Loving and Hating the Town that Always Seems to Be Asleep

I was reading my friend, Natalie’s, blog recently (http://nataliebuster.blogspot.com/)about loving and hating New York City. As I read her thoughts, I longed to walk down some New York streets, stroll in a park with Brian and Roy, and step into one of the many little eating places they have found to share with me. I wanted to smell the city smells, listen to the city noises, and taste the city food. I also wanted an afternoon of window shopping in the city (although I always feel like country-come-to-town), keeping alert to avoid bumping into a constant throng of people on the sidewalks, and dreaming big dreams. There is something about the city that sparks my imagination and revitalizes my creative energy.

Like Natalie, I often feel like I don’t belong in the city, even though I love it every time I go to New York to visit. But, I’m always glad to get home, which brings me to my own reflections on “Loving and Hating the Town that Seems to Always Be Asleep.”

Social Circle, Georgia – my hometown for the past seven years. I don’t live inside the city limits, but on a dirt road about three miles from the lone traffic light in the center of town. Except for 3:00 pm on a weekday school day, the town is pretty drowsy. But when the school buses roll out in the afternoon from the local schools, you don’t want to be at the main intersection, or turning left out of the post office parking lot, unless you have plenty of time to spare. It’s also very important to abide by the 25 mph speed limit in town, because the Social Circle policemen absolutely love to pull over speeders and write out tickets. They are especially visible on Sunday mornings – I've decided that they are on the prowl for people who are running late for church. The townspeople are friendly enough, but very few know me by name, except at the bank, which I visit on a pretty regular basis, and at the post office, where I pick up my mail a few times each week. I’ve been a member of the Methodist Church since moving here, but still only know a handful of people. Like Natalie in New York, I just don’t feel like I quite belong in Social Circle. I don’t have any family members in the local cemetery, and no streets are named for my family. I don’t live in one of the many historic homes in town, in one of the few trendy subdivisions or on one of the rambling horse farms outside of town – I sometimes think I’ll always be an outsider here. There are times when I feel as much out of place in this little town as I do when I’m in New York.

I miss the conveniences of living in a bigger town. With only one little local grocery store that is actually very well-stocked with fresh produce, local eggs, and great meat, the pickings are sometimes slim (and a little more expensive) on other items that we like to stock in our pantry; thus, we make regular treks to the nearest Walmart, ten miles away, for a wider selection of food and other necessities. We also have to travel a minimum of ten miles to get to the restaurants we like; eating out is an event. Luckily, we’ve found a good dentist and a wonderful family doctor in Social Circle, so at least we don’t have to travel far for our health needs. We also have “Fred’s”, a Walmart in miniature, that carries a nice variety of greeting cards, canning jars and lids, cheap Crocs knock-offs and discount jeans, and other odds and ends that we can pick up locally.

Even though I have not fully acclimated to small town life, I love my five acres on my dirt road. With my gardens, the forest behind our house, and all of the beauties of life in the country, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. We always have something new to learn and experience. For instance, last Saturday morning at the crack of dawn, Phil and I watched in amazement as our colony of bats returned from their nightly feeding frenzy to the bat house he built for them on the side of our house. We laughed and cheered as we watched them zoom in toward us and then slip into their house to sleep off their nightly carousing. I never thought I’d be excited about providing a home for bats, but this country living is catching on, and I find myself finding wonder and enjoyment out here every day. I love the dark starry nights, listening to the quiet whispering of the wind in the pine trees, watching the beautiful butterflies sipping nectar from the thistles and other wild flowers, and relishing the solitude of sitting on my porch sipping a minty mojito or glass of crisp wine. When I think back to my days of commuting to work in Atlanta, I shudder, take another sip of wine, and thank God for blessing me with my home here on my dirt road, and my newly-found simple way of living.

I’m always ready to visit New York, but I think I’ll stay here in Social Circle, where life is very, very good.

Hitting the Wall

On Saturday afternoon about 4:00 PM, I hit the wall, figuratively speaking. It had been a long time since this had happened to me, and I was somewhat miffed that I ran out of steam a couple of hours before going out to dinner with friends. It had been a busy week, but I hadn’t been aware of how draining it was until Phil reminded me, reciting a list of things I’d done during the week, as I was struggling to get back onto my feet.

One of my main tasks for the week was watching my leg wound on a regular basis after getting the stitches removed on Tuesday, and fretting that it wouldn’t heal the way it should. I obsessed over my leg - the shade of red, the warmth of the wound site, the formation of scabs, and the lumpiness underneath the skin. It was either on my mind or lurking in the shadows all the time. This alone was enough to exhaust me!

I was on the go all week long. The garden kept me on my toes, as I picked okra, beans, peas, tomatoes and peppers, and then had to do something with them after coming in from the garden. Much of my spare time was spent in the kitchen, washing vegetables and preparing them for the freezer. I even made a new creation, candied jalapenos, a recipe that I came up with after extensive internet research and taking what I hoped was the best from several recipes I found online. The result was a delicious combination of hot and sweet, and I was very pleased with myself. One of our huge pumpkins found its way into the freezer as I labored over lugging it upstairs to the kitchen, cutting it up, cooking it, and then blending it into a creamy puree.

Besides all this, I tutored at the college one evening and helped out my friend, Beth, in her site selection business two days. I also found time to pick blueberries, knit a wash cloth, and bake bread for the Saturday market. Saturday morning at the market was extremely busy, as I sold out of almost everything at my booth, and commented along with everyone else how hot and humid it was.

So it was that at 4:00 Saturday afternoon I sat down to rest for a few minutes and crashed. Somehow, I managed to get myself out of the chair an hour later and freshened up enough to go to our favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner. Once there, with a few chips and salsa in my tummy, and sipping on a strong margarita, I artificially perked up and enjoyed dinner immensely. But by the time we reached home after dinner, I was done. I managed to dredge up enough energy to call Brian to wish him a happy birthday before my lights went out, and didn’t regain consciousness until the sunlight hit my eyes yesterday morning.

And so, now, it’s another week. And it looks like it’s going to be a full one. I hope I learned a lesson last week, and I plan to spend a little more time with my feet up and my eyes closed each day. No more crashes for me – that wall I hit was no fun!

It's Blueberry Time!!

I’ve been watching and waiting for the “Blueberries” sign to go up at the corner of Spring and Hightower in Social Circle, pointing the way to Hard Labor Creek Blueberry Farm. The date has been circled on my calendar for at least two months – June 26 – so I knew that the farm was scheduled to open this past week-end. Seeing the sign was all the assurance I needed that the day had finally arrived!

I couldn’t go on opening day, and it just about killed me knowing that other people were getting my blueberries. I wasn’t generous at all in my thoughts, even though I knew there would be plenty of blueberries for everyone, as well as for all of the birds and deer. I thought about blueberries all day long.

“They’re as big as grapefruits!” proclaimed a friend when I asked her if she’d been to the farm yet. Her husband quickly corrected her exaggeration, stating, “There are some the size of quarters – big, juicy, and sweet.”

O.K. I had to wait, and without a lot of patience. The farm is closed on Sundays, so I spent the next day dreaming about blueberries ripening in the summer sun, waiting, like me, for Monday morning.

I awakened early Monday before dawn, with you-know-what on my mind. I waited as long as I possibly could, at least until sunrise, since the farm opens at dawn. I watched the sky brighten with the new day, and at 7:30 am, I was in my car driving the six miles to the blueberry farm.

I wasn’t the first person there. Two cars ware already parked in the field. I hopped out of my car, grabbed a couple of buckets, selected the row I wanted to pick from, and began my blueberry quest. The birds chirped their welcome (or was it a warning?) from the trees as I meandered my way down the row picking my berries. It was quiet and peaceful, and my thoughts drifted as I made my way from tree to tree selecting the most beautiful blueberries I was sure I'd ever seen. Grapefruit-sized berries eluded me - but I found lots and lots of luscious berries, ranging from pea-sized to the size of a big shooter marble. I was a happy girl, picking blueberries, listening to the birds, and dreaming of bowls of fresh berries and homemade preserves to feast on all summer long.

With my two buckets filled to the brim, I reluctantly left the blueberry field to pay for my morning’s bounty. By this time, I was excited about getting home, dividing out my berries to give some away, making preserves and syrup, and nibbling on fresh berries the rest of the day.

Let’s see – when will I go back? As soon as I have a couple of hours to spare. There are still more blueberries out there waiting for me!

A Memory of My Daddy

From my book, "A Collection of Days", this chapter is appropriate for Father's Day as I remember my father.

Two Phone Calls

It was a hot, summer, Florida evening. Mama, Daddy, and I had finished supper and were clearing up the dishes when the phone rang. It was my roommate from Mount Union College, Jackie. She was calling to tell me that she was in Fort Lauderdale visiting her grandmother, and would love it if I could drive over to spend a couple of days with her. Of course, I was delighted with the prospect of a little adventure on my own- driving my baby blue ’64 Cutlass across the state to have some beach time with my good friend. I saw no reason why I couldn’t go, but when I asked permission, Daddy stolidly said no. After I hung up the phone, I lashed into Daddy about all the reasons why I should be able to make this trip, but he had as many reasons why I could not go. Our argument culminated with my screaming at him, running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and flopping onto my bed in angry tears.

I lay there crying, feeling sorry for myself, and otherwise despising my father for being such a stick in the mud. I felt like I was an adult, and he was treating me like a child. It wasn’t fair, and I was angry and hurt.

While I was in the midst of my temper tantrum, the phone rang again. Several minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Thinking the phone call was for me, and that Mama was on the other side of the door, I sobbingly responded, “Come in.” To my surprise, it was Daddy who walked over to my bed and sat down. Tears were streaming down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry, and I knew that something terrible had happened as my stomach turned a flip in anticipation of what I was about to hear. Daddy wrapped his arms around me and told me that my cousin, Madeline, who was nine months pregnant, had died suddenly. What about the baby? was the question that popped out of my mouth first. The baby, a little boy, was dead, too. My tears instantly turned from tears of a selfish teenager to those of grief, as the news sunk in deeper and deeper. Daddy didn’t know the details, only that she was gone. As I cried in my daddy’s arms, and felt his strong arms around me, I felt the love he had for me, and his thankfulness that I was alive and healthy. He was only looking out for my safety and well-being by prohibiting me from driving across Florida by myself, and maybe being a little selfish himself in an attempt to protect me from some unknown harm lurking out there on the Florida highways.

I have often thought back to that night. My emotions ran the gamut within about an hour’s time, and changed me forever. I never felt closer to my dad than I did that night, within a moment’s passing after thinking terrible and hateful thoughts about him. I never saw him shed tears again the way he did that night, and we never spoke again of that time we shared, wrapped in each other’s arms on the edge of my bed. We would continue to have our arguments and disagreements until the day he died, but we had a deep understanding of one another, which brought a more intimate daughter-father relationship, still alive even years after his death.

The Little Gardening Basket

I don’t remember when Mama first began picking fruit and vegetables and placing them into her little brown gardening basket. I’m sure she must have had other baskets, but I don’t remember any except this one. During the growing season every year it either sat on her kitchen counter or was swinging from her arm as she went to and fro from her garden. She would come into the house with the little basket laden with strawberries, blackberries, beans, squash - whatever was in season at the time.

The last summer of Mama’s life, the basket sat idle on the counter collecting dust, used recipes, and assorted pens and pencils. Like her garden that summer, the basket looked forlorn and lonely. It waited patiently for Mama to get well and swing its little handle over her arm and head outdoors.

Mama didn’t get well. After her death, my brothers and sister and I went through all of her belongings, choosing what we’d like to keep and what we would let go. It was a heart-wrenching job, consisting of many shared tears and memories. Somehow, the little basket was overlooked and found itself in the pile of left-overs bound for the Salvation Army. Before I gave my final o.k. to call for the truck to come and pick up the remnants of my parents’ lives, I went through them one last time. I couldn’t let the basket go, even though I had more than enough baskets of my own at home. I picked it up, placed a few odds-and-ends into it and reluctantly gave my blessing for the dispersal of the rest of the pile.

This was almost fifteen years ago. Since that day, the little basket has been my summertime companion, carrying my own berries and vegetables and flowers. It has also been my connection to my mother every spring and summer, as I’ve followed in her gardening footsteps and think about her as I fill it up with the bounties of my garden.

This morning while I was picking beans, the basket fell unexpectedly to the ground, its handle still hanging from my arm. Upon examination, I saw that on one side of the basket the handle had slipped out of the woven reeds holding it, and the weight of the full basket broke the reeds on the other side. In tears, I scooped up the fallen beans and okra I had been picking, and placed them all back into the basket. Carrying it like an infant in my arms, I slowly walked back to the house crying over the little basket’s seemingly mortal injuries.

Back in my kitchen, I unloaded my morning’s harvest onto the counter and examined the basket more closely. Determining that it was beyond my expertise to try to repair it, I gently placed the handle inside the basket and placed it on a shelf where I could always see and touch it. I selected another basket from my collection – this one much bigger and sturdier – and silently anointed it for its new job.

I’m going to miss carrying my little brown basket to the garden every morning, as well as the bond it provided to my mother and memories of her. But maybe it’s time for it to rest from its labors and enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen. I’ve decided to use it to hold dried herbs and spices.

I’m sure Mama would be pleased.

The Friendship Chain

It’s funny how an assortment of random occurrences will weave themselves together to become something meaningful in my life. Let me share this with you.

Recently, while looking for a new knitting pattern for a wash cloth to take with me to my Tuesday night knitting group, I found a pattern for a “Friendship Chain” pattern online. I saved it on my Favorites list, made a couple of copies, and began knitting a new wash cloth. It was an easy pattern, one that flowed smoothly as my knitting needles clicked against each other, and within two hours, I had a completed project that I was casting off from my knitting needles. Then I made another one, and another one. There was something about the pattern that I loved – it was symmetrical in its design, and the stitch count was easy to remember, making knitting rhythmic and musical. It reminded me of singing a familiar song, one in which I knew all the words. I was pleased with the end results, and added my Friendship Chain wash cloths to my growing bundle that I hope to sell and give away.

While knitting this interesting pattern, my mind wandered as the words “friendship chain” tumbled around in my mind like a song that hangs on repeating itself over and over as a type of mantra in my brain. Memories began to emerge.

I pictured summer camp at Camp Fire Girls’ Camp Toccoa, where I spent several weeks each summer as a child and teen-ager. In my mind I saw us girls standing in a friendship circle around the evening camp fire, our arms crossed, always right over left, holding hands in a circle, singing the camp’s signature song, “Beneath the Pine Trees,” and then “Taps”, before squeezing hands in release and heading to our cabins for the night. As a Camp Fire Girl, this was a familiar ritual. After each weekly meeting our small group would form a friendship circle with our arms crossed, singing “Make new friends, but keep the old – One is silver and the other gold” followed by “Sing your way home at the end of the day.” This was our friendship chain, and the pattern I was knitting strangely reminded me of our crossed arms, standing in our friendship circle. Singing, always singing.

Yesterday, Phil and I met our childhood friend, Luci, for lunch in Decatur. Luci’s mother has recently died, and we invited Luci to meet us to express our support and friendship. Our invisible friendship chain materialized as we talked, shared common experiences, and enjoyed being back in our childhood hometown for a few hours. The links of our friendship chain were strong as we relived childhood memories, walked down familiar streets, and laughed and cried together. As Phil and I drove home, I thought about Luci and the history of our friendship, remembering our MYF group at the Decatur Methodist Church, remembering similar friendship circles with arms crossed, as we helped each other through adolescence and along our individual faith journeys.

Last night, the final thread in this emerging tapestry completed the picture as I happened upon a PBS program on television on the folk singing group, Peter, Paul, and Mary. As I listened to their songs, I was a teen-ager,back at Camp Toccoa with my baritone ukulele, sitting on a top bunk with my cabin-mates strumming and singing folk songs, including “If I had a Hammer”, “Blowing in the Wind,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, and others that this group and other folk singers had brought into our lives through the magic of radio and long-play record albums. I also listened to these artists as they shared their experiences of singing during our turbulent teen-age years when Martin Luther King was teaching us about peaceful resistance, equal rights, and dreams of a racially unified America. In one of the video clips from a performance in the ‘60s, I saw Peter, Paul, and Mary standing shoulder –to-shoulder on stage with a group of singers and equal rights leaders, their arms crossed, holding hands in a friendship chain. I began to cry as I listened to their song and realized how folk music has been a vital link in my personal friendship chain throughout my life. I also heard an old, old message that had begun with the Camp Fire Girls’ friendship circles, and hadn’t left me, even though it had been buried until the day I found the knitting pattern for the Friendship Chain.

I plan to knit many Friendship Chain wash cloths. They remind me of the importance of my friends, the bonds that the friendship chain symbolizes, the strength of holding hands with friends in an eternal circle of love, and the importance of keeping a song in my heart.

My Cottage Industry

Yesterday was my first day to set up my booth at the Monroe Outdoor Market. Phil built a wonderful display “kiosk” for me last week, and I was eager to see how it would work. Made of left-over kitchen cabinet doors and an old market umbrella we had used on our deck years ago, it was an answer to the market requirement that all vendors must set up under some kind of canopy over our display tables. Compact and sturdy, Phil was sure that his creation would be perfect for me. I thought so, too, and looked forward to my first day at the market.

I woke up early in order to get ready, went outside to pick fresh lettuce and herbs, and by 8:00 am, we were on our way to Monroe. When we pulled up into the vacant lot that transforms into a market every Saturday during the growing season, I was warmly greeted by old friends from last year’s market, and met a couple of newcomer vendors. It didn’t take Phil more than a couple of minutes to unload my new display kiosk, and for me to raise the umbrella. I couldn’t have been more pleased, and within another few minutes I was ready for business. Phil stayed around for a little while, but then left me there alone while he ran some Saturday morning errands.

I set out my loaves of bread, arranged my jars of jelly, and put the lettuce and herbs in a place where they would be easily seen by browsing shoppers. I had decided at the last minute to take a box of my photo note cards and a basket of my knitted and crocheted cotton dish cloths to add a little color to my booth. I set up my canvas chair, got out my crochet hook and ball of yarn, and waited to see what would happen.

Being a holiday week-end, we weren’t sure how many people would visit the market. The other vendors commented on the small amount of traffic walking through the market, but I was delighted. Most of the early birds were merely looking and visiting, checking things out, looking for fresh vegetables, of which there were few. Soon all of the early squash, new potatoes and spring greens were gone. A few people stopped by my booth to see what I had, and bought a loaf of bread or jar of jelly. Several asked me if I was going to be a regular vendor at the market - they had already bought bread for the week, but were interested in what I’d have next week. I also had inquiries on what herbs I would have, and I promised that there would be some there next week. My one pack of cilantro sold within the first hour. One shopper zeroed in on my basket of dish cloths and selected two to purchase, not blinking twice at the price. I was thrilled!

By 11:00, I had sold all but three loaves of bread and things were slowing down. It was now time to barter. I visited one of my friends who was selling home-made English muffins. She wanted to try my cracked wheat bread, so we made a trade. I also got a dozen fresh eggs and a package of fresh roast coffee in exchange for either bread or jelly.

When Phil arrived at noon, I had already taken down the umbrella and put away my left-overs, of which there were few. He helped me load my table and umbrella into the truck, and we helped the other vendors fold up their canopies. As we pulled out of the lot, I began counting my money. I discovered that it had been a good morning for me. Even though it seemed that it was a quiet morning, I had surpassed my goal of how much I wanted to make.

So, now I need to think about making more jelly, deciding what kinds of bread to bake on Friday, and getting some more cotton yarn to make more dish cloths. I also need to come up with a better way to display my photo note cards – I think they’ll sell if they are more visible. Being a market vendor certainly won’t make me rich, but it’s a delightful cottage industry, and a wonderful way to spend a Saturday morning.

I’m already looking forward to next Saturday!