I’ve always admired the women of the Old Testament. They seemed to be women of substance, who knew how to survive and protect their children no matter what life threw at them. Their attitudes were more “Bring it on.” than “Wait and worry.”
Mamie Murphy is that kind of woman. She was only fourteen years old when Frank took her as his bride. Frank had left Coker Creek looking for work, as did many people during the Great Depression. He hired on at Mamie’s daddy’s Texas farm, and fell in love with the little spitfire named Mamie.
Just like in the Bible, Frank worked for his love’s daddy to earn his bride. Unlike in the Bible, he didn’t have to first marry her sister to get Mamie. Now, Mamie’s daddy didn’t know that Frank planned to take his oldest daughter from him, but Mamie’s mom and sisters saw that he was worthy and helped them elope. It was to be three years before she saw her family again.
Leaving her mother, father and four younger sisters, Mamie traveled more than twelve hundred miles with her new husband. This journey to a new life took her from her familiar surroundings in the flatlands of Texas to the wild wonders of the Cherokee National Forest in the Appalachian Mountains. By the time she reached her fifteenth birthday, she had her first child, a daughter she named Jean.
Times were hard everywhere, and Coker Creek was no exception. In 1934, the timber industry was the only viable industry in the area. Frank’s family worked in the lumber industry, and in 1935 opened several businesses to service the industry: a sawmill, a general store and post office. When electricity became available to the area, Mamie traveled the mountains signing people up for electricity. When she had enough customers to make it worth the while of the utility company to run the lines, they added a Laundromat. The family also farmed vegetables and raised chickens for eggs. They even took a stint at raising hogs. Mamie says that families used to trade products from their farms. One family may have a milk cow, and the next may have a crop of potatoes. They would trade for what they needed.
Mamie, with a baby on her hip – and three more in her future -- farmed, clerked, planted, picked and plucked. She also acted as postmistress of Coker Creek for fifty years.
Just about the time Mamie and Frank got their children reared, Frank died. Mamie kept on running her home, farm, store and the post office. When, while a still-young widow, her store burned down with a new shipment of merchandise, she took to her bed for two hours and then got up to do what had to be done to reopen the post office. She says she’s always too busy to get depressed.
Whenever discussing a life-changing event like a death in the family, my Cajun grandma would preface the discussion with a question, “Do you want to laugh or do you want to cry?” We would then frame our stories in terms that would evoke the desired emotion. No matter what we discuss, Mamie manages to spin the story in a positive direction with her ever -present gift of good humor and the constant twinkle in her blue eyes. Mamie clearly prefers to laugh.
Mamie is almost ninety years old now. When we met, she told me that after running the post office for fifty years, she figured that if she was going to do anything else with her life, she better get to it. Mamie is still raising crops and chickens for eggs. She does all her own housework, even though she says it takes her a while to straighten up in the mornings. And she has a revolving door of guests to whom she serves her wonderful home-grown, home-cooked vegetables.
As a matter of fact, she’s looking forward to the second week-end in October, her busiest time of year for entertaining out-of-state guests. Her oldest son Frank, Jr. is very active in the Coker Creek Ruritan Club. The second week-end in October is when they put on their annual fundraiser, the Autumn Gold Festival. Mamie will be putting several families up at her house for the week-end.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Nuclear Fusion and Finances
Charlie and Deborah treated us to lunch and a visit to the American Museum of Science and Energy in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. The drive to the museum was beautiful. We thoroughly enjoyed the scenery, but I was distressed to be told upon our arrival at the venue that much of the ground across which we drove had been a dumping ground for radioactive waste.
While we were given the history of the “City Behind a Fence”, as the top-secret nuclear bomb project site was called, I couldn’t help but be distracted by my sadness for the thousand farm families displaced to build the facility -- with some having only two weeks notice to vacate land that their families had farmed for generations. That’s little more notice than we had before being hit by Hurricane Katrina.
I’m ashamed to admit this, but I know very little about the history of nuclear energy or the atom bomb. I tune out most things that have to do with violence -- or start imagining myself and my children in the scary situations-- so I miss a lot in history lessons. And if I were a scientist, I’m sure I would be more into natural science, like botany. Not that my “wing-it” approach to life would lend itself to me being a scientist.
I had a hard time enjoying the exhibits, even though they were pointing out all the good things that have come out of nuclear power research and development: x-rays, for example. Maybe if our tour could have started with a talk on all the good things that have been invented using nuclear technology…
This event was organized by the East Tennessee Chapter of the Antique Automobile Club of America, in which Charlie is a judge and automobile restoration grand champion award winner. This group of old car lovers regularly hits the road in their beautifully restored cars of yesteryear and cruises through and to scenic and historic venues. Many of the members of the club are as antique as their cars, as is the case with the membership of a great number of non-profit organizations. The events are good ways to introduce children and grandchildren to the glories of the American automobile’s past.
Charlie has tried to interest Richard in becoming a member of AACA. Richard’s 1989 Bronco II is a classic. It looks pretty good for its age, and it still runs pretty well. Also, Richard has a lot of experience in restoring old things. In fact, if we could get back even half of what we invested in our Nixon-era house and boat in New Orleans and our Clinton-era RV, we could about recoup our Bush-era losses in our retirement portfolio.
We are now in the process of fixing up our Reagan-era house in Coker Creek, and are at a critical decision time. I’d dearly love to remodel the kitchen; although, as you can tell, our outdated kitchen doesn’t stop us from preparing whole cafeteria lines of food. We estimate that, even with Richard doing all the work himself, an optimistic estimate of the cost would be over ten thousand dollars.
Our magic carpet RV will never take us on another adventure without a new diesel engine. Estimated cost is ten thousand dollars. Our second Clinton-era vehicle, my van, has almost two hundred thousand miles on it, so it may be the next thing to go. The cheapest cars cost at least twenty thousand dollars. Add to these realities that travel ain’t cheap, and I can’t go more than three months without seeing Scott’s family in Mississippi without feeling like I’m going to die.
I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about this, but in a conservative investment portfolio, it takes a million dollars to generate fifty thousand dollars. If you’ve invested in tax-deferred annuities, you have to pay taxes on your money as you take it out of your portfolio. That would leave you with probably less than forty thousand dollars, if you had a million dollars in your portfolio in the first place.
Our experience tells us that the amount of money you can spend on a hobby with an engine is endless. Fixing up a classic car may not be in the cards for a family on a fixed income in today’s economy.
While we were given the history of the “City Behind a Fence”, as the top-secret nuclear bomb project site was called, I couldn’t help but be distracted by my sadness for the thousand farm families displaced to build the facility -- with some having only two weeks notice to vacate land that their families had farmed for generations. That’s little more notice than we had before being hit by Hurricane Katrina.
I’m ashamed to admit this, but I know very little about the history of nuclear energy or the atom bomb. I tune out most things that have to do with violence -- or start imagining myself and my children in the scary situations-- so I miss a lot in history lessons. And if I were a scientist, I’m sure I would be more into natural science, like botany. Not that my “wing-it” approach to life would lend itself to me being a scientist.
I had a hard time enjoying the exhibits, even though they were pointing out all the good things that have come out of nuclear power research and development: x-rays, for example. Maybe if our tour could have started with a talk on all the good things that have been invented using nuclear technology…
This event was organized by the East Tennessee Chapter of the Antique Automobile Club of America, in which Charlie is a judge and automobile restoration grand champion award winner. This group of old car lovers regularly hits the road in their beautifully restored cars of yesteryear and cruises through and to scenic and historic venues. Many of the members of the club are as antique as their cars, as is the case with the membership of a great number of non-profit organizations. The events are good ways to introduce children and grandchildren to the glories of the American automobile’s past.
Charlie has tried to interest Richard in becoming a member of AACA. Richard’s 1989 Bronco II is a classic. It looks pretty good for its age, and it still runs pretty well. Also, Richard has a lot of experience in restoring old things. In fact, if we could get back even half of what we invested in our Nixon-era house and boat in New Orleans and our Clinton-era RV, we could about recoup our Bush-era losses in our retirement portfolio.
We are now in the process of fixing up our Reagan-era house in Coker Creek, and are at a critical decision time. I’d dearly love to remodel the kitchen; although, as you can tell, our outdated kitchen doesn’t stop us from preparing whole cafeteria lines of food. We estimate that, even with Richard doing all the work himself, an optimistic estimate of the cost would be over ten thousand dollars.
Our magic carpet RV will never take us on another adventure without a new diesel engine. Estimated cost is ten thousand dollars. Our second Clinton-era vehicle, my van, has almost two hundred thousand miles on it, so it may be the next thing to go. The cheapest cars cost at least twenty thousand dollars. Add to these realities that travel ain’t cheap, and I can’t go more than three months without seeing Scott’s family in Mississippi without feeling like I’m going to die.
I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about this, but in a conservative investment portfolio, it takes a million dollars to generate fifty thousand dollars. If you’ve invested in tax-deferred annuities, you have to pay taxes on your money as you take it out of your portfolio. That would leave you with probably less than forty thousand dollars, if you had a million dollars in your portfolio in the first place.
Our experience tells us that the amount of money you can spend on a hobby with an engine is endless. Fixing up a classic car may not be in the cards for a family on a fixed income in today’s economy.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Seeking Serenity
Upon our return to the holler after twenty-four hours in Atlanta, I immediately headed over to touch base with very stable Mamie and her ever-changing garden. I needed to ground myself. (I don’t know if that pun was intended.)
I’ve never been one to embrace sameness, so it may seem impossible that I’ll ever feel like I belong in slow-moving Coker Creek. You’ve heard of the “slow food” movement created in response to the fast food culture. Coker Creek could be a poster child for a “slow life” movement.
This year, I’m coming to grips with the need to celebrate the moment by fully embracing each process that the moment offers. I’m attempting to heed the admonition of my friend Dot, “Take it easy, Greasy. You have a long way to slide.”
I married at eighteen. My honeymoon was in a primitive fishing camp in the middle of a south Louisiana bayou. We had no electricity, no plumbing, and no other people for miles around. I, who had always insisted to my grandma that I could never live close to her on the bayou because it would be too boring, cried all the way back to civilization. My very stable new husband insisted that we had to live in the city for him to make a living.
When my very stable mother-in-law died at age fifty-six, I became convinced that I’d be long dead by age sixty. I was only nineteen years old when I added this to my long line of magical thoughts. My husband and I were also expecting our first child.
I tried to settle into the life of a young wife and mother in a tiny brick house in the suburbs without even one tree in the back yard. Every day was the same: Change the baby’s diaper; make my husband’s lunch; do the laundry; clean the house; make supper; watch the news; go to bed. Wake up and repeat.
The best times were with my neighbors, but my husband didn’t particularly like their husbands. And then, my seemingly stable neighbors started dropping like flies.
Peggy moved back to her bayou home and family. Merline took to her bed with a major depression when her husband had to leave the state to find stone mason work. Gayle had a meltdown after she had her third child. The only stability seemed to be at my house, but the solitude and sameness were killing my soul.
Sybil, a single labor and delivery nurse and the only faithful visitor at my dying mother-in-law’s bedside, had worked many years with my mother-in-law. She became my daughter’s godmother, and took me and Rachel under her wing. Sybil could see that I needed a hobby. She began introducing me and my infant daughter to the finer man-made things in life.
We took Rachel in her stroller to Antoine’s and Brennan’s, and all the better New Orleans restaurants. Sybil encouraged me to learn gourmet cooking, buying me my first gourmet cookbook, The New Orleans Restaurant Cookbook, and teaching me cooking techniques in her tiny French Quarter apartment kitchen. Sybil would attend our many parties, bearing fine wine and Waterford crystal goblets for me and my husband, and hand-smocked Polly Flinders party dresses and Madame Alexander dolls for our little princess. She was our very own fairy godmother.
After my second child, Scott, was born, I was no longer ever-laughing and fun. Sybil insisted that I go to her therapist because she thought I was depressed. Her therapist was incompetent. Sybil got married, and I got divorced. I was on my own without a compass.
Oh boy, what a wild ride ensued to “find myself”. I began living in overdrive. Life became one big adventure, and I became “hell bent” to experience all the adventure I could without doing myself or others bodily harm.
I tried different New Orleans neighborhoods, and different Atlanta neighborhoods -- even moving to a couple of Tennessee cities for a short time. I worked at different jobs, and opened several businesses. I began and ended many relationships. I still hadn’t located me.
It seems that the only thing that soothed me was immersion in nature. Nature never bores me because, if you watch very closely, nothing in nature is in straight lines or perfect circles. And constant changes, large and small, are nature’s norm. Every chance I got, I’d pack a bag and take the kids to the woods or the water.
After another failed stab at stability, I finally moved back to New Orleans . Through grace, I managed to marry Richard in time to have my first grandchild. We lived in a brick house in a suburb named Tall Timbers. At least we had trees in our yard. Then Richard became a candidate for a heart transplant.
When Richard’s near-death disabled him, I insisted that we run to the arms of nature. I had found the setting to sooth my savage soul a marsh on Lake Pontchartrain in south Louisiana. When Hurricane Katrina gave Louisiana a nervous breakdown, our earthly Eden was erased.
We were seriously downsized. Time to hit the open road, footloose and family- free. We traveled the southern United States in an RV for nine months. Every evening a different natural-setting campground welcomed us home. We had no neighbors, but kept in frequent communication with our family and friends. We also spent weeks at a time in the New Orleans area, assisting our loved ones left digging through the lost cities of Louisiana.
I vowed never to try settling down again. But Richard, who had grown up in a rural agricultural environment, had different ideas. He wanted a home above sea level. We bought eight and a half acres at sixteen hundred feet elevation, with a house and two creeks, in a cradle of trees, in the Cherokee National Forest.
I’m now trying to acclimate to the rhythms of nature in the mountains and the pace of the people of the land. There’s a song with the lyrics “I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.” I have been to me, but I kept trying to add more and more to me. I now think that paradise is where we find it. I’ve decided to savor the moment and get comfortable with me – whoever I may be.
Very stable Coker Creek seems to be a good place to begin.
I’ve never been one to embrace sameness, so it may seem impossible that I’ll ever feel like I belong in slow-moving Coker Creek. You’ve heard of the “slow food” movement created in response to the fast food culture. Coker Creek could be a poster child for a “slow life” movement.
This year, I’m coming to grips with the need to celebrate the moment by fully embracing each process that the moment offers. I’m attempting to heed the admonition of my friend Dot, “Take it easy, Greasy. You have a long way to slide.”
I married at eighteen. My honeymoon was in a primitive fishing camp in the middle of a south Louisiana bayou. We had no electricity, no plumbing, and no other people for miles around. I, who had always insisted to my grandma that I could never live close to her on the bayou because it would be too boring, cried all the way back to civilization. My very stable new husband insisted that we had to live in the city for him to make a living.
When my very stable mother-in-law died at age fifty-six, I became convinced that I’d be long dead by age sixty. I was only nineteen years old when I added this to my long line of magical thoughts. My husband and I were also expecting our first child.
I tried to settle into the life of a young wife and mother in a tiny brick house in the suburbs without even one tree in the back yard. Every day was the same: Change the baby’s diaper; make my husband’s lunch; do the laundry; clean the house; make supper; watch the news; go to bed. Wake up and repeat.
The best times were with my neighbors, but my husband didn’t particularly like their husbands. And then, my seemingly stable neighbors started dropping like flies.
Peggy moved back to her bayou home and family. Merline took to her bed with a major depression when her husband had to leave the state to find stone mason work. Gayle had a meltdown after she had her third child. The only stability seemed to be at my house, but the solitude and sameness were killing my soul.
Sybil, a single labor and delivery nurse and the only faithful visitor at my dying mother-in-law’s bedside, had worked many years with my mother-in-law. She became my daughter’s godmother, and took me and Rachel under her wing. Sybil could see that I needed a hobby. She began introducing me and my infant daughter to the finer man-made things in life.
We took Rachel in her stroller to Antoine’s and Brennan’s, and all the better New Orleans restaurants. Sybil encouraged me to learn gourmet cooking, buying me my first gourmet cookbook, The New Orleans Restaurant Cookbook, and teaching me cooking techniques in her tiny French Quarter apartment kitchen. Sybil would attend our many parties, bearing fine wine and Waterford crystal goblets for me and my husband, and hand-smocked Polly Flinders party dresses and Madame Alexander dolls for our little princess. She was our very own fairy godmother.
After my second child, Scott, was born, I was no longer ever-laughing and fun. Sybil insisted that I go to her therapist because she thought I was depressed. Her therapist was incompetent. Sybil got married, and I got divorced. I was on my own without a compass.
Oh boy, what a wild ride ensued to “find myself”. I began living in overdrive. Life became one big adventure, and I became “hell bent” to experience all the adventure I could without doing myself or others bodily harm.
I tried different New Orleans neighborhoods, and different Atlanta neighborhoods -- even moving to a couple of Tennessee cities for a short time. I worked at different jobs, and opened several businesses. I began and ended many relationships. I still hadn’t located me.
It seems that the only thing that soothed me was immersion in nature. Nature never bores me because, if you watch very closely, nothing in nature is in straight lines or perfect circles. And constant changes, large and small, are nature’s norm. Every chance I got, I’d pack a bag and take the kids to the woods or the water.
After another failed stab at stability, I finally moved back to New Orleans . Through grace, I managed to marry Richard in time to have my first grandchild. We lived in a brick house in a suburb named Tall Timbers. At least we had trees in our yard. Then Richard became a candidate for a heart transplant.
When Richard’s near-death disabled him, I insisted that we run to the arms of nature. I had found the setting to sooth my savage soul a marsh on Lake Pontchartrain in south Louisiana. When Hurricane Katrina gave Louisiana a nervous breakdown, our earthly Eden was erased.
We were seriously downsized. Time to hit the open road, footloose and family- free. We traveled the southern United States in an RV for nine months. Every evening a different natural-setting campground welcomed us home. We had no neighbors, but kept in frequent communication with our family and friends. We also spent weeks at a time in the New Orleans area, assisting our loved ones left digging through the lost cities of Louisiana.
I vowed never to try settling down again. But Richard, who had grown up in a rural agricultural environment, had different ideas. He wanted a home above sea level. We bought eight and a half acres at sixteen hundred feet elevation, with a house and two creeks, in a cradle of trees, in the Cherokee National Forest.
I’m now trying to acclimate to the rhythms of nature in the mountains and the pace of the people of the land. There’s a song with the lyrics “I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.” I have been to me, but I kept trying to add more and more to me. I now think that paradise is where we find it. I’ve decided to savor the moment and get comfortable with me – whoever I may be.
Very stable Coker Creek seems to be a good place to begin.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Back to the Big City
While we do dearly love many things about living in Coker Creek, we’re mighty glad that we’re within two hours of three major metropolitan areas: Atlanta, Knoxville and Chattanooga. In these parts, tastes in food and faith tend toward the white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. Ethnic foods are at least an hour’s drive from us, whether at a grocery store or a restaurant. Access to emergency medical services is reliant on personal transportation for a considerable distance, ambulances, and helicopter air lift. Controversy is discouraged, as is attention-getting behavior. How you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve lived in New Orleans?
With the choice of three cities from which to choose our extension of hometown, it was a no-brainer for us to choose Atlanta. I had lived for ten years in the greater Atlanta area, and still have several very good friends there. My daughter and her family live, work, and go to school in Marietta, a suburb of Atlanta. And Atlanta is a multi-cultural city with many choices for music, theatre, grocery stores, and restaurants.
Richard gets his post-transplant care from Emory and his medications from the V.A., within a couple of miles of each other in the Atlanta area. We enjoy combining these visits for medical care with socializing. This week, we went to dinner and a play with Holly and Don. The dinner was very tasty at Simpatico on the Marietta Square, and the play The Savannah Disputation was worth a trip in itself.
Coming from very Roman Catholic New Orleans, and living now in the heart of the Bible Belt, I’ve struggled mightily with how to come to peace with the disconnect between my upbringing and my surroundings. The play was a humorous look at how little sense, and how much damage so much of the religious controversy makes. It was a good way to reframe my discomfort.
I have to be honest; Coker Creek is pretty progressive about their Christianity. There are eleven churches in this little hamlet of less than one thousand people. All but one of the pastors is a part-time preacher, with some preaching at more than one church to more than one denomination on a given Sunday. When I asked Mamie about this, she replied, “Well, it’s all one Bible.”
After about twenty-four hours in the city, we were ready to head home. You know you’re not in Atlanta anymore when you get to Pickens County, Georgia whose claim to fame is that it’s the “Marble Capital of Georgia”. Next, you’ll hit Gilmer County, the Apple Capital. We see a lot of chicken trucks coming out of Ellijay, but I think Gainesville, Georgia is the official chicken capital.
Also on the way back from Georgia, you pass Priest Recycling – What do they turn priests into? And don’t miss Wildseed Stone Casting where you can procure you very own life-sized concrete (or is it cement?) hog. It’s after we exit the many lane highways onto two-lane roads in Tennessee that we really see the best sights, the flowers and the forest. Even though only two days have passed since my last trip from Atlanta, the predominant bloom had changed from thistle to goldenrod.
With the choice of three cities from which to choose our extension of hometown, it was a no-brainer for us to choose Atlanta. I had lived for ten years in the greater Atlanta area, and still have several very good friends there. My daughter and her family live, work, and go to school in Marietta, a suburb of Atlanta. And Atlanta is a multi-cultural city with many choices for music, theatre, grocery stores, and restaurants.
Richard gets his post-transplant care from Emory and his medications from the V.A., within a couple of miles of each other in the Atlanta area. We enjoy combining these visits for medical care with socializing. This week, we went to dinner and a play with Holly and Don. The dinner was very tasty at Simpatico on the Marietta Square, and the play The Savannah Disputation was worth a trip in itself.
Coming from very Roman Catholic New Orleans, and living now in the heart of the Bible Belt, I’ve struggled mightily with how to come to peace with the disconnect between my upbringing and my surroundings. The play was a humorous look at how little sense, and how much damage so much of the religious controversy makes. It was a good way to reframe my discomfort.
I have to be honest; Coker Creek is pretty progressive about their Christianity. There are eleven churches in this little hamlet of less than one thousand people. All but one of the pastors is a part-time preacher, with some preaching at more than one church to more than one denomination on a given Sunday. When I asked Mamie about this, she replied, “Well, it’s all one Bible.”
After about twenty-four hours in the city, we were ready to head home. You know you’re not in Atlanta anymore when you get to Pickens County, Georgia whose claim to fame is that it’s the “Marble Capital of Georgia”. Next, you’ll hit Gilmer County, the Apple Capital. We see a lot of chicken trucks coming out of Ellijay, but I think Gainesville, Georgia is the official chicken capital.
Also on the way back from Georgia, you pass Priest Recycling – What do they turn priests into? And don’t miss Wildseed Stone Casting where you can procure you very own life-sized concrete (or is it cement?) hog. It’s after we exit the many lane highways onto two-lane roads in Tennessee that we really see the best sights, the flowers and the forest. Even though only two days have passed since my last trip from Atlanta, the predominant bloom had changed from thistle to goldenrod.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
City Sophistication
On the way to Atlanta for Richard’s medical care, we stopped in Copper Hill, Tennessee for lunch. Isn’t it funny how many small town businesses try to make people think they’re sophisticated city businesses by giving themselves high-falutin’ names? It seems that the Greek immigrant who opened New York Restaurant and Hotel in Copper Hill, Tennessee in 1927 used this method of declaring that his place was as good as any you’d find in New York. I wonder if he’d ever even seen the Big Apple.
I don’t think anyone ever came through Copper Hill looking for a good Jewish deli’s pastrami on rye. You also won’t get chopped liver, but you may get fried chicken liver as their Wednesday lunch special. Good Southern home cooking is their forte. Why put on airs? The waitress sure doesn’t.
We like New York Restaurant partly because it’s so small town folksy. The food is good, and the walls are lined with before and after photos of the 1990 flood when the Ocoee River overflowed its banks and inundated the town. Or was it the Toccoa River that flooded the place?
You see, as you stand on the state line in the middle of the bridge crossing the river and look to one side, the river is in Tennessee and is called the Ocoee. On the other side of the bridge, the river is in Georgia – and is called the Toccoa. Given the current discussions between Georgia and Tennessee about water rights, who knows whose river flooded whose property? But, then again, Tennessee has a long and colorful history of property line feuds.
Copper Hill’s name comes from the copper mining that used to be king there. You can still see a huge mound of iron ore tailings from the mining operations. I’m surprised that nobody has decided to open an amusement park with “Miner’s Mountain” roller coaster barreling down the rust-colored hill.
Though the copper basin area is now lush with timber, in the late nineteenth century and into the early twentieth, the city and surrounding areas were completely devoid of vegetation – an unforeseen consequence of the sulfuric acid byproduct of the “open roast heap” method of copper production.
Reforestation efforts began in the 1920s and continued until the 1940s. Much of this work was done by the Civilian Conservation Corps, as was much nature conservation work in Coker Creek. In fact, the CCC camps were prime sources of local husbands back in the day.
Copper Hill and Ducktown (“A Quacking Good Place” is their city slogan) are currently known primarily as the entryway into the Cherokee National Forest and the Ocoee River. The Ocoee was the site of the 1996 Olympic Canoe and Kayak Slalom Competition. Whitewater rafting enthusiasts come from all over the world to challenge the class five rapids.
A more fitting name for Copper Hill might be Phoenix, but that name was already taken. No matter what hardships hit, the town continues to pick itself up, dust (or dry) itself off, and find another claim to fame. What other places can you name that have made an industry of straddling a state line?
I don’t think anyone ever came through Copper Hill looking for a good Jewish deli’s pastrami on rye. You also won’t get chopped liver, but you may get fried chicken liver as their Wednesday lunch special. Good Southern home cooking is their forte. Why put on airs? The waitress sure doesn’t.
We like New York Restaurant partly because it’s so small town folksy. The food is good, and the walls are lined with before and after photos of the 1990 flood when the Ocoee River overflowed its banks and inundated the town. Or was it the Toccoa River that flooded the place?
You see, as you stand on the state line in the middle of the bridge crossing the river and look to one side, the river is in Tennessee and is called the Ocoee. On the other side of the bridge, the river is in Georgia – and is called the Toccoa. Given the current discussions between Georgia and Tennessee about water rights, who knows whose river flooded whose property? But, then again, Tennessee has a long and colorful history of property line feuds.
Copper Hill’s name comes from the copper mining that used to be king there. You can still see a huge mound of iron ore tailings from the mining operations. I’m surprised that nobody has decided to open an amusement park with “Miner’s Mountain” roller coaster barreling down the rust-colored hill.
Though the copper basin area is now lush with timber, in the late nineteenth century and into the early twentieth, the city and surrounding areas were completely devoid of vegetation – an unforeseen consequence of the sulfuric acid byproduct of the “open roast heap” method of copper production.
Reforestation efforts began in the 1920s and continued until the 1940s. Much of this work was done by the Civilian Conservation Corps, as was much nature conservation work in Coker Creek. In fact, the CCC camps were prime sources of local husbands back in the day.
Copper Hill and Ducktown (“A Quacking Good Place” is their city slogan) are currently known primarily as the entryway into the Cherokee National Forest and the Ocoee River. The Ocoee was the site of the 1996 Olympic Canoe and Kayak Slalom Competition. Whitewater rafting enthusiasts come from all over the world to challenge the class five rapids.
A more fitting name for Copper Hill might be Phoenix, but that name was already taken. No matter what hardships hit, the town continues to pick itself up, dust (or dry) itself off, and find another claim to fame. What other places can you name that have made an industry of straddling a state line?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Heading to the Holler
There’s an exact point on my drive back to Coker Creek from Atlanta where I begin to feel like I’m almost home. About ten miles before Coker Creek, the highway winds its way into a world of endless greens and dappled sunlight. There are no man-made buildings in sight – around every smooth turn in the road is another soothing scene of forest and stream. My van is my dance partner in my slow motion homecoming dream sequence.
It never ceases to amaze me that in less than two hours, I can drive between two completely opposite worlds. There are many areas of the interstate through Atlanta where you have to know several miles in advance where and in what direction you’re exiting because you have to make sure you’re in the correct lane of the six choices. And traffic is usually so fast that it’s breaking the sound barrier.
Tennessee Highway 68 going north from Georgia is mostly two lanes. The long series of nearly ninety-degree turns keeps speeds at an average of about forty miles per hour. This is a good speed for gawking, but only if you’re a passenger.Every trip is different on the drive through the Cherokee National Forest. Some trips are pale spring green; some are decorated with mountain laurel blooms; on some, the streams are very visible because there are few leaves on the trees. On this trip, the thistles were in bloom.
Atlanta is the epitome of progress. I think the whole Greater Atlanta area is a Wi-Fi hotspot; whereas, we don’t even have mobile phone service in Coker Creek. This is probably a good thing, given the nature of driving in the mountains. We barely have land line phone service. Talking on the phone to someone in Coker Creek is like talking in a sawmill. The phone service provider calls it “the Coker Creek buzz”.
Buzzing is a common sound in the holler. In addition to the buzz in the phone lines, there’s the buzzing of honey bees and the buzzing of far-off motorcycle engines as they negotiate the ever-popular Highway 68 curves. We notice these things because mostly the sounds are of leaves rustling the in the trees, horses whinnying in their pastures, birdsong, and dogs barking in the distance.
When I arrived at home, it was obvious that our house had also been abuzz -- with Richard getting prepared for my arrival. The bed was made; the bathrooms and the kitchen were clean; and the laundry was folded. Richard had made salads, and there was a pot of his paprika chicken in the refrigerator waiting to become our supper. He had also been to Mamie’s. Easily ten pounds of okra and an equal amount of tomatoes beckoned from the kitchen table.
It’s quite a comfort coming home to a tidy house, a clean kitchen, a familiar task -- and a man so happy to be allowed to stay home that he’s prepared for me a homecoming fit for a visiting dignitary. I don’t know if my absence makes his heart grow fonder, but I am planning to be away again in two weeks.
It never ceases to amaze me that in less than two hours, I can drive between two completely opposite worlds. There are many areas of the interstate through Atlanta where you have to know several miles in advance where and in what direction you’re exiting because you have to make sure you’re in the correct lane of the six choices. And traffic is usually so fast that it’s breaking the sound barrier.
Tennessee Highway 68 going north from Georgia is mostly two lanes. The long series of nearly ninety-degree turns keeps speeds at an average of about forty miles per hour. This is a good speed for gawking, but only if you’re a passenger.Every trip is different on the drive through the Cherokee National Forest. Some trips are pale spring green; some are decorated with mountain laurel blooms; on some, the streams are very visible because there are few leaves on the trees. On this trip, the thistles were in bloom.
Atlanta is the epitome of progress. I think the whole Greater Atlanta area is a Wi-Fi hotspot; whereas, we don’t even have mobile phone service in Coker Creek. This is probably a good thing, given the nature of driving in the mountains. We barely have land line phone service. Talking on the phone to someone in Coker Creek is like talking in a sawmill. The phone service provider calls it “the Coker Creek buzz”.
Buzzing is a common sound in the holler. In addition to the buzz in the phone lines, there’s the buzzing of honey bees and the buzzing of far-off motorcycle engines as they negotiate the ever-popular Highway 68 curves. We notice these things because mostly the sounds are of leaves rustling the in the trees, horses whinnying in their pastures, birdsong, and dogs barking in the distance.
When I arrived at home, it was obvious that our house had also been abuzz -- with Richard getting prepared for my arrival. The bed was made; the bathrooms and the kitchen were clean; and the laundry was folded. Richard had made salads, and there was a pot of his paprika chicken in the refrigerator waiting to become our supper. He had also been to Mamie’s. Easily ten pounds of okra and an equal amount of tomatoes beckoned from the kitchen table.
It’s quite a comfort coming home to a tidy house, a clean kitchen, a familiar task -- and a man so happy to be allowed to stay home that he’s prepared for me a homecoming fit for a visiting dignitary. I don’t know if my absence makes his heart grow fonder, but I am planning to be away again in two weeks.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Cleaning the Kitchen
Many of you are probably horrified that I can turn the light off on the big mess I left in the kitchen. I like to think that I’m a better homemaker than I am a housekeeper, but someone always has to clean up the mess – eventually. If only the story of the Elves and the Shoemaker were to come to life in my kitchen…
No such luck. I awoke to as big a disaster as I had left. The directions for making grape jam had said to bring it to a rolling boil. Mine had been more a flying boil with a fireworks display. Grape jam spots covered everything within two feet of the stove: counters, walls, and floor. Big grapey pools had stained the countertops all over the kitchen. And I was on a deadline because I was due in Atlanta early that afternoon.
My friend Gayle once told me that she likes the “automatic” tasks like cleaning the kitchen to ease into her day without having to think about what she’s doing. Then again, Gayle probably never had to contend with shrapnel from a great grape grenade.
It’s a good thing that Richard’s attitude is, “We’re not here for the house; the house is here for us.” He also believes that cleaning up can be a pleasant experience if you focus on remembering the fun you had creating the mess, instead of focusing on the work that lies ahead. For a mess of this magnitude, I think I’ll have to remember how much fun it was to make the jam. And I’ll also look ahead to how many people will love receiving the jam at Christmas.
I know the house is still here -- somewhere. While hunting for supplies in the kitchen clutter, I came upon a plastic bag with several pairs of children’s swim goggles. Figuring they must have been left by the children of my niece Ginette when they visited two and a half months ago, I called Ginette. The fact that the goggles had been there for two and a half months before I found them gives some indication of where my homemaking priorities were not focused.
The goggles didn’t belong to Ginette’s kids, but calling her was a pleasant break between cleaning, more cooking, and final cleaning before my departure. Ginette said that reading the blog was making her wonder how long it will be before we start packing her Christmas package of goodies. Maybe I should start taking orders for folks’ favorites.
As soon as I found the countertops, I prepared the peppers and peas. The pointy ends of the banana peppers will be perfect for hors d’hoeuvre-sized stuffed peppers. The remainder will be divided into red and yellow varieties. The red will be made into red pepper jelly, and the yellow will be chopped and frozen as a substitute for bell pepper. The peas go will go to Rachel’s family.
I began slogging through the grape glop. I wanted to leave a clean kitchen for Richard. He’d need all the counter space he can get as he prepares Chicken Paprika and Cherry Queen of Hearts Crown Cake for upwards of thirty people who attend the every-other-Saturday’s bluegrass pickin’ at Charlie and Deborah’s Coker Creek Saloon.
Richard has a favorite joke about a man traveling through the countryside who comes upon a farmer with a three-legged pig. He stops to ask the farmer about the pig. Three times the man asks about what happened to the pig’s fourth leg. Each time, the farmer proceeds to tell the man about heroic deeds the pig has performed: Running for help when the farmer had been pinned under the tractor; Squealing loudly to wake the farmer’s family when the family home caught fire; Dragging the baby to safety and standing guard until help arrived when a wild dog came after the child. After the third try, the man became exasperated. “Okay, I understand that the pig is very heroic,” he said, “but what happened to his leg?” The farmer replied, “Oh, that. A great pig like that you don’t eat all at once.”
I got through the pots and pans, the stove, the walls, and even bleached out the stains on the countertops before I had to leave. I’ll try not to feel too bad about not getting to the floor before my departure for Atlanta. Ancient hunter-gatherers had dirt floors. The kitchen will still function heroically, even with a filthy floor.
I didn’t quite finish my task on schedule, but then “A great pig like that you don’t eat all at once.”
No such luck. I awoke to as big a disaster as I had left. The directions for making grape jam had said to bring it to a rolling boil. Mine had been more a flying boil with a fireworks display. Grape jam spots covered everything within two feet of the stove: counters, walls, and floor. Big grapey pools had stained the countertops all over the kitchen. And I was on a deadline because I was due in Atlanta early that afternoon.
My friend Gayle once told me that she likes the “automatic” tasks like cleaning the kitchen to ease into her day without having to think about what she’s doing. Then again, Gayle probably never had to contend with shrapnel from a great grape grenade.
It’s a good thing that Richard’s attitude is, “We’re not here for the house; the house is here for us.” He also believes that cleaning up can be a pleasant experience if you focus on remembering the fun you had creating the mess, instead of focusing on the work that lies ahead. For a mess of this magnitude, I think I’ll have to remember how much fun it was to make the jam. And I’ll also look ahead to how many people will love receiving the jam at Christmas.
I know the house is still here -- somewhere. While hunting for supplies in the kitchen clutter, I came upon a plastic bag with several pairs of children’s swim goggles. Figuring they must have been left by the children of my niece Ginette when they visited two and a half months ago, I called Ginette. The fact that the goggles had been there for two and a half months before I found them gives some indication of where my homemaking priorities were not focused.
The goggles didn’t belong to Ginette’s kids, but calling her was a pleasant break between cleaning, more cooking, and final cleaning before my departure. Ginette said that reading the blog was making her wonder how long it will be before we start packing her Christmas package of goodies. Maybe I should start taking orders for folks’ favorites.
As soon as I found the countertops, I prepared the peppers and peas. The pointy ends of the banana peppers will be perfect for hors d’hoeuvre-sized stuffed peppers. The remainder will be divided into red and yellow varieties. The red will be made into red pepper jelly, and the yellow will be chopped and frozen as a substitute for bell pepper. The peas go will go to Rachel’s family.
I began slogging through the grape glop. I wanted to leave a clean kitchen for Richard. He’d need all the counter space he can get as he prepares Chicken Paprika and Cherry Queen of Hearts Crown Cake for upwards of thirty people who attend the every-other-Saturday’s bluegrass pickin’ at Charlie and Deborah’s Coker Creek Saloon.
Richard has a favorite joke about a man traveling through the countryside who comes upon a farmer with a three-legged pig. He stops to ask the farmer about the pig. Three times the man asks about what happened to the pig’s fourth leg. Each time, the farmer proceeds to tell the man about heroic deeds the pig has performed: Running for help when the farmer had been pinned under the tractor; Squealing loudly to wake the farmer’s family when the family home caught fire; Dragging the baby to safety and standing guard until help arrived when a wild dog came after the child. After the third try, the man became exasperated. “Okay, I understand that the pig is very heroic,” he said, “but what happened to his leg?” The farmer replied, “Oh, that. A great pig like that you don’t eat all at once.”
I got through the pots and pans, the stove, the walls, and even bleached out the stains on the countertops before I had to leave. I’ll try not to feel too bad about not getting to the floor before my departure for Atlanta. Ancient hunter-gatherers had dirt floors. The kitchen will still function heroically, even with a filthy floor.
I didn’t quite finish my task on schedule, but then “A great pig like that you don’t eat all at once.”
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