The Good The Bad & The Indifferent

[Canoerebel]

John's been busy with work. He says he'll be back on schedule today, but I'll be tied up most of the day. So probably I won't run the turn until fairly late tonight.

I'll be spending the day with a retired 93-year-old librarian and poet. I'm taking her to Cherokee Indian sites in northwest Georgia. She's going to write a poem about the Trail of Tears. At the same time, I'm writing a story based upon a diary kept by Moravian missionaries to the Cherokee from 1805 to 1821.

I will try to avoid purple prose. "It was a dark and stormy night. John III placed his wizened fingers on the bronzed temples, at a shattering loss as to what to do with his besieged yet resolute armed forces. He knew his opponent was erudite, supple, winsome, yet uncommonly modest. And the map. The map! There were green splotches everywhere, loathsome in their pregnant significance. They meant despair and ruination for the Empire of the Banzai, and the Empire of the Banzai was all that was important now."

[JohnDillworth]

I'll be spending the day with a retired 93-year-old librarian and poet. I'm taking her to Cherokee Indian sites in northwest Georgia. She's going to write a poem about the Trail of Tears. At the same time, I'm writing a story based upon a diary kept by Moravian missionaries to the Cherokee from 1805 to 1821.

Sounds like a terrific day. May the muses inspire

[Cap Mandrake]

One of my great great grandmothers was Moravian, Lucy Hinkle. I met her once when she was 104. Born in North Carolina before the War Between the States. She went off the Moravian reservation and married an Irish catholic train fireman. Her sister married the train fireman's
brother. She had white hair. Feel free to use that if you want. [:)]

[Canoerebel]

Listen, you and Lokasenna are responsible for two days of unrest. Ever since you mentioned "purple prose," I've been trying to figure out if I'm guilty. But I"m discovering that it's impossible for a writer to self-diagnose. It's hard to recognize flaws in one's own writing, like it's hard for a lawyer to represent himself. Purple prose! Purple prose!

[Canoerebel]

The timing couldn't have been better calculated to mess with my mind. When that exchange began (Purple prose! Purple prose!) I was working on a short story about my Summer Solstice Eve hike under the full moon. I was trying to write descriptively. That means I there was a risk of veering into purple prose. Loka's mention of it led me to read more about it. Then I had to rework the story a bit. But it's hard for a writer to self-diagnose. Here's the latest draft of the story:

Along the Backroads

27 Miles from Nowhere

In the afterglow of spring’s final sunset, I did something unexpected. I began a six-mile hike on Chickamauga Creek Trail, a seldom-used path in a peaceful fold of the northwest Georgia mountains. I always hike in daylight, so this was a marked departure from my Sunday evening routine.

The idea was to experience the trail under a full moon on the eve of the summer solstice. At first, diminishing light from sunset and a ghostly glow from the rising moon filtered weakly through the forest canopy, lighting the way. A mile later, the trail dipped into a narrow gorge where Taylors Ridge and Dick Ridge pinch together. There light wouldn’t reach the forest floor until the moon climbed high in the eastern sky and cleared the looming bulk of Dick Ridge, sometime after midnight.

Near-total darkness enveloped the trail as it snaked through the gorge. The lingering songs of the daytime birds ceased. Cicadas stopped droning. Horseflies went wherever horseflies go at night. And then the magic began.

Magic was what I had come to see, but was it still showing? I was unsure. My family and I had camped at this same place in June 2006, but early in the month. At sunset, a choir of whippoorwills had performed a whistled concerto. Fireflies handled the lighting in a show that stands out in our memories as never again equaled. It was as if a masterful exterior decorator had wreathed the dark mountainside in miles of hopelessly tangled Christmas tree lights, all of them winking cheerfully.

Was this summer’s solstice too late in the season to catch the firefly show?

I found out just minutes later. As I carefully stepped among rocks and roots scarcely visible in the gloaming, white lights began twinkling on and off, on and off. The show had opened, so I stopped beside a beech tree to watch. As more and more living lights joined in, some seemed to dance down the mountainside, like sparks of elven fire poured from enchanted cauldrons. Then a barred owl took its cue, voicing a resounding “Haw!” Each “Haw!” echoed hauntingly between the mountains, trailing away until succeeded by the next.

My family claims that Chickamauga Creek Trail is 27 Miles from Nowhere, a reference to its remoteness and distance from our house. Until this year, I’d never encountered another hiker in 20 years of walking the six mile loop. But on consecutive Saturdays in April, I met several groups of backpackers. I figured that finally word was out about this secluded trail. It doesn’t lead to waterfalls or spectacular views (except in winter), but it is ideal for those who enjoy stretching their legs in a picturesque, tranquil forest of hardwood and pine.

Instead of views from lofty crags, blessed silence is the outstanding feature of Chickamauga Creek Trail. I should clarify that by any reasonable standard, “silence” allows for sounds like thunder, wind, owls hooting, cicadas droning, katydids sawing, coyotes howling, and snatches of cordial conversation with those who have wandered far from the highway solely by foot.

Georgia novelist Eugenia Price was a seeker of silence. The best-selling author of Beloved Invader and many other novels set in our state wrote longingly in At Home on St. Simons Island of her search for a few moments of peace in an increasingly noisy world. Thanks to motorboats, aircraft, lawn mowers, power saws and telephones, she despairingly counted her successes in intervals of seconds or minutes.

Since Price’s death in 1996, the search for silence has become even more challenging. Over the past 20 years, we’ve endured a proliferation of atrocities like the leaf blower and the car alarm, not to mention the cell phone, which makes noise portable and raises the decibel level of conversation. Clamor is ubiquitous, so those who cherish tranquility are forced to seek refuge in soundproof bunkers or in our ever-shrinking wild places.

By disposition, some hikers are reluctant to let go of civilization for even a few hours. You might encounter them on the trail, carrying mechanical noisemakers that provide music (as if birdsong wasn’t sufficient) or a direct link to home and office. To them, tranquility is an obstacle to vanquish with dispatch. They must be extroverts.

The rest of us search for tranquility diligently because it’s essential to our pursuit of happiness. We must be introverts. Chickamauga Creek Trail is perfect for introverts. Intervals of silence there last for hours and sometimes even days.

Nighttime is undoubtedly the optimal time to find tranquility on the trail, as long as the hiker doesn’t mind dark shadows, the scurryings and skitterings of nocturnal critters on the forest floor, and the occasional “Haw!” On that Summer Solstice Eve hike, I didn’t see another soul. Nor did I expect to, since there weren’t any vehicles parked at the trailhead.

After admiring the fireflies for ten minutes, I moved on. The footing became more precarious when I entered the deeper shadows at the base of Dick Ridge, on the side of the ridge shaded from the moon. I clicked on my headlamp and continued across a narrow shelf twenty feet above East Chickamauga Creek.

Then the trail began its steep ascent of the ridge. As I climbed higher and higher, the fireflies thinned, katydids began sawing, a refreshing summer breeze tickled the heights, and the full moon burst into view when I finally reached the crest.

The remainder of the hike was ideally suited for an introvert since moonlight illuminated most of the descent. Walking was easy. My thoughts turned to memories of more than two decades of hiking there. I recalled my first visit in company with my wife, who was expecting our first child. Half-a-dozen years later, we brought our three youngsters along for a lovely autumn hike. Then there was that overnight family camping trip on the Night of the Fireflies in 2006. On that occasion, we carved our initials in a beech tree. Each time I return to the trail, I stop at that tree and marvel at the passage of time.

I’ve made a dozen pilgrimages to the trail this year, mostly to photograph wildflowers. But there’s also the lure of tranquility. On Chickamauga Creek Trail, quiet interludes are always measured in hours.

I wonder. What will the trail be like under the full moon nearest the winter solstice?

Directions: For those who wish to get away from it all, Chickamauga Creek Trail is located at the end of Forest Service Road 219, roughly six miles northwest of Villanow in Walker County. The trail is moderately difficult, somewhat poorly marked, and located in a remote and isolated area. The ability to use a topographic map of the area is recommended.

[Cap Mandrake]

I enjoyed that but I do have a soft spot for fireflies. [:)] I was worried you were going to fall and hit your head and then we wouldn't find out what the other targets were.

"looming bulk" and "ghostly glow" are not really purple...more mauve.

[Canoerebel]

"Looming bulk" made me suspicious. And all that stuff about "enchanted cauldrons."

[Encircled]

"Looming Bulk" reminds me of one of my ex-girfriends

[Lecivius]

ORIGINAL: Encircled

"Looming Bulk" reminds me of one of my ex-girfriends

Or my wife...

[Cap Mandrake]

ORIGINAL: Lecivius

ORIGINAL: Encircled

"Looming Bulk" reminds me of one of my ex-girfriends

Or my wife...

Do you have a death wish, lad? [;)]

[Lokasenna]

ORIGINAL: Canoerebel

Listen, you and Lokasenna are responsible for two days of unrest. Ever since you mentioned "purple prose," I've been trying to figure out if I'm guilty. But I"m discovering that it's impossible for a writer to self-diagnose. It's hard to recognize flaws in one's own writing, like it's hard for a lawyer to represent himself. Purple prose! Purple prose!

Should we send you some purple crayons for your birthday?

Purple prose really applies more to fiction. A good self-diagnostic might just be to check to see how many sentences are... long. I didn't see any examples, and it really is applied to pieces of writing as a whole rather than, say, paragraphs.

[crsutton]

Some might say that Faulkner wrote with a lot of purple prose. But then again for him it worked, and worked well. A good writer just knows how far to push. An average writer can't see that.

[JeffroK]

There's a "gloaming" thats a bit maroon.

[Canoerebel]

Gloaming is a maroon word, you're right. I'll look at it hard. There may be a way to use it that doesn't stick out, or there may be a simpler word that gives the same idea without imposing on the reader's sensibilities.

[Canoerebel]

11/8/43

Big Tent: A very uneventful day as the herd hoofs it to within two hexes of Truk. No encounters with subs, surface ships or carriers. Modsst LBA sortie doesn't accomplish anything, with John losing more aircraft than I do, but numbers aren't that big (something like 45 to 30).

At this point, John should be guessing (or at least leaning) "Truk!" But the herd will move five hexes due west tomorrow. If he's preparing an ambush, this should complicate things just a bit.

Two APDs carrying Free French infantry will detach tonight and move directly to Satawal for the opening invasion of Big Tent. The dot hex should be vacant unless John is a step ahead of me. Also, an AP (carrying part of a base force) and an SC will also try to make it the beachhead tomorrow. If all goes well, PBYs can operate from this base the day after tomorrow.

The backup if things don't go well: Eldorado.

Depending on how things go tomorrow, I'll decide whether or not to keep Wolei as a target. It might be better to just move on expeditiously to the major targets rather than spending a couple of days on a base that isn't all that important and which will be hard to defend anyhow.

[Flicker]

Assaulting Satawal should confuse John.

[Lokasenna]

ORIGINAL: Flicker

Assaulting Satawal should confuse John.

Idunno. Maybe only insofar as he may not be able to determine whether it's to move toward Hollandia or points west. In either case, it's a move meant to isolate Truk by sea.

[Canoerebel]

The poet I spent the day with is a 92-year-old retired librarian and Peace Corps volunteer. We toured New Echota (a state park at the site of the Cherokee capital in the 1820s to 1838) and the Chief Vann House (home of the wealthiest of all the Cherokee people). It was quite a day. This lady's husband was a USAAF pilot stationed in the Philippines at the start of the war. Her brother was on the Tennessee at Pearl Harbor. Another brother was injured while in paratroop training and ended up instead serving with Patton. All three of them survived the war. She met her future husband while he was in South Carolina recovering from injuries suffered in the Pacific. The brother in the Navy served on other BBs and was in Tokyo Bay at the end of the war. And the other brother served in Sicily, Italy, France and Germany.

[Flicker]

My father's mother was relieved when he was sent to the Pacific theater in WW2, far away from the 'real' war in Europe where her oldest son was fighting.

[Canoerebel]

Why Satawaal was targeted from the outset: (1) provide NavSearch where there wasn't any; (2) it and Wolei would be friendly stations on the route of egress (the original plan was to return home the way the herd came), (3) to rattle John a bit as the plan unfolded and he found his bases under attack; (4) to give John something to attack, hopefully diluting his focus for a few days.

The preferred route of egress is no longer back to Wake and the Allies already have a PBY base in operation not too far from Satawal, so the invasion isn't quite as important, but most of these objectives are still applicable to some extent or other. I have to pass by the island anyhow, taking it should be a snap, and having navsearch here for a few turns or 5 or 10 will be a comfort since I don't know where KB is at the moment.

But I don't think Wolei is necessary any more. I think spending two or three or four days on her is a diversion from a more important mission. So I'm likely to bypass it now.