A Charleston Christmas Story

A Charleston Christmas Story

How does one get ready for Christmas in the south? The same as our snow hoarding upper states do, we just don't shake our snow dome.
How do we deck the halls?  Right nicely I'd say, with  oyster, pine, sea shells, cotton and magnolia  wreaths. A resourceful bunch we are! We string lights from palmetto's to pine's, shrimp boats to pillions in plough mud.
You may not get a whiff of ham from a tiny snow capped smokehouse with white furling smoke in Charleston, but — if you follow your nose you're likely to find a burn pit or barrel glowing red and have a bottle of some Christmas cheer put in your hand.
Nope, you won't spy a sleigh tumbling down the hill, but if the tides just right you just might see someone paddle boarding downtown with a Santa hat on.
Merry and bright bundles of clothes? Oh yes, we have those here too! I don't care if it's 85 degree's on Christmas Day, we're still going to wear our boots and scarves. Last year while waiting on a bench for a few minutes before we went in to see a Christmas movie, I counted 60 pair of boots. But I sure couldn't say anything, I had on a super heavy 3/4 length black wool dress coat.
I'd of worn that coat if it were 100 degrees. The coat is part of an accidental tradition that started up north 16 years ago. Don and I found ourselves and our home oddly silent on Christmas Day. All of the kids and grand's were at their own homes. We decided to go to the movies and eat while we were out. It didn't take long to figure out that we were going to be eating Chinese. We went to the theater afterwards to see Tom Hanks in "Cast Away." I slid the ticket stubs into my pocket.
When I hung the coat up that Christmas, I didn't think anything about it again until the next Christmas. I pulled it off of the hanger and Don and I headed out for our Christmas Day date of Chinese and movie. Once again I slipped the tickets in my pocket. I felt something and pulled out the ticket stubs from last year. The tradition has continued every year since, same pocket, same coat. I've even thrown in some Chinese fortune cookie predictions to boot!
I pull those stubs out every Christmas morning now, and we read the movies out loud. Some were fading so badly I had to write in the wording again. Most of the movie titles wouldn't spark a thought of Christmas to someone who saw the stubs, but for me — they are memories, a constant reminder that we can make Christmas tradition wherever we are.
Sometimes I muse futuristic endings to situations of the present day. The Christmas coat is one of them. I'll set up the scene for you. After I'm gone from earth, this very well made classic coat ends up at a thrift sore. A woman pulls it off the rack and then hangs it back up scolding herself, who needs a 3/4 length wool coat here? She comes back to it again a few minutes later, the vintage coat is in great condition. She slips it on and checks her self out in the mirror. Sliding her hands into the pockets, she pulls out the stubs. "These are all from Christmas Day." she whispers. She takes the coat to the register on this 90 degree fall day and smiles at the odd glances from customers and clerk.
On Christmas morning, she picks up her grandchild. As they stand in line at the theater, she notices that people are doing double takes when they see her in this long wool coat, especially when most of them are in short sleeves, sandals and flip flops.
She purchases their tickets at the window and places the stubs in her granddaughter's hands. Before the movie starts she tells her grandchild the story about the Christmas coat tradition and then has her add their ticket stubs to the pile and back into the coat pocket.
Her grand-daughter smiles us at her and ask about another tradition. "Grandma, how does Santa get into our house if we don't have a chimney?"
 "Oh sweetie, that's a Yankee Santa, southern Santa comes in on high tide, uses the back screen porch door and — he looks a lot like Bill Murray."
Merry Christmas everyone!!

Staycation at the Grand Bohemian

Staycation at the Grand Bohemian

Clucker Chuckles

Clucker Chuckles

STAC House Shows—The Barefoot Movement in Church

STAC House Shows—The Barefoot Movement in Church

Stac House Shows; The Barefoot Movement & Finnegan Bell

This past March I had the opportunity to cover the 1st STAC House Show at  St. Thomas & St. Denis Church in Cainhoy, otherwise known as the Old Brick Church. I knew they planned another event for the site and was ecstatic when it was announced. Finnegan Bell and The Barefoot Movement.  9.19.15.
The venue is a mere 15 minutes from our driveway, a few miles down the pine canopied two lane Cainhoy country road. We eased the car through two narrow gate posts and up the faint indention of a dirt drive where a sandy pine-strewn churchyard led us to the hustle and bustle of set up. The sun was dipping below the pines creating a fast flurry of activity. All hands were on deck — cord setting, light positioning, tent propping, church sweeping and cork popping. When we signed in, Shane William's wife Trisha swatted a mosquito off of my forehead and pointed us to the table of repellants.
Still a half hour before the show,  so Don and I promenaded the grounds. St. Thomas & St. Denis Church, (one of the ten original Anglican Parishes) is 309 years old. The original building burned in a forest fire but was re-built in 1819.  It is steeped in history, both painful and joyful —such is life. It is the perfect backdrop for a collaboration of community, music and history.
Reverend Hamilton Smith caught up with us around the side of the huge church windows with a can of wasp spray "As if opening 200 year old church windows on a humid day weren't enough, I've been chasing down the survivors of the largest wasp nest I've ever seen." he said laughing while inebriating the sole survivor on the pane with a long spray blast.
I‘m glad they got those huge windows open, it was by far one of the muggiest evenings of late. The crowd thickened as quickly as the humid evening air. We went in to get our seats. Through the window I saw a beautiful RV in the churchyard sitting beside a road weary older van, the sticker on back read "The Barefoot Movement."  I figured the RV belonged to the band and the van to it's roadies. Eddie White of Awendaw Green stopped and spoke with us, "The Barefoot Movement is touring the Southeast and they’ve had a hectic schedule. They left Georgia today and came straight here for the show and then need to be back in Georgia again tomorrow. Camping world provided the RV for them." So the muted gold van was actually the band's.
I asked Eddie White later how this presentation came to be. "I met TBM through my friendship with Anderson Knott who works with Hootie and the Blowfish in Myrtle Beach where the bass player Hase grew up 3 or 4 years ago and have continued to support them and watch them grow. They are so authentic, it warms the musical heart and then to gather with them in an historic spiritual structure that is so alive with the juice of generations — it's just a pleasure to the senses and soul."
The pews filled fast and so did the temps. Ladies were glistening and men were dripping. The last blast of ole sol shone through the leaded glass window panes and then it began. The cicadas and frogs started the show. I felt a whiff of a breeze on the back of my neck and turned around in the pew, the lady behind me had a church fan and was going at it full throttle. She reached down by her purse and handed me another one she had brought. Perfect!!
Finnegan Bell's duo, Shane Williams and Warren Bazemore took the stage with guest Dean Black, a steel pedal guitar player by trade and tonight playing an antique National steel resonator guitar. They started the show with their cover of "Hallelujah." After the set finished the crowd rushed to their feet in a standing ovation. As far as I was concerned, they'd just set the bar pretty darn high for The Barefoot Movement band. Intermission emptied the church for a wisp of night air and refreshments.
Cowbells's rang to signal us to return to the church for the show. I laughed out loud. I will never hear a cowbell ring again without thinking of Christopher Walken and the cast of SNL in their stint "I gotta have more cowbell!"
The Barefoot movement —Tommy Norris, Noah Wall, Hasee Ciaccio, Alex Conerly, took the stage shoeless as promised. They had me from the very first strum of the bass, bow on fiddle, pick of the mandolin and guitar pluck. I've found myself completely out of adjectives to describe them. Their performance was surreal. Like a time warp, I was planted smack dab back in the 1950's seeing all of yesteryear's country music bluegrass digitally re-mastered. If they had a weakness at all, it was unknown to the inhabitants of those stucco walls and full pews. The flushed crowd so enthralled they wouldn't have left if you'd have hollered fire.
Feet were stomping, hands clapping I could feel the vibrations in the old plank floor. TBM announced after a song that they felt the rooms percussion under their feet too. I caught movement outside of an open window, men were framed in the sills outside to watch the show in the cool night air. I had a vision of time past on this terra firma.
I will never forget that night and hubby echoed the same when we exited the church. I felt as if I'd just witnessed art on the cusp and I’ll count myself fortunate if I ever have the opportunity to see them in such an intimate setting again.  The music world seems to concur, The Barefoot Movement  is already being described as the future of bluegrass. Press keeps rolling in and Rolling Stone just added to the accolades. http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/the-barefoot-movement-johnson-city-tennessees-bluegrass-future-20150821
There are more plans in the work for more presentations with STAC House Shows & Awendaw Green. Keep your fingers on the pulse of their activities, you don't want to miss their events. In the meantime, Awendaw Green is putting on a benefit concert on  Oct 17th at the Windjammer for Windwood Family Services 30th year anniversary.  https://www.facebook.com/events/1124884384196330/
Thank again to Holy Cross Sullivan’s Island for use of the property, Awendaw Green, STAC House Shows, The Society of St. Thomas & St. Denis Church.

Stuck in the middle with me

I wheel through the doors of Bi Lo and come to an abrupt halt at the first little roundabout. Donuts!  I’m fondling a box of Krispy Kreme cream filled donuts when a shrill voice screams BINGO, scaring the bejesus out of me! I circled the little deli area to peer through the cheese kiosk’s grape and cracker display. An anxious elderly lot were poised and ready to blot out G25 on their cards with their multi-colored Bingo markers.

I wondered what my senior game will be. Although I like Bingo, it probably won’t be the game of choice as I gather with my 50 shades of gray-haired friends. I’m thinking I’ll be the little church lady who takes your money at penny poker and has an extra Ace cupped in hand. Or —I’ll sell Pinterest crafts roadside, maybe even build a tiny house with the wine corks I have saved.

As I started scanning my grocery items at the express self check out, the screen prompter ask’s me if I qualify for a senior citizen discount. I hit NO, but the screen won’t go away. I give the bored clerk a sideways glance so that he will move me along. He obliges, but with a smirk and I realized from his “whatever” glance that I am in between era’s. Kind of like a Tween, I’m a Tweenior.

I have choices now. I can be this, or that. I throw away the AARP mail, but keep the Roper St. Francis House Calls magazine (for the recipes.) I still want to do exciting things. But, I can make them more adaptable and fun, like I can ride up the mountain and zip line down through the trees rather than go on a 3 hour hike up the mountain.

I believe it is the most liberating time in US history to be a middle aged woman. But, I increasingly find that because I CAN choose, I flit back and forth between being the fearless Amelia Earhardt and a helpless Charleston damsel who has the vapors, praying for a Rhett Butler to catch me when I swoon.

Oh yes, I am all over the map;
 Commitments and engagements are fine as long as they fall into my cycle of no cycles. I don’t want anyone telling me what to do, yet I seek guidance diligently. My emotions have gone from hair trigger to a 3 day fermentation period. I find that I give less thought to petty BS now than every before and rather enjoy sideways glances at my unpredictable responses.

If someone thinks you look like you had a good night, let them.

When the cashier’s buzzer goes off because you bought Epson salts (apparently an hallucinogenic) just look at them and wink.
.
I want my hair to go gray, I don’t.

I want to dance my butt off somewhere, but don’t want that “Bless her heart, Granny can still bust a move” look.

I’m too young for shuffleboard, too old for Wii dance.

And — Perplexing instructions and labels annoy the hell out of me;
 
"Apply crème to a soft area of your body." That one didn’t take long.

"Draw attention from trouble areas of your body by moving a person’s gaze to the good areas." Ok, so I’m down to the knees now, any suggestions for alluring knee attire?

"Age defying makeup." Can’t I just deny it myself?

"Free-roaming eggs." Yes, I put that package back in the cooler. I don’t trust a company who thinks eggs roam free.

Hmmm, just had a thought. Does that senior citizen discount include alcohol? Limbo’s not really such a bad place to be. I find I’m neither here nor there.

Woolfe Street Playhouse presents Red, White,

Woolfe Street Playhouse presents Red, White,

Out of the ashes, Charleston

Oh Charleston, I'm waiting, waiting with you to see what is left after the passion and rawness of this horrific tragedy wears off.
I, for one, believe that nothing short of a catastrophic martyrdom like this could have turned the tide of racism. There is and always will be hate. But — Charleston proved to the entire world that hate is outnumbered here. About 25 K to 1 if the bridge calculations were right.
Now those beautiful souls are being laid to rest. And there's a nervous twitter about the city. What will become of us? I don't think there is a soul in Charleston that wants to throw the sheets back over the ghost of its past. Let's continue to pursue peace and love and equality.
Wounds heal better in open air. The boils have festered deep in our soil for over 150  years. Slavery and the Civil War.
I love the South, I am not ashamed of it one bit. I am ashamed of those few, through greed and in darkness, slipped ships stealthily into our harbors and brought the curse of inhumanity. I am ashamed of the men in fine suits on the foggy docks of our ports that traded money for lives of African men women and children. No soul should ever be owned.
Good people, thinking they couldn't make a difference looked the other way when the planks were lowered into our port as one by one, families filed off to be sold at the market. If the inertia to do the right thing had been there when those ships pulled in as it was on the Ravenel Bridge this past Sunday, the port would have been closed and history would have changed forever.
Ok, so let's start with the Confederate flag? It always made me uneasy, a “Go away flag” standoffish and prideful.  I liken it to neighborhood summer clubs where little clicks would get together and exclude some. Secret passwords, or secrets required to enter.
Holding on to tokens.  I know the arguments, “I have family that established this town or I have ancestors who died in the Civil War.”
I had to come to grips with that myself. But, not a single prideful story of that war or  was passed down on either my husband's or my side of the family. Because at some point and time we have to realize that the battles we fight aren't always the right ones. Many family members came back to their towns and cities and never spoke another word about the war. My husband didn't even know, nor did his own father, that their relative signed the succession until 5 years ago. There are no family pics passed down with confederate flags or medals or glorified tales.
When putting out my small paperback collection of stories a few years ago. I fiddled around with several names for the book. I wanted something regional that people could relate to but didn‘t want to use an ad-nauseum pronoun for the south. I chose Piddlin in Dixie. I researched it, geographically Dixie was used to describe areas below the Mason -Dixon line.  There are other derivatives for the word that may offend. So, although the books are out there, I will be changing the title for future publications of stories to Piddlin in Plough Mud.
I hold my breath and pray as our beloved city mourns the death’s of 9 of it’s own. God speed your souls to a welcome father who will greet, “Well done my good and faithful son’s and daughters.”

Screw That Eggplant

I asked Don, “Does it seem like the world is leaning this week or is it just me?” I just feel like I’ve battled rip tides all week, a short week at that because of  Memorial Day.
I went outside to look for solace in the garden. Ok, so it's not a garden.  It's a 4 x 7 plot, a tribute to my daddy, who was a good farmer. I am still raw sometimes and wanted a place that I could water with tears and laugh at memories.
It works out well, weed pulling and crying go hand in hand. The pinnacle of my garden is the single eggplant that I snuck in amidst the Alcea and Phlox for fear of the HOA police, who will write you up for a dandelion. The sun is dipping in the west and I am feeling better about the day’s end. I ran my hand over the rosemary bush to release it's aroma and inhaled, doing the same with the basil and sage. Then I saw it, the curled up leaves on the eggplant. I can't kill this eggplant, my tribute to my daddy, the master gardener!  I ran to cut the sprinkler on.
As the water dripped onto it's first purple blossoms I was reminded of how I could call my daddy for anything and he would have the answer. This eggplant was a reminder of one of my distress calls to daddy while living in NC. We had two long rows of brilliant green squash plants, bright with blooms and then — the flowers just dropped off, no veggies in sight. I called Daddy.
"Do you see bees around them? Daddy asked.
"Nope, not one. There's a tobacco field nearby and I think they just sprayed chemicals." I answered.
"Ok then. they need pollinating. " he said matter of factly.
I started searching for a pen, thinking he was going to tell me to go to a hardware store and buy a box of bees or some magic farmer potion. But, uh uh.
"Nae —you've got to screw em." he said.
"Well, (insert audible gasp) how do we do that daddy?" I asked.
"You take a Q-Tip, you go out and find the female & male squash." he instructed.
WTH, I didn't know squash had genders. He explained how to determine.
"Now you put the Q-Tip in the male and then put it into the female." I shake my head, blushing 300 miles away.
Okay so I hang up and go into the garden with my Q-Tips. Within 5 minutes my ADD is directing me to do something else as I have grown weary of checking which is male and which is female and screw them all. I am positive that I now have gender bender squash. A week later I peeked under the massive plants to find lots of tiny squash growing, I couldn't wait to call daddy. I could hear him grinning on the phone.
So, back to my memory garden, I tell this single eggplant that it MUST live. I left the sprinkler on the eggplant while I was called once again to another fascination. I intended to come back in a spell —  The spell lasted all night.
When I opened the door the next morning in my gown. I wailed. "No!!!!!!!!!!"  The yard was a puddle. I was sick to my stomach. The sprinkler sound on the wet concrete will remain forever. I walked to the driveway and picked up the swollen Moultrie Newspaper and looked down the road. Two blocks of my neighborhood have been watered. Don pulled his truck out of driveway and water rolled out of the back of his truck. It was the final straw for the week, I broke down crying.
I called Charleston Water department. Sally was sympathetic. “Mrs.Brabham I can give you an estimate of how much water you used if you go outside and lift the plate and take a reading.” she said.
 “Ok , but I will have to call you back I am in my gown and I don't need to draw any more attention from my neighbors this morning.” I explained.
I changed and went out the door, my slippers are saturated and sloshing as I cross the yard. I can't lift the water works plate. I call Sally back to tell her I couldn't lift it, she made some nice suggestions and I resign myself to the error.
I now consider this a true Heirloom squash. Possible rare and worth a lot of frigging money, errr... however much the water bill determines. But, somehow, I can't help but think that somewhere over that moon and beyond the galaxy, my Daddy is laughing, “Screw that eggplant, Nae”  

Screw That Squash

Screw That Squash

Those Lazy Days of Summer

Those Lazy Days of Summer

Watch your feet on Charleston beaches this weekend!

It doesn't happen often but a good southeastern wind from the Gulf Coast can wash these mesmerizing psychedelic Physaliidae onto Charleston shores. And some of the these Blue Bottles or Portuguese Man O’ War did just that on Sullivan’s Island recently.

The Portuguese Man O’ War is likened to a jelly fish, but is actually a completely different species. Unlike jelly fish which are single multicultural organism’s, the Man O’ War is a colony of specialized minute individuals called Zooids. That would make it a cluster muster.

You really can’t avoid them while they are in the water because they don’t swim. They are propelled by tide and wind and can’t help bobbing into you if you are in it’s path. Their tentacles will wrap around you leaving red welts and shocking nerve pain.

I worked on a shrimp boat in the gulf shores in the 70's. We would shrimp all night competitively but when morning broke and the shrimp were bedded on ice, we’d tie off with the other trawlers, share breakfast and unwind. Often a cool swim in the ocean followed.
All mornings weren't so peaceful though. Like the one that a girl jumped starboard right into a bed of Man O’ War’s! I will never forget the look of fright on her face as they wrapped around her. Someone threw a ring or line out and pulled her in. She was covered in bleeding red welts. Once on-board she began shaking really bad and her blood pressure dropped. She was going into shock. The coast guard was called in and she was flown to emergency at Biloxi Hospital. She pulled through but had neurological problems for a while.
So, if you see this beached blue pod on shore this weekend, resist the urge to examine it too closely. I never understood why people like to poke dead stuff with sticks but they do. If you get a squirt of this venom on you, it may require a trip to the ER. This translucent blue beauty is dangerous and sometimes fatal. It’s venom can be potent for hours and sometimes days.

Take Me To Church, Jim Avett, Finnegan Bell & Marci Shore

Well I can't think of a better way to usher in daylight savings time than winding down with a glass of vino in a graveyard while waiting on the band to kick off in the church on a gorgeous 70 degree Sunday evening. What???? Vino, graveyard, church, concert?
Yep,  STAC House Shows and Awendaw Green put on a marvelous sold out performance at The Society of St. Thomas & St. Denis Parish in Cainhoy off of Hwy 41. The show featured Jim Avett (father of the Avett brothers) with Finnegan Bell accompanying and Marci Shore on fiddle.
Odd venue?  Not really, why let history crumble away in forgotten forest. The church and grounds could stand to benefit from the union.
The crowd filed into the church pews as Finnegan Bell strummed their first notes. Finnegan Bell's duo, Shane Williams and Warren Bazemore have played all over the country since they began writing and playing together at USC, but their roots are nourished here in the low country. They play over 100 shows a year sharing the stage with good company such as Nickel Creek, Leigh Nash, Drew Holcomb and The Neighbors, Jars of Clay, David Mead, Griffin House, Danielle Howle, as well as members of Hootie and the Blowfish and Allison Krauss and Union Station.
They strummed and harmonized with beautiful tracks from their new record as well as a moving melodious rendition of "Hallelujah."  I watched the sun's last rays blur orange on thick leaded glass window panes marveling that I sat in the same pews where Carolina lineage sat hundreds of years ago. Ironically Finnegan Bell was singing a track off of their CD titled Carolina line.
After their set was done, we took a break for a few and wandered the grounds again. The huge red doors of the church were latched wide open to allow laser lighting from a production trailer outside to beam the stage.
Jim Avett was carousing the grounds as well. Easygoing and approachable, if you make eye contact with him, he is going to talk to you. Jim asked me where I came from in NC and I told him he wouldn't know the little place, Walnut Cove. He took me by the hand and marched me up to the pulpit where Marci Shore, the fiddler was rosining up her bow. "Marci here is from King, NC" he said. King is  just a country mile from Walnut Cove. We talked about our little necks of the woods for a few and vowed to catch up with each other again.
Jim Avett is a humorous avid story teller as well as humble musician. Noticeably the venue majority was more the younger crowd than the young at heart crowd, Jim bridged the divide easily with humor, song and encouragement. He held the attention of 120 youthful parishioners’ for the full set. There were some tunes that didn't strike a chord of familiarity with many, Jim described these as being on the "B" side of the record, not quite as popular, but still meaningful. There were others that had everyone singing along, Merele Haggard, Randy Travis, Don McLean. Jim artfully filled in  messages of love, faith and strength between the tunes.
Jim refers to himself as left behind. "Left behind, music moved on, America moved on and I pretty much stayed right where I was.  But that's ok you see. I don't mind being where I am. I had my day, you'll have yours and the one's following you will have theirs too.  And if the only thing I'm known for is siring the Avett Brothers, I'm ok with that too." he tells us.
But, tonight Jim Avett wasn't the Avett brother's father. Jim Avett has a song to play and a story to tell. The word that comes to my mind is re-purposed. I believe this graveyard and grounds with over 300 years of history that include founding SC, fires, revolution, births, baptismal and death lies in wait of ruin without a caring community. It is the perfect venue for re-purposing and showing that longevity has value. Tonight — this night, the church had a song again.
I look forward to many more productions like this. Thank you, The Church of the Holy Cross on Sullivan's Island for the use of the church and grounds, Awendaw Green, STAC House Shows, The Society of St. Thomas & St. Denis Church, Jim Avett, Finnegan Bell and Marci Shore for an eventful evening.

Take Me to Church! Jim Avett Concert on Hallowed Ground

Take Me to Church! Jim Avett Concert on Hallowed Ground

Piddlin in Dixie

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Singletree Gun & Plough Inn

Sometimes it’s nice to get your head into the clouds and use some of those LL Bean gloves, mittens, scarves and jackets pushed back in the closet. Ok sand-lappers, I am going to tell you about a secret mountain getaway, the likes of which you will want to experience before it is discovered. Believe me, the ones that know of this gem aren't talking, they are hoarding.
Nestled in Westfield, NC and adjacent to Hanging Rock State Park, Singletree Gun & Plough Inn encompasses 1000 acres of flora and wildlife and includes 5 miles of riverfront on the gorgeous Dan River. Owner Johannah Stern describes the property, "We are committed to enjoying  and sharing this ecologically significant property with minimal human disturbance, and we're dedicated to sustainable and organic methods of maintenance for the overall health of our game and land."
Hanging Rock State Park tout's the accolades of 2012 State Park of the Year and in 2014 was named in USA Today as one of the top twenty State Parks (out of 7,500) in the USA. Both Hanging Rock and Singletree Inn are a marriage of property lines and tundra. If the wind carried parables here, Singletree Inn would whisper to Hanging Rock, "You complete me."
Not only are you privileged to enjoy the 1000 acre property of Singletree Inn's Lodge, cabins, wildlife and riverfront, you also have Hanging Rock State Park with it's amenities as well.
Don and I stole away for a weekend to Singletree Inn recently. Five hour's into the drive from the coast— My phone signal disappeared along with the daylight. A tad bit of city slicker panic kicked in when I realized that I was almost off the grid. We climbed one last hill and there was Singletree Lodge,  looking every bit like a Thomas Kincaid painting, glowing windows and smoke from chimney.
Owner Johannah Stern and property manager Bill Sparks greeted us. "I figured it was going to be late when you arrived and you might not want to go down the mountain for dinner, so we’re cooking for you." Johannah said, while drying her hands on a cotton dishtowel. No argument given. Bill opened my wine and refrigerated Don's Holy City Beer while we unpacked and settled in. After a fabulous dinner we moseyed over to the den and tamped down both the evening and  blazing fire with wine and conversation.
We slept fabulously in the Dean's Room, one of 7 lodge rooms on organic cotton sheets. "Washed in Charlie’s soap and clothes line dried! Johannah tells me. It sure was quiet too! Johannah told me later that they never fill more than two rooms at one time, unless, of course, a family or group so requests more room. There were guest in the cabin across from the lodge from us but we didn't lay eyes on them all weekend.
The next morning, the smell of bacon wafted up to the guest room and got me stirring. I crept down the steps but I'm sure a creaky board gave me away. Bill passed me a cup of coffee (organic/free trade) and I went back upstairs to discover. I snuck past my room to peer out of the windows, smiling as my feet found a squeaky plank on the antique lodge's floor. The sun wasn't promising an appearance, but the fog was a magical morning gift. After pulling a book from the shelves in the library loft, I found an Indian footstool and swallowing easy chair by the expansive windows.  Minutes after settling in I gave up and put the book down, the foggy morning breakdown would not be denied my attention.
A little while later Don and I headed down for breakfast. If you stay at the lodge, absolutely opt in for the meals. I have seriously not had a better breakfast in my life. And every thing we ate was locally sourced, natural and organic.
Don and I pulled out of Singletree shortly after breakfast, mapped out itinerary in hand for a full day in Stokes County. We found all of the things we'd been ~hankering for~ and more! Local honey, ham, beans, Amish butter, goat cheese, homemade soap and a delicious eastern BBQ sandwich.
The lodge was quiet when we returned, Bill was still stoking the fire. I was thinking nap. Later in the evening we donned our coats and scarves and drove a country mile down the road to the Green Heron on the Dan River where we enjoyed an amazing delta blues live band, partook-eth of adult beverages and watched our new friends cut the rug (shag) on the wood floors next to the sleeping resident Labrador Cubbie.      
When we left the next morning we left our new friends with hugs and promises to return. Johannah Stern and Bill Sparks have a vision for this beautiful mountain lodge and property. That vision is to be at one with the land and —thankfully share it as well. I am so grateful that they are including the public on this journey to provide a preservation vacation.
Check out Singletree's website and contact Johannah or Bill to discover the many amenities offered for a fabulous getaway. And whatever you do, don't count out the winter here. It is serenely beautiful and just as accommodating! Johannah said “Some of our guest have secretly wished to be snowed in during their visit.”  
To sum up my experience at Singletree Gun & Plough Inn. I felt like I had wandered into a time warp of archaic beauty coupled with elegant, albeit rustic, creature comforts offered by it's proprietors. If you don't come away from here feeling like Zen & Huck Fin, I'll shut my mouth.
Their website is comprehensive and beautiful. Johannah is a phenomenal photographer as well. Whether it is relaxing, rafting, fly fishing, hunting, tubing, hiking, wining or dining you are looking for, Johannah or Bill will be happy to guide you to that exact experience.
http://www.singletreegunandplough.com
A little tidbit. I took a friend to this area a few months back. We didn’t drive 16 miles total  for the 2 days we were here. Here are a few of our experiences. A morning jog with mountain views and deer crossing’s, a fabulous waterfall hike within minutes of the cabin, a jaunt to the beautiful lake at Hanging Rock State Park (mountain vista’s from the lake are phenomenal!), a stroll along the Dan River, a visit to a centuries old general country store, a mouthwatering simple yet delicious eastern BBQ sandwich at a tiny restaurant that still has Conway Twitty and George Jones on a juke box, enjoying the company of a local goat farmer and stocking our cooler to bring home with butter, goat cheese and venison and finally, a morning tour of an unbelievable wine/art gallery.

The Comeback Kid, Brett McKee/Kathy Downey's New Venture 139-B

139-B Market Street, a private dinner &social club.

Anxious trepidation, yep that's what I felt while climbing the steps at 139- B Market Street last week to meet the infamous chef Brett McKee. We had talked before on several occasions and kept up with each other in social media, but never met. A Carolina version of Chef Gordon Ramsay vision wafted through my head. You see that's what rumor mills do.

Brett met me warmly and I immediately felt comfortable in his presence. I clicked the recorder on while he breezed me through his new venue. While I'll admit the room was charged by his presence, a lot of the energy came from the bustle of what appears to be a promising new venture for Brett McKee. The building's old world charm echoed in the studio room that housed the first level's kitchen and dining area. Whitewash knock out on the brick walls could barely contain it's stories, centuries of Charleston living.

Just a few minutes in and Brett's phone was ringing and dancing on the table. He apologized, saying that he had to take the call. I didn't mind, actually I would have missed some of 139-B's charm had he not. I peered out of the street front window as I heard the clomp, clomp of a carriage coming down Market Street, Palmetto fronds were whisping in front of the Gucci store across from 139-B. It just feels right. Something good, something old world meets new and something "Oh so Charleston" is going on here.

While the table in the dining room was staged with flutes, plates and napkins — the incoming calls and round table meeting in the room beside me wasn't. Parties were being booked while menu's, staff and wine list were being discussed.

OK, so 139-B structurally has what it takes — let's see what's at the wheel. Brett came back from his call and without missing a beat, picked up where he left off. Without hardly a breath between sentences (so glad I had the recorder) he proceeded to portray his vision room by room and — for years out.

Brett has been on the uptake and following new dreams since he left the Oak Restaurant. The ideas that led to this establishment were fueled by his success in the private sector doing intimate home gatherings, dinners and cooking classes throughout the low country.

“My clients/friends would ask, Brett, when are you going to open up a place we can come to?" to which he explained to them over and over. "I don't want to go back into a restaurant."

Over the course of these past few years he discovered a new calling. “I found that I love the experience of the smaller, intimate social gatherings. They remind me of my life in Brooklyn, NY. Everything happened around the table, in closer groups. I found when I left these local private cooking classes and dinner parties, that I had made friends. Not something that happens in the kitchen of the restaurant. Charleston is growing by leaps and bounds in popularity, not in structure. There is only so far you can go in town with limited building space. We're going to end up with 100 restaurants in town and 10 chefs to run them all."

Brett is transparent about his past woes. "I sacrificed years of my life, my health and relationships, in the F&B biz. Even though that is what I know, it’s what I do. It had to change. This is me now, I’m comfortable with this. 139-B is about offering what I love and do best without sacrificing my life or my family's. I am healthier than I have ever been. I don't drink, party, smoke. If I am not here, I am with my family or finding ways to give back to the community. That is my life now. This place, these walls, I can come and go as I plan for the select events and members of this clandestine group and —so can the members of 139-B.”

His family are all on-board, it's a collaborative effort involving 2 single parents, 6 girls and a granddaughter. Some of his girls work with him as well. Brett's fiancé/partner Kathy Downey is an intricate piece of the puzzle here as well. One such event that her hand's are all over is the upcoming Valentines Singles banquet and with Charleston being on the hot list across the nation and world now as a top desired wedding venue, there will be opportunities galore to offer as well at 139-B. "We are coordinating with almost every single top wedding planner in the city." Brett explained.

This private dinner social club will offer an environment that encourages the pace of leisure,of building relationships and socializing with wonderful food. It's not a crescendo to drunkenness. It’s a place where 150 members can gather, vetting and dining comfortably with the assurance of private security. Brett explains "No one is going to crash your event from the street, you can enjoy your evening without the un-expected threats in public dining such as someone hitting on your partner while you are in the restroom, or spilling a drink on you as they stumble past. Another benefit of the closeness in numbers is that the staff and I will know and catering to their personal likes and dislikes. Not as easily attained in the restaurant world. Allergies, wine selections, birthday’s, anniversary's, milestone’s, favorites wine, dinner choices to name a few"

I was taken aback actually at what the venue offers for the price of membership. $1000.00 gets you a membership and six scheduled events a month to include two dinners, two rooftop events, and two brunches. In addition, they'll have access to the building's two bedrooms and rooftop terrace. If a member wants to book 139-B Market for any event (big or small) it would cost $500 less than the regular booking fee of $1500 during the week and $3000 on the weekend. And that is with Chef Brett cooking.

I came away from the meeting excited for Brett McKee and 139-B Market, and more so for it's members. They are in for one hell of a virgin cruise with him. 139-B is sure to produce sub-groups and interest for expansion in so many areas.

139-B Market Street, Charleston.

Upcoming Events:

Are you "Single in the City" and want an upscale alternative to the Charleston nightlife scene on Valentine's evening? Come meet other sophisticated singles in a beautiful exclusive setting, while enjoying amazing food prepared by Celebrity Chef Brett McKee. Join us for Hors D'oeuvres, a premium open bar under the stars on the rooftop terrace, interactive meetings, music and dancing. Cupid promises a few Valentine's surprises. Tickets info at shopinsanelygood.com

139-B is the venue for an incredible Mardi Gras party coming up on February 21. The Charleston Shoe Krewe's inaugural Mardi Gras Fete on Saturday, Feb 21. Premium open bar, live music, dancing, and lots of revelry. You can get your tickets here: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/1148185

How to Grow a Mandala

Those So Called Christians

I  saw these post in social media recently. "We need to go back to the good ole days when we were one nation under God." or “The decline of America started when they took prayer out of the schools." “We need to put prayer back in school.”
You can't put Humpty Dumpty back together again. It's not going back and ―maybe it never should have been there. I can almost hear the audible gasp and under the breath jab, "You are going straight to hell!"
Before you get your skivvies in a wad think about it. I usually scroll by or ignore these blasé comments and lame social media arguments. Yes, lame. Prayer in school. Let’s see,  I was 7 years old, pledging allegiance to my flag “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”  Hmmm… public school was segregated  and — there were no black people in my Dick and Jane reading books at that time. How indivisible was that?
Maybe prayer in school was divisive in the confines of the classroom. Maybe prayer needed to be in the home, in the hearts of the community. I remember a little Jewish girl in my 2nd or 3rd grade class who didn't participate and was ostracized for it. I also remember the first person to tell me they were an atheist and having pre-formed beliefs that they were going to get struck by lighting. Literally, I jumped back. Why? Obviously the world around me didn't teach acceptance. I would be equally uncomfortable if I were asked to (or not) pray to a totem pole if that were (or were not) my religion.
My religion IS Christianity, so I speak for myself here and not collectively for anyone or any group.
I cringe when I see the ills of society blamed on taking prayer out of the schools. It's highly possible that school was the only place it was going on since the argument is that everything went to hell and a hand basket when it was gone. Maybe prayer figuratively needs to leave the confine’s of wall’s, get some air? What if the last thing we see on the jumbotron at church read: Jesus has left the building.
The absence of  prayer in school is not the root issue. I would just want prayer to mean something if it was there, for everyone. Not a mantra of mixed signals. If it's value to man was as important as it's source, it would have never been removed in the first place. Acts 5 vs 39.
Claiming feeble injustice with a rant for insignificant causes discredits the voice we could have collectively for real issues and empowers other's to call me a “So called Christian.”
I think back to an afternoon 10 years ago. We lived in the country. Not really the outback, just far enough out that we never EVER got a solicitor or a trick or treater. Our then 4 year old granddaughter was walking to the kitchen when someone knocked loudly on the front door. It scared her to pieces and she fell to the floor. Don answered the door while I scooped Alana up. After a minute or two, Don shut the door and consoled Alana who was still clinging to me by telling her the visitor's were people from the church. When she was able to speak she blurted out "So called Christians!"  
I am one of those so called Christians. And every single time I give someone an opportunity to judge my actions, I open the door for such remarks. I will get it either way mind you, like the poor so called Christian’s that knocked on my door that day. But — that doesn't mean I need to provide the ammo.
I am neither the example for Christianity or the doormat. What I am is a struggler. I wake up every day and try. Some days I pass and other's I fail miserably, (my record is two minutes after waking.) I drink, I cuss and sometimes my faith is as volatile as the weather and  if I had to pack my baggage of wrongdoings to board the Titantic, it would have sank in harbor instead of at sea. I am no more a Christian for reciting a prayer or singing onward Christian soldiers in elementary school than I would be for putting a fish stick sticker on my car.
My ACTIONS depending on the situation are what speaks of him in me. Be it soft and gentle or righteous for HIS names sake and not MY causes sake.
Choosing my battles wisely will give me better credibility as portraying the one I say moves my heart and actions. Oh!, and about those good ole days; I go back once again to the lyrics of Billy Joel "The good ole days weren't always good, but the bad weren't always bad"

My Very Selfish Good-bye

This is a tribute to my true hero. My John Wayne. In many ways he was just that. Daddy looked strikingly like James Arness in Gunsmoke when he was in his 20's and 30's and much like John Wayne in his older years.
I wrote a few years or so ago about calling a dead man's cell phone. That father's death affected me admittedly with nothingness. The man he was supposed to be was replaced with this one. One man held my hand while I crossed the road as a very young child, the other held my heart for the rest of his life.
The single biggest influence in my life,  you couldn't convince me that the blood that runs through my veins wasn't his if you tried. Daddy came in strong and stayed. He came with gifts — food and raincoats for children, not broken promises and pipe dreams. He was the white horse kind of cowboy.
My first TV boyfriend was Little Joe on Bonanza. I was a little girl idolizing a cowboy while living in a brownstone in Chicago, Illinois and living with the rhinestone cowboy father. I met the real cowboy 8 years later in a little pink house outside of Moncks Corner, SC.
Daddy taught me that Little Joe and the cast of Bonanza weren't the only western heroes. Let's see —  there was John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Gary Cooper, Kirk Douglas, Jimmy Stewart, Sam Elliot, Robert Mitchum, Roy Rodgers, Robert Redford, Paul Newman and on and on.
There were good guys and bad guys and in all the movies and books he ever read and watched, the good guys try to win.  I learned so much from him from his last days. He taught me that we just keep trying to get better. He would ask forgiveness for imaginary sins, dropped  pride and accepted grace.
Like the cowboys of his youth and the ones that were piped incessantly into our living room through the western channel,  he was given several death sentences (shot) over the past two years. He bounced back (healed himself behind the cactus) for over a year and a half. Old cowboys never die, they just fade away. In true western fashion, Daddy faded. And then one day. There weren't any re-takes.
I have found that grief doesn't discriminate, nor is there a hierarchy of pain. I also found there is pain where I can't be the encourager. I hurt, the mother hurts, the sister, the brothers, the grandchildren and in-laws. I am helpless to this day to share my grief. It is mine until it's not.
I watch the full moon drop across the night sky through the window almost to the edge of the horizon. It hung low, like it could drop and splatter at any moment. My heart hangs as low as it does. I wonder those things, the things that you don't think of —until you do. Did I glean all that I could of his goodness?
Who am I going to be after this? My life will change because of his death. Death turns a dial. Static comes across the waves of life. The stations doesn't come in as clear. I go to my journal for remembrance of  some special moments, excerpts from a year earlier.
"I have convinced myself that nothing bad can happen if I have my pink Curious George flannel jammies on. It works sometimes. I sit beside him as he nods in and out and he talks crazy stuff, grinning the entire time. The white noise is deafening, yet calming. Each gurgle of water and hiss from the oxygen tank is another breath he is with me. 
He closed his eyes to sleep and I look at his bruised arms. Peeking out beneath his t-shirt sleeve are tales of his youth —name tattoo’s of lovers long forgotten, Debbie and Shirley I think. I wished I had asked him about the crazy day or night that he got those. There will be a thousand and one things that I will wish that I had asked him. 
I get up to make Tuna Sandwiches while he naps. I look out of the kitchen window. The massive Oak, how many days we sat together on the porch and looked up into it's branches. How old is it Daddy? I don't know Nae, it was here long as I can remember and Granny E said it was here as long as she could remember. 
The last time Daddy and I measured it was about 5 years ago, it was over fifteen feet in circumference then. Old and good, withstanding storms and ravages. Indelibly it will die one day too, but not today. 
I am honored to have fed my Dad tiny bites of tuna sandwich, to have watched him put a orange slice and a Cheetoh in his mouth at the same time and proclaim it's goodness. The morphine made things good and comical sometimes. I laughed when we left the room once and came back to find him completely upside down in his recliner. His head was near the floor but he was grinning. But then again there were the lucid days, the ones that leaked silent tears out of the corners of his eyes. Then there were the times he would just look at me and say "I love you girl."
He had many beds in the last year of his life, hospital, respite and nursing. Each time in the guise of a relationship that I knew was just ours, I found him. I told him, "I will find you Daddy. Don't worry, wherever you are I will find you."  A nurse told me that she traversed to his room at night or her early morning shift just to hold the phone to his head and watch his blue eyes light up. 
I watched my father, a prideful country man nod to me this acceptance as a caretaker put a bib on him in a respite home. All the while I wanted to holler “Cowboys don't wear bibs!” 
Daddy, I am sorry, I kept you here too long. While you prayed to die, I prayed for you to live. I am so proud of this simple man, his simple life, his sacrifices for family, his heartfelt convictions that changed a generational tide of racism and forged values that will haunt me to my grave. He had enough love to go around. I fall short. If anyone is jealous of the love I had for this man, they need only study his prototype to understand why.
I didn't know heartache could be so physical. I actually got up the night he died and took aspirins. I thought I was having a heart attack, it was the heartache of loss like I have never known.
I feel the need even now, months later, to go into the forest —the kind where you don't hear tree's when they fall and wail. I tried. The woods weren’t deep enough. So, rather than wait until I heal to write. I write to heal. Like a paralyzed cursor, only then can I move forward.
I didn't go to spread his ashes around that old oak tree. It was his life with that oak that mattered, not without it. I didn't do a damn thing I was expected to do.
I am going to follow the vapors of his trail that went into the sunset and then sank this bag ass harvest moon over me. I'll have to come back, there is only so far a live cowgirl can ride into the sunset. Don’t worry, I know where you are. I will find you Daddy.
.