Storyteller stands as tall as the mountains

Some say the mountains tell a story. They claim the tales of earth’s evolution — likewise mankind’s metamorphosis — are ensconced in the rolling, oftentimes rigid terrain of Mother Nature. That the mountain’s memoirs are etched in trails that bend to its timbered peaks and slither past the weathered stones of forested creeks. Yet, these stories aren’t bound solely to the dirt and rock of ages past. Instead, they’re sometimes told by a passerby, as all folks are on this temporary stomping ground.

I met my storyteller last weekend, during a trip to our western Carolina mountains.

Pestered by a week of incessant cell phone and Internet activity, I turned off all forms of communicative technology as I settled into the hilled haven of Etowah. And while unpacking an overnight bag at my cousin Lucy’s, I grumbled at my self-induced stress and then medicated my sleep-deprivation with coffee grains and diet cola.

After a few hours of family storytelling, followed by a good night’s sleep, I was eager to conquer a small hike at Pearson’s Falls with cousin Lucy and Granny, who’d accompanied me for the weekend visit. Outstretched tree limbs masked the summer’s sunlight as we climbed the wooded trail to the waterfall’s plunge. Yet it was at dinner time, a few hours following our hike, when the Carolina mountains awakened me with a story told not by its geography, but by one of its inhabitants.

The storyteller wasn’t a native to these mountains. Instead, he’d settled there seeking reprieve from the flat land’s heat. For years, this mountaineer had waded through the rivers, lakes and streams of Henderson County as he cast his rod using the ancient method of fly fishing. A doctor by profession, he’d medically championed the cause for children. Yet this advocacy extended to nature’s clinic as well, where he both mentored and sponsored children in the sport of fly fishing and likewise golf, another of his extracurricular activities.

The storyteller, a good friend to my cousin Lucy, had invited us to dinner.

“I need a two-hander,” Dr. Mike said, as he heaved himself from a wooden chair that was seated at a modest kitchen table. With practiced precision, Dr. Mike hoisted the non-functioning left side of his body from his armed chair, and with the strength of his right side, dragged his dulled limbs to a nearby kitchen stove. Answering his cue, my cousin Lucy joined Dr. Mike, where the pair prepared our dinner plates.

Diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease three years ago, Dr. Mike’s fly fishing days and golf outings have ended. And after claiming the movement of his left limbs, the disease, known for its never-ceasing tremors, now threatens his vocal strength as well. Despite Dr. Mike’s physical handicap, he daily devotes himself to helping others, specifically those newly diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Whether its sharing informational materials, coordinating educational events, or visiting those affected by Parkinson’s, Dr. Mike is a steward for those with the same life-altering condition.

A supporter of local causes, Dr. Mike is known to frequent the town’s farmer’s market on Saturday mornings, bearing baked goods for its organic farmers and vendors. Likewise, he’s an advocate for the local arts. And following the four-course dinner Dr. Mike had prepared for our trio, we accompanied him to a local theater for “The Betty and Beau Wedding Show,” an interactive wedding play that ended with a dance, reception and wedding cake. As the audience danced to the swing jazz of the featured musicians, The Space Heaters, the bride bobbed from patron to patron, soliciting tips with a lavender satin purse.

“That man over there says he’ll tip the bride $20 if you’ll dance with the groom,” the theater director informed me as she pointed at Dr. Mike, who chuckled as he leaned on a nearby support railing.

A bashful, tuxedo-clad groom stood before me as I sputtered protestations. Yet, after my unsuccessful objections, I accepted the groom’s gracefully extended arms, lifted my sandaled front foot – and stepped onto his polished black shoes. Several times.

As the pained groom and I cavorted, I glanced at Dr. Mike, whose crimson face bellowed at my awkward routine.

It was then, as I glimpsed his spirited glimmer from across the theater’s dance floor, that I realized I’d found my mountain storyteller. Despite his medical adversity, this sage tells the story of selfless servanthood through his daily gifts. And while Dr. Mike’s deeds enrich those who are granted the fortune of entering his life, his own blessing is the joy known only to those who’ve placed the well-being of others before themselves. And that’s a metamorphosis, the mountains would say, few folk make in this lifetime.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

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