Sleepy Hollow Bridge

¨There is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility."             --Washington Irving, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

I first learned of the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum’s wonderful book of original paintings called, "Carolina Preserves." There on page 105 is the artist’s depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of firtrees that stand in the foreground.

Ms. Wonder and I had searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding the bridge the first time was no simple task and it was not much easier this time even though I thought I knew where it was.

By the time I arrived, the heavy cloud cover had stopped threatening and decided to let loose. The narrow, 64-foot bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy meadow. Wind Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly and the loose floorboards moved against their joist as her tires pressed down on them.

The sound they made was like horses’ hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk. The sound reminded me that, in an earlier age, posted signs often cautioned travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk" and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak floors.

I exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it. Rhododendron thickets on the banks of Hobos Mill Creek softened traffic noise from the nearby highway, the forest canopy provided some shelter from the rain, and the steep hill behind me shut off all other noise. Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the steam and heavy static of the rain.

Irving completed his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words, "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." Those words are a fitting description for this Sleepy Hollow too.

The bridge at Sleepy Hollow is the only covered bridge left in the western mountains. In 1920 one North Carolina county alone had over sixty covered bridges. By the time the bridge at Sleepy Hollow was built, there were less than ten historic covered bridges in the entire state. Today there are only three. The other two are located in the piedmont region southwest of Raleigh. The Pisgah Bridge in Randolph County is probably the best-known of the two. 

The Bunker Hill Bridge in Catawba County is arguably the most historically important bridge in the state. That bridge, which spans Lyles Creek, is the only remaining structure in the world built in the architectural style developed by George Haupt, a celebrated builder who was praised for his engineering skills by President Abraham Lincoln. The bridge is designated as a National Civil Engineering Landmark, a prestigious honor it shares with the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.

If you would like to visit Sleepy Hollow, follow Highway 105 as it encircles the base of Seven Devils Mountain about 12 miles south of Boone. Look for the small road sign on the east side of the highway just as you pass the hardware store. You can't see the bridge from the highway so you'll have to look close or you'll miss it.

Binge Watching Netflix

I found Ms. Wonder in the kitchen preparing for her trip to Shallotte. I thought it the perfect time to tell her the exciting news about Wilmington. If you're a newbie to this blog then I should probably explain that Wonder and I recently moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, from our home in Durham. I've had a little trouble adjusting but that's all about to change.

"Wilmington isn't Charleston," I said just to get things going.

The River District

"Wilmington isn't a lot of things," she said. And I remember thinking that she was right, of course, but what of it? Got right over my head but that's true of many things she says. Not surprising really. She knows just about everything due to having one of those Italian-designed brains and I have the rollback-special from Walmart.

"What?" I said.

"Exactly," she said.

You may think it odd that we have this type of conversation but you wouldn't think so if you lived with us for a pandemic week. You see my way of escaping the Groundhog-Day sameness of one day after another is by binge-watching Netflix until I fall asleep on the sofa. My current addiction is "AJ and the Queen". I recommend it highly. However, indulging in the video drug until overdose doesn't result in an alert, clear-headed morning. 

But, I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the comparison of Wilmington with Charleston. Before the pandemic, we had plans to move to the fair city in sister state to the south--oh for God's sake, Charleston! But due to this and that, we moved to Wilmington instead.

"Do you remember," I said to Ms. Wonder, "that when we told people we were moving to Wilmington, they would say, "Why? Wilmington is nothing like Charleston."

"I remember," she said.

"Well, they might be surprised to learn just how much the two cities have in common."

"Both of them being colonial port cities," she said. "And sharing a lot of history with the golden age of piracy--especially Black Beard.

"Was there a golden age of piracy?"

"Both cities also figured heavily in the 19th-century turmoil that southern dames referred to as, "the recent unpleasantness between the states."

"Is dames an appropriate choice of words?" I said.

Not dames as in "there is nothing like a dame" from South Pacific. I use the term as in a woman descended from a noteworthy ancestor.

I held up a hand to indicate that this runaway tangent must stop because I had something important to say and I didn't want it to be brushed aside.

"Districts," I said to get right to the point.

"What about them?" she said.

"Wilmington has them," I said. And knowing that I had to move quickly if I was to remain recognized and keep the floor, I continued. "Just as any city worth the air it breathes has defined, recognized districts--like Charleson, New Orleans, and San Francisco; Wilmington has some really cool districts that I plan to explore and write about."

"Like what?" she said.

"Well, like the newest district, which is called the Lollipop District."

"I think you mean the Soda Pop District," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she said. "It's named for the old Coca-Cola bottling plant that used to operate there."

"We visited the Coca-Cola plant in Chattanooga when I was in third grade," I said.

"Fascinating," she said. "I can't wait to hear about it when I get back from Shallotte," she said. "I'll bet you hold be spellbound."

And with that, she breezed out the door like a pirate ship under full sail leaving me in the kitchen with a cup of cold coffee and three cats. We have these conversations frequently. I blame binge-watching Netflix.

Feline Accomplice

I read the introductory paragraph from the Rogue Star website to my spiritual mentor, Feldspar, so that he would understand that the Witch of Woodcroft writes some praise-worthy stuff.

                                            

"There, did you feel the earth shake?" I asked.

"Hardly, sir." he said, "I feel that you're suffering a manic episode brought on by Princess Amy."

Oh, you know about her, do you?" I said.

"I read your blog from time to time."

"Oh? I didn't know you liked my blog."

"I wouldn't go that far, sir. I read it to keep up with your um...."

"Lifestyle?" I offered.

"Close enough," he said.

"Why don't you like my blog?"

"Really, sir, it's not my place..."

"No! I insist. If you're going to be my mentor, there must be no secrets. Spill it!"

"Well, forgive me sir, but I see it as an immature production, lacking in significant form. My own tastes lie more in the direction of Dostoyevsky and the great Russians."

"Fine, whatever," I said,  trying to avoid the Russian motif, because Ms. Wonder, that descendent of Count Gregory Orlov, was somewhere about the premises and might sail in like a brigantine running before the gale if she heard the words, great Russians.

"Feldspar, it's not my limbic system that's causing the ranygazoo. It's the witch herself. She suggested to me in a text message, that by writing more I could change my world. She said that it was key to the fulfillment of my fate, which, according to her, mirrors the story of the plaster Buddha."

"Plastic, Buddha!" called Ms Wonder from somewhere down the hall.

"It's plaster!" I called back.

"Gladdis Lyremark Ironarrow," I said to Feldspar, "is a witch who lives in a north-facing cave. She stays home a lot; you don't bother her, she won't bother you. But when a baby in a backpack, a pair of mismatched children, and an invisible sorcerer accidentally wander into her domain--well, enough said I think."

"A story that may appeal more to the theater-going crowd," said Feldspar. "but I'm at a loss to understand why you object to it so strongly."

"Not against it," I said.

"No?"

"Certainly not. All for it, in fact. It's the collateral damage that I'm concerned about. Every time she writes about Gladys, strange things happen to me."

"But why should that be?"

"I was hoping you might have an idea."

"Are you suggesting that her writing is somehow interfering with your destiny?"

"That's right. You have a lightning-fast brain, Feldspar. I'm also suggesting that the three of us are just the people to do something to stop it, if a rock troll, a human and a cat can be grouped collectively as people."

"Mybbthh," said Abbie Hoffman, the tuxedoed feline accomplice that sat astride my computer keyboard.

"It is futile to rage against the darkness, sir," said Feldspar. "Light can't exist without it. We would not see the beauty of the stars without the dark of space behind them."

"Preeeek!" said Abbie Hoffman, and I had to agree with him. Put a sock in it was the thought that came to me but I didn't want to offend Feldspar. I'm sure he meant well. It's just that he's not up with the latest developments in the way that you and I are. I mean, futile to rage against the darkness? That's the very essence of The Way of the Rock, which as you well now is my shamanic calling.

"Maybe this one will convince you," I said. "One of her stories features a witch known as Baba Yaga who eats people the way people eat chickens.

The statement brought Abbie to his feet. "Earrup!" he said.

"Even monsters are divine creatures," said Feldspar, "and belong to the providential order of nature, and this according to St. Augustine."

"Ever noticed how people eat chickens, Feldspar?"

"Really, sir!" he said. "Chirrump!" said a wide-eyed Abbie.

"Plastic, Buddha," called Ms. Wonder again but from somewhere frighteningly near. I realized that I'd have to ratchet up the proceedings.

"It's plaster!" I called back and then in a quieter voice directed at Feldspar and Abbie Hoffman, I said, 

"It seems a statue of the Buddha stood in a temple for ages until someone decided to move it. During the move, the statue fell over knocking the plaster away and revealing solid gold underneath. Get it?"

He gave me a look before saying, "A precious something is hidden by a common outer crust..."

"Blah, blah, blah," I said. 

"Fascinating," said Ms. Wonder as she passed by the door, in a mysterious way, her wonders to perform.

"Do you know anything about how the witch works her magic?" asked Feldspar.

"Nope," I said, "but not having all the information has never stopped me before."

"I don't know if this is a good idea, sir."

"Never mind your, 'I don't know', Feldspar," I said. "Buck up, sir, it's nothing more than Fierce Living. I do it all the time."

"But sir...."

"No buts. Life is a fairy tale, Feldspar. It just doesn't always end with living happily ever after. I doubt it ever ends well to be blunt about it. But sometimes it's enough for a story to just end. That's how space is made for new stories to begin."

"But sir...."

"Cap it, Feldspar!" I said.  "Piramp!" said Abbie Hoffman and I couldn't have agreed with him more.

Pine Cone Hazard

 I take Princess Amy for a walk on sunny mornings in hopes of lifting her mood and getting the day off on the right path. If you're one of the many that hang out here on the Circular Journey blog site and read everything that I write, then you're familiar with the princess. Otherwise, it may suffice to say that Princess Amy is my limbic system and it behaves like the Red Queen in Alice Through the Looking Glass. If you're still lost, then I suggest that you stop reading now and return to your social media habit.

On this morning's walk I was contemplating the characters in my book--the novel, not the South Carolina travel book. I was thinking specifically of Lupe, the 14 year-old protagonist who causes all the rannygazoo in Crystal Cove.

As I walked underneath the arbor of a pine grove, I was startled when a pine cone fell from its moorings in the canopy at just the precise moment to strike its target on the very top of my head. Pine cones are harder than you might expect this one fell from high above and landed with a jarring Whack!. I jumped. I may have shouted something like, Holy Hell! Tears came to the eyes.

Immediately after such an attack the eyes are drawn upward to see where the attack originated and this morning I saw a bird, possibly a grackle, fly from somewhere high in the tree. A new spirit guide I wondered. The thought was prompted by my musing on the character Lupe. Her mother is Native American--Lupe prefers the word Indian--and she recognizes spirit guides from the animal kingdom and insists that I have one too, even though I haven't been properly introduced.

But I'm in danger of jumping the rails in the story. Let's get back to the subject by saying that when I brought my gaze back down to earth, I almost stepped on a card lying on the ground. At first I continued walking but quickly thought better of it.

You see, the pine cone barrage was a bit out of the usual and considering the odds that a bird would dislodge the whatsit at just the right time to have it fall through the ether and smack me on the shoulder must be staggering. And if you consider the spirit guide angle, it follows that maybe it all happened for a reason and the card, which turned out to be a lottery card, could be the reason.

You understand then why I picked up the card. Unfortunately, it wasn't a winner. Now I was left wondering, Why? Realizing that there was no answer better than the whole thing being nothing more than a random happenstance, my thoughts quickly turned to germs. We think of germs a lot during a global pandemic and I was holding a card that had been in someone else's hands. 

There was no trash can in sight and I didn't want to carry this piece of garbage for the rest of my walk. But the on-going environmental degradation has made me militantly anti-littering. What to do? That became the big question in my mind. What to do with the discarded paper.

I'm interested to know if you agree with my decision, which was this: The damage to the environment and all right-thinking sensibilities had already been done by the person who dropped the card in the first place. If I placed the card on the path exactly where I found it, then I was doing no further damage and I could pick up the card and dispose of it properly on my return. 

I walked back underneath the same tree and placed the card on the ground. Then I straightened and continued my stroll.

"You dropped something."

That's right. Another hiker was approaching on the path and she'd seen my deliberately placing the piece of trash on the ground. Of course, I wanted to say, It's not mine. I'm only returning it to where I found it. 

I didn't want to pick up the trash again and go through the same deliberations. What I actually said was: "Thank you." 

Then I picked up the card, smiled as her as she walked past--it did not good, of course, I was wearing a mask--and then I walked on. I placed the card in the back pocked of my jeans and forgot about it until I washed the jeans with the card still in the pocket.

Can't Stop Us Now

Dawn had swept the stars from the sky and poured a cupful of sunshine onto the lawns of Chatsford Hall by the time Ms. Wonder came breezing into my study. She looked like Marlene Dietrich in the role of Catherine the Great leading her troops to the Winter Palace to deliver the message to Peter that he found so very disappointing. I was happy to see her--Ms. Wonder, of course, not Catherine. If the United States Marines had landed on the lawn outside, I couldn't have been happier. I told her so.

"Good morning, Wonder," I said. "I'm happy to see you."

"Have you been up all night, working on that book?" she said.

"Not that book," I said. "It's called Out of the Blue, and no, I've been wrestling with a decision regarding the end of the world as we know it."

"Right," she said and if she seemed to be less than sympathetic it's because that's exactly what she was less than, and before you judge, let me assure you she has a right. It isn't easy living with The Genome.

I aspire to be a rational, level-headed--if that's the term--adult. I make reasonable plans that outline the proper steps. So far so good, but then when the curtain goes up I forget all my lines. No amount of cajoling can motivate me to leave the wings to strut across the stage playing my part. I don't trust myself to do the right thing and, this is the worst part, I don't trust the advice of anyone else. I don't suppose you've had the experience yourself?

"I want to hand the thing over to my agent," I said, "before I get around to it, I change my mind; I want to publish it myself, keeping all control, you know." I was silent for a moment musing on something I'd heard somewhere. Probably in a song. "It's like that mountain," I said at last.

"Mountain?" she said.

"You know," I said, "First there was a mountain, then there was no mountain, then there was. That mountain."

"Donovan," she said or at least that's what it sounded like to me. I believe it's one of the prehistoric eras but I'm not sure about it. You may be more familiar with the term.

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first notion," she said, "all the interim is like a hideous dream and the state of man like to a little kingdom suffers an insurrection."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," I said "but why are you talking like that?"

"Shakespeare," she said, and then added, "Julius Caesar."

Well, it's always hard to know what to say when someone hands you lines like those. First Donovan and now Shakespeare and Julius Caesar! I began to wonder if she'd taken my meds instead of hers. It's the same problem I have trying to respond to the Muse and the Saint pre-coffee. But I responded in the best way I knew how on the spur of the moment.

"Your first guess is usually the correct one," I said, "so I'd guess Shakespeare. Sounds more like his stuff than something Caesar would say."

"In Hamlet, he described it as like the poor cat in the adage."

"Then I'm sure it was Shakespeare," I said, "we read Hamlet in Norbert Kier's class in high school and I'm pretty certain he wrote it. Shakespeare I mean, not Mr. Kier."

"I know who wrote it," she said. "It was in the play Julius Caesar."

I mused through a few moments of silence, wondering why she kept referring to me as Julius Caesar. I finally decided to go with this, "You know, Wonder, I think you're on to something. I seem to remember someone else saying something similar. Something about the spirit being willing but the feet were cold."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said. "Language!. You may have ancestors who dumped palace waste into the Winter Canal and polluted the River Neva but my ears are not garbage cans."

"May I make a suggestion?" she said and I'm sure you can imagine the relief I felt that she was about to offer help.

"Do," I said.

"You might consider writing an email to yourself with a detailed explanation of your logical and reasonable thought processes. Then, in the future, when you feel unsure of your next step, you can refer to the email and know that you are getting sound advice."

"Send an email into the future addressed to me?" I said.

"Precisely," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said with not a little enthusiasm. "You are one of a kind. You do know everything no matter how much you deny it."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

"You know at least as much as Shakespeare," I said, "and he seemed to hear all the gossip. Thank you immensely."

"Not at all," she said.