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May 5, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
It was nature's version of a Mexican standoff.  Mallard mates resting comfortably on a little island, until an intruder makes its unwelcome appearance.

Greg and I are not sure what drama was unfolding here, but we've been able to piece together two possible scenarios:
1.  The ducks had claimed this little island as their nesting place, but the turtles had staked a prior claim; or
2.  The ducks had made this their nesting place, the female had begun laying eggs ... and the turtles were after the eggs.

We didn't stick around to witness the outcome, but I can report that it didn't end favorably for the ducks.  Today, a number of turtles were sunning themselves on the disputed spot.  The ducks were nowhere to be found ...

May 7, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
It hardly looks like the same place!  Twenty-four days ago, we parked our trailer on a site surrounded by trees that were mostly bare.  Today, the landscape is lush and green.  Compare these four photos, the first taken a day or two after our arrival, the last taken a couple of days ago. 

May 9, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
One of Don Pigeon's favorite stories is set in a Sun City Center (FL) nursing home.  Don and I were doing a Christmas concert for residents, and in setting up one number, Don explained that it was to be a song about moonshine.  To our surprise and delight, one of the wheelchair-bound ladies loudly proclaimed it, "My kind of song!"  We've chuckled over that for years, and often relate the story in concert.

I had a similar experience today, at the Asheville (NC) Manor assisted living facility.  I was providing the musical entertainment for a "mother-daughter" luncheon marking Mothers' Day (which is tomorrow).  Having just finished playing "Crested Hens," a beautiful tune with a somewhat unusual name,  I explained that the next tune also had an unusual name: "Whiskey 'Fore Breakfast."  One of the ladies seated directly in front of me said, "Sounds like a pretty good idea to me!" while another at the same table said, "What's unusual about that?"

Needless to say, the entire afternoon was filled with smiles and good fellowship!

May 10, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
Today's Mothers' Day.  In a little while we'll head over to the Givens Estates Health Center for a little Mothers' Day concert, but right now I am thinking of my own mother and grandmothers, and reminiscing about Mothers' Days gone by.

In my own family, Mothers' Day was an important church day.  I see TV families preparing a breakfast in bed for mom: burnt toast, runny eggs, and half cooked bacon.  Preparation for Sunday School and Church prevented us from presenting such a feast to my mom -- or could it have been my father's lack of kitchen skills?  Prior to Mothers' Day, we shopped for gifts and cards to be presented to my mother over a restaurant meal, but another important shopping trip was to the local florist, to buy corsages and boutonnieres for each of us to wear to church: a red flower meant that your mother was living, while a white flower indicated that she had passed on.  On the first Mothers' Day after my mom had died, I remember thinking, "I'd be wearing a white flower today," and I've had that thought each Mothers' Day since.  

Sunday School lessons always focused on some aspect of motherhood, or of honoring one's mother.  I always loved the church services, because in addition to honoring all the mothers who were present, they'd have special gifts for special mothers.  Almost always, they'd honor the oldest mother present, but over the years I saw them also honor the youngest mother, or the newest mother, or the mother with the most children -- those "contests" were so endearing!  In more recent years my church, a Baptist Church (and Baptists do not practice infant baptism), began to have baby dedication services and it was especially sweet to see all of the children, most of whom had been born in the prior year, welcomed into our congregation.

When my mother died, I wanted to find a Bible verse to engrave on her tombstone, but could not single out a particular verse or passage as her favorite.  Pastor Richard Englert came to the rescue, suggesting that she was described in Proverbs 31: 10-31, portions of which I've quoted below.

Who can find a virtuous woman?  For her price is far above rubies.  The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.  She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.  She ... worketh willingly with her hands.  ... She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.  ...  Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.  She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.  She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.  Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  ...  Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.  Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates. 

May 11, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
Yesterday's visit to Givens Estates was really special.  Givens is best described as a graduated-care facility: a retirement community that offers residents a choice of living options, according to what best suits their lifestyle/physical needs.  There are houses and apartments for those who live independently; as needs change, assisted living and health-care are available.  Greg and I were astounded by the sheer size of the place; and located as it is on old Biltmore Estate property, the views are spectacular.

We've visited many similar facilities over the years -- though none was this large.  And none that we've seen so far offers their health-care residents the constant company of two dogs, five cats, fish and birds.  This is the type of place I want to live, when it's my time to live in this type of place!  The dogs and cats roam freely; why, A.J., the big black Labrador Retriever, has his bed in the lobby, near the large fish tank.  A.J. and a pretty grey kitty, whose name I never learned, attended my concert.  Occasionally, I'd hear the clink of dog tags as A.J. shook himself, and once, the grey kitty wandered up front and rubbed herself against my dulcimer case (oh boy, does Maggie get excited when she picks up that scent!) but otherwise, I'd hardly have noticed the animals at all.  Kind of like going to visit at someone's home -- which is, of course, the exact effect that Givens is trying to achieve.

There was even a party, featuring home-made ice cream, following the concert.  And how I longed to have just a little taste of that ice cream; it's been so long since I had the home-made variety!

Back at home, we reunited with our own "therapy dog," Maggie Muggins, and Greg tried for a photo of Maggie and me, but she is quite camera-shy and this is the best we could do:

May 13, 2009 (Swannanoa, NC)
A few days ago, my cousin Norma accompanied me on errands to the TRAC galleries in Burnsville and Spruce Pine, NC.  TRAC -- that's the Toe River Arts Council, of which Greg and I are members.  There are many fine artists in Yancey and Mitchell counties, and TRAC does a terrific job of promoting them, and promoting the arts in area schools and the surrounding communities at large.

One of my favorite artists is Judson Guérard, Norma's son-in-law (hence, my cousin-in-law?).  Judson is a terrific glass artist, but don't take my word for it; take a look at his website.  We visited Judson's studio, in Toecane, that day as well.  Oh, you haven't heard of Toecane?  Why, it's a little less than a mile from Loafer's Glory.  You don't know where that is, either?  Well, it's about three miles away from Red Hill ... ummm ... 16 miles north and east of Burnsville ... umm ... a little over 50 miles away from Asheville.  Should you ever decide to go to Toecane, let the old mill (pictured at right) located in Loafer's Glory be one of your landmarks.

Toecane's a pretty quiet place.  I think that at one time it might have been a busy little town, located as it is above the river and the railroad tracks.  But though a freight train still rumbles through, it doesn't stop in Toecane any more.  There are a couple of old large commercial buildings that silently serve as witness to Toecane's former prominence among the mountain communities, a few houses, a church; Judson's studio occupies an old mercantile.  

The road from Loafer's Glory is the only paved road going in and out of Toecane.  It's pretty quiet, too, as you can see: these two dogs, who have appointed themselves official studio greeters (they are not Judson's dogs, though they do hang out at his place during the day), often lie in this bend of the road, giving them a good view of anyone who may be approaching from either direction.  To better understand just how infrequently cars do come along, click on the picture of the dogs!

I do love small towns.  I love quiet, out-of-the-way places even more.  Though it would not be practical for me, at this stage of my career, to live in a place like Toecane, I sometimes daydream about retreating from the busy-ness of the modern world to just such a place.  So I relish each and every visit!

(I invite you to check out my TRAC Artist's page, and while you're on the site, browse other artists' pages as well.  You may find yourself wanting to pay a visit to the Toe River Valley yourself -- give me a call if you do!)  

May 17, 2009 (Spotsylvania, VA)
Meet Elizabeth Fetch and Basil, the hound.  They are two of the characters we met in this opening weekend of the Virginia Renaissance Faire.

In real life, "Elizabeth" is actually Angi Bynum, formerly of the United States Navy and now employee of a Washington, D.C. area defense contractor.  (She's also one of the volunteer coordinators of the Faire -- one busy lady.)  Basil is a three-year-old racing Greyhound, now in retirement from the Sarasota (FL) Kennel Club.  The two are part of Her Majesty's Hounds, a not-for-profit group that goes one step beyond the "typical" Greyhound rescue club to do educational historical re-enactments.  Their audiences learn a great deal and have a great deal of fun ... "Elizabeth" and the other handler/owners have a great deal of fun, too, but from what I observed, the Greyhounds seem to have the most fun of all!  There was lots of happy barking and other playful behavior from these gentle dogs; contrary to popular misconception, they are not highly demanding and energetic pets, and in fact have been described as the "World's Fastest Couch Potato."  (The Greyhound's speed is second only to that of a cheetah!)  But when asked to run, as in this weekend's demonstrations, they do it with gusto!

May 24, 2009 (Spotsylvania, VA)
We've come to the end of our second weekend (of five) at the Virginia Renaissance Faire.  Must admit, at the end of the day, I was feeling about as sprightly as these two characters obviously feel!

The Faire is held on the grounds of the Lake Anna Winery, in Spotsylvania, Virginia.  Spotsylvania ... if I remember my American History lessons correctly, that town figured prominently in the Civil War.  As did much of this part of Virginia, apparently!  You can't drive more than a few miles without seeing an historical marker designating something that's significant either to the Civil War or the American Revolution.

We really haven't done any sightseeing yet.  We've talked about heading over to Charlottesville; maybe a trip to Fredericksburg or D.C. is in order, too.  The extent of our exploration, other than driving to and from the Faire, has been a trip to Mechanicsville, outside of Richmond.  An attempt to combine laundry day with grocery shopping at the Kroger (supermarket) turned into miles and miles of unnecessary driving, as apparently most of the residents of Mechanicsville have their own washing machines: unable to discover a laundromat by simply following our noses, we had a difficult time finding someone who could actually direct us to a coin laundry!  Here's the sorriest part of the tale: we made the special trip to Kroger because their online sales circular indicated that Boar's Head cold cuts were on sale; the particular Kroger we found ... doesn't stock Boar's Head.

That's life on the road for ya!  

May 25, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
There's an old show-biz adage that cautions performers against competing with dogs or kids for the hearts of the audience.  So, last weekend at the Virginia Renaissance Faire, who should precede me -- both days! -- but "Excentrik: Professional Showoffs": kids who were not only cute but oh, so talented ... and entertaining to the max!

Every "bit" in their act is labeled as "extreme" something-or-other.  In the photo at right they've plucked a young man, only a few years younger than themselves, from the audience and asked him to stand in between them as they toss juggling clubs to each other.  Only seconds before they begin juggling do they tell their hapless volunteer to try not to flinch as clubs whiz past his nose -- because if he backs up at all, he'll get whacked in the back of the head by clubs flying behind him!  The expressions that flickered across the volunteer's face ranged from fear to delight as he determined to stand perfectly still; the only muscles he used may have been the ones powering his ear-to-ear grin, as I'm not entirely certain that he even breathed during the routine.  At the end, the "showoffs" taught their volunteer how to grandstand a little bit, with an over-the-top, "extreme" theatrical bow that was met with wild applause.

The graciousness of those two young entertainers, in creating a memory for that kid, was even more impressive than their considerable juggling skill.

What you see in the photo at left is not a trick of Photoshop.  Yes, incredibly, the one young man does a back-bend, while the other perches on his lower abdomen for a brief juggling routine.  Forget the Ab Lounge, or whatever is the latest craze for toning one's midriff -- I want to know what that kid does to create those rock-hard abs: those "extreme" abs!

"Showoffs" they may call themselves; in reality they are anything but.  A showoff says, "Hey, you sit there and watch me have fun."  These guys, on the other hand, seemed to be saying, "Hey, let's have some fun together!"  They pull off some flashy stunts, all right, but the secret to their appeal is their intuition for creating a show that captivates and involves the crowd.  I caught at least part of their show four different times last weekend, and polished and rehearsed as they were, each presentation was just a little bit different, tailored to each unique audience.

So yeah, Excentrik was a tough act to follow!  A quiet dulcimer is not going to elicit the same sort of response as the antics of a pair of uninhibited young acrobats.  Yet the comparison is essentially the proverbial "apples to oranges."  The trick -- and my experience last weekend certainly reinforced this notion -- is in finding ways to engage people.  Extreme acrobats and extreme dulcimer players alike could learn a trick or two from these kids.

May 29, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
Today I ventured toward Fredericksburg for some errands.  My drive, skirting the Fort A. P. Hill Military Reservation along Virginia's Route 2, is a tree-canopied byway that passes through little outposts such as Villboro and Corbin before nearing some of Washington, D.C.'s outer sprawl.  

I was seeking benefit from that sprawl today, as I needed to make copies at Staples, make change at Bank of America, and shop at a supermarket.  Then I pointed the van toward the historic old town of Fredericksburg.  The town is charming, but highly congested.  Antique shops and cafés occupy buildings that were once home to hardware stores and pharmacies.  On one corner, there is an historical marker on the site of an old Revolutionary War hospital; currently occupying that corner is a "Ben Franklin" (crafts) store.  I wonder if there's even a good old-fashioned book store downtown any more?

I took a short drive along the Rappahannock River and was pleased to see people kayaking its gentle rapids and picnicking along its banks.

As to whether or not I was a bit disappointed overall, I haven't yet made up my mind.  I'm not sure what I expected.  In an area so rich in American history, maybe I wanted a little more delineation between the old and the new?  

June 1, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
One of the nicest aspects of the Virginia Renaissance Faire (VARF), for me personally, has been meeting other musicians.  The Faire's pretty informal, as far as "assigned" performances go, so on one occasion I invited Chris Upton, a piper, up for a couple of tunes; there have been a couple of other times when Chris and I shared the stage with harper Kathy Hutchins.  Much as I enjoy the art festivals and fairs that Greg and I do throughout the year, my solo performances can get a little lonely.  So it's been a nice change to play with others!  Yesterday, Kathy and I combined our back-to-back stage appearances for a delightful hour of swapping tunes and impromptu arrangements.  

Last weekend was "Pirate Weekend" at VARF.  You were probably wondering about Kathy's hat ... that explains it!  We saw all sorts of pirates, including one fellow who was a dead ringer for Johnny Depp, "Jack Sparrow" in "Pirates of the Caribbean" -- complete with dreads and eye make-up.  Next weekend's the Celtic Heritage weekend, and we are very much looking forward to that.

I'll be getting up before the sun this Friday (and the sun rises mighty early in Tidewater Virginia: about 5:30am).  The Fox-TV affiliate in Washington, D.C. is going to film live at the Faire site; it's a nice bit of free publicity for VARF.  Naturally, I volunteered to provide dulcimer music, and I'll be decked out in my Royal Stuart tartan.  Hey, President Obama, I bet Fox is not your favorite network, but could you please be watching, just this once?

June 4, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
Greg and I went to Virginia's Northern Neck today.  Our goal: to see the Chesapeake Bay and eat some seafood ... and, basically, to see what there is to see in the area.

We began by turning east out of our campground.  The first 18 or so miles of our route took us through some spectacularly out-of-the-way places, past acres and miles of knee-high corn and some other grains that I could not identify.  Every so often we'd pass by an early 20th century version of a convenience store, but otherwise pretty much all we saw were the family farms of yesteryear: a farmhouse and a few outbuildings surrounded by acres of some crop or a freshly-tilled field waiting for planting.  Oh, and there was the occasional church -- most often Baptist -- with its adjacent cemetery, all the headstones like silent sentries, and all carefully and obviously arranged to face due east.

It seemed like such a long and lonely 18 miles!  Eventually we came to US Highway 17, the very same road which runs through my childhood hometown in Florida.  Turning south on US 17 we began paralleling the Rappahannock River, which we would eventually cross at Tappahannock.  Tappahannock seemed a quaint, bustling little place, but we did not explore it, as we had a ways to drive to our intended destination, Reedville.  

After crossing the Rappahannock onto the Northern Neck, we continued to see a number of farms but also started to see more and more evidence of a still-thriving seafood industry.  And, interestingly, more of the churches were Episcopal.  We passed through the charming village of Heathsville, which began as the Episcopal Parish of St. Stephen's back in the 1650's.  Wow.

We finally came to Reedville, selected as our destination because of its description as "a small waterfront town with a history in the seafood industry."  Beautiful and meticulously maintained Victorian-era homes line the Main Street leading down to the waterfront.  And though it's quite evident that the place had developed around commercial fishing and crabbing ... we saw no restaurants, seafood or otherwise, that were open for lunch.  Luckily, the proprietor of one waterfront eatery, already at work in preparation for the evening, sensed our situation, and was kind enough to direct us to Cockrells' Creek Seafood Deli, which was literally "across the creek" though we had to travel a somewhat circuitous route to get back in there.  It was definitely a locals' place; we'd never have found it without help.  And even if we had somehow managed to stumble upon the place, we probably wouldn't have gone in, because from the outside it looks a more likely warehouse or packing house than dining establishment.  Once inside, though, we discovered a spotlessly clean fish market with counter service and a tiny, neat-as-a-pin "dine-in" area.  We arrived shortly before noon, and good thing we did, because within a half-hour, it was jammed and the line at the counter was almost out the door.  Our lunch was everything we'd hoped for, and more: a seafood "sampler," everything delicately fried, with flounder, shrimp, scallops, oysters, and of course a crab cake.  I will tell you right now, I do not particularly enjoy oysters fried, preferring them instead raw and fresh-shucked, but these were absolutely the best fried oysters I have ever eaten.  Enough servings of Cockrell's oysters might make me consider the fried variety to be a favorite!  The crab cake was so fresh and perfectly seasoned, the scallops so sweet and juicy, the shrimp, the flounder -- ah!  Well worth the trip.

So worthwhile was that lunch that I'm not even disappointed that we never actually got to see the Chesapeake Bay.  Our road atlas indicated that Reedville was right on the bay, but it isn't.  And without a proper map of the area, we feared spending countless frustrating hours trying to navigate those winding centuries-old paths.  (How have we come to be the only "road-warriors" who do not own a GPS?)  

June 8, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
Hard to believe there's only one weekend left in the Virginia Renaissance Faire (VARF).  This past weekend was Celtic Heritage Weekend -- no, really, that was the official VARF name for it! -- and, predictably, it was our best weekend yet, since that is the name of our production company!

Now we are relaxing at our campground in the country.  Maggie Muggins, too, is relaxing ... with a "bully stick."  Click on her picture for a hilarious pose in which she actually sort of looks as if she's smokin' a cee-gar.

June 9, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
What is it about the Civil War that continues to fascinate Americans, almost 150 years after the fact?  Much more than a topic in schoolchildren's history texts, this grim period fires the imaginations of re-enactors and scholars; even casual tourists flock to the battlegrounds that dot the country's landscape.  For many years, in my mind the war was purely academic: a chronology of dates and a roster of names to be committed to memory.  My cousin Michael and my childhood friend Clint Johnson were enthusiastic students of the war, so I figured it was just a "guy thing."  My first visit to Gettysburg changed my attitude somewhat, and with the recent discovery that my friend Amy enjoys re-enactments, well, there went my gender theory.

Because we are currently situated so near to Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania and Chancellorsville, and everywhere we drive there is another historical marker chronicling some aspect of the war, I'd begun questioning our collective Civil War fascination in earnest.  For clues I went to the Internet.  One source suggested that people are still interested because there have been films and documentaries on TV, and people become curious about subjects they've seen on TV.  I can't really buy that one as the primary reason.  Money for a television project is generated by showing that the project will have popular appeal; thus interest generates TV programming, not the other way around.  Another source said that this war captures our interest more than any other because the war was fought over slavery.  That strikes me as an over-simplification, both as to the cause of the war and as to the reason for our interest.

Lacking any clear answers didn't interfere with our going to the Fredericksburg Battlefield today!  It was Greg's first visit ever to a Civil War battlefield, and my first to this particular one.  We started at the Visitors' Center, to get an overview of the battle and what we were likely to see.  We marveled over the uniforms on display, and how small of stature their wearers must have been.  We inspected guns and rifles and ammunition used in battle.  We saw Bibles and prayer books that had been found scattered about the battlefield in the days following the fight.  Eating utensils ... a drum ... sewing kits ... old tintypes ...

... and then Greg quietly mused, "You know, I can't keep from thinking, 'What a waste.'"

We continued to explore the museum's artifacts and eventually headed out to the Sunken Road Walking Trail, walking its entire length and ending up at the National Cemetery, and all along Greg's words continued to haunt me: What a waste.

Later, after we'd returned to the campground, Greg remarked that he understood why people want to visit and preserve these battlefields.  I immediately said, "Tell me," but the understanding was more of an impression that he had, rather than something which he could articulate.  I turned my attention to uploading pictures from my camera, selecting and captioning some for inclusion in this blog, all the while remembering What a waste, and somehow, unwittingly, I stumbled upon an answer to my question that, for now, satisfies me.

What separates the American Civil War from any of the other wars we've fought is that we were fighting amongst ourselves.  Not Southerners against Northerners, nor slaveholders against abolitionists, we were neighbor against neighbor, sometimes even brother against brother.  The war was fought in our own backyards and there were very few families who did not directly suffer its effects.  The American Civil War was the first in which journalists reported from the front, so we have first-person accounts; furthermore, we have photographic accounts, not just idealized pictures drawn from someone's memory after the fact.  And we have all those artifacts: those Bibles and mess kits and tattered photographs collected from our backyards that keep this war real and personal still today.  Television documentaries, most notably Ken Burns's "The Civil War," certainly have had an impact on the surge in interest over the last couple of decades.  But it's the way Burns told the story -- through letters and journals and other first-person accounts, rather than a dry presentation of facts and figures -- that made the war real and personal.

I'll let the philosophers and political scientists debate the real causes of the war, whether or not it was necessary for the cessation of slavery, whether or not it led to improvements in our society and government ... and whether or not it could happen again.   

 After our sobering and insightful visit to the Fredericksburg Battlefield, we had lunch at the nearby Colonial Tavern.  They bill themselves as the Home of the Irish Brigade, and though none of the Irish Brigade could've actually spent an evening here, it is a fine tribute to those Irish volunteers.  It's about as "authentic" as any pub I've ever visited.  They know what Half & Half is -- over the years I've learned to be shy about asking for one, due to the blank stares -- if not downright insults -- I've endured.  Greg and I both opted for a lunch special: a generous helping of "home-made" corned beef piled onto rye bread along with sauerkraut, thousand island dressing and Dubliner cheese.  Yum!

For more photos of our visit to Fredericksburg, click on either of the small photographs in the above entry.        

June 12, 2009 (Sparta, VA)
Our time in Virginia is nearing an end.  Tomorrow begins the final weekend of the Virginia Renaissance Faire: its official title is "A Midsummer Night's Dream."  Does that mean that there will be faeries afoot?  On Monday we'll be heading back down to North Carolina, this time to the High Country, to Banner Elk and surrounding environs.

So this morning I am reflecting on our experiences over the past month, looking ahead to the next adventure, and listening to heavy artillery and cannon fire.

Yes, you read that right.

Our campground is no more than five miles or so, as the crow flies, to Fort A.P. Hill.  We've skirted the installation a few times in trips up US Hwy 301, noticed the occasional sign that alerts drivers that they are near the boundary of a U.S. Military installation and admonishes them to keep moving, and once paused -- very briefly! -- to read the billboard that guards a little-used entrance to the reserve: "Where America's Military Sharpens Its Combat Edge," the sign proclaims.  So it's no wonder that we do occasionally hear the training exercises.  Actually, from where we are, it sounds no louder than distant thunder, so it's not at all disruptive; even Maggie Muggins, who's usually pretty quivery during a thunderstorm, pays no attention at all to the sounds.  I don't know the difference between types of aircraft -- except that I can distinguish a helicopter from an airplane! -- but every so often we see a helicopter that looks like pictures I've seen of Blackhawk helicopters.  Man, are they impressive!

June 15, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
The Virginia Renaissance Faire (VARF) has ended its run and we have moved down to North Carolina, in preparation for our next three shows.  Below are some photos from the last weekend of VARF.  You'll see: the royal processional that took place every day about 11:30am ... "militia" recruits that included not only cast members but audience volunteers ... HM Elizabeth and one of her ladies in waiting ... Elizabeth addressing her subjects ... the merry townsfolk who added such an element of joy to the Faire.  Click on each thumbnail to see the full-sized photo.

Many Renaissance festivals tend to be like vast costume parties.  That's pretty much the case at VARF, too, for the patrons.  But VARF cast members are historical re-enactors.  Each of the costumed persons you see above is not just a knight, a lady-in-waiting, a commoner; each has his/her own name and place in Elizabethan society.  They develop their characters to the n^th degree, for example, they are keenly aware of their rank and the colors and fabrics and furs that Elizabethan custom entitles them to wear.  Their characters are single, married or widowed; they can tell you their place of birth and their current home; the commoners are not just everyday persons but the town thief, the madwoman, a milking maid.  It all makes for a highly educational experience for fairgoers.

June 16, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
When your home is the road, "home" is wherever your Airstream happens to be parked -- at least it is for us.  But some places feel more like home -- it's inevitable.  During our recent stay in Virginia, Bowling Green was the nearest town of any size.  Something about Bowling Green reminded me, at least visually, of the Arcadia (FL) that was my childhood home.  But the only time I spent in Bowling Green was at the Food Lion (supermarket) or the laundromat.  I did have a memorably sweet encounter one washday, watching clothes tumble in the dryer alongside an 87-year-old man who seemed hungry for conversation.  He'd been married for 64 years, he told me, and in all that time he'd had to do the wash only a handful of times.  His wife was tending to their terminally ill daughter, thus the domestic chores had fallen to him.  He seemed to want to talk about family -- understandably so -- and I spent a poignant half hour listening to his reminiscences of growing up on a small farm ("We grew all our own vegetables and we had plenty of chickens and pigs and a mule."), of building their first home (in which he and his wife still live), of raising five children and seeing all of them graduate from college ... and of the loss of one and impending loss of another of those children.  In speaking of his life's low points I detected no bitterness or regret; in speaking of the high points there was no immodesty or false pride.  "She's never seen me drink liquor nor utter a curse word," he said of his relationship to his beloved wife.  I thought him a remarkable and admirable individual, and now and again my thoughts stray back to him: as a person who'd spent his entire life in Tidewater Virginia, he'd witnessed a lot of change ... and even more so because, as a person of African descent, he would have to be the grandchild or perhaps great-grandchild of slaves.  How I wish I could've spent more time learning from him!

Need I say that it was the best washday I've ever experienced?

June 17, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
More thoughts on "home":  

Despite the many friends we made at the Virginia Renaissance Faire and the one memorable friend from the laundromat at Bowling Green (see June 16 entry), I never thought the eastern part of Virginia felt like home.  But go across the Appalachian ridge, into the Shenandoah Valley, and that feels very much like home to me!  I feel a great connectedness to certain parts of the country; sometimes I don't quite understand why.  Of course, when we get into Western Carolina, I feel most connected, and I understand that it's because I have so much family history there.

Is that the only reason?  Late yesterday afternoon, a pick-up truck pulled into our driveway, and out hopped a smiling young man holding a cantaloupe and a brown paper bag.  He told us that he'd passed by a few times, admiring our Airstream, and just felt like he wanted to stop in and say "Hi."  He introduced himself, told us that his family owned the produce stand just down the road, and then made us a present of that cantaloupe, and a bag of fresh, hot boiled peanuts.  We visited for a few brief minutes and then, almost as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, saying, "If you ever need anything, I live just up the road ..."

I am a real sucker for boiled peanuts, and Greg and I both like cantaloupe -- and that cantaloupe was perfectly ripe, and deliciously sweet.  The produce stand just earned a customer for life ... at least, the part of our life that we spend in Banner Elk.  And that simple, gracious act welcomed us ... home.

June 19, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
Yesterday my brother, Marsden, and his wife, Shelia, came to see us in Banner Elk.  We had a wonderful time visiting, made a trip back in time to the Mast General Store in Valle Crucis (see July 5, 2007 entry), and had a spectacular meal a la "Chef Gregoire."  Today the four of us, along with adventure dog Maggie Muggins, headed up to The Roan -- Roan Mountain State Park in Tennessee.  First stop: to set up for tomorrow's Rhododendron Festival.

Next stop: to see the rhododendron blooms themselves.  We drove up to Carver's Gap, elevation 5512 feet, and took a short hike up the Appalachian Trail (AT).  Click on each of the small photos to see some of the spectacular beauty which seemed to be waiting for us around every bend.

The Roan, we learned in a brief visit to the visitors' center, is something of a naturalist's curiosity, and has been studied by the likes of John Muir, founder of the Sierra Club, and John Fraser, for whom the Fraser Fir that you decorate each Christmas is named.  It has high elevations that are more Alpine than Appalachian in character, slightly lower elevations that boast great biodiversity, and curious balds that are inexplicably hostile to the growth of trees.  I can't believe that I never visited this place before!  There is so much to see, and so much to learn.

Maggie Muggins, the intrepid trail dog (who has now hiked on the AT in its five southernmost states) sniffed and examined, and even drank from a spring that is probably the headwaters of one of the nearby streams.  But business was pressing, so Greg and I (and Maggie) turned back towards "home" in Banner Elk to prepare for tomorrow's festival.  We left Marsden and Shelia up at Carver's Gap, and Maggie and I have already made plans to return to The Roan next week.

June 24, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
Today the CEO (Maggie Muggins) and the President (yours truly) of Celtic Heritage Productions went for a hike on the Appalachian Trail.  (No, really, we did -- unlike the Governor of South Carolina, who said he'd be hiking the Trail, then headed off for a tryst in Argentina!)  We left the CFO (Greg) back in Banner Elk and us two gals went up to Carter County, TN, where the trail crosses Hwy 19E.  We chose to head south because we could hear rushing water in that direction -- we do love a mountain stream!

Things were rockin' along pretty smoothly until we came to the bridge pictured at left.  We'd already crossed two footbridges without incident, but I knew that my sweet, elderly dog, enthusiastic hiker though she may be, could never safely cross that bridge with its gapped and uneven surfaces pieced together with wire mesh.  I, on the other hand, would not be able to "ford" the stream: it ran only a couple of feet below the bridge but the banks were much too steep for me.  Maggie nevertheless seemed very determined to get to the other side, so we made a compromise: I crossed the bridge, holding her leash while she scampered down, waded the stream, and came up the other side.

We walked for a ways more (going toward Hump Mountain, if you are familiar with this stretch of trail) and then turned around and headed back for the van.  To our surprise and delight, we ran into a through-hiker who was relaxing at one of the shelters; "Island Boy," his trail name is, because he lives in the Florida Keys.  Another through-hiker joined us a few minutes later.  We spent a comfortable few minutes in their company and then resumed our walk.  In the brief time spent with those hikers I realized that the "culture" of the Appalachian Trail is one of extreme self-sufficiency but also of extreme helpfulness.  A through-hiker's very survival demands that s/he be self-sufficient ... at the same time, it's wonderful to get and give tips that will help make the survival easier.  How different from our everyday lives!

June 28, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
A few months ago I made a list called "Top 10 Questions Asked During The Fair."  The list is pretty standard for the various fairs and festivals that we do; however, there are occasional regional differences.  For example, anytime we're within 50 miles or so of the University of Tennessee, I'm constantly asked if I know how to play their fight song, the old-time tune "Rocky Top!"  When I'm in the High Country of North Carolina, in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain, people want to know if I'll be performing at the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games.  This past weekend, true to form, I heard over and over again, "You know, you should play at Grandfather!"

How can I explain to them that, a few years ago, I made a couple of investigatory phone calls about this very thing ... and the word that came back through a "friend of a friend" of one of the organizers was: "Marcille won't be asked to play Grandfather because she's too Irish."

(Whoever made that judgment had evidently looked at the spelling of my last name, noted that it was Wallis and not Wallace (as in William Wallace, Brave Heart), and concluded that I must be Irish, not Scottish.  For the record, the surname Wallis is derived from the Old English word waelisc, or stranger, the term that Anglo-Saxons applied to the fierce Celtic tribes of Wales and the West of England.  The Scottish surname Wallace originated when designating "a person from Wales."  So I'm probably of distant Welsh ancestry ... as was William Wallace.)

But "too Irish?"  That's funny, because there are some Irish-Americans who won't claim me either.  When asked, "What county are your people from?" I say "Antrim."  Quite often, there's a quick retort: "Oh, so your folks are not Irish, they're from Northern Ireland."  (Hmmm ... I understand a bit about Irish history/politics, and in brief summary, after centuries of oppressive British rule, the Irish Republic was created, leaving six counties in the north under British rule.  If you consider that this renders the people from the north, from Ulster province, not to be Irish, why do you get all misty and sentimental when you hear "A Nation Once Again" or "Four Green Fields"?)

I hasten to point out that I have never experienced this discrimination when dealing with people who still live in Ireland or Scotland.  My CDs are sold in stores in Ireland, right alongside CDs which are not distributed anywhere but Ireland.  My digital sales are strong in Ireland; one of the top downloads is my treatment of "The Rose of Tralee."  I count among my friends some artists well-known in Ireland; they have always been extremely supportive of my music.  They don't hold it against me because some of my blood is Scottish!

Speaking of supportive, there's been no one more supportive than Ranald Alasdair MacDonald of Keppoch, Chief of the Honourable Clan Ranald of Lochaber Mac Mhic Raonuill.  Not only did he help me with tune research on my CD, "Celtic Heart," he played that CD during the celebration publicly recognizing him as Chief, held in Fort William, Scotland, a couple of years ago!  And he invited me to perform at this summer's first annual Highland Games staged by his Clan, an invitation which, unfortunately, I had to turn down due to prior commitments.

The question is pretty obvious, isn't it?  If I'm not "too Irish" for a Scottish clan Chieftain, how am I "too Irish" for Grandfather Mountain Highland Games?  Oh well ... sigh ... maybe next year ...

June 29, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
The Adventures of Maggie Muggins, Intrepid Trail Dog, Part Three  

Maggie and I returned to Roan Mountain State Park today.  Because I was not feeling completely well, we did not go up to The Roan's higher elevations, but stayed near the visitors' center to do two trails in the immediate area.  Our two choices were the easy "Peg Leg Mine Trail," and the more difficult "Cloudland Trail," described as a "moderate" hike.  Surely our recent short treks along the Appalachian Trail (AT), along with numerous walkies throughout the cove where we're staying, qualified us for a "moderate" hike; we chose Cloudland.  We were less than a quarter of a mile in, before I was longing for the relative "ease" of the AT; Cloudland Trail is definitely not for the casual walker!  It starts out along the Doe River, and the large rocks that we clambered over were probably part of the ancient river bed eons ago.  I was so scared of a fall!  But soon, we turned away from the river and began our ascent over the first of a couple of small ridges.  There was a marked difference in habitat between the first part of the trail and the higher elevations -- very interesting.  Maggie got confused only once, when our path was littered with bark that had been stripped away from a tree, probably by a bear in search of insects.

After completing the Cloudland loop and pausing for a drink, Maggie and I made a beeline for the Peg Leg trail.  This trail leads back to a mid-1800's -- or perhaps earlier -- mine that once produced high quality iron ore which was smelted, then shipped to steel mills in Ohio and Pennsylvania.  Click on the thumbnail at right to see the entrance to the mine.  What you probably won't be able to see is the wording on the small sign: "Danger Keep Away."  The mine some time ago caved in, and nature has been slowly reclaiming the area.  In fact, so natural has the area become that we happened upon a doe who was browsing among the bushes.  We startled her, and she startled us!  She effortlessly bounded up a small ridge, then stood watching us from on high as we continued on our way.  Maggie, of course, was not so cool -- she was very, very excited: "I want to chase that deer!"

After completing the Peg Leg Mine Trail, we waded in the Doe River for a bit, before returning "home" to our quiet cove near Banner Elk.  The vigorous exercise followed by our walk in a cold mountain stream, and now the cool night air, have worked their magic on us -- I think we'll sleep very soundly tonight.

July 7, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
Today's 07/08/09.  We're relaxing at our "home" in Banner Elk.  Planning a trip to Grandfather Mountain Highland Games (actually hearing an ad for it on the radio, as I write this).  In less than a week, we'll be headed for the rocky coast of Maine.

We are so blessed with good friends!  Our stay in Banner Elk has been courtesy of long-time friends from Port Charlotte, who own a vacation cabin just outside of the Banner Elk city limits; just down from the cabin are three full RV hook-ups -- perfectly level, good connections, perhaps the nicest RV sites we've ever parked on.  It's so much more peaceful, and therefore from our point of view more enjoyable, than staying in a campground.  We hear almost constant birdsong, see the occasional deer; usually the only machinery noise we hear is a tractor or some other agricultural equipment, which is almost music to my ears.  And to top it all off, we have ripening blueberries!  I actually sampled two of them today.  Hope they'll be ready before it's time for us to leave this place!  

July 10, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
The last couple of nights it's been very cool here.  Very cool: we've been sleeping under a down blanket!  Cool enough to have evening campfires.  Click on the thumbnail at left to see the faces of two very happy campers.

Tomorrow we head up to Grandfather Mountain, for the 54th Annual Gathering of the Clans.  It'll be the first time in quite a few years that we've attended a Highland Games or a Celtic Festival as patrons!  

July 12, 2009 (Banner Elk, NC)
Yesterday we left the peaceful confines of Banner Creek Drive to spend a few hours on MacRae Meadows, a place where we never were to be out of earshot of the sound of bagpipes!  It was the 54th Annual Grandfather Mountain Highland Games & Gathering Of The Scottish Clans.  "Grandfather" is, I would guess, the largest gathering of the clans in the U.S., if not the world.  I'll have to check my facts on that one and get back to you, but for now, trust me ... it's Biiiiigggggg.  The festivities include Highland Dancing and Scottish Country Dancing, Scottish Athletics and Track and Field (including a marathon), competitions in Scottish Harp and Fiddling and Piping (of course!) ... 

and Clans, lots of Clans, practically every one you've ever heard of and a few you probably haven't, all surrounding a regulation-sized quarter-mile track.  There were MagGregors and MacKintyres and MacDonalds, Camerons and Campbells and Colquohouns, Pollocks and Forresters and Wallaces, even a clan seemingly for those who have no other clan: Clan Bubba.  (I should point out that Clan Bubba's tent is not to be found amongst those of the more "established," "accepted" families, but rather in the vendor area.)

To get up to MacRae Meadows, we drove down into Linville, parked near the Baptist Church, and bought tickets for a shuttle operated by the Crossnore Volunteer Fire Department (VFD).  The shuttles were old school buses -- and I'd have to think those buses had been outfitted for elementary school kids, since there was no room for my legs, let alone Greg and his 6'3" frame!  We didn't take the highway up the mountain -- that roadway would be reserved for shuttles coming back down the mountain.  Instead, we took a fire road going back through the woods -- and how happy I was that our driver had probably done some of his VFD training on that road!  I was seated next to the window with a good view down the mountainside.  I've never had much fear of heights, nor gotten very nervous driving/riding on winding mountain roads -- thank goodness! -- because looking over that narrow verge was, umm, impressive.

Once we unfolded our bodies from our cramped seats, we clambered off the bus and joined throngs of people all wanting a taste of Scotland, if only for a day.  There's so much going on at "Grandfather," all of it seemingly at once.  Consider the three photos below, all taken within a couple of minutes of each other.  In the photo at left, the bagpiper is playing in solo competition while the fellow in the lime green shirt is competing in one of the heavy athletic events (Tossing the Sheaf); the colorful tents in the background are clan tents.  The young men in the foreground of the center photo are setting their starting blocks for a sprint, while in the background just to the left of center is one of the tents sheltering the Highland Dance competition; to the right of center there are a few more clan tents visible.  In the background of the photo at right are a couple of the peaks that give Grandfather his distinctive profile, while in the foreground are some of the crowds milling about ... more clan tents. 

             
Click on each thumbnail for full view.

We saw our friends, the band Albannach and author David R Ross, from the most recent Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival.  We had a nice long (though somewhat rainy and wet) visit with fellow "road warriors" Lisa Lynne (harp) and George Tortorelli (flute).  We saw a few other musical acts, too, most notably Scythian, a quartet of versatile and talented young musicians who really know how to energize and engage a crowd.  Youth was everywhere in evidence: from the Highland Dancers to the sprinters to the pipers, the next generation is keepin' the tradition.  Long may you live, "Grandfather!"  Here's to the next 54 years!

Today I headed over to Valle Crucis for morning worship service at the Church of the Holy Cross (Episcopal).  Though I'm Baptist, I find meaning and connection in the more formal rites of the Episcopal Church.  And connection is what I sought this morning: my grandfather was once a student at the Mission School adjacent to the church, and no doubt had attended worship services in this very sanctuary, almost 100 years ago.  

Greg and I have been in this area for almost a month, now, and yet just today I finally got around to attending worship in Valle Crucis.  But, somehow, today's the day I believe I was meant to be there, because the dismissal hymn/organ postlude was ... are you ready for this? ... A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.  

July 14, 2009 (Carlisle, PA)
We're on the road.  Greg and Marcille, on the road ... that's not exactly breaking news, is it?

A fairly long day of driving has brought us from North Carolina into southern Pennsylvania.  We traveled along one of my favorite stretches of highway, Interstate 81 as it runs through Virginia's Shenandoah Valley.  Though there's lots to see all along the route, I like it best once we're north of Harrisonburg, where the ridges form a spine which parallels the Interstate.  High up on those ridges is the Skyline Drive, which is more or less a continuation of the Blue Ridge Parkway into the Shenandoah National Park.

Tomorrow we expect to drive into Massachusetts, stopping for the night just west of Boston, as we push on to our destination: Maine!    

July 15, 2009 (Phillipston, MA)
Some of you, seeing the exit ramp for "Asylum Street" and "Capitol Avenue," will remark that we must've taken a detour to Washington, D.C.  Others will say that the city pictured couldn't possibly be D.C., because in that city, Asylum Street and Capitol Avenue would be one and the same!

I can't exactly argue with either point.  Some strange things happen in our nation's capitol.  But the city in the photo is actually Hartford, Connecticut.  We passed through Hartford today, still headed toward Maine.  Now we're camped for the night in peaceful, tiny Phillipston, Massachusetts.  Tonight's Teen Night here at Lamb City Campground.  I think we're all too old to qualify for admission, but if we're lookin' for action, there are some shuffleboard courts just across the road ...

July 17, 2009 (Northport, ME)
Life sure can be tough for musicians on the road.  It's a long, long drive from the High Country of North Carolina to the Mid-Coast of Maine.  Unable to pull our trailer over parts of the route suggested by MapQuest, we probably added five hours to MapQuest's estimated time for the trip!  It was a relief to cross the Piscataqua River that marks the boundary between New Hampshire and Maine, even though it would be several more hours until we reached our destination of Northport.

To find us on the map, trace the Maine coastline until you get to Rockland, then look north along US-1 to Camden; our campground lies a bit farther north in Northport, and the Maine Celtic Celebration, which begins tomorrow, is in Belfast.  Neither Greg nor I has ever been this far east in the United States; we're not many miles from being in the Atlantic Time Zone.  I don't know how early sunrise actually occurs here, but I can tell you that I awoke this morning to the sun shining brightly on my face -- at a quarter to six!

It is just beautiful here.  Maggie and I took a walk in the woods this morning, and the smell of balsam and cedar was almost overwhelming.  There's plenty of birdsong to be heard, much of it unfamiliar to my ears.  Last night Greg and I had carryout from Angler's Restaurant, next to Baits Motel in Searsport: haddock, shrimp, scallops, and clams, more than we could possibly eat and all of it delicious.  Today we set up for the Celtic Celebration.  The photo at right is a view from the front of our vendor tent; at the back of our tent is a hedge of rose bushes, and their perfume fills the air.  Tonight's another seafood night: we found wild-caught Live Maine Lobster for $4.99/pound at the local Hannaford Supermarket.

Yes, life sure can be tough for musicians on the road.  But you aren't quite feeling the pain, are you?

July 20, 2009 (Belfast, ME)
We are relaxing and doing a bit of sightseeing after last weekend's Maine Celtic Celebration.  We had a great time, and are already making plans to return for the 2010 Celebration!  Belfast, as we were to discover, is wonderfully supportive of community activities, and keenly aware of its Celtic heritage to boot.  It was a great delight and an honor to participate in a festival that celebrates the various aspects of Celtic heritage: in addition to Irish dancing and Scottish heavy athletics there were nods to other Celtic traditions as well.  For example, there was a three-legged race, dubbed the Isle Of Man Three-Legged Race.  ???  You see, the flag of the Isle Of Man bears a triskele of three legs.  Sure, the name of that race was a bit contrived, but why not?  What a wonderful idea to bring attention to the fact that there are five other "Celtic nations" along with Ireland and Scotland!     

On Saturday I played a few "chunes" with Nick, who played a mean cittern, using an instrument he'd built for himself.  On Sunday, Bob dropped in with his bodhran; he's an all-around percussionist who also plays dulcimer and step-dances.  Swapped CD's with angel-voiced Amy Robbins-Wilson.  Naturally I could not spend a great deal of time listening to all of the musical talent that performed, but every once in a while I'd catch a little bit of a familiar melody.  It was interesting, hearing slightly different versions of favorite tunes, and I guess some of the differences can be attributed to being so close to "the Provinces."

This morning, one of our first orders of business was to let Maggie wade in Belfast Harbor.  I know that water was probably ice-cold, but she loved it!  We wandered around the park, where very little evidence of the weekend's festivities remained.  But that's not to say that people weren't using the park!  Belfast has a number of parks and green spaces, and folks really seem to cherish them and use them.  A couple of kayakers paddled in the harbor, while landlubbers used the walking trails.  It's apparently been quite a rainy summer, so far, for "Mid-Coast" Maine, and people seemed eager to take advantage of today's beautiful weather.  In fact, although Saturday started out quite rainy, it did not seem to dampen festival attendance.  As one local put it to me, "We are so used to having bad weather here, we just ignore it if there's something we want to do.  If we waited for good weather, we'd never go out of doors!"

Next on the agenda was a nice lunch at Rollie's: a burger with Guinness Bar-B-Q sauce and a side order of home-made chips.  We then wandered into the "Shamrock, Thistle & Rose," a gift shop with an impressive variety of imported Irish and Scottish goods.  We wandered up the street a bit, poked our noses into a few more shops, then returned to our campground in Northport.  

I've already remarked on several features of Belfast that have intrigued me; let me mention two more: bookstores and organic products.  I have been astounded by the number of bookstores in the area!  My prize for "best name" goes to The Fertile Mind.  Isn't that a great name for a bookstore!  And the local emphasis on healthy and sustainable living is incredible.  Even in Hannaford's, the town's big chain supermarket, there is a much bigger -- and better-priced -- selection of organic and "natural" products than I'm used to seeing, and a number of other small shops offer some real choices for those who want to live mindfully.

I do realize that we've seen Belfast at its absolute best, Saturday's soggy weather notwithstanding.  I may not be as enchanted, come January and piles of snow and slush!  But right now I'm really taken with the place, and almost hate to leave tomorrow.  Yet I know that good things await us in Massachusetts: the Chicopee Public Library and the Blackstone Valley Celtic Festival.  And reuniting with friends, always the sweetest aspect of our travels!

Click here to see more photos from Belfast    

July 27, 2009 (Southwick, MA)
Greetings from the Pioneer Valley, the agricultural belt of Massachusetts!  There are farms everywhere and we've been enjoying fresh, local produce: corn, peaches, blueberries, tomatoes; why, even our campground gets into the act, with chickens and ducks, sheep, goats and pigs.

We've also enjoyed a few trips to Collins Tavern (in nearby West Springfield) during our short stay.  My June 16-17 posts were musings on "home."  Call Southwick/West Springfield another place where we feel very much at home!

The gig at Chicopee Public Library was great fun.  Normally, the Thursday night library concerts are held in a lovely little natural, cultivated sort of theatre-in-the-round, but the threat of rain forced us indoors.  No matter; the audience (which included a number of friends who know us from The Big E) laughed and sang and clapped along.  It was the first such concert for me in quite a while, actually; I think I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the "musical lecture" setting.

Blackstone Valley Celtic Festival (BVCF) was held at Indian Ranch, a huge campground and big-name concert venue on the shores of beautiful Webster Lake.  (In a way, I was reminded of our own Peace River Celtic Festival, whose venue is the Punta Gorda Elks Lodge on the banks of the Peace River.)  From our vendor booth at the entrance to the "Celtic Village" we could not only hear the main-stage acts, but look beyond to see others who were enjoying boating, swimming and water-skiing on Webster Lake.  One of the more unusual aspects of the festival was the New England Raptor Exhibit.  There were several species of owls and hawks, some of which, according to handler Marla Isaacs, have symbolic meanings in Celtic culture.  I really fell in love with this little fellow, a barred owl, with his huge soulful eyes.  Cuddly as he appeared, however, I am mindful that his sharp beak is designed to rip flesh!

BVCF also introduced us to a wonderful up-and-coming band, Burning Bridget Cleary.  The band is essentially a trio consisting of two young women still in their teens, Genna Gillespie and Rose Baldino, and Rose's father Lou, although they are often joined in concert and on recordings by a percussionist.  Rose and Genna both play fiddle, as you see in the picture, although both sing as well.  Lou's role last Saturday was primarily accompanying the young ladies on guitar (and he is fabulous in that role, and so gracious) but I've since listened to one of their recordings and discovered that he plays solo guitar as well as a number of other instruments, and also sings.  Rose and Genna have been greatly influenced by the likes of Liz Carroll and Martin Hayes (two of the most prominent names in Irish fiddling) and as a result they have a gorgeous sound, but they do not content themselves with trying to dazzle audiences with sheer brilliance of talent.  They are constantly in motion, dancing, laughing -- in their closing number, they went out into the audience to play.  High energy and youthful exuberance.  I was somewhat reminded of the Dixie Chicks and their sassy confidence and showmanship.  If you like traditional Celtic music, you will love the sound of Burning Bridget Cleary, so I am including a link to their website here: www.burningbridgetcleary.com.  There you will be able to listen to sound samples, check out their bios, and learn the history behind the woman from whom the band takes its name, Bridget Cleary herself. 

July 28, 2009 (Southwick, MA)
It's been a long time since I visited Scotland -- too long -- last time I was there was 19 years ago next month!

That whirlwind tour was taken with my good friend, Ann Margaret McKillop.  (Good Scottish name, eh? -- and you will recognize her as the harper on my CD, A Celtic Heritage.)  We were determined to get the absolute most of our trip, so prior to our departure we had armed ourselves with innumerable tour books; Inside Scotland, Haunted Britain, and Let's Go are three of the titles I remember, though there were plenty more.  We'd studied the books, highlighted a few "musts," but, predictably, as if we didn't have enough books already, we added to the stash with pretty much every stop.  One of the most useful additions was an Ordnance Survey (O.S.) Atlas of Britain, the scale of which was something like three or four miles to the inch, so that practically every physical detail -- every burial cairn, every "healing well," every ruined castle -- could be shown.  I still laugh when I reminisce about driving to a destination, me at the wheel, Ann Margaret in the passenger seat with all those books swirling about her feet; we'd see a signpost for a potentially interesting feature and Ann Margaret would scramble for first one guide, then another, saying, "Cross-Referencing, Cross-Referencing," all the while.  It's a wonder to me now that we saw as much as we did!  And we did see quite a lot, though I'll admit that we might have seen just as much simply by "following our noses" -- armed with the Atlas, just in case we got lost of course!  I still have that Atlas, outdated though it may be now (although when you're talking about 1,000-year-old landmarks, how outdated could it be?) and I look at it from time to time, re-tracing our route that I'd marked with orange highlighter, and smiling at all the memories that it brings back.

If I were to go back to Scotland today, I think I'd arm myself with the current O.S. Atlas and one other book: Desire Lines, written by David R Ross.  Ross is the "biker historian" who accompanied Albannach to the 2009 Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival (and who, God willing, will be back to Caloosahatchee in 2010).  Desire Lines is Ross's own travel guide to Scotland, with meticulously detailed directions to places that figure in Scotland's history and pre-history.  I've been enjoying reading this book and seeing Scotland through Ross's eyes.  Much of his focus, at least in the parts I've read so far, is on battle history, particularly those battles led by William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and Bonnie Prince Charlie -- and no wonder, as those three men are all subjects of other books written by Ross.  What I like about Desire Lines is the personal touch: Ross is an unapologetic patriot, and he often takes you, the reader, to a viewpoint and asks you to imagine what Wallace (or Bruce, or whomever) might have felt as he surveyed this same scene.  His stories are often quirky, and occasionally quite grisly, but he does a good job helping readers to understand Scotland's ongoing struggle for its national identity.  If you've never had any interest in Scotland at all -- and if that's not a part of your heritage, I don't blame you one bit for that lack of interest -- then this book is not for you; reading it would be unlikely to kindle any interest on your part.  But if you have ever lived in Scotland, or visited Scotland, or desired to visit Scotland, then I think you would find this book fascinating, as I do.  

It's quite comprehensive, and one would be unable to trace all of its points of interest in one visit, or even several.  But, next time I go, this is my tour guide.  (Are you ready, Ann Margaret?)     

August 4, 2009 (Montgomery, NY)
We've just finished a somewhat hectic week.  After Blackstone Valley Celtic Festival (see July 27 entry, below) we found ourselves with a rare weekend off.  I persuaded Greg to stay in Massachusetts for some R&R ... then things started hoppin'.  So much for R&R.  But aside from the more mundane, but oh, so necessary tasks -- such as getting the 90,000 mile check-up on the van -- two very exciting events are in the works.  First, plans are underway for us to bring the 10th Annual Christmas With The Celts road show to the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center.  Second, we've finalized the line-up for the 7th Annual Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival: check out the official festival website for details.  So maybe there wasn't as much time to kick back and relax -- heck I never got my Chicopee kielbasa and rye (maybe next time, Susan?) -- but our time was eventful, productive and even at times exciting, so I'm happy!

Now we're on our way to Ohio and the opening, this weekend, of the Shaker Woods Festival.  We've stopped for the night at Winding Hills Park, in Orange County (yes, of Orange County Choppers fame), New York.  We had been to this park once before, but only briefly (to empty our holding tanks), and I thought at the time that I'd like to return some day to stay and do a little bit of exploring.  Today, luckily, we were close by when Greg decided it was time to stop driving for the day, so here we are!  It's very quiet and pretty, just as I thought it would be.  Cicadas are singing in the trees (a sound which I do not mind at all), and fireflies are starting to make an appearance, as I write.  We've taken Maggie on a couple of walks, where we've discovered a little swamp, plenty of colorful and interesting moss and fungi, and, curiously, the remnants of some dry stone fences.  (Click on each thumbnail for detail.)

August 5, 2009 (Bellefonte, PA)
Tomorrow we complete the last leg of our journey to Ohio.  

Yesterday we had an amusing encounter which started out innocently enough, though somewhat counter to "campground culture."  For the most part, when we pull into a camping spot, we're given a pleasant nod by neighboring campers.  Usually, campers tend to mind their own business; after all, it's a tendency toward independence that attracts a lot of people to camping.  Sure, after a few days in a particular spot, someone might strike up a conversation with you, but when you're a "transient," an "overnighter," you're mostly left alone.

Occasionally, however, you do meet up with someone who, obviously craving company, seems to have been lying in wait, just for your arrival.  Such was the case yesterday.  We were setting up the trailer for an overnight stay, when the overly-friendly neighbor across the way came to offer a bit of advice and kibitz a little.  He started by asking how long we were staying; we stated that we'd be there only the one night since we were musicians on the road.  He didn't address that response; instead he started to offer more free advice, then changed his tack by taking note of our Airstream Trailer.  "Gosh, they don't make those things any more, do they?"  Without interrupting his work, Greg replied that Airstreams continue to be made and that ours was, in fact, only a couple of years old.  

"Yeah," the man said, "there was a bunch of gypsies that used to live not far from here and they all lived in old Airstreams."  I mused, half to myself, "Hmmm ... Travelers."  He brightened with recognition: "Yeah, that's what they were called, all right."  He went on to say, "They were a pretty strange crowd, always kinda kept to themselves, even married within their own group.  They didn't take none too kindly to outsiders."  I nodded to Greg, inadvertently talking over the man's further commentary when I said, "Sounds like he's describing Irish Travelers, doesn't it?"  I hadn't heard exactly what he was saying, but I could tell that his tone had become a little less than complimentary, in discussing those Irish  Airstream gypsies.  Changing his course just one more time, our neighbor then returned to a previous topic to ask, "So what kinda music do you play?"

He blanched, but only briefly, when Greg, not betraying one ounce of emotion, said, "Irish music."

Funny how, after that exchange, we were left alone ...

August 11, 2009 (Elkton near Lisbon, OH)
We're sitting here at Lock 30 Woodlands Campground, listening to The Eagles (the band, not the bird) and, off in the distance, thunder.  A storm may be rolling in, but Life's pretty good here.

The next bit that I share with you will be more meaningful to those who already "know" Blackjack, the Sage Of Lock 30 Woodlands.  (If you'd like to read Blackjack's story, click here.)  Blackjack, philosopher, wise guru that he is, has apparently decided that Maggie Muggins will never accept him and thus has ceased all efforts to befriend her.  However, he continues to acknowledge her presence -- every time he trots past our campsite, he pauses to lift his leg to the nearest tree!  Here's what I think of you, snippy ol' gal.  It drives her nuts!  Greg and I think it's hilarious!

We're here, of course, to participate in the Shaker Woods Festival.  Last weekend was the opening weekend and it was a good one, although almost unbearably hot on Sunday.  I'm not complaining, though; we have had such a run of good weather during this road trip; believe it or not, we have not had to run the air conditioner in our trailer a single time!

We're thinking of going to nearby Rogers, OH, for the Rogers Community Auction this Friday.  It's billed as "The Tri-State Area's Largest Open Air Market."  (the tri-state area being Ohio, Pennsylvania and West Virginia)  You may have surmised, from its billing, that it is a flea market.  But the Rogers Community Auction -- aka Rogers Flea Market -- is not your average garden-variety flea market.

Locals call it The Dirt Mall.

With over 1300 vendors, there's something for just about everyone at the dirt mall.  Looking for some fresh picked corn?  Some used books?  Amish-made furniture?  Tie-dyed clothing?  Perhaps you were in the market for a new puppy?  It's all there, and oh, so much more.  About the only thing they don't seem to have is a hammer dulcimer player, but I'm not going there to play, I'm going to shop!  Last time we were there, we picked up some nifty bungee cords, a couple of heavy-duty extension cords, and a bizarre-looking bright yellow 5-way electrical outlet that looked like a handy gadget but didn't get much use -- until we attended a Susan Tedeschi concert a couple of months ago.  She had one on stage, so now we know it's very, very cool, and we use it every time we have even the flimsiest of excuses to do so.

We're having a good time!   

August 12, 2009 (Elkton near Lisbon, OH)
The radio station we're listening to (Y-103 out of Youngstown, a classic rock station) is on a nostalgia kick, occasionally playing something off the old Woodstock album.  This weekend, after all, marks the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, and listening to those old songs is a lot of fun.  I'm sure that there are people who long for the good ol' days, but don't count me among them.

I learned that lesson a few years ago, when I was still teaching school.  As a high school teacher, my primary discipline was math, but for three blissful years, I was involved in a team-teaching situation where I also taught some logic and critical thinking lessons.  I will never forget the time that the exercise was to decide which was a better time in which to live -- 1992 or 1892 -- and then write a brief paper defending your decision.  When it came time for the class to share their "arguments," I was stunned at the number of students who made a pitch for 1892 as the more desirable period, and most of them had some pretty compelling arguments.  In general, their perception was that families were stronger, life was more focused on community, there were no distractions like TV and radio, people had stronger moral values.  Students who favored 1992 cited medical and technological advances that had increased our quality of life.  An interesting debate ensued, with the students weighing what we as a society had gained in 100 years with what we had lost.

But then Michelle, one of the black students, authoritatively spoke up, "I can tell you without a doubt that my life is better in 1992 than it would have been in 1892."  The predominantly white class sat silently for a few seconds as they considered the truth of Michelle's statement.  All argument ceased, as who among those students would have continued to champion an era in which their friend would have been considered a second-class citizen?

That's us, though, pining after the things we think we've lost, without stopping to consider the things we've gained.  Back in the summer of Woodstock, fuel averaged about 35 cents a gallon; the price of a new car averaged a little more than $3000.  A first class stamp was 6 cents.  Wow -- those prices look pretty attractive compared to today's prices, and especially if I could pay yesteryear's prices with today's earnings!  But the median household income back then was $8,389.

Incredibly, there is one group of folks who are trying to pay today's prices with earnings at 1969's rates.  Dairy farmers, I have recently learned, are getting the lowest prices for their product that they've gotten in 40 years!  Seems absurd, doesn't it, since the 1969 price of a gallon of milk was $1.10.  I don't pretend to understand the business of dairying, but this one thing I do know for sure:

That can't be good.  For any of us.    

August 14, 2009 (Elkton near Lisbon, OH)
Yesterday I made a run to the post office in tiny Elkton, Ohio.  After my postal errand, I walked across the road to more closely inspect an interesting and aged pair of buildings that I've been zipping past for years, always meaning to stop but never making the time.  The building in the foreground is the Elkton Free Church, established in 1840, and the smaller building just beside it is the White House, built in 1842 for Sabbath School, singings, township meetings and other public gatherings.  Sadly, both buildings are locked up tight, and the windows are too high off the ground for me to be able to peer inside.  Tattered curtains hang at the windows of the church building, and both buildings could use a little TLC and some coats of paint, but the grounds are nicely maintained.  As relics of Ohio's founding days, oh, the stories those buildings could tell!  I wasn't sure what was meant by "Free Church" -- and I'm still not, though I did consult Wikipedia in hopes of finding out.  My best guess is that the church was founded during the Free Church Movement, a movement "created to do away with the system of pew rents, wherein persons or families rented or bought the title to a particular church pew," resulting in the dethroning of "those with money, power and influence."  Populist sentiment runs pretty high in this area, and perhaps it always did!  It's also possible that the Elkton Free Church was Presbyterian, as the term "Free Church" is often used in Northern Ireland and Scotland to describe churches of the Presbyterian tradition.  (Oh, and notice the two entrances to the church; most likely men and women were expected to enter via separate doors.)

The trip to the Elkton Free Church was not the highlight of the day, however!  That occurred much earlier, when I was still puttering around the trailer before starting my day.  Greg had run an early morning errand, and he excitedly came back, asking me to get dressed quickly because there were some stray kittens that needed our help.  He'd noticed two little balls of fur by the side of the road on his way to the store, making a mental note to check them out on the return trip; when he came back, there was a woman standing nearby, watching two wary kittens who would scamper away if she tried to get near them.  She promised to keep an eye on the kittens, hoping to shield them from cars speeding along the country road, while Greg came to get me.  By the time we got back, the woman was nowhere in sight, but one forlorn little kitten, mostly white with black and grey mottling, huddled just off the pavement.  On our approach, the kitten walked just out of reach, then hunkered down again.  This happened once more; clearly the kitten did not want to be caught, yet was too sick or hurt or weak to make its way into the woods.  Its apparent litter-mate watched from behind some large leaves; this other kitten appeared to be in much, much better condition.  

We decided that this was a mission for the Humane Society so, while Greg pledged to keep an eye out for the two kittens, I returned to the campground to get the number for the Humane Society.  To my dismay, the women in the campground office, all animal lovers themselves, clucked their tongues and rolled their eyes when I briefed them on the situation.  Apparently, since this is a farming area, people frequently abandon unwanted litters of kittens figuring that some farmer will discover them and adopt them for barn cats.  Animal Control flatly refuses to make efforts to rescue such abandoned kitties, and the nearest "Angels For Animals" chapter is many miles away.  One of the women promised that if I could capture the kittens, she would take them to the "Angels."  That, at least, was promising, so I went back to the trailer to get some milk and some paper plates, and to don a pair of hiking boots.

I returned to find both Greg and the little white kitten in pretty much the same positions I'd left them.  Climbing down into the ditch, I poured some milk into a couple of plates, then squatted down and waited.  Eventually, the little kitten came to examine, then to drink, the milk.  I was able to gently scoop her into a soft towel and place her into a box.  Wow!  That box was not for her; she made a heroic attempt to escape, but we managed to contain her.  As much trouble as I had in capturing the sick one, I knew I'd have no luck with the healthy one -- plus I didn't want to delay getting attention for our woeful little captive -- so Greg and I abandoned our notion of rescuing both kittens and went back to the campground with our pitiful little charge.

The nice woman who'd said she'd make the "Angels" run for me had had a change of heart by the time we returned.  She rescues dogs, she told us ... but her son has been asking her for a cat; perhaps her son would be just the person who could nurse this sickly little creature back to health!  While I waited for Greg to fashion a "cat carrier" out of an emptied CD case and for the woman to fetch some milk, I watched as the little kitten began to make some efforts toward cleaning herself.  She must've sensed she was going to be in good hands, as she very calmly allowed herself to be transferred to the makeshift cat carrier that was lined with an old towel and had a nice little bowl of milk in one corner.

Greg saw the woman -- who is an angel herself, I know! -- and received the report that kitty is already on the mend.  She ate so hungrily that she actually made herself sick, initially, but then settled down and is already gaining strength.  It'll take some time for her to get over the trauma that she suffered -- we think she might have been attacked by raccoons -- but she is already applying the survival skills she learned in her brief time in the woods: she has let the resident Beagle know, in no uncertain terms, that she will be queen!

Ah, doesn't stuff like that make your heart glad?

You'll be wondering, of course, about the fate of the litter-mate.  I'd checked the ditch later yesterday afternoon (after my post office run) and saw not one, but two more kittens, and possibly heard a third rustling around in the bushes.  They made tracks, putting plenty of distance between themselves and me, as I approached.  Today, I visited the site again, and there was no trace at all of the kittens.  But don't think they've been written off, just yet!  The woman who adopted the kitten for her son has some friends interested in adopting any others that can be caught, so we've given careful directions to the ditch ... and we're hopeful that, whatever the outcome, these once unwanted and abandoned little creatures will have a happy life.

For a follow-up to this story, click here    

August 19, 2009 (Elkton near Lisbon, OH)
Yesterday I was driving on my weekly shopping run when, what should I see in the sky but a Scottish saltire!  There was unfortunately no place to pull off the road and snap a picture, but it thrilled my heart and it's something I will probably remember for a long time.

The Scottish saltire is one of the oldest national flags of all, its use dating back to at least the 12th century.  St. Andrew, Patron Saint of Scotland was, according to legend, crucified on a cross with diagonal beams, hence this flag is also known as the St. Andrew's Cross.  The origination of the saltire -- a blue flag bearing a white diagonal cross -- is another event of legend.  The story goes that, sometime around the 8th or 9th century, a combined army of Picts and Scots (Celtic tribes who lived in Scotland) under King Hungus were fighting against the Angles (a Germanic tribe) of Northumbria and their leader, Athelstan.  The night before battle, as King Hungus prayed for deliverance against the enemy, St. Andrew appeared to him in a vision and promised him victory.  The next morning, the white cross of St. Andrew was seen by all in the blue sky, encouraging the Picts and Scots while striking fear in the hearts of the Angles.  The Picts and Scots emerged victorious, and the Anglian leader Athelstan was slain.  The vision of St. Andrew's Cross in the sky, and the ensuing victory, were seen as a miracle, and over the next few centuries St. Andrew's Cross evolved from a purely religious symbol into the national emblem of Scotland.

And yesterday, I saw it in the sky, just as did my ancestors so many, many generations distant!  How cool is that!

August 20, 2009 (Elkton near Lisbon, OH)
One of the minor and somewhat curious aspects of our travels around the country is the constant adjustments we must make to time.  The vast majority of our work is done within the same time zone, so the adjustments are not to our clocks but to our bodies.  There are great variances within the Eastern Time Zone: Belfast, Maine, where we worked last month, is located at about 69 degrees west longitude, while our current location is at about 80 degrees west longitude.  Last month, we had full sunlight at about 5:30am.  This morning, as I write, the sunlight isn't as full by 8:30am!  The effect of this, of course, is that it was a whole lot easier for me to "rise 'n shine" in Maine than it is here in Ohio!  On weekdays it doesn't matter so much, but on show weekends, it can be tough.  Even Greg, a confirmed "day person," sleeps in later, the farther west we go.

The one who gets most confused is, of course, Maggie Muggins, who can only tell time by her little body clock.  She has certain routine tasks that she likes performed at certain times of day -- and when that day is altered by adherence to "clock time" rather than "sun time" she can get more than a bit bewildered!

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