These Magnificent Mountains

Carpets of color, violets and vinca
On the winding drive down Towee Falls Road.
The falls drop off to a cascading creek,
Lined with every sort of flowering tree.

The trees of Pear, Plum, Dogwood, and Cherry,
Are both weeping and otherwise growing.
The yellow daffodils -- mostly dying --
Bright blankets of phlox have taken their place.

Various turns in the tight forest roads
Reveal views of pastoral perfection:
Cattle and calves graze in green pastures with
A backdrop of mountain springtime grandeur.

Redbuds peek out of the waking landscape
With their pale purple lacy flower fronds,
Until we’re west of the Hiawassee
Where another nature treat lies in wait.

The highway to Chattanooga begins
A corridor of the colors of spring.
Every shade of new green and red oak bud
Is displayed on the mountainsides’ canvas.

The pastureland opens mountain murals
Extending as far as the eye can see,
And the redbuds, the resplendent redbuds
Beautify the boundaries of our high-way.

This is a sensational spring season,
Made more so by the bitter winter’s cold --
Reminding us that these mountains may be
The most magnificent places on earth.

Returning to Our Roots

We are hitting the road again;
We’ll be gone for a solid week.
It’s time to clean the fridge
Before the microbes reach their peak.

There’s lots of food for Mamie,
And lots of goodies for Jack.
This should tide them over
Until Richard and I get back.

Mary wanted potatoes that had
Begun sprouting out of their eyes.
I offered, in addition, a butternut squash
For its seeds, and as an edible prize.

Richard went over to Mamie’s to
Remove last year’s tomato cages.
In this gardening business everything
Has to be done in proper stages.

I hope that by the time we return
Richard will be able to plow --
That is, of course, if Mamie doesn’t
Decide it needs doing now.

Now that spring has sprung it’s hard to
Leave the Cherokee Forest splendor.
But with our roots growing deep here,
We feel like real community members.

We’ll have fun away with old friends
But we will surely be coming back.
None of them will ever replace
Mountain Mama Mamie or our Jack.

Beef Bourguignon and Other Blessings

If allergies are the price we pay for the beauty of the East Tennessee Mountains, I’m not complaining – not too much, anyway. I went back to Lenoir City to work with the very talented writer/ illustrator Nancy, and the drive was even more resplendent with the colors of spring than it was three days earlier. The redbuds were in full bloom lining long swaths of Highway 68 from Tellico Plains to Interstate Seventy-Five. It’s all I could do not to jump out with a shovel and dig a few up for our driveway.

The drive wasn’t nearly as much fun, though, without Mountain Mary to play Lucy/Ethel with me; but I also didn’t get myself lost. I had our GPS and paid attention to were I was going because I didn’t have Mary’s tales of her horses, grandkids, and mission trips to entertain me.

Nancy lives in what she refers to as her (and her husband’s) “Sanctuary” near a lovely campground called the “Cross-Eyed Cricket.” The adventures in enjoying Nancy’s work begin with adorable illustrations on the campground signs; a cuter cricket you’ll probably never see. Her home is filled with beautiful artwork, mostly of her and her sister’s design. All of this partially prepares one for the delights that Nancy has tucked away in binders and booklets all neatly stored in her writer’s room.

Mary and I had been enthralled by Nancy when we paid her our first visit. She generously shared many of her poems with us, not just by letting us read them; she read to us in her musical, magical voice. It has often been said that poetry must be read aloud to truly be enjoyed; so much better if the voice reading it is the creator of the “voice.”

Nancy’s work is a walk through whimsy, wonder, and woe; but the woe is never depressing. Instead, it’s uplifting with the use of scripture, sweetness, and a bit of silliness to always indicate hope and joy. Her illustrations are of little old people, merry mice, bouncing babies, wonderful wildflowers, and all manner of Creation’s gifts. Her words reflect what she calls her faith journey that she has been on for over thirty years, but never in an evangelizing way. From her richly written Nan-o-Grams for her grandchildren to her reflections on death and dying, her work is full of grace, wit, and the wisdom that only experience can impart. I left Nancy’s so excited to be able to assist her that I fairly floated home.

My “Wonderful Wichard” was busily putting together Beef Bourguignon when I arrived at home. Mountaintop Mary and her husband Don were scheduled to come over for Mary to try out our scanner for working with Jack’s stories. (She had a newer “improved” scanner that had been “improved” by deleting an important text recognition feature.) Richard offered to cook, so we had them stay for a meal of one of Richard’s super salads, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, and the fragrant and fabulous burgundy beef.

How many blessings should one be allowed to stuff into one day?

Cavorting With the King

Cabin fever can really take its toll on couples (and singles) who have nothing to occupy themselves indoors. It had been thirteen weeks since the Bluegrass musicians and their groupies (that would be us) had gotten together at Charlie and Deborah’s Coker Creek Saloon. We were all in a celebratory mood feeling that winter may finally be over and we had all made it through alive -- and those who went into winter married were still married.

Richard and I hadn’t had the chance to share all our Mardi Gras goodies and our New Orleans delicacies of mini-muffaletts and king cake. Charlie’s birthday was also looming, so we decided to have a celebration fit for a faux king (and his queen). If it’s good enough for the New Orleans carnival krewes to crown kings and queens; it’s also good enough for Coker Creek.

I arrived dressed in my most magnificent Mardi Gras attire, complete with feather boa and mask; Richard wore a “Bless you Boys” T-shirt to rub it in that our team won the Super Bowl. We brought beads for everyone, with special beads for the king and queen, in lieu of crowns.

I recruited eleven-year-olds Prince Eugene to crown King Charlie and Princess Cassie to crown Deborah, his Queen of Coker Creek. Eugene’s twin brother Prince Billy then rained beads down upon the king’s royal subjects as the king cake candle was lit. The royal minstrels played while the court jesters cavorted in the gallery (otherwise known as the porch). There was much merry-making in honor of the king (at least for the night) of Coker Creek.

The following day we were invited to accompany Charlie and Deborah on a mystery tour to celebrate Charlie’s birthday. Hopalong Nancy, Jim, Deborah, Charlie, Richard and I all piled into Charlie’s truck and took off without any but Deborah knowing the destination. All she would tell Charlie is where to make the next turn. We drove for well over an hour through the rural Tennessee countryside with foals and calves cavorting in freshly greened pastures and miles of redbuds, Japanese magnolias, cherry trees and Bradford pears all in full bloom. The farmland fields were freshly plowed in many cases, and in others already sprouting.

Our destination was the magnificent Whitestone Country Inn on Watts Bar Lake. The springtime colors of the budding and blooming trees were reflected in the lake’s mirror-smooth surface with panoramic views of the Smoky Mountains. We had a delicious lunch at Lamb and Lion restaurant next to the adorable wedding chapel on the 600-acre property. The food was great; the dining room was beautiful; and the views were fabulous. We had a grand time, and to top it off the chef came by and inquired about our experience. I felt like we were all royalty.

On the way back, we took the scenic route, as Charlie is prone to doing. We were shown the many entrance and exit points for the old Tennessee Highway 68 as it crisscrossed New Highway 68 while Charlie regaled us with tales of local historical events and the characters involved in them. Who knew that Stokely Canning Company had its first-ever canning plant in Tellico Plains, or that Scott Fertilizer was developed in conjunction with the Stokely operation right down the mountain from our house in the holler? What a delightful tour guide Charlie makes! It’s nice to hang with the king of Coker Creek.

Tracking Jack

The most amazing people have been happening to me since I became Jack’s publisher. Mrs. Mary has speeded up the process of these happenings, and now I have a really wild tale to tell.

Friday morning I got a frantic email saying, “Would you help these people please??” It was from Betty, the president of the Coker Creek Heritage Group. She had forwarded an email that read, “I am on a mission to find Jack Darnell, the author. A friend sent me an article and a video of Jack Darnell. I too am a writer, and would like to meet the man whose name I have been using for over 70 years. I noticed the article said he lives on Coker Creek. I will travel back down 68 to see if I can locate him.” The email was signed Jack Darnell.

I immediately answered that I was Coker Creek Jack Darnell’s publisher and that I’d attempt to set up a meeting. I gave directions to Jack’s home on Coker Creek with instructions to “Look for the banks of daffodils. If you get to the bridge over Coker Creek, back up; you’ve found Jack’s house.” Today, on Jack’s front porch, we had that meeting of the men who have shared a name for seventy years and a passion for writing for much of that time. We were all like kids at Christmas; we were so excited to make each others’ acquaintance.

What a study in contrasts were these two Jacks! The visiting author was extremely gregarious with a bald head covered by a skipper’s cap, while our Jack is soft-spoken and shy with a beautiful head of neatly combed hair. Coker Creek Jack is clean shaven while our visitor was well-whiskered. Our local author is a dedicated homebody while this fellow scribe definitely loves to travel; he and his wife Sherry live in an RV. Before retirement, RV Jack spent his career traveling with the Navy; our Jack’s only time living away from here was his two-year stint in the Army.

The total tour was in order from drinking water out of the spring to explanations of the various types of kerosene lamp wicks in Jack’s room-lighting methods. Roving Jack even insisted that his wife take a picture of him sitting in Jack’s outhouse (fully clothed). The two men autographed books for each other, and laughed a lot at each others’ stories.

Both write, and both are published through a division of Amazon called CreateSpace; although, unlike our Jack, “Jack the Younger” writes a travel blog. Much of traveling Jack’s work is non-fiction; all of our Jack’s work is pure fantasy. I can’t wait to read some of “Jack the Younger’s” work, but it is kind or eerie to see the same name on two such different types of writing.

As usual, Jack Darnell of Coker Creek’s Appalachian Folktales The Book That Jack Built can be purchased at local retailers or ordered through Amazon. To check out traveling Jack’s blog, see http://shipslog-jack.blogspot.com/

Artists' Adventures with Mountaintop Mary

Mrs. Mary (Jack’s GED teacher, and not to be confused with Mountaintop Mary) is so excited about Jack’s book being published that she’s taken to spreading my name to all her friends who have work that she feels really should be published. This lead to a call the day after I met Mrs. Mary from a woman named Nancy. Nancy is an author and illustrator, and Mrs. Mary wanted me to meet her “right away.” One thing about dealing with matriarchs is that they don’t take kindly to denial or dilly-dallying when there’s important work to be done.

I had tried to get to Nancy’s the day I got her call, but ended up on a sightseeing tour to Townsend instead. I had never been to Lenoir City or to the Cross-Eyed Cricket Campground before, and our GPS was in Richard’s Bronco II. It’s dangerous for me to drive in unknown territory when I’m in my creative zone because my analytical self stays behind; and the prospect of meeting a talented artist always sends me into La-La Land, or Townsend Tennessee, as the case may be. I had a lovely drive along the Little River, but I finally returned home, determined to meet Nancy the next day.

I had been meaning to check in with Mountaintop Mary regarding the resolution to the problems she’d been having with scanning my and Jack’s work, and I also thought it would be fun for us to take a trek together, in what my friend, Girl Reporter Susan, calls Lucy/Ethel style. She agreed, so we set out a little before lunch yesterday.

Forsythia! Quince! Daffodils! Easter! Spring is happening in the holler even if it’s still too wet to plow. I wouldn’t have known the name of the magnificent magenta blooms next to our spring-fed creek if I hadn’t been with Mountaintop Mary yesterday. I had been calling it weigela until Mary and I got to telling tales of what’s blooming in our back yards. Mary’s place is atop a mountain, and her bushes blooming still hasn’t begun. I wonder if even a couple of hundred feet of altitude change can affect what’s in bloom and when.

Our first stop was at Donna’s Old Town Café in Madisonville. They always have good food and I wanted Mary to meet the proprietress of this successful mother/daughter business. I was able to recruit Donna’s daughter for teaching kids’ cooking classes and promoting our upcoming Coker Creek Cooking Classes. I also scored some additional bagitudes (handbags with attitude) for my granddaughters. It’s never too early to start having them act out their individuality.

We spent a lot of time going down what Mary calls bunny trails, both literally and verbally, before we finally found Nancy, but was it ever worth it when we got there! What a talented woman! She’s written scores of poetry pieces and illustrated innumerable of her stories. She also showed us a method she’s found for making resplendent reproductions of her water colors – on her home computer and printer.

I’m now chomping at the bit to get our next New Orleans trip behind us so that Nancy and I can get her poetry anthology to the presses.

The Men of the Matriarchs

The bravest men in the world are those who remain married to matriarchs. They are not only subject to the displeasure of “She Who Will Be Obeyed,” they also have to put up with confusion of, and possibly ridicule from their peers.

A matriarch is a woman who will stand up to anyone – sometimes even her Creator—when her loved ones are threatened; she is definitely a force with whom to be reckoned. The bravest among their men know how to “batten down the hatches” when the hurricanes start brewing with those steamy tropical depressions and duck and cover when the volcanoes start to rumble. They realize that when the skies have cleared or the earth-scorching is complete, new life will emerge, probably more vibrant than the last. These are the real heroes that you read about in fairytales.

If “She Who Will Be Obeyed,” deems it necessary to slay dragons, the real hero will sharpen his sword, swallow his fear, and head out – with or without a trusty steed or fellow warriors. Many brave men are vanquished that way, as they may not have the kind of friends who are brave enough to be their posse.

It is very important that the “Queens of the Universe” encourage and allow their knights to develop a round table of like-minded men; otherwise, they will continue to lose all the good, brave men who are their only hope of having a protective perimeter around their women’s circles that are formed around the crops and the kids.

It is true that there are many men who are better at doing the heavy lifting around the homeplace, entertaining the offspring, and teaching the trades than their women. It is also true that there are many warrior women in the matriarchal matrix. We must be able to join hands, focus on the fights which are important on a world-wide basis, and start circling the wagons, lifting our voices in songs of gratitude, community, and hope; all the while lifting our hands in earth-enriching partnerships with our Creator and all of creation.

We in Coker Creek have our forested land, our clean water coming from our springs pouring out of the sides of the mountains, our manure and loam-rich soil, and our neighbors who live by the values of faith, family, friends, and fun. We even have local honey bees and milk cows living off the fat of the land and leaking their gifts all over it – there for the taking, if we only care to collect our share. I don’t know how you get much closer to the Land of Milk and Honey where manna falls from the skies.

Every one of us can grab a hoe, a plow, a pot, a spoon, a chain saw, or a hammer and work side-by-side with all our fellow travelers to create a better place for not only our local neighbors, but all who want to come and taste the goodness of Creation here in Coker Creek. If we women want it, and our men think it’s good, nothing can stop us from expanding out like our ancestors did. We are, after all, at an intersection of one of the greatest and earliest trade routes in North America.

Now if we only had a bigger table…and a round one, at that.