cabinart weblog

Turns out the Park Service granted permission for the show, but didn’t convey the message until I was already off in the Land of No Electricity for the weekend. Hmmm, good or bad? A little of both, but a great weekend was had by all (even those of us who made no $$) Michael and I hiked to the Empire Mine area to return something that was borrowed. We were just finished with the very steep first 1/4 mile of the trail when I heard an exclamation of dismay from my hubby. I knew instantly that he had forgotten something, so I simply responded, “That’s okay, I’ll just wait for you here.” You may recall that with me, waiting is rarely a problem.

Notice how nicely the colors blend with the sky and the green of the landscape.

When Michael came back with the borrowed object, we proceeded onward and upward. We followed the cable and stanchions of the tram line that carried ore buckets during the mining days in Mineral King.

The borrowed object was returned, but this time wasn’t placed in full view as it had been originally found.

We visited the bull wheel that operated the tram.

Michael explained how it worked - I understood most of it, and appreciated the history lesson.

Would you believe there was a road up there?? I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t seen and photographed it myself!

This is the remains of the tram tender’s cabin, fully visible from the trail as one heads down (if the light is right and the hiker is paying attention)

Grandma’s family had to cross this creek (called a “branch” in the local venacular) in order to reach their home. Mom and I were warned not to try to see the site (home was burned by vandals quite awhile ago) because of snakes. Creepy, hunh?

Instead of contending with snakes, we trespassed ever so slightly on the neighboring property. I just wanted to get a feel of my G’ma’s growing up life. After seeing the incredible natural beauty and rural location, it just boggles my mind that she spent the bulk of her 94 years in Orange County, California! What were you thinking, Grandma? How could you leave this place?? Were you homesick? Were you just following your husband? Did you get stuck in a rut in the urban world? Did you consider it a groove rather than a rut, which makes for smoother traveling? (a description from my other grandmother)

I am going back to the mural on August 16, I promise! Meanwhile, I am still smitten with North Carolina and just have to share some of it with you.

 This is the lovely Moses Cone house, also known as “Flat Top Manor”.

Rather than invade the privacy of my newly met distant relatives, I will show you some of my photos from the other parts of my trip.

I love stone structures!

I

This was my only view of the blue ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

This is the church where the family reunions used to be.  It has no air-conditioning, so now the family reunites in other places. Guess the younger folks aren’t quite as tough as Grandma’s generation. Grandma was very tough, and I aspire to be like her in that area!

While in NC, Mom and I took the back road to the family reunion. I wanted to see the family cemetery, the site where Grandma grew up, the church where the reunions used to happen and any other sight that seemed connected to Mom’s family. We were tootling along a country road, and suddenly I said “WHOA! Did you see that??” It was a house that definitely fit the description of “all grown up” (this was before I met Cousin Don and he used that expression). Check this out:

Imagine my surprise when Mom exclaimed, “That was Aunt Marticia’s house!”

The satellite dish tells me it was probably abandoned in the 1980s.

Here is another way things become “all grown up” in the south:

Kudzu!!

While at the family reunion in North Carolina, I had a most interesting conversation with Cousin Don. He said his dad, Uncle Lank (derived from Langston), managed apple orchards at the Moses Cone estate. It is now a part of the Blue Ridge Parkway National Park (or is it a monument?).  There are miles of trails that used to be carriage roads. Cousin Don told me the apple orchards aren’t there any more and that it is “all grown up” so one can’t recognize where the orchards used to be. I thought about it, and asked him what he meant by “all grown up”. He  said that the orchards had reverted to the native trees and other growth. I told him that “all grown up” in California means there is now a subdivision or a mall or a freeway where an orchard used to be. Isn’t North Carolina refreshing?? Here is one of the apple barns where Uncle Lank worked:

(told you it was foggy!)

Mom and I were creeping down a steep gravel road in a rented car in the fog. I love to explore and see new things, but seeing wasn’t easy in that fog. As we worked our way down off the “mountain” (I am sorry for being such a California mountain snob), I said “grassy clearing up ahead”. Mom said “That’s the cemetery!” Sure enough, it was. I have a sense of awe for a family that maintains and uses its own private cemetery. It seems so personal and honoring to the deceased family members. Have a look at the one in my family:

Okay, I admit. We returned another day for better photos.

This is the centerpiece headstone. The other side has Martha Bob’s name, my knitting-while-reading great-grandmother, AKA “Granny” to her many grandchildren.

One of Martha Bob’s ancestors, her namesake, my Mom.

Isn’t that a nice feeling? You go along in life, wondering why you are the way you are, wondering if anyone else has ever done the same things, wondering if you will ever meet anyone else who gets you. . . not that I care about other people’s opinions, but sometimes it does get lonely being so highly individualized. So, there I was in North Carolina, just finding my way along, and learning about family when my Mom told me that my great-grandmother, Martha Bob, KNIT AND READ AT THE SAME TIME!!! This was a huge revelation, an AHA moment, a light going off in my head. I realized at that very moment, if I am weird, it is an inherited trait. If I am special, it is in my genes. All this, and Cousin Hazel has a knitting shop too! 

My maternal grandmother, AKA Grandma, was one of 12 children born to Martha Bob and Edward Elisha in the hills of North Carolina.  Of the 7 girls, she was the only one to attend and graduate from high school, leave North Carolina, and eventually get her driver’s license! (Such a maverick, that G’ma of mine!) Last week I had the privilege and joy of spending time in the town of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, where she went to high school. The natives call them mountains because it is high and cool for NC, but as a Californian who spends much time in Mineral King, I think of them as beautiful green hills covered in deciduous trees. The town was just wonderful - a Carmel/Mendocino type place whose population swells from 1500 to 20,000 in the summer. Every yard has flowers, every porch has chairs (usually rockers), and every person is as nice as can be. I loved the architecture, the lakes, the trails, the history, the learning of where G’ma grew up, and meeting my Mom’s first cousins.

The school that G’ma attended was only there from 1918 - 1927, so I had to be content with photos o the present structure.

The rock gymnasium was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s.

Have I mentioned that I love old buildings?

Didn’t want you all to think all I do is stand before an easel - I DO have a life. Sort of. Okay, maybe it is more of a Cat Disorder, but it is MY Cat Disorder and I am quite content with this state (even though I know I can’t just quit anytime I want.)

Kaweah Kitty hates it when I take a break and is always on hand to help me find my way back to the painting workshop. (try to be polite about her tail - she can’t help it)

She has a tendency to lie underfoot - obviously she feels quite safe despite the fact that I might accidentally squash her when I step back to view the easel contents.

Butch just hunkers down in the RV garage and yells when I walk past. Poor little guy is an orphan and we don’t know what happened to Cashmere and O’Reilly.

Sometimes he comes outside, but he is skittish in the extreme. We can pet him now, but only on his terms. It took from November until May - that is a record! (not a good one - no idea how we will get him “fixed”)

Check out that non-tail. It’s why we call him Butch. Looks like a Manx, talks like a Siamese, acts like a psycho.