me; enough complaints to fill a circus tent about other things, maybe, but the pathI've chosen has always been the right one, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
Time , unfortunately , doesn't make it easy to stay on course . The path is straightas ever , but now it is strewn with the rocks and gravel that accumulate over alifetime . Until three years ago it would have been easy to ignore , but it's impossiblenow . There is a sickness rolling through my body ; I'm neither strong nor healthy
, and my days are spent like an old party balloon: listless, spongy,and growing softerover time.
I cough, and through squinted eyes I check my watch . I realize it is time toGo. I stand from my seat by the window and shuffle across the room ,stopping at the Desk to pick up the notebook I have read a hundred times.
I do not glance through it.
Instead I slip it beneath my arm and continue on my way to the place I must go. Iwalk on tiled floors,white in color and speckled with gray. Like my hair and the hairof most people here , though I'm the only one in the hallway this morning. They arein their rooms , alone except for television , but they, like me , are used to it.
A person can get used to anything , if given enough time . I hear the muffledsounds of crying in the distance and know exactly who is making those sounds. Thenthe nurses see me and we smile at each other and exchange greetings.
They are my friends and we talk often, but I am sure they wonder about me and thethings that I go through every day. I listen as they begin to whisper amongthemselves as I pass . "There he goes again , " I hear , I hope it turns out well. " Butthey say nothing directly to me about it. I'm sure they think it would hurt me totalk about it so early in the morning , and knowing myself as I do , I think they'reprobably right.
A minute later, I reach the room. The door has been propped open for me , as itusually is. There are two others in the room, and they too smile at me as I enter. "Goodmorning," they say with cheery voices, and I take a moment to ask about the kids andthe schools and upcoming vacations. We talk above the crying for a minute or so .
They do not seem to notice ; they have become numb to it , but then again, so haveI.
Afterward I sit in the chair that has come to be shaped like me. They are finishingup now ; her clothes are on , but still she is crying . It will become quieter afterthey leave, I know.
The excitement of the morning always upsets her , and today is no exception.
Finally the shade is opened and the nurses walk out . Both of them touch me andsmile as they walk by. I wonder what this means . I sit for just a second and stare ather, but she doesn't return the look. I understand , for she doesn't know who I am.
I'm a stranger to her. Then, turning away , I bow my head and pray silently for thestrength I know I will need .I have always been a firm believer in God and the powerof prayer , though to be honest , my faith has made for a list of questions Idefinitely want answered after I'm gone . Ready now . On go the glasses , out ofmy pocket comes a magnifier. I put it on the table for a moment while I open thenotebook .It takes two licks on my gnarled finger to get the wellworn cover open tothe first page . Then I put the magnifier in place . There is always a moment rightbefore I begin to read the story when my mind churns,And I wonder , Will it happen today ? I don't know , for I never know beforehand,and deep down it really doesn't matter . It's the possibility that keeps me going,not the guarantee , a sort of wager on my part . And though you may call me adreamer or fool or any other thing, I believe that anything is possible.
I realize the odds, and science, are against me. But science is not the total answer;this ! Know , this I have learned in my lifetime . And that leaves me with the beliefthat miracles , no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can occurWithout regard to the natural order of things . So once again , just as I do everyDay , I begin to read the notebook aloud , so that she can hear it , in the hope thatthe miracle that has come to dominate my life will once again prevail. And maybe,just maybe, it will.
Coast
It was early October 1946 , and Noah Calhoun watched the fading sun sink lowerfrom the wraparound porch of his plantation‐style home . He liked to sit here in theevenings , especially after working hard all day , and let his thoughts wander without
conscious direction. It was how he relaxed, a routine he'd learned from his father.
He especially liked to look at the trees and their reflections in the river. North
.Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn: greens, yellows, reds, oranges, everyshade in between . Their dazzling colors glow with the sun , and for the hundredthtime , Noah Calhoun wondered if the original owners of the house had spent theirevenings thinking the same things. The house was built in 1772, making itone of the oldest , as well as largest , homes in New Bern . Originally it was themain house on a working plantation , and he had bought it right after the war endedand had spent the last eleven months and a small fortune repairing it.
The reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an article on it a few weeks ago andsaid it was one of the finest restorations he'd ever seen . At least the house was .
The remaining property was another story , and that was where he'd spent most ofthe day. The home sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek, and he'd worked onthe wooden fence that lined the other three sides of the property, checking for dryrot or termites,replacing posts when he had to. He still had more work to do on it ,especially on the west side , and as he'd put the tools away earlier he'd made amental note to call and have some more lumber delivered. He'd gone into thehouse, drunk a glass of sweet tea , then showered . He always showered at the endof the day, the water washing away both dirt and fatigue.' Afterward he'd combedhis hair back, put on some faded jeans and a long‐sleeved blue shirt , poured himselfanother glass of sweet tea , and gone to the porch, where he now sat , where hesat every day at this time . He stretched his arms above his head , then out to thesides , rolling his shoulders as he completed the routine . He felt good and cleannow , fresh . His muscles were tired and he knew he'd be a little sore tomorrow, buthe was pleased that he had accomplished most of what he had wanted to do.
Noah reached for his guitar , remembering his father as he did so, thinking how muchhe missed him . He strummed once , adjusted the tension on two strings, thenstrummed again . This time it sounded about right , and he began to play. Softmusic, quiet music. He hummed for a little while at first, then began to sing as nightcame down around him . He played and sang until the sun was gone and the sky wasblack . It was a little after seven when he quit, and he settled back into his chair andbegan to rock. By habit, he looked upward and saw Orion and the Big Dipper, Geminiand the Pole Star, twinkling in the autumn sky.
He started to run the numbers in his head , then stopped . He knew he'd spent almosthis entire savings on the house and would have to find a job again soon, but hepushed the thought away and decided to enjoy the remaining months of restorationwithout worrying about it . It would work out for him , he knew; it always did .
Besides , thinking about money usually bored him . Early on, he'd learned to enjoysimple things, things that couldn't be bought, and he had a hard time understandingpeople who felt otherwise. It was another trait he got from his father. Clem, hishound dog, came up to him then and nuzzled his hand before lying down at his feet.
"Hey, girl, how're you doing?" he asked as he patted her head, and she whined softly,her soft round eyes peering upward. A car accident had taken her leg, but she stillmoved well enough and kept him company on quiet nights like these.
He was thirty‐one now, not too old, but old enough to be lonely. He hadn't datedsince he'd been back here, hadn't met anyone who remotely interested him. It washis own fault, he knew. There was something that kept a distance between him andany woman who started to get close, something he wasn't sure he could change evenif he tried. And sometimes in the moments right before sleep came, he wondered ifhe was destined to be alone forever. The evening passed, staying warm, nice. Noahlistened to the crickets and the rustling leaves, thinking that the sound of nature wasmore real and aroused more emotion than things like cars and planes. Natural thingsgave back more than they took, and their sounds always brought him back to theway man was supposed to be. There were
times during the war, especially after a major engagement, when he had oftenthought about these simple sounds. "It'll keep you from going crazy," his father hadtold him the day he'd shipped out. "It's God's music and it'll take you home."
He finished his tea, went inside, found a book,then turned on the porch light on hisway back out. After sitting down again, he looked at the book. It was old, the coverwas torn, and the pages were stained with mud and water.
It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and he had carried it with him throughoutthe war. It had even taken a bullet for him once.
He rubbed the cover, dusting it off just a little. Then he let the book open randomlyand read the words in front of him: This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into thewordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Theefully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night,sleep, death and the stars.
He smiled to himself. For some reason Whitman always reminded him of New Bern,and he was glad he'd come back. Though he'd been away for fourteen years, this washome and he knew a lot of people here, most of them from his youth. It wasn'tsurprising. Like so many southern towns, the people who lived here never changed,they just grew a bit older. His best friend these days was Gus, a seventy‐year‐old blackman who lived down the road. They had met a couple of weeks after Noah boughtthe house, when Gus had shown up with some homemade liquor and Brunswick stew,and the two had spent their first evening together getting drunk and telling stories.
Now Gus would show up a couple of nights a week, usually around eight. With fourkids and eleven grandchildren in the house, he needed to get out of the house nowand then, and Noah couldn't blame him.
Usually Gus would bring his harmonica, and after talking for a little while, they'd playa few songs together. Sometimes they played for hours. He'd come to regard Gus asfamily. There really wasn't anyone else, at least not since his father died last year. Hewas an only child; his mother had died of influenza when he was two, and though hehad wanted to at one time, he had never married. But he had been in love once, thathe knew. Once and only once, and a long time ago. And it had changed him forever.
Perfect love did that to a person, and this had been perfect. Coastal clouds slowlybegan to roll across the evening sky, turning silver with the reflection of the moon.
As they thickened, he leaned his head back and rested it against the rocking chair. Hislegs moved automatically, keeping a steady rhythm, and as he did most evenings, hefelt his mind drifting back to a warm evening like this fourteen years ago.
It was just after graduation 1932, the opening night of the Neuse River Festival. Thetown was out in full, enjoying barbecue and games of chance. It was humid that night‐
‐for some reason he remembered that clearly. He arrived alone, and as he strolledthrough the crowd, looking for friends, he saw Fin and Sarah, two people he'd grownup with, talking to a girl he'd never seen before. She was pretty, he rememberedthinking, and when he finally joined them, she looked his way with a pair of hazy eyesthat kept on coming. "Hi," she'd said simply as she offered her hand, "Finley's told mea lot about you."
An ordinary beginning, something that would have been forgotten had it beenanyone but her. But as he shook her hand and met those striking emerald eyes, heknew before he'd taken his next breath that she was the one he could spend the restof his life looking for but never find again. She seemed that good, that perfect, whilea summer wind blew through the trees.
From there, it went like a tornado wind. Fin told him she was spending the summerin New Bern with her family because her father worked for R. J. Reynolds, and thoughhe only nodded, the way she was looking at him made his silence seem okay. Finlaughed then, because he knew what was happening, and Sarah suggested they getsome cherry Cokes, and the four of them stayed at the festival until the crowds werethin and everything closed up for the night.
