Her Mother's Voice

The wind often kept her awake at night, words from the past echoing through the vacant rooms and through her head.  A branch from the black walnut tree scraping against the bedroom window like her dead mother's screeching voice.  Her mother's voice saying she was too fat, too slow.  That seam was crooked, the cake dry, the floor not clean enough.  Her mother's voice in praise of one sister's talent at the piano, and the other's beautiful hair, porcelain skin. The two brothers both clever and strong certain to make fine husbands. Her mother's voice telling her she would never marry and seeing to it that she didn't.  A lifetime later her mother's voice calling out to collect the breakfast tray, calling out to change soiled sheets, calling out for her red pills.

One morning soon, she would have that tree cut down and would finally stop listening to her mother's voice.

Along the Nottoway

Last Saturday I took what will likely be one of my last kayak trips of the season.  My destination was the Nottoway River in Southampton Co., Virginia, close to the North Carolina line.  The Nottoway is a slow moving blackwater river that drains a good part of Southside Virginia.  Blackwater refers to the distinctive dark, tea color of the water which is due to all of the leached tannins from surrounding trees. This part of the Nottoway flows through a bald cypress/tupelo swamp ecosystem, which were once very common along the coastal plain from Delaware south to Florida, west to Texas and up the Mississippi Valley.  Unfortunately only about 1% of the original bald cypress/tupelo ecosystems remain in this country.

Near the landing I saw one power boat, but once past it I had the river to myself. In fact, for most of the time I felt like I had the whole planet to myself, which is a most precious feeling.  I was awed by the trees along (and in) the river.  Most were either bald cypress (Taxodium distichum) or one of two species of Tupelo (Nyssa aquatica and biflora), but there were other trees present including several species of oak and the common red maple (Acer rubrum).  At certain places I could paddle between the trees and I felt like I was at the feet of giants. I was hoping to see some fall color from the water, but I think I was a week or two too early for the best show, though there was a good deal of red coming from Hawthorn (Crataegus) berries.

The river was mostly quiet except where a fallen tree here or there was snagged in the current or where a fish would jump.  However, the woods were loud with birdsong, especially from belted kingfishers, who I would disturb and they would head further up the river bitching the whole time, only to have me catch up with them to start the whole process over again.  Also keeping up a ruckus were the crows and hawks. Deeper upriver the water narrowed and I felt as if I was travelling on some small tributary of the Amazon, but reminded myself that this was not exotic and that there are still a few places like this much closer to home.

There will likely be a second part to this post next year.  After I got back and was telling a friend about my trip, he told me how close I was to Cypress Bridge Natural Area and how to get there.  Cypress bridge is home yo one of the only remaining tracts of virgin forest in the state, and its location has been deliberately kept vague.  Within its borders are trees purported to be over a 1000 years old, including several champion trees, and it is also the final resting place of fabled Big Mama.  The treehugger in me has an itch, and I will be back to scratch.