Hurricanes in the lyrics of Clash — Should I stay or should I go now?

On the cusp of Hurricane Michael bearing down on the gulf coast, I write this story of resilience during and after Hurricane Florence in one of my other favorite seaside towns. 

Davis, NC is a small fishing community on the Core Sound, about 15 miles outside of Beaufort. You have to drive right through it to get to the Cedar Island Ferry to go to Ocracoke, but don't blink. Population is somewhere between 250 and 400. An un-deserted island of sorts, the majority of it's residents would just as soon stay on it than leave it. Oh they may go to high land for a bit, but there is never the thought of NOT going back to Davis Shores. When you are born in these parts, you're a lifer. 

Davis Shores (the endearing moniker of the town) is the idyllic stomping ground of my childhood summers. Think Mayberry minus Main Street. Most roads were dirt roads and even the paved roads were mostly sand. It was, and still is, a tight knit community. I wrote letters after coming come from those summer breaks, scribbling Aunt Marie or Aunt Mary Louise on an envelope and Davis, NC. Nothing else. They got those letters because the postmaster knew everyone in town. 

I held my breath as Hurricane Florence began to jog closer to the Core Sound last month, checking online continuously as Florence came ashore and then again as the tides crested. I watched Facebook video's while nibbling my fingers. Just when I couldn't bear to watch any longer my cousins' phone got damaged from the onslaught of rain and they couldn't post anymore. Davis was completely underwater during the storm. 

My cousin's daughter, Melissa, was my liaison between the states after Florence came ashore. Some people left for higher ground, but Melissa tells me that about 70% of the community stayed put. My cousin Lanier was one of them. He and his wife, Annette, run the family business Davis Shore Ferry Service that sits on the Core Sound of the Atlantic. Their house is 20 feet from the Atlantic. Davis Shore's documented sea level was 5 foot in 2010. 

Melissa told me "The house which my parents currently live in belonged to my great grandparents, it was my mother Annette's grandparents home. They originally built it as a single residence, and over time, they added on to the home to accommodate a growing business, a fishing bed and breakfast. Jeanette and Alger opened their home to fishermen to stay the night before the next day's ferry ride over or upon returning from the Banks. Jeanette would serve basic meals including breakfast, lunch and dinner. The rooms were simple, and included iron twin (single) beds laid head to toe in a room (beds similar to old hospital beds). Captain Alger ran the single-car ferries over to the Banks. This operation began in 1966. He kept the ferries; she kept the house and food."

During hurricanes the ferries were moved to the "safe harbor" of the local fish house, James Styron Fish House. Alger contracted with Mr James that when storms came, it would be permissible for Mr. Alger to dock the ferries in the harbor and that tradition has continued ever since. The business has spanned four generations:  Captain Alger Willis and Jeanette Willis, Captain Glenn Willis, Annette Willis Mitchum and Captain Lanier Mitchum, and Captain William Lanier Mitchum Jr (Mitch). Davis Shore Ferry Service has ferried many a family and fisherman over to South Core Banks, Cape Lookout, which is more commonly known as Great Island Camps by National Park Service.

THIS is why these small communities choose to face the daunting threat of increasingly ferocious hurricanes each year. They make a living by the sea, on the sea, from the sea. It is their livelihood and has been for generations.

As Mellissa put it, "people that choose to live their lives Down East respect that there is a cost to living where they do. This storm took away a lot of what most people took their whole lives to build, but they will rebuild. Salt water is in their veins, that can't be taken from them. Aside from the ferry business, independent commercial fishermen still operate out of Core Sound, but in drastically reduced numbers over the past decades. Shrimping has made a rebound in the past five years, enough to support those that continue to operate. Crabbers still set pots in Core Sound and gillnet fishery for mullets has always been a part of Down East heritage and continues to be a local tradition."

I fell in love with the sustainability of the town when I stayed with relatives during those summers in the late 60's and early 70's. I just couldn't believe you could eat seafood everyday if you had a rod, a cast net, a bucket, a chicken neck or a clam rake, but you could and that's exactly what we did!

My Aunt Marie walked to work from her conch shell studded driveway to the fish house two blocks away to head shrimp or pick crabs all day, she always brought home a bag of sea goodies that either ended up in the freezer or in a pot that evening. Uncle Moye taught me to clam dig with my toes and look for the tiny bubbles to show me where they were. I would fill a bucket in no time and take them to the fish house to collect some money to buy YooHoo's and M&M's at the little country store.   

Yes, Florence whipped up the town pretty good. But it was so encouraging to hear the hope and continuity that I expected would come to Davis.

Melissa finished, "It has been amazing to hear the stories regarding the aftermath of the storm and the cleanup. Everyone has joined together to look after the elderly and the ones that suffered the most above their own needs. Several of our family friends rushed to our families aid, not everyone is so lucky to have that network. The churches have worked hard to ensure that their congregations are looked after, despite whether they attend the up the road church, the down the road church, or the out the road church. They all looked out for one another. One of our family friends, Mrs. Sue Buck, took Lanier (her dad) in after the storm. She offered him a place to sleep, shower, and food. Our people just naturally look after one another, it's what we do."

So how is Davis Shores doing today? They are grateful! The community is rebuilding as expected. They are proud and resilient people who rolled their sleeves up to tackle the hard stuff immediately, but they are eternally grateful for the help that came from Red Cross, the Davis Shore Fire Department, a Go Fund Me page started by a fisherman in the community, the boaters who brought food and supplies in, and the endless - seriously endless - help from family, friends, and people that they don't even know. As of now, the ferries are up and running and the docks rebuilt just in time for those fall fishing trips to Cape Lookout. It's a great destination for family and fisherman alike.

As Hurricane Michael approaches Florida, I think of the other little fishing communities along the Florida coast. I know those strong, salty souls are considering their options as well. One thing Melissa told me is that of that roughly 70% that stayed in Davis during Florence, most said they wouldn't next time. Storms have become more frequent and debilitating. I hope that life and limb is considered higher priority than shingles and structures. Like Davis Shores — if the water recedes, they WILL be back. 

Davis Shores and other communities nearby have a dialect all their own, the unique brogue has been studied by NCSU linguistics professor Walt Wolfram. It seems to originate from early English settlements of the 17th century. I can still to this day fall into a pretty good rendition of it and will take the liberty of expressing what A Hoi Toider (local, high tider) could very likely be heard saying to you today. "Florence came in here and mommucked (shredded to pieces) up the whole town, what it didn't mommuck is all whopperjawed (askew). But it's slickcam (calm, no wind) out there now and we are just glad to sit on on the pizer (porch, piazza) with a glass of tea for a little while." 

The poignant picture of the outside church service in Davis says it all. I'm sure their hearts, as well as ours in Charleston, go out to those in direct path of the incoming Hurricane Michael.

Interview with Steven Wright Comedian

Steven Wright's monosyllabic style is to comedy what Haiku is to poetry, abbreviated and to the point. His refreshing performances have stood the test of time, decades to be exact. His one-liners and hilarious deadpan comedic delivery are a refreshing detachment from current events, breaking news, tweets, and memes. Come out with me on Thursday 9/13 at 7pm, Charleston Music Hall to catch Steven's show. Laughter is so good for the soul!
I want to tell you a little about Steven Wright the comedian, off-stage. I have never had a more comfortable conversation with a complete stranger in my life. However, the morning got off to a shaky start. Even though I had a week to get things together, I found myself tearing the house apart an hour before the interview. I needed 2 triple A batteries for the recorder. I guess I could take notes, but my shorthand isn't what it used to be, okay I know I lost a lot of Gen Xer's on that one. Shorthand was a primitive written communication, like after dinosaurs and before Emoji's.
Hubby found two batteries in a remote for me in the nick of time, later I will match all of the ripped off backs to their respective battery operated devices. The worst part of this fiasco is that, apparently, the batteries we found died shortly after saying hello to Steven, which I didn't find out until after the interview.
Luckily the highlights are memorable ones and not easily forgotten, also I am a doodler and scribbled things down as well.
Steven answers the phone, "Hello," he said, reasonably fast, which took me by surprise. I was expecting the slow monotone voice I'd heard while watching him perform over the decades.
Renae Brabham: Steven are you looking forward to doing the show in Charleston?
Steven: Yes, I enjoy all of the shows I do, regardless of where they are. I have a nephew who goes to college here and I look forward to seeing him while I am there.
RB: Tell me something about you that may surprise your audience.
Steven: I exercise every day and ride my bike when I am home in Massachusetts. I think it surprises people to see me move around kind of fast because they see me as the slow mover and talker in my shows. When I go to the Boston Red Sox games and they make a good play, I jump up and down like everyone else. When I lived in Colorado, I used to ski and it shocked people that I could move like that. Oh and one more thing that people might not know, I laugh a lot, not something you see on stage.
RB: How do you keep fresh in this age of technology?
Steven: I don't really focus on technology. I may joke about it in my shows, but I am not interested in putting jokes online, twitter or any other way. I would rather share my jokes with a live audience. I do have a website though, StevenWright.com, I post things there that keep people in touch with what I am doing, I have my art and music there too.
RB: So, you are playing your next show in Charleston and then you will be going to California. Will your set up change for that audience?
Steven: No, not at all. I try out all of my jokes on the audience and if they work I keep them. I keep the show to general topics that everyone can relate to anywhere across the country. I can still use jokes that I performed 30 years ago. Like jokes about the speed of light are not going to wear off, but one about let's say, president Regan, well that wouldn't fly today.  I made a promise when I first started out that I would keep my comedy free of news stories, politics, etc.
RB: I watched the YouTube video when you were on Late Night with Conan O'Brien. It was so cool to watch you two interact. You were just making it up as you went. I laughed so hard at the part about you killing butterflies because they were arrogant. But — you didn't really kill a butterfly did you?
Steven: No way, but that was funny. I live in Massachusetts and really do connect with nature. I have lived all over the place, California, Colorado, New York, but this is home. It is beautiful here,  I love the winter, the snow, the tree's, all of it.
I said something, not sure what. But Steven said "I like your accent. I never get to hear a southern accent."
Here is where the challenges of the morning continued. My phone dropped the connection. We live in the woods, smack dab in the middle of a pine forest in the country and this happens a lot. I hurriedly called Steven back. After a try or two, I got him.
He answered and said. "I was thinking, kind of sort of in my head, but not really, that I offended you by saying something about your accent and you hung up." I assured him it was nothing more than a cow stepping on our line that dropped the call. He then had me explain what that meant, I kicked myself for saying it, but told him it was a country living metaphor. He laughed heartily.
We were back to technology again. I told him we seldom had good cell phone service where we live.
"I have a lot of dropped calls in my house in Massachusetts, too." he tells me. "I often think a cell phone is like a spaceship that they haven't perfected yet. Like what would life be like if our stuff broke down as often as our phones went down. If our cars shut down 7 to 10 times a day? If this is a Smartphone what does an average phone do? Can I go into a store and get an average phone? Or an idiot phone?"
We laughed and talked a few more minutes, inconsequential stuff. A hummingbird zooms up to my window, there are no feeders there. When I got distracted, I told Steven that a hummingbird is hovering at my window looking in at me.
"It's me, coming in for a bird's eye view interview. Is he still there?" he asked.
"No, he just left, I think he/you went to get a drink." I told him.
I finished out the interview with the this question.
RB: If you had another profession, what would it be?
Steven: I am not sure, but I would hope it is something creative. Drawing was my first creative outlet, but I like to paint, write, play music. It would have to be something that lets me be creative.
RB: It would be impossible for you to not be creative, Steven.
Steven graciously thanked me, we concluded the interview and ended the call, but I felt like I had not finished talking to him. This interview was like talking to a friend, a funny, inquisitive friend. I  hope to tell him that at the show. When I got off of the phone, my husband who was in the other room said, "What a genuinely nice guy." And then we tell Steven Wright jokes for a few minutes.
In one of my favorites from a video, Steven jokes about his former girlfriend, a mail order bridesmaid who in her spare time likes to waste time. Her eyes were too close together, like the headlights on a jeep. He gave her the nickname of A/C, almost Cyclops.

Worth a Hill of Beans

When we pulled into the drive after work Don said “I think those beans are about ready for picking.” He didn't get the words out of his mouth good before I was planning to get my basket and head outside, hotter than Hannah or not. Late June, heat advisory and not enough moisture in the air to work up a good spit. Oh yes, me, butter beans and a day like this go way back, 1974 to be exact. As I bent over the knee high bushes that Don planted I heard the voices of those gone now. My mother;
"Why don't you pick them in the morning, when it's cool outside?
"Can those short's get any shorter?"
"When the mailman comes by stand up, don't want you running him off the road."
Daddy; "3 beans per hole" he told my brother, sister and I on planting day as he walked ahead of us placing a divot in the sandy soil every 3 or 4 foot.
On harvest day, "There's a certain way a butter bean feels when it wants to be picked, it's fat and feels like it’s about to bust open."
Examining our baskets after we picked a few plants he'd pick up a flat bean and tell us, "I didn't plant all these beans to eat snaps, Lawd, when are y'all gonna learn to listen?"
I loved picking the beans, it felt as if I was finding treasures over and over hidden beneath. After the freezer had it's fill of beans Daddy told us that we could pick and sell the rest and keep the money. My sister and I still remember what we bought with our first "salary." I don't know what they go for now, but we got $30 a bushel in l974.
I would lather up in butter, yes butter. When you live 40 minutes from a grocery store, cocoa butter's cousin "just butter" had to suffice. I pulled on my sassy blue jean cut offs on with a halter top and headed to the field around 10 o'clock when the sun sucked the dew off the plants. I could pick about a bushel and a half in a couple of hours.
I'm not going to go so far as to say those were the good ole days. But butter beans and me, well we were thick. I could do a lot of figuring out there in that field. And there was nothing so sedating back then for me than sitting in one spot in a rocker with a basket full of beans to shell.
I don't remember Daddy planting many more butter beans after all of us were out on our own. He had a bad back and couldn't do the bending for too long.
Don and I moved to NC for the next 25 years, butter beans weren't a viable crop there for some reason, probably the rocky clay soil. Don's step-mother would go down to her family homestead in SC during butter bean season and pick to her hearts content every year. When she came home I helped her shell them sometimes and she would give me a stingy little mess to bring home. I totally understood, I knew how much work it took to get a little pot of them and I really loved to shell them.
This is our first crop of butter beans in the tall pines, Don has some killer bean gene's. Some things have changed and some haven't out here in the bean field. The blazing South Carolina sun between my shoulder blades is the same but 40 years later I won't be running a mailman off the road while bunked over picking these rows. I sat and shelled my basket of beans in the rocking chair on my porch, went in and washed them and put them on the stove. A bonafide good "mess" of Southern butter beans.

Snowy, The Best "Good Girl" in the Whole Wide World

Three days ago was a red letter day. We lost our Snowy.
A plethora of pain and grief assaults us in waves as volatile as our Charleston summer weather, dry as a bone one minute, drenched and submerged in puddles the next.  I didn't want to add to the cornucopia of heart-wrenching books, essays and movies on losing a dog, but here I am. I cried my eyeballs out through most of these without ever having lost a pet. Garden and Gun has been known to have me snorting and blowing all over their magazine pages with their dog stories and Dean Koontz wrote THE best memoir and possibly the second best book I have ever read on losing his dog. No, I'm selfishly writing this to bleed on my keyboard one last time about the best good girl in the whole wide world.
Snowy Biscuit Brabham 1.1.2000 - 6.14.18. The vet gave her this birthday, probably because it looked good on paper and he figured she was at least 6 months old when we brought her to him for her first check up. She adopted us. The story is a long one, condensing would be the equivalent of opening and eating a can of cold, condensed she crab soup without the cream, sherry, milk, butter and —  if you are reading this, you already know the stories that make up our girl.
The pain we feel is debilitating and that is not an exaggeration! If it is possible to dehydrate yourself from shedding tears, it has been done here. She loved Don and I both equally and us her. She was our shadow from day one so we feel as if we have lost an appendage of ourselves with her gone. In all of her 18 years with us we only took vacations that included her, with the exception of the tree-house trek down the Edisto River and a mountain trip and even then it was close family that watched her. She never stayed the night at at someones home, was never boarded or had hired sitter's, never left at a groomer's and never alone in a vet's office. So, needless to say, we can't hide anywhere from the pain. We can't go outside without seeing her sprawled in the grass, we don't even want her poop to go away in the yard, we can't open the frig without thinking she is watching (for a treat), I can't cook without seeing her beautiful doe eyes looking up at me, we can't watch TV without her warm pig like belly touching our toes, we avoid looking at where she laid in our bed, there are only two rooms in our home that she didn't visit and they are too small to live in for the next however long it takes to get through this.
She went with us everywhere! So right now, the floodgates open each time we go to the dump (her favorite), to the gas station (liver and tater wedges), sit on the porch, look at lizards, frogs, squirrels, rabbits. It's endless. And yet, I am grateful that she touched every aspect of our lives and NEVER want to remove her memory from a single place she has been. So we work through it.
It's so hard to separate her dying from her living right now but I know that those days will come. She was loved by so many people. Her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, and last but not least her vets in both NC and SC. She never considered herself to be a dog, so thought it beneath her to sit on the floor in a vet's office and would jump on a chair beside me. Gratefully, she was loved enough that her haughtiness was forgiven by the caretakers. She was even given special non-office hours by our friend and her last vet in SC. The sweet card and handkerchief put into my hand from them sits on the table. In return I left a puddle of saline on their shoulders.
The first night home without Snowy Don said "You know what? When we pulled in the driveway our home didn't look as beautiful as it did before."
No sweetheart it doesn't. Nor is the sky quite as blue or the grass as green or the flowers as vibrant. And that is because as Dean Koontz wrote “Once you have had a wonderful dog, a life without one, is a life diminished.” 
“No matter how close we are to another person, few human relationships are as free from strife, disagreement, and frustration as is the relationship you have with a good dog. Few human beings give of themselves to another as a dog gives of itself. I also suspect that we cherish dogs because their unblemished souls make us wish - consciously or unconsciously - that we were as innocent as they are, and make us yearn for a place where innocence is universal and where the meanness, the betrayals, and the cruelties of this world are unknown.”
― Dean Koontz, A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog
We are healing, at snail's pace. I have pounded the earth blinded by tears and asked God for this healing to be speedier but I stopped doing that because he graciously gave her to us. I will accept this pain for what I gained in return, 18 years of life with the "Best GOOD GIRL in the whole wide world."

#OldYelleraintgotsquatonthebrabhamhouserightnow

Atlanta Alpaca Treehouse Adventure

When I first heard the words uttered by a client “Tree house right outside of Atlanta” I was intrigued. When I Googled it later — I was a goner. Tree house near downtown Atlanta on Llama/Alpaca/Chicken farm in a bamboo forest. This has GOT to happen. 

Tree houses hold a whimsical allure for me. A place where you can leave your world without leaving your backyard? Oh hell yeah! 

Unfortunately in my childhood neighborhood all that materialized were tree swings and maybe the occasional knotted climbing rope that led to a haphazard structure made from cardboard boxes. However — imagination and a crooked hanging sign that read “Private, do not enter” made these primitive wooden beanstalks into the intended reprieve from whatever 8-year-olds get away from. But even these jaunts were stymied if we got 3 feet off the ground by a concerned neighborhood mother who would shout us down: “If you fall down from the tree and break your leg I am going to whoop your @$$!” My sister (void of building skills and supplies) once made a earth locked tree house beneath a willow tree; it’s fronds swept the ground and curtained the world. 

Llamas and Alpacas

When I moved back to Charleston from NC, I already had an itinerary of local adventures scoped out and one, a tree house canoeing trip down the Edisto River, topped on the list.

That was 6 years ago and although I am sure I could do it again, the elements of the south damn near killed me/us on that trip. Think August, Charleston, bugs, vapors, lack of experience (I YouTube’d Beginner Canoeing) and — we were two old farts on an unguided 25-mile 2-day trek. 

So, a true suburban tree house had its appeal. My lifelong friend from grade school and I reserved a spot, and I began to follow the Atlanta Alpaca/Llama Facebook page to familiarize myself with the surroundings and character of the owner’s and their animals before we arrived. 

I must admit that I dropped the ball and got busy which led to several faux pas that wouldn’t have happened if I had checked it out more. Embarrassedly I huffed my way up the path with WAY too much stuff and tried to act cool carrying roughly 40 pounds (evenly distributed though) on my already tubby frame. Yeah baggage, exactly what I was trying to get away from. We arrived too early, which I don’t recommend at any time for check in, and we were prepared to park and talk, scout out the area or maybe go get a bite to eat. Kara O’Brien was in the driveway offloading plants from her vehicle. She checked to see if the tree house was ready and then told us to grab our bags. She did a good job of not looking shocked when I told her that I would come back for the “rest of it.”

Kara took us to the corral gate and opened it, she told us the names of the llamas and alpacas. 

The Llamas: Dali Llama, Llama Mia Figaro (Figgy), Opie Van Llamschild (Opie or The Ops)

The Alpacas: Ariana Dandylion (The Danda Panda), Paloma Piper (screamer and Dandy’s mama), Sunny Shevoun, Caitlin Tastee,  and  Elfie Fay Von Pickle sprite (wee babe). 

I giggled out loud. Most of them looked like they had just finished dinner and dangled straw that looked like toothpicks out of their mouths. They gathered around as Kara gave some brief but important instructions.

“If need be, tell the packs to give you their space, don’t pat their heads, they like to have their necks rubbed. Some are super sweet and easy and other’s are moody, but ALL love carrots.” she said.

They seemed to understand the huddle was over and we all went on our way. 

We headed past the corral and their pens to the bamboo forest. I noted that the pen that was stuffed to the gills with hay and sported a chandelier for lighting. 

A Tree House Endeavor

Kara later explained the Genesis of the tree house endeavor. “I had a tree house as a little girl and it’s always been in my psyche. When we were able to purchase the property next-door and I walked back into the bamboo, I said to Kate Giroux (her business partner) this would be an amazing spot for a tree house.” 

And WOW was she right! When we got into the bamboo forest, daylight became twilight, the temps dropped a good ten degree’s. I tried to wrap my hand around a bamboo Culm to no avail. Kara told me that the bamboo was old growth and had been here since the 40’s. 

I’m sure the plans for the tree house came almost immediately after being uttered. Kara and Kate have diverse backgrounds which compliment each other well in business and life. 

“Kate and I designed the tree house together," Kara said.  Kate is the queen of hospitality sourcing high thread count sheets, rolling out the red carpet of snacks and libations. We would later enjoy her wonderful amenities. Wine, chocolate, fruit, beer, water, snack bars, coffee, tea, half and half. “Kate also cleans it perfectly and makes sure everything is in tip top shape.” Kara said. 

As we climbed the stairs the smell of the forest and air was surprisingly earthy considering we were actually inside the corral and near the critter pens, add to this that it was a warm, acrid day with humidity so high that it would curl Satan’s tail. I actually envied the Llama’s fiber, their “do” was fairing better than mine. 

But — THAT tree house! Bamboo for pickets on the railings, raw half sawed cypress tree’s as supports on the corners of the building. I must insert a disclaimer here, descriptions of the structure are from my novice observations, I couldn’t keep up with every nuance that Kara pointed out.

Inside and out the beautiful tree house is made up of a collection of salvage, or salvation if you will, of many eras bygone. All of which are woven together for the perfect “nest.” A mayoral front door, French doors — antebellum salvage both on the sides of the front door and back and also used topsy-turvy turned as a window. Light belies its privacy. You truly feel invisible with the dense bamboo as your curtain. Then there’s the antique lighting outside and inside, reminiscent of motels or speakeasies. But — those wood slats. Oh, my, gosh! Think haint blue paint for the porch ceiling and brown, green, and blue wood slats recycled for the walls and ceiling inside. Each beam a different color. 

The amenities are listed on the Airbnb site, but let me tell you it beats all tree house conjuring I could have imagined.  An old enamel basin sits on a washstand with a tin cistern and spigot for water to wash up in or rinse a wine glass or coffee cup. A fridge was stocked with wine, beer, fruit, water, half and half and CHOCOLATE. The counter had nuts, chips and breakfast/snack bars and a Keurig with a drawer full of goodies.  

And what tree house comes with a bathroom, (of sorts?) A private compost potty! It is for NUMBER ONE ONLY! And this adventure came with one of the most hilarious text messages I have ever received.  

After I finished unpacking I looked to find my friend (who had not packed as heavily as I) she was fast asleep on the gently swaying Bali bed beneath the tree house. I’m not usually a napper but the frequent trips to the vehicle begged respite. I climbed the loft and was lulled to sleep in the beautiful nest. We both slept a couple of hours and were surprised that we had. 

I opened the fridge and popped the cork from a bottle of wine and made us a snack of cheese, crackers and blueberries. We ate and talked our way to dinner; Salmon salad with green beans, avocado, boiled eggs and dill dressing. We poured another glass of wine, sank into the Adirondack chairs on the wrap-around tree house deck and watched the daylight dip to the west. The day left peacefully and we followed suit of the animals around us and went inside.

I unpacked journals and books and splayed out on the comfy loft bed. To put it like a Gullah friend I had when I was little, “Good intentions got no feet.” I was out in 10 minutes. The rooster’s crowing announced daylight, well maybe a little earlier. I laid there and wondered if it were possible he was still on “fall back” daylight savings schedule?

After tea and coffee back on the deck, I gathered things and went down the path and through the Alpaca/Llama courtyard to the full marble bath. I was greeted by Yoda and Skylar, the adorable rescued dogs. The two are opposites. Skylar is a huge Great Pyrenees that is as docile as an old aunt sitting in a rocker at a family reunion. Yoda, a young husky mix, is the cousin who wants all the attention at the reunion. Yoda also has a unique athletic ability, (both my friend and I experienced). She has an extreme vertical jump and can French kiss you (seriously, IN the mouth) without putting a single paw on you. 

The marble bathhouse was incredible. Amenities again; Shampoo and conditioners, soaps, even toothbrushes and toothpaste for the forgetful. Lush towels and that luxurious shower head and hot water!!

After more tea and coffee talk, we decided to trek out to a little strip about a mile away to the East Village of Atlanta, an eclectic melting pot of art and food. The rain came in as we found a little cove of restaurants. We Suki Suki, which is a global collaboration of ethnic food, is eye candy for the people watching type (me) and a haphazard, welcome refrain from standard curb restaurants. We browsed the various vendors and decided to try the ramen recommended by Kara and got the pork bowls. Incredible! I hope to try to duplicate it, but I know I will fail. We bought some Moroccan Baklava, they called it Baklaba to take back with us.  

Unlatching the gate back at the tree house, we stepped in and walked the path to the bamboo forest. The normally docile pack began to show extreme interest in us. They began rushing over. We were almost trotting up the path. I couldn’t figure out why; then I saw it. My friend had a large water bottle with a bright orange top. They were thinking carrots. She’s a Clemson fan and we thought it best she cover up her shirt on the morning we left. 

What to Expect

You aren’t at the Ritz, you are paying for a few nights of glorious novelty. Whether it’s because you always wanted to stay in a tree house, want to have a one of a kind wedding venue,  anniversary, birthday or — you just want to get the hell away, feed carrots to llamas and alpacas and wake to roosters crowing, you will leave the forest with a little sigh and carry with you, like we did, a little mystique that will last a lifetime.

You may be tempted to stay “cooped” up in the tree house and that is fine and good, but you will have missed out on an incredible opportunity to witness hilarity, compassion and sharing if you don’t take a few minutes to talk to Kara and Kate. They are conservators of the earth, animals and purveyors of joy in all of their endeavors. They truly love to share their piece/peace of the world with you.    

Kara is a licensed general contractor who got sidetracked in Atlanta on a publishing career path. In her tool belt, the accolades of a professional writer,  PR writing for motion pictures studios and themed restaurants, freelance writer for magazines— she later started flipping houses and branded herself. These days she’s been dabbling in commercial acting and is about to film their third commercial. Her days are busy renovating, farming, and managing rental properties. Kate worked at Disney and Universal which set her up for her amazing job with Pullman Yards and in her spare time works the properties and farms and flips houses as well.  

I can hardly keep up with the interest online for the tree house. I don’t know how Kara and Kate do. It’s evolving all the time. Kate tells me “We are shooting a major car commercial at the tree house tying the excitement of the tree house to the rollout of a new SUV. And we will be on Ultimate Tree houses with Pete Nelson in July/August.

And more weddings coming up this year too. And—  A theatre company wants to put on Death of a Salesman in the Bamboo Forest!

I’m so glad that I added this adventure to my day-trippin endeavors! 2 days are great, 3 are even better. I was just getting into the “swing” of it when it was time to leave. The sway of the tree-house was ever so gentle, there were days afterwards that I longed for that less assured path.

General Stores, The Last Frontier

Country stores, those dinosaurs that dot the highways in disrepair with swinging rusty signs that read Esso, Mobil or Shell fell prey to the “chain” reaction, cherry slushy touting convenience stores of the 60’s.

Some country stores weathered the storm and morphed, ingraining themselves into the community as a sort of working man’s convenience store minus the brick facade. Think white clapboard with two front columns, a drive through for gasoline service, swinging old screen door, crooked stone steps and a sandy broken asphalt parking lot. Most had outside benches against the store wall, rusted oil drums for garbage cans and more pop tops on the ground than Jimmy Buffett has ever bruised his heel on and went back home. Inside; wide plank wood floors, rocking chairs and a pot belly stove tucked into a back corner were surrounded by glass cases, bins, barrels and wooden counters filled with everything from snakeboots, laces, hoop cheese, potatoes, seeds, pecans, beans, candies, jellies, country ham, bins with nails and so much more.

Most have indeed fallen by the wayside. Highways pushed through them, big box competition edged them out, some yet still operate under a different ruse. Restaurants like See Wee Restaurant on Hwy 17 Awendaw was a general store since 1929 until 1988. The inside of the restaurant looks very much like it did as a general store.

McConnels General Store operated in Mt. Pleasant on Highway 17, Mt.Pleasant until the owner, Mrs. Mary McConnell died at 101 years old last year.

So what does the future hold for the country store? If you google country store you are likely to come up with Dollar General, Mast General or Vermont Country Store’s. The hybrids of the country stores of past.

Food trucks, tents and Farmers Market’s provide us with the “I’m in tune with my community local vibe experience” or do they?  

I am fortunate to have frequented many of these old stores in my life. The first I remember was in Davis, NC. It sat at the intersection of two roads that led to the Cedar Island ferry. My uncle would take me in his rusty old Ford and we would sit on a wooden bench outside the store with our Nehi’s or Yoo Hoo’s to escape the sugar police, my Aunt Ree. My uncle had diabetes and we were in hot pursuit of his “fix.”

Uncle Moye never seemed to worry that passerby’s or patrons would tell on him and — Aunt Ree would never walk up on him she went “to town.” She said she didn’t like the smell of the store, it smelled of tobacco and wood-smoke. Big fat jars of plug and packages of snuff and cigarettes that came with coupons that you could collect and get premium gifts from a catalog.

The little store was a country girl’s palace with jars of Squirrel Nuts, Zippers, Cow Tales, Mary Janes and candy cigarettes. As I moved about over the years I was fortunate to have had one of these stores nearby in each town. So when we moved further out into the country towards Charleston’s “front porch” on the highway towards Walterboro, it was no surprise to find a bonafide good ole general store. My first visit went like this at Ace Basin Milling, Mac’s Farm Supply.

The grain silos with rusted caps lured me into the drive with my camera. The slap of the wooden front door drew me inside. I felt right at home when my feet hit the squeaky wood beams of Mac’s Farm Supply, the store smelled of earth and goodness. Clients in camos pulled up to bays to have feed and seed and corn loaded onto their truck beds while their canine companions wagged their tails and looked on from the truck cabs.

A half hour later I was still perusing. After leaving the jelly and pickle aisle I happened upon a substantial supply of snake eradication products. Creeped me out so I left there and checked out the cooler with cheeses and meats and a ice box full of Nehi’s in every flavor. Barrells and boxes held local grown pecan’s both shelled and unshelled, red and yellow apples and tuber potatoes for the farmers.

Two men rocked in chairs at the front, they hit the brakes a second when I came in. Believe me, these men know when a new person walks in the door. They’ve been in every country store since I was a little, gathered around the pot belly stove eating nabs and drinking cokes with peanuts. I am here to tell you that if you want to know anything about the community you are in, the answer is inside the walls of the country store. Better than the hair salon for carrying tales too. I never could figure out how my Daddy knew so much about everyone and hardly ever left the farm except for the trip to the general store or the hardware store. I was caught up in a story or two myself around a pot belly stove in the 70’s. The DNR would spotlight us blind down the country farm roads and catch us with a bottle of Boones Farm Strawberry Wine.  “Aren’t you Charles’s girl?” he asked.

The country stores doubled as full service gas stations too. When you pulled in a bell would ring inside that scooted out a proprietor in Dickie blue overhalls wearing a greasy rimmed ball cap on. He would check under the hood and clean your windows while filling up the tank.

Mac’s Farm Supply doesn’t have gas, except for propane, but they have just about everything “a settler” would need in these parts. After all the time I spent in there I ended up at the counter with a paltry bag of grits. Mac told me matter of factly that I needed to put some more stuff on the counter if I wanted to use my plastic. So I got another bag and a jar of pepper jelly. He peers over the top of his glasses at me and says “Not from these parts are you?” I grinned and told him we just moved here. He says “Witness relocation program?” I busted out laughing and have every single time I go in this store since.

Most recently, I found out why he has all the snake repelling products. I had two copperheads crawl out from under the house within 30 minutes of each other. I headed straight to Mac’s after Don shot the smithereens out of them. I went to that same counter I had hightailed it from months earlier and grabbed what I needed. I put the big bag of Snake Away on the counter and asked Mac “This stuff work?”  He puts his hand on the bag and tells me “You know what? I haven’t had a single snake on that aisle since I put that there.” “Well, that’s a start, ring her up.” I told him.

I went to buy pecans for my Christmas baking on a quiet Wednesday afternoon, when I got to the counter to ring up, Mac pulled out a 2018 Mac’s Farm Supply calendar and opened it to the back page. He pulled a stamp out of his drawer and stamped the store name on December 28th and pushed it to me. Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a wooden token and gives it to me. I knew what it was when I saw it, Daddy had a few of these in his pockets back when.

“Is this a round to it?” I asked Mac.

“Yep, no excuse now, you can get a round to it. See ya on customer appreciation day, we will have food.”

We did get a round to it and went to the customer appreciation day. Mac was being humble and gracious when he invited us, he didn’t make a big to do over it. When we rounded the bend in the road I was shocked. Cars lined both sides of Cottageville Highway, and Round O Road, and the parking lots were full. Everything in the feed warehouse had been pushed back and tables were lined together 3 rows wide and 100 feet long. Every seat was full and we stood in line to get a country fare fit for a country queen. A 40 gallon pot of collards was rolling, huge trays of venison and pork BBQ were being filled and refilled, another tray of Brunswick Stew and more trays yet with pork rice. At the end of the room were tables lined with homemade pound cakes and banana pudding. I heard one man say “That’s 15 pound cakes we put out in 30 minutes that’s gone”. Each table section had a loaf of bread and hot sauce and tabasco peppers on it. They even had take out containers for people to take to those who couldn’t come or had to go back to work.  The food was delicious, the company was great. There was not one single cell phone on the table, when’s the last time you saw that? Yes, it may have been customer appreciation day, but it was obvious that the appreciation was reciprocated as well, the community loves their store.

Spring dwindles, summer approaches and the days get longer. I look forward to frequenting the store to buy fresh vegetable trays, flowers and grits and hopefully get some chickens to raise.

Yeah, the hanger-on country stores may be a dwindling icon of a different era and nothing beats opening my door to find that book delivered that I want to read two days later, but — Amazon doesn’t come with a funny story and an ice cold orange Nehi.

I believe there is a place, a niche for the general and country stores in our communities. They remind us of a slower time, when we relied on each other and knew our neighbors.  

 https://www.facebook.com/Macs-Farm-Supply-and-Ace-Basin-Milling-Co-1822330788051393/

Bury that fruitcake and get your Charleston Chi back on after Christmas.

Now, I’m one of the biggest Lowcountry Christmas fans in these parts. I’m decking the halls the minute the turkey carcass hit’s the skids. My tree is usually up on Thanksgiving night or at least wrestled out of the closet. I’m digging out my Elvis Christmas CD and walking around with specks of glitter for the next 6 weeks. But by January 3rd I’m over it.  I don’t think I’m the lone reindeer here. So I thought I would share my holiday de-stressing tips with you.

Now if you don't think of your annual vacation the week after Christmas, then you didn't celebrate it right. But hold on to those miles, stick your chewing gum over that enter button on the Travelocity page if you have to. You don't need a banquet laden cruise, you just need a sick day, one little ole sick day and here’s how it goes;
Open your freezer and start pulling. No you are not going to use those giblets or that duck fat. Save them you say? For what? They’re going to be a frozen mystery baggy in 4 weeks. Jesus, just let it go.

Okay, now look at that pile on the table and start yanking. Put your yard slickers and go to the shed, get a shovel and go bury those God awful fruit cakes in the yard. Now go back inside and open a window, no it's not freezing outside, you are in Charleston. Gather up the half dozen half eaten jars of mixed nuts and toss them to the birds and squirrels. Let’s go back to that table again. Those Hillshire sausage rolls, they make great window and door draft stoppers.

On to the refrigerator, open it up. The door just about fell off didn't it?  That's because it's weighed down with a plethora of partial jars of condiments. (One of my New Year’s resolutions is to find another word for plethora) I’m at least aware of the fact that I have overused it and that is the first step to recovery. Okay, back to the condiments — tell yourself,  "I don't want another clove poked, pineapple laden, whiskey dripped, fudge topped, nothing." and toss them all. There, don't you feel lighter already? I do, I just want a piece of plain old avocado toast.

Okay scan the room. A bowl full of corks, seriously how many corks do you need for crafts? Toss them, I promise you will have enough for next year if you start in June.
Well, that was a good start wasn’t it? Don’t we feel 10 pounds lighter? Now go fill your diffuser with ANY essential oil that doesn’t smell like pine, apples or cinnamon and grab your car key's. Let's go to our Carolina de-stressing zone.

 I don't think I've ever been so glad to be alone in Charleston traffic with the radio jamming. I can finally hit the scan button on the radio without landing on Christmas music, at least until next October. Yep, it’s just me and Box and Jessie B jamming down I-526 playing a mean ass drum solo to AC/DC, “You shook me all night long.”

So where are we headed? Far away from Santa Claus lane. Any place that we don't see red, green, silver, twinkling and blinking lights or glitter is a good start.
For me, it's usually a brisk walk alongside a pounding surf. We are so fortunate, we have so many places to choose from! Botany Bay, Morris Island lighthouse, Station 23 Sullivan's Island, or a jaunt through Old Village and then to the end of Pitt Bridge. The surf and the gulls bear no resemblance to a partridge in a pear tree. I’m one of those weirdo’s that think’s plough mud smells good and a walk near the beach always leave’s me hungry!! Fish sounds good for dinner, think I’ll pop into the Teeter. Oh look, they’ve clearanced the Christmas foil wrapped Hershey’s kisses! I'll just eat the green ones and save the red and silver for Valentines. I assuage my chocolate guilt by buying a bottle of Chardonnay (without a cork.)

Most of my favorite places to rejuvenate are located on the fringe of several lowcountry communities. These are just quiet enough for me to pound out the reverberating beat of Mannheim Steamroller and strains of badly sung Auld Lang Syne’s and — reflect on the Peace, Love and Joy we wished each other over the past month’s. Happy New Season’s!
Caw Caw Interpretive Center
Mepkin Abbey (check out their option for spiritual retreat.)
Charles Pinckney Historic Park
Donnelly Wildlife Mgmt Area
Audubon Swamp Garden
Botany Bay
Pitt Street Bridge
Morris Island lighthouse road
Station #18, Sullivan’s Island