Palm Sunday

On Sunday, it was Palm Sunday (so odd). 

We went for a drive.

Actually, we went for two drives.

We began by trying to go in the car, but the battery was dead, so we jumped it from the van.  I, I myself, located the jumper cables, and assisted like an OR nurse, feeling very important.  Once the car was started, we knew we should drive it around for awhile, so we hopped in and set out.

Because of the Corona quarantine, we hadn't been out for a long time.

The back roads through the woods are stunning right now, clusters of forest like giant bouquets of pale green hydrangeas radiating under a brilliant sun.  Dogwood blossoms float outward like fairy flowers in flush white layers, while colossal clusters of pale lavender wisteria drip like grapes from massive trees.  Tucked back in the underbrush, wild azaleas brighten the shade with their red, pink, while and coral blooms.

It was quiet on the road, and bright, and still.  Angled light fell through the trees, tinged with pastel colors, illuminating particles of pollen and falling petals.

I'm not sure about Shawn, but I felt like an outlaw, especially when I sneezed a few times, because allergies are real, and they instill one with guilt when COVID-19 is raging.

We drove to a trailhead we had noticed near the Haw River.  We checked the parking lot, which was somewhat full but not bursting.  Some tan, shirtless young men with short hair, tattoos, and strings tied around their heads were unloading kayaks from the back of a pickup.  They waved, friendly.

We drove home and switched out the car for the van, just in case the battery wasn't really fixed, and we went back.

The trail we embarked upon did not seem well traveled.  Shawn warned me that there was a lot of poison ivy, so I held my elbows tight in at my waist and clasped my hands upright in front of me.  It was warm, sunny, shady, pale green and speckled everywhere with wildflowers whose names I do not know.

We crossed a tributary on wobbly stones.  Being older than I ever have been, I needed a hand to keep upright, but with help I skipped over.

Now and then we passed others, and we tried very hard to keep the recommended six foot distance.  Most of the time, I think we did well.  We also have taken to holding our breath in the presence of strangers.

At one point, walking along the river, we came upon a couple of girls reclining on the bank.  They were extremely thin and pale, in small red and gray bikinis that didn't match the pastel scenery.  One of them seemed to be lying back on some sort of chaise lounge, while the other sat forward on a blanket with her knees pulled up.  They were having a deep discussion while the sun touched their colorless faces, both from above and in reflection off the water.  I wondered where they could possibly be from, and how they could be unaware of the sunburn they would later suffer.  Maybe they had used sunscreen.  I don't know.  To me, they looked tragically and enigmatically unaware.  I had no sunscreen to offer them, so I kept my silence, trusting in the fringe of new green ferns and grasses to privatize our separate parties.

We walked all the way to where the trail encountered a sign that said, "Posted.  No Trespassing."  Although the trail continued, we figured we should not.  So we went back: along the river, up the hill, through the forest, across the tributary, up another hill, past the wooden gate at the trailhead, and across the hot gravel parking lot, by then quite empty.  The boys with the kayaks were gone.

After all that, Shawn checked his Fitbit, and we'd gone less than a mile.  Our own small neighborhood at home gives us a pretty solid mile.  Shawn said, "That's the longest less-than-a-mile walk I ever took."

We drove down to Lowes to see if the garden center was open, just to observe, not to explore.  It was open, but three or four people stood under the sun on the asphalt, between taped off spaces, waiting to be allowed in to shop.  Every soul was wearing a mask.  One woman, in amongst the plants, wore a particularly effective looking mask, a pandemic professional.  She was thin, sporting a tee-shirt, pale green like the spring foliage, and she stroked a plant in a pot with a plastic-gloved finger.  I asked Shawn if we could leave.  Across the parking lot, Kentucky Fried Chicken had posted a giant red and white sign, "WE ARE OPEN."

At that point the heat was bearing down, and I was really thirsty, but by a miracle of Providence, a rumpled package of bottled water behind my seat turned up a fresh bottle for me, and it was still somehow cool to the touch, a precious relic from the last trip we took, so long ago.  When even was the last trip we took?

We drove north up the main road toward home, past many businesses with dark windows and empty parking lots.  Some fast-food drive-through windows were open, but hardly any cars stood in line.  I drank my water gratefully, watching the beauty of the brilliant sun shining through its clarity. 

Such a very strange Palm Sunday.