Last Wednesday, Susie and I went to a potluck dinner organized for the folks in her morning exercise class. When I was chatting with our hostess, I mentioned my experiences on my early morning walks and she suggested that I write a post for the retirement community's blog, which I did. Since I have so often mentioned those walks, I thought I would take a break from my obsessive impeachment watching and post it. Really serious people may wish to navigate to another blog for a day. Here it is:
Carolina Meadows in the Morning
When I retired in 2008, after a half century of university
teaching, Susie and I moved from Massachusetts to a condominium in Meadowmont
Village. Susie signed up with an
exercise class at the Meadowmont Wellness Center and I began a regimen of year
round early morning walks that took me first to the top of the hill at Country
Club Road and later past the Findlay Golf Course to the Botanical Gardens. In July 2017, we moved into Building 5 here
at Carolina Meadows. Susie transferred
her allegiance to James’ 8:15 exercise class, and I cast about for a new
walking route. I tried walking past
Farrington Mill Road to the very end of Whippoorwill Lane, but the early
morning traffic got the better of me, and eventually I settled on a walk
completely within Carolina Meadows.
Rather grandly, I claim it is three miles long, but honesty compels me
to admit that it is actually 2.85 miles, as measured by the trip odometer in my
car. I start at the front door of
Building 5, cross Appletree Lane and continue on Peartree Crescent. Left on Magnolia, right on Hawthorne, and
then the long slog past the South Entrance all the way to the circle at the end
of Hawthorne. Around the circle and back
to Peartree, where I turn left, pass the tennis courts, walk along Maple Lane
past the Club Center and Buildings 1, 2, and 3, then onto Oak Lane past the old
100 villas to the Fairways and the pond, left onto Appletree and the 200
villas, swinging around to the right on Appletree, past Elmwood, Mimosa, and the
golf course, right around Building 6, and home again.
Since I walk early, always before seven, sometimes before
six, and on a few occasions before five, I assumed my walk would be solitary,
but very quickly I discovered a rather lively early morning world here at
Carolina Meadows. My purpose in writing
this blog post is to let the slugabeds know what they are missing. In order to introduce some order into these
ramblings, I have organized my experiences into three categories: Cars, Dogs, and People.
Cars
On my very first walk, I encountered those little white cars
with the Carolina Meadows logos driven by security personnel. They cruise slowly up and down our streets,
available should there be an emergency.
I wave and they wave back. The
night shift seems to end at seven a.m., and if I happen to be on Hawthorne as
that hour nears, several cars will pass heading for the little road that
branches off from Hawthorne Circle and loops around to the gated Operations and
Maintenance parking area. One of the
duties of the night shift is to unlock and open the gate that closes off the
South Entrance at night. The gate is
opened at 5 a.m. and on the rare occasions when I have walked so early that I
actually see the gate still closed, I feel a little secret pride that I am out
so early. Somewhat later, the white CM pickup
truck will drive by, stopping in front of villas to collect the bags of garbage
left at the curb. On Hawthorne, the
stops are so frequent that I can actually keep pace with the truck.
My favorite early morning car is the black Nissan sedan
delivering the Raleigh News & Observer and the NY TIMES. In the buildings, our papers are delivered
grandly to our front doors, but the poor villa residents must walk out to their
driveways to retrieve them. There seem
to be two paper deliverers – a woman named Tiffany, and a man whom I have seen
but do not know. As the Nissan cruises
slowly along a street, a paper, sometimes two, will fly out the window onto the
driveway. When the man is delivering, he
opens the sunroof of the car and papers soar out of the top of the car, landing
expertly on just the right driveway. It is
all rather theatric. My walk usually
occurs during the deliveries, and quite often our TIMES has not yet arrived
when I leave for my walk but is lying on the doormat when I return.
I cannot end my remarks about early morning cars without
saying a word about the long flatbed trucks with the green Ruppert logos that
rumble out of the Operations and Maintenance parking area and deliver power
mowers or large rolls of sod wherever they are needed on the Carolina Meadows
campus. CM obviously has a regular
contract with Ruppert, and it must be a whopper, because those trucks are a
regular fixture on the campus. I tend to
take for granted the enormous effort that is required simply to maintain our
little community, my mind typically occupied with more elevated things, such as
[to take an old example from my youth] whether to let Red China into the
UN. I am glad someone is taking care of
things.
Dogs
The first dog I met on my early morning walks was Phoebe, a
large, aging, shaggy, caramel colored rescue dog who lives in one of the 300
villas on the old section of Hawthorne.
Phoebe’s mistress, Anne, walks her at roughly the same time that I am
out, and I frequently meet them either on Hawthorne itself or on Magnolia or
Peartree. Phoebe is terribly afraid of
strangers and still, after all this time, will not let me touch her. But she knows who I am, and if she sees me
coming up behind her and Anne, she will set her feet and not move until I have
caught up with her and said hello. Anne
takes Phoebe on a long walk every morning, and on occasion I have seen them in
front of The Fairways or on the golf course next to Appletree. Anne is the wife of a retired UNC professor,
and expresses interest in my weekly trips each fall to New York City to teach a
course at Columbia University. I like to
think that Anne and I have become friends, even though I am not sure she knows
my name.
Pearl is as eager to be petted as Phoebe is shy. Pearl is long, low, shaggy, and all black
save for a white head. She is walked
each morning by Dedra Stockton, the pet sitter who looks after our cat when we
go to Paris. Pearl will all but roll
over when I see her, waiting to be petted and scratched. Dedra also walks a pair of matched dachshunds
named, I believe, Hansel and Gretel.
The dog with whom I have most intimately bonded is Bandit,
an energetic little pug-nosed fellow who lives in a 100 villa at the base of
the hill that leads to the Fairways. His
master, Willie Thompson, first caught my attention because he walks each
morning carrying a cup of coffee in one hand while he leads Bandit with the
other. Bandit loves to be scratched
behind his ears, and tugs on his leash to get to me as soon as he spots
me. Willie graciously allows to be
pulled over and, summer or winter, I give Bandit a scratch before we go our
separate ways.
But the most concentrated assemblage of dogs is to be found
on Appletree on the down slope leading to the sharp turn that takes you past
the croquet court to the pond. Four or
five dogs live in that stretch of 200 villas, and their mistresses meet each
morning to greet one another while the dogs sniff one another curiously. I am sure many CM residents have noticed the
striking white Standard Poodle, elegantly clipped, who has only three legs. Susie and I first met this dog in front of
the Club Center shortly after it was adopted.
Poodles, of course, have an elevated opinion of themselves, and this one
does not socialize with the common run of Appletree dogs.
I have recently made the acquaintance of Luke, a middle
sized shorthaired dog who lives on Appletree, but even though I have said hello
to him several times, he has not yet acknowledged my existence.
People
There is a small but hardy band of regulars who walk early
in the morning, and as the days pass, we get to recognize and acknowledge one
another. Since my walk takes me
virtually to every part of Carolina Meadows, sooner or later I meet them
all. Many are, like me, old guys who
walk slowly, some on Hawthorne or Magnolia, fewer on Appletree or Maple or Oak. Since I wear a bright yellow reflector vest,
a holdover from my walks on Findley Golf Course Road, I am easily recognizable
[and I hope equally easily visible to drivers coming and going in Carolina
Meadows.]
One of my favorite early morning people is a slender, always
elegantly dressed woman who, when it is cold, wears a form fitting brilliantly
red coat and a natty fedora. She walks
faster than I do, but she is slowed down by a fascinating practice she has
adopted. She knows a number of people in
the villas, and when she comes to the villa of an acquaintance, she stops to
pick up the paper tossed at the end of the driveway from the black Nissan and
walk it up to the front door. Judging
from where I have seen her, she must know people all over CM. We say hello to one another whenever we pass,
but, I am sad to say, she disapproves of me.
The reason is simple. I sometimes
walk on the same side of the road as the traffic, which thus comes up behind
me. The first time she saw me doing
this, on Appletree as I neared the end of my walk, she chastised me gently, but
unrepentant I continued my dangerous ways, and I think by now she has written
me off as destined for a bad end. She
seems to know a number of the Appletree dog walkers and quite often as I make
the turn and begin up the hill, I see her deep in conversation with two or
three of them.
But quite the strangest of the early walkers, or so it
seemed to me at first, is a tall gentleman who lives on Peartree just about
where it is met by Magnolia. A little
back story is called for here by way of clarification. In 1964, shortly after I joined the Columbia
University Philosophy Department as a senior professor, I was walking up
Broadway from 115th to 116th street with my new
colleague, the unforgettable Sidney Morgenbesser. As we approached 116th, I saw a
man in a phone booth taking agitatedly into the handset, which was totally unconnected to the rest of the phone! When I pointed this out rather worriedly to
Sidney, he said casually, as though it was no big deal, “Oh, that’s a
shouter.” Apparently in Manhattan there
were well-delimited subcategories of nutcases.
Well, I saw this Peartree resident repeatedly, at six a.m.
or so, seemingly talking to himself. Was
this a CM shouter? Of course not. In the intervening fifty-five years, there
had been several revolutions in technology.
This man had those ear buds with dangling wires that indicated he was
talking on a cellphone. But at six
a.m.? Was he a still active stock trader
talking to a broker in Europe, where the market was already open? Was he dictating instructions to some poor
secretary who had dragged himself out of a warm bed to take a letter from the
boss?
After a while, I began to conjure touching just so
stories. His wife had passed away and he
was talking to nobody at all, lonely and forlorn. His wife was in The Pines and he spent a
little time with her each morning during his walk. By now we were on an early morning nodding
relationship. He certainly did not seem
forlorn. And he certainly was not
nuts. What was up?
And then I actually met him and discovered that the real
story was better than my unfettered imaginings.
It seems he and his wife are both retired physicians. When he was a young man, he and his closest
friend were running buddies. They live
now in different states, and although he no longer runs, his friend does. Each morning, as his friend runs, they talk,
thanks to the miracle of IPhones!
Indeed, one day, on Appletree, I actually met the friend, who was in
town for a visit.
We are a hardy band of men, women, and dogs, we early
morning walkers. I count them all as
friends, even Phoebe who still will not let me pet her, and the Lady in Red,
who disapproves of me.
This is my version of Carolina Meadows in the Morning.