Every other Saturday, Charlie and Deborah go all out to make sure their friends have a good time at Bluegrass pickin’ sessions in their Coker Creek Saloon -- and all without the help of alcoholic lubricants.
How they manage to provide food and fun so many days of the year is beyond me. Charlie seems to never stop building and restoring his property. This, in addition to their very active involvement in the Antique Automobile Club of America in which Charlie is a Grand National winner and judge would make the average couple too pooped to pop. It all energizes Charlie and Deborah; they redefine country hospitality and work ethic. They play hard and work even harder.
Musicians, young and old, come from miles around just for the love of playing, and play their hearts out for three hours. We pay them in food cooked by the attendees, but most musicians also contribute what they’ve cooked. It’s like what we used to call a fais do-do on the bayou, just good clean family fun. The youngest musician is fifteen; I don’t even want to hazard a guess as to the age of Charlie Harper, named “Mr. Bluegrass” by the governor of Tennessee because of his many years’ commitment to the art of Tennessee Bluegrass.
This is the third Bluegrass Halloween that we’ve attended at Deborah and Charlie’s Saloon. Now, I know that some people have religious objections to celebrating October 31, but I’ve always had a special place in my heart for that date, as my son, Scott, was born on what he called “Hadoweenda.” I never could resist the temptation to make my life easier by having “trick or treating” as Scott’s birthday party activity. And the loot the kids got substituted for favors – cheap and easy. Why resist?
It’s always a challenge to find the right costume when you’re as cheap as I am. One year, I dressed Scott in pajamas to which I sewed a tail l and a towel tummy, and called him “The Diggingest Dog.” For Richard’s costume this year, I found a Gepetto outfit on deep discount because it was missing the Pinocchio companion costume. Costuming me on the cheap presents special challenges because I don’t have an “off-the-rack” body, but also on deep discount was a partial puppet costume with the marionette string rigging. We tied the strings to my arms and legs, and let Richard pretend -- just for one night -- that he was controlling me by pulling any strings other than my heart strings.
Deborah decked herself out as a darling angel and Charlie was Sheriff Schnoz. Connie came as Berl Ives’ “Most Wonderful Toy,” while Nancy arrived as an enhanced version of her favorite self, an elegantly outfitted horsewoman. Move over Big Valley’s Audra! Harriet was hilarious describing how she turned her one-dollar strawberry costume from the thrift store into the ladybug costume that she had on. Her husband masqueraded as a gorilla that walked around sticking a banana up his nose.
The music was marvelous. The crowd was happy. The food was fantastic. Richard must have been feeling somewhat Jewish when he chose the dessert he’d make. Everyone raved about his apricot kugel. He then traded his yarmulke for a sombrero to make the main dish which combined dairy and meat in a complex-flavored topping for tortilla chips.
We ate; we posed; the musicians played; and we all returned to our childhoods – for just one night of food, fantasy, and fun.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Mucking With Mary
Coker Creek is good ground for gold hunters. Richard and I are currently just more interested in garden gold than the shiny metal type. Hoping to eliminate the need for commercial fertilizer for next year’s crops, we’re enriching the soil in Mamie’s garden with product from fertilizer factories of the live animal kind. Since the garden gold has to have time to break down before next planting season, we harvest poop now in order to harvest vibrant veggies next year.
The weather finally held long enough for us to go scoop poop with Mary. When I asked if we should bring any equipment, Mary said she already had scoops and muck buckets. I didn’t know, until we arrived at Mary’s, that horse poop scoops are called muck rakes. Another piece of the American language puzzle put into perspective. And so, we officially became muckrakers.
Mary’s horses are beautiful creatures, and her foal is just as friendly as she described. As we drove up, he first ran to Mama Mary for reassurance that we were friends, and then ran up and presented his head to us for petting. Whenever we tried to ignore him, Mary's "baby" whacked us with his head or nipped at our ankles. He and Mary’s dog competed for attention, chasing each other around the yard. When the horse began ignoring the dog, the dog took to tussling with the cat. What a whacky set of playmates!
Mary of the Mountain and her husband Don live just above Jack. In fact, if I rolled down the hill from their place, I’d end up in Jack’s front yard. Because TVA keeps the power line right-of-way that runs through Jack’s and Mary’s properties mowed, from Mary’s mountaintop, you can see the adjoining mountains strung like pearls all the way to North Carolina. Mary talked about how the setting sun through the right-of-way hits this panorama in the fall, turning whole sides of the hills a brilliant gold. I could have stood all day looking at the view, but poop was our purpose -- so we got busy.
In an hour, we’d half-filled our “honey wagon,” and the yard was seemingly clear of equine land mines. I used to tease a friend about driving a shit wagon to collect all her “do-gooder” projects; Richard is now, literally, driving a shit wagon. Our motto could be, “Have poop? We’ll travel.”
Upon finishing the poop patrol, Mary invited us in for coffee and pie and a tour of their home remodeling handiwork. As we walked into the house, we were greeted by the sounds and scents of Don brewing espresso and steaming milk for cappuccino. Mary served a decadent concoction of graham cracker crumb crust filled with caramel and banana filling topped with whipped cream. Not something I expected – a ten-dollar dessert break for free in the backwoods of Tennessee.
Mary accepted from us gifts of Cajun roasted pecans and muscadine madness jam before we headed down to deliver duplicate culinary delights to Jack. Then, it was over to Mamie’s to spread our horse-grown treasures.
The weather finally held long enough for us to go scoop poop with Mary. When I asked if we should bring any equipment, Mary said she already had scoops and muck buckets. I didn’t know, until we arrived at Mary’s, that horse poop scoops are called muck rakes. Another piece of the American language puzzle put into perspective. And so, we officially became muckrakers.
Mary’s horses are beautiful creatures, and her foal is just as friendly as she described. As we drove up, he first ran to Mama Mary for reassurance that we were friends, and then ran up and presented his head to us for petting. Whenever we tried to ignore him, Mary's "baby" whacked us with his head or nipped at our ankles. He and Mary’s dog competed for attention, chasing each other around the yard. When the horse began ignoring the dog, the dog took to tussling with the cat. What a whacky set of playmates!
Mary of the Mountain and her husband Don live just above Jack. In fact, if I rolled down the hill from their place, I’d end up in Jack’s front yard. Because TVA keeps the power line right-of-way that runs through Jack’s and Mary’s properties mowed, from Mary’s mountaintop, you can see the adjoining mountains strung like pearls all the way to North Carolina. Mary talked about how the setting sun through the right-of-way hits this panorama in the fall, turning whole sides of the hills a brilliant gold. I could have stood all day looking at the view, but poop was our purpose -- so we got busy.
In an hour, we’d half-filled our “honey wagon,” and the yard was seemingly clear of equine land mines. I used to tease a friend about driving a shit wagon to collect all her “do-gooder” projects; Richard is now, literally, driving a shit wagon. Our motto could be, “Have poop? We’ll travel.”
Upon finishing the poop patrol, Mary invited us in for coffee and pie and a tour of their home remodeling handiwork. As we walked into the house, we were greeted by the sounds and scents of Don brewing espresso and steaming milk for cappuccino. Mary served a decadent concoction of graham cracker crumb crust filled with caramel and banana filling topped with whipped cream. Not something I expected – a ten-dollar dessert break for free in the backwoods of Tennessee.
Mary accepted from us gifts of Cajun roasted pecans and muscadine madness jam before we headed down to deliver duplicate culinary delights to Jack. Then, it was over to Mamie’s to spread our horse-grown treasures.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Henny Penny’s Sweet Spuds
Preparing pecans took a back seat to Mamie’s suggestion that the muddy sweet potatoes dug by Richard needed to be laid out to dry prior to storing. Who knew potatoes were so particular? Figuring I could handle this task in an hour and still get several batches of pecans roasted -- and possibly redeem myself for being so absent from the fields during the harvest -- I arrived at Mamie’s bearing gifts of red beans and rice and a jar of Muscadine Madness.
Mamie said she figured that I showed up because I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to avoid it. She also got quite a kick out of the jar of jam I gave her. When I shared the story of how it got its unnatural color, she said that she calls the pulp from muscadines “ugly juice,” but uses it just the way it is. She thinks it makes a pretty jelly. I guess I should have consulted Mamie before making my mess.
As I sat sorting sweet potatoes, the weather was so beautiful and the temperature so mild, I got carried away with the feelings of fall. When this job was finished, I was reluctant to return to indoor activity, so I decided to see if the second potato patch was too muddy to manage. Four hours later, I was still popping potatoes out of their mounds, and Mamie had gone off with her daughter.
By this time, I needed to use the bathroom, so I headed the two miles down to our house for a potty break. Bless Richard’s heart, he returned with me to complete the ‘tater tasks. Richard and I must have looked like two hogs hunting for truffles as we crawled around on our hands and knees harvesting our sweet potatoes.
In another three hours we were the proud parents of about fifteen flats of sweet potatoes and a half bushel of baby potatoes for next year’s seed. We were absolutely covered in crud by the time the last spud was out of the ground. As we sat on the driveway to remove the excess mud from the spuds, Mamie’s hens joined us for a look at and a nibble of our fresh-dug treasures. They must have found them acceptable, as they kept stealing the seed potatoes from our basket. What a lovely way to spend the waning hours of the day – surrounded by the sounds and sights of curious hens as we admired our harvest and rested our aching backs.
We’ve finally finished pulling the potatoes out of the patch and placing them in Mamie’s garage for the mud to dry. The sweet potatoes like to be tucked in warm and dry for the cold months ahead, and I’m not sure where we’ll store our share. I know they can’t stay under our bed, as we’re assuring sweet dreams by sleeping on all our jams and tomatoes.
As Scarlett O’Hara would say while holding up one of her home-grown potatoes, “We’ll never go hungry again.” And about roasting those pecans, “Tomorrow is another day.”
Mamie said she figured that I showed up because I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to avoid it. She also got quite a kick out of the jar of jam I gave her. When I shared the story of how it got its unnatural color, she said that she calls the pulp from muscadines “ugly juice,” but uses it just the way it is. She thinks it makes a pretty jelly. I guess I should have consulted Mamie before making my mess.
As I sat sorting sweet potatoes, the weather was so beautiful and the temperature so mild, I got carried away with the feelings of fall. When this job was finished, I was reluctant to return to indoor activity, so I decided to see if the second potato patch was too muddy to manage. Four hours later, I was still popping potatoes out of their mounds, and Mamie had gone off with her daughter.
By this time, I needed to use the bathroom, so I headed the two miles down to our house for a potty break. Bless Richard’s heart, he returned with me to complete the ‘tater tasks. Richard and I must have looked like two hogs hunting for truffles as we crawled around on our hands and knees harvesting our sweet potatoes.
In another three hours we were the proud parents of about fifteen flats of sweet potatoes and a half bushel of baby potatoes for next year’s seed. We were absolutely covered in crud by the time the last spud was out of the ground. As we sat on the driveway to remove the excess mud from the spuds, Mamie’s hens joined us for a look at and a nibble of our fresh-dug treasures. They must have found them acceptable, as they kept stealing the seed potatoes from our basket. What a lovely way to spend the waning hours of the day – surrounded by the sounds and sights of curious hens as we admired our harvest and rested our aching backs.
We’ve finally finished pulling the potatoes out of the patch and placing them in Mamie’s garage for the mud to dry. The sweet potatoes like to be tucked in warm and dry for the cold months ahead, and I’m not sure where we’ll store our share. I know they can’t stay under our bed, as we’re assuring sweet dreams by sleeping on all our jams and tomatoes.
As Scarlett O’Hara would say while holding up one of her home-grown potatoes, “We’ll never go hungry again.” And about roasting those pecans, “Tomorrow is another day.”
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Muscadine Madness
The day began calmly enough with me putting the icing on the cake to mail to my baby boy for his Halloween birthday. Richard had gone out in the pouring rain to harvest and wash the carrots. He had then grated them for me to complete as a carrot cake. I left a bit of a mess when I went to bed, but I had finished cleaning the kitchen as soon as I got up in the morning. I ran the dishwasher and put the icing bowl and beaters aside for Richard to lick after his breakfast.
Well, just when Richard may have thought it was safe to come back into the kitchen, I started making muscadine jam. The previous grape jam that our kitchen produced has gotten rave reviews; I think it’s because I include the fruit pulp in my preparation. I decided to do the same with the muscadines. The difference is that the concord and fox grapes render royal purple pulp; muscadine pulp is more mud colored.
Not to be deterred in this kitchen caper, I added a bit of yellow food coloring. Now the pulp looked like I scraped it out of a new baby’s diaper. This obviously wouldn’t do, so I added neon green – attempting to make the pulp glow like ripe green grapes. This was too whimpy to overcome the poopy hue. It was time to bring out the big guns.
I do appreciate precision; I’m simply incapable of the patience inherent in being precise. I should know better than to attempt correcting mistakes that take incremental tweaking to achieve the desired results. Oh, why didn’t I wait for Richard to wake?
Since I usually live by the dictum that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, I really did it this time. Even though it seemed to me like I was exerting just a tiny bit of pressure on the little teardrop-shaped green food coloring bulb, I ended up with a pot of pulp the color of a Christmas tree. As we have already discussed, when the directions for jam making say, “Bring to a rolling boil,” they really mean to cook until your whole kitchen is covered in jots of jam. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our kitchen festooned with green glop.
I’m well aware that “people eat first with their eyes,” so I may have trouble pawning this jam off as having been made with anything edible. This may be a great way to cut down on the number of Christmas packages we send. If all the food is weird-colored, people will prefer to be deleted from the list than to try getting past what their eyes tell them is in the jars. Should I color the Cajun-roasted pecans purple? And should the macaroons be maroon? Or, maybe if I name the jam “Muscadine Madness” folks will think I made it this lovely evergreen color on purpose.
It ought to give Mamie and Jack a good laugh at the latest of my city slicker stupidities.
Well, just when Richard may have thought it was safe to come back into the kitchen, I started making muscadine jam. The previous grape jam that our kitchen produced has gotten rave reviews; I think it’s because I include the fruit pulp in my preparation. I decided to do the same with the muscadines. The difference is that the concord and fox grapes render royal purple pulp; muscadine pulp is more mud colored.
Not to be deterred in this kitchen caper, I added a bit of yellow food coloring. Now the pulp looked like I scraped it out of a new baby’s diaper. This obviously wouldn’t do, so I added neon green – attempting to make the pulp glow like ripe green grapes. This was too whimpy to overcome the poopy hue. It was time to bring out the big guns.
I do appreciate precision; I’m simply incapable of the patience inherent in being precise. I should know better than to attempt correcting mistakes that take incremental tweaking to achieve the desired results. Oh, why didn’t I wait for Richard to wake?
Since I usually live by the dictum that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, I really did it this time. Even though it seemed to me like I was exerting just a tiny bit of pressure on the little teardrop-shaped green food coloring bulb, I ended up with a pot of pulp the color of a Christmas tree. As we have already discussed, when the directions for jam making say, “Bring to a rolling boil,” they really mean to cook until your whole kitchen is covered in jots of jam. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our kitchen festooned with green glop.
I’m well aware that “people eat first with their eyes,” so I may have trouble pawning this jam off as having been made with anything edible. This may be a great way to cut down on the number of Christmas packages we send. If all the food is weird-colored, people will prefer to be deleted from the list than to try getting past what their eyes tell them is in the jars. Should I color the Cajun-roasted pecans purple? And should the macaroons be maroon? Or, maybe if I name the jam “Muscadine Madness” folks will think I made it this lovely evergreen color on purpose.
It ought to give Mamie and Jack a good laugh at the latest of my city slicker stupidities.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Viewing the Village
Gayle and I ended our day with going over to Mamie’s to help Richard dig sweet potatoes. Our timing was impeccable; Richard was knocking off as we arrived. We picked the last of Mamie’s muscadine grapes instead of digging potatoes. This was certainly easier or our knees and backs than potato pulling. The only reason I was interested in the muscadines when Richard announced Mamie’s concern over whether I had all the muscadines I wanted was that Gayle said the jelly made from this grape was her favorite. I’ve never made this type of jam; we’ll see how that cooking experiment works out.
Before Gayle’s departure, Leal, the booking and office manager of Coker Creek Village, took us on a tour of the retreat facility. I can’t even remember all the activities they offer, but I know that three “home-cooked” meals per day are part of the deal. I’ve eaten at Coker Creek Village’s dining hall; they serve some really good country cooking.
I did manage to remember that the activities include a climbing wall that leads to a zip line, which you couldn’t pay me to utilize, as I’m afraid of heights. Horseback riding and hiking on the village’s three hundred acres are very popular activities with most folks, but I’ll meet them at the end of the trail -- in the dining hall, as eating is my second favorite group activity (next to conversation.) Swimming, tennis, sand volleyball, gold panning, basketball, and a rope course are offered to those who aren’t content to swing in the hammocks outside of their cabins. I, however, will take the less physically strenuous way to occupy myself any day. I save my energy for “solving the problems of the world” with my soul sisters.
At night, Cam and his wife Beth, who run the retreat center, are often seen dancing at the hoedown in the Village barn. Sometimes, you’ll see Cam driving the tractor that pulls the hayride wagon. Or, Cam will be caught pulling on the ropes that operate the “mechanical bull” in the barn. And bonfires abound in the common areas of the cabins.
In case all these activities aren’t enough to keep a family happy for a week, whitewater rafting on the Ocoee River, kayaking on the Hiwassee River, and the beach at the mountain lake in Indian Boundary are less than an hour away. Of course, there are always the activities offered about two hours away in Gatlinburg, Dollywood, Chattanooga, Knoxville and, Atlanta.
After the tour of Coker creek Village Gayle left, giving promises to return with her husband. He’s a historian, so we can’t wait to introduce him to the Trail of Tears, the Unicoi Trail and the Gold Mining history of Coker Creek. Since his field of expertise is Church History, we’ll also include the history of the founding of the Church of God at Barney Creek.
I’d love to have a group book here so that I could be a guest of the Village. The staff would plan the meals, cook the meals, and clean up after us and our guests. I might never travel the mile it would take to return to our house in the holler.
Before Gayle’s departure, Leal, the booking and office manager of Coker Creek Village, took us on a tour of the retreat facility. I can’t even remember all the activities they offer, but I know that three “home-cooked” meals per day are part of the deal. I’ve eaten at Coker Creek Village’s dining hall; they serve some really good country cooking.
I did manage to remember that the activities include a climbing wall that leads to a zip line, which you couldn’t pay me to utilize, as I’m afraid of heights. Horseback riding and hiking on the village’s three hundred acres are very popular activities with most folks, but I’ll meet them at the end of the trail -- in the dining hall, as eating is my second favorite group activity (next to conversation.) Swimming, tennis, sand volleyball, gold panning, basketball, and a rope course are offered to those who aren’t content to swing in the hammocks outside of their cabins. I, however, will take the less physically strenuous way to occupy myself any day. I save my energy for “solving the problems of the world” with my soul sisters.
At night, Cam and his wife Beth, who run the retreat center, are often seen dancing at the hoedown in the Village barn. Sometimes, you’ll see Cam driving the tractor that pulls the hayride wagon. Or, Cam will be caught pulling on the ropes that operate the “mechanical bull” in the barn. And bonfires abound in the common areas of the cabins.
In case all these activities aren’t enough to keep a family happy for a week, whitewater rafting on the Ocoee River, kayaking on the Hiwassee River, and the beach at the mountain lake in Indian Boundary are less than an hour away. Of course, there are always the activities offered about two hours away in Gatlinburg, Dollywood, Chattanooga, Knoxville and, Atlanta.
After the tour of Coker creek Village Gayle left, giving promises to return with her husband. He’s a historian, so we can’t wait to introduce him to the Trail of Tears, the Unicoi Trail and the Gold Mining history of Coker Creek. Since his field of expertise is Church History, we’ll also include the history of the founding of the Church of God at Barney Creek.
I’d love to have a group book here so that I could be a guest of the Village. The staff would plan the meals, cook the meals, and clean up after us and our guests. I might never travel the mile it would take to return to our house in the holler.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Rushing Rivers and Random Acts of Kindness
Jack and I have been blessed with a random act of kindness that began at the Leaf Turning Festival. Without warning, a man that had been chatting with Jack whipped out a tiny video camera and began interviewing him about his lifestyle and book. The video of the interview is now on youtube. As my friend Susan pointed out, there’s a great deal of irony in a man who lives without technology being “introduced” to her in Florida via the all the technologies that were required to get Jack onto youtube.
Gayle has only one full day with us. When I asked her what she’d like to see in her short time here, she immediately responded, “Jack.” Gayle spent her career teaching writing, and is enthralled by Jack’s writer’s “voice.” She then overheard a phone conversation with Mary about the muck, and offered to gather “garden gold” with us.
Gayle is an avid gardener on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi where the soil is very sandy. She figured that she could bring home a bucket “gold” from the second place that precious metal gold was discovered in the country. She said that her children wouldn’t be surprised if she arrived home with this treasure, as they used to have to ride in the car with her collected soil additives of the animal excrement variety -- until they finally refused to ride with a car full of doo-doo not in their own diapers.
When we finally left the comfort of our rockers by the fire, we didn’t go to collect meadow apples from Mary, but we did head in the direction of Jack’s house. On the way to Jack’s we visited Charlie and Deborah. Gayle left their place sorry that she couldn’t stay for Saturday’s Bluegrass Halloween party. Upon being greeted by Jack you’d have thought that his book was on the New York Times Best Seller List as thrilled as Gayle was to meet him and have a tour of his home.
We stopped at Mamie’s for a chat where Mamie informed me that it’s time to dig our sweet potatoes. Gayle had a good laugh at Mamie’s assertion that every time there’s hard work to be done, I have a sudden need to go visit grandchildren in far-away places and send Richard to do provide our share of the labor. I suggested that Mamie should be happy that I’m not the jealous type (only because Mamie is almost ninety-years-old) and that I allow my man to keep company with her in my absence. Her blue eyes twinkling, Mamie replied, “You should be glad I’m not younger, or I would have already taken your man.” Mamie with her quick wit is one of the best things about Coker Creek.
Gayle loved the lunch on the river that we shared at Tellico Kats, and is excited about bringing home bread from the wonderful Tellico Grains bakery in downtown Tellico Plains. On her next visit, she wants to try fresh vegetables grown and prepared in Tellico by the Town Square Café owners. Gayle thought she was almost in heaven riding on the Cherohala Skyway and hiking to the upper level of Bald River Falls. She had me open the window on the trip so she could enjoy the rushing sounds of the river.
She’s about decided that at Coker Creek Village should be the location of her next family reunion.
Gayle has only one full day with us. When I asked her what she’d like to see in her short time here, she immediately responded, “Jack.” Gayle spent her career teaching writing, and is enthralled by Jack’s writer’s “voice.” She then overheard a phone conversation with Mary about the muck, and offered to gather “garden gold” with us.
Gayle is an avid gardener on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi where the soil is very sandy. She figured that she could bring home a bucket “gold” from the second place that precious metal gold was discovered in the country. She said that her children wouldn’t be surprised if she arrived home with this treasure, as they used to have to ride in the car with her collected soil additives of the animal excrement variety -- until they finally refused to ride with a car full of doo-doo not in their own diapers.
When we finally left the comfort of our rockers by the fire, we didn’t go to collect meadow apples from Mary, but we did head in the direction of Jack’s house. On the way to Jack’s we visited Charlie and Deborah. Gayle left their place sorry that she couldn’t stay for Saturday’s Bluegrass Halloween party. Upon being greeted by Jack you’d have thought that his book was on the New York Times Best Seller List as thrilled as Gayle was to meet him and have a tour of his home.
We stopped at Mamie’s for a chat where Mamie informed me that it’s time to dig our sweet potatoes. Gayle had a good laugh at Mamie’s assertion that every time there’s hard work to be done, I have a sudden need to go visit grandchildren in far-away places and send Richard to do provide our share of the labor. I suggested that Mamie should be happy that I’m not the jealous type (only because Mamie is almost ninety-years-old) and that I allow my man to keep company with her in my absence. Her blue eyes twinkling, Mamie replied, “You should be glad I’m not younger, or I would have already taken your man.” Mamie with her quick wit is one of the best things about Coker Creek.
Gayle loved the lunch on the river that we shared at Tellico Kats, and is excited about bringing home bread from the wonderful Tellico Grains bakery in downtown Tellico Plains. On her next visit, she wants to try fresh vegetables grown and prepared in Tellico by the Town Square Café owners. Gayle thought she was almost in heaven riding on the Cherohala Skyway and hiking to the upper level of Bald River Falls. She had me open the window on the trip so she could enjoy the rushing sounds of the river.
She’s about decided that at Coker Creek Village should be the location of her next family reunion.
Monday, October 26, 2009
My Girlfriend Gayle
I guess you could call this a “Scarborough Fair” kind of day, in that I cooked with parsley and cleaned and froze sage, rosemary and thyme. The parsley went into a vegetable lasagna that also contained homemade pesto sauce, home-grown carrots, mushrooms, spinach, and Jack’s green onions. We served this with a Richard’s salad creations and fresh turnip greens from Mamie’s. Too bad Gayle, my soul-sister who arrived today, didn’t have room for dessert; we had a choice of cherries jubilee or carrot cake.
We’ve been anticipating this visit for a couple of months. She and I have known each other since our over thirty-five-year-old children were in diapers. The last time we were together was at a retreat, making her truly my soul-sister.
I wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way here, as she was already hyperventilating over the curves in the road while still on the interstate two hours away. When she walked in, she said that this was one of the prettiest drives she’s ever taken. I guess she may come back now that she’s survived the drive and found us the first time.
I don’t think anyone has arrived here without exclaiming over the impossibility of “happening upon” our house. They all have one question, “How did you find it?” I tell them the truth; it all started when our granddaughter had to poop.
After Hurricane Katrina swallowed our retirement home on Lake Pontchartrain, I never wanted another house. I wanted a small piece of property on the water near Scott on the Mississippi coast and another piece of land in the mountains of North Georgia, near Rachel’s family. My plan was to live in our RV and travel the country forever. Richard wanted roots and a home. He was also afraid if all the grandkids came to visit at one time that I’d have him sleeping under the RV or on the roof while I tucked the kids into the RV beds.
When I despaired over finding anything in North Georgia to suit us and our budget, Rachel took over, suggesting that we look near Indian Boundary off the Cherohala Skyway in Southeast Tennessee. Her family loved camping in the area, and she felt that this may be a more affordable option than those we had found in Georgia. Rachel and her family offered to guide me there. We were in two vehicles, and I was an hour behind them.
As Rachel’s family passed through Coker Creek on the way to the Cherohala, one of the girls needed a potty break. There are very few businesses in Coker Creek, so they stopped at the first place that appeared to be open. While my granddaughter used the facilities, Rachel got to chatting with the artists who owned the shop. They had just received a flyer from a man with a home for sale two miles from where Rachel stood. By the time I met them, Rachel was absolutely sure that she had found our place, and the rest, as they say is history...
We’ve been anticipating this visit for a couple of months. She and I have known each other since our over thirty-five-year-old children were in diapers. The last time we were together was at a retreat, making her truly my soul-sister.
I wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way here, as she was already hyperventilating over the curves in the road while still on the interstate two hours away. When she walked in, she said that this was one of the prettiest drives she’s ever taken. I guess she may come back now that she’s survived the drive and found us the first time.
I don’t think anyone has arrived here without exclaiming over the impossibility of “happening upon” our house. They all have one question, “How did you find it?” I tell them the truth; it all started when our granddaughter had to poop.
After Hurricane Katrina swallowed our retirement home on Lake Pontchartrain, I never wanted another house. I wanted a small piece of property on the water near Scott on the Mississippi coast and another piece of land in the mountains of North Georgia, near Rachel’s family. My plan was to live in our RV and travel the country forever. Richard wanted roots and a home. He was also afraid if all the grandkids came to visit at one time that I’d have him sleeping under the RV or on the roof while I tucked the kids into the RV beds.
When I despaired over finding anything in North Georgia to suit us and our budget, Rachel took over, suggesting that we look near Indian Boundary off the Cherohala Skyway in Southeast Tennessee. Her family loved camping in the area, and she felt that this may be a more affordable option than those we had found in Georgia. Rachel and her family offered to guide me there. We were in two vehicles, and I was an hour behind them.
As Rachel’s family passed through Coker Creek on the way to the Cherohala, one of the girls needed a potty break. There are very few businesses in Coker Creek, so they stopped at the first place that appeared to be open. While my granddaughter used the facilities, Rachel got to chatting with the artists who owned the shop. They had just received a flyer from a man with a home for sale two miles from where Rachel stood. By the time I met them, Rachel was absolutely sure that she had found our place, and the rest, as they say is history...
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