Melissa Blanton

Oh come on, tomatoes?

by Melissa Blanton

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Jul
29

Well shoot, someone stole the produce. A victim told police a white male broke into his car at Stone Plaza Pharmacy and took the following from his vehicle: A cell phone, sunglasses, maps, and, sadly, the tomatoes.

So that’s why the house has been so hot. A man called the HVAC repair guy last week after his air conditioner stopped working. When the repairman got to work he discovered the cause – someone had ripped off the copper from inside the unit.

Someone stole a laptop computer out of a Roosevelt Avenue home. They attempted to drag a mattress and box spring as well. But they must have gotten tired because the resident found the tough to tote items lying in the front yard.

Well thanks for leaving your grimy fingerprints all over the truck you robbed. Police responded to Drury Inn and Suites where a Ford F-150 had been broken into. A GPS, TV, stereo system, digital camera, camcorder, iPod and briefcase were stolen. And yes, the thief really did leave their fingerprints visible, all over the driver’s side door.

The police report of the week occurred on Laurens Road:

AN OFFICER WAS ON ROUTINE

PATROL WHEN SHE SAW A

SILVER MITSUBISHI ECLIPSE WITH

THE INTERIOR LIGHT ON AT

SUZUKI OF GREENVILLE. THE

DRIVER’S SIDE DOOR WAS AJAR,

KEYS WERE IN THE IGNITION AND

THE ENGINE WAS RUNNING. NO

SUSPICIOUS PERSONS WERE

FOUND IN THE AREA. THE

BUSINESS CONTACT CAME TO

SECURE THE VEHICLE.

Charles Sowell

In the woods you learn about people

by Charles Sowell

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Jul
29

Spend enough time in the woods and you’re bound to learn something about human nature.

It seems counterintuitive, but is true nonetheless, and the more time you spend out there – trying to get away from the trappings of civilization – the more you will come to know about civilization, your fellow man, and about yourself.

The first thing I started to notice after a few years stomping over the mountains is that many (not most, but a lot) of the people to take off to the trails and trout streams have no idea what they’re doing.

One fine spring day in the middle 1990s Laura, my fishing partner of the hour, and I were enjoying lunch on a sandbar at the Chattooga River.

It had been a marvelous morning on the river, one of those days when nearly every cast seemed to bring a fish.

Between the two of us we’d caught and released more than 50 rainbows and browns and were looking forward to an equally productive afternoon.

Laura and I were interrupted in mid bite by a voice calling from the laurel hell at our backs.

“Excuse me, could you help us?”

You could tell by the accent that he wasn’t from around here; turned out the man was from Cleveland, Ohio.

He was one of the most bedraggled humans I’ve ever seen. “I can’t seem to find the trail,” he said. “Could you point us in the right direction?”

It was the “us” part that got my attention.

“Who all is with you?”

“Just my wife and her mom,” said the man, stepping out of the way so we could see two women who looked as if they’d gone through the Bataan Death March.

“Oh my,” said Laura.

Hobbling out of the laurel hell the husband told their tale of woe. His wife helped her mom out into the sunlight and I noticed the older woman was wearing a bright pink pair of rubber gardening boots; the kind that have little daisies in a ring around the tops.

They’d started the morning walk at Pigpen Branch about three miles away and worked their way upstream on Foothills Trail.

About a half-mile from where we found them Foothills takes a hard right and goes up and around the steep gorge below Big Bend Falls.

Instead of following Foothills, they’d followed an old fishing path, which had quickly petered out. They didn’t try to retrace their steps and find the trail, they just pushed on and spent the better part of four hours lost in the murderously steep laurel hell that separates Foothills from the river.

At no point during this time were they more than 100 yards from either the river or the trail.

We shared the last of our food and water. The trio had not thought to bring any since they’d only planned to be gone for about an hour.

While they ate and drank I noticed the older woman seemed to be in considerable pain. I asked her what was wrong and she pulled off one of the boots.

She wasn’t wearing any socks and her feet were a bloody mess.

At this point my partner leaned over and whispered fiercely in my ear. “If you tell them I’m a nurse, I’ll kill you.”

To her credit Laura did a bit of first aid for the older woman and let her use the tennis shoes that lived in Laura’s fly-fishing vest for hikes back up from the river.

My partner managed to slog along in her wading shoes. Not the easiest thing to do since they were felt-soled; which is great in a stream but horribly slick on dry leafy ground.

The fishing was over for that day and we started to guide the little family up the side of the mountain and back to the trail.

It only took a few yards for it to become plain that the mother was not going to be able to make it back to Pigpen, so I offered to give them a ride in my truck, which was parked at the top of the mountain.

Laura gave me a look that spoke volumes to the breadth of my stupidity.

As it worked out, Laura was right. The husband and I had to carry the mother to the top while Laura superintended and the man’s wife carried the rubber gardening boots.

It took three times as long as it should have to get them to my truck.

While they were loading into the back, Laura asked the wife where the mother’s gardening shoes might be.

“Don’t know. I must have left them while we were taking a break,” she said.

I went over our path on a later trip to the river and never did find those boots. They’re probably still in the laurel hell where they should finish decomposing sometime around the middle of the century.

Cindy Landrum

Take a walk on the photo side

by Cindy Landrum

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Jul
29

shadow for web

There are times when photography is all about overcoming obstacles.

And that’s what 37 photographers had to do during Greenville’s version of the 2010 Scott Kelby Worldwide Photo Walk this past Saturday.

Kelby, who is president of the National Association of Photoshop Professionals and editor-in-chief of Photoshop User magazine, organized the first walk three years ago as a social event where photographers would gather, walk an interesting part of their city and take photographs together.

This year, 1,111 walks were held throughout the world. Nearly 35,000 photographers participated.

The Greenville walk was held from 9 a.m. until 11 a.m.

Harsh light and even harsher temperatures – the high that day hit 99 degrees – made it a tough two hours.

But if you’re going to be soaked in sweat, you might as well get some good images while you’re at it, right?

I tried to put the harsh light to work for me, concentrating on the shadows it produced.

I looked for images in the open shadows.

And, as often as I could, I sought the solace of the shade.

Charles Sowell

The art of fly fishing

by Charles Sowell

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Jul
22

Fly fishing is a thing seldom done well; the knowledge and experience required come much too dear for the sport to be classed as common.

Seldom does a weekend pass without either getting wet, or tying flies, but this does not make a good fly fisherman. It takes a good teacher and those are rare.

Mine was Joe Humphreys. Twenty years ago, when I first met Joe he was in his 70s and had more than 60 years of experience on the water. Joe taught me more in three sessions spread over as many years as I learned in my previous 10 years of chasing trout.

Humphreys would trek down from State College, Pa., to the old Foothills Fly Fishing shop on Pleasantburg Drive and hold court at the fly tying table and school out back at the casting pond.

The first thing Humphreys always mentioned was his teacher long ago on a stream in Pennsylvania. “Mister, would you please teach me to fish like you do,” Humphreys said as a child.

He’d seen the man making effortless cast after cast that brought in fish. Humphreys even as a boy had no patience with simply flailing about in the river, but he could be infinitely patient with his pupils.

The idea is not to chase a trout, but to catch one, and in order to do that one is required to develop skills that simply do not come naturally. There is lore involved, too, that date back to Roman times where the first mention of angling using “flies,” red yard tied on a hook, to fool a fish is mentioned in several places in the surviving literature.

Through the discipline required to learn the casts (presentation is everything in fly fishing) there develops a love of the species and a devotion to their preservation.

Something else happens along the way that changes run of the mill fly fishermen into something profoundly different from the weekend guys. Something as different from the fast boat crowd of bass fishermen as Picasso is from finger painting.

For most, the epiphany strikes one day on a crowded river; a place where “you have to bring your own rock if you want to fish,” as Chuck Patterson at Foothills used to say.

“There has to be more to this sport than standing in line to catch the same old tired fish that’s been caught 10 times today,” is the usual thought process.

Even if the fish is a 25-inch brown his pickiness is based not so much on instinct as a sore mouth. Then the fly fisherman starts to seek out places where other fishermen are not.

This takes the fly fisherman into the territories of fly tying and topographical maps. The good spots are not necessarily the ones that are written about. More often than not, if a stream has appeared in print, or online, it is a place too popular to be good.

Over time the fisherman develops the ability to read a topo map and make a good estimate of the fishability of any stretch of water. How good the fishing might be is an intangible that can only be solved by visiting the place.

The best streams are all at least an hour’s walk from the road. All of them are small.

It is at this point that obsessive behavior becomes compulsive and the transition completes from devotee to a good fly fisherman; someone who is just as happy with a 6-inch native fish as they are with a brown best measured in pounds.

Melissa Blanton

Oh no they didn’t

by Melissa Blanton

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Jul
22

“But officer, the door was locked.” Someone pushed in a window air conditioning unit hopped on through the opening and stole two TVs and a laptop.

“But officer they didn’t have a window air conditioning unit.” A Stonesthrow apartment was entered after someone cut a hole in an adjoining storage room wall. Nothing was taken from the apartment. Maybe the hole was too small.

“But officer they left their window OPEN.” Someone crawled through a bedroom window last week and stole a cell phone. Sadly, the thief actually answered the phone when the victim called.

“But officer my wife would not shut up about painting the kitchen.” Several gallons of paint were reported stolen from a rental property on Perry Avenue. A back window was broken.

The Oh-Man-I’m-In-Big-Trouble of the week:

A MAN REPORTED THAT A TRUCK

HE BORROWED FROM HIS BOSS

WAS STOLEN FROM THE QUALITY

INN PARKING LOT WHERE HE AND

CO-WORKERS WERE STAYING.

THE 1991 FORD F-250 TRUCK

(WHITE) HAS A GRAY CAMPER

TOP ON THE BACK AND VARIOUS

ELECTRICAL TOOLS IN THE BACK.

Lyn Riddle

On friendships to fill a life

by Lyn Riddle

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Jul
22

Monty Long celebrated her 60th birthday by jumping out of an airplane.

With a parachute, of course, and a skydiving instructor.

She’s also rediscovered skiing, and tore her ACL in the process. But that didn’t hold her back as evidenced by a recent ski trip to Canada.

She’s hopped on the back of a motorcycle with one son, hunted deer with another.

It’s all part of her desire to live life to the fullest – to create a bucket list of sorts. The things left to do.

She said last year’s skydiving trip with her oldest son was the most empowering thing she’s ever done. Afterwards, she told herself, “It’s time to get out of your comfort zone.”

Long and her husband Lee have been married 29 years. He owns Long Utilities, a subdivision builder, and for the most part she stayed home and raised their three boys.

Her world revolved around football and all the other trappings of child life. The people she associated with were largely the mothers of her son’s friends.

“I didn’t make the time for friends, she said.

Then one by one, the boys grew to that independent stage where even though they live with you, they don’t really.

So she got to know her neighbors in Bruce Farm. And that was step one of the active life she lives now.

Sixty percent of the women in the subdivision get together once a month for lunch. Eight get together for weekly dinner. Some travel together – like the ACL-tearing trip. They play bridge. They stay at each other’s beach or mountain houses.

“How can you have so many people you’re so crazy about?” Long wonders sometimes. There are so many activities the husbands sometimes feel abandoned.

They’ve been to New York City, on a cruise to the Caribbean.

“We’re absolutely insane,” she said.

Long is a fervent traveler, taking each of her sons to Europe and going twice with the whole family to Alaska, once to Hawaii. New Orleans, Las Vegas, a helicopter trip to the Grand Canyon.

A girlfriend of a son called at 10 p.m. one night and said she was trolling around Travelocity and found a great deal to Cancun. The plane left at 9 a.m. the next morning. From Charlotte. Long was on the plane after spending much of the night digging out summer clothes.

“I don’t care where or what accommodations,” she said. “There’s nothing I don’t want to see.”

So now that’s she’s got this empowerment going, she’s decided to get more for her 61st birthday in October. Another jump.

She also wants to slide down a zip line – she hears Costa Rica is best for that. A balloon ride would be nice. Also some hiking on the Appalachian Trail. She got that idea from a picture she found of herself recently at two years old, standing in front of an AT trail marker.

Ireland. Martha’s Vineyard.

“I could call somebody and within a week we’d be off somewhere,” she said.

Her life, she said, for a long time was filled with maleness thanks to the men she loves. Even her two springer spaniels and her cat are male.

“Nobody sees eye to eye with girl things,” she said.

With her friends, she has added an outlet for living – and for developing bucket lists.

“I never realized how important friendships are,” she said.

Susan Simmons

Hello Harry Potter

by Susan Simmons

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Jul
17

“It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live.”

So said headmaster Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter in the first book of the fantasy series that has gripped Muggle imaginations for a dozen years.

The quote returned to me two weeks ago as I stood captive in line at Universal Orlando, waiting for admission to the brand new Wizarding World of Harry Potter. On opening day. For seven and a half hours. With 30,000 other insane people.

That’s my crowd estimate. Universal wouldn’t give out attendance numbers to the media, but a spokesman guesstimated 5,000 waiting outside the Islands of Adventure gates when they opened at 9 a.m.

Sounds about right. We spent two hours with that group, listening to stories about the even more insane people who had shown up even earlier. As in 4 a.m. Which, despite the entreaties of the younger of our two sons, his father and I refused to do. Insanity has its limits.

Of course, your limit probably extends to avoiding such lunacy altogether. So does ours. But we booked our vacation believing “spring opening” meant “by the end of May” (how I define spring) rather than “two days short of summer solstice,” which is how Universal defines it. We thought Harryworld would be flying at full phoenix by the time we arrived. As it turned out, we had to stay over a day to make the opening.

Which was non-negotiable. From Harry’s inaugural quest for the Sorcerer’s Stone, we have read every book aloud as a family. The four of us on the couch. One million words, 4,143 pages, with voices (I do a mean Delores Umbridge). We’ve seen every movie. We couldn’t miss Hogwarts, butterbeer and Ollivander’s by a day.

So we rose at 6 a.m., loaded backpacks with water and sunscreen and set off for Harry Potter and the Endless Line.

I have never experienced anything like that line. It began at the Port of Entry and snaked completely around the park: through Superhero Island, around the Toon Lagoon, past Ripsaw Falls and all the way across Jurassic Park before we reached Harryworld. We inched along, literally. Five steps and wait. Eight steps and wait. For seven and a half hours.

It sounds psychotic now, but there gets to be a doggedness about it. You tell yourself, “You’ve put in this long, are you gonna quit now?” You become new best friends with the people around you, sending scouting parties for sustenance, sharing sunscreen, saving places for shade breaks. I learned about the entire senior year of the two Texas girls in front of us, their college plans and life ambitions for the next 30 years.

We took pictures all around when we finally reached the entrance.

And we did finally reach the entrance – at 2:45 p.m., staggering with a cheer through the archway onto the cobblestone streets of J.K. Rowling’s imagination come to life. It is every bit as spectacular as any Potter fan could dream. High-pitched, snow-covered rooflines, crooked chimneys, Honeydukes, the Three Broomsticks and towering over it all, the spooky turrets of Hogwarts.

And more lines, of course. An hour for butterbeer. Two hours to get in and out of Honeydukes. An hour and a half wait to ride the Forbidden Journey through Hogwarts castle. Interestingly, as jam-packed as it was, people were astoundingly forbearing and polite. Mainly because we were all too busy staring around slack-jawed. It felt that real, 100-degree Florida heat and all.

“Was it worth it?” we asked the boys on the way back to the hotel. Absolutely, they said, with the same look in their eyes I’d seen all those hours we’d piled together on the couch, caught up in Rowling’s sweeping tale of courage and friendship, danger and sacrifice. And frankly, for that, what’s Harry Potter and the Endless Line but another grand family adventure?

Lyn Riddle

On remembering summer days

by Lyn Riddle

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Jul
17

South Carolina Information Highway – known colloquially as Sciway – has some suggestions for how to spend July in South Carolina.

I love this online service from James Island. It offers a thorough look at the goings on in our state, the festivals, the cool websites, the history.

So when I saw the e-mail announcing July events, I eagerly opened it and found a path back into my childhood summers with my grandmother.

Here’s what they said:

Feast on a peach – This year’s expected to be a bumper crop – which means 60,000 tons of peaches grown on 18,000 acres – more than Georgia, the Peach State. The prevailing smell of my grandmother’s summertime kitchen was ripe peaches. With pudgy, nimble fingers and a well-worn paring knife, she’d strip those beauties clean and either slice them into a bowl for breakfast or a casserole dish for cobbler.

Sometimes we’d pass Taylor’s Peach Shed, but never went in. Friends and family regularly brought peaches along with homegrown tomatoes and cantaloupe and all manner of vegetables to her five-room home in Greer.

I am sure my aged mind has warped the memory but it seems like that backdoor slapped with visitors every 10 minutes. And just as no one ever left her house without her giving them something, no one arrived empty handed either.

Live large on local shrimp. Now this was one foodstuff I rarely saw at my grandmother’s table but we sure ate it at Myrtle Beach for that one-week vacation – always July 4 – every year. We’d stay at a motel on the oceanfront. My uncle didn’t believe in making reservations, but we never wanted for a clean bed and an ocean view. Sciway mentioned paring the shrimp with corn on the cob, hush puppies – yes – and cold beer – a definite no in my family.

Hit the road. We spent a lot of time at home, but on special weekends one of my aunts would invite us all up to her place in the North Carolina mountains near Tuxedo. This usually involved driving the Willys Jeep around the little lake my uncle created. Yes, we were 12 and yes, we did get it stuck in the mud, which resulted in my uncle pulling it out and saying, “Ready to go again.” My cousin and I always wanted to spend the night in the silver trailer by ourselves, but if it was raining we were out of luck. Grandma wanted to fall asleep the sounds of raindrops meeting tin.

Catch a wave. Already covered that but Sciway also says go surfing, which was not something any one of us had heard much about 40 years ago.

Sit and sip. Or in other words, drink tea. This was the only drink found in my grandmother’s house as far as I recall. I’m sure she had milk and juice but that was not on my menu. There was nothing puny about my grandmother’s tea. It was steeped and sweet. Very.

Years ago no one asked for sweet tea. It just was. That was the only way it was made. Now the modifier is used universally.

Sciway suggests taking your sweet tea, inviting someone over and sitting in rocking chairs for some conversation. Days at Grandma’s generally ended up this way. She never had central air so outside offered the coolest spot. The older folks would gather in her effusively landscaped backyard to sit on metal shell chairs and recount the events of the day.

The young ones would nest on her wrap-around porch, usually spying on the neighbors, some of who were actually quite interesting. One man shunned his front door for a window. We never figured out why he left and entered his house that way.

It occurs to me many of Sciway’s suggestions trade on a stereotypical view of the South. But then stereotypes would not be without some basis in fact.

Charles Sowell

Grandfather Mountain

by Charles Sowell

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Jun
3

Grandfather Mountain is a splendid island in the sky.

At 5,946 feet Grandfather’s craggy face stares over the North Carolina Piedmont with an equanimity that belies the sometimes violent swings in weather that flow around the four peaks that make up the summit.GFM_main_bearhabitatWEB

During a recent visit the weather went from high clouds to driving rain followed by a smothering fog and then fast-dropping temperatures capped by a spectacular sunset.

With all that, countless visitors have scrambled over Grandfather in the decades since the late Hugh MacRae Morton built a road to the summit and set the famous mile-high swinging bridge swaying to the tentative steps of an intrepid few in 1952.

Grandfather has become an iconoclastic symbol of the fast vanishing wilderness that was once all of western North Carolina.

And, for most of the years since European settlement, the mountain has rested in private hands. Hands that, by and large, respected Grandfather for what it is – a force of nature considered important enough to be designated an international biosphere reserve.

Morton’s famous feud with the U.S. Park Service is one example of the family’s devotion to place. The tiff resulted in the Linn Cove Viaduct hanging from the east face of Grandfather.

The park service had wanted to dynamite the summit and pave it over to complete the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The Nature Conservancy, long-time partners with the Morton family, considers Grandfather Mountain a site of major significance because it is home to more globally rare species than any mountain east of the Rockies.

In April 2009 most of the upper slopes became North Carolina’s newest state park. The Morton family sold 2,600 acres to the state for $12 million and tied up the remaining 700 acres (containing visitors facilities, nature center and MacRae Meadows –  home to the annual Highland Games) in the Grandfather Mountain Stewardship Foundation.

About 4,000 acres are held in conservation easement with the Nature Conservancy and tens of thousands of acres on the east-facing side of the mountain are protected as part of the Pisgah National Forest.

The non-profit that took over from the Morton family is tasked to serve the public through education and research projects.

It is a charge they take seriously at Grandfather, said Jesse Pope, chief naturalist.

At least 50 globally rare and endangered species cluster around the summit, Pope said.

“We are very much a geologic and climatological island here,” Pope said.

Many of the species found at the summit are northern ones, he said and the rock that forms the famous four peaks is oddball, too. It is made of sedimentary sandstone that was metamorphosed about 700 million years ago when the Appalachians were thrust up from an ancient seafloor by the collision between the African and North American plates.

Go a few hundred feet down the mountain and the metamorphosed sandstone peters out and granitic gneiss that is about 1 billion years old takes hold.

The overthrust belts of younger stone have by and large been worked away at Grandfather giving geologists a peek through what is called a window at the much older underlying rock.

Heavy-duty science aside, most visitors come to Grandfather for the views, said Landis Wofford, news director for the park.

Early or late on clear winter or fall days it is possible by using binoculars to see lights glowing in the windows of the skyscrapers in downtown Charlotte, 75 miles away.

“We get about 250,000 visitors a year here,” she said. “And we are open every day of the year, weather permitting.”

The weather permitting part is best remembered in the colder months, she said.

“We were closed for a long time last winter,” Wofford said.

Something on the order of four inches of solid ice crusted the summit at one point.

“And that was after we could get back into the park to measure,” Pope said. “Chances are it was thicker at the height of that storm.”

Morton, a lifelong photographer and teacher at the University of North Carolina, lives on in Grandfather’s justly famous nature photography weekend (June 4 through 6) and the amateur and professional camera clinic Aug. 21 through 22).

Grandfather has become something of a shutter bug Mecca over the years and the two photography events sell out within minutes of being opened to reservations, Wofford said.

HOW TO GET THERE

From Greenville take U.S. 25 to Interstate 26 and head toward Asheville.

At Asheville turn east on Interstate 40 and follow it to exit 81 at Marion.

Follow Sugar Hill Road into town and then take U.S. 221 to Linville Falls.

At Linville Falls take the Blue Ridge Parkway North until it rejoins U.S. 221.

Turn right onto U.S. 221.

The Entrance to the Grandfather Mountain is about a mile away on the right.

Susan Simmons

It was an accident

by Susan Simmons

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May
26

Life, as we all know, can turn on a dime. In our case, it was a bee – specifically, the bee that flew up my husband’s t-shirt on the bicycle path in Cleveland Park, setting into motion the series of unfortunate events that landed our family in the emergency room two weeks ago, staring at x-rays and wishing we could rewind that decision to “do a few laps before supper.”

The x-rays showcased a variety of broken bones. His, to be exact: collar bone, shoulder blade and two ribs. All of which move in tandem with every breath – a miracle of synchronization one enjoys without thought until breathing excites pain receptors better left undisturbed.

Three lessons immediately learned: Cleveland Park is full of Good Samaritans. “Tuck and roll” works far better on grass than pavement. And there are few sights more galvanizing than that of your husband in a fetal position on the ground, surrounded by a small village of onlookers, with an ambulance rolling to a stop on the hill above him.

It was one of the Good Samaritans who held his cell phone to his ear so Scott could call me. Another who assured me he had “never lost consciousness” after our son and I scrambled down the hill to join the crowd. But it took another cyclist to know what he really needed: reassurance that this accident was no reflection on his cycling skills.

“I kept telling him it could have happened to anybody,” she said as the EMTs rolled his stretcher away. “A freak accident. Really.”

Which is what Scott kept returning to as he sat “in a wheelchair, in a sling, in the ER, scowling at humanity,” as one son tweeted into wireless-land as we waited to be seen.

First there was the bee. Then the two pedestrians who materialized in front of him when he looked up from swatting said bee. Then the swerve to avoid said pedestrians. The attempted return to the paved path. The resulting end-over the handlebars when the tire caught on the lip of the asphalt.

“I did not fall off the bike,” he said. “I was hurled due to circumstances beyond my control.”

“You could say you were fending off a mountain lion,” said his son, before tweeting, “He’s getting annoyed at me because I’m making him want to laugh and laughing makes him hurt. Whoops.”

The word “fall” was completely forbidden by the time our other son’s Facebook posts had our cellphones ringing. And the ban held through the following week of re-telling to friends, family, coworkers, orthopedists, anesthesiologists and surgery room nurses – all of whom firmly agreed his road cycling record remains intact and unmarred.

Cradling his elbow at the table the other day, he made a list of all the bicycles he can ride with ease: tandems, unicycles, road, city and mountain bikes. He rides 2,500 miles a year. He has conquered the Assault on Mount Mitchell three times. “I cannot believe what I managed to do on a simple turn around Cleveland Park.”

Actually, he’s gotten off pretty lightly. I did a little research (big surprise). According to numerous studies, an experienced cyclist can expect a minor injury every three years and a more serious one every 15. One in every 20 are injured annually. Scott  hasn’t had more than a scrape in 30 years. The most common accidental break? The collar bone. The most common cause of all crashes? Falls.

Ah, make that catapults. While fending off pedestrians – er, mountain lions – and saying grateful prayers for Good Samaritans, prompt EMTs and comedic sons who teach us it’s better to laugh through the pain.