Mamie is the most amazing worker I’ve ever seen. I went to plant sweet potato sets that she insisted needed immediate attention two days ago. Our weather has been so humid that you could ring sweat out of your ponytail after half an hour outside, but this doesn’t deter Mamie. I couldn’t locate her two days ago because she had gone to Tellico on errands, so by the time I caught up with her yesterday she was raring to go to the garden.
Mamie had said that the carrots, beets and already spouted potato plants could use a bit more mounding of dirt around their foliage.
Before proceeding to plant, I figured that I should mind the maintenance of our other root crops.
As I tended to the rows of carrots and red and white potatoes, she set to killing potato and bean beetles. She loves killing weeds and bugs, which I think is a good way to work through life’s frustrations. If you gotta kill something, a bean beetle is a good place to begin.
Sometimes, Mamie drives down to the garden, but this time she had walked, which meant that she didn’t even have a cup of water with her. She had also neglected to put on her sun hat, but she wouldn’t be convinced to take a break to go get these things. She hoed up one row and down another until she was satisfied that the weeds wouldn’t win the day.
After we finished the upper garden, I set my sights to the lower area which Richard had finished harrowing in preparation for sweet potatoes and a second planting of corn. Next thing I knew, Mamie had been to the house to get the seed corn and was beside me planting the potatoes.
By this time, I had taken a couple of shade breaks, but Mamie just wouldn’t stop or sit. As we worked together, she entertained me with lessons she’s learned in seventy-six years of gardening in the same ground. I keep telling her that she’s got a lot more to teach me, so she’d better slow down. After all, she is the woman who has said for two years that she’s too old to tend a garden. She just laughs and says that she lies a lot. She also says that this is her last year of tending egg layers, but I suspect this is another of her “lies.”
I finally got her to agree to let me cover the potato plants and offered to walk her back to the house. She insisted that she could walk unaided. I kept looking over at Mamie as I worked; she was bending to pull weeds and hoeing another row. At long last, she stopped long enough to ask me if I’d drive her home. She promised to sit down and rehydrate herself.
Less than an hour later, as I arrived at her back door to put away the tools, here came Wonder Woman with a box of matches. “Don’t you just love to rest a little bit and then come out to do more work? I think I’ll go burn my trash pile,” she announced.
All I could think of was a nice long shower and an evening on the couch. They just don’t make mamas like Mamie any more.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Buffet Blunders
The Ruritan supper was a lot of fun;
I set the buffet up wrong before we’d begun.
The people who usually do the set-up
Must have trusted that I wouldn’t mess up.
But they really erred in this assumption;
I often have less knowledge than gumption.
If something needs doing, I just jump in and do.
The messes I’ve gotten into are more than a few.
The burgers were where the greens should be;
The coffee resembled a pot of hot tea;
I didn’t know where to find the drinks.
Being new on the job without a boss really stinks.
I almost never pay close enough attention
Unless I hear my responsibilities mentioned.
By the time Greta arrived with her expertise
It was too late to make changes, to say the least.
I can follow the old ways when I know what they are,
But the people who teach them better not stray too far.
I always seem to see things a little askew,
But for almost sixty years it’s gotten me through.
Next time I may arrive fashionably late,
Or maybe I’ll develop the patience to wait.
Or maybe the folks who like things just so
Will know better than to let me run the show.
I set the buffet up wrong before we’d begun.
The people who usually do the set-up
Must have trusted that I wouldn’t mess up.
But they really erred in this assumption;
I often have less knowledge than gumption.
If something needs doing, I just jump in and do.
The messes I’ve gotten into are more than a few.
The burgers were where the greens should be;
The coffee resembled a pot of hot tea;
I didn’t know where to find the drinks.
Being new on the job without a boss really stinks.
I almost never pay close enough attention
Unless I hear my responsibilities mentioned.
By the time Greta arrived with her expertise
It was too late to make changes, to say the least.
I can follow the old ways when I know what they are,
But the people who teach them better not stray too far.
I always seem to see things a little askew,
But for almost sixty years it’s gotten me through.
Next time I may arrive fashionably late,
Or maybe I’ll develop the patience to wait.
Or maybe the folks who like things just so
Will know better than to let me run the show.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Appalachian Americana
We took a day trip to The Museum of Appalachia, which I had become aware of on my last trip to Kentucky. It was a pleasant drive of a little over two hours back to a 3-D set of “snapshots” of the history of the area we now consider home.
Very little distance from I-75, we turned into a full frontier village, surrounded by the obligatory split-rail fence. The founder of this wonderful trek back in time must really love the people and places who have shared his life. This feeling permeates everything as you walk the paths of the rural mountain village of thirty-five original log cabins and buildings.
Richard is a reader for reference; while I’m an overview sort of sightseer. Before entering any place of historical significance, we have to agree on our approach. If it were up to Richard, we would never see more than one room of any museum. I, on the other hand, like to do the once-over and, if we like what we see, come back for more. Especially in light of this museum’s close proximity to our home, we agreed on the quick and dirty approach before beginning.
Even though the museum is not, strictly speaking, a living history museum, the approach that Mr. Irwin takes in arranging the displays brings the history very much alive. Mr. Irwin, quite obviously, knew many of the people in the pictures. Many of the descriptions of people and things were written in Mr. Irwin’s own hand. You don’t get much more personal than that.
Of great interest to Richard was the “perpetual motion machine” on display in the Appalachian Hall of Fame. Also housed here was a rocking chair made completely of mule shoes which greatly amused me. The whole village was filled with equal parts history and whimsy.
There are many parts of the museum which are very much alive. We were thrilled to come upon the source of the sounds of screeching coming across the greens in the bodies of a peacock family comprised of a mama teaching her babies to forage while her mate displayed his manly evil-eye feathered tail. His strutting of his stuff put me in mind of the war bonnets worn by the Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans. We were also very interested in the vegetables growing in their gardens and nicely entertained by the musicians pickin’ on the porch.
Unlike the feeling I get in many museums that the important things are the materials on display, I left the Museum of Appalachia with a feeling that I had been introduced to many people, important because they had helped shape this area -- some by simply being themselves in a one-room cabin or cave.
We vowed to come back with Mamie and Jack, who still live much of the pioneer lifestyle depicted here. The insights they can add, we’re sure, will bring another whole dimension to our next tour.
We were feeling such a part of Americana, that we topped our visit off with apple pie ala mode and hot fudge sundae’s at Shoney’s, another slice of old-time America.
Very little distance from I-75, we turned into a full frontier village, surrounded by the obligatory split-rail fence. The founder of this wonderful trek back in time must really love the people and places who have shared his life. This feeling permeates everything as you walk the paths of the rural mountain village of thirty-five original log cabins and buildings.
Richard is a reader for reference; while I’m an overview sort of sightseer. Before entering any place of historical significance, we have to agree on our approach. If it were up to Richard, we would never see more than one room of any museum. I, on the other hand, like to do the once-over and, if we like what we see, come back for more. Especially in light of this museum’s close proximity to our home, we agreed on the quick and dirty approach before beginning.
Even though the museum is not, strictly speaking, a living history museum, the approach that Mr. Irwin takes in arranging the displays brings the history very much alive. Mr. Irwin, quite obviously, knew many of the people in the pictures. Many of the descriptions of people and things were written in Mr. Irwin’s own hand. You don’t get much more personal than that.
Of great interest to Richard was the “perpetual motion machine” on display in the Appalachian Hall of Fame. Also housed here was a rocking chair made completely of mule shoes which greatly amused me. The whole village was filled with equal parts history and whimsy.
There are many parts of the museum which are very much alive. We were thrilled to come upon the source of the sounds of screeching coming across the greens in the bodies of a peacock family comprised of a mama teaching her babies to forage while her mate displayed his manly evil-eye feathered tail. His strutting of his stuff put me in mind of the war bonnets worn by the Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans. We were also very interested in the vegetables growing in their gardens and nicely entertained by the musicians pickin’ on the porch.
Unlike the feeling I get in many museums that the important things are the materials on display, I left the Museum of Appalachia with a feeling that I had been introduced to many people, important because they had helped shape this area -- some by simply being themselves in a one-room cabin or cave.
We vowed to come back with Mamie and Jack, who still live much of the pioneer lifestyle depicted here. The insights they can add, we’re sure, will bring another whole dimension to our next tour.
We were feeling such a part of Americana, that we topped our visit off with apple pie ala mode and hot fudge sundae’s at Shoney’s, another slice of old-time America.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Saturday Sessions at the Saloon
I know that a saloon is supposed to serve liquor,
But at Charlie and Deborah’s they don’t.
The musicians and groupies couldn’t pack in thicker;
At least, we always think that they won’t.
But people keep coming from so many miles around
To share bluegrass music and laughter.
It’s an original Appalachian mountain sound
With playing by newbies and masters.
There’s lots of music for making even grown men cry;
There’s gospel and faith music too.
There’s original music to give it a try
With a welcoming audience and volunteer crew.
The food is fabulous, brought by players and fans
Who seem to all be very good cooks.
Deborah and I are now formulating future plans
For their recipes to be a book.
Charlie on stand-up bass is a grand sight to behold,
But we all clamor for him to drum.
I don’t know about his performance, in days of old,
But he plays now without any rum.
An occasional buck dancer or happy clogger
Joins in with a quick dance or a jig.
There’s lots of material to use as a blogger
At Coker Creek Saloon’s Bluegrass gigs.
But at Charlie and Deborah’s they don’t.
The musicians and groupies couldn’t pack in thicker;
At least, we always think that they won’t.
But people keep coming from so many miles around
To share bluegrass music and laughter.
It’s an original Appalachian mountain sound
With playing by newbies and masters.
There’s lots of music for making even grown men cry;
There’s gospel and faith music too.
There’s original music to give it a try
With a welcoming audience and volunteer crew.
The food is fabulous, brought by players and fans
Who seem to all be very good cooks.
Deborah and I are now formulating future plans
For their recipes to be a book.
Charlie on stand-up bass is a grand sight to behold,
But we all clamor for him to drum.
I don’t know about his performance, in days of old,
But he plays now without any rum.
An occasional buck dancer or happy clogger
Joins in with a quick dance or a jig.
There’s lots of material to use as a blogger
At Coker Creek Saloon’s Bluegrass gigs.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A Perfect Place
We enjoy good clean drinking water
Flowing out of our underground springs,
And lots of rainwater for washing.
There’s wood for burning in great supply
Because all things eventually die.
Our home is shaded by wooded hills;
Our crops rarely require watering.
Our clay soil holds onto moisture
With a blanket of leaves from our trees.
Our land supplies most of our needs.
What we cannot grow and cannot make
Our neighbors are willing barter.
There are still some hunters and trappers
To trade game for a few chicken legs.
And there are always the chickens’ eggs.
Just as the natives found that they had
A metal of enduring value
That could be traded for outside goods,
The gold that’s found in our many streams
Is another source of trading means.
The people who settled this mountain
Surely picked a secluded enclave.
If we wanted to be in hiding,
And drop out of the outside rat race,
Coker Creek would be the perfect place.
Flowing out of our underground springs,
And lots of rainwater for washing.
There’s wood for burning in great supply
Because all things eventually die.
Our home is shaded by wooded hills;
Our crops rarely require watering.
Our clay soil holds onto moisture
With a blanket of leaves from our trees.
Our land supplies most of our needs.
What we cannot grow and cannot make
Our neighbors are willing barter.
There are still some hunters and trappers
To trade game for a few chicken legs.
And there are always the chickens’ eggs.
Just as the natives found that they had
A metal of enduring value
That could be traded for outside goods,
The gold that’s found in our many streams
Is another source of trading means.
The people who settled this mountain
Surely picked a secluded enclave.
If we wanted to be in hiding,
And drop out of the outside rat race,
Coker Creek would be the perfect place.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Big Brown Creepy Crawly
We had a big brown spider crawling on our wall
I wasn’t sure if it was poisonous, so I gave my knight a call,
“Oh, Honey, can you come see this? I think it’s really creepy.”
I was closer to feeling hypnotized than to feeling weepy.
This was the biggest, hairiest spider I had ever seen --
At about three inches across, what if it was mean?
Could it jump across the room with an aerial attack?
Would it kill me with its bite before I could fight back?
My hero stopped his work in the kitchen making salads.
His bravery in the face of this danger isn’t quite the stuff of ballads,
But he did attempt to protect our home and his lady love.
With a wad of paper towels, he approached it from above.
But the spider was too quick for him; it made a getaway.
I know that he’s hiding somewhere in our house until another day,
When I’ll be dusting the mantelpiece and out the spider will pop.
I think it’s a Huntsman spider, so my heart won’t have to stop.
I’ll attempt to catch him instead of squashing him with a shoe.
Now that I’ve had time to research his kind, it’s the least I can do.
Then I can release him to his natural forested habitat,
But he may still be in danger if he’s captured by our cat.
I wasn’t sure if it was poisonous, so I gave my knight a call,
“Oh, Honey, can you come see this? I think it’s really creepy.”
I was closer to feeling hypnotized than to feeling weepy.
This was the biggest, hairiest spider I had ever seen --
At about three inches across, what if it was mean?
Could it jump across the room with an aerial attack?
Would it kill me with its bite before I could fight back?
My hero stopped his work in the kitchen making salads.
His bravery in the face of this danger isn’t quite the stuff of ballads,
But he did attempt to protect our home and his lady love.
With a wad of paper towels, he approached it from above.
But the spider was too quick for him; it made a getaway.
I know that he’s hiding somewhere in our house until another day,
When I’ll be dusting the mantelpiece and out the spider will pop.
I think it’s a Huntsman spider, so my heart won’t have to stop.
I’ll attempt to catch him instead of squashing him with a shoe.
Now that I’ve had time to research his kind, it’s the least I can do.
Then I can release him to his natural forested habitat,
But he may still be in danger if he’s captured by our cat.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Fine Foods and 3-D Flicks
It was nice to get away from the garden and go to the big city. It’s no secret that my sense of adventure is greater than that of my man.I suspect that’s because his life was serene and settled as a child and more hectic than he wanted it to be for most of his adult life. He really likes the rhythm of retirement.
Richard yearns for the intimacy of small-town relationships and the soothing sounds of tractors, trucks, and power tools as they help us in our work. I long for the laughter, the song and the hustle and bustle of the city. I also love the anonymity of the crowds, where missteps are hardly noticed and one can reinvent oneself without paying the price of long-remembered wrongs passed from one family member and one generation to another.
Grocery stores and restaurants generally reflect the culture of their area. We can hardly find ethnic ingredients other than a few Americanized Italian, Mexican, and Chinese items within two hours of Coker Creek. It’s important to me that we regularly shop in more ethnic areas. Richard is quite a movie buff with a special preference for 3-D; the closest 3-D theatres are all two hours away in three different directions.
We usually choose to shop and play in Atlanta because we have family and friends there. Atlanta is much too busy for Richard’s comfort, and it’s really too large for mine, but they do have any foods you want and the movie theatres are many. Richard can also get world-class post-transplant care for his nearly-new heart from the teaching hospitals in this huge metropolis.
At Holly’s house we have our own personal chef who does the shopping and the cooking better than any area restaurant. How many people can say that their chef also cooks for heads of state on a regular basis? After Richard’s appointments with his doctors, we take in movies; Schrek is even funnier in 3-D. We head home in plenty of time to enjoy the scenery on our drive home, and to see the sun set behind the hills in our holler.
Richard is fond of saying that there’s nothing scarier than too much freedom. It is true that having less choices in everything can soothe the soul, but with too little stimulation of the spirit I feel a bit dead. It seems that everyone we encounter here calls themselves Christian, and most are white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant.
We’re such an insular community that I’m afraid any of my missteps will come back to haunt me for many generations. I don’t think most people here really know what to make of a crazy Cajun Catholic. Richard says that I’m like hot sauce; sometimes it burns, but he likes it anyway. This is not generally a group that likes a lot of spice. I have to get away sometimes to let my “wild child” out to play.
Richard yearns for the intimacy of small-town relationships and the soothing sounds of tractors, trucks, and power tools as they help us in our work. I long for the laughter, the song and the hustle and bustle of the city. I also love the anonymity of the crowds, where missteps are hardly noticed and one can reinvent oneself without paying the price of long-remembered wrongs passed from one family member and one generation to another.
Grocery stores and restaurants generally reflect the culture of their area. We can hardly find ethnic ingredients other than a few Americanized Italian, Mexican, and Chinese items within two hours of Coker Creek. It’s important to me that we regularly shop in more ethnic areas. Richard is quite a movie buff with a special preference for 3-D; the closest 3-D theatres are all two hours away in three different directions.
We usually choose to shop and play in Atlanta because we have family and friends there. Atlanta is much too busy for Richard’s comfort, and it’s really too large for mine, but they do have any foods you want and the movie theatres are many. Richard can also get world-class post-transplant care for his nearly-new heart from the teaching hospitals in this huge metropolis.
At Holly’s house we have our own personal chef who does the shopping and the cooking better than any area restaurant. How many people can say that their chef also cooks for heads of state on a regular basis? After Richard’s appointments with his doctors, we take in movies; Schrek is even funnier in 3-D. We head home in plenty of time to enjoy the scenery on our drive home, and to see the sun set behind the hills in our holler.
Richard is fond of saying that there’s nothing scarier than too much freedom. It is true that having less choices in everything can soothe the soul, but with too little stimulation of the spirit I feel a bit dead. It seems that everyone we encounter here calls themselves Christian, and most are white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant.
We’re such an insular community that I’m afraid any of my missteps will come back to haunt me for many generations. I don’t think most people here really know what to make of a crazy Cajun Catholic. Richard says that I’m like hot sauce; sometimes it burns, but he likes it anyway. This is not generally a group that likes a lot of spice. I have to get away sometimes to let my “wild child” out to play.
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