JN Fenwick, author, In the Eye of the Storm | In the Aftermath of the Storm
A room without books is like a body without a soul.
Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello, has always been one of my favorite places to visit; especially, his library. Standing in the dim room, surrounded by Jefferson’s many books, their spines lined neatly on the shelves, the smell of old parchment and the musty scent of tomes that, at one time, rested in the hands of the man himself, is inspiring to a history lover like myself.
I can almost imagine Jefferson standing there amid the shadows, searching for a particular title, running his hands over the volumes until his fingers touched upon the one he sought; smiling as he pulled it down, certain that within its pages he’d find the passage he needed to complete a letter, or a thesis, or perhaps even a document that would one day guide and inspire a country through a war for independence.
Books are indeed timeless treasures. They inspire, convey, impart, teach, and perhaps most enjoyable of all, transport us to different times, different worlds, allowing us to become something other, for a while, then who we are.
A quote I came across the other day, “I am part of everything I have read,” brought to mind just how much reading has transformed and informed my life. Honestly, though, I think, much more than me becoming a part of the books I have read, that they have become a part of me. A part that I carry with me like a treasured friend. A friend I revisit from time to time, to discover an ever-evolving world; a world changing as I have changed; growing as I have grown; and through the years moving and becoming along with me.
Since I was a young girl, books have been an integral part of my life. Growing up in a big family, I often escaped from the chaos of so many siblings and the constant blur of motion, into a book; sometimes for hours at a time. Or at least until I’d hear my mom’s call for me to come help with something or other.
I even had my favorite hiding spots, places my siblings wouldn’t think to look for me; like the big oak tree in our back yard. I was notorious for getting stuck in high places once I’d climbed up. I’d inevitably look down and then freeze, almost every time. “Get the ladder,” my brothers would call, “Jen’s stuck in the tree again!” So, climbing up as far as I’d dare to settle comfortably on the wide branches of the sturdy oak, was a clever hiding spot! I’d grab an apple or a peanut butter sandwich and settle in for the day. I loved the classics, and Judy Bloom, and To Kill a Mockingbird was a title I must have read a hundred times. I even wanted to name my first daughter, Scout!
As a grew, my horizons expanded, as did my library. My ever-increasing love of history took shape in a myriad of biographies, historical non-fiction, and then gradually historical novels. In my early twenties, I was introduced to Anne McCaffery and her dragon-filled world of Pern. I not only quickly devoured every single book in the series, I hunted eBay and old book stores until I had an early edition hard copy of each book. They were all second-hand, but I felt that added to their beauty and charm.
Eventually the magical world of Harry Potter was introduced to the world, and like so many others, I stood in line at Books-a-Million to get my hands on the next volume as soon as it was released. Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series was no less compelling and deserving of the same attention and dedication! When eReaders hit the scene, I initially balked at the notion. I wanted a book in my hand; and a hardcover one at that. I loathed paperbacks! It wasn’t until my husband brought to my attention the exorbitant amount of money and the increasingly growing amount of space my book habit required, that I consented to a Kindle. I’d still rather hold an actual book, but I’m nothing if not adaptable!
As I stand in front of my own bookcases and delve into the many containers full of books stored in my spare room, I can trace the evolution of my life, from childhood to young woman; through college and graduate school; through my years as a history teacher and through my progressing physical and spiritual journeys.
My daughters’ favorite books reside there along with the many intrigue and mystery books my husband also enjoys reading. They are nestled there, along with my own hand-written journals.
Taking it all in, I can’t help but think that perhaps one day, when my grandchildren and great-grandchildren read one of these books I love so much, that maybe the part of me that resides within their pages will speak to them; and that for a moment, despite the distance and time that may separate us, we will exist alongside each other, sharing a secret, speaking the same silent language. And perhaps in that moment, they will know with certainty that I lived, that I breathed; and that I once held the very same book and read the very same words. That is the magic of books, and therein lies the treasure.
I love the sound of rain. However, the sound of rain on a tin or metal roof is something else altogether. It brings to mind childhood afternoons with my Nana.
My Nana, Mary Murphy Chaknis, was born in 1911 in County Cork, Ireland. Her family was poor, and by the time Nana had reached her early teens, her mother and father decided to send she and her sister, Lily to America to live with relatives, and hopefully to have a better life. Nana was only 16.
She and Lily traveled on an ocean liner and passed through Ellis Island in the latter part of the 1920’s. Her first job was in a hospital kitchen, preparing meals and helping with the laundry. It was a much different world than the one she had grown up in, and far away from home.
Early on, Nana realized that her deep faith and the strength she received from God would be the cornerstones that would sustain her throughout her life. Nana would never again visit her homeland. Instead, she would live a long and beautiful life in America, meeting and marrying my grandfather, Pete Chaknis, an immigrant from Greece, and raising six children, first in New York, and then in Florida when the family transferred here in the 1940’s. My grandfather was a chef and he moved the family to Panama City when the opportunity to run his own café presented itself. The house my mother and her three brothers and two sisters were raised in would eventually be purchased by my parents after Grandpa passed away in the early 1960’s. Nana would move across the street and I would spend many hours of my childhood in her company.
Nana taught me how to
crochet. She patiently helped me create, first small granny squares and then
later on, blankets and afghans. She taught me how to bake her famous carrot
cake and cheesecake. I followed her around the kitchen watching as she prepared
her delicious fig preserves from the tree in her backyard. She’d send me out
with a basket to collect the figs when they were ready for picking. Spending
the night with her was a special treat because in the morning she’d serve the
best, fluffiest, lightest buttermilk pancakes in the world!
But rainy afternoons were my favorite. It was on those days that Nana would pull out her button box. To me it was much more than a box filled with buttons. To me it was a treasure chest. Nana saved buttons from just about every garment that lost one or that was past mending.
The box contained treasures from tiny pearl buttons to big ornate ones from suits and jackets. The were not the sort of buttons you’d ever find in a store. No, they were precious, and unique, and every bit the little gems they appeared to be. They had been saved over the years from the very garments Nana wore; from my grandfather’s worn clothing; from my mom’s and her sibling’s hand-me-downs. It was like sifting through history.
Nana could recall in vivid detail the garments from which they came and the occasions on which they were worn. It was like peeking through the looking glass into the past and seeing her as a young girl, crossing an ocean to begin a new life; a young wife and mother, caring for her family; a widow, who lost my grandfather when she was only in her mid-forties; to becoming Nana, the women I admired and whose warm hugs were the best in the world; whose Irish twinkle never left her eyes; and whose words of wisdom I still carry with me to this day.
When Nana passed in 2004, at the age of 93, she left me the button box and all of her yarn and crochet tools. Sometimes, on rainy afternoons, when the drops are pattering softly on the metal of our roof, I take out the button box and slowly sift through the buttons, thinking of Nana and the sound of her voice as she reminisced about each one.
I’d hold up one of the little treasures, asking, “What about this one, Nana? Where’d it come from?”
“Oh, that one, Jenny-Pooh,” she’d say using the nickname she’d lovingly given me, “That one was from the dress I wore on the train when we moved here from New York. I was pregnant with your Uncle George. You mom was just five…”
The story would continue, and I’d listen intently every time. Because even then I knew that one day, my own children, her great-grandchildren, would ask me the same questions. And I wanted to be able to give them these same pieces of family history that Nana was giving me; with just as much joy and just as much love. Especially on the rainy afternoons, when I knew I’d feel her presence next to me, her warmth moving through me, and perhaps most meaningfully of all, her story, living on as I shared it with the next generation.
Teachers are expected to reach unattainable goals with inadequate tools. The miracle is that at times they accomplish this impossible task.
I left teaching in
2008. As the years pass, I realize that I left a bit of myself there too. In
the lives of all the students I taught and in all the ways they enriched my
For the past
decade I have worked in the government contracting industry as a developer of
training and educational products for the Department of Defense (DoD). Still a
form of teaching, I suppose, but not in the same way as the fifteen years I
spent in the classroom and as a coach. Those years, I admit, were the pinnacle
of my career, for nothing else I would ever do would feed my soul or fill my heart
with so much gratitude and pride.
My students are
now adults, college graduates, husbands and wives, parents, contributing in
their own ways, to the world around them. I keep in touch with many of them,
thanks to the ease of social media, and I’ve even worked with a few of them at
times. They still call me, “Ms. Fenwick, or Fenny,” even though I tell them
they can call me “Jennifer,” now that they are grown. They have a hard time
with that, as I suppose no matter how old they get, I’ll always be their
teacher. A title I wear with extreme pride. As much pride as I feel every time
I see their successes, celebrate another milestone in their lives, or witness
the moments in which they truly blossom.
Any genuine teaching will result, if successful, in someone’s knowing how to bring about a better condition of things than existed earlier.
For a year or two,
I was witness to their growth and learning every day, then I had to let them go
– on to the next
chapter of their lives. But I never stopped holding them in my heart, and more
than that, I never stopped being poignantly humbled and eternally grateful for
all the lessons they taught me.
For the short time I had them, I felt a deep sense of responsibility for helping to shape their attitudes and perceptions toward knowledge and learning, and not simply to just teach them American History. “Learning,” I’d explain to them, “is a lifelong endeavor. It’s not something that has a finite end, but instead, it’s something that continually shapes our lives and ultimately our growth.” And truly, isn’t that the real goal of education, to continually grow and evolve, as we gain knowledge through experience, as well as through education?
Understanding that middle school students wouldn’t understand this perspective from my words only, I set about teaching them through example. My goal? To instill in them a lifelong desire for knowledge; a deep and intrinsic desire to continually ask questions and to seek, of their own volition, the answers. In my own experience, and through the guidance of my parents and some of my own teachers, I was shown the value of the quest and ultimately the lasting effect of earning knowledge.
a history teacher, I found myself in the unique position of being a mentor to
hundreds of students over the course of the fifteen years I taught. I took that
position very seriously, constantly seeking new and meaningful ways to teach my
kids the great importance of looking deeper than the history books, beneath all
the clutter and noise, in order to find a truth that does exist. It takes time
and focused research, which in this day and age, is becoming a lost art. Still,
the impact of seeking, of being willing to dig deeper, is so very rewarding and
necessary if we are to become informed citizens.
One of the easiest, and most underused methods available to us all is simply this, learn to perfect the art of distinguishing fact from opinion. In doing so, you become more adept at drawing relevant conclusions, thus arming yourself with one of the most powerful weapons available, knowledge that is earned and not simply given. It’s not hard, but it makes such an important difference.
When we were
embarking on the history of the U.S. Constitution, I wondered, what better way
for them to understand the process, the debate, the compromises that went into
shaping this document, then to recreate the Constitutional Convention in my
classroom? To assign each of them to the role of one of the delegates? To give
them the opportunity to step into the past and assume the perspectives, if they
could, of the very men who met in the Summer of 1787 to draft the document? It
wasn’t the names and the dates, after all, that were important, but rather the
lessons learned and the words that were drafted, that still held relevance
today, that were at the heart of the lesson.
From the activity,
many questions arose, many debates ensued, and many new perspectives were gained.
I think one of the most important lessons my students learned, something I
myself had learned when I was their age, was that history should not be judged
by the principles of the present, but rather we should acknowledge the
evolution of those thought processes and the changing mindset of ensuing
generations. How else are we to learn from the past? How else will we prevent
the repetition of events that have already transpired, that have already been
sacrificed for, that have already left their indelible marks?
a wealth of beauty and sustaining principles upon which our country is founded.
Is it perfect? No. But I firmly believe it strives to be. I’m not talking about
politics here, I’m speaking of the rich and meaningful history of our country.
The good and the bad. The foundations upon which our Constitution was founded
and the amendments that have been added since the Bill of Rights. The
foundations that have guided us through centuries of growth and progress,
through wars and discord, through changing centuries and a changing world.
These are not obsolete, but very much relevant even to this day.
Good teaching is more a giving of right questions than a giving of right answers.
When studying the
U. S. Civil War, my classroom became a replica of the country during that
period of our history. My students were divided into the Union and the
Confederacy. They were tasked with researching each battle, each conflict, each
principle, from the perspective of the side they were on. It was difficult at
times. There were many issues that were difficult for them to wrap their minds
around, many questions that we needed to address together. But in the end, by
the time we reached the surrender at Appomattox, they shone with a sense of
pride, and a deeper understanding of one of the most poignant and agonizing periods
of American History.
Above all, I hoped
that they walked away with a deeper understanding of the power of actively pursuing knowledge, rather than simply
receiving it; of being willing to ask the questions, of doing the research, and
seeking the answers on their own, and then, and only then, when armed with the
information and the facts, in forming their own, individual opinions. Their
successes became my reward. Their pride in themselves for a job well-done, my
The teacher’s task is to initiate the learning process and then get out of the way.
Teaching is in fact a calling. There are no grandiose salaries. The work itself can be at times, frustrating and it often goes unappreciated. Our society doesn’t go out of its way to value teachers or to stress the importance of their role in the lives of future generations. Teachers go into this profession, knowing and understanding that. But thankfully, still go into it nonetheless.
I can only hope
and pray that the call to teaching continues to beckon future generations. That
individuals who understand the value and necessity of embarking on this career,
aren’t dissuaded by the negative aspects, but look at it instead as an
opportunity to make a lasting difference in the lives of so many.
You may be
wondering at this point, if I feel so strongly about this profession, why I
left? It wasn’t an easy decision, nor was it one I took lightly. An opportunity
that enabled me to provide more financial support for my family, better
benefits, and a better retirement package presented itself. It was as hard and as
simple as that.
Though my new
position has many perks, it hasn’t, nor will it ever, replace the things I gave
up when I left teaching. I will always be an educator at heart. And though I’ve
been out of the profession for a decade, I continue to support my fellow
educators and the individuals and programs that give them the support and the
tools they need to continue to do their jobs effectively and with passion.
The best teachers are those who show you where to look, but don’t tell you what to see (Alexandra K. Trenfor),” while, “A good student is one who will teach you something (Hanifa Jackson-Adderly).
That’s the beauty of being a teacher. It’s a two-way path. The path we chose, to become teachers and the preparation we undergo to ensure we are effective ones; and the path our students walk; eager to learn, often frustrated and combative, wanting desperately to reach that capstone year so they can graduate and enter the “real world” finally.
encouraged my students to strive to become individuals of accomplishment in their
quest for knowledge as much as they were in the other areas of their lives. I
reminded them daily that they lived in a country that values and protects their
right to do so. That they should, in fact, embrace this gift and even more, actively
seek knowledge, for it is this that will ultimately enable us to prevail and to
grow from generation to generation.
Afterall, The best and most lasting gift
we can give our students, is the ability to critically
think and the desire and passion to pursue knowledge and learning throughout
It must be remembered that the purpose of education is not to fill the minds of students with facts – it is to teach them to think, if that is possible, and to always think for themselves.
My students used to tell me I was a nerd. I’d laugh and thank them, taking it as a compliment. I wasn’t ashamed of the fact that I loved books, and words, and writing and research, and well, learning in general.
Since I was a young girl. I got excited at the thought of finding a new author to follow, eager to read their words and to become a part of the fabric of their story. I got downright giddy when I’d come across a new word. I’d excitedly add it to my “Word Journal” – yes, I kept a journal of new words I came across. I’d write them down and then look them up and use them in conversation and in my writing. I’d been doing it since I was very young. When I shared this with my students, hoping to encourage them to do the same, they’d look at me as if I’d just spontaneously sprouted wings and a tail right in front of them! “What?” I’d ask them.
“Ms. Fenwick,” they’d explain, exasperatedly, “You can Google anything;” like I was from a different planet, rather than a different era. “In my day, Google wasn’t even a word in the English language,” I’d mutter under my breath, further proving the vastness of the cavern between us.
What was the fun of “Googling” everything? It wasn’t
the same as writing a word down and then looking it up in an actual dictionary.
The act of writing it down made it personal. And seeking out the meaning,
turning the pages of the dictionary, running your fingers across the pages
until they located the word you were searching for – it was like a treasure
hunt; and writing down the definition, well that just meant you’d taken
ownership of the knowledge. It was tangible and therefore something that would
then become part of your vernacular, part of your story.
“You can’t get that from GOOGLE!” I’d say, throwing my hands out, pleading for my students to understand the beauty of the process as I did. Nothing. Blank faces.
“Um, Ms. Fenwick,” one brave student would finally raise their hand slowly, speaking for the whole group, “Google has dictionaries too.” Of course, it did! Apparently, GOOGLE had everything. How had I managed to get through my life, let alone three college degrees, without Google!
My love of language, history, reading, of learning in general, I could attribute to my father’s influence. He grew up in a poor, rural community in Georgia. After graduating from high school, he entered the Coast Guard, where he served for four years. College wasn’t something his family could afford, so the service was the next best thing.
For my Dad though, life was his university, living, his degree. He surrounded himself with the classics. He made sure we had a beautiful set of encyclopedias and a Webster’s hardbound dictionary in our home. A library card was a well-earned privilege. I spent many hours talking with him about history, current events, even philosophy and spirituality. He was well-read, and wise, and engaging, encouraging us to think for ourselves, to never stop asking questions.
“When you cease to learn, to continually seek knowledge, no matter what your position or pedigree,” he’d explain, “You cease living.” I loved that about my Dad, his humility and his understanding of the importance of being an active seeker of knowledge, rather than a passive receiver.
I couldn’t help but wonder at times, if the advancements being made in technology and the ease in which today’s students could access information, wasn’t somehow diminishing that active pursuit of knowledge my father was talking about.
Was “Googling” for information the same as opening a book and searching for answers? Was it the same as actually going to the library and looking up book titles and then searching the shelves and finding them, checking them out?
Though a great tool that allows access to a wider world of information, should Google be the only way students seek information? Is the resulting knowledge somehow less appreciated because it is so easily gained? Or am I simply as antiquated as my students think me to be; resisting the new because I had grown up in an era when Google wasn’t an option?
I taught Language Arts and American History, so
reading, research and writing were a big and natural part of my lessons. I
found incorporating modern technological advances into my curriculum, along
with a good dose of the old-fashioned tools – like the library and actual books
– was a happy medium. I wanted my students to experience both worlds. I wanted
them to uncover the answers to their questions and to seek out knowledge on a
personal level; to understand the intrinsic value of life-long learning and to
experience the feeling of pride and accomplishment for a job well done.
I understood that Google was part of their generation, as were electronic books, video games, social media, and easy and instant access to everything on their cell phones.
In order to grow with my students, to engage meaningfully with them, and to remain relevant as an educator, I would have to embrace these things, BUT – and it was a pretty important “but” to me – I also felt a responsibility to keep the past alive as well. To give them opportunities to do things the old-fashioned way; to open actual books; to understand how to use and to experience a library, to write a research paper, to increase their vocabulary through reading, and yes, to keep a word journal – even if it was using the notes app on their phone.
Acquiring, retaining, and applying knowledge was the most important part of their education. And though they might not appreciate that in the moment, I knew there would come a time when some of them would actually be grateful. And for this life-long logophile and lover of learning, that’s the reason I became a teacher in the first place.
Physical perfection is something our society places great value in. There are multi-billion dollar industries devoted to health, fitness, anti-aging, cosmetic surgery, skin, make-up, hair; the list goes on and on. It’s often this focus on perfection, to the exclusion of all else, that prevents us from seeing and appreciating the beauty and form that can be found in the world and in the people around us.
This is the case for the main characters, in The Cathedral, by Raymond Carver and The Birthmark, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Written almost 140 years apart, these short stories tell, in compelling and tragic ways, the age-old story of man’s illusive search for and focus on perfection, and the often uncomfortable, almost dismissive way we perceive imperfection, disability, and physical defects in others.
In laying the groundwork for both stories, Carver and Hawthorne focus first on the actual physical defects and imperfections of Roger and the scientists wife, Georgiana, before moving on to the transformation that takes place in both husbands as the stories progress.
In the beginning of The Cathedral, Carver provides the foundation for the central premise of the story by describing the relationship, the main character’s wife has with Roger, a blind gentleman she’d met some years before their marriage. Roger has recently lost his wife to cancer and is coming for a visit. “A blind man in my house was not something I looked forward to,” Carver wrote, admitting that his ideas on blindness mostly came from the movies.
Likewise, in The Birthmark, the scientist, Aylmer, although in his mind he loves his wife and thinks her beautiful, is focused so single-mindedly on the small hand-shaped birthmark upon her cheek, that soon this all he sees. After asking his wife if she’s ever considered that “the mark upon your cheek might be removed,” Aylmer is dismayed when Georgianna replies that she had not, seeing the mark as a “charm” instead, as it had often been called. Aylmer’s response that “upon another face” the mark might be considered thus, but not on hers deeply hurts Georgianna. ”No dear,” he says, “Nature made you so perfectly that this small defect shocks me as being a sign of earthly imperfection.”
Hawthorne’s use of the word “shock” here is especially poignant, since that is the emotion, we most commonly feel when faced with deformities and physical imperfections. We try not to stare, but in the end, like both men in the stories, the defect is often all we see.
As The Cathedral, progresses, Roger and his host find themselves sharing drinks and smokes before the television on which a documentary about cathedrals is playing. Having the benefit of sight, the host feels compelled to provide Roger with a synopsis of what’s being shown on the screen. While Roger can hear perfectly, the man is acutely aware that he can’t see and so “waits as long as he can before feeling he has to say something.”
Roger begins asking questions about some of the details the man is describing. For example, at one point the man mentions the cathedral’s paintings and Roger asks, “Are those fresco paintings, bub?” To which the man replies, “That’s a good question,” but that he doesn’t know. It then occurs to him, that Roger in fact, may not even know what a cathedral is, having never actually seen one. This is the point in the story when the host’s preconceived notions about Roger will be challenged most.
The evolution of Aylmer and Georgiana in The Birthmark, occurs in a similar fashion. Georgianna becomes increasingly aware that her husband’s focus is not on her, but rather on the birthmark on her cheek.
“With the morning light, Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife’s face and recognized the sign of imperfection. When they sat together in the evening near the fire, he would look at the mark,” Hawthorne describes. Soon, Georgiana “began to fear his look,” and agrees to having him remove the mark through scientific means.
All things are literally better, lovelier, and more beloved for the imperfections which have been divinely appointed, that the law of human life may be Effort, and the law of human judgment, Mercy.
Hawthorne describes Georgianna’s trust in Aylmer’s scientific prowess, but also her apprehension going in. Following the description of Aylmer’s dream about his failed attempt at removing the mark, there’s an undercurrent that the outcome of this actual attempt will not be a good one.
The transformation that occurs in Roger’s host and Aylmer by the end of each story is markedly different, yet the underlying message is the same. In The Cathedral, Roger answers his hosts inquiry about whether he knows what a cathedral is with the detailed facts he has gleaned from listening to the television. Facts, it is apparent, the host himself has not picked up on since he focuses on what he sees rather than on what’s being said.
Roger asks his host to describe the cathedral and in doing so, his host soon realizes that providing this description is quite a bit harder than he’d imagined it would be. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he finally says, “But I can’t tell you what a cathedral looks like. It just isn’t in me.”
Roger than suggests getting “a pen and some heavy paper” so they can draw one. It’s the experience of drawing the cathedral with Roger that ultimately changes the host’s perception of blindness and Roger himself. With Roger’s hand covering his, they begin to draw, in great detail, the cathedral that just moments before he’d been trying desperately to describe. By the end of the story, though he can see the world perfectly, he realizes that maybe he has suffered from “blindness” as well, and that Roger, even with his defect, has viewed the world with much more clarity.
In The Birthmark, the transformation of Aylmer is much more tragic and heartbreaking. Trusting implicitly in Aylmer’s scientific skill, Georgianna, though fully aware of the risks, agrees to try whatever Aylmer proscribes. By the final attempt Aylmer is certain “the chemical process went perfectly.” After testing the clear liquid on a plant, he gives it to Georgiana who drinks it trustingly.
Sitting by his wife and taking notes on the changes occurring, Aylmer is once again so focused on the now fading birthmark that he doesn’t see his wife’s imminent death. “My poor Aylmer,” Georgina says, before taking her last breath, “You have aimed so high. With so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the Earth could offer. I am dying, dearest.”
As Hawthorn states at the end of the story, Aylmer’s focus on his wife’s meaningless imperfection cost him her life and along with it his own chance for happiness, “In trying to improve his lovely wife, he failed to realize she had been perfect all along.”
While the endings of The Cathedral and The Birthmark are very different, the message is the same. Roger’s host and Aylmer both discover that what they perceive as defective and imperfect are actually the things that make Roger and Georgianna who they are, and in reality, perfect just as they exist. True beauty, after all, goes much deeper than the just the surface and the skin. By focusing only on the imperfections confronting them, both men are incapable of appreciating these imperfectly perfect human beings.
For one the transformation comes too late. For the other, the opportunity to learn a beneficial lesson and experience a change of heart is provided by the blind man himself. By the end of The Cathedral, Roger’s host realizes that his “sight” had in fact, improved markedly when his eyes were closed.
The panhandle of Florida is home to not only the World’s Most Beautiful Beaches, but also to many gorgeous natural springs abundant with local wildlife. My daughter, Emma and her boyfriend, Jason, spend most every weekend exploring these locations, capturing their trips in pictures and video for their YouTube channel, Paddle Blues.
Last weekend Jason and Emma set off to explore Sylvan and Cypress Springs. As usual, they captured their adventure in video and photography. Most of the Springs they visit in the area are within driving distance from Panama City and perfect for a day trip.
Although rainfall can sometimes cloud the water making visibility low, they typically snorkel and have captured many underwater photos using their GoPro. They are always on the lookout for little known or less visited areas to add to their growing list of favorite locations.
The areas they visited this past weekend hold two of the “must go to” springs on their list of favorites. Cypress Springs runs into Holmes Creek in Northwest Florida. According to Cypress Springs Adventures, “Cypress Springs is one of the most beautiful springs in Northwest Florida, boasting a strong current, lush banks and deep sapphire waters. the spring discharges from two vents in the limestone boulders at the bottom of the spring pool. Approximately 150 feet with a maximum depth of 29 feet, the large surface boil is visible over both vents. The cool, clear water is a constant 68 degrees Fahrenheit. The banks surrounding the pool are heavily vegetated with cypress and tupelo trees.”
The sapphire waters can only be navigated via canoe or kayak, but you can enjoy snorkeling, swimming and scuba diving as you explore the natural habitat of the area.
Sylvan Springs is located along State Road 20 in Bay County and boasts a newly renovated recreation area that supports activities such as picnicking, swimming, fishing, kayaking, canoeing, and hiking. Sylvan Springs is located at the southern end of Econfina Creek.
Sylvan Springs consists of several vents on the west side of the Creek. A spring vent emerges from beneath a submerged limestone ledge into a 40-foot diameter pool. Maximum depth measured at the vent is 12 feet but the conduit extends further and downward. There is a large surface boil. A number of ancillary vents are scattered along the west bank.
This past weekend the pair located an Undocumented Spring as they explored along Econfina Creek. They contacted the Northwest Florida Water Management District, who owns and manages the land, sending them coordinates and images. Once the District has taken discharge measurements, observed and confirmed the spring, Jason and Emma will get to name it. At present they’re thinking, Moccasin Spring since a large water moccasin prevented them from exploring past the first vent! We’ll see how that goes!
Visit their YouTube channel, Paddle Blues, for video of their adventures and to see what they name the new spring!
If you’re ever in Northwest Florida, make it a point to visit one or two of these beautiful locations. The experience is certainly worth the time!