In Which Jethro Whines a Little

Are memories repressed or are they just accepted, not considered important, and let go?

How much can our lives be altered by events over which we have no control and no participation?

I unburied a big wooden reminder that my early inheritance was for sale not so long ago. I knew this. I knew this before because I have seen this sign before. I just do not remember when. I knew this because it was said in a conversation recently. Other events in Florida made the sale of this land in North Carolina unnecessary. It became available for other purposes.

Moving to North Carolina was not my idea. With four siblings and longevity in the family "it wouldn't be prudent" to covet or count on acquiring any of my parents meager assets. The offer was made when their circumstances changed and at a time when I was ready for a change in my life. I said yes. These coincided.















There are strings of uncertainty attached. One party isn't quite ready to let go of this gift until they are sure that I am here to stay, that I can survive the winter and make a comfortable life for myself in a strange cultural environment. There are legitimate concerns that need to be respected. Time, perseverance, my comfort in these surroundings and my own longevity will solve those concerns. I forge ahead because I told myself before I left that I would not have a "way" that things would have to be done. I would have a direction in which I was headed.

That uncertainty changed the way this project is going to be financed.
















We wait for the perk test guy to come look at my pits to get a permit for a septic system which is part of the paper work for the building permit. I linger unemployed, enjoying this time, because I am the one who will be building this small cabin. My labor and my father's experience and skills as a building contractor make this more affordable. But my time unemployed has a limit. Each day that passes without a building permit is another day where I will have to work and build less.

So I garden.

I realized there was another section of the split rail fence on the other side of my drive that ran for quite some distance. It was buried in Autumn Clematis and Fall Asters. There appeared to be a half circle of fairly level ground behind the fence. I wanted it. I wanted it more civilized.

















In the twenty years I lived in Hawaii I never used a machete to garden with. I considered that to be for savages. Then I moved to North Carolina and was reintroduced to wild Black Berries. I picked up a machete. The Black Berry canes were too thick for the weed whacker on hand. I cleared new ground with a machete for a more civilized garden and I found the reminder that my early inheritance had been for sale not so long ago.

The sign was buried in the weeds. It was big and heavy and cumbersome. It took some effort to pull it apart enough for me to be able to get my arms around it. It took some effort to drag it over to growing pile of rubbish. It took some effort to pull the sign posts out of the ground. It will take a little more effort to get rid of it.















The potential for a front garden begins to emerge from the wild things and the picturesque, romanticized and dilapidated split rail fence gets wired back up. It has been warm for up here on the mountain, pushing 80 degrees, and other things are beginning to emerge. I see them as I traverse the mountain.













There are snakes in the grass. Five so far and counting. There are slow moving mosquitoes and spiders that bite you in your sleep. Poison Ivy and Nettles. The Black Berries however are eight feet tall and vicious. Only my years of experience with Bougainvillea has spared me their painful grasp.
















I wait. I garden. I get used to the new creatures who live here. A Giant Cane Spider in my bathroom seems like a former pet to me now.

I accept that my fate is part coincidence, that my job is to stay on the path.