This week I realized that I have had no vacation this summer–it’s been work, work, work, except for the times I’ve carved out to play on this blog. And while I like work, and lord knows I need to work–hard and fast–to complete this project, I also needed … a change of pace.

That’s how I found myself braking for butterflies on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The Rockfish Gap Overlook off the Blue Ridge Parkway

Now you may find this hard to believe, but though I live less than 20 minutes from the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway/Shenandoah National Park, I’ve visited precisely once in the fourteen years I’ve lived here. Earlier this week, I had to go “over the mountain” — as we say when we cross Afton Mountain into the Shenandoah River Valley — on business. I wrapped that up by ten, so instead of coming straight home on the interstate, I took the dogleg onto the parkway and drove … for hours.

Homestead with chicken coop in the backdrop

Now I’m familiar with the work of Chuck and Nan Perdue, folklorists at the University of Virginia, so I knew that thousands of families had been moved off their lands to create the parkway and the park. But it never clicked until I found this cabin, part of a farm “exhibit” near Humpback Rocks that included a tiny garden, a chicken coop that was more like a palace, a root cellar, a springhouse, and a cow byre.

These, mind you, are real buildings assembled from farms from which the owners had been displaced. Beautifully crafted–they were built to last–and meticulously maintained by the National Park Service, the buildings allow visitors to the park to experience selected sights of farm life without any of the sounds or smells. No sweaty humans with funny accents and guns to chase off the unwelcome visitor. No animals except for a single, exceedingly fat hen. The only sounds were the voice of the costumed interpreter, bird song, and the buzzing of insects.

Pipevine swallowtail in ecstatic communion with coneflowers

I stood in deep woods looking at the springhouse, the care with which it had been built from stone, wood, and mud mortar, and my body, which had been vibrating with fear and anxiety for weeks, began to relax. I stood marveling at the temperature–it was at least 10 degrees cooler than the city. I daydreamed amid massive flowering wands of black cohosh, drifts and drifts of them, with Humpback Rocks looming above … and gradually the shattering cacophony of bird voices began to resolve into individual songs: the fluting of wood thrushes, the peter-peter-peter of tufted titmice, the wicka-wicka-wicka of flickers.

My only companions were the insects: The forest was simply alive with insects. The occasional hornet. Bees and beetles aplenty. But especially (marvellously) butterflies. Thousands of them. Spotted. Tiger-striped. Giant and swallowtailed. Tiny as my thumbnail and silvery white… Lazily fanning their wings as they fed on the coneflowers and zinnias that surrounded the farmhouse. Dancing by the dozens in ecstatic spiral flights at the side of the road.

I bought a souvenir at the National Parks gift shop and hit the road after about an hour of that, but found my reverence for the butterflies lingering. I slowed my car when they launched themselves across the tiny ribbon of asphalt ahead of me. When I saw a huge swallowtail just chilling in the middle of my lane, I actually stopped the car , backed up, and drove slowly around it…

By this time hours had passed, and I was starved. So I exited the Parkway at VA 646–which, going east, leads to the ski-and-spa resort at Wintergreen and, heading west, leads to Sherando Lake, a swimming-camping-fishing complex around a beautiful spring-fed lake that, even though it was built by the CCC during the Depression, remains something of a secret.

“Beautiful people” or “regular people”? Four-star restaurant and spectacular views or fried chicken (if I was lucky) at the gas station up the road from the lake?

Royal Oaks Country Store in Love, VA

As it turned out, it was neither. I ended up in a country store in Love, Virginia. I chatted with the young man behind the counter about his garden–and the three dozens squash and cucumbers it was pumping out daily. “I’m so sick of squash–squash casserole, squash with butter and onions, squash any kinda way you could think of–I just told my wife to start giving it away,” he chuckled.

I couldn’t resist ordering a “Love Sub” and, while he made it, I browsed among the Appalachian kitsch in his gift shop: homemade soaps and jams and jellies, alternating with arrows fletched with fake hawk feathers and Indian maiden statuettes with angel wings.

Then, loaded down with the sandwich, chips, soft drinks, and water, I headed to Sherando Lake.

Bathers on the beach at Sherando Lake.

There were fewer than a hundred people there. If I’d had my bathing suit, it would have been the perfect day….

A few days ago, Sam, one of two special men in my life disappeared for a full 24 hours. He didn’t come home, wasn’t seen in any of his usual haunts, missed his breakfast and his dinner.

That was the factor that sent my doting Southern mama genes into panic mode. Because Sam–short for Sambuca–is a feral cat rescue. I don’t know how much you know about feral cats, but missing meals is not something they do.

Sam, right, and Tiger sharing a mug of water.
I’d last seen Sam about 8 o’clock the evening before. He and his brother Tiger–both born under my porch and tamed only gradually over a long, painstaking period of months–had eaten a dinner of their favorite canned food (Harris Teeter brand–go figure), then glided out into the garden: Sam to sprawl on the warm soil; Tiger to hide under the tomato plants and lie in wait for an unwary bird to fly too close. It all looked as normal as normal could be. I smiled to myself and closed the back door.

The next morning, I’d opened the door at the usual time–6:30. Tiger bounded out of the sunflower bed before I even had time to draw breath to call. But there was no Sam–not at 6:30, not at nine or noon or three in the afternoon, and not at dinner time. He didn’t respond to calls, to the sound of an opening can, or to persistent tapping on said can with a spoon.

And I was deeply, heart-stabbingly worried.

Being in the feral cat rescue business means dealing with beings who live dangerous, precarious lives–disease, hunger, indifferent cars, passionately interested dogs, and rock-shying humans are only a few of the dangers they face. But like more than a few humans I could name, feral cats tend to think their risky lives are just fine, thank you very much. They’re not typically interested in your desire to help–though canned food is high treat and a brush is something they can come to look forward to with positive relish.

Gaining their trust is a slooow process. There are some real hurdles to overcome: things like confinement in cat carriers, visits to the vet, the occasional bath when they’ve gotten into something particularly nasty. And there is the constant gnawing worry they can cause you. Because there’s nothing safe about loving a semi-wild animal. It may grow to love you, but it will never belong to you.

Nine feral cats and kittens moved through my life in roughly an 18-month period. I trapped them, got them spayed and neutered at the SPCA, hand-tamed almost all of them. I watched three of them die, and performed the heartbreaking duty of digging a grave for the kitten who had been my favorite–flattened by a speeding neighbor (the bitch–she never even apologized). I found homes for two of the cats, watched two of them find homes for themselves(!).

But of all of them–Midnight, Tweety, Tink, Lucky, Darla, the two mama cats, and Tiger–it was Sam who had given me the most sleepless nights.

While oddly self-sufficient, he was also incredibly needy.

Nearly starved to death when his mother weaned him–just couldn’t make the adjustment to the dry food. I watched him grow weaker and weaker–until I couldn’t stand it, started experimenting with various combinations of kibble, broth, and milk until I finally stumbled on something he could hold down…

Sam before he was weaned.

He went from being adorable at three weeks to the skinniest, ugliest, funniest looking kitten in his litter at three months. When I trapped him and dropped him off at the SPCA for what would be a monthlong stay (I had to go to Europe and he needed to be neutered) I didn’t recognize the cat who awaited me on my return. His glossy adult coat had grown in and he was quite handsome–if still painfully skinny…

At six months, he’d started to fill out, his appearance and skittishness seemed to be improving daily. And then he took a swan dive off the roof and snapped his femur cleanly in half. He got a screw in his thigh that year–and my family got homemade cookies for Christmas…

All these memories were going through my mind as I closed the door to my house at 5:30 p.m. and headed out to a meeting at church. I had a serious purpose–helping to pick an interim pastor–but I was finding it hard to concentrate.

So instead of running up the stairs to the library, I made a u-turn into the sanctuary instead. I knelt down at the altar–not sure at first sure what to say. But the words just started pouring out. Prayers that Sam would be safe whether or not he returned to me. Prayers that he would find a loving home if he did not. Prayers that he would return home–but only if my home were indeed a place where his little cat spirit was intended to dwell. Because somewhere, dimly, I was groping to a realization, no, a certainty, that however much I loved him, Sam was not … in fact, my possession… that he could come to harm or simply choose to live elsewhere, and there was not a single thing I could do about it… but pray that he would be all right.

So you know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?

Sam came home.

As I drove down to the end of my dead end street, made the Y-turn, and pulled slowly in front of my house, he slipped from behind the neighbor’s hedge, sat in front of the gate, and calmly curled his tail around his feet.

“Where have you been!” was my scolding greeting, though I was so happy tears were pricking my eyelids. “You scared me half to death!”

He blinked his great gold-green eyes in reply, as if to say, “Such a fuss! Calm yourself, kiddo.”

But he also dashed pretty quickly through the picket fence to the front porch when I opened the gate, made a beeline for the kitchen when I opened the front door, and tucked into his Harris Teeter canned food with a voracious appetite.

“Humph! Well, I guess they weren’t feeding you wherever it was you were,” I muttered.

A few hours later, though, he gave me his nightly signal: he walked over, rubbed against my legs, made sure I was looking at him, then sat by the door. He was ready to go outside for the evening.

“Sure you haven’t had enough adventures for one day?” I said, hoping against hope. He cocked his head consideringly, then meowed and turned his gaze on the door. Clearly the answer was no.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. Sighing, I got up, opened the door, and watched Sambuca glide silently into the long blue shadows under the daylilies and disappear…

… because when you love something, you have to set it free. Especially if it’s a feral cat.

Sambuca, spiritual teacher.