On a consulting assignment in New Brunswick, Canada, in a conversation over dinner with my new clients, I made an offhand comment about a French-Canadian great-grandmother and how some of my ancestors migrated from Canada to Louisiana. “Your ancestors must have been driven out during the Acadian Expulsion,” they said. “That means you have Acadian blood!"
That conversation led to hours spent researching my ancestry and the discovery that my people were indeed among among the earliest settlers in Port Royal, in modern-day Nova Scotia, tracing back to a sea captain named Pierre Arsenault who is believed to have sailed from France in about 1671.
My father glorified our Irish heritage, claiming that we were descended from the Irish King O’Laoghaire (“O’Leary”). I do love Ireland and recall, during my first visit there, feeling gobsmacked by déjà vu when I came upon a vista of horses grazing in a green field against a wild sea. These days, however, after nearly four years of regular travel to New Brunswick, I think of myself as a Lost Acadian, who found her way to Maritime Canada by pure dumb luck.
Or was it?
We are bound to our ancestors by delicate strands of DNA. Might DNA also explain why I fell in love with the French language at the age of 12? Why, when I was planning my first trip to Europe, it had to be France? Or how I ended up in Fredericton, New Brunswick, working a project led by a woman with the last name Arsenault—my newly discovered distant cousin?
Is there something in our DNA that pulls us toward the stories and places of our ancestors?
What follows here is the text of a letter written to my youngest sister, Maureen Rose Morley, by the great writer Wendell Berry. Maureen had studied his writings in graduate school in Vancouver, where she met her husband, Steve Morley, and was strongly influenced by them. When she was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, she wrote to tell Mr. Berry how much she appreciated and was comforted by his work. He replied promptly from his home in Port Royal, Kentucky, with a lovely handwritten letter. It was dated June 21, 2005--the date of her 38th birthday. In it, he tells a story of a time when his friend, the photographer Ralph Eugene Meatyard, took him to visit Thomas Merton.
When Maureen died in December 2006, she left the letter to me along with her own writings. To a young woman who cared little for things, it was one of her treasures. It is too wise and wonderful to keep to myself. Maureen was wise and wonderful too, and I know she’d be happy for me to share it with you. I have reproduced it below, leaving intact every word and bit of punctuation and paragraph break. His last line expresses my New Year's wish for you.
Dear Mrs. Morley,
I am very moved to have your letter, and of course I am deeply grateful that my books could have been valuable to you in your circumstances.
Since I received your letter I have been thinking of what I should say to you. The prognosis you have received from your doctor must make your situation seem rather dramatic, perhaps to you, but certainly to us “lucky” ones who have received no such official tidings. But of course we lucky ones are lucky only insofar as we successfully forget that we too may be living the last years—or days or hours—of our own lives. And this is a failure of imagination that all the great teachers have told us to correct. And so I have thought of a story to tell you.
Thomas Merton and I had a mutual friend, the photographer Ralph Eugene Meatyard, who took me with him twice to visit Merton. On the first of these visits we got into a conversation about the Shakers. Finally I said I didn’t understand the Shakers. If they really believed that the world could end at any minute, why didn’t they live in little huts? Why did they build great, enduring, beautiful buildings of birch or stone?
Merton agreed kindly enough that I was right: I certainly didn’t understand the Shakers. If you really know, he said, that the world could end at any minute, then you know there is no reason to be in a hurry. You take your time and do the very best work you are capable of doing.
Well, Merton was a great teacher, and he had been careful to understand the Shakers.
I wish I could say that I am a student worthy of such teaching. I am not, as I know from all the time I’ve spent fretting and hurrying. Even so, what Merton told me sank into my mind pretty deeply. I think of it fairly often, and every time I think of it, it helps.
Now, having written this little story, I can see I’m taking a considerable risk in hoping it might be of some use or comfort to you. Maybe it isn’t. At the very least I wish for you whatever in your best moods you wish for yourself.
Spring is finally here. It’s too warm and sunny to be indoors in the waning hours of this mid-April day, so I shut down the computer, tug on a pair of worn blue yard gloves and a Tilley hat. I bought the hat for my nomad year, but I wear it now as a homebody. Now that the neurosurgeon has taken me off the leash, I am finally free again to go where I want to go and do what I want to do. But it turns out that I don't want to wander; what I want is to root myself more deeply at home and live a bigger life here.
I head outside and position my rusted green wheelbarrow at the edge of my front garden and survey the neglect, then take up the rake and start scraping at the thick layer of dried oak leaves tucked around the azaleas. Easter is five days away and my garden is coming alive. The periwinkle is in full bloom, the bright green leaves with their small lavender faces rising above the rotting ground cover. I think I’ve never seen a more resilient little plant. I think if there is a living thing more optimistic than periwinkle, maybe it’s a woman with a rake in her hands, feeling cheered by the sharp metallic ache two inches above her right ear, taking it as a sign that the nerves are regenerating around the titanium plate in her head.
My neurosurgeon has recommended six weeks of radiation, five days a week, to prevent a recurrence of the tumor, an aggressive Grade 2 meningioma. I agreed to start the radiation in early June after my next visit with my clients in Canada. On realizing I’d be grounded for at least six weeks, I had one thought: Now would be a good time to get those chickens I've been promising my granddaughters.
When I am finally back in my own small house, surrounded by four oaks that have seen the Civil War, I wake to the resonant call of a mourning dove. I look outside my bedroom window and wonder, what’s next? I am grateful to return to ordinary days, but I’m altered. Finding work to replace the projects I’d had to give up, paying the medical bills, taking care of the house and my little patch of land—these are small matters. Mortality is no longer an abstract thought, but I place that thought aside, knowing it will come up again. As Anne Lamott says, peace of mind is an inside job. I’m the only one who can acquire it for myself. I find it as Death’s newest apprentice.
In February, when I am finally cleared to drive again, I act on an uncharacteristic impulse to take an improv class. I resume work on the children’s picture books I’d begun a few months earlier. My client in Canada calls with an offer of work; I accept with gratitude and plan a trip for late March.
I visit my son and daughter-in-law and walk with their two eldest daughters to the park. I tell them I am thinking about getting chickens in the spring—how would they like to pick out their own chicks? It turns out they would like that very much. They immediately start thinking about names.
Theirs is a loud, lively household with crayon on the walls and Cheerios in the couch cushions. If Sean is sitting on those cushions, he’s apt to have three-year-old Virginia perched on his shoulders, five-year-old Eleanor snuggled by his side, and one-year-old Caroline on his lap. It amuses me to watch this man’s man raising three daughters, “feral princesses,” as Christina, my daughter-in-law, calls them. When I thank them for taking such great care of me when I was in the hospital, Sean draws a shape on the table with his index finger. “There’s a little circle and you’re in it.” That is all he says. It’s enough. It’s everything.
My dear friends Deb and Denise braved a wicked winter storm to fly from New Brunswick, Canada, to spend a few days with me two weeks after my brain surgery. They brought wonderful coffee and other gifts from Acadie. They cooked gorgeous, healthful food and took me on outings (since I wasn't yet cleared to drive). They even tried to repair my dishwasher. In spite of a call to Deb's husband, Phil, the attempt was unsuccessful--but O! the entertainment value!
I had bold plans for 2019. I am self-employed and can work from anywhere, so I decided to embark on a Year of Living Nomadically. I invited friends and family to suggest places I should visit and songs I should listen to while on the road. Not a soul suggested I spend a week in a Northern Virginia hospital owing to the discovery of a brain tumor. No one thought to recommend the Patty Griffin song, “Don’t Let Me Die in Florida.” The discovery of the large meningioma and emergency surgery four days later forced me to come up with another plan.
Before I knew I had a tumor pushing the right side of my brain across the midline of my face, I made plans to visit family and friends in Colorado, California, and North Carolina. I spent time with clients in Maritime Canada and started working on a merger integration for a client in Florida. I was going where I wanted to go, doing what I wanted to do, spending time with people I loved, and working on interesting projects, but I felt an encroaching sense of malaise, a free-floating discontent that I didn’t understand.
On a flight from Denver to D.C., I typed out instructions for my son, Sean, on where to find my financial information in the event of my death. I created a screen saver on my mobile phone that identified my daughter-in-law, Christina, as my contact in case of emergency. Once home, I hired an organizer to help me clear out the rooms in my house. Never much of a pack rat, I wanted to get rid of as much stuff as I could and neatly arrange the rest. Without realizing it, I was putting my affairs in order.
By mid-December, I had gone through three rounds of antibiotics for debilitating headaches that I assumed were caused by a persistent sinus infection. As the headaches intensified, my mood darkened, and I withdrew deeper into myself. Meanwhile, my son and siblings had been calling one another to discuss what to do about the problem that was me. My personality had gone flatline. I had less to say and took longer to say it. I listed to one side; I was unsteady on my feet. Over the Christmas holidays, I played a board game with my granddaughters, ages five and three. After they went upstairs to bed, my son and daughter-in-law observed me alone in the room, still pushing the playing pieces around the board.
“You were fading away,” said Sean. “We thought we were losing you.”
On New Year’s Eve, I flew to Florida for what was to be a two-week visit to my client’s site. I felt overwhelmed and fatigued, oppressed by constant headaches, unable to focus or think clearly. The morning after I arrived, when I emerged from my hotel for the half-mile walk to the client’s office, I couldn’t figure out how to get there. I pulled up a map on my phone but couldn’t follow the directions. Finally understanding that something was very wrong, I took a cab to the office and told my client I needed to get home. I flew out later that day.
The next morning, my sister Monica drove me to the hospital. I don’t remember arriving, or going through registration, or being taken for a CT scan. I do remember hearing a doctor say, “You have a large tumor on your brain.” I didn’t notice how my sister turned away so I couldn’t see the look on her face.
I do remember thinking, “Well that’s unexpected.”
I was admitted to the critical care unit on a Thursday. The surgeon scheduled a craniotomy for Monday. Meanwhile, I was pumped full of intravenous steroids to shrink the tumor. Within hours, I felt flooded with energy and optimism.
“You’re back!” said Sean.
A few years earlier, in graduate school, I studied positive organizational change, which has some powerful neuroscience behind it, and I used what I learned to face the diagnosis and surgery with optimism. My family and friends made it easy, rallying around me and arranging for someone to be with me at critical moments around the clock. Sean took charge of my care, stepping away from his practice as a trial lawyer to support me and confer with my medical team. My brother Al, sister-in-law/BFF Karen, and nieces Rachel and Kelly flew in from Colorado. Famous for her comfy beds, Karen replaced the horrid itchy hospital sheets and blankets with soft bedding.
The neurosurgeon warned my family that the operation could take several hours, and I might need rehabilitation or physical therapy as part of my recovery. In fact he finished in less than four hours, and I came through with no impairment and no pain—just the sensation of a mild toothache. Two days later, the bandage was removed from around my head, revealing a shiny set of staples that ran from above my right temple to behind my right ear, and I was released from the hospital.
I am one of the lucky ones.
My Year of Living Nomadically is an idea I cooked up a few months ago. Since I can work from anywhere so long as I have access to wi-fi, I decided to take full advantage of my independence to travel and explore. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Why wait?
I briefly considered renting out my little house, but I quickly rejected the idea. My granddaughter, Eleanor, wouldn’t hear of it, and I need a home base. Plus, fairies live in the hollow of one of my four grand oak trees, and it’s bad luck to disrupt an enchanted environment.
I will be working, and my work will require traveling occasionally to my clients’ sites, which—happily—means spending a lot of time in a certain province in the Canadian Maritimes. There, I am blessed with great friends, friends who are always ready to share an adventure, a canoe, a tent by the river, a bottle of wine, and a story. While I'm there, I’ll look for opportunities to learn about my Acadian and Mi’kmaq heritage and chase the Northern Lights—maybe on a dog sled. I’ve done stranger things.
Yeah, New Brunswick feels like home to me, so I’ll spend time there. There are two other places in my Top Three: Roanoke Island, North Carolina, and parts of Douglas County, Colorado. Those three places are where I’ll start my year. I’ll figure the rest out as I go, following my son’s advice: “Don’t overthink it, Mom.” That’s the only advice I need. It goes well with the playlist I assembled with a lot of help from my friends. Here are the songs I’ll be playing when I hit the road next week.
Life Is A Highway – Rascal Flatts
Drive - Joe Bonamassa
Secret O’ Life – Richie Havens
Travelin’ Thru – Dolly Parton
Gypsy Epilogue -Tony Joe White
Highway Song – Aztec Two Step
Rocky Mountain Way – Joe Walsh
Colorado – Linda Ronstadt
Fast Car – Tracy Chapman
Can’t Find My Way Home – Christine Day
Carry On – Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
On Every Street – Dire Straits
Boulder to Birmingham – Emmy Lou Harris
Midnight Train to Georgia – Gladys Knight and the Pips
Closer to Home – Grand Funk Railroad
She Lay Her Whip Down – Jeff Bridges and the Abiders
Someday Soon – Judy Collins
Life in a Northern Town – Little Big Town
Take Me With You When You Go – Lori McKenna
If I Had a Boat – Lyle Lovett
All the Roadrunning – Mark Knopfler and Emmy Lou Harris
Ride My SeeSaw – Moody Blues
The Next Best Western – Richard Shindell
Urge for Going – Tom Rush
Long Time Traveler – The Wailin Jennys
Free – Zac Brown Band
Fionnghuala – Nightnoise
We did it! With the support of 122 generous backers, we managed to raise a little more than enough to fund the first printing of Backstage at The Lost Colony, and bring a dream to life.
The idea for Backstage at The Lost Colony evolved through a series of conversations I had in early 2017 with Elizabeth Evans, who was a dancer in the show and worked with me in The Lost Colony's public relations office in the early 1990s. We first imagined publishing a compilation of stories from the actors, singers, dancers, and technicians who have been a part of The Lost Colony through the years.
That vision changed when, after several months of encouraging people to submit their stories, we had only a fraction of what we needed to make a proper book. I was getting worried, when one day there came in the mail an essay by Dwayne Walls, Jr., who had joined the show as a 19-year-old actor technician in the late 1980s. Entitled, "Sand," it had grace and power and heart. Several weeks and several more essays later, I asked Dwayne if he would be interested in writing the book. We agreed he would follow the cast and crew through The Lost Colony's 80th anniversary season and write the narrative.
Dwayne is uniquely suited to tell the Backstage story. A self-described “space puppy” when he first came to The Lost Colony, he was too preoccupied with the itch of his colonist’s beard and the paucity of his paycheck to enjoy his first summer with the show. But he returned a few years later with a different outlook and, even though his beard still itched, he grew both professionally and personally. After leaving The Lost Colony, Dwayne went on to New York City to build sets for theater, film, and television—including NBC’s Saturday Night Live, before returning to North Carolina with his wife, Elizabeth. Dwayne's love of the show and the people who have kept it going for 80 years is evident in the story he tells.
By the time we put up a Kickstarter campaign to fund the print run, the book had evolved into a 170-page coffee table book, with more than 100 photos, mostly color, by Outer Banks photographers Delena Gray Ostrander, Eden Saunders, and Duane Cochran, and actor Jamil Zraikat. Dwayne's narrative is supplemented by first-person stories from Colony alumni.
My first Kickstarter attempt failed, but I learned from it and solicited advice from friends like Elizabeth Evans and Gail Hutchison, who know the Colony community (and me) so well, and my daughter-in-law, Christina Sherlock, who has a keen mind for business. I can't wait to put the printed copies in the hands of everyone who believes in us! We'll have the book ready for the start of the 81st season.
Today I won the First Annual Chili Smackdown for our office, making me two for two in chili championships.
My Facebook friends from Lexington, Kentucky, may recall my first “Gold Cup” victory nearly 10 years ago. And my son’s friends will recognize the truth in the narrative of The Chili:
This chili was first concocted on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, but this is no skinny barefoot surfin’ chili. No, no, no. This chili was perfected in Steel City, where it laced up its storm trooper boots, nodded politely at the vegetarians, and muscled its way onto the palates and into the loyal affections of the mighty Hampton Talbots football team, nourishing the squad through an undefeated season in 2002, nursing its star defensive lineman through two knee surgeries, and mending at least one broken heart, whereupon the team (in reverent tones) dubbed it “The Chili.”
A strong-willed and impatient chili, it believes fiercely in diversity, as evidenced by the variety of meats and beans and complex spices that give The Chili its deep flavor. Full-bodied and opulent in the mouth, it yields rich notes of cumin, sandalwood, and brown sugar, with hints of dusty road and blues guitar that will have your taste buds partying like a freshman Congressman on Bourbon Street. Even though The Chili is aggressive and suffers no fools, all it wants is world peace, a Steelers victory—and for you to hug your grandma.
Just say the word, and I’ll cook it for you.