I was going to Carolina in more than my mind. I was on a plane for Raleigh Durham. Destination — Chapel Hill: home to the University of North Carolina Tar Heels and the boyhood stomping grounds of James Taylor.
“Who?” my daughter asks.
“You know, the guy who wrote and sang “Sweet Baby James,” “Fire and Rain,” and of course, “Going to Carolina,” I tell her.
“No,” she replies.
“Well, you should,” I say.
Too bad she wasn’t able to come along and tour the Chapel Hill Museum. I made the effort specifically to view the new exhibition: The James Taylor Story.
Chapel Hill shouts college town: collegiate shops bulging with logo paraphernalia, pizza, pita and burrito restaurants catering to big appetites and small wallets, and The Library, a place you can tell Mom you went last night, omitting the fact that it’s a bar.
The museum resides in an old house, a few blocks down Franklin Street, from its intersection with Columbia. That area, known as “top of the hill” is a spot that burns brightly in the hearts of UNC fans. Students congregate there, lighting bonfires whenever the Tarheels beat arch rival, Duke.
Nestled in this manicured garden community is the little museum featuring the Taylor display. While it only encompasses one corner, for baby boomers, it’s well worth an hour’s time.
The collection includes family photos, old report cards, childhood artwork like James’ self-portrait as a football player and a slew of album covers. Behind glass sits Taylor’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame trophy, a Grammy award and a copy of a March, 1971 Time magazine with his face on the cover. Taylor says in a documentary, “being chosen for that cover was like winning the lottery.”
The best part is the Taylor theater; if you can call a few movie seats in front of a flat screen TV a theater. Here, one can choose from a vast collection of JT documentaries and taped concerts. I watched his interview on 60 minutes, 20/20 and Inside North Carolina.
Depression hit Taylor in his teens and drew him to heroin. He claims he should be dead, but was rescued. In one of the videos he said he has “an easier time singing about life, then living it.” Despite those early troubles, Taylor appears happy, a blessed fellow.
To me, he seems like a bottle of fine wine created with superior ingredients: a strong and clear voice, skilled fingers to master the acoustic guitar and the ability to search his soul and pour lyrics from his heart. He was crushed, but his juicy pulp fermented and gave rise to a winning blend. He mellowed on the shelf, twisted and turned until aged to perfection.
His voice remains easy, his ballads ring true. Little has changed over the decades, except his hairline. With James Taylor, you’ve got a friend.
Skydiving wasn’t even on my Bucket List: that list of things to do before you die.
But here I stand: feet together, toes on the edge, knees bent, arms crossed and hands grasped to the straps. “3-2-1-GO,” yells my instructor who is harnessed to me and out we jump- plummeting at 125 mph toward earth. I kick my feet backward, close my eyes for a second or two, and open my heart. I want to enjoy this.
Immediately an immense wave of butterflies hits my stomach and then, just the rush of the wind. Opening my eyes, I see the world 14,500 feet below, and it’s beautiful.
I’ve just jettisoned out a Beechcraft King Air at the Florida Skydiving Center in Lake Wales, Florida. Before the jump, Buzz Bazzoni, head instructor, explained the procedures and safety rules to fellow students and me.
“Oh my gosh,” I scream, smiling now. “This feels amazing.” Not the most profound statement, but hey, I’m freefalling in my first tandem skydive, adrenaline pumping.
My senses tingle, on extra alert, reminiscent of the day my car was hit and spun in an accident. Each sensation registers simultaneously. I see, feel, smell, hear and taste the air as it pushes on my cheeks, making them flutter like a comic book character.
Pat Martin, my certified Zen-like guru, releases the drogue chute, a small thin parachute meant to slow down tandem jumpers, so their combined weight doesn’t allow them to fall too quickly. Later the drogue is used to deploy the main parachute.
What an odd sensation being tightly conjoined to a cute guy, his body smashed against my back. No, it’s not sexual but actually quite comforting.
Pat had to record at least 500 jumps and spend three years in the sport before he could receive his ratings and qualify as a Tandem Master. He must also be FAA medically certified, like a pilot. I feel I am in good hands.
Liz Sass, a videographer I hired at the facility, free falls as well. She approaches from midair, diving down. How she does this I don’t understand. She reaches out and grabs my hand, called “docking”, then swings me around. I’m having fun and not feeling scared. Liz makes me wave, throw a kiss and generally keeps me busy while I drop two miles. I feel like Peter Pan flying over hundreds of lakes in Central Florida. Gee, there’s a sports stadium and over there, the orange juice factory.
Pat checks the altimeter on his wrist. He does this often. He uses his fingers to count down, informing Liz when he will open the chute.
Shazam. Up we shoot like a human champagne cork, as if rebounding off a trampoline. The big Set-400 colorful canopy opens and billows above us.
Now our bodies hang more vertical. Margie Barron describes it, “as a bird on the thermals, just floating down.” The breeze keeps us aloft. I feel almost weightless, except for the pull from the chute on my shoulders and from the harness. It’s lovely up here.
Wispy, marshmallow puff clouds dot the air. Pat announces that we are about to go through one. Whoosh. I’ve always wanted to jump on a cloud.
Slowly we circle around; I see the drop zone, a grassy field. I look down and get a bit dizzy and queasy. I decide to gaze at the horizon instead.
I try to lift my legs out in front of me, like I must do for landing. Dang–a rather challenging task; should have done my ab exercises. Pat says to hold on to the ribbing on my jumpsuit, which makes it much easier.
We’re now close enough to yell to others on the ground; they respond with cheers. We zoom down and softly bump the ground, the heel of my shoes digging up a divot of grass. Whew- I take a deep breath in and let it out with relief.
Liz runs up to interview me. “What was the best moment?’
“When the parachute opened.”
“Did Pat take good care of you?”
“Absolutely.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“Go to Disney World.”
Well, actually I am going to call my family and tell them I jumped out of a plane three miles up and survived. Not only that- I loved it. They had no idea I went parachuting and will certainly be surprised, as I have a fear of heights.
“Hello, Jay. Guess what I just did? I went skydiving,” I cry.
My husband replies, “No you did not, you would never do that.”
My teenage daughter grabs the phone. “Mom, are you crazy? What were you thinking?”
My head is still in the clouds. I feel as thrilled as I did when I gave birth to each of my four children. Hormones zip through my body, the euphoria continues. I am empowered.
Yes, I earned lots of bragging rights; but when the newness dies, and the story has been told, it comes down to personal power. I opened myself to the world and took a chance. I soared to a new place and was fulfilled. I have touched the sky, found joy and I am alive.
Leonardo da Vinci, that Renaissance genius said, “, once you have tasted flight, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you long to return.”
ASSISI is the beloved city of God; birthplace of St. Francis and St. Clare. The location radiates an atmosphere that touches the mind, body and spirit in heavenly ways.
Kathy, Cory and I arrive at the Umbrian train station and view an oatmeal-colored medieval town, sprawled over Mount Subasio.
We take the taxi up the hill and check into our room at San Crispino Historic Mansion, divine lodging nearly hidden from the road. The Sister Moon and Stars Suite is, in fact, below street level. Our two rooms feature stone floors, a wooden table and chairs, a fresco of St. Francis, and blue vaulted ceilings adorned with a starry skies. I find the snack filled armoire–including a cappuccino machine and best of all- we walk out into our own private walled garden. As I said- heavenly.
Standing in the garden I’m in awe gazing out on the expansive valley. What a sight–we can see the facade of the Basilica of St.Clare on our left, the apse of St. Maria Maggiore on your right, and the domes of Chiesa Nuova and San Rufino Cathedral in front.
Kathy basks in the sunlight.
The afternoon is fading so we step up pebble-lined stairways, along crooked paths, to the mid-town square. Italian men cluster around benches discussing world problems or is it their grandchildren? Local women carry groceries in open-weave bags.
Tourists sit in cafe’s and restaurants, browse the shops and visit numerous religious buildings. There are two basilicas and countless monasteries, convents, chapels and holy shrines in this tiny town of 25,000.
Spring blossoms everywhere: bright geraniums in pots, cascading greenery drips from balconies, red poppies bloom in the grassy valley below. You sense that residents care about beauty and nature.
Wandering around we lose our way in the labyrinth of tiny alleys. No problem. Life-long resident, Grandma Pat comes to the rescue. She wears the standard outfit of older Italian women — a black dress.
The dear lady speaks nothing but Italian as she hobbles along with her cane. She escorts us back to our hotel and says, “Statci Uniti–Papi?” Yes, the Pope is visiting the US.
Dinner turns into a bountiful party — wine, antipasti, wine with pasta, and a seafood entree. Coffee please, but we must split dessert.
Falling into bed, I gaze at the celestial ceiling reciting prayers of gratitude. I am most fortunate to be here with my daughter-in-law and her mother. Sleep comes easy, exhausted from our flight and less than 24 hour blitz through Florence.
Sunrise and birdsong awaken us and we sip coffee in our garden, munching pastries fresh from the bakery. Am I really here? A little pigeon makes his home in a hole in the wall. What sublime tranquility. I envy the lady who tells us she is staying a month.
Our guide arrives to lead a tour of the famous monuments and help us understand their history. We hear of cloistered nuns, called Poor Clares, visit the pink limestone Basilica of St Clare and gaze into the original crucifix of San Damiano- the one which inspired St. Francis to convert in 1205.
Roman ruins are found at Minerva’s ancient temple, now converted to a church. I’m stunned at the altar Madonna, crowned with an electrified halo.
A funeral leaves the Church of St. Rufino, and then we enter, finding St Francis’ baptismal font, over 800 years old. We learn Francis was the son of a cloth merchant and is known to have been a party boy in his early years.
Time for a stop at the cafe. I find it hard to refuse tempting confections, oozing a buttery mix of nuts, sugar and cinnamon. Instead, I take a photo and then taste perfection in a frothy latte.
Together we climb steep walkways to the upper town, arriving at Via Santa Maria delle Rose. This building holds a permanent sculpture exhibit by artist Guido Dettoni della Grazi. He created the most extraordinary Virgin Mary. In fact there are 33 Marias, each made from a different wood, one for each year of Christ’s life.
Viewed from different angles, the piece gently morphs into the kneeling Virgin receiving the Annunciation, a woman carrying the pitcher to the well, an expectant mother, and the Blessed Mother holding the Child (my favorite). If turned horizontally, she becomes the Dove of Peace.
We purchase a small copy, grasping it within our fist and thumb. It fits snugly, feels sleek and soothing, like a polished stone. But a sensation of security extends beyond my hand, as if I am being held.
Finally, we descend into the immense Basilica of St. Francis. The structure is really two churches constructed over the Saint’s tomb. Pope Gregory IX laid the foundation stone in 1228 and consecration occurred in 1253. What a short time to build such an enormous shrine.
Highlights are the colorful frescoes by Giotto, simple, quaint and expressive. They depict the life of St. Francis in pictorial art, bringing the Middle ages to life. Many artists worked over 130 years creating the masterpieces for these hallowed halls; the most famous: Martini, Cimabue and Giotto.
I feel comfortable here and could sit in the sacred setting for hours and meditate. But we must hurry, another relaxing option waits. We get a ride downhill through the green fields of Assisi. The added bonus–a chance to photograph the town from afar.
An afternoon of pampering at San Crispino Spa includes a steam bath, Jacuzzi, and an olive oil massage. Aaah. We are rejuvenated at the idyllic retreat, and the only non-Italians on the property.
Back up the road and an evening stroll. We indulge in another fantastic repast- glad we had reservations. Meandering back, a full moon rises over St. Clare’s Basilica. What could possibly top the natural phenomenon?
Mass the next morning; an intimate moving experience in a big Basilica. One just seems closer to God here. The air is pure, no Byzantine gold or Renaissance glam. A mood of simplicity, piety and peace prevails, yet the village is alive. Little boys kick big rubber balls on the church steps. Men gather at the fountain. Tour buses start to roll up the hill.
I could stay here, learn Italian, and study art. Kathy puts it this way, “This is a place to let go, let God.” I like that.
But it is time to leave, take the train to Bella Roma. I hesitate, wanting to linger. Instead, I leave my heart and lug my suitcase full of heavenly memories.
