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

Marvin Gaye, Black Lives Matter, Kenny Chesney, Jefferson Davis — up in here, up in here

Well, this has been a week from hell but heaven won out —again. In the category of absof'nlyridiculous, this one was right up there. What a difference a week can make, last week it was yoga in the morning, 10 flights of stairs everyday, 5-7000 steps a day. Bring it on, feeling good.
Then there was this week. We have this corner of our property that has a beautiful ancient Angel oak on it. I want this area cleared so bad and we keep inching our way too it but it is covered in poison ivy. I am so allergic to it that I can't even look at without having an anxiety attack. The yard is all clear of it, everything is, except that corner. I volunteered to do the weed eating on this cool 95 degree day and commandeered the whizzer from Don. After the normal trimming of the perimeter I inched my way into un-chartered territory. I knew better. The minute the weed eater wrapped and slung a vine at me, I laid it down, I knew I was in deep Calamine. After extreme wash, rinse and repeat cycles, I still broke out in hives and blisters. I painted my body Mary Kay pink and silently damned the world to laugh at me.
On our only day off  I went with hubby to Lowes. We decided to begin building a shed. I helped Don move the plywood, just a little. The next day I could not move, at all. When a blanket lying on your toe hurts your back, you are in trouble. For 4 days, my dear hubby moved me, lifted me, fed me and helped me dress.
We are supposed to be starting a new cabinet job and I still can't move. Don goes on without me. So it’s me and Snowy at home alone. I managed to get out of the bed, brush my teeth and take a shower but couldn't pull clothes up. Uh oh.
Snowy is a little upset with me because I am throwing her food at her. Then I picked up this tool, this awesome tool. I think people use it to pick up trash by the road but I use it to get cans down from top shelves, it has a grabber on the end of it.  Let  me tell you, there is not a whole lot that I haven't mastered this week with this thingamajiggy.  I have pulled up drawers, opened drawers,  pulled out pots and lifted a dog bowl with precision.  Haven't mastered the corkscrew just yet.
In the midst of all this going on, roofers have arrived to replace our roof.  I used the awesome grabber to push back items that were about to crash to the floor from the roof assault.
My plan for this day was to maneuver 4 steps down and a walk to the mailbox. I traversed the yard and talked to the one of the roofer’s who asked where the A/C plug in was. I figured it was for their power tools. Nope, he pulled a 3 foot long, 1980's boom box out of his truck and sat it on a stack of shingles.
Today is also spray day for the cabinet doors, so the yard is full of trucks; old trucks, new trucks, red trucks, blue trucks, political stickers, NFL team stickers, hats ,shirts, opinions. Alongside the roofing trucks sat a truck with a disabled veteran tag and conflicting view stickers. The driver served two terms in Iraq, was injured in a IUD that blew up their tank and later suffered shrapnel injuries from second stint.  All were working side by side in the sweltering heat, swatting the same Avatar sized mosquitoes and swallowing gnats with their Mountain Dew and Gatorade on this 95 degree “fall” day. 
I looked up on the roof, there wasn’t a single angry person up there, I looked on the ground and the cabinet spraying was going along just fine too. Chicken bones, soda can’s and Krispy Kreme donut boxes were strewn across the yard and roof trash was literally everywhere and I didn't have a care — I was getting a new roof.
I didn’t screen our roofers to see what color they were. I didn’t ask our veteran who they voted for. I trusted that everyone could perform their different jobs on the same turf, Earth. Facebook wars aren't the front lines of America, persevering people are.
Racist battles or trenches battles, I would have defended the RIGHTS of EITHER one of their views in my yard that day. But today, in my yard, in my America, there’s no need because there isn’t a co-exist, there is only exist.
I went inside, cracked a window for a few minutes and enjoyed a morning on the soul train. Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, singing, roof ripping, spray generators and raucous laughter. All is well in the pines.

Eggs & Eclipses

It was my Daddy's birthday this week, it's been almost 3 years since he died. The stabbing heartache has eased, the pain has turned to longing —to see him, hear him. I'm so grateful for the memories, even the painful ones, they keep him with me.
I tried to talk about him on his birthday and a couple of days after, my throat wouldn't open and my eyes leaked.
But the memories were constant, consoling. My sweet sister who admittedly tells that she knows nothing about her childhood other than that she was born, quoted him word verbatim on the phone. I was telling her that we finally have our flooring put in
"Daddy would be so proud. Do you remember that night we got the new TV and he said "If I can't pay cash for it, it's not coming in the house?" she asked.
"I sure do sistah, I sure do." I told her.
Yes, Don and I could have easily had the flooring and anything else we wanted "The American Way" and put it on a Lowes card or any number of credit offerings — but we decided when we moved into the country to live smaller, to prioritize our purchases and never buy anything unless it was paid for with cash. You see, long before Dave Ramsey founded his debt free Financial Peace University, a common sense country man in Dorchester, SC did — my dad.
Daddy moved us underneath a 300-400 year old Angel Oak in the early 70's. We didn't have a phone but we had ways to communicate (just short of smoke signals.) If my granny down the dirt road needed us, she went out onto her porch and shot the pistol in the air. Don has that pistol today. We didn't have a TV for a while either.  And then — one afternoon a delivery truck stirred up the dust down our sandy dirt road.  The sliding delivery truck door opened and a television so big I didn't think they would get it through the front door arrived. A Curtis Mathis, top of the line colored television. And —we had 3 channels!! That night we sat around the oak cabinet encased TV and watched either Ponderosa, Gentle Ben or Little House on the Prairie, one or the other.
One of us with a caffeine buzz from the rare bottle of Coke in hand exclaimed "We must be rich!"
Daddy shot the pride down quick. "No, we sure aren't, if I can't pay cash for something after bills, it doesn't come into the house." It stuck as a memory, I wish the concept had stuck longer. But we are back there now, Don and I. We love living simple, the American dream didn't have to be chased, we could have jogged to it easily.
So — as this coincidental (or not) world goes, a few days later my sister and I are together in an antique store that she couldn't (and maybe didn't) wait on me to peruse. We are almost through the place and there is a basket with marble eggs in it. A dozen or so, various colors. I pick up one and tell the story to a friend that is with us. I've told it before but appreciate that they didn't remind me, repeating it is therapeutical.
I could have purchased several of the eggs or the whole basket, for that matter I could easily go onto Ebay or Amazon and get a whole slew of them, but — I only buy one for memories sake as they present themselves
.
As I placed the egg in my stone fruit and egg basket at home I recalled it again, as Daddy told it.
"When I was a young-un, we collected eggs every morning and brought them in. The pickings were getting slim and my Daddy figured we had a snake problem. Well Mama had a basket on the kitchen table and it had these marble eggs in it, my Daddy looked at those eggs after he finished eating and took one out, later he went outside and put that marble egg in one of the hen's nest. Then one evening we came in from working the fields and there was this huge snake stretched across the dirt road, it just couldn't budge. Daddy got out of the truck, killed the snake and then slit it's swollen belly and got Granny's marble egg back. He took it inside, washed it off and put it back in that basket."
I was in North Carolina when Granny moved to the nursing home. I didn't get any of her marble eggs, don't know where they went, but I could very well have one of them in my bowl right now, I get them from thrift stores or yard sales or wherever they appear. My eggs could very well end up in a  resale store one day too, but the story hopefully will live on if I tell it, like my Daddy told me. I guess the moral of the story would be "Don't put all your eggs in one basket, put some in the hen's nest."
I think of him this morning — the historical eclipse, a day that makes the rhyme "Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon" seem logical. I think of the conversation we would have if he were here.
"Daddy, what are you going to do for the eclipse?" I'd ask.
"Well, it depends on what time it is. If it's nap time, I will be sleeping." And then he'd wink and wiggle his nose and tell me that he has built a contraption in his shed out of beer cans and scrap metal"
Don and I would laugh and tell him "No thank you, we bought some of those newfangled glasses that are going to protect us from going blind."
The sun rose this morning, bright and blazing on this day near Charleston, I'm about 30 minutes from where that hen house was, where Daddy was, where we were. We don't all get to choose where we are going to be on certain day's, like the object of Carly Simon's disaffection in her song lyrics, “You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun."  but — we can choose who we are going to be with. Don and I will go outside on the tailgate of the truck, have a cocktail, in celebration of an earlier happy hour and watch the anomaly in the sky with our glasses. Remembering the card board boxes we had in the early 70's and then I'll toast to the creator of our unnatural and natural wonder's and  to Daddy  "What does it look like from your side Daddy?"