the Red Heart

Olivia and I made it back from Asheville after lunch. We had taken our time getting our errands done in Asheville, stopping at the French Broad Co-Op , Harvest Records, and mast General Store before heading out to Marshall. We stopped in at Marshall Proper to
So Olivia could show me off. Lee walker stood out side of his fine crafts gallery , much the same, except he was sporting a very angular Amish beard to which he had braided.

The gallery is nice, with a whiff of a southwestern trading post. Some echo of Mr. Walker’s time spent in Texas. He carries some of Rob Amberg’s nostalgic and sometimes stark, black and white photographs that chronicle the county. There is also some Langsner furniture, silver work and a modest rack of hand designed women’s clothing, a few silver rings, and some biomorphic clay sculpture that reminds me of a sprouting onion seed.

The guy that used own Lark Books, an independent publishing company of craft books, has since sold the company to a larger house out of NYC, and has taken on the orgasmic endeavor of renovating the old Marshall Island High school. The rooms are slated to be
artist studios. Everyone is pleased with the smart development of Marshall, NC.
The family seems inspired and pleased with Marshall’s events; I wish the same could be said for the turn of events in our home.
I have returned to Big Pine due to Rennie’s death. Words like passing, transcending, moving are good descriptors. A word like death is what it is though. We don’t like to say that because it isn’t youth, it isn’t hot, nor sexy, but it is something we meet along the way. I run from my wrinkles and sighs, but I can not hide, even amongst the humidity and magnolia bushes of Western North Carolina.


I have lived in a grieving house before. But it isn't felt as acutely as returning home to live at the family farm in a small, remodeled farm house. The house of my childhood .I wonder if the walls are sobbing,if they are they will also someday find joy.