Monday, November 24, 2014
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
Take Two Mornings & Call Me In The Aspirin
Nothing against mirrors. I have them all over the house, leaning on walls, hanging, sitting on tables reflecting upwards. There are one or two in every single room. I view them as reflective portals to other realms, and — I like to see what's coming at me from all angles. Mirrors perform purposeful and perform mundane activities; the occasional glimpse of spinach in the teeth, teeth brushing, makeup application and hair combing and not much time spent there, just a few swipes with a Barbie comb is sufficient. I am at least blessed with hair loss equality, it seems to be evenly falling out. And that's a good thing, because I can't tell left from right when doing the Donald Trump comb-over.
Decisions requiring; Up, down, left, right, backwards, forwards, or sequence may take a millisecond longer for me and because I am ambidextrous I can screw up even more with complex dexterity.
My kaleidoscope eyes have given me a substantial collection of goose eggs and escapades in life. More so if I am upset, tired or in a hurry.
I.e, after pulling a double shift at work late one night, I inched the car into my driveway to a stop. I was so glad to see the welcoming yellow glowing lights of home. Here's where tired dyslexic kicked in. I moved the gear shift down three notches on the PRNDL12 stick instead of up three notches to PARK.
Ok, we lived in NC , hills abound. A nice steep slope at the end of my driveway trailed off through a grassy knoll and into the woods. I was in the house giving salutations long before the roll started. I remembered that I left something in the car a few minutes later and went to get it. No car! I ran back into the house hollering "Omg, the car has been stolen. Don, call the cops the car is gone." You would have to know how ugly my car was to get that joke.
The kids and Don ran outside in the dark. Don had a flashlight because it was super dark down the dirt road. We were heading back to the house to call someone when I sheepishly remembered that the keys are on the kitchen table. At that same instant Don's flashlight picked up a red tail light in the woods. At that moment I actually wished the car was stolen. The "stolen" car had rolled off into the woods. Shaking his head the way he would do to this day, Don went into the woods to back the car back through the kudzu jungle and sappy baby pines to it's rightful place in the yard.
I would like to think that my escapades have subsided in frequency, but I still do take precautionary measures to eliminate in-house confusion. I don't re-arrange furniture. If I sit something down in a spot I deem worthy, it will stay there forever.
But every now and then, even the things permanently established will jump out and get me. As was the case this weekend. I came home with a few things from grocery store to a quiet house. Don is napping in bed after exhaustive rounds of Sunday football, all is well and predictably happily, normal. I opened the top kitchen cabinet to put stuff away. A can of fruit cocktail fell onto the floor. I reached down to get it, came back up and BAM!, caught my head with the cabinet door. Not the usual stars this time—stars AND stripes. When I was able to reason, I went to the freezer to get some ice for the spongy knot growing out of my head. I gingerly walked to the bedroom. Don looked so peaceful in bed, I decided not to wake him with my latest faux pas.
I took the flashlight into the closet to check my eyes for dilation. I followed my finger with my eyes, whatever the hell that does when you are doing it to yourself. The phone buzzed on the counter with the busy chatter of my Ya Ya's. I decided to hook up with my people, so at least someone will know what happened.
I joined in the convo somewhere around a backyard get together with ice box tater salad. Rubbing my head I wondered, "Should I come on strong with prayer warrior request for my head or subtly drop the injury into text?
I'm greeted with "Oh yeah, nice of you to join us from your Sunday nap."
There are three close to middle aged Ya Ya's in this MMS text. One has spell check and double check's her spell check, one knows how to spell and the other is trigger happy and sends everything that spell check suggest.
Me: Ice bag on head. "Feeling a little nauseous."
Me: (Following a thread of getting together) "I'm in if I live. I almost knocked myself out on a cabinet door." (My hopeful plot is to suggest that I may need help or at least make someone aware.)
Ya Ya with spell check: "Have another glass!"
Me: "I'm scared to drink the first one now."
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "Ice it Shasta an call it a day." (Note, Shasta means sister on spell check.)
Ya Ya with spell check. "A day? She's been sleeping all afternoon."
Ya Ya who trust spell check. "He, he he"
Ya Ya with spell check. "There was this story on the news the other day about a state of mind between sleep and awake called drunk sleep (insert two paragraph tangent here)
Ya Ya who trust spell check "BAhaAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaa" Whatever the hell that means, I have never heard anyone laugh in that language.
Ya Ya with spell check: "Lawd, (it now recognizes her slang) the directions our conversations head! From benches to tater salad to sleep to who knows where. I love it!"
Me: "If there ever were such a thing as extra terrestrial beings, they'd get together on a Verizon satellite to listen in on this group."
Ya Ya who trust's spell check is losing concentration here and has missed a few post‘s: "I made baby white lima beans over rice and boiled baby ukons with butter and herbs an cheese corn muffins."
Me: "That sounds good."
Ya Ya with spell check: "Ukons? Have you totally disabled auto correct?"
Me: "lmao."
It goes full out rogue here.
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "must have, let me check, Hispol oori sh."
Ya Ya with spell check; "Seriously lmao, I love y'all so much!!!"
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "Live 6 to you"
Me: "Oh God, we need an interpreter."
Ya Ya with spell check. "Live 6 to you also, as I type through tears."
Me: "Bridge 105.5 out. How the hell am I supposed to determine if I have a concussion with you guys?"
Ya Ya with spell check: "You do have a concussion. Drink wine."
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "Soon over ice box tater, salad. You are fine shasta."
Me: "I am not outing my wine over potato salad."
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "Want me to flute hit you?"
Me: "I'm not sure, never done that before, sounds like fun though"
Ya Ya who trust's spell check: "Come get you!! You want me to come get you??"
Me: "No, I will tell Don to wake me up and flute me every two hours."
Ya Ya with spell check: "Lord I love ya'll."
Me: "Yeth, me too!"
Which pairs well with a concussion. White or Red Wine? Yes, I think I will. Take three mornings and call me in the aspirin.
Monday, September 15, 2014
She's going up the ladder, I'm coming down. Or did I ever go?
As my mind skimmed through the plethora of occupations I've had over 4 decades, I briefly considered not giving ANY advice.
Bean picker: Had a darn good tan that summer.
Red & White cashier: Worked here about one year, ran away from home.
Waffle House: Two days, poured coffee on jerk and quit.
Manager at horse ranch tour farm in Florida: Two years, that was a fun job.
Carnie: For one night, on a hitchhiking trip down the Florida panhandle, let me tell you when the Ferris Wheel turns off, get the hell out of there.
Tomato picker: One day, I was slow... can't remember if I quit or they fired me.
Shrimp boat mate: 3 years, my favorite job ever.
Wal Mart Inventory Receiving: About 1 year, manager was a biatch until she found Jesus, after I left…naturally.
Check printing factory: 6 monotonous months, I think I fell asleep while standing.
Sewing room: 6 monotonous months as well, put a needle through my thumb.
Country store clerk: Loved this little store, until a crack head robbed and tried to kidnap and kill me.
Waitress: 6 years, love..love...loved customers, management and co-workers. Still do!
Restaurant manager: Same restaurant, new location. Loved these people here too!
Herb shop owner: Second favorite career, unfortunately I was 15 years ahead of the alternative lifestyle curve.
Self employed start up answering service: Had 6 line switchboard. Before mobile phones. Too tied down.
Secretary auto brokerage: They went bankrupt and tried to tell me there was no money to pay me, I started packing their office equipment, they found money to pay me.
Group Home Hab/Tech. Job was great, pay and management not so great.
Artist: Floor cloth painting, love this. Starving artist.
Residential Paint Contractor: NC, economy wiped us out.
RSFH Mt.P: Food & Nutrition: I worked with some of the best people to this day I have ever met.
Starbucks barista: You can teach an old dog new tricks. 87,000 variations to be exact.
Residential Paint Contractor: I enjoy the cabinet painting, the paperwork gives me a reason to drink.
Artist: When I want to be.
Writer: Eternally.
Why all the jobs? Work really wasn't that important, living was. A good friend and employer had a term for my malady. "Damn gypsies." he'd spout. Note: This philosophy does not a pretty retirement portfolio make. I may be living in a van by the river in the end, and actually, that may suit me fine. Although I may have walked a crooked mile with a crooked stick, I’ve seen a lot, met a lot of wonderful people and had phenomenal experiences.
So what do I wish for my granddaughter's career? Considering my own illustrious list above, should I even give her advice?? Let's see, what are some of the old standby's....
- I just want you to be —Happy? Nope happy is overrated.
- Content? Well...sometimes.
- Adaptable? No, too flighty and non-committal.
- Everyone starts at the bottom and works their way up. Uggh. I hate frig magnet philosophy.
- You have to start somewhere...hmmm. I kind of like the last one, but let's just re-define somewhere.
So, I told her "You have to start somewhere, but don't let other’s expectations of age, sex or life circumstances define your starting point. If you feel like you have the capabilities to do better and KNOW that you CAN do it, bypass the protocol and start on the rung a little further up the ladder. Be true to yourself and aware that this is YOUR path and YOUR time spent sojourning here."
I was elated about a month later to get a text from Abby. “Grandma, I applied for a job at the veterinarians office nearby. They didn’t have a sign up or advertise. But, I knew that I would like to do this, so I went and asked them if they needed help. I start next week.”
Ummmm…proud grandma, mopping keyboard here.
Advice is a tricky thing. But, I don't think a good lick of confidence and individuality ever hurt anyone. Plus, I'm grandma...I'll catch you IF you fall.
Now, about me? What do I want to be/do when I grow up? Let me get out that kaleidoscope and look through it again.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Hope Floats, Mt. Pleasant's First Families
Sharing, what an underrated commodity! Share — the first images I conjure are of generosity — the giving of money, goods or food. Almost as an afterthought I include knowledge and experience. But, I think it's by far one of the most unselfish and valuable gifts we can give each other. I am richly blessed to have beautiful souls all around me that share their knowledge freely, enabling me to see and understand my world much deeper. Sometimes just making time and closing my mouth will create such an event. Such is the case on a recent jaunt with low-country historian Suzannah Smith Miles. What started out as lunch at See Wee Restaurant on Hwy 17 North concluded with this fascinating history lesson lying dormant a mere 500 feet behind the restaurant.
The sun spun fleeting shadows over the 325 year old grounds of the Wappetaw Meeting House burial site. If it had not been for Suzannah, the grave stones and serene landscape—albeit fascinating, would have only vaguely intrigued me as a passerby. I’d have never known the history this 1 ½ acre plot holds — The intolerance of another shore, a shipwreck, kindness and true naturalization that led this group of people to mold and meld into our community.
Suzannah explains "Wappetaw Meeting House was settled in the 1690s by the original FFMP (First Families of Mt. Pleasant) who came from Essex County, Massachusetts. This was group of 52 who came from Salem, Ipswich and Boston. Some of their names you'll easily recognize (like Whilden and White) and another is very well known , Legare - who was a silversmith in Boston before he came south with the Wappetaw group. They were basically Puritans-cum-Congregationalists and one of the reasons they came South was the aftermath of the Salem witch trials. Interesting stuff. The churchyard is beautifully cared for now by the New Wappetaw congregation, the church that was built in McClellanville to replace this one in the late 1800's."
Suzannah pointed out that the gravestones that remain are smatterings of what was. The faintly inscribed dates and names reflect time periods of a mere 150 years. The first 175 years of the grounds are re-claimed by the earth now. Worms have since rotted wooden bell towers and crosses, fire and war have consumed structures, hurricane and elements crumbled the earthenware crypts leaving once beloved remains as tomb-less grass covered mounds that rise and fall across the terra firma.
The events of that walk through the graveyard lingered in my mind most of my evening. I thought of these settlers —what they must have felt when they trudged the surf to our shores from their shipwrecked vessel, how they were comforted, clothed, fed and accepted by the Quaker Governor Archdale (for whom Archdale St. downtown is named) and given this land to settle.
Suzannah explained "Before this group of 52 settlers arrived in the 1690's, there was no community at Wappetaw. There were however, Huguenots and Quakers in Charleston and other parts of the low country, also Congregationalists and Anabaptists and Jews. They made up about 50% of the population; the other 50% (generally) were Church of England (Anglican). Carolina had THE most favorable laws concerning freedom of religion than any place in the colonies. Those laws, called the Fundamental Constitutions, were written by the humanist John Locke and were later used when writing the Declaration of Independence."
I can't help but wonder how such a tolerant diversified group of peace loving people ever embraced the hell of slavery? Maybe tolerance is a curse as well?
Anyway back to this group that settled the grounds we walk today in East Cooper. These 52 shipwrecked Congregationalist escaped hatred and embraced acceptance. They thrived, molded, loved and lost here among-st our first settlers, they fought our battles and died here. Are our communities practicing the same today? I ask myself. Do we welcome and nurture other cultures? Do we embrace difference? Of course I can point to instances where some cling to prejudice and lance the wounds of hatred and past injustices lest they forget. But more so — I look to and am inspired by the generosity of the low country as a whole to work together unified to keep alive the spirit of oneness and community. I am so grateful for this venue, Moultrie News —which has enabled me to meet wonderful teachers, drink in fascination their knowledge and lastly - offer me the same opportunity to share freely.
I was able to get a sneak preview of a new map that Suzannah is creating. It is part of a program she's working on with the East Cooper Land Trust called "Mapping East Cooper History." Suzannah explains "The point is to let people know that where they are living was likely a productive plantation at one time.”
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
A Priest Walks Into A Bar.....A book review of The Beer Drinker's Guide to God
What you ask. A priest that owns a bar? Oh yes, but Episcopalian priest Father William Miller's heavenly spirit (insert cloud opening revelation music here) and earthly spirit's (better than Budweiser) filled life is so much more. We SHALL conclude that the bar was a logical business venture that stemmed from his calling to test the spirits of goodness. And we SHALL call his transparent book The Beer Drinker’s Guide to God a blessing that naturally ensued. His name is not just a signature on the joint venture, it is his life's pursuit to experience true holiness.
I had the opportunity to interview Father Bill last week while he was on a book tour for the incredibly entertaining book "The Beer Drinker’s Guide to God."
I told Father Bill that I spit wine onto my computer screen while belly laughing when I received the request from Charleston Grit to do his book interview. He quickly (priest tone) assured me "Spitting onto your computer screen is a waste of good wine." We were off, it was an incredible interview with a man who clearly loves life, the afterlife, laughter and a good aperitif.
I asked if he had the WWJD (What would Jesus Drink) bracelets in his Marfa Texas bar, aptly name Padre's. He laughed and said "No, but that is a good idea."
He's the real deal alright, no mail order ministry here. His bio states "Father William "Bill" Miller studied at Abilene Christian University, McCormick Seminary in Chicago, the Seminary of the Southwest in Austin. He has been awarded numerous academic honors. He has served congregations in Austin, Houston, and Hawaii and his churches have experienced exponential growth and become centers for the intersection of the arts, spirituality and creativity. He is the author of two popular, engaging and critically-acclaimed books: The Beer Drinker's Guide to God: The Whole and Holy Truth About Lager, Loving, and Living (Simon and Schuster/Howard Books) and The Gospel According to Sam: Animal Stories for the Soul (Church Publishing/Seabury Books). He loves music and has founded three jazz festivals and collaborated with musicians on various creative projects. He is the priest at St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church on the island of Kauai, where he lives with his dog Nawiliwili Nelson.
The Beer Drinker’s Guide to God is the insightful written journey of Father Miller's quest for lightening up and enjoying the blessings of his creator. When the book arrived I knew that I was going to have to delve in hard to read it before the interview. I can't read in bed anymore — at least more than two paragraphs because books are my Ambien. So— this left me with ~old school~ cramming before the interview. I honestly held this book in my hand while stirring pasta sauce for Chicken Parmesan and walked from my kitchen to the mailbox at end of drive while reading it. I have laughed out loud, gasped, contemplated, questioned, researched, underscored and highlighted this book!
One thing is quite clear, Father Bill has a sense of humor and evidently God does too. I asked, "Father Bill, tell me one of your ~God has a sense of humor moments.~
"Ok, It's Easter Sunday and I'm pastoring a church in Austin Texas. There is a big Easter egg hunt scheduled after the service. We have hired character entertainment, a costumed Easter Bunny to surprise the kids and walk out behind me at the closing of the service and into the church yard where the children hunt for Easter eggs. I'm closing the service and nervously looking about for the furry mascot rabbit. He's nowhere to be found. I couldn't prolong the service any longer and closed. Heading down the aisle past the apprehensive faces of the parishioners and anxious children I prayed silently, Lord, please let the Easter bunny show up. I realized the absurdity of this request but continued on. As I continued down the aisle I noticed the congregation was wide eyed, staring at something behind me. I just knew I would turn to see the furry costumed Easter Bunny, I didn’t. But— beyond the large bay windows looking out into the churchyard, there was a perfect white rabbit standing on it's hind legs and looking into the church window! The costume bunny eventually showed up, but it wasn't nearly as good as the God winked Easter bunny in the window.” He finished with a laugh.
Father Bill’s laughter made me think of a paragraph from the preface of The Beer Drinker’s Guide to God, “Rarely does a contemporary religious work reveal anything funny about God. We are much too serious in our attempts to understand a God who is far more playful than those who claim to speak on his behalf. The trust is that serial solemnity and spiritual awareness have nothing in common. God is funny. God is the originator of irony, the progenitor of the punch line.”
And finally I asked “Overall what do you think the Christian community’s response is to a priest with a growler in hand?”
Father Bill answered, “Far and wide the message seems to be well received. I have talked to every denomination in every location that you can imagine — including conversing Buddhism with Trappist monks in Tibet and theology with Oxford scholars at a bar. A good stout is universal. It opens up the lines of communication between us.”
The Beer Drinkers Guide to God is chock full of personal stories and adventures in Father William Miller's quest for the good grapes or mead. Come out and meet Father Bill, buy the book, talk to him and have a good meet and greet downtown Charleston, Monday August 18th at 5 pm at Blue Bicycle Books.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Drift Away In A Float Tank!
It had been a week from hell. The quick onset of a mystery illness gave me quite a scare and had me in the hospital for 4 1/2 days last week. I had to cancel a family picnic on Daniel Island and a much anticipated trip to Daufuskie on Friday with the Facebook group Charleston History Before 1945. But — the following Saturday I was treated to 4 fabulous hours of pampering. It was the most phenomenal recovery that I have ever experienced. So what did I do? I floated.Yep, I went floating. Not the clubhouse or backyard pool type of floating where the sun is beating down on you and someone does a cannon ball and totally screws up your chi. No — I floated in a facility that offers floating as undisturbed ultimate relaxation. Glo Spa, Charleston's first and only float tank facility and — it's in our very own East Cooper neighborhood.
I was apprehensive at first. It sounded kind of gimmicky so I Googled it. Sensory deprivation floating tanks are actually not a new concept at all. The flotation tank was developed in 1954 by John C. Lilly, a medical practitioner and neuro-psychiatrist. During his training in psychoanalysis at the US National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), Lilly commenced experiments with sensory deprivation and neurophysiology.
The appeal to me was simple. I am a floater, part mermaid you see. My fascination with tub buoyancy started with my first (by myself, without brother or sister) bath. It was an old claw foot tub. I filled it to the rim and let it swallow me up. Floating. The only sound was my heartbeat and the occasional drip from the old faucet. Everything went away and I became semi-weightless. However, something always intervened, bringing this nirvana to a screeching halt. The water would get cold, the phone would ring, someone would beat on the door to get in....
So— the idea that someone could offer me a solid hour of tranquil nothingness was a no-brainer. I'm all in. Owner Steve Eppell conversed with me about the experience and the totality of making it a full spa day.
All of the services are A la carte. I participated in the combo of 1/2 hour steam room, 1 hour float tank and ended with a 1 hour massage.
Every single thing was set up and in place. No need to take anything! The facility was clean and systematic — a visually and sensually soothing environment.
I am going to include their website so that I don't elongate on the procedure and factual side in lieu of offering my personal experience. Here is what to expect from the float tank.....Nothing! Nothing is wonderful! Your brain registers the 93.5 degree water temperature as skin receptor neutral. Combine this with darkness and lack of gravity and you won't know where your body ends and the water begins.
The float tanks are designed to mimic (as closely as possible) sensory deprivation. So, no clothes (unless you actually want to wear them) no jewelry, no hair clips. Nothing but you, the water and darkness — complete darkness. I literally could not see my hand in front of my face. I put in some ear plugs laid back and totally let go. So what do you do with just yourself when nothing but the sound of your heartbeat is infiltrating your brain for an hour? I left myself drift out to sea, flitted back and forth with the awe of weightlessness and then actually created a new character for my novel and two new rabbit trails to run down in the adventures of the plot.
I am a restless creature and didn't imagine that I would stay the entire hour. I was surprised when the gentle music filled the chamber signaling the time was over. I showered, dried off and put on another warm robe and headed to my massage. I tried to talk myself out of the massage. Which would have been a huge mistake! I have never —I repeat, NEVER had such a healing, therapeutic and holistic massage... ever. Kelci Eppel, my hats off to you, that was truly a religious experience. I walked out of Glo Spa feeling like Gumby on Prozac and questioned momentarily my ability to drive.
Cleanliness? Top notch! The water filtration started immediately after my timer signaled I was done. There were fabulous showers, fresh bath robes for each room, towels, spa shoes, ear plugs, infused water. Top of the line shampoo's, conditioners, soap and lotions.
Hours later I tried to think if there was anything that could even have been improved upon. Zilch. My only disappointment was that the experience was so good that I was a little let down when I opened the door to leave and found myself in a parking lot and not the balcony of a paradise tropical location with someone fanning me and feeding me grapes. The serenity and peace along with the holistic benefits of the steam, float and massage were ethereal.
~Seeds of great discoveries are constantly floating around us, but they only take root in minds well prepared to receive them~ Joseph Henry
Glow Spa
Call Steve Eppel (owner)
320 W Coleman Blvd #H
Mt. Pleasant, SC 29464
http://glowspa.net
843.388.9195
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
Friday, May 30, 2014
Monday, May 19, 2014
Carolina Zip Lines Canopy Tour and Hanging Rock Mountain Area, NC
Nestled in the foothills of Stokes County, N.C. is my beloved mountain, Sauratown Mountain — specifically Hanging Rock. Many a morning I would head out to run errands only to be distracted by the blue black shadow at the fork in the road. Minutes later I would be lying flat on a cliff overhang near the falls.
Hanging Rock State Park host’s; waterfalls’,hiking trails, vista's and tundra that take the breath away, a pristine lake with sandy "beach" front, cabins, campground, canoeing and fishing. A stones throw away and you could be zip lining, Dan River tubing or horseback riding. It is often tag lined "The mountain away from the mountains" in comparison to the looming silhouette of Blue Ridge Parkway in the distance.
A country mile or two down Hwy 66 you can taste award winning wines and view phenomenal art at Germanton Art Gallery and Winery.
Don't leave the area without a step back into time at Priddy's General Store in Danbury. The store has been in operation for nearly a century. Pop a Cheerwine bottle top and rock in the rocking chairs on the porch or pull out the checkerboard for a slow game. Don't miss the laid back bluegrass picking on Friday nights. Buy yourself a RC Cola and a Moon Pie and drive a quarter mile to the Danbury to watch the old man Dan River slip over the rocks and bends at Danbury State Park.
All this and more hidden in the side by side sleepy little towns of Danbury, Germanton and Walnut Cove. All are located off of NC Route 66, not the infamous 66, but I can’t imagine a stretch worthier to be included. Towns where vegetables are left on colored tablecloths’ by farmers with a sign that says "Take some, leave some."
If you want to pick up the pace a tad, a short drive north you have Pilot Mountain and Mount Airy — Andy Griffiths proposed Mayberry and hometown. A 30 minute ride east and you are walking the centuries old cobble stoned streets of Old Salem, the historic Moravian village in Winston-Salem.
Don and I lived in the valley of Walnut Cove ten minutes from that summit before moving back to Charleston almost four years ago. We returned this past fall to go zip lining at Carolina Zip Line Canopy tours. It was bittersweet pulling into our old hometown. We fell quiet as both of us dealt with an inconsolable loss of sorts. It subsided as we drove those familiar switchback turns off of Hwy 66. Majestic poplars in gold and crimson canopied above and spread petals as a flower girl would in lieu of our arrival.
Rubbernecking the beautiful drop offs and deep valley's, we almost missed the dirt drive at Nickell Farm Road. We were greeted first by the bleating goats and clucking chickens in their barnyard near a centuries old stable house. A rocky clay path led us to the Welcome Center of Carolina Zip Lines Canopy Tour. Before we got to the door we heard a noise that sounded like a huge bee was coming through the trees right at us. Overhead a zip liner whizzed by to land on the platform.
We were warmly greeted inside by owner Keith Bollman who told me that Barbara would be down in a bit. We went through instructions, harnessing and greetings with the other zippers.
Barbara Bollman came in and welcomed us with a broad beautiful smile and the hug of a neighbor. Keith and Barbara are equally jovial and fun. Their love for each other and the life and lives that they have created in these hills is evident. The Bollman’s have 12 children and scores of grands.
Barbara gave me the back yard tour excitedly telling me of their plans for the zip line and property.
Lea McQuinn and Seth Boyette were our tour leaders. We felt confident with their expertise and knew we were going to have a good time. The two had a rapport that kept the entire gang giggling with them all morning, they’re practical jokers as well.
Safety and instruction were thorough, but not so elongated that you felt you spent your morning in monotonous orientation. In minutes we were headed to the tree's. It was a nice uphill hike through dense leaf paths to our starting point. A couple of the Bollman family dogs guided as well, but their curiosity had them deserting us minutes in. Once in the trees’ and platforms we talked with our new friends while awaiting our turn to zip.
What an awesome feeling as we glided through the canopies. Lea tells us that many times they have glided alongside deer in the valley by the creek. It is just beautiful and the zips aren't so fast that you can't enjoy the loveliness of the slide show. The finale of our zip was a two cabled race to the bottom. Lea radioed in to Keith and he skipped out to come catch. There is always a guide at the other end to keep your face from splatting a tree. Lea and I raced down on side by side cables...over the valley. I think she let me win.
We dropped our safety belts and said our goodbyes. As we left another group was coming in, they searched our face for gestures of experience— like we do when the crowd lets out of a movie we are going to see.
My husband and I both enjoyed the zip line tour and the crew immensely. I have new friends there. In Barbara's words "Ziplines Canopy Tour was constructed by Universal Zipline Technologies (UZT) who builds worldwide from the USA, Canada and throughout South America. UZT also inspects, certifies and provides guide safety training. These standards follow ACCT standards and certifications. Our guides are the best in the industry. Not only do they have hours of training, and safety, they are also the most enjoyable people to be around. You will feel safe and secure, not to mention having the time of your life with our staff , your friends and family. You will also make new friends on your tour that sometimes go beyond your two hour experience as you exchange pictures, videos and memories with each other.”
I am excited to say that many of the plans that Keith and Barbara anticipated for the Carolina Zip Lines Canopy Tour are coming to fruition. There are hiking trails being built and Disc golf courses.
Oh! They now have helmets with cameras on them and the sd card is included in your tour! Oh let's see, new accommodations’ are coming, Tipi's! Yes stay the night in a Tipi on the property or — if the comfort of a bed in a century old home on site is more your cup of tea, you can saunter right on over after your zip line tour. in the Bed and breakfast in their previous home.
Life is good in the tree's.
http://carolinaziplines.com
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow Part II — Nicolo Paganini
The year was 2002, I was still learning about generations before me through objects passed through countless hands’only to end up in garage sale bins and bazaars.
On one particular Saturday morning, I strapped on a fanny pack filled with; dollar bills, a roll of quarters and one Ben Franklin for that "prize" find. I sloshed coffee all over my console as I rode though town braking and going and braking and turning around while looking for the little square and orange yard sale signs — I caused many a Christian to stumble behind me.
Although the search was always fun, it hadn't been a productive morning. One last stop before going home was the Moravian church bake sale/bazaar. I had promised my 88 year old friend that I would buy some of the Moravian Pies they had been baking all weekend. "They're going to go fast" she told me. And — that was exactly what I wanted them to do. Like, be gone before I got there. Don and I had tried their chicken pot pies the year before and literally spit them out into garbage after taking a bite.
Thank God, the pies were gone! I feigned disappointment and browsed the bazaar sale items to spend an equal amount to add to the church ladies auxiliary fund. My loot consisted of beeswax candles, a few tin smith pieces, a super buttery brownie and a beautiful old wood picture frame with smelly cardboard backing.
I dumped the items on the kitchen table when I got home. Well — all but the buttery brownie.
Let’s examine the frame; ornate, gold gilded and about 12 inches tall. I loosened the hinges on the back of the frame to remove the glass and cardboard. One conclusion I've come to? For whatever reason people hide things, or —maybe they aren't hidden at all, maybe they are safely tucked away for the sole pleasure of the owner. Either way, I have discovered flowers, centuries old four leaf clovers, letters, hair and —Egads, other unidentifiable preserved matter pressed into the binders of old books and the backs of frames.
When I lifted the cardboard backing from the frame, I realized there were actually two pieces. I gently separated the two and gasped!
A woeful musician stared up at me. I touched the painting on canvas, the raised strokes told me it was hand-painted. I pulled out my magnifying glasses and tried to find a artist signature. None. The only markings were a quill pen date of 1832 on the back.
Internet search time. Ok, it's an oil painting of a violinist who in some rendering's looked like Edgar Allan Poe. After a few searches, I concluded the painting is of Nicolo Paganini, violinist and composer, considered to be the greatest violinist of all time.
Nicolo was said to be so extremely talented that it wasn't humanely possible to be so. He must have made a pact with the devil! His following was immense despite the demonic whisperings. Many a accomplished musician left his concert breaking their violin's in anguish over their knees.
It was definitely him. I found a few prints similar, but no oil painting to value it. I spent hours delving deeper into this mysterious violinist. I was captivated by his story, his passion, his darkness—like many composers and artist's over the ages he battled demons with gambling, womanizing and alcohol and finally death.
His death could actually explain the reason I found his image portrayed upside down. In one story I read that in many European cities people came out onto the streets and mourned Nicolo’s passing for days. Prints and likenesses of Paganini were turned backwards at his death— to view no more. After a little more digging, I learned the practice of turning photographs over to be customary practice at death for many reasons. http://genealogy.about.com/od/cemetery_records/a/burial_customs.htm
Anyway, the more I thought about this, the more I thought that this particular painting should go back to the family. Hmmm — or was the truth that I was scared eebie jeebies would jump on me for exposing him to daylight and then selling him on E-bay? I truly believe the latter to be a product of living in the south.
No. Truthfully, I liked the fact that the family at that time still maintained a page on the internet for Nicolo. After initial contact and several communications with a family member, I released the picture for the sum of fifty dollars and mailed the package to it's final home in Italy. See pic of first contact transmission (one of the few successful attempts to find communications from my old Ebay sales.)
Even though I don't treasure hunt anymore, I still leaf through old books and frames at bazaars. I laugh when I think of the treasures that will be unearthed after my demise; A pocket of M&M's, a penny, movie tickets. When I skid in sideways into those pearly gates (after further review from the booth) there won't be regrets of a life not spent, of a fortune hoarded or treasures left in books, frames or hidden in boxes. I use my good perfume, I burn my candles.
I don't know how this painting ended up in a Moravian church bazaar unbeknownst even to the hands that placed it on the table and attached that fifty cent label, but I am grateful for the story and the life I was able to peek into and learn from.
Niccolò (or Nicolò) Paganini (27 October 1782 – 27 May 1840) Italian violinist, guitarist, and composer. The most celebrated violin virtuoso of all times.
http://www.exploratorymusic.net/Hernandez%20page/woodland/Paganini.html
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow
We have Googled every thing on the planet. When I say tiny-ish, the ish is my two hundred square foot extension of tiny. The addition was implemented after a few small panic attacks.
Part mermaid, I want a claw foot tub, so the bathroom would have to be bigger than any of the tiny houses we saw. I also need a studio of sorts, outback office —a place where my muse can find me. And Don needs a shed. Oh, and windows; windows everywhere —skylights.
The outside is going to be as important as the home. Think camping — You spend all of your time enjoying the surroundings, campfires and lightning bugs and then retire to the tent or camper to relax and sleep.
What to keep, what to get rid of? Stuff isn't nearly as important as time and the reduction of performance pressures. I wish we had thought of this years ago. And surely I SHOULD have. You see. I accidentally fell upon a trade that validates the thoughts we are pondering today. It started with a few minutes of spare time and a venture into a Goodwill store 15 years ago.
An object's worth is determined by it's owner, hence the old adage “One man's junk is another man's treasure."
Let's just say that first visit paid off. Goodwill, Salvation Army re-sale store's, yard sales and church bazaars yielded caches of treasures and paid many a Brabham bill when sold on E-bay.
A lot of these treasures are my own now. I remember talking to my oldest daughter abut the heirlooms in our home. She replied "I would never know the difference in what was a true family heirloom and what came from Goodwill." I understand her confusion, I had 18th and 19th century cabinet photos of people I claimed as adopted family.
The biggest and best sale? I was at Goodwill in Winston-Salem when a lady came out with a buggy of donated items. She began putting small gold framed photos on the shelf. As I walked up she dropped one, it shattered across the floor. While I helped her pick up the shards, I noticed the image was actually in the glass. What are these?
A trip to Barnes and Nobles, a few cups of coffee, a cushy arm chair (which they used to provide) and antique reference books yielded my answers. These gold gilded frames were called Ambrotypes. My lot consisted of; a little girl, measuring 2 x 2.5 (considered a ninth plate.) and two ambro's of a man in distressed comparative condition between the time span of the two photo's. One measured 3.25 and 4.25 (quarter plate) the next was a half plate measuring 4.25 x 5.5 The gentleman was a confederate soldier. The Ambrotypes were colored with an eerie gradient exposure.
The smaller Ambrotype depicted the soldier (when I say this, note that I still don't know what the stars and button's signified in rank) with an amused confident half grin. He looked healthy and had excellent posture.
In the larger Ambrotype the soldier still held himself with confident composure, but was gaunt and had obviously lost at guess about 20 pounds. The uniform was impeccable. He didn't appear to have gained anymore ranking than he had on his collar before. But — he had lost an arm. He sat with his knees crossed and his good hand over the empty sleeve. His eyes still haunt me. Steely light gray. His cheeks in both pictures were high and prominent, but were colored rosy in the pic which belied the condition of the man taken. He looked ill and tired.
These were the early days of EBay and Google, I believe 2001 was when I found these. Even though information was available to search, it was much more limited than today. I had no idea what I had, and truthfully still don’t.
At that moment I knew that I had Ambrotypes and they were confederate and I was probably going to triple the twelve bucks I spent on the lot of them. I went all out and started the bid at $100 for the three on EBay around 4 o'clock on Friday afternoon. I popped popcorn and settled in for a movie. As I headed to bed for the night the phone rang.
I answered the cordless. The male voice asked me if I would be willing to negotiate an offsite bid for the ambro's. I told him I thought I would let the auction run it's course. An hour later I received another call and sleepily answered it.
"Would you consider selling offline." he asked.
"No" I answered and groggily headed to the computer to see what was going on. I jiggled the mouse and went to EBay. The Ambrotypes had over 50 bids. It was at $700 and my e-mail inbox was full of request; How many stars are on his collar? Can you zoom in on the buttons? I went to bed and took the phone off the hook.
The next morning I put the phone on the hook and made coffee. It immediately started ringing. I was under the impression that my contact information was not available through EBay and to this day don't know how they all got it.
After a continuous barrage of request, I took the phone off the hook again. The bid online was now $1000.00. Later in the day I lifted the receiver to make a call when it began beeping. I clicked over, thinking it was the person I just tried to call. A gentleman calmly asked me if I would allow him to make me an offer, stating "I will drive down and pay you cash this evening."
I asked what his offer was. He replied "$4,400.00." I accepted. I suggested that he schedule to leave the next morning because of the terrible weather conditions that evening. The entire seaboard was getting impaled with torrential rains. He dismissed the idea of a delayed departure and said he was leaving immediately. 4 1/2 hours later he pulled up into our drive.
We cut to the chase quickly and headed over to my kitchen counter. Albeit calm and collected, that first glance told me that he had found a gem.
I calmly asked "Who is he?"
He wouldn't offer the identity of the man in the Ambrotypes, feigning research. He did explain what he thought would suffice me. "The larger the Ambrotype the more affluent the subject was, because of the depravation of war there wasn't a lot of money for the frivolity of a photograph. So therein lies the importance of these Ambrotypes."
"Are you going to re-sell these" I asked
.
He emphatically stated "No." He offered that he was the largest collector of civil war artifacts on the east coast and one of the 10 in the country.
$4400.00 was doled out on the kitchen counter. After gingerly wrapping the Ambrotypes in bubble wrap he placed them in a case, thanked me and walked out the door.
I bought a riding lawnmower and a shed with the money. I was quite happy with the find and the payoff but I have a sneaky feeling he was happier.
Several years passed. I was waiting in an insurance office while the agent was with another client. Bored, I started browsing his books, Civil War enthusiast he was.
I flipped the pages and froze cold on a page. There were the steely gray eyes of my photograph. I searched the name below in the caption. Stonewall Jackson. Ok...understand again. I lived in mid North Carolina. Although one of the states that succeeded, it was neutrally so. Civil War history was not nearly as prevalent in NC as it is in SC. Not all restaurants had the battle pics of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall over the booths. I’m being funny here, not sacrilegious, this is my feeble attempt to explain why I wouldn't have recognized Stonewall Jackson .
I went home and told Don that I thought I had found out who the guy in the ambrotype was. I Googled Stonewall Jackson and we both agreed that he looked astoundingly like the guy in the Ambrotypes.
But— there is this HUGE problem. My pic had depicted a sick ranked officer without an arm, even though it appears the limp sleeve contains one. If this were Jackson. It would have been the only pic of him ever without his arm. Which he lost to friendly fire 8 days before he died, (his arm is buried separately from his body.)
I have looked at every single photo of Jackson available to date and still shudder at the uncanny similarity of this man in my photograph and Jackson. And —the ambrotype photo's I sold have never resurfaced.
But — I had a shed and lawnmower and all was well. All I have for testimony is my family who saw the listing and Don who held the Ambrotypes with me. I have tried to contact Ebay for archives, which apparently weren't available at that time. My floppy disc with photo's for listing have long since been discarded.
This week I tried once again to search for Ebay archives, there were no records of my closed account. I starting Googling the "what if's" online. All of the research ended late one evening when Don nudged me on the computer. "It's not our story anymore, it's his."
Things come and things go. It's the stories that remain.
Let's just say that I learned a lot from the ghost of possessions that I brought home over those five years. And I will need to remember the lessons again when I donate, give and sell my stuff to go tiny living. “Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify.” ― Henry David Thoreau, Walden and Other Writings
I really enjoyed the time spent treasure hunting, I never knew what I would find and I found some doozies! Along with valuables, there were many stories and some downright hilarity’s. I will share more over the next few weeks.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Valentine's Day, Bah Humbug ...or....
Those who know me know that I have a love/hate relationship with the month. At least the first half of it. I wish Valentine's Day could have stayed as simple as my grade school doily and red construction paper bag filled with Neeco's candy conversation hearts and hand scrawled valentines.
Hmmm, maybe the day bred expectations even then. Did you ever dump that white bag of cards onto your desk scrambling to find one from that special guy/gal to see if he/she sent a coded special message?
The more commercial Valentine’s Day becomes— the more demanding, the more predictable — the less it feels like love. As soon as a Valentine commercial or radio ad starts, I am scrambling for the mute button or volume knob.
I am aggravated that something so trivial can aggravate me so. I vow annually to resolve this issue before February comes around the next year, but—here we are again.
Earth itself seemed to agree with me this year, withholding her care like an angry woman who had been robbed of her 3 foot Valentine card. The earth shook, it froze and — Thank God, it thawed. So was the first half of February 2014 in Charleston, SC
I woke up on February 15th like it was the first day of the month. A new moon of sorts. My arms stretched to the sky when I rose. Sipping coffee and thinking of blessings — I silently expressed gratefulness that I wouldn't need to turn the channel, mute the volume or avoid the dedicated aisles of the stores.
All is well, all the people that I love know that I love them still. And —the proof isn't a half eaten box of chocolate or a box of edible undies that will end up in a garage sale or forgotten and hidden in a dresser drawer to mortify a child years later when they sort through our tokens of this earth at our demise.
And then a few hours later, I got the last laugh. I walked into Harris Teeter and there are five full...yes five overstuffed buggies of 75% off flowers. Day old Valentines flowers! Nirvana!!
The skies opened, I think I heard music and — the answer came to me! The answer to that elusive annoying ass problem, what to do with myself for Valentines day for the rest of my life.
Flip the table! Anonymously surprise those people who weren't expecting the Vermont Teddy Bear, the 50 piece chocolate box or box from Jared. When I started thinking of who may be on that list...it grew and grew and so did my heart. (Imagine Valentine Scrooge here, feeling her heart beat.)
Next year, I will fill my doily & red construction paper Valentine bag with cards for:
The person who quietly offers a lifetime of un-reciprocated love to another.
The pessimist. (A card AND a box of good and plenty)
The person cloaking a hurting heart
The widow/widower
The father who misses the game because he is working overtime to give his kid that shoe with a stripe.
The mother who feigns she isn't hungry so that there is enough food to go around.
The scared one.
The selfless person who avoids pettiness and greed as dirty bath water.
The one who hold secrets to their chest that would cause pain to others.
The angry ones, they walk the streets with placid smiles, like walking dead.
Maybe— just maybe, the fourteen days before Valentines Day won't be enough time for me to celebrate!
Happy Belated Valentine everyone!! But to those special ones above— May the god who knows and sees all injustices, fill your planter with a bird dropped wildflower seed, offer up a rainbow from a minuscule drop of water or fill up 5 grocery carts with clearance day old flowers and chocolates!
Monday, February 24, 2014
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Am I Smarter Than a Fifth Grader or Dumber Than a Bag Of Rocks?
I do those crazy little quizzes that pass around occasionally, but I don't give them much precedence.
What's your brain age? I do believe in challenging the brain. But Scrabble, Dictionaries and DMV re-licensing questions are sufficient for me.
What's your thumbprint on earth? Actually, I have two of them and I don't think that can be changed by asking me ten questions. But —I recycle wine corks, try not to use a lot of plastic and don't buy paper towels.
Astrology, How is your day going to be? Several if not half of the 12 zodiac signs can describe just about anyone.— so nix the horoscope. Although I do believe the alignment of the sun, moon and constellations has earthly, heavenly and therapeutical consequences.
Recently I peeled out the tablet on some down time and took a lengthy in-depth survey with some cool psyche questions. At the end of the survey their determination was — You don't feel pressured to live up to society's expectations of what is "perfect", which is healthy - however, you may want to consider whether your rejection of societal standards might be jeopardizing your chances for success out of a desire to be a nonconformist.
With the exception of jeopardizing my chance for success, this may have been the closest personal description that I have seen from a quiz. I don't do anything for success, all endeavors are for either survival, love, a future life or the pure joy of it. But — the hint of truth in the quiz that nailed me as a non-conformist was the snare that had me questioning (briefly) whether I was laying land mines in my own path of achievement.
After that brief review I determined that the close but no cigar assessment considered literary or monetary achievement as success.
You may ask "Well don't you want to be a writer?" I am a writer.
"Well don't you want to be published? I am published, I did it myself.
"Well don't you want checks?" Of course, but I would continue to write if I never got a dime.
So, does one quiz fit all? Not at all. Neither individuality or improvising are factored into these test and quizzes because someone has already predetermined what is normal.
When we moved back here from NC, I took an online personality test for a job. 125 questions! Many of the questions were repetitive with a small change in the format that (I perceived) as skewing the situation. I adjusted my answers accordingly. I laughed out loud when I received the denial e-mail from the company. I was permanently blocked from testing at their site and 4 other subsidiary companies!
This is the way you should be, this is the way you are. Here is what to do to get there. Ya da, ya da, ya da. Ambidextrous, Mild-ish dyslexia and undiagnosed, un-medicated but surely present ADD (my desire to do many things at one time) can make interesting quiz and test results. Consistently inconsistent, I have at least 3 signatures and was once refused a package at the post office that required a signature match with my driver's license. I have also been asked to leave the drive through at the bank to come in and verify my identity. Not to mention being asked to leave (kicked out) a beginners aerobic class, I kept going left when everyone went right.
I may flub the quizzes and test and criteria that one may quantify success with, but there are advantages to knowing thyself. For one, I disagree with the philosophy that we need to start at the bottom and work our way up. If you have the ability to do the work at the top, start there. And lastly dessert can come first.
Protocol, structure and procedure are important to maintain civil and self obedience, obviously. But, they aren't steadfast rules or recipes for success. For instance, Don will tell you that I am a darn good cook, but it certainly isn't because I follow recipes. I improvise because I am out of something, add something or tweak it to our liking. Does it always work? No. But circumstances can also change a tried and true recipe, making it fail.
So, I'll flip across the horoscope page, laugh at the silly test's that claim to determine my self-worth or whether I am most like Cinderella or Shrek. If I make it, it will be determined by my creator or it will be because I just didn't know that I couldn't.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Like Water Off A Duck's Back
The beginning of the end —Branding. When the shelves of big box stores overflow with underwear, cookware, t-shirts and accessories with your face on them, watch out! It's happened to the best and worst of them.
Duck Dynasty — Duh, it's a reality show, I knew it was going to be controversial. If it quacks like a ducks —you know the rest. Opinions—yada yada yada, we all have them, hence this blog.
Aren't we all a tongue slip, blinking cursor or mic away from inciting either anger or love? Most call them the train wreck shows. I liken reality TV to cooking a white fluffy marshmallow on a coat hanger over a campfire. I plunge this perfectly good marshmallow that was getting along swimmingly with other like-minded fluffy mallow's onto a coat hanger to cook precariously over a campfire flame. I admire it as it warms and turns golden brown and does what I want it to do. Then, I let it linger a second too long and Poof!, just like that the unstable marshmallow becomes a blazing inferno before my eyes!
If a neighbor dances drunk in their skivies on their porch every weekend with Budweiser bottles lined up on the railings, that is their business. I may have my own opinion about it, but when they fall over the railing to land on the Holly bush, I'm not going to act shocked or appalled.
I appreciate everyone's constitutional right to express their views freely. However, that doesn't warrant lewd, abusive or violent behavior, unless of course they are lewd, abusive or violent. You see it's a slippery slope. I love diversity — It screams we are free! We aren't clones.
I detest racism, past present or reverse, prejudice, legalism, self-righteous indignation, rabid politics or religion. Now, doesn't that sound like a lot of us? Common ground.
I realize that I have been inundated this year with political crap, religious crap and commercial crap. I have spent way too much time thinking about what she said, what he said, what he did, what the fox said.
So for 2014 I have declared focus my resolution. Focus on the good of the bad. Focus on humanity and not hilarity. Focus on things of lasting importance. Denying myself a negative reaction to a ludicrous position taken, an insidious idea, a temptress, a barb, an insecurity.
Expunged negativity — That would have to add more focus for the good and peace would be it's side effect.
Don and I were watching ducks swimming happily in the pond during a downpour recently. I made the statement that they looked comfortable even in the rain.
Don replied "Like water off a ducks back." And that my friends is my mantra for 2014. Happy New Year Everyone!!
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