said it was only five. Making me go back to bed for the next two hours was cruel and unusual punishment, I have to say.

We’d always end our visits with you and Dad offering to give Neenie and Papa some money for all their trouble, but they would never hear of it. This always worried me a bit because I was afraid that if you didn’t hush, they would invite us to leave and not come back.

In my young adulthood, I sometimes went looking through the photos in your wedding album and feeling warm and wonderful about how happy you and Dad appeared. All through my childhood and even beyond, you both inspired me, comforted me, and provided for me. Only as an adult could I see how profoundly you are responsible for every good thing there is about me. And I’m sure the bad stuff is not your fault; for that, we can blame the Wickliffes, for they were decadent.
Mum and Martha Wickliffe
Speaking of the Wickliffes, there was a time in my 30s when Martha revealed a startling fact. Now, although you rarely drank alcohol, I know you enjoyed a wee spot of red wine now and again. Apparently, at some gathering y’all had attended, you drank a glass or two too many. Stunned, I asked Martha what you were like when a little bit oiled. She said, “Same as always, only louder.”

I wrote these reflections hoping they might give you some sense of how truly I appreciate you as my mom. I’ve always known that I was loved, and that I am loved. I loved you deeply when I was a youngster, and now, as an adult, I love you all the more. You are the dearest and most precious person in my life now and forever.

I love you, Mom.

Barbara Rainey: A Life of Love

My mom passed away today. It’s been a rough one, so for the moment, I will simply post her obituary, which I wrote at her request.

Barbara Rainey, of Martinsville, VA, passed away on July 21, 2020, following a prolonged struggle with dementia and complications from COVID-19. She is survived by two sons — Stephen Mark Rainey of Greensboro, NC, and Alan Rainey, of Winston-Salem, NC — and one granddaughter, Allison Rainey, of New York City, NY. For 45 years, Barbara was married to Carl Rainey, who passed away in 2001.

Barbara was born on October 16, 1935, to Dan and Christine Bell in Gainesville, GA. Through her childhood and college years, she called Gainesville home. She attended Brenau College in Gainesville, and, shortly after her graduation, met Carl Rainey, son of Gordon Rainey, the pastor of St. Paul Methodist Church, where she was a member. In August 1956, Barbara and Carl were married in that church, with the groom's father, Rev. Rainey, officiating.

Carl secured employment with E. I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, which led him and Barbara to settle in Chattanooga, TN. For four years, they dwelled happily in a house Carl had built on Signal Mountain. In May of 1959, their first son, Stephen Mark Rainey, was born. Shortly afterward, Carl was transferred to the Dupont plant in Martinsville, VA, where he remained as an executive for the next three decades. In May 1964, Barbara gave birth to their second son, Alan Rainey.

For her full adult life, Barbara loved Martinsville and her family's home near Lake Lanier. After Mark and Alan left for college and then moved to their own homes, Barbara and Carl remained in their treasured home, which Barbara dubbed "Pleasant Hill." She continued to live at Pleasant Hill until her mid-80s, when increasingly severe health issues forced her to move to an assisted living facility.

Barbara was an active member of First United Methodist Church in Martinsville. She especially loved singing in the Chancel Choir, of which she was a member for over 50 years. She served the church and the community diligently, frequently involving herself in vital charity work, both locally and nationally. On her own time, she enjoyed playing bridge and, for many years, belonged to a group that met regularly at the members' homes. She had a passion for crossword puzzles and, on occasion, jigsaw puzzles, needlepoint, and decoupage. Her home was a source of great pride for her. She loved turning it from a mere house to a perfectly personalized home for her family.

Well-known for her strong faith, generosity, and subtle humor, Barbara lived her life prioritizing others' needs above her own. During Carl's long battle with complications from diabetes, to which he ultimately succumbed, she spent countless days and nights tending to him when he was unable to care for himself. Despite the unrelieved stress of being a full-time caregiver, never once did she exhibit despair or bitterness; if anything, her struggles honed her deeply held faith. After Carl's passing, she continued to honor his memory in every aspect of her life. Even as the ruinous effects of dementia inexorably destroyed memory after precious memory, she never forgot Carl or her children.

Barbara's life was a testament to faith, hope, charity, and love. Her love will never be forgotten.

Beyond the Gate

Today was the day to attempt a new geocaching milestone: geocache find #12,000. For this outing, the Socially Distanced No Dead Weight Irregulars — Diefenbaker (a.k.a. Scott), Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie), and the old radioactively mutated flying rubber prehistoric reptile — welcomed friend NCBiscuit (a.k.a. Linda) to our ranks as we went after a nice tunnel hide in Durham, NC, called “ Beyond the Gate ” ( GC5C0C4 ), placed several years ago by friend Vortexecho (a.k.a. Christian). Ground Zero is a lovely location, which you see in the photo above, and it’s right behind the apartment complex where my daughter lived after she graduated college, back in... well... a handful of years ago. The pipe is big, so once inside it, we could easily walk upright. We found the biggest challenge to be wriggling through that broken gate. The pipe isn’t very long — maybe a hundred feet — but it sure is wet in there. You end up in a drain out in the middle of a pond.

Inside that pipe, I encountered the biggest crawdude I’ve seen since I was a kid, when I loved playing in the creek across from our house in Martinsville. He measures almost six inches long there. He proved friendly enough, though he was not at all an enthusiastic conversationalist. So as not to upset him needlessly, I avoided mentioning that crawdad is one of my favorite delicacies.

After completing the deed at “Beyond the Gate,” we shrugged off the increasingly oppressive heat and moved on to a nearby cache that has been in the wild for several days but has yet to be found. It isn’t meant to be especially difficult, but a number of geocachers have been unable to locate it. Count us among them. After a diligent, fairly lengthy search, we were forced to give up in frustration.
Some old fellow hanging around in the dark
From there, Ms. NCBiscuit departed, leaving the regular Irregulars to strike out after a number of caches along the American Tobacco Trail. Hoo, doggies, was it ever hot and ugly out there! We decided to end our day at another of Vortexecho’s tunnel caches, but unfortunately, claiming a find on this one was not to be. LV-426 ( GC4YJFD ) lurks deep inside a series of very tight culverts, requiring either crawling or very constricted duck-walking. I opted for the latter. Once way down deep inside, though, we encountered some smoky fumes oozing from a couple of pipes — one of the inevitable hazards of such locations — and decided to abandon our search. Never let it be said we are irredeemably foolhardy. Merely foolish.

That ended our adventure for the day, although before coming back home, I had to get even hotter and filthier helping Brugger put up a new mailbox in front of her house, since the old one was by all rights condemned. That done, I finally made it home and fell into the shower, for which every organism within a hundred feet of the property thanked me profusely.

It was a day.
Beyond the gate at “Beyond the Gate” Old Rodan and VERY Old Diefenbaker Heat be hot!