Saturday, October 31, 2009

Mucking With Mary

Coker Creek is good ground for gold hunters. Richard and I are currently just more interested in garden gold than the shiny metal type. Hoping to eliminate the need for commercial fertilizer for next year’s crops, we’re enriching the soil in Mamie’s garden with product from fertilizer factories of the live animal kind. Since the garden gold has to have time to break down before next planting season, we harvest poop now in order to harvest vibrant veggies next year.

The weather finally held long enough for us to go scoop poop with Mary. When I asked if we should bring any equipment, Mary said she already had scoops and muck buckets. I didn’t know, until we arrived at Mary’s, that horse poop scoops are called muck rakes. Another piece of the American language puzzle put into perspective. And so, we officially became muckrakers.

Mary’s horses are beautiful creatures, and her foal is just as friendly as she described. As we drove up, he first ran to Mama Mary for reassurance that we were friends, and then ran up and presented his head to us for petting. Whenever we tried to ignore him, Mary's "baby" whacked us with his head or nipped at our ankles. He and Mary’s dog competed for attention, chasing each other around the yard. When the horse began ignoring the dog, the dog took to tussling with the cat. What a whacky set of playmates!

Mary of the Mountain and her husband Don live just above Jack. In fact, if I rolled down the hill from their place, I’d end up in Jack’s front yard. Because TVA keeps the power line right-of-way that runs through Jack’s and Mary’s properties mowed, from Mary’s mountaintop, you can see the adjoining mountains strung like pearls all the way to North Carolina. Mary talked about how the setting sun through the right-of-way hits this panorama in the fall, turning whole sides of the hills a brilliant gold. I could have stood all day looking at the view, but poop was our purpose -- so we got busy.

In an hour, we’d half-filled our “honey wagon,” and the yard was seemingly clear of equine land mines. I used to tease a friend about driving a shit wagon to collect all her “do-gooder” projects; Richard is now, literally, driving a shit wagon. Our motto could be, “Have poop? We’ll travel.”

Upon finishing the poop patrol, Mary invited us in for coffee and pie and a tour of their home remodeling handiwork. As we walked into the house, we were greeted by the sounds and scents of Don brewing espresso and steaming milk for cappuccino. Mary served a decadent concoction of graham cracker crumb crust filled with caramel and banana filling topped with whipped cream. Not something I expected – a ten-dollar dessert break for free in the backwoods of Tennessee.

Mary accepted from us gifts of Cajun roasted pecans and muscadine madness jam before we headed down to deliver duplicate culinary delights to Jack. Then, it was over to Mamie’s to spread our horse-grown treasures.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Henny Penny’s Sweet Spuds

Preparing pecans took a back seat to Mamie’s suggestion that the muddy sweet potatoes dug by Richard needed to be laid out to dry prior to storing. Who knew potatoes were so particular? Figuring I could handle this task in an hour and still get several batches of pecans roasted -- and possibly redeem myself for being so absent from the fields during the harvest -- I arrived at Mamie’s bearing gifts of red beans and rice and a jar of Muscadine Madness.

Mamie said she figured that I showed up because I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to avoid it. She also got quite a kick out of the jar of jam I gave her. When I shared the story of how it got its unnatural color, she said that she calls the pulp from muscadines “ugly juice,” but uses it just the way it is. She thinks it makes a pretty jelly. I guess I should have consulted Mamie before making my mess.

As I sat sorting sweet potatoes, the weather was so beautiful and the temperature so mild, I got carried away with the feelings of fall. When this job was finished, I was reluctant to return to indoor activity, so I decided to see if the second potato patch was too muddy to manage. Four hours later, I was still popping potatoes out of their mounds, and Mamie had gone off with her daughter.

By this time, I needed to use the bathroom, so I headed the two miles down to our house for a potty break. Bless Richard’s heart, he returned with me to complete the ‘tater tasks. Richard and I must have looked like two hogs hunting for truffles as we crawled around on our hands and knees harvesting our sweet potatoes.

In another three hours we were the proud parents of about fifteen flats of sweet potatoes and a half bushel of baby potatoes for next year’s seed. We were absolutely covered in crud by the time the last spud was out of the ground. As we sat on the driveway to remove the excess mud from the spuds, Mamie’s hens joined us for a look at and a nibble of our fresh-dug treasures. They must have found them acceptable, as they kept stealing the seed potatoes from our basket. What a lovely way to spend the waning hours of the day – surrounded by the sounds and sights of curious hens as we admired our harvest and rested our aching backs.

We’ve finally finished pulling the potatoes out of the patch and placing them in Mamie’s garage for the mud to dry. The sweet potatoes like to be tucked in warm and dry for the cold months ahead, and I’m not sure where we’ll store our share. I know they can’t stay under our bed, as we’re assuring sweet dreams by sleeping on all our jams and tomatoes.

As Scarlett O’Hara would say while holding up one of her home-grown potatoes, “We’ll never go hungry again.” And about roasting those pecans, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Muscadine Madness

The day began calmly enough with me putting the icing on the cake to mail to my baby boy for his Halloween birthday. Richard had gone out in the pouring rain to harvest and wash the carrots. He had then grated them for me to complete as a carrot cake. I left a bit of a mess when I went to bed, but I had finished cleaning the kitchen as soon as I got up in the morning. I ran the dishwasher and put the icing bowl and beaters aside for Richard to lick after his breakfast.

Well, just when Richard may have thought it was safe to come back into the kitchen, I started making muscadine jam. The previous grape jam that our kitchen produced has gotten rave reviews; I think it’s because I include the fruit pulp in my preparation. I decided to do the same with the muscadines. The difference is that the concord and fox grapes render royal purple pulp; muscadine pulp is more mud colored.

Not to be deterred in this kitchen caper, I added a bit of yellow food coloring. Now the pulp looked like I scraped it out of a new baby’s diaper. This obviously wouldn’t do, so I added neon green – attempting to make the pulp glow like ripe green grapes. This was too whimpy to overcome the poopy hue. It was time to bring out the big guns.

I do appreciate precision; I’m simply incapable of the patience inherent in being precise. I should know better than to attempt correcting mistakes that take incremental tweaking to achieve the desired results. Oh, why didn’t I wait for Richard to wake?

Since I usually live by the dictum that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, I really did it this time. Even though it seemed to me like I was exerting just a tiny bit of pressure on the little teardrop-shaped green food coloring bulb, I ended up with a pot of pulp the color of a Christmas tree. As we have already discussed, when the directions for jam making say, “Bring to a rolling boil,” they really mean to cook until your whole kitchen is covered in jots of jam. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our kitchen festooned with green glop.

I’m well aware that “people eat first with their eyes,” so I may have trouble pawning this jam off as having been made with anything edible. This may be a great way to cut down on the number of Christmas packages we send. If all the food is weird-colored, people will prefer to be deleted from the list than to try getting past what their eyes tell them is in the jars. Should I color the Cajun-roasted pecans purple? And should the macaroons be maroon? Or, maybe if I name the jam “Muscadine Madness” folks will think I made it this lovely evergreen color on purpose.

It ought to give Mamie and Jack a good laugh at the latest of my city slicker stupidities.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Viewing the Village

Gayle and I ended our day with going over to Mamie’s to help Richard dig sweet potatoes. Our timing was impeccable; Richard was knocking off as we arrived. We picked the last of Mamie’s muscadine grapes instead of digging potatoes. This was certainly easier or our knees and backs than potato pulling. The only reason I was interested in the muscadines when Richard announced Mamie’s concern over whether I had all the muscadines I wanted was that Gayle said the jelly made from this grape was her favorite. I’ve never made this type of jam; we’ll see how that cooking experiment works out.

Before Gayle’s departure, Leal, the booking and office manager of Coker Creek Village, took us on a tour of the retreat facility. I can’t even remember all the activities they offer, but I know that three “home-cooked” meals per day are part of the deal. I’ve eaten at Coker Creek Village’s dining hall; they serve some really good country cooking.

I did manage to remember that the activities include a climbing wall that leads to a zip line, which you couldn’t pay me to utilize, as I’m afraid of heights. Horseback riding and hiking on the village’s three hundred acres are very popular activities with most folks, but I’ll meet them at the end of the trail -- in the dining hall, as eating is my second favorite group activity (next to conversation.) Swimming, tennis, sand volleyball, gold panning, basketball, and a rope course are offered to those who aren’t content to swing in the hammocks outside of their cabins. I, however, will take the less physically strenuous way to occupy myself any day. I save my energy for “solving the problems of the world” with my soul sisters.

At night, Cam and his wife Beth, who run the retreat center, are often seen dancing at the hoedown in the Village barn. Sometimes, you’ll see Cam driving the tractor that pulls the hayride wagon. Or, Cam will be caught pulling on the ropes that operate the “mechanical bull” in the barn. And bonfires abound in the common areas of the cabins.

In case all these activities aren’t enough to keep a family happy for a week, whitewater rafting on the Ocoee River, kayaking on the Hiwassee River, and the beach at the mountain lake in Indian Boundary are less than an hour away. Of course, there are always the activities offered about two hours away in Gatlinburg, Dollywood, Chattanooga, Knoxville and, Atlanta.
After the tour of Coker creek Village Gayle left, giving promises to return with her husband. He’s a historian, so we can’t wait to introduce him to the Trail of Tears, the Unicoi Trail and the Gold Mining history of Coker Creek. Since his field of expertise is Church History, we’ll also include the history of the founding of the Church of God at Barney Creek.

I’d love to have a group book here so that I could be a guest of the Village. The staff would plan the meals, cook the meals, and clean up after us and our guests. I might never travel the mile it would take to return to our house in the holler.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Rushing Rivers and Random Acts of Kindness

Jack and I have been blessed with a random act of kindness that began at the Leaf Turning Festival. Without warning, a man that had been chatting with Jack whipped out a tiny video camera and began interviewing him about his lifestyle and book. The video of the interview is now on youtube. As my friend Susan pointed out, there’s a great deal of irony in a man who lives without technology being “introduced” to her in Florida via the all the technologies that were required to get Jack onto youtube.

Gayle has only one full day with us. When I asked her what she’d like to see in her short time here, she immediately responded, “Jack.” Gayle spent her career teaching writing, and is enthralled by Jack’s writer’s “voice.” She then overheard a phone conversation with Mary about the muck, and offered to gather “garden gold” with us.

Gayle is an avid gardener on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi where the soil is very sandy. She figured that she could bring home a bucket “gold” from the second place that precious metal gold was discovered in the country. She said that her children wouldn’t be surprised if she arrived home with this treasure, as they used to have to ride in the car with her collected soil additives of the animal excrement variety -- until they finally refused to ride with a car full of doo-doo not in their own diapers.

When we finally left the comfort of our rockers by the fire, we didn’t go to collect meadow apples from Mary, but we did head in the direction of Jack’s house. On the way to Jack’s we visited Charlie and Deborah. Gayle left their place sorry that she couldn’t stay for Saturday’s Bluegrass Halloween party. Upon being greeted by Jack you’d have thought that his book was on the New York Times Best Seller List as thrilled as Gayle was to meet him and have a tour of his home.

We stopped at Mamie’s for a chat where Mamie informed me that it’s time to dig our sweet potatoes. Gayle had a good laugh at Mamie’s assertion that every time there’s hard work to be done, I have a sudden need to go visit grandchildren in far-away places and send Richard to do provide our share of the labor. I suggested that Mamie should be happy that I’m not the jealous type (only because Mamie is almost ninety-years-old) and that I allow my man to keep company with her in my absence. Her blue eyes twinkling, Mamie replied, “You should be glad I’m not younger, or I would have already taken your man.” Mamie with her quick wit is one of the best things about Coker Creek.

Gayle loved the lunch on the river that we shared at Tellico Kats, and is excited about bringing home bread from the wonderful Tellico Grains bakery in downtown Tellico Plains. On her next visit, she wants to try fresh vegetables grown and prepared in Tellico by the Town Square Café owners. Gayle thought she was almost in heaven riding on the Cherohala Skyway and hiking to the upper level of Bald River Falls. She had me open the window on the trip so she could enjoy the rushing sounds of the river.

She’s about decided that at Coker Creek Village should be the location of her next family reunion.

Monday, October 26, 2009

My Girlfriend Gayle

I guess you could call this a “Scarborough Fair” kind of day, in that I cooked with parsley and cleaned and froze sage, rosemary and thyme. The parsley went into a vegetable lasagna that also contained homemade pesto sauce, home-grown carrots, mushrooms, spinach, and Jack’s green onions. We served this with a Richard’s salad creations and fresh turnip greens from Mamie’s. Too bad Gayle, my soul-sister who arrived today, didn’t have room for dessert; we had a choice of cherries jubilee or carrot cake.

We’ve been anticipating this visit for a couple of months. She and I have known each other since our over thirty-five-year-old children were in diapers. The last time we were together was at a retreat, making her truly my soul-sister.

I wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way here, as she was already hyperventilating over the curves in the road while still on the interstate two hours away. When she walked in, she said that this was one of the prettiest drives she’s ever taken. I guess she may come back now that she’s survived the drive and found us the first time.

I don’t think anyone has arrived here without exclaiming over the impossibility of “happening upon” our house. They all have one question, “How did you find it?” I tell them the truth; it all started when our granddaughter had to poop.

After Hurricane Katrina swallowed our retirement home on Lake Pontchartrain, I never wanted another house. I wanted a small piece of property on the water near Scott on the Mississippi coast and another piece of land in the mountains of North Georgia, near Rachel’s family. My plan was to live in our RV and travel the country forever. Richard wanted roots and a home. He was also afraid if all the grandkids came to visit at one time that I’d have him sleeping under the RV or on the roof while I tucked the kids into the RV beds.

When I despaired over finding anything in North Georgia to suit us and our budget, Rachel took over, suggesting that we look near Indian Boundary off the Cherohala Skyway in Southeast Tennessee. Her family loved camping in the area, and she felt that this may be a more affordable option than those we had found in Georgia. Rachel and her family offered to guide me there. We were in two vehicles, and I was an hour behind them.

As Rachel’s family passed through Coker Creek on the way to the Cherohala, one of the girls needed a potty break. There are very few businesses in Coker Creek, so they stopped at the first place that appeared to be open. While my granddaughter used the facilities, Rachel got to chatting with the artists who owned the shop. They had just received a flyer from a man with a home for sale two miles from where Rachel stood. By the time I met them, Rachel was absolutely sure that she had found our place, and the rest, as they say is history...

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Animal Antics

I’ll admit that I was wrong about the leaves. This week-end all the colors of fall festooned Coker Creek. I was also wrong about the weather for the Leaf Turning Festival. What was supposed to be a beautiful day was cold, windy, and overcast. It was the closest thing to a Nor’easter that we get in the Tennessee hills. Jack and I, like many merchants, spent considerable time chasing our signage and righting our displays and tents.

There were a couple of animal adoption agencies braving the cold, one with orphan pets in tow, the other attracting people and pets. The Monroe County Animal Shelter was taking photos of pets. This prompted a lot of folks to come out, despite the weather, with their precious pooches. The other animal outfit came from Cleveland, Tennessee with several adoptable dogs, including a Great Pyrenees. Since our Gypsy Woman is a Great Pyr, and she was adopted from the Monroe County Animal Shelter, I visited with both associations, sharing tales of animal antics.

Some of the best animal stories have to do with animals that don’t act true to breed. The guy with the Great Pyrenees commented on how gentle this watch-dog breed is. He recounted a story of how a litter of puppies from another breed, after having lost their mother, had taken up residence in the eight-inch coat of this male Great Pyr . Of course, I had to allow as how our cat most often sleeps on our dog. Another fellow stopped by to tell us about his Great Pyrenees that convinced his black sheep that it was a dog so they could chase cars together. His dog is dead now, and he regrets not getting a video of that.

I told of how when my grandkids were small, Gypsy would let them ride her. And Jack loves to tell the story of how he had a pig that he’d ride when he was a little boy. Jack’s brother was always into horseback riding, but Jack preferred to walk or ride their pig. I can’t wait for him to write this as a children’s story.

Mary told me about her baby horse that spends so much time on her porch that her dogs are unable to act like the good porch pets that they are. Not only does Mary object to her horse hogging the porch so her dogs can’t lay at her feet, she’s also afraid the porch will collapse when the horse gets to be his full-grown thousand pound self. She warned me that when we come to collect our garden gold, the pony will run to greet us like a puppy. She says we’d better be prepared to stop him before he head butts us off our feet.

Between the animal antic stories and the fact that we sold a good number of books, we had a fine festival. It is true that only “an evil wind blows no good.”

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Cooking and Christmas

It was a quiet day at our house in the holler. A niece has begun corresponding with me because of my blog. She has a small son, and is interested in recipes for soft vegetables that she can prepare for him in the short time between her college studies and her mommy responsibilities. A favorite food of my toddlers was beef and barley soup, which I still make by the vat and freeze. Then again, I cook vats of everything. I grew up cooking for my mother’s brood of nine children, so I don’t know how to cook small amounts. Sharing the results of my kitchen capers has helped me earn a reputation as the Cookin’ Cajun of Coker Creek.

I made mashed potatoes last night using potatoes from Richard and Mamie’s garden. It may be my imagination, but the flesh seemed to be creamier than that of most potatoes that we purchase. Richard wanted them the old-fashioned way, but I’m anxious to try them whipped with some of our home-grown carrots – maybe with a bit of my mountain of dill thrown in for gourmet flair.

While Richard took my van in for brake repairs, I caught up on my reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic. It was time to figures out where Jack and I stand on income versus outgo on Jack’s book – my least favorite part of the publishing process. Jack and I agreed that we’d square up once we got the October festival book signings done, hoping that we’d be in the black.

Well, this was before we bought hundreds of books in anticipation of four thousand attendees at the Buzz Fest which was, for all intents and purposes, rained out. We have two more signings scheduled before Christmas; then I have to get serious about the school fundraisers. Richard keeps reminding me that our inventory of books is an asset, but I worry that Jack is going to get discouraged.

Jack has consistently maintained that his greatest joy is simply seeing his work in print, but with all his hard work to market his manuscript, it would be nice if it provided some Christmas cash. All his friends have already bought his book, so he can’t fill their Christmas stockings with The Book That Jack Built. A bit of black ink on our profit and loss statements would sure be a nice holiday surprise for him.

Meanwhile, the weather is supposed to be glorious for the first-ever Leaf Turning Festival in Tellico Plains. We’ll meet dozens of new people who travel here from all parts of the country. Even if we don’t make a lot of money, we sure have the opportunity to make a lot of friends. My hope is that, one day, a big-time publisher will discover Jack and turn his book into a series of children’s picture books. While we’re dreaming, we might as well dream big.

I never come out of these festivals in the black. The arts and crafts make perfect stocking stuffers for our family and friends, so I always spend more than we make – at least until after Christmas.

Friday, October 23, 2009

First Fire of Fall

We welcomed the day of Pat and Will’s departure with our first fire of this fall. It’s so nice to climb out from a nice warm bed to be greeted by cozy flames in a wood-burning fireplace and the smells of bacon, banana muffins, and coffee wafting across the kitchen. That’s my idea of a fall stay at a country bed and breakfast.

Pat had traveled with fresh fruit, but her bananas were getting a little ragged looking. Upon my arrival in the kitchen to prepare coffee, I spied them on the counter. Since Pat, Will, and Richard were still enjoying the comforts of their beds, I decided that a parting meal of a country breakfast would be an appropriate way to send Pat and Will off on the next leg of their adventure.

After breakfast, as Will loaded the car, he could stop by the fire and chat with us between summonses from Pat that the next piece of luggage was ready for transport. And Pat and I enjoyed a too-short last visit in the rockers in front of the hearth. Armed with a picnic lunch of sandwich halves left over from our visit to Tellico Kats deli and fresh banana muffins, our visitors departed. With so much left to see and say, Pat promised they’d be back in the spring.

The bright sun warmed our world nicely by early afternoon. We were scheduled for mucking with Mary, but were relieved when she postponed that task until the next day. It’s always nice to stay home and enjoy the afterglow of overnight guests once they leave. It’s a perfect time to putter, and putter we did.

Richard took the opportunity to continue washing his winter stores of black walnuts. He still doesn’t know how he’s going to access the actual nutmeats, but that doesn’t deter him in his efforts to acquire a good stash. The fact that the squirrels don’t beat him to this harvest should tell him something. If cracking these nuts is too much trouble for the squirrels, maybe the work isn’t worth it.

He interspersed this nut job with his ongoing work on indexing and cataloging the digital plans of the PT boat that his beloved Higgins Society is refurbishing for the World War II Museum in New Orleans. I continued cleaning and cutting up basil while visions of kids and grandkids, nieces and nephews visiting for Holidays in the Holler began dancing in my head. It’s dangerous to leave me alone with my thoughts when I’m getting used to an empty nest.

Next week, I’ll begin in earnest clanging around the kitchen again. Even though it’s not even Halloween yet, it’s time to start roasting pecans, and finish preparing pepper jellies for inclusion in the many Christmas packages Santa Richard wraps. Closer to Christmas, there will also be bourbon balls and coconut macaroons to make. With an out-of-town wedding and Thanksgiving looming in November, we have little time to waste while we’re at home.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Leaves and Lunch

There are few sights more splendid than fall gold on the area waterfalls. The leaves against the black rock shimmer in the clear cold waters cascading down the cliffs, giving the impression of delicate gold doubloons tossed into the turbulence. Bald River Falls, with its hundred foot drop -- swollen from all the recent rain -- was a thundering wall of white water. The mists rose as high and far as the bridge from which we viewed the spectacle. Pat and Will took our pictures; we took their pictures. They’ll love showing these in the lowlands of Louisiana.

Will is an avid fisherman, asking several times along the way whether we ever see fishermen in the river. We usually spy several on any given trip, but saw none in the lower river or at the base of the falls. Pat and Will were interested in learning more about the area fishing, so after leaving the cascades, we continued on to the trout hatchery. The river on this ride was full of fly fisherman; there must have been a recent release from the hatchery.

Pat and Will were duly impressed with the sizes of the grandparent stock. They said they’d never seen such large trout. It’s a good thing the hatchery has the foresight to cover the tanks with netting. I’m not sure we could have restrained Will’s angler urges once he saw these whoppers. If it had been possible, I’m sure he’d love to have caught one for a trophy photograph before releasing his catch.

Pat made several purchases in local shops, her favorite being the iridescent fused glass cross pendant she obtained from the stunning collection by Elisabeth Baerreis. Our lunch at Tellico Kat’s Deli was delightful. We relaxed on their porch overlooking the Tellico River while enjoying their made-on-the-premises scrumptious soup and sandwiches. The crisp fall air and the sounds of the river were a perfect backdrop for being with best buddies.

The last stop on our daytrip tour was Jack’s house for a meet-the-author moment. Jack’s way of life brought back memories of an uncle’s house for Will and exclamations of wonder from Pat that Jack is content with so few conveniences. Then it was home to our holler for a home-grown, home-cooked dinner.

Richard lit a fire in the fireplace for our enjoyment as we sipped our before-dinner wine. We dined on Richard’s lovely salads, and my pork with ginger-cran-pear chutney, spiced butternut squash and green beans. We finished with coffee and carrot cake before slipping into food and fun induced comas for the night.

Pat and Will leave in the morning, but we were just getting started. So many things we didn’t have time to see or say. The next time through, we’ll have to entice them to stay for a week or two.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Miraculous Moments

Oh what a beautiful day yesterday turned out to be! The sun was shining. I was making progress on processing the basil. So far, I have two gallons of basil leaves cleaned, and I was finally finished getting the house ready for Pat and Will’s arrival.

Going to the van to check the condition of our herbs, I found more basil, which was still a vibrant green – as were the dill, oregano, thyme, and rosemary. I started moving our book signing supplies out of the van to make room for our guests to sit for sightseeing. As I lifted the folding chairs, I spied more green of a non-organic variety. It was the two hundred dollars, still with the rubber band around it, which I thought had been stolen at the Buzz Fest! Upon further inspection, I located my camera. I still don’t know how they go into the van, but I suspect that they somehow fell into a fold in the chair when we were giving change to a customer. I don’t really care how this miracle occurred; I was just so happy to report to Jack that we hadn’t been attacked by human hogs, after all.

Will had said that they would arrive shortly after lunch, but he hadn’t told me what time they eat lunch. I hadn’t factored in the fact they they were driving from the Central Time zone to Eastern Time. Vibrating with anticipation of seeing my soul-sister Pat, I succeeded at channeling this excitement into culinary occupations while Richard went to Mamie’s garden to remove the potentially deadly sweet potato vines. I was able to complete and pack for freezing a huge kettle of red beans, prepare lasagna, and freeze the extra marinara with Italian sausage.

The buzz of the food processor as I fed basil and olive oil into it drowned out the sounds of Gypsy welcoming Pat and Will mid-afternoon.But I did hear Pat's musical voice as she came up behind me to ask if I was preparing pesto. She almost succeeded in getting a pesto-covered hug.I didn't smear Pat with pesto, but we did enjoy pesto and tomato appetizers with our wine while we rejoiced over their finding us without getting lost – or shot.

Richard did such a wonderful job of remodeling our master bedroom and bath that I love to share it with our best friends. There were no fresh flowers to put in their room, and I had forgotten to buy mints for their pillows. But they seemed okay with the fact that we gave them our beautiful master suite with our pillow top mattress and Hershey bars, while we retired to the RV.

It’s so nice having long-time friends in our house. I love to be with people with whom we feel so comfortable that we slip right back into the middle of our relationship the minute we see each other. It’s kind of like your favorite blanket that you curl up in and know that all is well with the world.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Nervous Nellies

I looked out the window, and lo and behold, the sun was shining! Looks like a good day to sweep and de-cobweb the porch. We had a freeze during the night, but Richard had gotten the heating pad placed under Gypsy’s sleeping bag in preparation for the frigid temperature. Buster, our cat, immediately stretched out on Gypsy’s bed, claiming it as his own. Buster does have his own sleeping quarters; in the winter, we swaddle his cat carrier in a couple of layers of sleeping bag. But he much prefers the warmth of our oversized dust mop of a dog and our dog’s bed to having to generate his own body heat inside his hooch.

Mamie called to say that if we don’t get the frozen vines off the sweet potatoes, the potatoes will rot. One more thing to do before Pat and Will arrive, and I still haven’t finished freezing the basil -- some of which is laying on a tarp on the kitchen floor. The other herbs are still in the back of my van acting like organic car fresheners.

Jack removed his sweet potato vines before the freeze, but is afraid that his potatoes have rotted anyway. It’s been too muddy to dig them up with the special plow he invented specifically for his sweet potato harvest. I asked Jack how long-ago farmers survived all winter with the capricious weather dictating the success or failure of their crop harvests. He said that they dried a lot of foods before canning was discovered, and made sure not to deplete their larders in any given year.

Richard is hoping that the rain has removed the last of the black walnuts from our tree. Every night, for the past month, our roof has been under attack by projectile nut pods. The sound of shelling in a strange house in the black-as-pitch holler may be a bit disconcerting to our visitors from the lowlands of Louisiana. Especially since the sound of gunfire is a common occurrence in our area as people protect their homes and livestock from animals visiting from the surrounding forest. Richard likes to tell guests not to worry about the gunfire; it’s just the local way of conflict resolution. We can only hope that Will doesn’t suffer from PTSD, as he is a Vietnam War veteran.

I’ve already made our friends nervous by letting them know that they should arrive before dark because directions to our front door are not available on navigation systems, and cell phones get no reception in Coker Creek. It got worse when I informed them that I was signing them up on our membership for air evacuation services, in case one of them should need emergency medical care. The major hospitals are over an hour’s drive away, so this is just a precaution we take – not to worry. By the time I finished giving them directions to our home, Pat asked if I was expecting to have to send the air evacuation team to rescue them when they got lost. Will wanted to know if they needed to get shots before coming.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told him that he didn’t need to get shots, but he may be shot on his way here…

Monday, October 19, 2009

You Plant It -- I'll Pick It

I’ve got a good gig going here. It seems that I’ve found my way to kitchen nirvana without all the hard work of growing anything. You already know that poor Richard has slaved away in Mamie’s garden all summer to provide produce for my culinary adventures. And you know that Jack has picked many a peck of peppers for me to pickle, and make into jelly, and dice for the freezer.

Garden Mary – not to be confused with Horsewoman Mary -- owns a local produce and antique business in “downtown” Tellico Plains called the The Barn of Plenty. Out back of the barn, Mary grows organic heirloom produce and herbs for sale in her business. She called to tell me that we’re expecting freezing weather this week, and that many of her herbs won’t make it through the winter. Did I want to come harvest them before the freeze?

Mary has attended several of the bluegrass events at Charlie and Deborah’s Coker Creek Saloon, and has commented to me that she loves the food we provide. The last time I was in her place of business, I mentioned that I’d like to purchase her last-of-season herbs and preserve them rather than allow them to go to waste. Of course I wanted to harvest the herbs, especially since I had already created a disaster dusting our wooden blinds.

Anything worth doing is worth overdoing, right? I took the blinds down and removed the slats for a thorough cleaning. When I was ready to re-hang them, I had a wee problem – they hung at an extremely unattractive and uneven angle. Somehow, I had managed to discombobulate the string around the roller. And, try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Thank goodness Richard arrived on the scene at about the time I was about to start cussing or crying. I gave the blinds to Mr. Wizard, and concentrated on other things. With the sun shining for the first time in over a week, it seemed like a good time to get outside for a bit. I needed a break. Or, perhaps, I needed to give Richard a break from me.

I grabbed my picking basket and headed to Tellico where Mary gave me permission to harvest to my heart’s content. She also asked that I pull up her dill, and indicated that she would be pulling up her basil in the next day or so. With the soft ground created by the weeks of rain, I was able to pull up the dill and basil plants without a lot of effort. Mary planted it, I picked it – and she wouldn’t allow me to pay her. The least I can do is help clean her garden.

I’m now the proud owner of bushels of basil and other fresh herbs. With company coming, I won’t have time to make pesto sauce, but I can cut and freeze the basil for future use. I’ll dry the dill and sage. The thyme and oregano will go into the freezer. And I just realized I forgot to pick tarragon. Looks like another trip to Mary’s barn…

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Hog Hunting

I picked Jack up before daylight, in a cold drizzle, for the Buzz Fest book signing. He was full of enthusiasm about the success of the hog hunt that had been ongoing in his lower garden plot for several months. Jack and his brother Charles were still picking corn, even though the weather is getting much cooler and the days significantly shorter. They were looking forward to enjoying fresh corn until first frost -- until last night when a hog stripped the stalks.

Cotton kept finding hog tracks and signs of thievery in Jack’s garden, so he decided to catch him a hog. He spent many a night hour perched on a ladder against a tree, waiting and watching for Ms. Piggy -- to no avail. Some semi-professional hunters in the area set a trap in Jack’s field, and waited. The "bait and wait" method may be less exciting than the active hunt, but there’s little danger to the hunter.

I hear that there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered wild hog. Jack told me of a hunter who had six of his hunting dogs sent to the veterinarian after a hog being pursued gored the whole pack. He also told me about a hunter that fell out of his tree stand onto a wild hog and had to ride its back until the hog threw him off because he knew the hog would kill him if he attempted to dismount the hog’s back on his own.

Jack’s semi-professional hog-hunting neighbors finally caught the hog suspected of feasting on Jack’s garden, but not before the hog ate all Jack’s late-season corn. The thing that finally “done her in” was her greed. She had already eaten all Jack’s corn from his stalks, but couldn’t resist the few additional ears that lay in the trap set by Jack’s neighbors. In went Ms. Piggy and down went the trap door. The hog hunters are looking forward to a pork fest. Maybe the hog knew that corn finishing was the preferred method of fattening livestock before the kill. Jack’s happy that the hunters’ catch is a sow. One less corn thief breeder means less corn thieves next year, he says.

We got to the festival grounds with great hopes and a couple of hundred books. Based on numbers from three previous Buzz Fests, the organizers were anticipating a crowd of four thousand. They were looking forward to making a sizable donation to this year’s beneficiary agency, “We Got Your Back,” that assists families of deployed National Guardsmen from our local area. But cold, wet wind blew steadily through the pavilion where the festival stage was set. And the cloud cover was so heavy that the whole park was gray.

Many families braved the weather for the children’s beauty pageant that opened the festival – the most popular festival event. Unfortunately, their children’s costumes weren’t good cold weather attire, so most left immediately after the pageant.

The lack of success of the festival certainly wasn’t for lack of the organizers trying. The food vendors were plentiful, and their products were good. There was a precious patriotic music show put on by an area Christian school – very hometown Americana. The band, Dixie Highway, was great. It had all of us toe tapping and completely caught up in the music. This was a mixed blessing. While Jack and I grooved to the music, a human hog walked off with my camera and our money.

I comfort myself with the fact that, due to poor turnout, we had few sales. We’d have lost a lot more had thieves visited us at last week-end’s festival when our money pouch was bulging with bucks. The organizers of the Buzz Fest lost more than money. Their weeks of effort, I suspect, will produce no return on their investment which translates to no money for their cause.

I’m not complaining, but I do wish the thieves would return my memory card with photos of our trip to Glacier National Park and my niece and her family.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Weathering the Wet in Coker Creek

Wet! That’s all we can say about Coker Creek this week. Mary with the muck gave me a “rain check”,literally,on collecting her “garden gold.” Richard is actually showing signs of cabin fever, and he’s not prone to restlessness. He was so desperate to get out that he took my van to Atlanta for the warrantied repairs.

Our poor Great Pyrenees mopes around looking for a dry outdoor spot to stand her watch. She’s quite miserable when it’s too wet to chase squirrels. Richard’s work shed doubles as her dog house, but she -- like her daddy -- seems kind of stir-crazy when cooped up in her “house.” She looks like a huge wet dust mop with big brown eyes trying to impersonate a door mat.

Many of the half-backs flee to Florida for the duration of the wet winters. Coker Creek natives hunker down. Many of them enjoy the break from all the work done in growing season. There’s a lot of time for catching up on family and photo albums. Mamie and I plan to go through her family photos while she shares her history in Coker Creek. Spinning yarn with the wool shorn from their alpacas living at Coker Creek Village is an activity practiced by Beth and Esther. Others spin yarns of a different sort. This winter, I’m sure there will be a lot of reminiscing about Frank.

Until mid-November, many will entertain leaf-peeper guests. This is a good opportunity to drive the areas that we don’t take the time to explore on our own. This is also a good opportunity to serve some of the garden bounty bulging out of our pantries and freezers. There are no restaurants in Coker Creek, so it’s nice to have the makings of a vegetable plate ready to be heated and served upon our return from sightseeing adventures. This year, we’ll be serving those veggies with cornbread made with cornmeal ground at the Autumn Gold Festival, at Coker Creek Village, a mile from our house. Now, that’s what I call home cookin’

Before the guests arrive, there are the ever-present cobwebs to clean out of corners. Mamie has pointed out that you can clear a cobweb tonight and the spider will have it built again by tomorrow morning. Not only does rain drip off the trees, the leaves are also dripping -- and drifting into the house on the bottoms of wet boots. And the endless mud... We keep boot scrapers by the doors, front and back, but that only gets the majority of the muck. Maybe we were better off when our floors were made of mud.

I think that this winter I’ll sit by the fire, and sew a fine seam, and feast upon strawberries, sugar, and cream. Not! Where would one get strawberries in the dead of winter? I know I’m too spastic to hand-sew seams, fine or otherwise. And how fat would I be by spring if I spent the winter ingesting sugar and cream? Not to mention that diabetes runs in my family.

Jack has many stories for me to edit and format for his next book. Bill wants me to publish his book about Coker Creek, and I’m working on an oral history of local families. I hope Richard doesn’t get tired of stoking our fireplace while I work on my manuscripts in front of a friendly fire.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Snob or Slob?

We live in the woods with a hill hiding the front of our house from the right-of-way road, and another hill obscuring the back. Both hills are lush with leaves and other great natural camouflage. Because of the lay of the land on which our house sits, we enjoy extraordinary privacy. As Richard says, “We’d have a great view if all those trees didn’t get in the way.”

Being in Mother Earth’s cradle in Coker Creek is a wonderful thing, but it can lead to some embarrassing moments. People around here don’t lock their doors and they’re prone to dropping by for a visit. Richard is a night owl and I’m an early bird. This gives us each our own space in the day to do our individual things. This also means that I stay in my pajamas until he vacates the bedroom, and he may be wandering around in his tighty-whities looking for his glasses when most people have already begun preparing lunch. This works for us, and is one of the joys of retirement.

When I do finally shower and dress for the day, I like to be comfortable. This generally means no constraining clothing. This means I put on very little in the way of foundation garments. This means that people may be in for a surprise if they don’t call before coming over.

Adam and Josie offered to retrieve Richard’s credit card that he had left at the mechanic’s shop in Madisonville. I said that we’d pick it up from them at their house, but Adam is one of those genuinely generous people who loves to give a guy a hand. He picked up the card and dropped by our house with it. Richard went out to greet Adam, and, uncharacteristic of Richard, invited him to come in and say hello to me.

I had a lot to work to do to get the marketing materials for Jack’s book ready for the printer before the Buzz Fest. There I was, working away on my computer, in the privacy of my very hidden home with very little support (if you get my meaning), when in walk Richard and Adam. Thank goodness I wasn’t sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room – only because it hasn’t gotten cold enough yet for a fire. I had just enough time to yell for Richard that I was “indisposed” before Adam got all the way to my writing room.

Mamie has said that she’d like to come over to our house to visit, and asked whether she’d have to call in advance. I really didn’t know how to admit that we’re often “indisposed” all day, so it would best if she gave us notice. I hate to appear to be a snob, but the dinner dishes don’t usually get done until breakfast the next morning and my support garments are usually only donned for company.

I don’t know which is worse for my reputation here: to be thought a snob or a slob?

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Being a Brat

Sometimes, I can be such a brat. I’d rather be writing or cooking than doing anything else -- unless my kids, grandkids or soul sisters are around. But I can combine visiting with cooking, and this makes everybody smile. And I’ve begun doing my writing first thing in the mornings, so there’s a possibility of getting something else accomplished during the day.

I’ll never understand how Richard continues to enjoy my social schemes; they usually mean a lot of work for him. This is because my priorities quite often overlap in such a way that one commitment precludes another commitment, so Richard – bless his heart – ends up stepping into the breach. No matter what hair-brained scheme I come up with, he’s usually game to come along for the ride. Like Mamie’s garden that “we” helped plant. “We” mostly meant Richard because I had so many other things to do, like entertain our summer visitors, plan our trips, and cook.

When I cook for guests, Richard asks for a grocery list and a list of assignable tasks. He does the marketing, and is happy to prepare any parts of the meals that I delegate to him. He’s our official “salad man”, providing guests with detailed lists from which to choose their favorite salad ingredients. Richard also likes to cook.

I’m not fond of baking because baking is a rather exacting science. My wing-it methods don’t lend themselves to the scientific method. Exacting anything is right up Richard’s alley, so he often takes charge of making elaborate dessert presentations. I’m usually in charge of final preparation timing and serving of the meal. Then Richard pushes me out of the disastrously messy kitchen to “visit” with our guests as he wades through my mess.

When I decided that I’d really like to garden without the use of chemical fertilizers, I roped Richard into scooping chicken poop in Mamie’s hens’ laying house. Now, a horsewoman that we know from Charlie and Deborah’s bluegrass pickin’ sessions has accepted my offer to “let” me and Richard come muck out her stalls in exchange for what she calls “garden gold”.

Richard loves horses, so I know he’ll enjoy getting up close and personal enough with Mary’s horses to rub their velvety noses. I would think that picking up meadow apples would be a high price for most people to pay for a field of vegetables that won’t be harvested for another year and the warm snuffling of a velvet snout. But Richard is a patient man -- and, as I said, he loves horses.

My house needs cleaning in preparation for our guests. I’ve left the cleaning supplies in the corners of various rooms for the last week and no sorcerer’s apprentice has shown up to do the cleaning. My van was attempting to kill me for the last couple of weeks, so Richard took it to the local mechanic and ascertained that it needs to have warranty-backed work that was done in Atlanta repeated. Richard hates driving in Atlanta, so he’ll probably have me take the van down. And, you know, any excuse will do for me to go see Rachel’s family and my Atlanta friends.

Too bad Richard’s never been to Mary’s barn. I’m sure I could turn these other tasks into a way to have the “we” mucking out Mary’s stalls become Richard.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Colors of Coker Creek

Coker Creek has been fabulously fall-colored for the past week, but it’s been raining for most of that time. I’m afraid that we’ll have no leaves on the trees when our Louisiana and Mississippi friends come in another week. All won’t be lost, however, as the leaves down the mountain are just beginning to turn. If our friends haven’t done enough leaf-peeping on their own, with a short drive, we’ll find fall.

Josie suggested that we take Jack’s book to a bookstore in Murphy, North Carolina. Richard and I got lost looking for Josie’s house, and ended up taking a leaf tour of one of the most beautiful vistas in the area. Duckett Ridge, which leads to Coker Creek Falls, sports several uninterrupted miles of forested mountainside scenery. Sometimes getting lost is a gift.

The drive to Murphy is lovely at any time of year, with Murphy as a quaint mountain town destination. And just outside Murphy Josie and I stopped at the world-famous John C. Campbell Folk School where mountain methods are taught in everything from basket making to blacksmithing to food preparation. Their gift shop has some of the finest crafts available in the area, and their craft fairs are second to none.

Richard is interested in doing a work-study program at the school. This is a neat program where you can trade two weeks of labor for one week of classes while living in the beautiful North Carolina Mountains. Sounds like a deal to me -- Rubbing elbows with fine artists and craftspeople while playing at pottery making.

Before Hurricane Katrina, we had a wonderful collection of art: pottery, paintings, glass work, stone sculpture. Some of it was given to us by the artists as gifts. Almost all of it was done by artists that I had met. Some of the artists were good friends. Now the mermaids have all that artwork, except for a portion of a pottery bowl and a seventy-five pound sculpted head that was too heavy to float away. Like New Orleans, Coker Creek is an artists Mecca. When I become very wealthy, I’m going to fill my life and home with original pottery, innumerable paintings, and fine artworks by people I know.

Richard is more interested in taking classes than I am. My brain is as spastic as my body, so I never “get it” when everybody else in the class does. I get to a certain point and my brain goes into hibernation just long enough for me to miss a couple of steps in the lesson. Raising my hand for a repeat gets me in all kinds of trouble -- with the teacher and the good students. I end up becoming the class clown, and then nobody learns anything. I wish I could say I’ve outgrown this tendency, but I don’t think so. As Richard would say, I’m probably “hard-wired” that way.

Now, teaching would be another thing entirely. Being a clown then can help people enjoy the lesson. I could still rub elbows with all the artists and audit some of their classes. I’ve taught adults before. Maybe we could start our own artist’s colony – eventually.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Marriage Music

I love watching mature couples in love. Their lives are like well-choreographed dances. They know when to dip, and when to twirl, and when to let someone else dance with their partner for a while – trusting that they will always go home with their life’s partner, when the time comes.

Ralph and Wanda are like that. They’re both very busy, very talented people, and they both fully support each other’s various endeavors. Ralph’s the soft-spoken type; while Wanda’s a professional singer. Ralph stays busy, especially in the fall, with the Ruritans. Wanda stays busy with her church, her music, and her grandchildren. When Ralph is managing Ruritans, Wanda is usually acting as executive assistant or clean-up committee member. When Wanda’s on stage, Ralph is usually in the wings acting as sound engineer. Their eyes still twinkle when they speak of one another. What could be better than that?

Frank and Greta were like that. Greta is a woman of rare good humor who would rather be in her own home surrounded by family and friends than anywhere else on earth. Frank never met a stranger or an adventure he didn’t want to participate in. Frank loved the way Greta loves their kids and grandkids, nieces and nephews, and all the huge circle of family and friends they welcomed into their home. I’m not sure he ever stopped adding onto their backyard entertainment area. There are resorts without all the family comfort amenities Frank built for Greta in Coker Creek. And when it came to Frank’s many civic projects, Greta was there as supporting cast -- making sure that the detail work got done.

My long-time friends, Eleanore and Johnny, were like that. Johnny was a proud WWII veteran from the rough side of New Orleans. Eleanore is a dignified New England matriarch. They truly loved the dance of life, attending VFW dances until health problems stopped their music. Their verbal sparring was legendary. Eleanore loved to say that if a married couple never fought, someone wasn’t thinking -- and that she and Johnny were the “thinkingest couple in the world.”

Till the day Johnny died, he referred to Eleanore as “my girl”, and would proudly announce, when asked the color of the cars he bought, “Blue, like the eyes of the woman I love.” Johnny was a consummate salesman and patriot. Eleanore is the consummate teacher and tourguide. From the time Johnny sold himself to Eleanore at a USO dance until Eleanore buried her Johnny, Eleanore let him believe that he was leading the steps to their family dance – as any well-brought-up New England lady would do. But we know who was guiding that tour.

I see a lot of this kind of couple a lot in Coker Creek. Coker Creek seems to attract couples who really like each other. Many have escaped here from places that were just too hectic for the tempo of the music of their lives.

I used to tell my children that they should marry their best friend. Whether couples are best friends at the altar or become best friends as they hold hands through the terrible/wonderful dance of family life, it’s beautiful to watch the ballet after two become one.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Gracious Goodness

It’s great working with Jack. In a word, he’s gracious, which is defined as: Characterized by kindness and warm courtesy; characterized by tact and propriety. Not being a gracious person, by nature, I try to surround myself with people who know a thing or two about “how to behave”. It could rub off on me…

It’s amazing how many people we meet who go out of their way to come to Jack’s book signings. This is a man who has spent most of his life living and working within fifty miles of where he was born. I’ve met his cousins, his aunts, his uncles, his schoolmates, and scores of people who worked at or did business with the sewing factories where Jack was so long employed.

The most touching meeting was a visit by a young woman with a small child in her arms. She came to our booth, and announced that her grandpa had insisted that she find Jack at the festival and introduce herself. It seems that when she was about eight years old, while visiting her grandpa on the mountain, she wandered off. Because of the many abandoned mine shafts pocking the area – remnants of the gold mining that had been ubiquitous in the area in the nineteenth century -- her grandpa was rightfully worried. He called upon Jack to help him search for his grandchild. She proudly announced that Jack had helped find her, and held out her child to display to Jack the continuation of his good work.

Jack, in his usual gracious manner, greeted them warmly. After the family left, he confided that he really hadn’t done anything. By the time they began the search for the child, she showed up of her own accord. This is how it is with Jack. You’d never know from listening to him tell it, but his goodness is legend in Monroe county and surrounding areas of Tennessee. I don’t care whether he saved the child; what’s important is that he’s spread so much good will with his many random acts of kindness.

Jack says that he had an awful temper as a child. I guess that’s true, but he certainly shows no signs of temper now. I’m so glad that he overcame that tendency, as I’m very afraid of bullies of both the physical and verbal varieties. Of course, if he hadn’t changed his ways, I doubt that I’d have published his book because I’d have driven out of my way to avoid even driving by his house. And I certainly wouldn’t be taking nature walks with him to pick okra and corn in his garden.

Jack’s stories are often about children overcoming great odds. They are always about good overcoming evil and despair. This is why I call them folktales. They’re full of the innocent wisdom of old-soul children, and speak to the strength that comes from believing so strongly in and working so hard for something that others are inspired to help make the dream come true. Very much like the way Jack’s book came about.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Coker Creek Creations

Richard and I have long dreamed of him producing for sale copies of the best toy we ever had, which was made by Richard. The original was taken by the mermaids when our house was washed into Lake Pontchartrain in Hurricane Katrina. We have the beginnings of a new set that was saved by virtue of being in the attic waiting for finishing when Katrina came through. Our Christmas decorations and this box of sticks were all that remained of our home. Perhaps we’ll make this dream come true – finish the box of sticks, make more sets, and hit the road with a craft caravan. Richard could demonstrate his wonderful toy while I chat up the customers and make the sales.

I’ve worked trade fares, but this is my first craft fare. I named my publishing company “Coker Creek Creations” with the idea that I could eventually branch out to representing various Coker Creek craftspeople. I toyed with the idea of selling some of my kitchen crafts, like spiced pecans, at this year’s festival, but with all the bereavement work the prospect became daunting. I decided to do this first foray into festivals on the KISS principle. In this case, keeping it simple means focusing on Jack’s book.

Jack and I are excited, not only about selling his books at the Autumn Gold Festival this week-end, but The Monroe County Buzz has offered us a spot in their fourth annual Buzz Fest next week-end. This was precipitated by Adam asking me about the bridge, and me contacting Mark Boring, Jack’s friend with The Buzz. More blog blessings…

My blog following nephew, Albert, has suggested that I sell my wares online. He’s a really smart guy -- in high school and college simultaneously. He’s also doing apprenticeships in computer work. Maybe he can take on designing and maintaining my business website as a student project. And his big brother, who has experience in craft fairs, could set us up with some of the better fairs in places we’d like to visit – or, at least, advise us on what to do and what to avoid on the gypsy vendor circuit. And maybe my best literary friends could continue to edit the books that we publish. And maybe we’ll make enough money to fix our RV, build a new kitchen, and buy a new van – but probably not all this week-end.

Oh, yeah! I said I’d keep it simple.

The first day of the festival, we had rain, followed by fog, followed by mud -- Not an auspicious start to our craft fair careers. We were blessed by a good spot at the front of the fairgrounds (Coker Creek Village Retreat Center), and the offer to share the Ruritan’s tent. With three umbrellas and a couple of towels, we were able to keep our books dry, but we were afraid that no one other than fellow vendors would brave this wet weather.

The Ruritan’s reputation for putting on a good festival saved the day. After forty years of putting on this celebration, they’re like the Postal Service motto – “Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night”…will keep the festival from raising funds for community outreach programs. Ralph Murphy and Ken Dalton have been festival organizers since its first year when they actually had snow and ice during festival week-end. They didn’t miss a beat this year, beginning with a beautiful tribute to Frank complete with Ralph's wife Wanda Murphy’s fabulous voice soaring to the heavens with the Star Spangled Banner to open the festivities.

I believe Frank was proud. May he rest in the knowledge that his good works live on.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Blessings from Blogging

A nephew from whom I’ve heard little over the years, his big brother, and a niece from whom I rarely hear have begun commenting on my blogs. This is great fun for me. I would never have guessed that people my children’s ages would be any more interested in what I had to say than my own children seem to be. Of course my own children have probably already heard everything I have to say.

When they used to stop me in the middle of a “mama meltdown” with comments that I had already given them that lecture, I’d tell them that once they could repeat the lectures verbatim, I’d stop giving that lecture. I threatened to write down and number all my rants so they could memorize them by number. Then I could save my breath and their ears by just yelling their names and a number. Maybe my blog is like that, but thankfully some people who haven’t been privy to my rants seem to be reading the entries.

I got a call about my latest blog entry from our local cop friend, Adam. First, he gave me a bit of good advice. Adam asked if I had a navigation system for finding my way to and back from all my adventures. I assured him that I’d never get back to the holler if I didn’t, so he told me the dangers of having the actual directions to your front door saved as “home” on your GPS. I had one of those “Duh!” moments after he brought it up.

How many times have I given my car over to a valet (not in Coker Creek, mind you), being very careful not to hand over any key other than the key to the ignition. I knew from a bad experience many years ago that miscreants can cross reference your license plate number to your name and address. I sure didn’t want strangers making copies of my house keys and using them to break into my house -- that they'd found thanks to my license plate. And here I’ve been leaving my GPS with my address and complete instructions for finding our holler. It won’t get you to our front door, but close. Even GPS has limits when dealing with finding things in the forest.

Adam programs a random address near his home into his navigation system. He figures that he can find his house without help from there. And since nobody with an ounce of sense would try to drive these roads drunk, this would probably work for most of us.

Before handing the phone to his wife, Adam questioned me about the information I had posted on my blog about Jack’s bridge. Several years ago, an effort had been underway to take a large portion of Jack’s land to build a million dollar plus bridge at the same location. Since only thirteen cars cross that bridge on a given day and there are alternate routes to everywhere the bridge connects, the locals protested enough to squelch the pork barrel project – they thought. I guess the elected officials in the area have a new chunk of stimulus change to spend and decided this was a good way to create local jobs.

An owner of a local paper, The Monroe County Buzz, who had championed Jack’s first bridge battle subsequently became a fan of Jack’s stories. I told Adam I’d contact The Buzz. Then he gave the phone to “Mrs. Mott” who swears that Adam doesn’t know her first name since he alternately calls her “Rabbit” and “Mrs. Mott.”

Josie is another of Coker Creek’s multi-talented artists. My niece, Nikki, is the proud owner of a sock monkey quilt created by her. Josie is also an avid nature photographer interested in publishing her work. We spoke a bit about Jack’s sweet potatoes, his way of life, and the publication of his book -- which led her to offer to introduce me to the owner of a bookstore about an hour’s drive from here.

People can continue to talk about the power of the press. I’m excited about the blessings I’ve received from my blog.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Community Concern

The trees are turning just in time for the Autumn Gold Festival. Jack and I took a walk to his lower garden, and for the first time I saw hazelnuts still in their flowers. What beautiful little bouquets they are! Pale green eyelet frills, edged in dusty rust, enfold the nuts containing the precious edible morsels of nutmeat. Unfortunately, the squirrels get to most of them before we even know the nuts are there.

Jack planted corn three different times this year. Because we haven’t had our first frost, we’re still eating fresh-roasted corn. Jack mostly eats it raw, unless we cook it and bring it to him. Jack eats all his vegetables raw because he has things he’d rather do with him time than cook. I think all of his preferred activities, with the exception of writing, occur outdoors, and he’d have to be inside to cook.

Jack says that Coker Creek (the hamlet, not the creek)used to be awash in corn. He even wrote a story about how important corn was in Coker Creek back when it was the main source of food for livestock and bread, and families lived off their land. This story is where I learned about grated bread (similar to corn pudding).

Unfortunately, Jack’s corn growing and our nature walks will be severely curtailed next year because the department of transportation is going to tear out the bridge over Coker Creek that separates Jack’s home and kitchen garden from the lower garden he works with his brother Charles. By the time the bridge is replaced, I’m afraid Jack will have lost a good source of his income. The lower garden is where he raises his coveted sweet potatoes. People travel from all over the county to purchase Jack’s potatoes. I guess I’ll have to get better at marketing Jack’s book to replace his loss.

We’re going to have a reading corner at the Autumn Gold Festival where Jack will read from, autograph, and sell his book. The one time Jack went to a school and read from his work, the children were enthralled. Jack, who tends to be extremely shy, surprised himself with how much he enjoyed the endeavor. The Ruritans will receive a portion of the sales price for each book in Frank’s memory, just as the school received a donation for each book we sold there. We’re hoping the Autumn Gold Festival will become an annual marketing tool for us.

Coker Creek Village is a fabulous retreat center on the banks of Coker Creek, and is the site of the Gold Festival. Sadly, the funeral for a daughter of the owner of the facility is being held on the eve of this year’s festival. The community is banding together to provide food for the bereaved mother to serve her relations visiting from out-of-town. I’m honored to be bringing turnip greens from Mamie’s garden and maque chou made with corn and banana peppers grown by Jack and tomatoes grown by Mamie and Richard.

That’s what I call community concern.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Riverside Ramble

Mamie was invited to be interviewed in Chattanooga by Marcia Kling of Newschannel9 for a mid-day television program geared to the over-fifty crowd. The topic was to be Mamie’s life in Coker Creek and the Autumn Gold Festival, organized for forty years by Mamie’s son, Frank. When Mamie’s back went out, I lined up Frank’s cousin’s wife, Wanda, as an alternate. When Frank died, we were down to the wire on Marcia finalizing her program, and Wanda felt that she just couldn’t go through with the interview. The Ruritans asked me to represent them on Marcia’s show. Talk about life (and death) happening while we’re making other plans...

I hated to miss the opportunity to publicize Frank’s pet project. So, being the “wing it” queen, and quite a show-off, of course I agreed. I costumed myself in my denim skirt and fall festival vest, put on my cowboy boots, and headed to Chattanooga.

One of the most beautiful drives in North America has to be the drive between Coker Creek and Chattanooga. After passing through the tunnel of greens on Tennessee Highway 68, and along the Hiwassee River, Federal Highway 64 takes you past the Ocoee River rapids and through a ribbon of rock on one side and the river on the other. There are hairpin turns all along the route, making the drive into quite an adventure. I did pass a car that had run off the road. No one was hurt, but it was a sobering reminder that it’s very difficult to concentrate on driving when surrounded by such bodacious beauty.

I was reminded of my brother Gregory’s joy in driving our mountain roads, realizing that our automobiles have more of a tendency to stay on the road than run off the edge because we “bank” our highways in the United States. He says that this is not the case in Austria, where he lives. It must be very impressive for Greg to have pointed it out to us.

If you ever want to understand the song “America the Beautiful”, you really have to visit America’s protected natural environments. Here, in the Cherokee National Forest, you have miles and miles of God’s Country with acres of wildflowers clinging to cliffs of slate gray sedimentary rock. The rivers along the way vary from still, rocky mudflats along the lower Hiwassee to class five rapids at the site of the 1996 whitewater events on the Ocoee River.

Richard and I have been very fortunate to have seen many parts of our fabulously beautiful country – many of our travels being when I had the post-Hurricane Katrina fantasy of spending the rest of our rootless lives in an RV. We’ve experienced the “Spacious Skies” of Montana, and “Amber Waves of Grain” in Southern Illinios. I’ll never forget the first time I spied the “Purple-Mountained Majesty” of the Rockies as a six-year-old looking out a train window enroute to my Uncle Edgar’s house in Colorado. Several years later, upon hearing “America the Beautiful” for the first time, it gave me chills to realize that I had seen, first-hand the “purple-mountained majesties” of the song.

Not to belabor the love songs to America theme, but Richard and I spent time in California and I’ve been to the New York Islands. We are still hoping to see the redwood forests, and have loved life in the gulfstream waters. We really believe that “this land is made for you and me” and are so grateful that our country’s leaders have protected so much of it for our recreation, appreciation, and awe.

We’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite place. But living in a holler, in the mountains of Southeastern Tennessee, at the edge of the Cherokee National Forest, is like being rocked in the bosom of Mother Earth.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Blood Brothers

Over fifteen hundred people, from infants-in-arms to the contemporaries of his almost-ninety-year-old mother, stood in the rain for up to three hours to pay our respects to Frank’s family. When you consider that the total population of Coker Creek is estimated to be less than three thousand, it puts these numbers into perspective. People from all over East Tennessee came to say good-bye to Frank and offer love and help to his family.

After we buried Frank, we ate lunch with many of the people we’ve met since moving to Coker Creek. These mountain folk sure can cook. You never saw such an array of locally grown vegetables on one buffet table. Frank sure would have enjoyed it.

When I mentioned to Frank’s cousin, Ralph, that I knew he and Frank were like brothers, he responded, “No, we were brothers.” He then pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a scar on his wrist. When he and Frank were twelve years old, they had become blood brothers by cutting themselves in identical places and mingling their blood. Isn’t it funny that, even though they shared blood as first cousins, they felt it necessary to seal their bond with an observable physical sharing of blood?
My friend Elaine and I shared a similar ritual when we were fourteen years old. Sometimes it’s important to be able to choose the blood that you’ll defend to the death.

Ralph went on to explain that even though he and Frank fought incessantly, an hour after every fight they’d be begging to spend the night at each other’s houses. He recounted the almost disaster that put a stop to the rock throwing part of their fights. It seems that a rock thrown by Ralph ricocheted off a stone on the ground and sailed directly into Frank’s eye. Frank had to wear an eye patch for several weeks, but his sight was saved. Ralph said they never “rocked each other again”. I often marvel that any of our sons make it to manhood.

My baby brother Albert used to fight incessantly with our next door neighbor, Bert. When Albert was about six years old, I asked him who his best friend was. “Bert LeBlanc,” he answered. “How could Bert be your best friend? Y’all fight all the time,” was my reply. “Well, that’s why he’s my best friend. He’s the only one who’ll fight with me.” -- This from a boy who had three older brothers, and four older, and one younger sister. Maybe that is the true test of friendship: Caring enough to help each other build strength through conflict and reconciliation.

Maybe it’s like the old song goes, “You always hurt the one you love.”

Monday, October 5, 2009

Curious About Cobwebs

We’re expecting leaf-peeper company this month, so it’s time for me to dust off the old Webster and catch me some cobwebs. Have you ever asked yourself why cobwebs are called “cobwebs”? What is a cob, and why do they need webs? And why are they so closely associated with fall and Halloween?

Our whole house has sprouted cobwebs. We also are bombarded all night with black walnuts going bump in the night. Add the howling of woodland wildlife in our surrounding forest, and we could open up as Haunted House in the Holler.

I looked up the word “cobweb” and found that it comes from the short form of Old English atorcoppe (spider) plus web. As for why we associate them with fall, I have a couple of theories: First, after a full month of doing nothing but harvesting, cooking, and canning, the prospect of catching up on neglected housework is pretty horrifying.

My second theory is that fall was a time of fear when there were no antibiotics for treating pneumonia, tuberculosis, flu, and other potentially deadly wet winter diseases. And the nasty snakebites that were a worry in the warmer months were now replaced by fear of your children being bitten by eensy weensy (and some not so eensy weensy) spiders. There was also the ever-present danger that the foods preserved in summer would either explode or freeze, or wouldn’t last until the first harvest in the spring. Additionally, uncontrollable house fires and rats had a nasty way of depleting resources. Not to mention that being cooped up with your husband indoors all winter could very likely lead to more mouths to feed nine months hence. What was a mother to do?

She could whip out her worry (or rosary) beads and pray. She could go on a wild rat watch and killing spree. She could make more quilts so as not to have to burn a fire while her family slept. She could get into a frenzy of cleaning, trying to keep ahead of the “cobs” and their killing grounds. And she could send her husband into the woods to hunt bear and boar, and out to the woodshed to cut firewood. These things were necessary to feed her family, and kept husband from being under foot and too much with her. I’ve heard a lot of retired women say that they married their husbands for better or worse, but not for lunch. This is probably also from the Old English.

It’s no wonder women got tired of homeschooling their young. Who had time and energy for teaching all those survival skills while trying to entertain a houseful of housebound children all winter, at the same time as fighting disease? It must have been a dad that invented Halloween to make light of all the fears that his household held in fall. And you know how dads like to get the youngsters all riled up just when your whack-a-mole game of calming them seems to be winnable. Telling ghost stories and making scary noises was so much more fun than being given a broom to clean those nasty cobwebs.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Legends, Laughter, and Love

The day after Frank died, the sky was a gray pall over Coker Creek. It drizzled most of the day. It seemed that Coker Creek was crying.

Frank was everywhere in his beloved home town. He was a charter member of the Ruritans, and seemed to spearhead every event in which Ruritans participated: Monroe County Food Bank, Monroe County Senior Citizens, Monroe County Rescue Squad, Monroe County Beautiful, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Tellico High Senior Scholarship Fund, Coker Creek Elementary School, and Coker Creek Volunteer Fire Department, to name a few.

He was landlord for the strip center that was truly the center of Coker Creek, and that is locally referred to as “Murphy Corner”. Any day would find him chatting with his tenants and loading the various soda machines outside of the businesses. Frank must have had a sixth sense about his mama. More times than not, when Richard or I would be in Mamie’s garden, Frank would show up to check on things and offer a bit of teasing or advice.

Everybody who moved to Coker Creek was warmly welcomed by Frank. He helped people feel at home by helping them find in Coker Creek whatever interested them. If you were into community service work, he’d introduce you to Ruritans. If you loved cruising the mountains on your motorcycle, he’d lead you on his bike to the best scenery and around the best curves. If you were a US military veteran, he'd make sure that you were invited to the Veterans Day breakfast at Tellico High School. When Richard and I wanted Frank’s mama, Mamie, to teach us gardening, Frank plowed and tilled the garden plots for us. I wanted to write about Coker Creek; Frank set up interviews for me.

Frank did have some non-traditional solutions to everyday problems. He and his wife, Greta, had several pear trees in their front yard which produced more pears than any one family could possibly use. Frank had little patience for tedious tasks. So, when Greta gave him the job of peeling pears, his solution was to rev up his lathe. He loved laughing at himself recounting the mess this made of his workshop.

Frank, I think, lived by the biblical command to leave ten percent of your fields to be harvested by the needy. Once he and Greta canned all the pears for their family’s use, anyone was welcome to the surplus. He wouldn’t pick the pears for you, but you could harvest all you wanted. And pick them we did.

Frank had a huge appetite for all the good in life. When asked about the details of any of the many meetings he attended, he’d always begin with descriptions of the food served. His insulin-dependent diabetes didn’t diminish his appetite or his sweet tooth. He loved the jellies, jams, chutneys, pies, and carrot cakes that Greta, Mamie and I shared with him -- Probably loving them all the more because he appreciated the work that went into the growing, harvesting, and preparing of these delicacies.

We’ll all miss Frank’s legends, laughter, and love.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Feeling Frank's Loss by Richard Warren

I found Frank to be a very open individual with a warm and dry humor. He was always trying to “gig” others whom he liked and loved being gigged back in return. I thought of him as a combination of imp, leprechaun, and elf with a little gremlin thrown in.

He was always ready, willing and able to offer and give me help and advice. He was a very devoted son to his 89 year old mother, Mamie. My wife, Yvette, and I worked with Mamie this year in planting a vegetable garden on her property. Frank and Frank’s son were always available to till soil with their tractor, when requested.

I last spoke to Frank 2 days ago. I was in his mother’s back yard picking field peas. He had come over to check on her, but she was off getting physical therapy. He drove out to the field in his ‘rice burner car’ and asked me if the battery in my truck was really good. I said that it was, and he replied the he figured it was since I had left my lights on (a classic Frank style gig). We then talked about the grapes in the yard, and he commented that this was going to be a very good year for the grapes. Frank certainly loved the outdoors, the mountains, and active involvement in as many things as possible.

We then talked about corn shocks for the Autumn Gold Festival. I volunteered to make the shocks using the corn stalks in his mother’s garden but had not found the proper twine yet. He immediately volunteered that he had twine at home, and that I should drop by and pick it up. While in the garden, I also harvested carrots.

I washed the carrots last night, and I picked some nice ones for Mamie. Ironically, I was at her house earlier this afternoon to give them to her when ambulances and police cars with sirens blaring speeded by her house on Hwy 68. I commented to her “I don’t know what that's all about, but I hope they do OK”. She replied adamantly “Me too”. She found out later what had happened when the Baerrises came over and broke the news.

You can’t ‘make sense ‘out of something like this. We can only fall back on our belief systems, accept the loss and go on. We hope that, with time, the pain will fade and all the good memories will emerge and comfort us. We think ‘He died at a bad time’ a good man in good health doing good things’. But, is there ever a good time for a man like Frank to die? I don’t think there is. In the Jewish belief system, it is believed that when one dies, he leaves behind his good deeds. In Frank’s case this would clearly indicate a very successful life.

When I face losses like this, I cope by imagining plausible reasons for their occurrence. In Frank’s case I think his case just came up for review by HE WHO IS IN CHARGE. HE reviewed the record and saw a lifetime of public service, a great deal of help for his fellow man, a loving husband, a loving and dutiful son, a loving father, and few, if any, ‘problems’. HE then noted that Frank had several years of insulin dependent diabetes and was developing problems (blindness in one eye). HE noted that Frank was due for some serious diabetic complications with chronic pain and disability.

HE then checked on Frank’s status and found that he was operating a tractor on a beautiful day doing work for a very worthy cause that he loved, and was with many very close friends. HE then decided “Perfect. I’m flipping your tractor, Frank. See you in a minute”. This may be fanciful, but it helps me. It’s my truth and I’m sticking to it.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Facebook and Family

I was already feeling a bit antsy on the day that my son-in-law posted on Facebook, “H1N1 Sucks!” I posted, “Who has H1N1? Do you?” Last I checked before going to bed, there was no reply.

So the next morning, I write my blog, drink my coffee, check my emails, and log onto Facebook. Larry has posted that he’s feeling better. As I watch the screen, a post comes up from Rachel stating that she’s doing better after her bad reaction to a pneumonia vaccine. What reaction? Enough already with the Facebook!

I pick up the phone, and dial Rachel’s home number. I don’t know if she’s home because I know she has parent/teacher conferences all week. But, I figure Larry will probably be home if he has the flu. Rachel answers, sounding like death-warmed-over. She says she’ll be okay because Larry’s home – A man with the flu nursing a woman with a fever. This I gotta see.

I know the girls have school and multiple activities, and I don’t think Larry’s going to feel up to running the taxi service. Anyway, what does Rachel think retired moms are for? I packed my bags, gathered groceries (for chicken soup and such), kissed Richard, and headed back down to Georgia.

I walk into their house fussing about finding on Facebook that they’re sick. Rachel is melted into her big recliner with several glasses of fluids, tissues, and a thermometer on a table next to her right arm. This is because she can’t move her swollen left arm, the sight of the injection reaction.

Larry is in a rocker a few feet from Rachel with the TV remote and his computer on a table in front of him. On his computer screen is a graph tracking the trend in Rachel’s temperature, which Larry tests every half hour.

He is also tracking her Tylenol and Ibuprophen rotation, bringing each dose to her in a clean medicine cup. Around Rachel’s swollen arm, Larry has rigged a Ziploc bag of ice held in place with an Ace bandage. He’s up and down, removing and reapplying the ice pack at Rachel’s request. I only wish Richard had received such attention from his ICU nurses when he was in a coma and post-transplant.

I was free to concentrate on laundry, meals and transportation for the girls – or I should say transportation for Rebecca. Larry had arranged with their friend Marian to transport Sarah, who was dropped off at the house with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. What a nice network they have.

The second day, Rachel spent in the ER receiving IV fluids, with Larry in attendance. I was able to continue concentrating on granny and household duties in preparation for Mr. Stability (Rachel’s daddy) to arrive from Louisiana to check on his baby. (We’ll admit that we are a bit overprotective of Rachel since she was diagnosed a bit over a year ago with leukemia.) Thankfully, Rachel didn’t have to spend the night in the hospital.

As I got ready to take Sarah to piano lessons, Richard called with the tragic news that Mamie’s older son had died in a tractor accident. Larry was feeling better enough to take over Sarah’s transportation while I spoke to Richard. When I finished the call, it was time to get Rebecca from cross-country practice and another trip to the pharmacy for medication for Rachel.

Mr. Stability was at Rachel’s house when I got back. I was sure glad that Richard had insisted that I take the paprika chicken he had made for my last arrival home. He thought it would be good comfort food for me. If he only knew how right he’d be…

Thursday, October 1, 2009

That “Funny” Fall Feeling

I awoke to a perfect fall day with dappled sunlight through thinning leaves and a nippy breeze billowing the hammock strung between the boughs of the front yard trees. I answered the early-morning ringing of the phone with slight trepidation, as is usual when the phone rings late at night or early in the morning. What a nice surprise! -- the delighted and delightful voice of the Marine mom to whom we brought the furniture and other household donations. She spent several glorious minutes commenting on what a blessing our family has been to her family.

I was glowing as I answered emails, blogged -- which are two of my favorite activities – and spoke to my son, Scott, and my daughter-in-law, Buffy. Richard and I relaxed over breakfast -- as only retirees can do – discussing our plans for the day. Richard then went to Mamie’s to cut the spent cornstalks for making decorative shocks for the Autumn Gold Festival. While there, he cut okra, picked peas, and pulled up carrots. I began organizing the house in preparation for week-end guests. And, I finally found a family in need of a free washer. Richard made that delivery.

Like we needed any more fresh produce in our house, I had placed an order last week for the world’s finest, fattest, sweetest pecans -- (Schermer Pecans, for those who may want to know) in preparation for making Cajun spiced pecans. This year, in addition to making them for Christmas gifts, I may attempt to sell them at the Autumn Gold Festival. Since Jack and I will have a booth at the festival to sell his book, I figure “why not?” When my case of twenty-four pounds of pecans arrived by UPS, I could hardly wait for Richard to carry them to the kitchen.

I can lose myself in the kitchen and computer for days. Between cooking and writing, I could find myself out on the street for forgetting to pay the power bill, if I don’t discipline myself. And I can always find something better to do than cleaning house. I bribed myself to finish my filing before I could reward myself with shelling peas and other kitchen tasks, like roasting pecans.

We eased into the evening – me with white wine and Richard with faux wine. For dinner, we feasted on more of Richard’s sumptuous salads, Richard’s roasted root vegetables, and rotisserie chicken. We ended the day with a CSI fix, as usual.

I should have been basking in a glow of well-being. But when change is in the air, I become suspicious. My moods alternate between anxiety and anticipation. Our dog, Gypsy Woman, and our cat, Buster, also change their behaviors on fall days. Buster takes longer naps and Gypsy seems suspicious of everything that moves, patiently patrolling for what Richard calls “beasties and ghoulies” until Richard signals her that she’s off-duty after dark. Buster, oblivious to Gypsy’s jumpiness, spends even more time snuggled up with his favorite fluffy friend – Gypsy. Maybe Buster has the best idea – We should spend more time snuggling. Or should we become extra vigilant, like Gypsy – preparing our property for a long, cold winter?

I know that in the spring, we call the restlessness “spring fever”, but what do we call that “funny” feeling in the fall?