Some decisions should really be made carefully. Where to live. Who to marry. What career to pursue. These are all decisions that will stay with you for some time. Sure, any of them can be changed - but not without a reasonable amount hassle and paperwork.
Take for instance what career to pursue. I’ve read that the average American changes careers at least three or four times in their lifetime. That’s a lot. When I was seven years old I was pursuing a career in professional baseball. When my nephew was a few years younger than that he was considering a career as a shark. Not a card shark or even a loan shark. A great white shark. I’m not sure what training would be involved in such an endeavor but I can only imagine there would be a good deal of swimming and learning to eat without chewing. He was not much of a swimmer at the time but the eating thing he had down cold.
I can’t imagine that these are the types of career pursuits they are taking into account, though, when coming up with that surprisingly large ratio. How does this happen? Each year the teachers in my school work with student interns in the Masters in Teaching (MAT) program from the University of South Carolina. These are people who have earned a degree in another field only to find that they would rather be in a classroom. Some come from business backgrounds while others come from medical or communications or science degrees. I can understand this- starting a career, finding out it doesn’t quite suit you, and going back to school for a year or two so that you can switch to something you find more fulfilling. But three or four times?
Still, choosing a career is a very important, even if not binding, decision that should be made with care. This occurred to me a few days ago as I was driving down the road and passed Family Video. Nestled into one of the latest strip malls to pop up near our house, Family Video has been open for about a year or so. On the sign out front it read:
Need a career?
How does $32,000 sound?
Manager needed.
A career.
A career?
Doesn’t the word career imply long term employment? Really long – like with a retirement plan and everything? Doesn’t the word career make you think of a place from which you’ll one day retire? Somewhere where you expect to someday be offered a host of smiles, good wishes, and handshakes as you tote your box out the door on your way to a life of grandkids, gardening, and travel.
No, I don’t see Family Video as a career. With the wildly popular, and convenient, DVD machines in places like McDonalds and WalMart, not to mention the industry dominance of Netflix, I can’t see Family Video stopping by the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a retirement cake for anyone in the distant future. Looking for lasting employment at a video store makes about as much sense as becoming a plant manager at a factory making telephone chords. Or looking to build a fortune selling 35 mm film. Or selling discounted Walkmans on a corner.
It just doesn’t make sense.
I love my career. I don’t even see it so much as work. Sure there’s plenty of work involved as I spend many nights and weekends planning, reading, writing, and preparing. But more than anything I see teaching as a paid hobby. If someone were to hand me a winning lottery ticket I’m certain I’d be back in my classroom the next day. And thousands of days beyond that.
I’m lucky to do something so important to me. I’d like to say that this was all carefully constructed. I’d like to say that I made this decision very carefully. I’d like to say that there was no randomness.
But there was.
After messing around with journalism (for one semester) and music (for two), I jumped into the education program. Despite being a mediocre student, I had always loved school. I had an aunt in Arkansas that was a teacher. My grandpa used to talk about her all the time. We didn’t have a lot of college graduates in our family and the small collection of those who had received degrees had become teachers. In some ways, they seemed to be a source of family pride. So somewhere along the way the idea of becoming a teacher had occurred to me.
That part of the story makes sense. Teaching was, in a way, a family vocation and I was following in someone’s footsteps. Even if I hadn’t ever actually seen the souls making those footsteps.
So by the end of my sophomore year at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville I found myself in an introductory course designed to provide an overview of educational issues. The class met twice a week in a very large room with theater-style seating. I generally sat near the top – when I showed up at all. The class was anything but challenging. Or even interesting. As much as I’d like to blame the professor, I was more interested at the time in sleeping late or playing pool than learning. This was something that I fortunately outgrew very soon.
On the final day of class the professor explained to us that we would have to declare which program we were planning to enter – elementary or secondary. I had never, for a single moment, considered this. Grade school or high school? I had no clue. Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn’t really invested myself in the idea of being a teacher. I had no idea what I would want to teach or even what types of kids I might work with each day. To be honest, I really didn’t even have much of an idea what being a teacher would entail beyond assigning homework and keeping a grade book.
The professor then proceeded to tell us that she’d first pass out the necessary paperwork for those planning to enroll in the secondary program and then come around with the elementary forms. It seemed this was a decision that needed to be made quickly. As in the next two minutes.
My mind raced.
If this were a normal day I would have had a few more moments to stall. Had I been sitting near the top of the room it would take these forms significantly longer to reach me. Perhaps long enough to put together some thread of intelligent thought. Long enough to make a somewhat informed decision. But I wasn’t sitting near the top. As fate would have it, this particular day I had seen a really pretty girl walking just in front of me as I entered the auditorium. I followed and sat next to her planning to either talk to her or make her uncomfortable with disturbingly long and intense staring. Whether we spoke during much of that class I don’t remember. I do remember, however, her turning to me and asking which form I needed.
“Uh,” I stammered. “I…I…I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know what you want to teach?” she asked.
I take to gardening about as well as well as Keith Richards takes to sobriety. As well as Billy Joel takes to leisurely drives through the Hamptons. As well as Julianne Moore takes to movie roles that don’t require nudity.
I just don’t have a green thumb. I never have. House plants, flower beds, or gardens. They all wind up looking the same after just a month or two.
Dead.
But as Alexander Pope once wrote, Hope springs eternal. This year we are making our most ambitious effort ever to grow something. Well, not just something but somethings. Tricia’s dad was here a few weeks ago and built us two new garden boxes for the back yard. He had already helped me build two other boxes a couple of years ago. So now we have two 4X4 boxes and two 4 X 8 boxes for a grand total of 96 square feet. That’s enough room for quite a few dead plants.
I’m optimistic we’ll finally succeed. I think it’s somehow a cop-out to declare you can’t grow plants or cook or even program the VCR (but who programs VCRs anymore?). These are all tasks that can be performed if the proper steps are sequentially taken. To grow a pumpkin is not the same as creating a beautiful watercolor or performing a ballet. Plant it in the right kind of soil. At the right time of year. Water it. Fertilize it. Weed around it. And it will grow. There’s little art involved.
Right?
Yet for years I’ve declared that I can’t keep anything alive. In reality this was because I’d forget to water. And weed. And care. Often times I’d just get bored with it. We’ve started garden boxes before, both at home and in community gardens, only to neglect them. Along the way there have been a few glimmers of hope. There was the year we were able to grow a few mangled looking carrots the size of a thumb. And the year we produced enough peas for two or three dinners. But that’s about it.
This year will be different though. We’re set to see this through. Tricia started by doing some research with the Clemson Extension Home and Garden Information Center. She found out which fruits and vegetables are well suited for our temperate zone during the spring and summer months. Next she worked with her dad to make sketches of our boxes filled with what to plant in each and how far to space everything.
A few weeks later I went to Woodley’s Garden Center and bought the plants. No, we weren’t risking seeds. We’ll cheat this year and hope to build from our success next year. I picked up four corn, three zucchini, four eggplant, six tomato, four pepper, sixteen strawberry, and twenty-four green bean plants. The kids worked hard helping Tricia plant each of these in our boxes as I constructed a climbing structure for the pole beans out of bamboo and twine.
By the end of the day we had a garden that looked awfully promising. We’re still in the smitten stage right now. The one where everyone wants to be the one to go out and water it.
“Have you watered the garden?”
“No, I was just about to go out and do it.”
“Well I was just heading out so I could do it if you want.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“Well I I’ll already be out there.”
“No really, I don’t mind. I was just going to finish up the dishes and head right out.”
“Oh….all right.”
The real test will be three or four weeks from now when we’re really busy, it’s blazing hot, and the garden is no longer like a new puppy everyone wants to feed.
We have high hopes. There are already plans for another large box, some planters, and maybe even a small lemon tree in the middle. We’ve dreamed of building a small bench suspended between two wooden planters at each side. And low bushes to serve as a decorative border. But perhaps we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. First we need to keep this garden alive.
Saturday was the big day. After months and months of talking about our Spring Break backpacking trip the day had finally arrived. But not without a few glitches. First, we had been planning to head up to Jones Gap State Park, which is situated right next to Caesar’s Head State Park in the northern part of the state, and set up a base camp. Tricia, Ainsley, and Ty were going to camp for the night while Harper, Muluken, and I headed out on one of the many trails offering backcountry camping. On Friday I called Jones Gap to get some suggestions as to which trail would best suit us and to find out if I needed to reserve any of the campsites. I hadn’t done this ahead of time because there’s a two-night minimum when making early reservations and I knew this was going to be a one night trip.
When I called the park office I received a message stating that office hours are from 11 – 12 each day. It was already 3:30 in the afternoon. I then called Caesar’s Head and luckily got in touch with someone. The lady on the line told me that all campsites were full except for one. The one available site was a few miles into the woods. This obviously wouldn’t work for Tricia and the little ones. I began to panic. Time was ticking and it suddenly occurred to me that with the nice weather and spring holiday all the parks may be at or near capacity.
I frantically searched the internet and considered many places. Finally, I found Oconee State Park in northwest South Carolina, near the Georgia border. There were many sites available inside the park and given that Oconee offers access to the Foothills Trail, Harper, Muluken, and I would be able to hike out and find a spot before returning the next day. It was perfect.
We packed up all our gear Friday night, woke up relatively early on Saturday, and headed out. However, what was supposed to be a three-and-a –half hour drive became a bit longer when we found out that I-385 was closed. Tricia began digging through the glove compartment in search of a map. Given that we tend to get lost fairly often we have a variety of maps that we’ve collected from gas stations throughout the state. After a few moments she found one.
Getting off the highway may have slowed us down but it also gave us an opportunity to drive through some nice little rural towns like Walhalla and Peltzer. These towns were picturesque. Each had a Main Street lined with small shops and restaurants that did not read Wal-Mart, Walgreens, or Mc Donalds. There were many beautiful trees towering above the one and two story houses that sat comfortably back from the road with meticulously maintained lawns. Of course, there was also a spattering of rusted-out trailer homes being consumed by weeds in overgrown lots, sinking porches stuffed from floor to roof with trash, and stretches of long-abandoned businesses and homes. And then there were the Confederate flags. While not everywhere, there were enough of them, in homes and storefront windows, to remind us where we were. To remind us that living in quaint Southern towns can often, though not always, come at a price.
Finally we made our way to the park. Oconee State Park sits nestled in the Blue Ridge foothills. Built in the 1920’s by the Civilian Conservation Corps, the park has an abundance of camping sites and cabins. It also has a small lake filled with bass and bream, a playground, and a putt-putt course. As we pulled in the front gates and made our way back to the park office we were quickly reminded that this was a holiday weekend. There were people everywhere.
Fortunately the site that Tricia was camping on with Ainsley and Ty was located back in the woods away from the crowds. We had to walk their gear in about two or three hundred yards to the heavily wooded site that sat just fifty yards from another smaller lake in the park. When we got back to the site we were surprised to see there was already a tent set up on our lot. As I walked up to it I noticed an open pocket knife lying on the ground amidst a collection of trash and other debris. Muluken and I walked up to the tent to see if anyone was there. Piled up in front of the tent door was a small mountain of assorted cowboy boots.
“Hello,” I called.
No answer.
“Is anybody here?”
Suddenly a surprised face shot out from the side of the tent door. It was a young guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with messy red hair and a small beard running down from his lower lip to his chin. He looked a lot like Scooby Doo’s good pal Shaggy. And by the way he seemed to be trying to hide his body from view I imagined he must not be dressed.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Hey, we have this lot tonight. So we’re just gonna drop our stuff over here in the clearing and go out for a hike.” I explained. “We’ll be back in a few hours to set up our camp. That’ll give you a little time to get everything packed up.”
“Oh, okay,” he replied. He looked confused or embarrassed. Or maybe even irritated. I’m really not very good at reading body language.
Muluken and I headed back over to Tricia to explain the situation when suddenly the head, this time accompanied by a fully dressed body, came jogging over to reassess the situation.
“Hey, I think we have this spot for two nights,” he said. “Are you sure you have the right lot?”
I showed him the map the ranger gave me and pointed out that it was the very lot he was on.
“We’re headed back up front so we’ll just stop in and double check with the ranger.” I said.
I really thought this would be enough to make him want to move if, in fact, he was trying to pull something over on us. Turns out he was. About twenty minutes later we returned with a ranger who had to kick him and his buddies off the lot. They started to pack up. Since Tricia was camping there alone with the two little ones it was all a bit unsettling but turned out well, none-the-less.
We headed back to the van so that Tricia could give Harper, Muluken, and me a ride to the trailhead. It was only a few minutes away and we were excited to finally get started. I had hoped to be on the trail by 12:30 or so and it was now already past 1:00. By the time we unloaded our stuff from the van, signed the trail register, and made our way a few yards down the road to the trail it was 1:40. Finally, we were here. We said our good byes and headed off into the woods.
Those first few hundred yards come and go easily. The packs are light, the sun is soft, and the trail is flat. Soon, though, the kids started to wear down a bit. We had started at the southern terminus of the Foothills Trail, a seventy-seven mile trail that runs along the Blue Ridge escarpment in the Southern Appalachians. The trail begins at Oconee State Park and takes you through deep forests, past waterfalls, and to the highest peak in South Carolina, Sassafrass Mountain. Eventually, the trail comes to an end at Table Rock State Park. Our adventure was not nearly so ambitious, though. We were just hoping to get in some good mileage, find a spot to camp for the night, and then head back in the next morning where we would meet Tricia at the ranger office, hopefully around noon.
Fifteen minutes into the trip I heard my first “Can we stop for a break?” I don’t remember if it was Harper or Muluken who said it but it doesn’t matter because they immediately teamed up with one another and pleaded to rest. The trees were just beginning to get their very first spring leaves so there was little relief from the blazing sun. What had started as a light pack was soon turning heavy and making shoulders pinch and backs ache. We found a relatively shady spot, dropped our packs, and sat down for a small snack of granola bars and, for Muluken, beef jerkey.
Soon after, Muluken asked if he could go to the bathroom.
“Go way back off the trail and pick a tree,” I said. “And try not to trample any plants. And don’t put your foot anywhere you can’t see what's under it.”
“Dad,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t need to pee.”
“Oh."
It was at this moment I think we were all initiated into the wilderness. Things were explained.
“I have to do what?” Muluken asked.
“He has to put his toilet paper where?” Harper asked.
I laid out the need to protect the plants and animals and beauty of the woods and how this sometimes means doing things the hard way.
Muluken quickly got over the shock and happily headed back into the woods, trash bag and toilet paper in hand. Harper and I giggled about this for some time and agreed that we wouldn’t write about it in our blogs – a promise I knew I’d never be able to keep. So we agreed to at least leave out the specifics.
While we were stopped there on the trail a young couple passed us and said hello. We would later see them again, as well as an older man who was coming back in from a spur trail leading to a sixty foot waterfall. These were the only three people we saw on the trail all day and most of the next morning. The further we got out the more we felt truly alone.
It took only about thirty minutes or so before our next stop. We were walking just below the ridge line, again, exposed to the full sun. There were an endless supply of ups-and-downs and Harper’s pack was feeling heavy on her shoulders. She was carrying her sleeping bag, sleeping pad, change of clothes, snack, and water bottle. Just the morning before she had tried to bring along a stuffed bear and two stuffed ponies. I didn’t make her leave them at home but she could tell from my tone that it was a bad idea. Climbing yet another hill with that pack on her back, I’m sure she was happy to shed the weight. Even if it was only a fraction of a pound.
Our second stop was along a steep pitch near a spur trail that led up to the Long Mountain Fire Tower. We sat there, side-by-side, looking down at all the trees below us. I suspected we were spending more time resting, at this point, than we were actually hiking. The kids talked about all kinds of things. The chatter started with hiking related topics but soon moved to Demi Lovato’s supersized smile and how she does this “Yeaow” thing at the end of all her songs. Amazingly, Harper and Muluken carried on an entire conversation about this. Since I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about I was reduced to eavesdropping. Finally, though, I made them explain to me who in the world they were talking about. It winds up it was the girl from the movie “Camp Rock,” which I’ve seen.
About this time I started thinking about how late into the afternoon it was getting and how we weren’t going to get as far along the trail as I had hoped if we didn’t get going soon. We’d really need to stop taking a rest every fifteen or thirty minutes and pick up our pace. We’d need to focus a bit more on the forward progress. But then it hit me. The trip didn’t need to be about mileage or even hours spent on the trail. Rather, the trip needed to be about silly conversations and potty humor and just taking our time. Enjoying each other. At that very moment I decided to let go of any goals I may have had about how far we might go or what we might see. Instead, I’d just let it all happen and enjoy it for what it was.
Ten minutes later we were stopped again so the kids could climb across a downed tree. About forty-five minutes after that we were stopped in a shaded clearing to eat an early dinner, sandwiches from Jersey Mikes. A little after four o’clock we finally came across our first stream – and not a moment too soon. Muluken had run out of water and we were a little concerned whether we were ever going to find a water source. We jumped down into the creek, gathered up some water, and purified it using my snazzy new SteriPen (which looks a lot like a small light saber that you stir the water with). I told the kids about the dangerous bacteria that were in the water and how dangerous it could be even though it looked really clean. They enjoyed taking a turn purifying a batch of their own.
About a half hour later we found a really nice spot back in the woods along a stream. It was level and peaceful and covered in a nice soft layer of leaves. We decided to make camp. It was 5:30. We had hiked 3.2 miles in four hours.
Harper and Muluken set up the tent as I sat and took pictures of their progress. They worked together beautifully and were patient with one another when something didn’t come out right. In just over ten minutes or so they had it up. I helped them put on the rain fly and stake it out. They then proceeded to change into their camp sandals and splash around in the stream for the next hour or so. They were so excited to play in the water. Ideally you should not camp next to a water source like this but I couldn’t resist letting them play and, later, lay in their sleeping bags listening to gentle sound of the water passing over the rocks.
Around 7:30 we got our stuff together and hopped into the tent. After setting our pads and bags up, we played some Crazy Eights and then I taught them how to play Hearts. A little less than an hour later we hopped in our bags for the night. Ready to get some rest to do it all again in the morning.
As it turns out, the hike back was much quicker. What had taken us four hours the day before we did this time in just two. A cool morning, fresh legs, and a renewed excitement works wonders. We actually came upon Tricia, Ainsley, and Ty as we neared the end of the trail. They were headed out on a 5 mile hike to the waterfall. We decided to head back to the van, drop off our packs, and meet them at the falls. We had to really hurry since we were giving them a forty-minute head start but we did it. By the time we made it to the end of the trail, unloaded our gear, doubled back, and finally reached the falls they had only been there a short time.
The kids all loved climbing up rocks and splashing through the ice cold water. It was a great time. Eventually we all hiked back together. All six of us. Our total for the day was eight miles. The entire trip totaled 11 miles. Not bad for our maiden adventure into the woods.
We’ll go back out again. Eventually.
Harper has decided to write a non-fiction book about the Appalachian Trail for a class assignment. I can’t wait to read it.
Muluken thinks it might be fun to do the entire Foothills Trail one day.
