Every day in June #s 13, 14, & 15

The streak is still going. 25 miles on Monday with Coty, and then two short days, squeezing rides in between thunderstorms or at the end of a long day. I am finding that the first few strokes on the pedals are like a deep breath. Riding a bike makes me feel like a kid sometimes. Pedal, breathe, coast, lean into a turn, stand up and pump going up a hill, lean way down gripping the lower bars, back parallel to the ground, fly downhill. I finish each ride coasting down the street and then a few pedal strokes to shift to a higher gear so the next day's start will be easier. I turn into the driveway, a slight uphill, and stand up on my bike over the bump and down the driveway, like a jockey at the end of a race. I am that ten year old girl who dreamed of race horses and pretended to win the Derby.

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I was very sad today when one of my students, an Afghan woman who wears a hijab, explained to me that the reason she hadn't come Monday or Tuesday was that she was afraid to walk from her apartment the half mile to the center. Someone might be angry with her because of the gunman in Orlando, she said. I am afraid, she said. Drivers passing by would not know, of course, that her husband has a Purple Heart and that he fought shoulder to shoulder with American Marines in his home country, the country he had to flee because he fought with the US. I couldn't tell her not to feel afraid because she is right, her fear is not irrational. Someone might see her hijab and be angry. There could be some backlash. I could only say I'm sorry you feel afraid and tell her that I pray for her protection. She asked if I could give her some fabric so we pulled out bags of brown and purple, her choices. She will make beautiful headbands with embroidery and earn money for her handwork and be delighted that she is able to help her family with the skill of her hands. When I was leaving the building, she saw me and waved and smiled and blew me a kiss. I wanted to cry for all the crazy, terrible, unjust, beautiful, messed up, sweet, tender things in this world.

I came home with two teenagers - one from Congo, one from Burma. They are beautiful, bright, thoughtful girls. They swam for two and a half hours, laughing and lounging in the pool.

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We are reading aloud again. Coty reads and I cut fabric or press quilt squares. Deep jewel colors - purple and teal - and goldenrod in simple squares are the start of a new quilt. I am working at it slowly, but reading together in the evenings will speed it along.

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It's morning now, after a night of storms. The air is cooler and fresh. I hear a wren. The coffee is brewing. I will sit on the porch for a bit and read. It's a very good way to start a day.

Every day in June #9

Today ...

H, from Vietnam, wondered aloud why her life is so hard. Why did her husband leave her? Why does her 21 year old son have kidney disease and have to go to dialysis every week? Why did she have stomach problems two weeks ago and go to the emergency room and then get a bill for $4000? Why did she have to leave her home country?

F, from Afghanistan, brought her brother's paperwork and we looked over the Department of Defense form that will have to be filled out in order to try and locate his American supervisors. We came up with a list of things she will have to find out from him in order to complete the forms. His life is in danger. He just wants to bring his family to this country to be safe. F is desperate for any help she can find to help make that happen.

T, from Nepal, told me about her husband's friend's mother who died yesterday from blood cancer at age 52. There will be a three day wake which, she said, is very hard on the family.

How little it seems our sewing can do in the midst of problems like these. What a small thing it is to sit beside a woman and show her how to thread a sewing machine. And yet ... I have a waiting list of many more beginning students than we can accommodate in the new classes we'll add in September. Women who want to be in a sewing class  for two hours in hopes, of what? 

Full time employment at a living wage? I can't promise that.

Their own business to provide a fair wage income for their family? I can't promise that.

Solutions to the problems like the ones I heard today. I can't begin to promise any of that.

 But there are things that after three years of teaching sewing classes to refugee women I can offer ...

Teachers that will share the love of Christ in word and deed; who will offer not only their knowledge but their hearts.

Teachers that will patiently walk beside students as they learn new skills and show them over and over and over again, as many times as it takes, how to thread the machine, where to put the bobbin, how to sew a simple seam. As many times as it takes.

Teachers that will go beyond the classroom into their homes and become friends. Teachers who will walk beside them, trying to learn and understand their struggles and helping with needs as we are able or pointing them to others who know better than we do how to deal with their problems.

Laughter. I can offer them laughter. Plenty of it. And smiles. And hugs.

Creativity. I can offer them the opportunity to stretch their dormant creative wings, to try new things and not have to worry about judgement. I can offer encouragement support, and applause for their efforts.

I can offer a place that is safe and warm and welcoming, where hurts can perhaps be salved for a while to the rhythm of a sewing machine. I can offer that balm, and hope for healing for women who have experienced traumas I can barely imagine. 

Classes are over for this term for Make Welcome. We need a break to refresh and recharge, to plan and prepare, so that we will be ready for a new term of classes come September, when the learning and loving and growing will continue, Lord willing.

We can't pay hospital bills, or heal kidney failure or cancer, or bring families fearful for their lives to safety. But we can show up with fabric and scissors and sewing machines and instruction and love.  That's what we'll do and we'll wait, expectantly, to see how God will work in our midst

Every day in June #5

Let's talk about something besides cycling, shall we?!

The end of May/beginning of June are full of family events. I'll start today and work my way back ...

Erin and Luke celebrated their 11th anniversary today!
Jonathan turned 30 last Friday. Yikes! I have two thirty-somethings now.
Matthew and Kailie celebrated their second wedding anniversary last Tuesday, May 31.
Jonathan and Kandyce celebrated their sixth anniversary last Monday, May 30.

We were (sadly) not present for any of those milestones because those children faraway live in New York state, Denver, and Minneapolis, respectively. 

BUT ...

We did get to greet baby Caroline Harper Pinckney shortly after she was born on May 20! Grandchild #4 for Coty and me. Very thankfully, this little one and her family live in North Carolina!!!

 Now a family of four! Thomas, Kay, David, and Caroline!

Now, back to cycling, etc. for just a moment. I rode today before the storm blew in. The clouds were low slung and dark, the air heavy with the scent of rain. Fragrance and stench hung in the humid air. Magnolia and skunk. I had a tailwind going out Lee Vaughn Road, a headwind on the way back. I turned around when I saw a dog down the road ahead of me. Not worth the risk. Dogs make me very nervous when I'm cycling alone. So, avoiding the dog was well worth the extra quarter mile.

When I got back, we ate Mama's good chicken salad, fruit, and pimiento cheese on celery.

Then I spend three hours sorting old photos ...

 

 Baby me, 1957

 

Baby Erin, 1983 

and Baby Caroline (not an old photo, 

just fun to look at 

Mother/Gramma, Daughter/Aunt, and Granddaughter/Niece)

Every Day in June #4

I rode this morning - country roads out from my parent's house, roads I drove routinely when I was in high school, going back and forth to my best friend Teresa's house. I cycled down her old road, past her old house, and up around the circle, and the memories flooded in. I looked at the window in what was her bedroom and thought of so many sleepovers. Early Saturday mornings while she still slept, I, the early bird, rose and sat at the kitchen table drinking tea with her mom and dad. Very sweet memories.

I notice road names when I ride and find them endlessly fascinating. Burdette, Fowler, and Howard Roads - family names, no doubt. People who lived in the area in the rather distant past. Scuffletown, Copper Lake, and Jones Mill Roads - all places with history behind them. There was a grist mill on Durbin Creek, built in 1813 and later Walter Jones ground corn and wheat, operated a cotton gin, and ran a country store in that place. The name marks the place and ties it to the past. I do not mean to imply that the past was idyllic. But it is a place with a past, good and bad, and the name means something.

Some of the new subdivisions that are sprouting up around here have names like Savannah. What??? We are far from the coast of the neighboring state of Georgia. Was the builder dreaming of Spanish moss and live oaks or perhaps African plains and the wildebeest migration? Who knows. The name seemingly has nothing to do with the geography or history. I find this kind of naming sort of silly and off-putting. It has no connection to anything. (Like my own neighborhood with the British civil parish name of Huntwick and street names like Piccadilly and Buckingham. I have yet to see the Queen strolling with her corgis).

Today, I rode on King Road. It is a narrow, winding farm road with uneven asphalt. I imagine the King family once lived and worked the land here. There is a lovely old farm house that sits back from the road along a bend and I like to think about who might have built that house. Where King Road comes to a T and meets another country road, there is, sadly, a new subdivision, with boxy houses sprouting up like mushrooms after a rain. One day they are not there and the next day, pop, there are houses - or at least the concrete pads and framing for houses and the sound of music blaring to the staccato of nail guns. Anyway, this particular new development is called by the rather regal, uppity name of Kings Crossing. I started to take umbrage with the name but I had to take myself and my irritation in hand and remind myself that at least this name made a nod to the place. King Road was there before. Kings Crossing sits at the intersection. It makes sense, at least. Not like Savannah.

I think about road names, but I also notice flowers; the wild ones: bachelor buttons, Queen Anne's lace, and oxeye daisies and the cultivated ones, deep purple hydrangeas and gardenias. Ah, the gardenias! Together with magnolia and honeysuckle, they are the signature fragrance of early summer in the south. I just want to breathe and breathe and breathe them in. 

Every day in June: Day 3: Carolina Thread Trail

It was a hot one today. In the 90's. Sunny and humid ... Bring it on!

I love summer, love the heat, love sweat dripping down my face, hair and bandana soaked when I take off my bike helmet, and the long drink of cold water afterward. I know most of you don't share this sentiment, but there it is. I come from a long line of southerners, so I suppose it's in my genes.

Today I had to squeeze in a ride between a delivery to Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden and a drive to SC to visit Mama and Daddy. Cramerton was the perfect place to do it. Strava tells me I rode 9 miles. It was mostly a meander.

This little town along the South Fork of the Catawba River feels a little bit like a town that time forgot. It is bisected by the railroad. There are houses with deep front porches and back lawns that slope down to the river; small, former mill village houses along a grid of narrow sidewalk-lined streets in the upper part of the town; a gazebo with rocking chairs right in the center. This was a textile town in the glory days of textiles in the south and though the textile glory days are past (but coming back in some measure, I hope), the town retains the feel of care and community, of place. I told my dad this evening that along my ride I saw at least five people sitting on their porches. Not looking at phones. Not reading. Not talking to anyone. Just sitting. There were young boys riding bikes through the center of town and teenagers fishing off the dock. These are not things you see everyday.

Goat Island Park and the Carolina Thread Trail make Cramerton special. Not many towns have their very own pedestrian bridge across a river to their very own island with a great playground, disc golf course, kayak launch, and fishing dock. Pretty sweet. The Thread Trail weaves together history, geography, culture and the natural beauty of this Piedmont region of North Carolina. It is good to get to know it better by bicycle!

Day #2: Steamy roads

It looked like this streak was going to be no streak at all. I left home at 6:10 this morning and returned home in the late afternoon after a torrential downpour that left rivers in the street. It was a heavy but short storm and the hot streets dried quickly so by 7:00, I could ride.

My EEH suggested I set a minimum mileage goal for any ride to qualify for this streak. I decided that 5 miles was a decent distance. That's a little less than a half hour of easy cycling so I should be able to at least do that every day, right!

After a half mile or so this evening, the rain began to fall again, very intermittently. Just a drop here and there. I heard it on my helmet more than I felt it. Plink ... plink ... ... ... plink. Then it fell more steadily. As the pattering rain wet the roads, the steam began to rise from the still warm asphalt. Why does seeing this make me feel like a kid? Is it the bicycle and the way I can lean into a downhill curve and coast through the mist?

I'm home now, a little sweaty, a little wet from the rain. It is an early summer evening, the heat of the day subsided, the humidity heavy. Lightning bugs blink out by the trees, a mockingbird sings from the top of a roof. I will make a cup of tea and sit on the porch swing and breathe the damp, heavy, evening scent of the Confederate jasmine that covers the lattice below the screen porch. A cardinal will flit across the backyard, bright red. The darkness will come and maybe the barred owls will call.