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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Gracious Goodness
It’s great working with Jack. In a word, he’s gracious, which is defined as: Characterized by kindness and warm courtesy; characterized by tact and propriety. Not being a gracious person, by nature, I try to surround myself with people who know a thing or two about “how to behave”. It could rub off on me…
It’s amazing how many people we meet who go out of their way to come to Jack’s book signings. This is a man who has spent most of his life living and working within fifty miles of where he was born. I’ve met his cousins, his aunts, his uncles, his schoolmates, and scores of people who worked at or did business with the sewing factories where Jack was so long employed.
The most touching meeting was a visit by a young woman with a small child in her arms. She came to our booth, and announced that her grandpa had insisted that she find Jack at the festival and introduce herself. It seems that when she was about eight years old, while visiting her grandpa on the mountain, she wandered off. Because of the many abandoned mine shafts pocking the area – remnants of the gold mining that had been ubiquitous in the area in the nineteenth century -- her grandpa was rightfully worried. He called upon Jack to help him search for his grandchild. She proudly announced that Jack had helped find her, and held out her child to display to Jack the continuation of his good work.
Jack, in his usual gracious manner, greeted them warmly. After the family left, he confided that he really hadn’t done anything. By the time they began the search for the child, she showed up of her own accord. This is how it is with Jack. You’d never know from listening to him tell it, but his goodness is legend in Monroe county and surrounding areas of Tennessee. I don’t care whether he saved the child; what’s important is that he’s spread so much good will with his many random acts of kindness.
Jack says that he had an awful temper as a child. I guess that’s true, but he certainly shows no signs of temper now. I’m so glad that he overcame that tendency, as I’m very afraid of bullies of both the physical and verbal varieties. Of course, if he hadn’t changed his ways, I doubt that I’d have published his book because I’d have driven out of my way to avoid even driving by his house. And I certainly wouldn’t be taking nature walks with him to pick okra and corn in his garden.
Jack’s stories are often about children overcoming great odds. They are always about good overcoming evil and despair. This is why I call them folktales. They’re full of the innocent wisdom of old-soul children, and speak to the strength that comes from believing so strongly in and working so hard for something that others are inspired to help make the dream come true. Very much like the way Jack’s book came about.
It’s amazing how many people we meet who go out of their way to come to Jack’s book signings. This is a man who has spent most of his life living and working within fifty miles of where he was born. I’ve met his cousins, his aunts, his uncles, his schoolmates, and scores of people who worked at or did business with the sewing factories where Jack was so long employed.
The most touching meeting was a visit by a young woman with a small child in her arms. She came to our booth, and announced that her grandpa had insisted that she find Jack at the festival and introduce herself. It seems that when she was about eight years old, while visiting her grandpa on the mountain, she wandered off. Because of the many abandoned mine shafts pocking the area – remnants of the gold mining that had been ubiquitous in the area in the nineteenth century -- her grandpa was rightfully worried. He called upon Jack to help him search for his grandchild. She proudly announced that Jack had helped find her, and held out her child to display to Jack the continuation of his good work.
Jack, in his usual gracious manner, greeted them warmly. After the family left, he confided that he really hadn’t done anything. By the time they began the search for the child, she showed up of her own accord. This is how it is with Jack. You’d never know from listening to him tell it, but his goodness is legend in Monroe county and surrounding areas of Tennessee. I don’t care whether he saved the child; what’s important is that he’s spread so much good will with his many random acts of kindness.
Jack says that he had an awful temper as a child. I guess that’s true, but he certainly shows no signs of temper now. I’m so glad that he overcame that tendency, as I’m very afraid of bullies of both the physical and verbal varieties. Of course, if he hadn’t changed his ways, I doubt that I’d have published his book because I’d have driven out of my way to avoid even driving by his house. And I certainly wouldn’t be taking nature walks with him to pick okra and corn in his garden.
Jack’s stories are often about children overcoming great odds. They are always about good overcoming evil and despair. This is why I call them folktales. They’re full of the innocent wisdom of old-soul children, and speak to the strength that comes from believing so strongly in and working so hard for something that others are inspired to help make the dream come true. Very much like the way Jack’s book came about.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Coker Creek Creations
Richard and I have long dreamed of him producing for sale copies of the best toy we ever had, which was made by Richard. The original was taken by the mermaids when our house was washed into Lake Pontchartrain in Hurricane Katrina. We have the beginnings of a new set that was saved by virtue of being in the attic waiting for finishing when Katrina came through. Our Christmas decorations and this box of sticks were all that remained of our home. Perhaps we’ll make this dream come true – finish the box of sticks, make more sets, and hit the road with a craft caravan. Richard could demonstrate his wonderful toy while I chat up the customers and make the sales.
I’ve worked trade fares, but this is my first craft fare. I named my publishing company “Coker Creek Creations” with the idea that I could eventually branch out to representing various Coker Creek craftspeople. I toyed with the idea of selling some of my kitchen crafts, like spiced pecans, at this year’s festival, but with all the bereavement work the prospect became daunting. I decided to do this first foray into festivals on the KISS principle. In this case, keeping it simple means focusing on Jack’s book.
Jack and I are excited, not only about selling his books at the Autumn Gold Festival this week-end, but The Monroe County Buzz has offered us a spot in their fourth annual Buzz Fest next week-end. This was precipitated by Adam asking me about the bridge, and me contacting Mark Boring, Jack’s friend with The Buzz. More blog blessings…
My blog following nephew, Albert, has suggested that I sell my wares online. He’s a really smart guy -- in high school and college simultaneously. He’s also doing apprenticeships in computer work. Maybe he can take on designing and maintaining my business website as a student project. And his big brother, who has experience in craft fairs, could set us up with some of the better fairs in places we’d like to visit – or, at least, advise us on what to do and what to avoid on the gypsy vendor circuit. And maybe my best literary friends could continue to edit the books that we publish. And maybe we’ll make enough money to fix our RV, build a new kitchen, and buy a new van – but probably not all this week-end.
Oh, yeah! I said I’d keep it simple.
The first day of the festival, we had rain, followed by fog, followed by mud -- Not an auspicious start to our craft fair careers. We were blessed by a good spot at the front of the fairgrounds (Coker Creek Village Retreat Center), and the offer to share the Ruritan’s tent. With three umbrellas and a couple of towels, we were able to keep our books dry, but we were afraid that no one other than fellow vendors would brave this wet weather.
The Ruritan’s reputation for putting on a good festival saved the day. After forty years of putting on this celebration, they’re like the Postal Service motto – “Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night”…will keep the festival from raising funds for community outreach programs. Ralph Murphy and Ken Dalton have been festival organizers since its first year when they actually had snow and ice during festival week-end. They didn’t miss a beat this year, beginning with a beautiful tribute to Frank complete with Ralph's wife Wanda Murphy’s fabulous voice soaring to the heavens with the Star Spangled Banner to open the festivities.
I believe Frank was proud. May he rest in the knowledge that his good works live on.
I’ve worked trade fares, but this is my first craft fare. I named my publishing company “Coker Creek Creations” with the idea that I could eventually branch out to representing various Coker Creek craftspeople. I toyed with the idea of selling some of my kitchen crafts, like spiced pecans, at this year’s festival, but with all the bereavement work the prospect became daunting. I decided to do this first foray into festivals on the KISS principle. In this case, keeping it simple means focusing on Jack’s book.
Jack and I are excited, not only about selling his books at the Autumn Gold Festival this week-end, but The Monroe County Buzz has offered us a spot in their fourth annual Buzz Fest next week-end. This was precipitated by Adam asking me about the bridge, and me contacting Mark Boring, Jack’s friend with The Buzz. More blog blessings…
My blog following nephew, Albert, has suggested that I sell my wares online. He’s a really smart guy -- in high school and college simultaneously. He’s also doing apprenticeships in computer work. Maybe he can take on designing and maintaining my business website as a student project. And his big brother, who has experience in craft fairs, could set us up with some of the better fairs in places we’d like to visit – or, at least, advise us on what to do and what to avoid on the gypsy vendor circuit. And maybe my best literary friends could continue to edit the books that we publish. And maybe we’ll make enough money to fix our RV, build a new kitchen, and buy a new van – but probably not all this week-end.
Oh, yeah! I said I’d keep it simple.
The first day of the festival, we had rain, followed by fog, followed by mud -- Not an auspicious start to our craft fair careers. We were blessed by a good spot at the front of the fairgrounds (Coker Creek Village Retreat Center), and the offer to share the Ruritan’s tent. With three umbrellas and a couple of towels, we were able to keep our books dry, but we were afraid that no one other than fellow vendors would brave this wet weather.
The Ruritan’s reputation for putting on a good festival saved the day. After forty years of putting on this celebration, they’re like the Postal Service motto – “Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night”…will keep the festival from raising funds for community outreach programs. Ralph Murphy and Ken Dalton have been festival organizers since its first year when they actually had snow and ice during festival week-end. They didn’t miss a beat this year, beginning with a beautiful tribute to Frank complete with Ralph's wife Wanda Murphy’s fabulous voice soaring to the heavens with the Star Spangled Banner to open the festivities.
I believe Frank was proud. May he rest in the knowledge that his good works live on.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Blessings from Blogging
A nephew from whom I’ve heard little over the years, his big brother, and a niece from whom I rarely hear have begun commenting on my blogs. This is great fun for me. I would never have guessed that people my children’s ages would be any more interested in what I had to say than my own children seem to be. Of course my own children have probably already heard everything I have to say.
When they used to stop me in the middle of a “mama meltdown” with comments that I had already given them that lecture, I’d tell them that once they could repeat the lectures verbatim, I’d stop giving that lecture. I threatened to write down and number all my rants so they could memorize them by number. Then I could save my breath and their ears by just yelling their names and a number. Maybe my blog is like that, but thankfully some people who haven’t been privy to my rants seem to be reading the entries.
I got a call about my latest blog entry from our local cop friend, Adam. First, he gave me a bit of good advice. Adam asked if I had a navigation system for finding my way to and back from all my adventures. I assured him that I’d never get back to the holler if I didn’t, so he told me the dangers of having the actual directions to your front door saved as “home” on your GPS. I had one of those “Duh!” moments after he brought it up.
How many times have I given my car over to a valet (not in Coker Creek, mind you), being very careful not to hand over any key other than the key to the ignition. I knew from a bad experience many years ago that miscreants can cross reference your license plate number to your name and address. I sure didn’t want strangers making copies of my house keys and using them to break into my house -- that they'd found thanks to my license plate. And here I’ve been leaving my GPS with my address and complete instructions for finding our holler. It won’t get you to our front door, but close. Even GPS has limits when dealing with finding things in the forest.
Adam programs a random address near his home into his navigation system. He figures that he can find his house without help from there. And since nobody with an ounce of sense would try to drive these roads drunk, this would probably work for most of us.
Before handing the phone to his wife, Adam questioned me about the information I had posted on my blog about Jack’s bridge. Several years ago, an effort had been underway to take a large portion of Jack’s land to build a million dollar plus bridge at the same location. Since only thirteen cars cross that bridge on a given day and there are alternate routes to everywhere the bridge connects, the locals protested enough to squelch the pork barrel project – they thought. I guess the elected officials in the area have a new chunk of stimulus change to spend and decided this was a good way to create local jobs.
An owner of a local paper, The Monroe County Buzz, who had championed Jack’s first bridge battle subsequently became a fan of Jack’s stories. I told Adam I’d contact The Buzz. Then he gave the phone to “Mrs. Mott” who swears that Adam doesn’t know her first name since he alternately calls her “Rabbit” and “Mrs. Mott.”
Josie is another of Coker Creek’s multi-talented artists. My niece, Nikki, is the proud owner of a sock monkey quilt created by her. Josie is also an avid nature photographer interested in publishing her work. We spoke a bit about Jack’s sweet potatoes, his way of life, and the publication of his book -- which led her to offer to introduce me to the owner of a bookstore about an hour’s drive from here.
People can continue to talk about the power of the press. I’m excited about the blessings I’ve received from my blog.
When they used to stop me in the middle of a “mama meltdown” with comments that I had already given them that lecture, I’d tell them that once they could repeat the lectures verbatim, I’d stop giving that lecture. I threatened to write down and number all my rants so they could memorize them by number. Then I could save my breath and their ears by just yelling their names and a number. Maybe my blog is like that, but thankfully some people who haven’t been privy to my rants seem to be reading the entries.
I got a call about my latest blog entry from our local cop friend, Adam. First, he gave me a bit of good advice. Adam asked if I had a navigation system for finding my way to and back from all my adventures. I assured him that I’d never get back to the holler if I didn’t, so he told me the dangers of having the actual directions to your front door saved as “home” on your GPS. I had one of those “Duh!” moments after he brought it up.
How many times have I given my car over to a valet (not in Coker Creek, mind you), being very careful not to hand over any key other than the key to the ignition. I knew from a bad experience many years ago that miscreants can cross reference your license plate number to your name and address. I sure didn’t want strangers making copies of my house keys and using them to break into my house -- that they'd found thanks to my license plate. And here I’ve been leaving my GPS with my address and complete instructions for finding our holler. It won’t get you to our front door, but close. Even GPS has limits when dealing with finding things in the forest.
Adam programs a random address near his home into his navigation system. He figures that he can find his house without help from there. And since nobody with an ounce of sense would try to drive these roads drunk, this would probably work for most of us.
Before handing the phone to his wife, Adam questioned me about the information I had posted on my blog about Jack’s bridge. Several years ago, an effort had been underway to take a large portion of Jack’s land to build a million dollar plus bridge at the same location. Since only thirteen cars cross that bridge on a given day and there are alternate routes to everywhere the bridge connects, the locals protested enough to squelch the pork barrel project – they thought. I guess the elected officials in the area have a new chunk of stimulus change to spend and decided this was a good way to create local jobs.
An owner of a local paper, The Monroe County Buzz, who had championed Jack’s first bridge battle subsequently became a fan of Jack’s stories. I told Adam I’d contact The Buzz. Then he gave the phone to “Mrs. Mott” who swears that Adam doesn’t know her first name since he alternately calls her “Rabbit” and “Mrs. Mott.”
Josie is another of Coker Creek’s multi-talented artists. My niece, Nikki, is the proud owner of a sock monkey quilt created by her. Josie is also an avid nature photographer interested in publishing her work. We spoke a bit about Jack’s sweet potatoes, his way of life, and the publication of his book -- which led her to offer to introduce me to the owner of a bookstore about an hour’s drive from here.
People can continue to talk about the power of the press. I’m excited about the blessings I’ve received from my blog.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Community Concern
The trees are turning just in time for the Autumn Gold Festival. Jack and I took a walk to his lower garden, and for the first time I saw hazelnuts still in their flowers. What beautiful little bouquets they are! Pale green eyelet frills, edged in dusty rust, enfold the nuts containing the precious edible morsels of nutmeat. Unfortunately, the squirrels get to most of them before we even know the nuts are there.
Jack planted corn three different times this year. Because we haven’t had our first frost, we’re still eating fresh-roasted corn. Jack mostly eats it raw, unless we cook it and bring it to him. Jack eats all his vegetables raw because he has things he’d rather do with him time than cook. I think all of his preferred activities, with the exception of writing, occur outdoors, and he’d have to be inside to cook.
Jack says that Coker Creek (the hamlet, not the creek)used to be awash in corn. He even wrote a story about how important corn was in Coker Creek back when it was the main source of food for livestock and bread, and families lived off their land. This story is where I learned about grated bread (similar to corn pudding).
Unfortunately, Jack’s corn growing and our nature walks will be severely curtailed next year because the department of transportation is going to tear out the bridge over Coker Creek that separates Jack’s home and kitchen garden from the lower garden he works with his brother Charles. By the time the bridge is replaced, I’m afraid Jack will have lost a good source of his income. The lower garden is where he raises his coveted sweet potatoes. People travel from all over the county to purchase Jack’s potatoes. I guess I’ll have to get better at marketing Jack’s book to replace his loss.
We’re going to have a reading corner at the Autumn Gold Festival where Jack will read from, autograph, and sell his book. The one time Jack went to a school and read from his work, the children were enthralled. Jack, who tends to be extremely shy, surprised himself with how much he enjoyed the endeavor. The Ruritans will receive a portion of the sales price for each book in Frank’s memory, just as the school received a donation for each book we sold there. We’re hoping the Autumn Gold Festival will become an annual marketing tool for us.
Coker Creek Village is a fabulous retreat center on the banks of Coker Creek, and is the site of the Gold Festival. Sadly, the funeral for a daughter of the owner of the facility is being held on the eve of this year’s festival. The community is banding together to provide food for the bereaved mother to serve her relations visiting from out-of-town. I’m honored to be bringing turnip greens from Mamie’s garden and maque chou made with corn and banana peppers grown by Jack and tomatoes grown by Mamie and Richard.
That’s what I call community concern.
Jack planted corn three different times this year. Because we haven’t had our first frost, we’re still eating fresh-roasted corn. Jack mostly eats it raw, unless we cook it and bring it to him. Jack eats all his vegetables raw because he has things he’d rather do with him time than cook. I think all of his preferred activities, with the exception of writing, occur outdoors, and he’d have to be inside to cook.
Jack says that Coker Creek (the hamlet, not the creek)used to be awash in corn. He even wrote a story about how important corn was in Coker Creek back when it was the main source of food for livestock and bread, and families lived off their land. This story is where I learned about grated bread (similar to corn pudding).
Unfortunately, Jack’s corn growing and our nature walks will be severely curtailed next year because the department of transportation is going to tear out the bridge over Coker Creek that separates Jack’s home and kitchen garden from the lower garden he works with his brother Charles. By the time the bridge is replaced, I’m afraid Jack will have lost a good source of his income. The lower garden is where he raises his coveted sweet potatoes. People travel from all over the county to purchase Jack’s potatoes. I guess I’ll have to get better at marketing Jack’s book to replace his loss.
We’re going to have a reading corner at the Autumn Gold Festival where Jack will read from, autograph, and sell his book. The one time Jack went to a school and read from his work, the children were enthralled. Jack, who tends to be extremely shy, surprised himself with how much he enjoyed the endeavor. The Ruritans will receive a portion of the sales price for each book in Frank’s memory, just as the school received a donation for each book we sold there. We’re hoping the Autumn Gold Festival will become an annual marketing tool for us.
Coker Creek Village is a fabulous retreat center on the banks of Coker Creek, and is the site of the Gold Festival. Sadly, the funeral for a daughter of the owner of the facility is being held on the eve of this year’s festival. The community is banding together to provide food for the bereaved mother to serve her relations visiting from out-of-town. I’m honored to be bringing turnip greens from Mamie’s garden and maque chou made with corn and banana peppers grown by Jack and tomatoes grown by Mamie and Richard.
That’s what I call community concern.
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