Autumn In New England (From somewhere in New York, originally written 10/9/07)

We're headed toward Northern Ohio for Christmas In The Woods.

After the close of The Big E, I was so happy at the prospect of spending a few extra days in Massachusetts -- seems like my whole life I've heard about "Autumn in New England!"  This year, autumn was a little different: extreme record-setting heat delayed the leaves' changing color.  Click on the thumbnail at left to see a photo taken on October 3, and then click on the thumbnail at right for a photo taken just this morning.  Despite the lack of color and the peculiar haze in the air (due to the unseasonal heat), I'm sure you'll agree that these scenes are really beautiful.

The only activity we permitted ourselves during the last week was visiting with the good friends we've made in Western Massachusetts over the past few years.  One evening I got the grand tour of the area from my friend Peggy.  We drove through her hometown of Holyoke, and through Easthampton, Southampton (everywhere a Hampton, Hampton), and had a spectacular sunset dinner at Tavern On The Hill, in Easthampton.  We talked and laughed for hours!

We also spent some time at Collins Tavern, which Greg and I had discovered on our very first trip to the area, five years ago.  The view you see at left is the very one that caught Greg's eye as we were tooling around in a totally unfamiliar area, trying to find materials for our Big E display.  "West Springfield's Best Kept Secret," he mused, "Looks like a friendly place.  Let's stop in after we've finished our errands."

It was a little after lunch time when we got back to Collins.  The menu, hand lettered on a dry-erase board, boasted items such as Sausage Grinder -- $2 ... Meatloaf Sandwich -- $1.75 ... Pot Roast Soup -- $1.75 ... and at the bottom of the board, the phrase I Can't Believe It Myself.  I tried the soup, and I couldn't believe it, either.  It was goood!  We made several stops there before the fair, and on some nights, stopped in after the fair closed.  It was a great refuge from the busy-ness of the fair, a great place to grab a bite of non-"fair food."  And, gradually, we made friends.  Over the years since, we've made even more.

At Collins everybody knows your name ... like "Cheers" of TV fame, without the dysfunction!  On one of the front windows is painted the slogan, "You're a stranger but once" and it's the truth.  Bob LeDoux, the hard-working but ever-smiling owner, is the soup chef and chief cook, and he genuinely likes to see people well-fed and happy.  His daughter, Melissa Cauley, is another one of the hardest-working people I've ever known.  Melissa's vision for Collins has brought a grill and fryer and some delicious new temptations on the menu, like the Philly Cheesesteak, sweet potato fries, and the oddly-named but delicious Buzzy's Big-Ass Kielbasa Sandwich, but the prices remain unbelievably low.

Here's a public "thank-you" to Melissa and her husband, John, for all they've given us over the years: storing our display set-up in their basement, accepting shipments of merchandise for us, finding interesting places for us to have dinner; most of all, smiles and encouragement and good friendship.  And thanks to Bob for the gorgeous jacket, embroidered with a Collins Tavern logo, that he gave to Greg.  Hey, Bob, you wondered if Greg would ever be able to use a heavy lined windbreaker down in Florida -- you gave it to him less than a week ago, and he's already wearing it here in New York!  What a perfectly well-timed gift!  I Can't Believe It Myself!

Blackjack (From Elkton, near Lisbon, OH, originally written 10/22/07)

The past 10 days in Ohio have been for the most part unseasonably warm, and the leaves slow to change to their autumn hues.  But in the last three or four days we've been treated to a riot of color as the trees have finally begun to break into their rich golds and yellows; deep, almost purplish, reds; and my favorite of all, a shimmering color that's too soft to be red, yet too vibrant to be orange; I've decided it's God's Own Red, and it takes my breath away every time I see it.

Our Ohio place of residence was the Lock 30 Woodlands RV Resort, "officially" located in Lisbon but actually closer to tiny Elkton.  It may be the nicest campground we've ever stayed in, with all of the campsites forming a single-file ring around a huge partially wooded infield.  I'm a little too spoiled to declare it perfect, as we had only intermittent cell phone service and no cable TV, but there was WiFi, a spotless laundry, a game room with pool, foosball and arcade games, and a library.

And there was Blackjack.  When we first arrived, I was a little suspicious of the large black dog that wandered around the grounds.  Since campgrounds are usually very strict about dogs being on leash, I assumed that he must be a stray, or a wayward resident of some nearby farm.  But after observing him a couple of days, I noticed that he made rounds, visiting select campsites, hanging out for a brief period, then moving on.  One day as I left the laundry, he loped over towards me and began to follow me back towards our site.  Knowing that he might not be welcomed by our own pooch, Maggie Muggins, I turned to him and firmly said, "No.  You stay."  To  my amazement, he obeyed.

A few hours later, Greg and I were sitting outside with Maggie when the black dog, quietly and with bowed head, began pacing back and forth at the entrance to our site.  It was as if he were asking permission to visit.  What a polite dog (if a dog can be polite)!  We called to him; slowly and cautiously, he approached us.  But Maggie would have none of it!  She strained at the end of her chain, barking and growling, defending her little territory against this intruder.  So the black dog made a dignified retreat (if a dog can be dignified), as if to say, "I do not go where I am not wanted.  There are plenty of others who welcome me and I don't need to waste my time."

I was sorry for the snippy behavior of my pet, so I followed the dog until we were out of Maggie's sight, then called to him.  He immediately lay down and rolled over which, if you are a dog lover, you know is the dog's way of signifying that he's not a threat and doesn't consider you to be one either.  I petted the huge head and rubbed the belly and as he turned to face me, saw that he had only one eye.  "Poor old fellow," I thought, "what's your story?"  His collar said that he was Blackjack, and listed an address that looked familiar; perhaps the address of the campground itself.  Greg came over then, and the two of them had a brief visit, before Blackjack made off for the rest of his rounds.

Next day I was at the laundry when one of the workers drove up in a golf cart, and who should be her passenger, but Blackjack.  So I asked her about him, and was told that he was "sort of the campground dog."  As to the eye and the slight limp, I was told that in his younger days, Blackjack was an inveterate chaser of cars, who liked to pretend to bite at the tires.  But one winter day, the truck that he was chasing slid on a patch of ice, and Blackjack was hit.  Badly injured, he ran off into the woods -- to die, they thought, and though they searched and called, he was not to be found.  But two days later, Blackjack came back.  It took a while for him to mend from his injuries, and his blinded eye had to be removed, but he did recover, and his tire-biting days are long past.  Nowadays, Blackjack trots alongside certain vehicles, occasionally barking, noisily, happily, but always at a safe distance.

I suppose Blackjack's story is much like the story many of us could tell.  We engage ourselves in foolish pursuits, the possible negative consequences of which are so obvious to practically everyone but ourselves.  Sometimes we encounter suffering and pain -- and not necessarily of the physical kind.  The wisest among us learn from the experience.  But the wisdom is in two parts: one part is the specific lesson learned; one part is in the approach to the lesson.  Dogs have the right approach -- they may appear to possess human virtues such as politeness and dignity, but they are incapable of the bitterness and self-recrimination that we humans wallow in after a setback.  And they certainly are incapable of destructive wishful thinking -- you know, the one where you think over the bad situation and analyze it to determine the specific error that led to your injury, and then you spend lots of time wishing that you could continue your behavior unchanged except for that one outcome.  If Blackjack were human, he may have decided that the blame lay with the icy road conditions, rather than chasing cars!

But dogs aren't human -- thank goodness! -- they're dogs, and they live in the here and now, rather than in the what if and if only.  I've long suspected that God gave us dogs as examples of unconditional love, faith, loyalty, trust, living in the present and so much more; yet I know that God's lessons come through whatever "teacher" we are most in tune with.

I'd like to say that Maggie and Blackjack eventually became best buddies, but that's not what happened.  Oh, there was the time that Greg ducked inside the trailer to fill Maggie's water dish, and returned outside  to find that she'd somehow slipped her lead and was heading full-tilt toward -- you guessed it -- Blackjack.  We held our breaths as we watched the two dogs circle each other, sniffing at pawing at each other.  When we called to Maggie, Blackjack turned toward us with a grin (if a dog can grin) and then galloped right over to where we were standing, Maggie frisking right behind him.  When it was Frosty Paw (a frozen treat for dogs) time that night, we gave Maggie her treat, and Blackjack one too (he happily ate both the ice cream and the paper cup!).  After they'd had their little frolic that afternoon, and later had eaten their treats in companionable silence, Greg and I figured that Maggie had finally warmed to Blackjack.  But it was not to be.  She continued to snarl and snap whenever he offered to come on our site ... and he continued with his philosophical acceptance of her behavior.

Good-bye, ol' Blackjack, 'til next year!  You taught me a lot in a short period of time.  Good Boy!    

Maggie Muggins at Biltmore (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 5/14/08)

We are now staying in what we consider our home away from home: Swannanoa, North Carolina.  Endured a terrific wind storm on our first night, but since then, it's been pretty tranquil.  We do love it here.

Today, Maggie Muggins (our dog) and I went to the Biltmore Estate, which is currently celebrating its Festival Of Flowers.  The two of us gals had previously visited the Estate's Riverbend Farm back in July (click here for a recap of that adventure), so we concentrated our sightseeing on the gardens adjacent to Biltmore House.  The photo at left is one of The Mags examining water lilies in the Italian Garden.

Visiting gardens with a dog is probably as much fun as visiting a circus with a child -- minus the excited chatter!  Maggie wanted to explore every path, sniff every tree, delight in wading through the ivy that covered the ground.  Her senses must have been overwhelmed, especially with the scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and rose that perfumed the air. 

I wonder how many people visit the grand Biltmore House without ever venturing into its gardens?  The house, its furnishings, its priceless works of art are indeed a wonder to behold and not to be missed.  But inside the house, one must keep moving along with the long line of visitors; there's no place to stop and take time to process the experience.  There are several Flemish tapestries, for example, that have all sorts of Biblical or classical imagery woven into them, and I've often wished that I could pull up a chair with a friend and take time to identify every scene or event depicted in those tapestries.  Impossible!

It's all different in a garden.  There's plenty of time for contemplation, for study ... for simple enjoyment of nature.  Take a look at the picture sequence below.  Maggie had to choose to cross stepping stones over a rushing stream in order to continue on our path.  Pretty scary stuff for a dog!  She hesitated at first (so did I) but figured out how to get across, because she wanted to experience everything.  Instinctively, I suppose, she knew that there were great rewards beyond that obstacle.  If she were able to talk, she'd probably tell you that her instincts were right!  It reminds me of a quote that my grandmother had in her house: "You're nearer God's heart in a garden, Than anywhere else on earth."

Thoughts On the Natural World (From Boone, NC, originally written 7/8/08)

Long before I'd ever even imagined doing a craft show in the High Country, I'd come to this area as a sightseer.  The building that houses the Highland House Ski Shop, pictured at left, has delighted me as a landmark for as long as I can remember.  It's at the intersection of Highway 105 and Highway 184; once upon a time this group of buildings was a rather lonely little beacon that signified you'd come to the road leading up to Banner Elk and Beech Mountain.  Now it's one of many buildings in a shopping area called Grandfather Village, in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain.  

Charming as the Highland House Ski Shop is, it's not the most noticeable architectural feature of the immediate area.  I'd have to say that designation belongs to a high-rise condo that is perched atop nearby Sugar Mountain.  That huge, glaring white building is visible for miles -- and while it may offer its occupants a spectacular view, it is a jarring sight to anyone else.  A monument to someone's failure to blend with the environment, it should be a mandatory field trip for every student of architecture -- Just because a thing can be done, doesn't mean it should be done.  Look at what you shouldn't do.  If you're curious about this monstrosity, you can look it up for yourself -- I don't want a picture on my website as a constant reminder that there are people out there who have such disregard for the natural world!

Greg and I went into Banner Elk for errands today, and, on a whim, we checked out the Grandfather Campground.  That's where I managed to get this photo of Grandfather's profile.  I'd almost despaired of being able to get a nice picture of Grandfather Mountain, as it seemed I was never in the right place at the right time.  

Grandfather is the highest peak in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and is certainly one of the most recognizable peaks in the world.  I read recently that there are smooth round stones, like the ones you'd find in a riverbed, near the top of Grandfather.  If they're commonly found at the bottom of a river, how'd those stones get on top of a mountain?  Geologists say that 750 million years ago, these rocks were carried by rivers and deposited in a valley.  A continental collision pushed that valley upward, making it into a mountaintop.  Amazing.

There are so many other fantastic natural features in this world, many (if not most) of them created by similarly cataclysmic events.  I once asked my father, a man of science who was a devout Christian, what his beliefs were with regard to the creation of the world -- there are Christians who flatly deny that anything on Earth can be more than a few thousand years old ... as there are scientists who offer geological evidence as proof that the Bible is false -- what did Daddy believe?  We were standing on the rim of Tallulah Gorge at the time, reading about the forces of nature which produced this deep gash in the Earth's crust anywhere from 250 to 500 million years ago.  Without hesitation, Daddy referred to the second verse of the first chapter of Genesis: "And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep."  No timeline is offered, nor even implied, in this portion of the creation story, Daddy said, so it more or less rendered moot any argument by either side: the passage does not rule out the possibility of seismic events and floods which occurred hundreds of millions of years ago, thus -- in this instance, at least -- there is no conflict between belief in science and belief in the Bible.

Oh.  He sure had a way of explaining tough concepts in a way that even a child could understand!

Road Food (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 7/29/08)

"So you're constantly on the road, traveling all over the place," an acquaintance recently remarked.  "Where's the best food?"

That's an interesting question for us, because generally we avoid eating meals at chain establishments, with their generic menus that are pretty much the same all over the US -- or the world.  We prefer instead to patronize local establishments and sample the local culture.  It's not always easy to stay away from the chains, particularly on travel days.  Take today, for example.  Breakfast was coffee and a muffin from Sheetz (a fuel stop/convenience store popular in Virginia and Pennsylvania).  Yesterday, however, we each had coffee and a buttered roll from Renee's Hot Stuff Deli, in Montgomery, New York.  Mmmm ... those buttered rolls.  Doesn't sound like much, 'til you try 'em.  But only in New York!

Where's the best food, you say?  Well, New York does have a lot to offer; they do have the best buttered rolls, hands down, and any New Yorker will sing the praises of New York style pizza.  Fact is, in New York good Italian food is practically a guarantee ... but they don't have the best Cuban food; that distinction belongs to La Teresita, in Tampa, Florida.  Certain areas of New York offer the most amazing Chinese food ... but El Pirata, in Arcadia, Florida, will amaze you with their Mexican food.

We really don't eat out all that much.  We cook "at home" a lot, using as much locally grown and produced food as we can.  (Not too much point in traveling, is there, if everything's got to be the same as it is back home?)  So here are some of our more memorable culinary experiences: a mix of restaurants we've enjoyed, and things we enjoy fixing for ourselves.  The list is in no particular order:

Asheville, NC -- Barley's Taproom (it's not exactly New York style pizza, but it's awfully good) and Wild Wing Cafe (best wings anywhere, and if you go to the weekday buffet, you can try six different flavors)
Burnsville, NC -- Garden Deli (lunch is not just a specialty; it's the only meal they serve, and they only serve it six days a week)
West Springfield, MA -- Collins Tavern (world's best soups, hearty sandwiches, and hand-cut fries) and Memo's Deli (their breakfast is a great start to the day)
Columbiana, OH -- delicious locally-grown produce, especially corn, and a sausage ring sold at Sparkle (the local grocery) that's as good as any you might find anywhere ... even in New York
somewhere near New Waterford, OH -- a little shop that has the best, sharpest cheddar spread and makes yummy pepperoni
Great Lakes Region -- pike, walleye, and perch (I can never get enough fish)
Nashville, TN -- Jack's Bar-B-Q (by all means, visit the honky-tonks, see the legendary Ryman Auditorium, catch the Grand Ol' Opry but DO NOT miss Jack's)
Mount Dora, FL -- Sunshine Mountain Bakery (I keep sampling, thinking that eventually I'll find something there that I don't like -- but it hasn't happened yet!)
just about anywhere in FL -- buy some fresh shrimp, take 'em home and boil 'em up

It's About Time! (From Black Mountain/Swannanoa, NC, originally written 8/4/08)

"Use it up; Wear it out; Make it do ... Or do without"  (WWII era -- or earlier? -- slogan)

This was the prevailing philosophy all through my childhood.  I grew up in rural central Florida, where some goods and services were not always easily available, although I suspect that even "city kids" who grew up pre-1970's or 1980's had to apply this thinking to some extent.  Surely none of us could have envisioned the myriad choices that consumers can make today -- or dreamed of a time when it might actually be cheaper to throw something away than have it fixed!

Now, of course, thanks in part to the "Green" movement, things are starting to come full circle.  Though our culture has allowed us -- even encouraged us -- to take pride in having the luxury to toss aside even "gently used" items for something more stylish, nowadays it isn't always so cool to carelessly discard an item that may still have life.  When my watch recently quit keeping time, I initially had the sense of dread that usually precedes "major" shopping trips (yes, there are some of us for whom too many choices is, in fact, a curse).  Then, I remembered -- did memory serve me correctly? -- hadn't I passed by a watch repair store in downtown Black Mountain?

Yes!  Pellom's Time Shop, and the cardboard sign in the window read, simply, "We carry watch batteries."  I pushed open the door of the narrow storefront, and was immediately transported into yesteryear: old wooden display cases and counters filled with clocks of all shapes and sizes and vintages.  Clocks and old cigar boxes piled into this corner, clocks covering the counter, clocks hanging on that wall.  And a little hanging display case that had quite an array of watches.

I handed my useless watch to the quietly smiling, soft-spoken, man behind the counter (who I presume to have been Mr. Pellom, himself) and asked him if he'd be able to tell me whether it could be fixed or if it'd be cheaper to just buy a new one.  "Whether it's more expensive to you dead or alive, in other words?" he quipped.  He disappeared behind a partition at the back of the shop, and I turned my attention to the watches in that hanging display case, should I need to buy a new one.  It was an odd assortment, to be sure, but I saw a couple of timepieces that would serve me nicely.  In practically no time at all, Mr. Pellom returned with my good-as-new watch, having replaced the battery and given its running parts "a bit of oil."  The price for this service?  $3

Couldn't have bought a new watch for anywhere near that low sum.

I was glad, because that watch (a Timex) and I have been through a lot together.  For example, because I can't play guitar while wearing the watch (on the wrist of my strumming hand) I usually remove the watch just prior to a performance.  However, there have been times on stage when I've found myself picking up the guitar, only to discover that -- Yikes! -- I'm still wearing my watch.  I've quickly stripped it off and tossed it aside -- more times than is probably good for it -- and it always "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'" just like the old TV ads claimed.

Before I left, and because there was one pretty and unusual watch that had caught my eye, I asked Mr. Pellom about those watches in the hanging display case.  "Oh, they're not for sale," he murmured, and then as an afterthought, "but if their owners don't come to claim 'em pretty soon, they might be."  

"Times are tough;" he said, "folks who've found themselves out of work need to buy food and clothes more than they need to pay for their fixed watches."  Without a trace of bitterness or self-pity, he added, "Don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep this up."  What could I say to that?  He wasn't one to commiserate, so I thanked him and turned toward the door.  My heart leapt a little to see an older couple entering the shop; Pellom's Time Shop was still in business.

Sandwiched as it is between two of Black Mountain's gift boutiques, Pellom's probably does get notice from a fair number of tourists -- after all, that's how I came to know of it.  But modern society has less and less need for the neighborhood "Mr. Fix-It": these days it's truly cheaper to buy a new TV, for example, than to have your old one repaired.  The kid who loved to tinker on cars back in high school can't manage his own auto repair shop, because vehicles these days have fancy -- and costly -- computer systems that only a dealer can afford to maintain.

But as our growing concern for the environment gives more and more power to the phrase "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle," perhaps those who enable us to more fully practice the "Three R's of Environmentalism" will regain their once-critical place in our society.  I'm pulling for you, Mr. Pellom!       

Maggie Muggins on the AT (From Luray, VA, originally written 9/1/08)

Labor Day -- unofficially the last day of summer and officially the last day of our vacation.  Tomorrow we set out for Stone Mountain, Georgia and the Yellow Daisy Festival; from there it's on to The Big E, in Massachusetts.

But today was Girls' Day Out for Maggie and me, and we chose to spend it on the Appalachian Trail.  We entered the Skyline Drive via Thornton Gap, drove south to park at Beahms Gap, and walked a few paces back to the Appalachian Trail (A.T.).  (I realize that few who read this will recognize -- or even care much to know -- the place names, but I just like the sounds of those names!)

First order of business -- whether to head north or south.  We chose north, because it promised to take us to a spring that would become the headwaters of Pass Run, which flows near our campground.  After examining this completely unremarkable body of water for mere seconds, we turned back to the trail and continued north.  We could hear cars as they cruised along Skyline Drive, but after a while, the sound of cars became more and more faint, until we didn't hear them at all.

This is the point at which I became a little spooked.  Though I enjoy backwoods stuff, I don't frequently get to do much of it; I'm not used to it at all.  The A.T.'s "through-hikers" would be hundreds of miles ahead of us by this time of year, and it occurred to me that on a day that was just a little too hot for hiking, we may be all alone on this stretch of trail.

And then I realized:  "Hey, I have protection: I have a chow-chow!"  The chow-chow (Maggie, of course) didn't seem anxious or afraid.  So why should I be?  Actually, now that I reflect back on it, if I'd had a human companion, we'd probably have been talking for much of the way and I would've missed some pretty cool sounds -- like the sound of a hawk's wings beating as it flew overhead.  Man!  I'd be willing to bet that, pound for pound, the hawk moves as much -- or more! -- air as a helicopter!

A lot of the next section of trail was pretty narrow and rocky.  Not steep, but not easy, either.  I had to really watch my footing.  My almost-11-year-old dog, however, nimbly skipped along.  Thanks to an old knee injury, inclines are much easier for me than declines, and I was grateful that the first portion of our hike was mostly uphill -- I was figuring that Maggie would be tired on the return portion, so there'd be less chance of her yanking the leash and making me stumble going downhill.

I'm not sure how far we hiked; it really couldn't have been all that far, but both of us were getting a bit overheated.  So at some point, I stopped and we enjoyed some cool bottled water and a short rest.  I was able, faintly, to hear cars once again, but the sound was coming from well below us.  During our rest, a young couple also heading north came up and briefly spoke to us, the young man even offering water for Maggie.  Then they took a little spur off the trail toward one of the shelters, while we headed back south.  We passed another north-bound couple; the young man offered his hand to Maggie, but she was only briefly interested, as she apparently thought that there was more urgent business down the trail.

Remember how Maggie was going to be so tired on the return portion?  Nah!  At certain times she was going so fast that she made me look as if I were staggering drunk, trying to keep up with her.  But she was very cooperative; when I'd had enough and said, sharply, "Slow down!" she did -- thank goodness!  Remember when I was spooked?  It happened again, in the same section of trail.  I guess maybe there really was something -- big -- just out of sight.  They say that you should be a little noisy when you're hiking in the backcountry, so that bears, who are normally very shy, can hear you coming and avoid you.  Well, if that something "big" was a bear, that bear would have had no trouble hearing us as we approached, me clumping over rocks in my hiking boots, trying to keep up with the dog.  And the loud panting!  ... and Maggie was panting a little bit, too.

We can't wait to do it all again!

Click on the small photo of Maggie looking down the trail to see some select photos from this special girls' trip.

Postscript:  Just when you think, gosh what an exhilarating day!  It doesn't get any better than this!  ... and then it does.  The sky is cloudless tonight, and, far from bright city lights, we can perfectly see the innumerable stars of the summer sky -- we can even see the Milky Way!  It really doesn't get any better than this ... God is good ...

What Does Fall Mean To You? (From Southwick, MA, originally written 10/4/08)

Not long ago, a Michigan friend had written to me about her recent doings -- a combination of actively enjoying autumn's beauty with doing chores which must be completed before the onset of winter.  That's what fall is to her: a period of specific activities tailored to the season.

For a kid who grows up in Florida, fall is merely academic: pretty much just a designation on the calendar.  "Fall" means that school is in full swing; "fall" is the time of year when Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving occur; "fall" happens to mean football season (in Florida, we also have spring football).  When I was growing up, most of my friends were also native Floridians; I can't think of more than a tiny minority of kids who'd been born in a place other than Florida.  If they had been, they'd probably moved to Florida before "fall" had made much of an impression.  When we started getting interested in fashion, we noticed that "fall colors" were rust and gold and orange and brown, though we had no idea why.  I remember being a little confused by the old song "Autumn Leaves," and being unsure as to what crayons to use when coloring pictures designated as autumn scenes.  Most of the trees in our town were palm and pine and oak, and we knew only from books that there were trees that changed colors and actually shed their leaves.

The very first time I experienced "fall" was after I'd already graduated from college and started my teaching career.  A friend (another native Floridian) and I took a long weekend in October to visit the North Georgia mountains.  We could hardly get enough of the cool, crisp air and the riot of color which could made even the most mundane highway into a scenic drive.  I took dozens of pictures and reviewed the photos over and over again, reliving the magic of those few days.  We took another trip the next fall, venturing into North Carolina.  Several years later, I would experience my first New England autumn, and it was more beautiful than I could've expected it would be.

My experience with fall is, however, a week here, a couple of weeks there; I've never been in one place long enough to experience fall's full progression of summer-into-winter.  The photo at left depicts what I'd have considered a "classic" fall scene: a tree ablaze with orange coloring, and a front porch decorated with pumpkins.  The scene at right took me by surprise: only two doors up from the previous house, a single yellow rose makes its last bid for attention before succumbing to the cold of winter.     

Giving Thanks (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 11/26/08)

With Thanksgiving only a few hours away, we have plenty for which to be thankful this season!  Phone calls continue to come in: ticket orders for Christmas With The Celts concerts that are almost a month away.  The Toe River Arts Council, a North-Carolina-based organization of which we are members, just placed a big CD order: they sell our CDs in their two galleries, and several of the titles were completely sold out, or stock was perilously low.  Sales of digital downloads, through companies like iTunes and Rhapsody, are up almost 40%.  

And Divine Providence seems to have had a hand in a dicey situation we very recently faced.  Due to booking difficulties, one of the bands that was scheduled to perform at the Caloosahatchee Celtic Festival had to cancel their appearance.  With barely two months until the festival, finding a replacement "headliner" seemed a daunting task -- yet both Greg and I were strangely calm; we decided that we would enjoy our weekend at the Sarasota Medieval Fair, and begin worrying about Caloosahatchee on Monday.

Lo and behold, on Monday morning -- before we'd even had a chance to begin worrying -- we received a phone call from a promoter representing the Scottish band Albannach.  You see where this is going, don't you? ... the band had an open weekend in their schedule -- would we be able to book them? ... and a few phone calls and e-mails later, I'm pleased to announce that Albannach will be bringing their unique and exciting form of Celtic music to Southwest Florida!  Click on the photo to go to their website and learn a little about them; click here to see a YouTube video of them live -- you won't be able to sit still!

As I reflect on all that's happened over the last year or so, I find the timing of this mini-crisis and its swift solution to be very significant.  God's been very good to us, and this episode is a strong reminder that, as long as we are following the path that He's laid out for us, He's going to light the way.  The rollercoaster that is the current global economy is a scary ride, and our brief troubles in booking a festival pale in comparison to the troubles faced by persons who are losing their jobs or the very roofs over their heads, yet the lesson gives me a real peace about what may lay ahead.  I'm thankful for that peace ... thankful for the gift of music ... thankful for people who love music and who support musicians ... thankful for the legions of friends we've made over the years ... thankful for the talented people who are part of Marcille Wallis & Friends ... thankful for family and for friends who've become like family ...

God bless each and every one of you this Thanksgiving, and always.

Singleton's (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 11/28/08)

I'm still going through magazines and catalogs that accumulated here at home while we were on the road for so many months!  Today, I was looking at an issue of the official AAA magazine, and ran across an article about Florida's beaches.  I began to reminisce about some of my favorite coastal haunts and thought of Mayport, and Singleton's Seafood Shack -- whoa!  Did I really forget to include Singleton's on my list of favorite places to eat?

Let me correct that oversight right now.  Singleton's is not just a favorite; it is the favorite seafood place.  We first heard of it several years ago, when playing at an art fair in Ponte Vedra Beach, near Jacksonville.  My high school friend Jay, an officer in the U.S. Navy, had discovered Singleton's while stationed at the huge base in Mayport, also near Jacksonville.  Jay suggested that we'd love the seafood, and revel in the down-to-earth atmosphere: "It's easy to find," he said with a grin, "just follow A1A north to Mayport, then look for the dumpster with all the cats."

After the art show closed for the day, Greg and I headed north ... away from ritzy Ponte Vedra and its golf courses ... past Jacksonville Beach, Neptune Beach, and Atlantic Beach, with their surf shops and souvenir stands ... pointed toward the Naval station, passing pawn shops and strip clubs along the way ... finally ending in the sleepy little village of Mayport, an area that, like nearby St. Augustine, had settlers well before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.  Mayport's sort of the end of the road; the only way to travel north out of town is via the ferry which crosses the St. John's River.  That's probably helped to keep it a quiet place -- that and the fact that it seems mostly to be populated by folks whose families have been involved in the fishing industry for generations -- though one of the big casino cruise ships docks there, and its directors would like to see more nearby attractions.

Singleton's itself was attraction enough for me.  With its creaking, listing floor and oddly mismatched furnishings (including hard benches!), it probably doesn't appeal to the "fern bar" crowd, but it certainly has developed a loyal clientele.  That evening, our fellow diners included uniformed Navy personnel, a few families, several couples and groups of friends, the obligatory grizzled old fisherman just off the boat for the day.  The hardier among them were out on the deck, enjoying the "million dollar view" of the St. John's River.  Since we'd been out-of-doors all day long on that somewhat blustery day, we elected to sit at the bar.

Just studying the menu was a delight!  All of the predictable offerings were there: the shrimp, oysters, and grouper.  But overhead there was a chalkboard with selections that vary from day to day, depending on what's come in on that day's catch.  On that particular evening, I chose sheephead, a local fish.  In subsequent visits, I've decided not to decide, and have chosen a combo.  Shrimp's probably the most popular item, and why shouldn't it be, since the local waters boast some of the finest, sweetest shrimp to be found anywhere in the world?

Another popular item is the Minorcan Clam Chowder -- Minorcan, you say?  Yeah, adding to the endless squabbles over whether Manhattan or New England clam chowder is best, there's a third, much less known contender: cousin to Manhattan chowder because of its tomato base, Minorcan Clam Chowder has the potent, and not widely-available, datil pepper for its signature ingredient.  What a kick!

If you ever find yourself in the Jacksonville area, I highly recommend a visit to Singleton's.  Jacksonville is not an easy city to navigate, so don't think that you'll be able to pop over to Mayport for a quick lunch as you're traveling down I-95.  But if you're staying in the area, or if you're aimlessly and leisurely traveling and can afford a detour of a few hours, you can treat yourself to not only a great regional meal, but to a little slice of "old Florida."  

From March Madness to Matlacha (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 12/11/08)

Those who know me well know that while music is my passion, as well as my livelihood, it's far from my only interest.  I'm also keenly interested in sports: baseball, at any level; football, both college and professional; and basketball -- college hoops.  Those who know me extremely well know that our household gets viciously competitive with the approach of "March Madness" (for the uninitiated, that's the playoffs for the NCAA Men's Division I title).  

On a Sunday evening in mid-March, as the tournament selection committee starts seeding the brackets, we are glued to the television.  Once the seeding's completed, we hover near the computer, waiting for the official tournament brackets to be posted to the various websites, such as ESPN.com.  We then print out the brackets: one for each member of the household.  The next two days are spent in study, as we make our picks for the tournament's 64 games; the days are also spent trying to secure our picks from the prying eyes of others in the household.  Though no one would dream of trying to cheat -- mainly because each of us is too convinced of his/her superior knowledge and winning strategy! -- we still eye each other suspiciously as we go about our business.

At the appointed hour, all picks are turned in -- and then the needling begins.  "You picked that team for the Final 4?  You're goin' down!"  The prize at stake is dinner at the winner's choice of restaurant, paid for by the losers, so other trash talk may include, "Yeah, while you were studying the ratings index, I was studying menus."

This last year, the banter was conducted mostly over the phone or via Internet, since Greg and I were in Dollywood; "Uncle" Jerry was at home in Port Charlotte, while Greg's sister and brother-in-law were at home in Belleair Beach.  And though, for the whatevereth straight year in a row, I did not win the bracket competition, I still got to eat at my chosen restaurant, because my brother-in-law's choice of restaurant was the same as mine.  (The only catch was, I had to pay for my meal, as well as pay for a share of John's.)

John's choice was Bert's Bar & Grill, in Matlacha, Florida.  As they say on the back of their menu, "Most of Florida's tiny fishing towns are disappearing and giving way to McDonald's, high rises and hotel chains.  But not Matlacha.  Here you still find cozy cottages, bed & breakfasts, fishermen tending their nets, bait shops and shrimp boats."  You can read more about Bert's, and see a few photos, here. 

The five of us finally got around to paying off the "bet" last Tuesday.  It was a fun day!  We sat out on the deck, enjoying the view of Matlacha Pass and San Carlos Bay.  Crows and other feathered friends squawked and begged for a handout.  Seated next to a long dock as we were, there was the occasional whiff of marine fuel, but the gentle breeze quickly dissipated it.  We enjoyed fish dip on flatbread crackers, "beach bread," and fish and chips ... and one of us enjoyed the "best bar pizza" to be found in the area.

The NCAA men's basketball season is just now getting into full swing.  When I win -- finally win -- the 2009 pool, we'll be going back to Bert's!         

Christmas With The Celts (From home, following performances in Arcadia, Punta Gorda, Orlando, and The Villages, FL, originally written 12/23/08)

Pictured at left is the setting for one of our Christmas With The Celts concerts.  The series was abbreviated, due to Matt (our fiddler)'s college schedule.  But it was power-packed, nonetheless, and full of memorable moments!  We just finished the series yesterday -- here's a synopsis:

Matt, Robin (the piper) and I kicked off the season by playing for the Punta Gorda Kiwanis luncheon last Thursday.  What fun -- the Kiwanians love to sing, and what a terrific meal they served!  We then headed over to Arcadia and met up with Don (vocalist), Ann and Cal (dancers) for a performance at First Presbyterian Church.  This one's special to me, as I'm performing for my home town; and despite a couple of "flies in the ointment" -- I forgot to bring Santa (the official mascot of Christmas With The Celts) and we had to make a change in one of the dance numbers because the piano was locked! -- it was an energetic and fun evening.  Matt made his first-ever guitar performance, accompanying Don (on flute) and me (on dulcimer) in a medley of I Saw Three Ships and the Sussex Carol.  Ann and Cal also debuted a new strathspey that they'd choreographed; it was flowing and very beautiful.  Robin cracked us all up with a silly bit of schtick in his rendering of O Come All Ye Faithful, as he told one section of the audience that they had to sing along -- in Latin.  "Yeah, right!" they seemed to say, though I heard a few voices gamely playing along.

The next night we returned to the Congregational United Church of Christ, Punta Gorda, the birthplace of Christmas With The Celts.  The church was absolutely packed to capacity; we knew, from the number of ticket orders we'd taken over the phone, that response was very strong, but I was still surprised to learn that every available chair was taken -- the only chair left was Pastor Bill Klossner's chair from his study, and I'm pretty sure that if one more person had shown up needing a seat, they'd have been given that chair!

Elly Gilmore made a cameo appearance at this performance, delighting the audience with her set-ups of the Wassail Song and Auld Lang Syne, and singing of Auld Lang Syne. 

We were able to perform our dance number using the piano, as rehearsed: an Irish reel played "Cape Breton" style.  As to Santa ... well ... I did manage to remember to bring him, and set him up in his usual place on stage, but he suffered a minor accident: as Ann was making a sweeping dance move, her dress caught Santa and flung him to the dance floor.  Ann and Cal tried to avoid Santa while continuing their dance, but alas, they weren't quite successful; poor Santa was kicked and subsequently trampled.  At one point Cal bent down to retrieve Santa and set him into place again, but realizing that he'd bent over with his back to the audience -- while wearing a kilt -- Cal hastily stood up before properly securing Santa; Santa toppled again, to be kicked and trampled again.  Matt finally stopped fiddling and picked Santa up, taking time to place him so that he'd fall no more.  Don and I kept the music playing the whole time.  I'd like for you to think that I was applying the "show must go on" philosophy, but the truth is, I was too helpless with a mixture of horror and laughter to be of much service to the unfortunate Santa.  He stood looking rather disheveled and forlorn the rest of the evening.

Robin's charge to the audience to sing in Latin was put right back at him, as a significant number of this evening's crowd actually knew, correctly pronounced, and loudly sang the entire verse in that ancient language!  Another funny incident occurred during the set-up of the Ballad Of St. Anne's Reel (a song about a magical evening on Prince Edward Island (PEI)), when Don asked, as is his habit, if anyone in the audience was from PEI.  This night, a couple actually raised their hands and Don was rather taken aback, completely psyching himself out, as he wondered if the couple knew the song or ... actually, I'm not sure what was going through his mind, but I am pretty sure that the words to the song weren't going through his mind, because he fumbled around for a few short but agonizing seconds, then regained his composure and appealed for a "do-over."  It was one of the most professional and graceful responses to an obvious "flub" that I've ever seen -- and far more graceful than my own goof later in the evening, when I completely forgot how to play the Swallowtail Jig.  Matt, grinning fiendishly all the while, "pulled my fat out of the fire" on that one, keeping the tune going while I desperately tried to pull the correct notes out of the chord progression that, miraculously, I somehow correctly played.  Greg did his part from the sound board, "fading" the amplification of the dulcimer to near zero.  But I know for a fact that a few people left the concert that night, scratching their heads over the strangest rendition of an Irish jig they'd ever heard!

Following a refreshing Saturday off, during which time Santa received plenty of TLC, we headed to Orlando on Sunday, for a pair of performances at Westminster Towers (WT).  WT is a graduated-care facility for seniors, with accommodations ranging from apartment-style living for those able to live independently, to complete nursing care.  We played for the "Health Care Center" residents first.  Here, Robin was at his absolute finest and most charming, as he passed out a variety of hand percussion instruments to members of the audience, encouraging them to keep time to the music, make lots of noise and have lots of fun, and they certainly did.  We then went down to the main floor to play for the "Independent Living" residents.  It's that venue that you see pictured, above.  (You also see Santa perched atop the piano, looking his old self again and safely out of harm's way.)  The stage was set for an old-fashioned, Dickens sort of Christmas, a perfect and cozy setting for our show.  I think we're always at our most relaxed at WT -- this gig usually occurs near the end of the run, so everyone's really in a groove; plus, the venue's smaller and more intimate, so there's less probability of crowd-size-induced jitters.  The audience couldn't be any more receptive or appreciative, and it seems that our entire cast lingers just a few extra minutes after each WT performance, to visit and swap stories with the residents.

The final night of our Christmas With The Celts run was in the Church On The Square, in The Villages.  For the past few years, this has been an SRO crowd, but I do believe that I saw more people standing than ever before -- the church "officially" holds about 800 people, more or less, but an "unofficial" count reported to me a few minutes prior to the concert had the tally at 850, and I did notice even more people coming in after we were already under way.  Quite a setting in which to introduce the newest member of "Marcille Wallis & Friends," Dallas Albritton.  Dallas will play fiddle during our St. Paddy's run, so we thought it would be a good idea to initiate him, and introduce him to The Villages, via a "fiddle duel" with Matt.  In Robin's words, "That fiddle duel was epic!" as Matt opened with a lively bluegrass tune, to be answered by Dallas on a contemporary Celtic reel.  Matt came back with an inspired, and inspiring, interpretation of Bill Monroe's Big Mon; Dallas responded with a blistering version of Paddy On The Landfill.  They then traded back and forth on parts of the Red Haired Boy, before joining together to make that Boy's hair a little Redder -- and more electrifying -- than ever before.  The audience responded with thunderous applause and a standing ovation.

Matt received two other "standing O's" that evening: one for his Teetotaler medley; the other, for his wicked improvisation on the Orange Blossom Special -- which even included the opening measures of Freebird!  On that last night, Matt's fiddling was just a touch more masterful ... Don's singing, particularly on Wild Mountain Thyme, just a touch more beautiful ... Robin's piping just a touch more majestic ... Ann & Cal's dancing just a touch more elegant ... what a way to end the season!  

An Unexpected Visit for Christmas (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 12/25/08)

Merry Christmas To All!

The sweet face profiled at left is that of an unexpected visitor who showed up at our house last week.

Our Christmas With The Celts schedule was jam-packed.  A Wednesday night rehearsal was followed by two Thursday performances, to be followed by a Friday night performance and, later Friday night, the cast party.  Sandwiched in between was a Friday morning breakfast with my friend Ray, who'd only be visiting in the area that one day.  Since I'd be out on Friday morning anyway, I scheduled a couple of other errands -- a recipe for exhaustion, I know, but somehow you do what you have to do ...

On Friday morning I went out to put my purse in the van when I ran into Candy (Matt's mom); they always park their RV at our house when we're doing performances in the area.  Candy and I wanted to visit for a bit, so we went back into the house for a few minutes, then returned  outside.  We heard a "meow."  Then "Meow, meow."  "Where are you, Kitty?" Candy softly called.  Out from under the van came a small gray cat.  Not shy, as most strays are; this one seemed to crave human company.  Candy scooped the kitty into her arms, and was immediately rewarded with loud purring and contented nuzzling.  This was definitely no feral cat, nor even a stray; it must be recently lost.

But lost from where?  I quickly reviewed the neighboring homes in my mind: one dog owner, one two-dog owner, one who owned no pets, one vacant home ... this cat had not simply wandered over for a visit.  Candy's brief examination of the kitty yielded a clue: the kitty was pregnant.

We were still pondering over the expectant momma cat when Ray came over.  I sent him off to The Bean On 41, saying I'd be along shortly, and then Candy and I began to consider the kitty's options in earnest.  We couldn't simply let her continue to wander: although our home is in a residential neighborhood, the traffic commission is not yet on board with that notion; the speed limit on our street is 40mph (meaning, of course, that people drive even faster).  Candy couldn't take the kitty, because Matt's deathly allergic to cats.  I couldn't take the kitty, either, because Maggie (our dog) isn't used to cats.  What to do?

Then I thought of my friend, Vicki, who's such an animal lover that she's on the board of our local Animal Welfare League.  Vicki would know what to do!  Candy -- still cradling the kitty -- and I piled into the van for the short trip to Vicki's house.  Even when the diesel engine revved up, the kitty continued to purr!  What a cat! -- as most of them hate riding in vehicles.  But this one was so happy to be around humans, that she seemed not to mind, but rather to actually enjoy the trip.  Vicki greeted us thoughtfully, immediately going into rescue mode.  With five dogs, she, too, would be unable to take the kitty, and it was too early in the morning for the shelter to be open yet.  But she lent us a small pet carrier, and the kitty slipped inside, still purring and rubbing against the carrier door to mark her new territory.  Vicki promised to investigate the possibility of a foster home, and, feeling that we'd done the best we could do for the time being, Candy and I returned home.

We set the kitty and her carrier in the main living area under the supervision of Greg, "Uncle" Jerry and Maggie, then I went on to my by now seriously-delayed breakfast with Ray.  Ray and I had a very nice visit, said our goodbyes, then I headed to the supermarket for the rest of my errands -- and to that list was added the purchase of cat food, kitty litter, and a makeshift litter pan.  Greg reported that the entire time I'd been gone, the kitty purred blissfully; Maggie had expressed only brief interest before going off to do her usual "routine."

That was all about to change, however, as I appropriated Maggie's large crate, out in the garage, for kitty's temporary home.  "I have only a few possessions," Maggie seemed to say, "and you're giving my crate away to a cat?  Woof!"  The kitty, however, reacted with only mild surprise before resuming her purring.  She devoured the first bowl of food that was set out for her, poked her nose about in the second bowl, then arched her back and started to rub to mark this newest territory.  What an absolutely sweet personality this cat had!

She was never far from my mind, as we did our concert preparations, the concert itself, and then the party.  It was funny -- during the party, I'd catch one person or another sneaking into the garage to check up on the kitty.  Same thing the next morning; each person, in his or her own time, arose and dressed for the day -- then checked up on the kitty.  And when Vicki called to announce that she'd found a foster home, then later came over to escort the kitty to her new -- albeit again temporary -- home, everyone took time to say goodbye to the furry little creature who'd lived with us for less than 24 hours, yet had so profoundly touched each of us.

I'm grateful to report that kitty is happily exploring her new home.  She sleeps with her "foster" owner every night, and delights him with her sunny disposition.  She's going to make someone a wonderful pet!  

As of this writing, there are no kittens yet.  But I've thought of a name for her: I'd name her after another expectant mother of 2000 years ago, who had no place to have her baby, yet displayed the same calm and serene trust that all of her needs would be met.

In my mind, she will always be -- Mary.  

What's Your Story? (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 2/5/09)

I suppose it was inevitable.  I'd resisted it for years, but in the end ... well ... resistance was futile.  It was predestined: I am Southern and I am Celtic; I like historical things; I enjoy puzzles. It  consumed -- pleasantly, mind you -- the energies of my aunt, Margaret Haile, and I see how it dominates the thinking of my cousin, Norma Morgan.  It's addictive.  It is fun, but it is frustrating; it raises as many questions as it answers.  It is ...

Genealogy.  And if you think it's not important, then it's a fairly safe bet that you are not old enough for it to be important -- yet!

When I was very young, I spent a tremendous amount of time with my parents, especially my mother.  We lived on a cattle ranch outside of town (Arcadia, Florida), and neither of my parents was much of a socialite anyway.  My brother and I had frequent opportunities to visit our paternal grandparents, who lived a few miles away on a cattle ranch on another side of town.  We had occasional visits from my father's aunt, Dexter, who lived in North Carolina.  We also often saw our maternal grandparents, and had extended stays with them during the summertime.  In short, we spent a great deal of time with family; we were very comfortable around adults -- a perfect opportunity to really know them.  But we were too young to even realize what we might want to know about them.

Now my parents and grandparents are all gone, and I suppose it's in part because I miss them and want to feel connected with them, but recently I have spent a lot of time trying to uncover my ancestral past.  Poring over old census records has revealed a family structure that is quite unlike anything in our modern experience.  Looking at immigration records, I wonder what it was that spurred a family into leaving the country that their kin had inhabited for a thousand years, to risk an arduous journey across the Atlantic Ocean.  What would it take to make me do such a thing?  In the new land: generations of people who were born, lived an entire lifetime, then died, all within the same small community.  Others who began their lives in that community, following the same pattern, but then set out by Conestoga wagon for a new frontier -- another dangerous and difficult adventure -- why?

I'm luckier than most amateur genealogists, in that both Margaret and Norma, on my dad's side, have already done a lifetime of work that I can use as reference.  In similar fashion, I have the work of Dr. Guy Funderburk, a distant cousin of my mother's, from which to draw.  I'm especially blessed to have memoirs written by my maternal grandmother; though she never did complete the work, it is not only a valuable tool, but a poignant glimpse into my near past; in some ways, it helps me to understand of her -- why?

How?  How did the Depression affect my parents and grandparents?  How did the Civil War affect my great-great grandparents?  How did the American Revolution ... the Potato Famine ... the Highland Clearances affect those generations?

And why? and how? have these events shaped me?

If you're a young person reading this, start asking questions now.  Make time; believe me, if you wait until you realize it's important to you, you'll have waited too long.  If you're a bit older, perhaps already with grandchildren, don't wait for them to ask -- and don't offer, either, because you'll likely get your feelings hurt -- just write it down; gather those old pictures and mementos, because they'll be of incalculable value to your family some day.  Believe me, the memories of trips to Disney World and clowns at birthday parties will pale in comparison to the enhanced memory of who you were.

As for my own search, though it's fascinating, I'll try really hard not to let it take me over!  It does seem to be something that can't be done well by "dabblers."  It requires a tremendous amount of concentration and concentrated effort.  It's almost impossible to stop in the midst of researching a particular individual or family or event; the times I've tried to do so, I've lost ground and had to backtrack.  So aggravating!  Among the more interesting relatives I've discovered: dispossessed German royalty who, after plots and machinations worthy of  Shakespeare, escaped across the Atlantic, only to drown off the coast of the Carolina colony.  Talk about a tragedy!  

Crowns and castles and dreams of lost inheritances notwithstanding, so far, the prize for Most Intriguing Character goes to a Tennessean named Catherine who, at the age of 16, was wooed and won by a beguiling and worldly stranger.  Though her family initially disapproved of the match, they, too, were won over by his artful manner.  So completely did they fall under his spell that, when he began to speak in glowing terms of the great opportunities to be had in the new state of Texas, they sold their property and accompanied Catherine and her new husband on a trip westward.  Sometime after the birth of her first child, however, Catherine discovered that her new husband was also the husband of another woman.  Heartbroken and outraged, she had her bigamist husband put in jail and, despite the fact that she was expecting another child, she set out to return to her native Tennessee.  She put her most cherished possessions in a cloth bag, dressed in her husband's clothes, strapped his pistol to her waist, saddled his best horse and rode home.  Woe be unto anyone who dared cross her during her journey!  Her second husband, by whom she bore six more children, was a casualty of the Civil War.  She married a third time and had five more children ... one of whom was my great-grandfather.

Catherine, my great-great grandmother; she sounds tough -- I like to think that, somehow, she passed some of that toughness on to me.  But at any rate, isn't it a heck of a story!   

Sir Duke and Lady Dirr (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 4/29/09)

Today's the birthday of Duke Ellington.  If you're from my parents' generation, you know of him because of his immense popularity before and after World War II; if you're from my generation, you know him because your parents listened to the music; if you're from the generations immediately after me, you know of him through Stevie Wonder's tribute, "Sir Duke."

If you're from a very recent generation, I'm not sure how you may know of Duke Ellington.  But I'm sure that you should spend some time finding out, because he had a tremendous impact on American music.  Here's a head start: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duke_Ellington

My thoughts today were inspired by a comment I heard from a radio announcer: basically, that if you're a kid whose parents force you to take piano lessons, don't resent it, because you never know, you could end up like Duke Ellington.  Not a bad way to end up!  I won't be the Duke Ellington of my generation, but I am very thankful for the piano lessons I was "forced" to take.

I started piano lessons at age six, about the same time that I began attending school.  I took formal lessons for ten years, before making the conscious decision that I did not want to pursue a career in music.  (You can laugh here, if you wish; the irony doesn't escape me either.)  During those ten years, there were moments of great frustration in which I would scream at my mother, "I'm quitting!"  She always very calmly responded that, if I wanted to quit, I certainly was free to do so.  Once I had time to get over myself and my teen-age tantrum, I must've realized that I'd be missing out on something really valuable, because I never carried out my impulsive threats.

What frustrated me?  All sorts of things.  My teacher, Rose Hahn Dirr, lived only two blocks up the street, so most of the time I walked to lessons.  Along the way, I'd come into earshot of another piano teacher's house (her rambling, wood-frame home had no air conditioning, so the windows were almost always open) and her students were playing "popular" pieces like Moon River.  Meanwhile, I'd been practicing Bach's Minuet in G or Beethoven's Fur Elise.  "How boring!"  I pouted.  "No one wants to listen to that old stuff any more!"

Or those times that I'd come to my lesson and Mrs. Dirr would set an unfamiliar piece of music in front of me.  I'd struggle to play those pieces to the best of my ability, but rarely were they subsequently presented as my next piece to learn.  I assumed that it was because I didn't play them well enough, so I would strive harder and harder to play them better and better, in hopes that I could prove that I had the aptitude to play those pieces.

Mrs. Dirr was an exacting task-master.  She always insisted that I play my scales and my Hanon exercises; she demanded that I use correct fingering; she'd make me break the music down into short passages that I had to perfect before going on to the next passage.  "How chopped-up is this piece going to be, if I'm constantly focusing on little parts, rather than the whole?" I'd think.  And Mrs. Dirr could always, always tell when I hadn't practiced enough!

Perhaps you've seen the method in what I used to consider Mrs. Dirr's madness, but if you haven't, let me explain.  The precision that I learned through the study of piano's great masters enables me to play, not only their works, but Moon River, and practically anything else, as well.  The kids who'd studied Moon River?  For the most part, they can still play that piece and the other specific pieces that they'd learned, but they struggle through anything new -- if they're still playing the piano at all -- because they didn't develop an essential body of skills.  I learned how to "sight-read," a critical and highly prized ability, through all of those musical "pop-quizzes" administered through the pieces that I saw only once and (mostly) never again.  In short, I suppose one could say that I "learned how to learn" music, which over the years has helped me with not only the piano but the organ, the guitar, other musical instruments -- and of course the dulcimer.

Mrs. Dirr taught me so much, not only about music and the piano, but about teaching.  I now realize that it's not always necessary, nor even possible, for students to comprehend "why" they must perform certain tasks in certain ways, but it's very important that their teacher understand "why" and really stick to tried-and-true methods, knowing all the while that kids complain because it's their nature to do so, and hoping all the while that they'll be thankful for it later.  Music ... mathematics ... reading ... the same general approach applies.

Every discipline has its Duke Ellington, though few of these "Dukes" will attain the status of legend among the general populace.  And behind every one of those "Dukes" is one or more "Mrs. Dirrs."

Happy Birthday, Duke Ellington!  ... And here's to you, Mrs. Dirr!               

Toecane (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 5/13/09)

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!)  

Chesapeake Seafood (From Sparta, VA, originally written 6/24/09)

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?)  

Fredericksburg (From Sparta, VA, originally written 6/9/09)

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.        

My Washday Companion (From Banner Elk, NC, originally written 6/16/09)

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?

Travelers (From Bellefonte, PA, originally written 8/5/09)

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 ...

The Healing Power Of Music (From Eustis, FL, originally written 10/26/09)

"The healing power of music."  It's a phrase that's often bandied about.  I wonder how many people really and truly believe that music has healing powers?

Even as a kid, I knew that music had power over me.  When I was frustrated, I could play the piano and in a matter of time my frustrations were diminished.  As a volleyball coach, I sometimes used music to fire my team up -- and learned during one unnecessary loss that it was possible to get them too fired up!  As a schoolteacher, I occasionally incorporated my dulcimer into lessons; I'm sure the unusual nature of the lesson helped it to be more memorable, but I'm equally sure that the music itself created a positive atmosphere that lasted for days.

I have performed music in different professional capacities since I was in my teens.  However, until I began doing gigs of a more intimate nature -- a nursing home, perhaps, or a bookstore or an art fair -- I did not have much of a chance to observe the effect of my music on others.  One of my most cherished memories is that of a a nursing home resident, a former dancer for Bob Hope's USO tours who was seemingly lost in the grip of Alzheimer's, responding to a lively jig set with a little wheelchair dance -- the nursing home added music to her therapy as a result.  

It was the recognition of the soothing power of music -- and the dulcimer in particular -- that was the impetus behind the recording of Celtic Heart.  For a couple of years I'd be playing my heart out on one of the slow airs like "Crested Hens" (from The Celtic Ray) or "Jock O' Hazeldean" (from A Celtic Heritage) and a massage therapist or yoga instructor would comment, "That music would be so perfect for my practice."  But then I would play another cut from the CD -- say a rousing reel like "Sound Of Sleat" or "Whiskey 'Fore Breakfast" -- and the response would be, "So pretty, but much too upbeat for my purposes.  Why don't you record a CD of all 'slow stuff' for people like me?"  So with a little research I prepared a body of music that mostly fit several important guidelines: the basic pulse of the music must be slower than the average adult's resting heart rate, the arrangements must not be too "busy," the tunes should not be associated with familiar songs.

The first person to derive benefit from Celtic Heart was, in fact, my own mother.  Recording took place in February (2006); in mid-April, my mother suffered a slight stroke that had been triggered by a massive infection that, due to many complications, would prove to be untreatable.  When I went to see her that April, I took my demo copy of Celtic Heart to share with her.  She loved "Danny Boy" (my only nod to commercial marketing) of course but said she liked the sweet music overall.  And I got a chance to see its calming effect on her, as I was with her two months later on the day she died.  The hospice workers had been using Celtic Heart, along with Be Thou My Vision, to soothe her beyond morphine's capacity to ease her constant pain.  Though she spent most of that last day in a coma, I know she was aware of my presence and I know she was responding positively to the music.  When she heard the melody of a favorite hymn (from Be Thou My Vision), her expression changed subtly.  And when she heard the slightly discordant passage that appears -- briefly -- on Celtic Heart, she became slightly agitated.  What a privilege to be with her on that day! ... and what a privilege to feel that I had made some positive contribution to her care.

I am commenting on this topic at this particular time because it was brought to mind in two separate episodes this past Saturday.  In one, a young mother wheeled her eight-month old baby into my booth and asked me to play.  My choice was "Crested Hens."  The baby's expression visibly softened and she sighed in relaxation several times.  When I stopped playing and started to converse with the mother, the baby began to wail -- and she immediately calmed when I began playing ("Inis Oirr") again!  

The second -- even more powerful -- incident actually began unfolding early in the day, as a couple came by to listen a while and look at CDs.  Some time later, they came by with an older woman who was confined to a special wheelchair -- likely she had been the victim of a stroke or other serious neurological trauma.  She was convulsing uncontrollably, so I focused my energies into playing as steadily and sweetly as I possibly could.  Amazingly, her tremors eased and finally ceased altogether as she listened.  It was a powerful and humbling experience.

And if I were not already a true believer in "the healing power of music" -- I certainly would be now.

The First (From Atlantic Beach, FL, originally written 11/1/09)

The picture at left shows the approach to our campsite here at Hanna Park.  Makes you want to join us, doesn't it?  Here's a little temptation: at night it's so quiet here, the only thing we can hear is waves crashing onto the shore.

Hanna Park is located on Florida's First Coast.  We love to name our coastal regions in Florida!  Greg and I live on the Sun Coast, on Florida's west (Gulf Of Mexico) coast.  Another Gulf coastal region is the Emerald Coast, up in the "panhandle."  On the Atlantic side, there's the Space Coast (near the NASA launch site, naturally); a little further to the south, the Treasure Coast, and the area between Palm Beach and Miami is intuitively named the Gold Coast.

The First Coast is so named because it includes St. Augustine, the first permanent European settlement in the Americas.  Does that surprise you?  Our school history studies -- at least the parts that tend to stick with us -- are often laughably inaccurate when it comes to the settlement of North America.  When I was in the second or third grade, I learned that "Columbus discovered America."  At that young age, the obvious question never occurred to me: "If Columbus met Indians upon his arrival, shouldn't we call the Indians the true discoverers of America?"  In the fifth grade, one whole period of each day was devoted to American History, and what I remember best about the colonization of America is the story of the Pilgrims -- how they landed on Plymouth Rock and celebrated the first Thanksgiving with the native Indians.  In the seventh grade, my peers and I were required to take a course in Florida History, and it was through that course that I learned that St. Augustine, colonized by the Spanish in 1565, predates both the Plymouth Colony (1620) and the Jamestown Colony (1607).  Since Plymouth and Jamestown were both English colonies, and the Spanish were effectively kicked out of Florida in the early 1800's, I guess this is another example of how history is (re)written by the victorious.

Here's another tiny little surprise that involves the First Coast: Mayport, just to the north of Atlantic Beach, was founded by French Huguenots on May 1, 1562.  

Slow Down (From White Springs, FL, originally written 4/19/10)

There's no supermarket in White Springs.  Actually, these days, there's not a whole lot of anything.  There's a post office, of course ... a couple of fuel stations which offer some convenience items ... a Dollar General store, a bank, maybe a couple of antique stores and the Suwannee Yoga Center.  And a few churches.  The State Folk Culture Center is here, and when it hosts the Florida Folk Festival in May, the town's population will temporarily swell to about ten times its usual 800-900.  It's a sleepy, tranquil place; as Greg observed today, "Life's a lot slower here, and it forces you to slow down too ... and that's nice."

In its heyday, White Springs was a busy place.  It was Florida's first real tourist attraction, drawing visitors to the healing waters of the White Sulfur Springs as early as the 1830's.  The excellent surrounding land supported a thriving cotton industry, and the pine forests provided timber and other products such as turpentine.  White Springs became a refuge for Southerners displaced by the Civil War.  Centuries prior to all that, the healing mineral springs were considered by the Native Americans to be a special, peaceful place where warring tribes could come to put aside their differences as they drank and bathed in the waters.

But all that was long ago, and though many of the old structures remain, White Springs itself no longer bustles with commerce.  It probably began its decline before the advent of the supermarket.  And since White Springs does not boast any of the components that make up the modern supermarket -- bakery, butcher, green grocer, dairy market, etc. -- I headed over to Live Oak, one of the neighboring towns 14 miles away, to do our weekly shopping.  Such an arrangement requires considerably more planning than I've become accustomed to.  But this is the way I grew up, so I know it's entirely possible! 

Live Oak is much larger than White Springs, but it's still a fairly small town.  My shopping experience was at first a bit frustrating, as it seems that the Publix grocery store is the place to meet and visit friends.  When I shop, I'm used to being able to easily navigate nice, wide aisles; I didn't care much for dodging shopping carts while their drivers chit-chatted about yesterday's church social, or the upcoming school function.  But I remembered what Greg had said earlier, and I eased up and slowed down.  I also remembered how, growing up in a small town very similar to Live Oak, I hated for people to come in and try to impose their standards on our way of life.

Leaving the store with my purchases, I was assisted by one of the "baggers," an older gentleman who commented on the day's beautiful weather.  "Now if it was just like this every day of the year, it'd be all right," he said.  

I smiled and said, "If it was like this every day of the year, everyone would want to live in Live Oak, then pretty soon you probably wouldn't want to live here any more."

"I reckon you're right," said he.  "I lived in Miami for a while and it got to be too much of a mess for me.  That's why I moved here; it's quiet and it suits me just fine."

Yes, life's a lot slower here.  It forces you to slow down too ... and that's nice.

Our Neighbor (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 6/11/10)

We are being tormented by one of our neighbors.  This neighbor, a year-round denizen of the Asheville East KOA, is cunning and daring, and a master of disguise, fearless when making raids near our campsite and equally fearless when we accidentally invade his territory -- which is seemingly everywhere and anywhere he chooses to be.

We know him as Ambush Bunny.

Make no mistake.  The Ambush Bunny is not your usual silly, timid rabbit.  He is bold, hopping down the middle of the road that runs past our campsite.  His coat blends in perfectly with the colors of the asphalt and the fallen leaves on the side of the road, so he often hops along undetected until Maggie catches his scent.  He seems to understand just exactly how long Maggie's leash is, so that if we encounter him while on a walkie, he does not move away until we are within about three feet of where he is standing.  And he does not make quick little moves, like most rabbits!  If a rabbit can saunter, Ambush Bunny saunters.

He does a "hop-by" our campsite almost nightly, which poor Maggie finds so maddening!  She strains at her tie-out, occasionally letting out a frustrated bark, and I'd almost swear that I hear Ambush Bunny chuckling in undisguised glee.

I've wanted to write about Ambush Bunny for a couple of years, but couldn't figure out exactly how to describe him so that you could understand his devilish character.  Last night it occurred to me: think Bugs Bunny torturing Elmer Fudd, and you'll get the picture! 

Being Celtic (From Southwick, MA, originally written 8/4/10)

Not long ago, in fact during the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games, a woman lingered a little past "closing" to talk with Greg and me about being "Celtic."

For the record, our basic view of "Celtic" includes what are traditionally called the "Seven Nations": Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Brittany, Cornwall, Isle Of Man and Galicia and their languages, music, culture, etc.  We do also embrace things that have a Celtic influence, such as bluegrass music.  And though historians seem constantly to be revising the story of the people who once dominated Western Europe prior to the heyday of the Roman Empire -- aka The Celts -- we recognize a certain Celtic influence that reaches as far as Turkey (Galatia, which you may know from the New Testament), Ukraine (Halychyna), and Iran (Scythia), among others.

At one point during the conversation, the woman noticed the cross I was wearing and asked if Greg and I were Christian.  When I replied that we were, she nodded to our two hymn titles (Be Thou My Vision and A Mighty Fortress) and said, "I thought so," then "How do you justify that with being Celtic?"

It's not the first time I've been confronted with the notion that one cannot be both Celtic and Christian.  And though the short answer is that there is absolutely no conflict between the two, the question does deserve some sort of explanation.  I've never seen the question as a challenge, but rather I've seen the questioner as a seeker -- and yet I've never worked out an honest, concise, and accurate response.

I've been thinking about it, though.  I won't be disingenuous and pretend that I don't understand why someone would ask such a question.  I know that in the minds of many, Celtic = Pagan.  Yes, it's true that the ancient Celts were Pagan -- as was most of the rest of the world.  And it doesn't much matter what definition of "Pagan" you consider "correct" -- if you consider Pagan as a catch-all term for polytheistic religions, keep in mind that in the centuries and millenia before the Christian era, the only monotheistic religion was Judaism.  And if you consider Pagan as a catch-all term for non-Christian religions, keep in mind that the heyday of the Celts was in the pre-Christian era.

Though I claim a Celtic ancestry, I feel no more bound to their ancient religion than I am to any other aspect of their way of life -- like cooking over an open fire, walking or riding a horse as my primary mode of transportation ... or living without air conditioning!  In fact, when Christianity was introduced to the Celts, many of them quickly and enthusiastically embraced the new religion, in part because many of its tenets were similar to their own beliefs: the belief in an afterlife, for example.

I'm still working on a nice way to express my thoughts and beliefs without offending by appearing too glib or too self-righteous.  I would never want to turn someone away because they felt that I was putting their beliefs down.  If anyone has suggestions/insight/input, please share!

What Makes It Beautiful (From The Big E, West Springfield, MA, originally written 9/28/10)

I was playing my dulcimer the other day, when a couple approached me.

"I have one of these," the woman said; "I have the instrument, the stand, the case, the hammers, the electronic tuner, everything you need. Now I just need someone to teach me how to play."

I made a recommendation as to a potential teacher who lives in the general area, but the woman expressed disappointment that she would have to drive a little distance to get lessons. She informed me that she was an experienced musician, so I suggested that perhaps she could teach herself, as I (and many of my fellow players) had done. "Oh, that won't do," she replied. "I've already tried, but I can't figure it out. I'm sure that if someone would help me get started, I'd have it mastered in no time."

The couple lingered. While continuing to play, I asked what type of instrument she'd purchased.

"It's a Dusty Strings. At least the same size as yours, and probably bigger."

Greg, overhearing this, brightened. Thinking to make a connection with her, he said, "Sam Rizzetta, who built Marcille's dulcimer, is the man who did the basic designs for the Dusty Strings company."

She flinched in disbelief, blurting out, "But my instrument is very beautiful. It's got a rich-looking mahogany-colored top. It's an exquisite piece."

Briefly, I look at my own dulcimer through her eyes. It's 17 years old, now, and no one would describe it as cosmetically beautiful any more.  My hand traces the side rail, finding the small dimple I put in it less than 24 hours after taking possession of it: I'd slipped on ice when carrying it from my hotel room to the car. My mind still hears the rich chorus of tones that reverberated from inside the case, and I recall gingerly walking back to the room, my heart in my throat the entire time, to inspect the instrument to be sure that no major harm had resulted from my carelessness.

Sliding my hand further along the rail, I find one jagged, rough corner and recall the time that a gust of wind blew the dulcimer onto the pavement during a street fair in Dunedin, Florida.

Examining the sound board, I see evidence of other minor catastrophes and remember other episodes:

The time that the hickory nut fell out of the tree during a rehearsal in Ohio -- I still can't figure out how that nut managed to slip so perfectly between the strings to leave such a relatively large indentation!

The time that I was hustling to get off stage after performing at a festival in North Carolina -- I dropped one of my telescoping legs and left a gouge in the sound board.

The time that our band was giving a free "St. Patrick's Eve" concert to a Punta Gorda, Florida audience still shell-shocked from a punishing hurricane season -- the performance venue had not yet been able to repair the canopy over their stage, and the sudden rainstorm that blew in left a few water marks that I've not been able to rub out.

My dulcimer has endured snow flurrying onto it during a performance at Tennessee's Dollywood. Its tuning pins are ever so slightly corroded from salt air exposure up and down America's eastern seaboard, from Florida to Maine. It's been played in 100-degree-plus temperatures in Milwaukee Wisconsin and sub-freezing temperatures in Orlando, Florida. It's collected dust at fairgrounds in Michigan and New York and in Georgia's Stone Mountain Park. It's traveled hundreds of thousands of miles and played millions of tunes.

It's been fondled by quick, sticky-fingered children with slow-footed parents.

It's been embraced by the hands of hearing-impaired persons who wanted to experience its sound through its vibrations. Its strings have been traced by the fingers of sight-impaired individuals who wanted to "see" it through their sense of touch.

To me, the scars and imperfections are "character marks." Like the wrinkles and dark spots on the face of an elderly person, each one was attained through mostly natural use, and perhaps occasional misuse, but each "flaw" has a story to tell. It is evidence of a full life, fully lived.

And to me, it is beautiful.

I jarred back to the present, at a loss for words. The slight was probably unintentional, but even if it was not, any response from me would have been unjustified. After a few minutes, the couple moved on.

I caught Greg's eye. "Honey, don't even think about it," he consoled.

"Oh, I'm not insulted by what she said, Greg. She's looking at the dulcimer as if it's a fine piece of furniture, rather than a musical instrument.  She'll figure it out eventually ... or not."

He smiled. "Well, I'm glad you didn't say anything to her."

I smiled back. "Well, it wouldn't have been right for me to say anything, really. But I couldn't help thinking that my dulcimer is, in fact, beautiful because

"I know how to play mine."

The Wisdom Of Youth (From Swannanoa, NC, originally written 10/20/10)

Some of my favorite "moments" at festivals are spent with children.  Yeah, sometimes I shudder when a hyper-active child whirls into my space, and, without having really paid any attention to what I'm doing, exclaims, "Lemme try that!"  I do occasionally let kids play the dulcimer, but I try to size them up as to whether they will be respectful of the instrument; in fact, by asking them if they are willing to do exactly what I tell them to do (as to holding the hammers, and tapping gently).  After all, I don't want to spend 30 minutes re-tuning a dulcimer that's been pounded out of tune by an overly enthusiastic drumming.  Nor do I want to lose a $50 pair of hammers to rough treatment!  Although I'm always running a slight risk -- and I typically travel with only one instrument -- it's a beautiful thing to witness the sheer joy in a child who's discovering how music is made.  

Kids don't necessarily always want to play, either, but sometimes they can come up with questions and observations that are real doozies!  The schoolteacher in me tries to send them away with something meaningful.

Last weekend, a wiry, big-eyed little boy skidded up to me and wanted to know about the dulcimer.  "How do you play?" he demanded; "Do you strum it or what?"  It was toward the end of the day, and I'd already packed all of my gear and accessories, though I hadn't yet packed the instrument itself.  I briefly considered telling him that I was done for the day, but instead I gave him a tight-lipped little smile and said, "Here, let me show you."  

I hadn't played many notes when he called out, "Mom, you've got to come over and see this!"  His mother, along with a teen-ager who proved to be his sister, came over to listen.  When I wrapped up playing the merry little ditty, the girl thoughtfully remarked, "You know, Mom, you've been thinking about learning to play a musical instrument.  This would probably be a good one for you to try."  

"That's a great idea!" the boy chimed in.  The mother smiled and shrugged, saying, "Well, it certainly is beautiful."

"Mommm," he said, "all musical instruments are beautiful ... even the banjo!"  Then he did a comical little "air banjo" routine, mimicking its sound with a twanging "deedle-eedle-deedle-deedle" and dancing around.

All musical instruments are beautiful.  From out of the mouths of babes, huh?  He's right, you know.  I'm so glad I didn't turn him away!

Earlier that same day, a family had come by, and one of the boys looked over the CDs and selected A Mighty Fortress.  He handed it to his mother, who said, "So are you sure that's the one you want?"  He nodded, and she told him that the CD would be part of his birthday present, then.  

Turning to me, she asked if I would autograph the CD, and said that he'd asked to come to the show because he wanted some of my music for his birthday.

To Vincent: Blessings on your 13th Birthday.  From very humbled and honored me.

The Magic Pan (From Port Charlotte, FL, originally written 3/23/11)

We're going back out on the road in a little less than a week.  Dulcimer?  Check.  CD inventory?  Check.  Iron Frying Pan?  Oh, you better believe -- Check!  The dulcimer and the CDs are tools of my trade, but that old black skillet is an important part of our life.

The pan once belonged to my grandmother; Meemaw, we called her.  It's at least 50 years old and probably a decade or two (or more) older than that.  It's been lovingly, properly, cared for over the years ... if you know how to care for cast iron cookware, then you know what "proper care" entails: we never use soap to clean it.  If you don't understand how to care for these utensils (or if you happen to work for the health department) you probably think this sounds pretty gross.  But this treatment helps to season the pan and contributes to its non-stick properties.  Every year, before we go on the road, I take time to re-"season" the pan by giving it a good scrubbing, coating it with a thin sheen of peanut oil and then placing it in a 200° oven for a couple of hours; this accounts for the shine you see in the picture.

I can't even imagine trying to figure the number of meals I've consumed that have been prepared with that pan.  Nowadays I stir-fry a lot of vegetables, occasionally fix bacon or sausage, and it's my go-to for certain Cuban dishes.  

I make a mean corned beef hash with it, and there's a funny story associated with the hash: When my brother and I were little, we used to spend many weeks during the summer with our grandparents in Brooksville, Florida.  Mind you, we called our Brooksville grandmother "Mimi," and though she was not the owner of this particular pan, she did have a pan something like it; I imagine that many, if not most, Southern women of that generation used cast iron cookware.  Among our favorites of Mimi's dishes was corned beef hash, and when we went back home, we would plead with our mother to make hash.  But hers was never quite as good.  I hope I didn't hurt her feelings by telling her that it wasn't "quite right," and I never could exactly tell her what was different, but it ... just wasn't the same.  As an adult, I tried to make hash myself, but it just wasn't right ... until this pan came into my possession.  The very first time I made hash with this pan, I discovered that Mimi's secret ingredient must've been the cast iron pan she used.  Scientifically, it can probably be explained by the evenness with which the pan conducts heat.  I tend to think it must be magic.

The one dish that I've never learned to make, in spite of possessing the magic pan, is Meemaw's fried chicken.  I know she used this very pan to make her chicken: a perfectly seasoned, golden brown, crispy yet tender, moist but never greasy masterpiece.  I should've asked her to teach me, but somehow never got around to it.  Scientifically, there's probably a step -- or perhaps two -- that I never observed and therefore have missed in my own attempts.  I tend to think, though, there was a secret ingredient: Love.

We have to be pretty spare in our choices of what to take on the road with us.  Everything has a purpose, and if an item can serve multiple purposes, all the better.  Like I said before, the dulcimer and the CDs are tools of my trade.  But the old black skillet serves its purpose as a cooking utensil, as a treasured "antique," as an heirloom connecting me to my wonderful Meemaw.  All of the memories and all of the love have seasoned that pan, and consequently memories and love season every meal that is prepared using it.

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