Congratulations Charleston Magazine On Your 50th Anniversary!!

Happy 50th Anniversary Charleston Magazine. Your anniversary inspired a little time travel back to 1975 with you. What was this “come ya” girl doing in Charleston in 1975?  From what I can remember, it was a blast. I was doing the Crocodile Rock with Elton John, Olivia Newton John was every high school boy's dream girl, singing "Have You Ever Been Mellow," Freddie Mercury was belting out "Bohemian Rhapsody"with Queen, and I was rocking with Donna Summer under a disco ball at Stonehenge on Rivers Avenue singing, "Love to love you baby." 

The 70's were pretty chill, the hangover decade following the peace, love, sleep in and smoke out Hippie era. Can’t say that I or my friends were hippies, but we were hippie-ish. As per usual, fads that start in California take a while to get to South Carolina. Even longer in my case, because there were only two channels that came in through the rabbit ear antennas and my Dad claimed both of them. One was for the news and the other for Gunsmoke or Hee Haw.  

Happy Rain was the closest thing to a hippie that I knew of.  It was however rumored that there were real hippies in downtown Charleston, but — they slept all day and only came out at night. 

It's all well and good though, my friends and I did our part to contribute in the early 70's. We colored peace signs on our book covers and wore bell bottoms, hip huggers, halter tops, Maxi's, mini's, embroidered and painted jeans, chevron shirts and dresses, floppy hats, sizzler dresses, and clogs. 

We thought we were "Far Out" and knew it all, then a stray would move to town from California and show us something that we were missing, like reciting Poe at parties.

As outliers, living in Dorchester County, Charleston was our destination long before Conde Naste put it on the map. We would feign fright at having to traverse the narrow Cooper River Bridge to get to one of our favorite date night restaurants, The Trawler on Shem Creek. I can still taste the crab dip on club crackers they brought out with your drinks. 

 

On a hot summer morning in 1975 you would find me stuffing my VW Super-Beetle with a friend or two, an ice filled Styrofoam cooler holding a six pack of Tab and pimento cheese sandwiches. Destination — Folly Beach. After baking in the sun for 4 hours on a shiny aluminum beach blanket covered in baby oil, we would head over to the Atlantic Restaurant for a beer. I always thought that place was going to fall right into the ocean with me in it. I swore I could feel it moving with the tide. The pier was still there then as well, but it was graffitied out and kind of sketchy. 

If our beach day was at Isle of Palms, we would head to a gas station afterwards to spit shine ourselves off in the sink and spray down with Windsong perfume before heading over to the Windjammer to hear a band. I remember putting my makeup on in the mirror while customers banged on the door threatening to get the manager if we didn’t come out. 

 

The Flying Dutchman on Dorchester Road was the best music venue around. I saw Lynyrd Skynyrd perform there in 1974 for $5.  

Mostly, we did a lot of "hanging out" in 1975. Charleston, Folly Beach, Isle of Palms, parks, river banks, cooling off in, or floating the Edisto, crabbing the creeks on Johns Island, fishing in country ponds until it got too hot to fish and then peeling off our clothes to go swimming. Some evenings caught us hunkered down behind a sand dune or in a cornfield watching the sunset with a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry wine. 

The ride to our Charleston destinations was half the fun. We’d fumble through what looked like a tackle box of 8 track cassettes to find a selection we could sing to. Sometimes the tape would break, which induced baby boomer road rage. I’ve seen a tenth of a mile of cassette tape strung out on 1-26 before the plastic casing was released.

Thanks for the road trip Charleston Magazine. I'm glad we could "hang out" together.  I wish that I could provide pics of the era, but only a  few of us had cameras back then. THANK GOD! 

Thelma and Louise — A Beach Day

My ride or die arrived around 5:30 a.m this morning for a much needed beach sunrise day. Our zeal was the same as it was when we were 16 and headed out to a cheap weathered rental on Folly Beach, although we do require coffee rather than teen spirit to get there now. 

 

We go way back, Thelma and I, like 2 score and 10 years, (which sounds better than half a century) and have brought home many a grain of sand together. 

Our beach attire is a little different now, we aren't wearing teeny weeny bikinis hidden under cut off short/short jeans. Today we look more like mall walkers with Baptist shorts on (2 inches over the knee.)

We won’t lug coolers and an antennaed radio down to the water like we did in the past, nor will we slather ourselves with Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil. Instead we will drink bottled water and paint our faces white with 70% zinc sunblock. 

Years ago we dubbed ourselves Thelma and Louise, from the 90's movie of the same name.  Our planned adventures have been quite hilarious, our unplanned life adventures make them pale in comparison. Unlike Thelma and Louise, we have never driven off a cliff, but we've fallen off them just the same, at least that was  — until this morning. 

Okay, so it wasn't a cliff, but there was a slightly airborne moment when we left asphalt and landed onto a sandy road covered with flooding rain water. We never saw a "pavement ends" sign, don't think there was one.

The fact that GPS sent us down this desolate road in the dark, after a horrific lightning and rainstorm, wasn't questioned by either of us, even though I knew we had never traveled a dirt road on our way to the beach, especially one that is 8.9 miles long. If GPS says so, then it must be right. We really didn't feel like making decisions anyway. Talk, just talk.

    

The dirt road got a little dicey at times, but we plowed straight through. At one point we did think about turning around and I noticed that the only turn around we had seen was located near the ruins of a haunted church and that was a big fat no. There wasn’t a single home on this road, nothing but pines and fields. We just talked and laughed and bounced and uttered a few WTF’s as we avoided muddy waters, and obstacles, the best we could.   

A couple of  years ago I picked Thelma up for an adventure and we talked 4 hours straight, right to the Georgia/Alabama state line. 

Her husband called, she paused, looked at me, and asked, "Where are we going? 

"We're going to Alabama Thelma," You didn't even know where we were going for 2 days? 

"Nope, didn't care. " she answered. 

Neither did we today. A few miles down we had a huge Red Tailed Hawk fly right into our lights and swerve in the nick of time. Thank God, I don't know how our friendship would survive Thelma killing my spirit animal. Another swerve for a large chunk of a fallen tree, a teeny armadillo, but not a single vehicle.

Between the storms, the dirt road and the obstacle courses, we missed the sunrise by a few minutes. We wouldn't have seen it anyway in the cloud cover, but it peeked out right after we crested the sandy path to the ocean. We plopped our chairs in the wet sand and raised our hands in the air at the beauty of it all, and talked. . 

Life is better than being punctual. Sometimes we have to get off the beaten path.

Lowcountry Mental Health Conference set to take over the Gaillard Center

Lowcountry Mental Health Conference set to take over the Gaillard Center: By Renae Brabham It is comforting in this broken world to witness the eagerness of professionals who seek out more information about their chosen occupations, and to see how the community comes together to assist them in doing so. Several years ago as I was mindlessly scrolling social media, I happened upon a blurb concerning the upcoming Lowcountry Mental Health Conference

The Worm Hole at the Piggly Wiggly

I walked into a grocery store this week in a town that I don't go to often. I lived there once, in a world that seems so far removed from me now. It was just going to be quick stop to get green peanuts for a boil. It was 2025 when I walked in, but within seconds, it was 1971.

The throwback hit first with the smell of the store, it was as if the concrete walls had absorbed the decades bygone.

The aisles were laid out the same, people talked in the aisles like they did in the 70's and 80's. I could see my grandmother in a wool cap on a hot June day mulling over the smoked meats looking for a few good pieces to cook her beans. I saw my mother arguing with the meat manager about bologna she bought that went bad too soon (she was a Karen), all of us kids would disappear when she lit into someone.

Grave stands and bright colored funeral flowers lined the top of the frozen food aisle as they always had. And I saw my own kids begging for a quarter to get Tootsie Pops at the register. I went out the door and looked to the left, half expecting to see the mechanical pony that the girls used to ride while they ate those lollipops. It was gone, but not really, the imprint from my memory conjured it again.

I got into the car, Don was waiting. as I opened the door and looked at him, I realized that he wasn't part of those memories. We have been together for 41 years, how could he not have been with me? Am I really old as Methuselah?

I told him how surreal that little run was, it was as if I had fallen into a worm hole. Memories are strange, powerful, terrible and beautiful things aren't they?

I hope your memories, your dejavu, your conjuring's of mind soul and body are as blessed as mine on my favorite day.

Muse musings

I love that Don and I can dream together. That I can bring up crazy questions and he will play along with me. Questions like this from last night, inspired by a photo of a cliff that looked like one from Avatar, a lone man standing atop it and a small beaten path that seemed to be carved out for his trek alone. 

"If you could go remove all manmade obstacles, and tourist from a single place to have just to yourself, where would you go?"   

Yes, that is my muse asking — she has kept me content that I can see without going. That's what imagination can do. I know who my muse is, without a doubt. I walk with her and talk with her every chance I get, Creation. She is outside of every window I peer out. Every door that is closed is Narnia's portal.

My muse opens the jetties for me, fills me with inspiration, makes me believe in impossibilities, tells me not to confine myself to the grounded plains, to a calendar of years, but to reach now, today, for the skies, the treetops and beyond. 

She's taught me to see what lies beneath the plastic and metal rebar and pylons. I can mentally remove everything from a scene. The big house on the peninsula, the dock, the boat, the cell towers, mosquitoes, and then, there it is — creation. The tundra is no longer private with million dollar price tags, it belongs to all of us, and always leads me to the ultimate creator. 

I've been blessed to live in some beautiful places and there are some that I've longed to visit so badly, so long forgotten, not even on an  an Atlas. I want to trek there by foot, like a nomad, holding a stick to a ground charged with the long dead sinew of the extinct eastern Chestnut, and the nascent frozen tundra of the ice age beneath it. My stick with a point would remove all obstacles and trappings of man along the way. Yes, that would be my superpower, busting obstacles. 

And — all of this while I plan what I'm cooking for dinner.  Can y'all tell I'm reading The Chronicles of Narnia? lol. Read books, get inspired. 

The photo is mine, taken at Biltmore, Asheville. 

Mama Got A Squeeze Cloth, Daddy Never Sleeps at Night.

 

I was pulling my "squeeze towel" down to twist all of the excess water out of the squash to make our squash fritters today. I keep those old cotton threadbare towels for just this purpose, mostly because I don't like the feel of cheesecloth on my hands, I know, that's weird.

Anyway, I looked at the towel and laughed, thinking of the similarities in the old worn out rag and myself. We've both wiped a tear or two, wiped up a hot mess, been washed of it all, and hung out to dry fresh and renewed.

God, a Monk, and a Little Girl, Go Fishing

In 1966, I was 8 years old, a newly transplanted minion via divorce, when we moved to a little white house near Main Street in Moncks Corner from Chicago. We moved during the summer, a totally different fresh hell than I experienced up north. One of the first things I found out was that — Carolina moms put their kids out a daylight after breakfast and retrieved them, miraculously sound by dusk. It didn't take long to find new friends to commiserate with. Debbie was the first friend I can remember. 

There seemed to be a pretty large pack of kids on our street, we gathered on a curb shortly after breakfast and mulled around until someone came up with a plan on how to spend the day. We found ways to cool off under shady oaks or creeks that grown ups didn't know traversed the woods nearby. A few of the mom's occasionally felt sorry for us and would come outside to bust open a cold watermelon on a picnic table to disperse. 

I was fortunate to have reprieve, jaunts with my friend Debbie and her family. Her grandfather was a supervisor of some sort on a plantation nearby. I believe it was Gippy, but I can't be positive. I know that I traipsed a few magical plantations that summer with Debbie; Medway, Mulberry and Rice Hope, never realizing how privileged I was to have this backdoor experience until later. Somehow even at the young age of 8, I knew that the dark hands and dripping backs of the workers on these beautiful places were the sacrificial foundation of their majestic presence. 

Debbie's grandmother took us fishing. We pushed off in a little jon boat with a small engine into the Cooper River from a boat house so thickly disguised by flora that the temps dropped 20 degrees it seemed. In the reedy inlets near the plantation, I caught my first fish on a short pole with a bobber. When I pulled it in, it was eaten by a larger fish that got away. I can still see the alarm in the freshy dead fish's eye glaring up at me from the bed of the boat. But their was no alarm in the occupants of the boat. Debbie's grandmother chuckled and told me to throw the line back into the water to catch a bigger fish, and I did. I have done so several times since. 

Was it an ode to the future? My first sermon? Or just elementary particles of the universe coming together haphazardly?     

We moseyed across the tidal Cooper River. The boat stopped and the engine was cut off. We drifted while watching the bobbers intently. I saw a group of 15 or so hunched white men with hoes and scythes in brown belted dresses and straw hats just beyond the marsh. I remember wondering how in the world they could stand wearing all of those clothes on such a hot day.  

I asked quietly on that still river, "Who are they?" 

Debbie's grandmother said, "They are monks." 

That wasn't enough info for this kid. "But, who are they?" I asked again. 

Debbie's grandmother didn't answer but Debbie told me that they were men who never got married. 

And that's where I left that until the first dictionary or encyclopedia a few years later told me more. What I gathered was that monks deprived themselves of the privilege's of life to dedicate and consecrate themselves to a life of adoration and worship of Christ. They were a self sustaining group that normally farmed and sold their abundance to fund charitable organizations in their communities. 

Fast forward 20 years and I was once again on that serene river with Don at Mepkin Abbey as we took in the beauty of spring on a trip down from the NC foothills. I looked at a plot of land to the right on the monastery where a few monks gardened and it felt as if I were 8 years old again. Could any of them be ones I saw two decades ago I wondered. 

Another decade goes by and I take my granddaughter here for a picture day. I look at the plot of land near the marsh and remember the day bygone that I saw the monks once again. 

I visited on Christmas once with my friend as well. A beautiful Creche gallery was the draw. 

Having gone to Mepkin in all seasons but summer, I picked up my sister one day to take a tour for the first time, previous times I just walked the grounds. It was sooo hot!  I don't remember the brother who guided our small tour of 6 people. The name Brother Francis comes to mind though, he was well advanced in years and smart as a whip. A botanical, universe, local, historical, and religious history lesson ensued for the next hour. Down one of the pea gravel path's he took out a small matchbox from his pocket from which he said held enough weaponization to kill tens of thousands of people along the eastern seaboard. 

"Do you want to see?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

I did, and moved in closer. The little box held beautiful red and brindle colored beans. After we ogled them, he slid them back into his pocket and pointed to the beautiful large leafed flowers behind him. The Castor plant produces the bean/seeds. The toxin in castor seeds is ricin, one of the deadliest natural poisons, estimated as 6,000 times more poisonous than cyanide. The apple in the Garden of Eden so to say gave the brother an ironic story to share in Mepkin Abbey. A mosquito swole to the size of a large fly on his eyebrow as he talked with us. My sister told him about it but he didn't flinch. I read in Thomas Merton's book The Seven Storey Mountain, that the gnats and fly's were penance as well and were not to be swatted.  But, I do believe the frequency of those bites would have been much less in Kentucky than coastal South Carolina. Anyway, I would be asking for a lot of forgiveness myself for that one. Before leaving Mepkin Abbey that day, I once again felt the connection to the invisible spot in the water where I sat in a jon boat, with a friend and her grandmother so many years ago. .  

So, here I am 58 years later, closing the cover on Thomas Merton's book, The Seven Storey Mountain. What possessed me, a protestant with no knowledge of Catholicism, to pick up this book this past Christmas? And is it providence once again to finish it on Palm Sunday, 2000 ish years later as Jesus entered Jerusalem on the back of a donkey? I told myself when I questioned why in the world I was buying the book, that it was to understand what makes a monk, just as I questioned the grandmother in the boat the day I first saw them. 

I have seen reference to Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk in several books over the years but nothing to make sense of the purchase. On the pages, I found beautiful writing, and difficult to understand ramblings. I thought my last few months of reading were going to be futile, but too far in to stop now, I finally found a pea graveled path once again, in Gethsemani with Father Merton and ended it here, on the Sabbath, my favorite day. 

I knew nothing of the Order. Nothing of the Cistercians, and not until the last 20 pages did I know that the church that he wrote of, "that was being planned for the deep south" in 1949, was Mepkin Abbey. I quickly Googled Mepkin Abbey to find that indeed it was. 

For me the short answer to my lifelong question of  "What is a Monk?" is, an individual with intense dedication to contemplation of God. A worthy endeavor and one rarely examined for its intensity. The rewards of such devotion to Christ would take Merton and countless others until the end of time to deluge, but he helped me to see contemplating Christ in a different way and enabled my small jaunt of Godly mysticism (which isn't encouraged, but manifested) in the closing chapters of his novel.  

Mepkin Abbey was established with 29 monks in Moncks Corner on the Cooper River in 1949. 15 years later, my 8 year old self was fishing in the Cooper River when that big fish took a bite of my little fish and then I caught a big fish with the little fish head and saw the monks. Whether it is my mysticism, or God's, or just a grand ole fish story, my take away is that deep goes deep and the reward that you seek, may be on the last page, continue the quest. God through his infinite wisdom joined Merton and I through his novel, two souls over time and space, he affirmed that I am always (unless by willful denial of his guidance), in the exact place he wants me to be.  

I am so glad that he shared his faith, and lack of it. Little did Merton know, that it would will ripple out into the universe and come back to land on a little girl in a boat and stay with her the rest of her life.  This is from the last page of Merton's book that I just finished. "Your solitude will bear immense fruit in the souls of men you will never see on earth. Do not ask when it will be or where it will be or how it will be: On a mountain or in a prison, in a desert or in a concentration camp or in a hospital or at Gethsemani, it does not matter."   

Dream, Dream, Dream

 

Zoe is twitching, all four paws are trotting in a dream as she lays by me while I write this morning. I whispered "I know how you feel girl."

I told Don this week that I've concluded that I really don't like to dream. They are unsettling in the least. And here I am up at 5:30 writing because of them. As flightly as I am, one would think that is odd for me to say. But, I don't like the feeling that they are unsolved, I don't like the questions unanswered they seem to ask.

I do believe there is some residue that we take of them throughout the day, whether good or bad. I seek the best of people, art and music, and books to "dream" during consciousness, so — the unstable and shifty patches of sleep at night are bothersome when compared to them.

However, saying that, I do enjoy a good flight and that has been a recurring dream since childhood. I can lift my arms and glide un-ossified through time and space. Weightless it seems, so much so that the landings are almost unattainable and I usually wake myself flying.

After Mickie died I would try to dream, I would hope to spend time in any space with her. Those too are usually brief, and don't leave me with the joy I thought they would. I can do little but tolerate them now.

I don't want dreams to go away either. I'm not foolish enough to think that they aren't part of the wirings of God and — I do want to keep all communication lines open.

Zoe just woke from her twitching's and immediately wanted to go outside. Perhaps to search for the elusive rabbit of those dreams.

True Indigo An Illustrated Biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney, Planter and Patriot

I cannot fathom a need arising for a biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney ever again. Dianne Coleman — artist, author extraordinaire has raised the bar to dizzying heights with her just released book, True Indigo, An Illustrated Biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney, Planter and Patriot.

 Eliza Pinckney was a determined trailblazer in young America. She endured battles, diseases and maladies that had my knees trembling as I read them. Eliza tried, failed, tried again and finally succeeded in producing a royal grade Indigo. But Eliza did so much more, she persevered, and was personally responsible for the documentation and introduction of a large variety of plant and animal species to our coastal communities.

  

The (Indigo) seeds were planted in the mind of True Indigo's author, Dianne Coleman approximately 25 years ago while attending a family gathering in Asheville, NC. A relative mentioned that there was a leg of their family that was distantly related to Eliza Lucas Pinckney. The seeds took hold and for the next 25 years, Dianne has pursued the mesmerizing tales of one of South Carolina's first feminist. Dianne spent years reading the journals and letters of Eliza that are still in existence, and absorbing every publication and tidbit of information available to compose this beautiful composition. 

The book itself is absolutely coffee table worthy. It arrived with an Indigo blue ribbon inside as a bookmark, the ribbon is identical to the choker ribbon that Eliza wears on the book cover. Every single page, including chapter notes and bibliography is beautifully illustrated by Dianne, with some period and artist renderings mingled in. The maps are exquisitely detailed. I found myself scanning the pages with a magnifying glass to better take in the details.

  

I had no intention of reading the book in a few short sittings, but there I was, curled up on the couch with this book while a half taken down Christmas tree and other decorations glared at me out of the corner of my eyes. 

  

Ms. Coleman, an artist and botanist herself, identified with the endeavors of the blue handed woman Eliza Pinckney. That kinship is evident in the details of each page. The artwork is amazing, and the perfect compliment to the pages of Eliza's story.

 

Although her home is in Winston-Salem, NC, her curiosites and research brought her to the lowcountry for many trips to walk in the footsteps of her subject, Eliza. The bond she feels with Eliza from the research and telling of this book is evident. Ms. Coleman stated that she felt most connected to Eliza on the Hampton grounds outside of McClellanville, SC.

 

The story of Eliza is woven around the history of Charleston and surrounding communities; Settlement wars, slavery, separation from England, hurricanes, fires, disease and maladies long gone, weave through the lives of Eliza Pinckney and her family. 

I personally have learned more about Charleston history and flora than I ever have from any single volume book. The index and bibliography are astounding and I went down a few rabbit holes just from those. 

I can truly see this biography being enjoyed by anyone, from pre-teen to 100 years old. I believe it would be a wonderfully informative book on colonial living to introduce into schools and other learning institutions as well.

The book will be available on Amazon soon. I look forward to seeing her at a few book signings here in the lowcountry and will update this story as needed with those dates. In the meantime you can purchase the book and contact Ms. Coleman at the link below. 

https://www.facebook.com/ElizaLucasPinckneyPlanterPatriot

Out of the Mystic, Suicide Memoir Grief Book Release

I fought writing this book for 3 years. I caved when I happened upon the small space devoted to grief in one of the big box book stores. You would think grief would be more than a niche market.

Of the books here, none were on suicide grief. I get it, I doubt many people amble up to the help kiosk at Barnes and Noble asking for directions to the suicide section. But — considering there were nearly 800,000 suicide deaths last year, affecting at least 5 times that in family members. I'd say it's time to get the megaphones out on this silent epidemic.

I couldn't see myself in the submission process with this one, something inherently wrong with someone editing my grief. I self-published. I wanted it to be little more than journaling it out in book form. I don't want personal monetary return from it, I'm setting it up so that all royalties will be donated to various charitable organizations that may assist in coping and rebuilding broken hearts and minds at the end of each anniversary of publication.

If you know of anyone that may benefit from my reflections in the rear view mirror of grief, please tell them about the book. I hope that it lets someone know that they are not alone.

I believe it is scheduled for shipping in about a week to 10 days.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CX17G8S3

POV Morality

 

I have been enjoying an online course about C. S. Lewis and the path that led him to Christianity. He was professionally schooled in philosophy and teated heavily on Aristotle's works. One of his earliest essays was titled "Good." A study on morality.

Morality exists and always will, whether I decide to acknowledge it or not. To paraphrase Lewis, "To refuse the objectivity of morality is to differentiate myself as a human species."

It is impossible not to confront morality on a daily basis. Morality moves the chess pieces of my days; The decision whether to curse the rude counter clerk or pay and walk away, the decision to open a door for a person in a wheelchair or shut the door and watch them struggle with it, and it is the decision to respect a persons voice or choice without berating them. I try (and fail) to use these morality chess pieces to either address or walk away from daily life occurrences, spurned by the conviction of what I believe to be right or wrong — morality.

I don't believe I did anything to acquire morality, I do think it was tweaked here and there as I confronted this or that over the years, but I find that mostly it is innate and exist as a truth. If I don't feel good about myself, it is usually that I have strayed from my center, my core beliefs. I had my ear tickled by this or that. My center is the cross.

I find the simplest things, the least complicated to be the most rewarding. "The sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book that interests him," C.S. Lewis.

Cloud spotting every situation in politics, armies and institutions, (although collective necessary activities, he says) prolongs immorality, and Lewis calls these, "a meaningless vanity and vexation of spirit."

Nope, no vexation in the pines this morning. None, nada. Happy Sunday y'all.

Day-tripping Coddywomple to the Fairy Tale Cabin in the Enchanted Forest

I love car trips to destinations unknown. Trips within a five hour radius of coastal SC are perfect for me. 

This day-trip was approximately 20 minutes further out than my usual excursions, but I knew the experience was going to be worth it, because I know Kara O'Brien and that's what she does best. I first met Kara and her partner Kate when my friend and I did a day trip to her Alpapa Bamboo Forest Tree House in the suburbs of Atlanta a few years back. 

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/13245035?source_impression_id=p3_1700309957_bV34XwIF9VkpeWxS

My belly tickles a little from excitement, mingled with a tad bit of respectful fear of the unknown zip code. The first stop was to pick up my friend on the way to Hot Damn Alabama. Per usual we talked non-stop for about 3 hours, plumb across the state of Georgia. 

I told her the time zone should change soon and told her Alabama is in the central time zone and one hour behind us. She said "Oh", looking surprised and then told me, "I didn't know where we were going, I thought we were going to North  Carolina.

I was cracking up, she was still talking, "I told Glenn and the kids that I really didn't care, I was just going wherever you were taking me."  

 

The terrafirma started changing, we began ascending and descending Alabama’s rambling hills. Five hours and 30 minutes after I left my driveway, we pulled up to the gate of the Enchanted Forest. We would be staying in the Airbnb Fairy Tale Cabin, the first of the unique experience short term rentals that Kara is building here. The aptly named cabin is perched on a sloping woodline. Two river rock chimneys were the inspiration for the design. Kara happened upon them on a hike one day looking at properties. The 2 old forgotten chimneys called out to her to re-habitate the forest. Kara is a very good wordsmith and I won't even try to recall the work that has gone into the originality of this structure. She does it best, and I will provide the link for her to do so. My pics should tell the story pretty well too. 

The end result of her labor leads to a rewarding rest for the weary and rejuvenation for the not so weary. Quiet solitude just oozes from this place. Bird-speak, quieted by breaking branches of other wild critters, reminds me of how earth once was, how it still can be if we don't cut everything down.

 

Windows and woods, I didn't worry that anyone was looking in because — we are alone. And whatever could see me from the dark, won't tell. 

This place is just magical. Think antique barn wood planks, tin, glass doorknobs, and stained glass. No TV, no want for it. The kitchen has a beautiful granite countertop, the bath has a stone tile floor crafted with pieces of pottery and tile, and glass bottles from the initial clearing of the land here. There wasn't a single thing we needed on our trip, everything was thought out for us. We just dropped our bags, grabbed an apple, some cheese, and a couple of wine glasses and headed to the porch to dissolve the ride away in a Adirondack and nest swing.

I knew that I probably should read the guest book to get the where, when and why's, but I didn't want the act to bring me back from my swing/wine/apple and cheese induced state of being just yet. I cooked us some salmon on toasted English muffins, topped with over easy eggs and sided with avocado and brie. The double element cooktop was perfect for this.

Time stopped, literally. We could barely make it to 8 o'clock before climbing the ladder to the big comfy loft bed. Nicely weighted coverlets and good sheets, that's the ticket to slumberland. Oh, and the magnificent large sky light! A blanket of stars was the last thing I remembered that night. 

The morning was a chilly 42 degrees. I made my tea extra hot and made my way to the nest swing on the porch. I was wrapped up in the couch blanket, steaming tea, hoodie pulled up when the sun crested through the tree's. Birds were waking, and I could hear the bray of cattle as they were being let out from stalls nearby. My friend joined me shortly. She and I migrated back and forth between making coffee and tea and back to the porch all morning. 

I spied a walking stick by the chimney and headed to Wolf Creek, the quiet creek meanders by Kara’s property. It was a magnificent walk, vibrant fall leaves peppered me the entire way. I closed my eyes while sitting in the reclining chair by the creek. AI can't reproduce the real thing, it may duplicate the sounds, even the sight of it, but it can't make me "feel" it. The breeze, the leaves rustling, the hawks calling, the trickle of the water as it slaps over the beaver dam. I even got to see the beaver before we left the next day. I pulled a half buried matchbox car from the ground to take back to the Fairy Tale Cabin. A ledge by the outside chimney holds the buried treasures of the woods brought back by other guests; Bottles, bones, ceramics, enamelware, old baby rattle and now an old metal matchbox car. 

Later I walked down the path to another plot that Kara is building, a thatch covered earthen  home right smack into the hillside. It will be looking out over a steep embankment and into the brilliant sunrises over the valley below. 

The evening was spent digesting the most wonderful authentic Mexican food ever from a restaurant Kara recommended. The night was creeping in as we returned. My friend enjoyed some time in the jacuzzi on the platform built around the second chimney that Kara happened upon that day. A huge barred owl flew off behind us as we relaxed more outside into the night. Okay, so it was only 7:30.   

The next morning as I watched my friend latch the gate to the Enchanted Forest, I felt grateful for the time we spent together, the super long days of Alabama and my incredibly creative and talented friend Kara. I hope she keeps salvaging and building and making things to share for a long time to come. 

https://www.alpacatreehouse.com/fairy-tale-cabin

Our Fair Lady, Tinley

Two old geezers pulled up to the Coastal Carolina Fair with a wide-eyed 3 year old great-grandbaby in tow. 

Like all the people we said we weren't going to be like when we got old, here we were indeed, arriving at our destination early, like when restaurants start serving dinner at 4, the matinee movies at 10, and — when the fair gate opens.

 

The flagman kept moving us further and further away from the entrance. My feet started hurting just thinking of the walk. 

Tinley was fixated on the towering Ferris Wheel before we even got her out of the car seat. Rather than follow the crowd walking (who might be lost) I asked the flagman where the nearest entrance was.  He directed us to a tunnel that went under the road very near us. Score! 

Tinley said "Scary" when we entered the dark tunnel. I saw a shadow of something large lying in the middle of the pathway. Please don't let this be a dead animal, I thought to myself. I laughed when I made out what it was and then I got sad. Someone dropped their $15 turkey leg. It looked like they were on their first bite too. 

Waves of nostalgia overcame me when we walked through the gates. I don't care how old you are when you go to the fair, when you pass through the gates and smell the combo of fried everything, you are 10 again.

Little Miss Tinley marched us right up to the Ferris Wheel, first thing. But the two old geezers with bladders the size of walnuts had to find the restrooms right off the bat. She was patient in the line as we waited our turn to board, grinning from ear to ear when she clamored into a bench.   

I sat across from Don and his great-grand. 62 years separate them. She doesn't know this, she thinks we are 12 years old. 

That 15 minute Ferris Wheel Ride was amazing. 39 years replayed with each belly flop at the top. I remembered my young hubby, our first date, right here. I was a single mom with two little girls not much older than Tinley. We rode the Ferris Wheel that night. I can see their eyes today in Tinley's as we made each loop. I also remembered my middle aged hubby with our first granddaughter, Tinley's mama, on this ride. And here we are today with Tinley, our third generation little girl is giggling with us.

 

Tinley is fearless for such a tiny tot. She barely comes in at 30 pounds and almost a foot too short for all of the rides she wants to ride. 

Don has vertigo now and could barely watch us go by in the tea cups and bumble bee's and various kiddie rides. 

While I knew she was having a blast, all of these seemed too tame for the little one who had her eyes on the roller coaster nearby. The screams coming from the ride made her laugh. When we got off of the BumbleBee (which was too much for me) she headed straight to the roller coaster. We showed her she was too short and she didn't grumble, but wanted to sit and watch them as they zoomed by. She said "Here we go '' and "Scream" as they changed passengers 3 times. Finally I saw the operator let a very young child get on with his father. I thought we could try it, I grabbed Tinley's hand and we hurried up the ramp. I could feel her little heart pounding as I held her like a mama bear. She indeed screamed as we whizzed by her Paw Paw over and over. The grin on her face was permanent for an hour. Her first roller coaster!

 

We rode two sheets of tickets out. I had a couple left and we headed to the pony carousel. A man held out a handful of tickets to Don and told him that they were leaving and we should use them. Don thanked him and we didn't think anything more of it. 

We boarded the ponies on the carousel. A Hispanic man came up and wanted to put his daughter beside us on a pony, he asked with his eyes, I answered with the shake of my head. The music started, the ride jerked and around we went, the ponies climbed their poles going up and down. I was looking for Don as we passed to get her to wave and when I looked back at Tinley, she had stuck her arm out to the little girl to hold her hand. They rode like that for several rounds.

When we got off the carousel, Tinley headed to the gate, just done. No whining, no crying, just done. Don asked me for the tickets that were left and went to a father in the crowd and gave them to him. Tinley held her hand out for "tix'' as well. I gave her the little advertising part of the tickets that I was saving to put in a journal to her Mimi in heaven. She held them in her hand tightly, I was pretty sure that I would get them back when she went to sleep in the car seat on the way home. But, that wasn't the case. When we hit the fairway, Tinley picked out a couple and stopped them in their tracks, holding out the tickets/not tickets. I explained to the couple that they weren't  tickets but she thought they were and wanted them to have them. They thanked her and she beamed. As we walked down the last feet of the boulevard, Tinley looked up at all of the colors and waving banners for this and that and smiled.

We headed back into the tunnel to leave. The turkey drumstick was gone, but its memory remains and it will end up in a conversation somewhere years from now, "Do you remember the time at the fair that..." 

Tinley went to sleep within minutes of getting in the car. I didn't have any ephemera to paste into the journal, but what I had was better. Don and I held hands as we pulled out, "What an awesome day" I told him. We recounted little clips of the day, I told him Tinley gave away her "tix."  

"Yes, I saw her holding that little girl's hands too, kids show us what the world can really be like." he said. 

The fair will be over soon, the fairway will resemble the boulevard of broken dreams; spilled fries, squished packages of ketchup, sticky everything, lost tickets trampled into the ground and yes, even turkey legs. 

Such is life, such is the fair. It is magical, wonderful and scary. Today I think I caught the brass ring.