Rivanna Writer

Martha in Lattimore

I learned that Martha Mason, who spent over 60 years in an iron lung, died last weekend. Martha was a native of Lattimore, N.C., an author of a memoir entitled simply "Breath" and the subject of a documentary film. Thanks to my friend, Mariel, who knew Martha and who sent me her memoir, I met Martha a few years ago.
I regret I never wrote to tell her how wonderful her book was.
So I'll now tell anyone who wants to know.
What was remarkable was that Martha, although she lived this extraordinarily unusual life, had a sense of joy and an acceptance that helped her surpass the many limitations.
Her parents - as parents and caretakers - were remarkable, as were other caretakers over the years.
I remember the time when polio was a real threat. I was in second grade in Newport News, Va., and a classmate became infected. My mother commisserated with the girl's mother but also worried about whether or not I would become infected. The schools took precautions. We went to the doctors. But all you could do is hope and pray -- there were no cures, no vaccines against polio at the time. Our recently deceased president had lived his life with it.
Some, like Martha's brother, even died. Martha was not expected to live, but she did. For 60 more years until she was 71.
When Martha went to Wake Forest, her mother went with her, took notes for her in class, wrote assignments dictated by Martha. Martha made a life for herself with her parents, she made friends -- lots of them -- and had callers. Late in life, she went through the trauma of seeing her beloved mother descend into the dementia of Alzheimer's.
Somehow, Martha prevailed to write her story of defying the odds to live and breathe and create. Many of us live in self-imposed prisons. Martha's iron lung was a prison not of her making, but she showed how the human spirit can prevail.
Read Breath by Martha Mason.

Listen to the story about Martha on
www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=104032600

Beach Floating

On Ocracoke Island, my mind floats.

Anticipating my week long sojourn on the Outer Banks, I think of all the activities I love to do and plan accordingly -- birdwatching, kayaking, fishing, walking on the beach, biking and eating, maybe trying parasailing or horseback riding.

Once I've crossed the sound from Hatteras, these plans quickly are pared down -- I use my bike to get around and I definitely look forward not only to the Crews Inn morning repast but other seafood feasts -- crab beignets at the Back Porch, fresh bluefish at the Atlantic Cafe, shrimp at Howard's Pub.

My type A personality recedes -- I enjoy long walks on the beach until I can see no other people, I read Alan Furst novels of World War II adventure and I nap every afternoon. Even though I arrived not particuarly stressed, my body now reminds me how good it feels to truly release and relax. As I walk or sit on the beach, my mind floats -- on the waves, in the clouds, across the ripples in the sand made by the water receding from the shore.

New definition for myself: reader, napper, sometime birder and beachcomber.

Without newspapers !

An inveterate newspaper reader, NPR and News Hour junkie, I usually incorporate the daily news into my Ocracoke regimen. Whether I was at a hotel, B&B or cottage, in the past, my morning ritual included a walk to one of the two stores or the coffee shop for a Virginian-Pilot, which combined national and Virginia headlines with North Carolina news.

This year, however, I forgot all about the newspapers, although for a moment on my final day, I thought a paper might be good for transition back to "real life. "

But-- nah -- there's still plenty of blue sky, sands and waves to contemplate for another day.

Photos from Ocracoke

Books I've Read

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Snow Day

When I awoke this morning, snow was falling, the streets and sidewalks were covered and from my bed, I could see that the woods and nearby fields were deeply covered. The big flakes turned into smaller ones, and at last the snow stopped and the sky turned bright blue. I, on the other hand, lazed in bed, read magazines I had ignored for months and over the course of an hour slowly arose to greet the "snow day."
A day for several walks: Late morning, I took a spin in the cemetary past the graves marked "Graves," a redundancy my neighbor, Susie, noted, with the tombstones powdered. Despite the sun, it was very chilly with a brisk wind blowing across the largely open field. In one place, some animal had run in a large circle -- who was it and what was it doing? Not a cat, not a bird -- maybe a rabbit or a fox?
Mid-afternoon, I decided to walk beside the River. The path was littered with footprints but I saw few people along the way. Wind gusts blew me, I looked at the birds -- the red of cardinals against the white snow path, the white throated sparrows pecking at berries and skittering across the ground. Overhead, the snow on horizontal branches metamorphized into trunks whose whiteness came not from snow but from the peeling bark of the Sycamores lining the River.
In the distance I hear titmice and chicadees and juncos -- and the distinctive buzzing of a kingfisher looking for dinner. With my binoculars I come upon two bluebirds fluttering in the branches, the blue so velvety that it could break your heart.
But my quarry is in the river. For several days I have seen two mute swans among the Canada Geese that inhabit the Rivanna year round. In the past I've seen single swans on the Rivanna but never two at once. I always thought the swan I saw over the years was the same one, until I learned that they live for only a couple of years. So I must be seeing new swans each time.
Today, I see only one white swan. Aright, the swan with its curving graceful neck floats elegantly. But just as I settle into this notion of the swan, it ducks its head and kicks its butt in the air as it forages for dinner, and I am left with a comical cartoon-like view of the bird.
Still, my walk is quiet. The snow has melted on the some of the asphalt path, and I notice small mounds where the roots of the nearby trees are spreading out and pressing up through the man-made path.
An acquaintance died today. He had been as alive as these birds, as I am now, and then he was gone. He lived for a week as his family said goodbye.
I walk back up the hill. The neighborhood children are sledding down the hill in my yard, laughing and shouting.
It's a snow day.