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…

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.