Last night I asked my husband what he had for lunch.
"Beaver," he said.
"What did you say? I think we have a bad connection," I responded.
"Barbequed beaver," he said.
And, that's when I knew...I really do live in the South. :o)
BTW, I was told that the beaver weighed 65 lbs.
Showing posts with label The South. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The South. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Saturday, December 26, 2009
'Tis The Day After Christmas
It's the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
All the creatures are stirring, even the stuffed grouse.
The dishes were washed in the kitchen with care,
In hopes that Miss Flo soon would be there.
My husband is snuggled all warm in our bed,
While visions of rice planting dance in his head.
And, Xena with her ball, and Blaze with his bone,
Have eaten their breakfast and now can just zone.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chaise to see what was the matter,
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
To open the french doors and threw up the sash.
The newly-risen sun on the dewy marsh grass,
Gave off kaleidoscopic colors of freshly-made stained glass,
When, what to my wondering eye should appear,
But, Sara and her dogs; -- oh, what a dear!
With her high snake boots, and dog whistle in her hand,
I knew that it must be time for her little band,
To rush through the old oak grove and dove field across the way,
They had time to get there, with nary a neigh,
For the owners with their horses were not quite up yet,
They were still washing and grooming and leading with reins, I'll bet,
So the dogs tore off, tails all a-wiggling,
To look for other creatures, to play, romp, do some diggling.
There were fire ants, chiggers, and plenty of snakes,
Mole crickets, toads, possums, even armadillos for heaven sakes!
So they rolled and they romped and they jumped and they jived,
Until Sara felt that she barely survived,
All the fun and the excitement of the field that they had,
She wanted them home before they had a chance to be bad.
So, whistled she did and they came running around,
Obedient hunting dogs they, not some dumb kind of hound.
I looked again out my window, and what should I see,
But a gander of goose, and egrets flying --with glee.
When I looked in the sky, I could hardly believe,
So many different birds, that I went to retrieve...
My camera, my binocs, my phone and my bird book,
So that I could see and record and have a good look,
Because the beauty of these birds had to be captured,
I was totally and completely and fully enraptured.
Kites, and terns, and long-billed white ibis,
Squawked and warbled like a low-country Imis,
Great blue herons, plovers, woodstorks and ducks,
Turkey vultures, falcons, and eagles, what luck!
Songbirds, and spoonbills, and sparrows and all,
Flying up, up, up, with nary a fall,
'Til they flew out out sight, beyond my vision,
Of that I am sure, there can be no derision.
So I looked into the water, and what should I see?
But, a dolphin and her babies, feeding at sea.
She breached and she splashed and she made the fish jump,
So her babies could feed and eat a fish-lump.
They splashed and they squeaked and they swam and they fed,
Until at last they had eaten enough of their bread,
So off they swam...
Down the creek, through the bay, to the sea..on the lam.
I watched until I could see them no more,
And, turned back and I then looked to the shore,
Where I saw tracks, new and deep, in the sand,
What was it, who left those tracks on the land?'
'Twas the 12 point buck, the one that men wanted,
The one hunters stalked and chased, but were still haunted,
By the elusiveness and stealth of the hearty strong buck,
Who left them feeling all bereft of good luck.
For they waited and sat in their stands way up high,
To see that strong buck when he chanced to come nigh,
But they waited in vain for that buck in the field,
For he never allowed them their hopes for a yield.
And, so, from the Lowcountry, all verdant outside,
Where folks tend the land with a great deal of pride,
We wish y'all a Merry Christmas-time,
And, we hope you enjoyed this new festive rhyme.
Seriously, hope y'all had a very Merry Christmas! With love from the Bubba-ette...
All the creatures are stirring, even the stuffed grouse.
The dishes were washed in the kitchen with care,
In hopes that Miss Flo soon would be there.
My husband is snuggled all warm in our bed,
While visions of rice planting dance in his head.
And, Xena with her ball, and Blaze with his bone,
Have eaten their breakfast and now can just zone.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chaise to see what was the matter,
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
To open the french doors and threw up the sash.
The newly-risen sun on the dewy marsh grass,
Gave off kaleidoscopic colors of freshly-made stained glass,
When, what to my wondering eye should appear,
But, Sara and her dogs; -- oh, what a dear!
With her high snake boots, and dog whistle in her hand,
I knew that it must be time for her little band,
To rush through the old oak grove and dove field across the way,
They had time to get there, with nary a neigh,
For the owners with their horses were not quite up yet,
They were still washing and grooming and leading with reins, I'll bet,
So the dogs tore off, tails all a-wiggling,
To look for other creatures, to play, romp, do some diggling.
There were fire ants, chiggers, and plenty of snakes,
Mole crickets, toads, possums, even armadillos for heaven sakes!
So they rolled and they romped and they jumped and they jived,
Until Sara felt that she barely survived,
All the fun and the excitement of the field that they had,
She wanted them home before they had a chance to be bad.
So, whistled she did and they came running around,
Obedient hunting dogs they, not some dumb kind of hound.
I looked again out my window, and what should I see,
But a gander of goose, and egrets flying --with glee.
When I looked in the sky, I could hardly believe,
So many different birds, that I went to retrieve...
My camera, my binocs, my phone and my bird book,
So that I could see and record and have a good look,
Because the beauty of these birds had to be captured,
I was totally and completely and fully enraptured.
Kites, and terns, and long-billed white ibis,
Squawked and warbled like a low-country Imis,
Great blue herons, plovers, woodstorks and ducks,
Turkey vultures, falcons, and eagles, what luck!
Songbirds, and spoonbills, and sparrows and all,
Flying up, up, up, with nary a fall,
'Til they flew out out sight, beyond my vision,
Of that I am sure, there can be no derision.
So I looked into the water, and what should I see?
But, a dolphin and her babies, feeding at sea.
She breached and she splashed and she made the fish jump,
So her babies could feed and eat a fish-lump.
They splashed and they squeaked and they swam and they fed,
Until at last they had eaten enough of their bread,
So off they swam...
Down the creek, through the bay, to the sea..on the lam.
I watched until I could see them no more,
And, turned back and I then looked to the shore,
Where I saw tracks, new and deep, in the sand,
What was it, who left those tracks on the land?'
'Twas the 12 point buck, the one that men wanted,
The one hunters stalked and chased, but were still haunted,
By the elusiveness and stealth of the hearty strong buck,
Who left them feeling all bereft of good luck.
For they waited and sat in their stands way up high,
To see that strong buck when he chanced to come nigh,
But they waited in vain for that buck in the field,
For he never allowed them their hopes for a yield.
And, so, from the Lowcountry, all verdant outside,
Where folks tend the land with a great deal of pride,
We wish y'all a Merry Christmas-time,
And, we hope you enjoyed this new festive rhyme.
Seriously, hope y'all had a very Merry Christmas! With love from the Bubba-ette...
Thursday, November 26, 2009
BANG BANG...An Untraditional Thanksgiving
In my old life, a traditional Thanksgiving meant going to church, hearing the people in the congregation give thanks for blessings received during the year, followed by a yummy turkey and friends and family at my parents' house.
In my new life, everything is different. Thanksgiving means...shooting? That's right.
Today, instead of going to church, I called in to a church service broadcast by one of my former churches in Connecticut. It was fun to listen in...I could recognize many voices.
As is true with my new life, it was a day packed with adventure. My husband and I took a glorious bike ride around the plantation. On the way, we stopped at a car that was parked in the middle of the road. What were they doing? Give up? Why...seeding oyster beds, that's what. Of course. :o)
Then we came back to start the next adventure of the day. A little background...Jeff, my husband's best friend, passed on right before our wedding, and we have stayed close to his
family ever since. His wife still lives next door for part of the year. So, today, we spent our Thanksgiving with her, and her daughter and son-in-law and two grandsons.We took all of them -- minus Sara who was cooking -- to our "farm". Jesseca and I picked while the guys did "
boy things." Here's a picture of me pickin'.And, here's a picture of what we picked!
Then, she and I walked part of the grounds, ending up at the pond where the guys were fishing. Lots of fun, not a lot of fish. Later on, we went shooting...that's what you can do when you live on a sporting plantation. Even the ladies shoot, usually not to kill, just to hit the sporting clays. I'm not there yet, but will let you know when I take my first shot.
A different Thanksgiving, for sure, but it was a great day.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
The South is Burning...
Really.
I know that I'm making it sound like the Union troops are coming through and burning like they did on Sherman's March during the "War Between the States" or the "War of Northern Aggression," depending what side you were on. That's not what I mean.
But, everything is burning here. I'm writing this sitting on the upper porch, right outside my office, and I can smell the smoke in the air. Sometimes the smoke is so thick that the air looks cloudy or foggy or misty and it's really acrid to breathe. ACK!
I've been told that you burn the fields before you get ready to plant. I guess that makes sense, but to this silly Northerner, it seems strange, if not illegal. See, I came from a town that would fine you, send the police to issue a warrant, if anything smelled remotely smoky. Why, you can't even burn your leaves that you rake up after the leave come down in the fall. It's illegal. Bad for your neighbors health.
When I'm driving to town, along the marsh, I see smoke billowing up in the air and wonder what country I'm in. It is so alien to my sensibilities. Up north, in my hometown, if I saw such a fire or that much smoke, I would call the authorities, the Police and Fire Departments, for them to check out the situation. In the city, a fire meant disaster. Now, I just kind of keep driving, realize that it's a part of the rhythm of the land, and if the smoke gets real bad, I plug my nose and press the pedal to the metal to go faster and faster and faster until I can break through the greyish cloud to the fresh marsh air beyond.
I know that I'm making it sound like the Union troops are coming through and burning like they did on Sherman's March during the "War Between the States" or the "War of Northern Aggression," depending what side you were on. That's not what I mean.
But, everything is burning here. I'm writing this sitting on the upper porch, right outside my office, and I can smell the smoke in the air. Sometimes the smoke is so thick that the air looks cloudy or foggy or misty and it's really acrid to breathe. ACK!
I've been told that you burn the fields before you get ready to plant. I guess that makes sense, but to this silly Northerner, it seems strange, if not illegal. See, I came from a town that would fine you, send the police to issue a warrant, if anything smelled remotely smoky. Why, you can't even burn your leaves that you rake up after the leave come down in the fall. It's illegal. Bad for your neighbors health.
When I'm driving to town, along the marsh, I see smoke billowing up in the air and wonder what country I'm in. It is so alien to my sensibilities. Up north, in my hometown, if I saw such a fire or that much smoke, I would call the authorities, the Police and Fire Departments, for them to check out the situation. In the city, a fire meant disaster. Now, I just kind of keep driving, realize that it's a part of the rhythm of the land, and if the smoke gets real bad, I plug my nose and press the pedal to the metal to go faster and faster and faster until I can break through the greyish cloud to the fresh marsh air beyond.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Oyster Roast
Last night I went to an oyster roast! It’s one of my favorite activities of the Lowcountry.
We drove down to the gazebo down by the marsh where you could harvest your own oysters. We were going to be eatin’ some mighty fresh oysters taken from the waters “right’s chear”. It was dark by the time we arrived. As I walked from the car, I could see people already huddled around the tables starting to eat. The fires were blazing and the oysters a cookin’.
What happens at an oyster roast?
Well, you stand around a wooden table that stands between chest and waist high with a big square hole cut out in the middle where you throw the shells after you are done eating. First, the cooks take shovels full of hot steaming oysters and heap them on the table. (If you are cool, you have brought your own glove and oyster knife. If not, then you can just use the community knife on the table.)
Now, what you want to do is to reach over and take one of those hot steaming oysters. Hold it firmly in your left hand while you find the slight opening between the two shells, and with your knife in your right hand, force the shell apart to find the plump, just steamed flesh inside. I like the big oysters where the meat is barely cooked, hot and moist and delicious. A couple of times I got two oysters that had fastened together, with the baby oyster on the outside, its meat firm and well-done and almost smoky tasting, like those smoked oysters my parents would put on Ritz crackers during one of their cocktail parties in the 1960s, and then the main oyster filled with the succulent meat inside, almost raw, but still cooked. The taste of the two size oysters varies so much, it’s almost as if you are eating two different dishes.
Just keep going this way until you have had enough. We had a meal served afterwards, which I don’t understand because once you have eaten your fill of oysters, there shouldn’t be much room in your tummy. Maybe some folks just don’t like oysters. I’m just not one of them.
We drove down to the gazebo down by the marsh where you could harvest your own oysters. We were going to be eatin’ some mighty fresh oysters taken from the waters “right’s chear”. It was dark by the time we arrived. As I walked from the car, I could see people already huddled around the tables starting to eat. The fires were blazing and the oysters a cookin’.
What happens at an oyster roast?
Well, you stand around a wooden table that stands between chest and waist high with a big square hole cut out in the middle where you throw the shells after you are done eating. First, the cooks take shovels full of hot steaming oysters and heap them on the table. (If you are cool, you have brought your own glove and oyster knife. If not, then you can just use the community knife on the table.)
Now, what you want to do is to reach over and take one of those hot steaming oysters. Hold it firmly in your left hand while you find the slight opening between the two shells, and with your knife in your right hand, force the shell apart to find the plump, just steamed flesh inside. I like the big oysters where the meat is barely cooked, hot and moist and delicious. A couple of times I got two oysters that had fastened together, with the baby oyster on the outside, its meat firm and well-done and almost smoky tasting, like those smoked oysters my parents would put on Ritz crackers during one of their cocktail parties in the 1960s, and then the main oyster filled with the succulent meat inside, almost raw, but still cooked. The taste of the two size oysters varies so much, it’s almost as if you are eating two different dishes.
Just keep going this way until you have had enough. We had a meal served afterwards, which I don’t understand because once you have eaten your fill of oysters, there shouldn’t be much room in your tummy. Maybe some folks just don’t like oysters. I’m just not one of them.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The African Village
Do you know that I live near an African village? It's just down the street. Really. Just across Route 17 before I take a left into the plantation. So, who says we don't have cultural diversity down here in the South?
And, I don't mean a town like Frogmore which commemorates the Gullah and Geechee cultures of Africa, I mean a real African village.
Oba Adefunmi II is the king of this Oyotunji African village. There was a picture of him in our local paper, The Beaufort Gazette. He looks young. I was expecting an older, wise-looking man, a kind of sage of the village. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but this king looks like a hip-hop artist. He's modern.
Last weekend, the village had a 3 day festival to celebrate the 50th anniversary of its founder, the current king's father, and his initiation into the Yoruba priesthood, a religion of West African descent, with origins in Nigeria. I wanted to go -- I love reggae music --, but was deterred by the stories I have heard about the place. Weird stuff happens, I was told. There are stories of psychedelic drug use, animal sacrifices, facial scarring rites and polygamy. Apparently, that was true back during the initial founding members, but could that still be true? Well, anything is possible, I guess.
According to the article in The Beaufort Gazette, "visitors still have to wind down a dirt road and still are greeted with a sign that reads 'You are now leaving the U.S. You are entering the Yoruba Kingdom...'" The founder had declared that the Oyotunji village was not part of the United States. The village was founded to establish and commemorate the ways of "the African village" and to connect people to their ancestry.
One of the major industries of this village is...producing priests. The other is hosting festivals. They have 14 a year. So, not to worry, I'll have more chances to attend. And, who knows? Maybe I'll even spend the night. The cost for a place to put your head? $10. Can't beat that!
Oh yes, in case you are interested, they are recruiting new settlers. So, if things get tough and you want to relocate to an African village in the South, or if you want to rediscover your ancestry or learn the ways of life in an African village, come on down. Just make a right off Route 17 just below where Route 17 and Route 21 split. The villagers are waiting for you...
And, I don't mean a town like Frogmore which commemorates the Gullah and Geechee cultures of Africa, I mean a real African village.
Oba Adefunmi II is the king of this Oyotunji African village. There was a picture of him in our local paper, The Beaufort Gazette. He looks young. I was expecting an older, wise-looking man, a kind of sage of the village. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but this king looks like a hip-hop artist. He's modern.
Last weekend, the village had a 3 day festival to celebrate the 50th anniversary of its founder, the current king's father, and his initiation into the Yoruba priesthood, a religion of West African descent, with origins in Nigeria. I wanted to go -- I love reggae music --, but was deterred by the stories I have heard about the place. Weird stuff happens, I was told. There are stories of psychedelic drug use, animal sacrifices, facial scarring rites and polygamy. Apparently, that was true back during the initial founding members, but could that still be true? Well, anything is possible, I guess.
According to the article in The Beaufort Gazette, "visitors still have to wind down a dirt road and still are greeted with a sign that reads 'You are now leaving the U.S. You are entering the Yoruba Kingdom...'" The founder had declared that the Oyotunji village was not part of the United States. The village was founded to establish and commemorate the ways of "the African village" and to connect people to their ancestry.
One of the major industries of this village is...producing priests. The other is hosting festivals. They have 14 a year. So, not to worry, I'll have more chances to attend. And, who knows? Maybe I'll even spend the night. The cost for a place to put your head? $10. Can't beat that!
Oh yes, in case you are interested, they are recruiting new settlers. So, if things get tough and you want to relocate to an African village in the South, or if you want to rediscover your ancestry or learn the ways of life in an African village, come on down. Just make a right off Route 17 just below where Route 17 and Route 21 split. The villagers are waiting for you...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Oooooops! A Correction...
My husband reads my blog. Probably to make sure that I don't put in anything too incriminating about him?! :o) Either that, or he's amused by the whole thing. Or not.
He tactfully pointed out on our walk yesterday that I had a misspelling in my last post. It should have read "quail" not quails. Apparently, there is no such thing as quails.
Why not?, I wondered. One quail, two quails. One deer, two deers. One goose, two geese, One moose, two meese.
I'm starting to sound like Dr. Seuss...
He tactfully pointed out on our walk yesterday that I had a misspelling in my last post. It should have read "quail" not quails. Apparently, there is no such thing as quails.
Why not?, I wondered. One quail, two quails. One deer, two deers. One goose, two geese, One moose, two meese.
I'm starting to sound like Dr. Seuss...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Folks Down Here
...they are friendly-like. Really.
Last Sunday, I went to a Chamber Music concert with my husband, and we found ourselves seated behind Harriet Keyserling, a prominent local politician. A friend of hers and mine had given me Mrs. Keyserling's book "Against the Tide: One Woman's Political Struggle" to read recently. (She was a New York Jewish woman, educated at Barnard College in New York City, who moved to Beaufort, SC in the 1940's to be with her husband -- and this book is her story of how she got involved with local culture and later, in state politics, as a Democrat in a sea of Republicans.)
At my husband's urging, I leaned forward and tapped Mrs. Keyserling on the shoulder, introduced myself and told her how Ann had just given me the book and how I was just starting to read it and how much it resonated, as a transplanted New Yorker and political addict (and would-be activist). She said: "Well, after you finish it, why don't we have lunch?"
Now, can you imagine that happening in New York? If I tapped Betsy Gotbaum on the shoulder, would she invite me out to lunch? I think not. No comment about Betsy, just the culture in New York.
It's fun to live in a more connected community sometimes.
Here's another little anecdote: yesterday, I drove to the South Carolina Cider Company to buy some original Carolina tea for my mom and some Lowcountry goodies for mom and dad. As I was leaving, a police car had pulled a car over...right behind my car, which is a large SUV. (I used to be morally opposed to driving one of these things, but it really comes in handy when I have to drive across fields, which I do sometimes.)
Any way, I started backing up slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a man with a Caterpillar hat was approaching my car, and he proceeded to guide me out of the parking place. No one I knew, just a helpful Southern gentleman.
Sure is different down here...
Last Sunday, I went to a Chamber Music concert with my husband, and we found ourselves seated behind Harriet Keyserling, a prominent local politician. A friend of hers and mine had given me Mrs. Keyserling's book "Against the Tide: One Woman's Political Struggle" to read recently. (She was a New York Jewish woman, educated at Barnard College in New York City, who moved to Beaufort, SC in the 1940's to be with her husband -- and this book is her story of how she got involved with local culture and later, in state politics, as a Democrat in a sea of Republicans.)
At my husband's urging, I leaned forward and tapped Mrs. Keyserling on the shoulder, introduced myself and told her how Ann had just given me the book and how I was just starting to read it and how much it resonated, as a transplanted New Yorker and political addict (and would-be activist). She said: "Well, after you finish it, why don't we have lunch?"
Now, can you imagine that happening in New York? If I tapped Betsy Gotbaum on the shoulder, would she invite me out to lunch? I think not. No comment about Betsy, just the culture in New York.
It's fun to live in a more connected community sometimes.
Here's another little anecdote: yesterday, I drove to the South Carolina Cider Company to buy some original Carolina tea for my mom and some Lowcountry goodies for mom and dad. As I was leaving, a police car had pulled a car over...right behind my car, which is a large SUV. (I used to be morally opposed to driving one of these things, but it really comes in handy when I have to drive across fields, which I do sometimes.)
Any way, I started backing up slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a man with a Caterpillar hat was approaching my car, and he proceeded to guide me out of the parking place. No one I knew, just a helpful Southern gentleman.
Sure is different down here...
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Fried Things
In the South, they like fried food. Everything is fried. Fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried potatoes, fried okra, fried green tomatoes, fried pickles…even alligator meat is fried, fried ‘gator balls.
Yesterday I went to the local café restaurant and ordered up a “po’boy” sandwich, which turned out to be fried oysters on a roll. Appetizer? Fried pickles. Note to you Northerners: fried pickles are yummy.
But, if you don’t fry it, at least put some fat in it. Bacon drippin’s are the best. You can put them in everything. I was gonna make okra with stewed tomatoes tonight, but Miss Flo said I have to put bacon drippin’s in if it’s gonna taste any good. I once tried to make collard greens by boiling ‘em and put a vinegar and sugar sauce over them, but everyone said if they didn’t have bacon drippin’s on ‘em, they didn’t want even want to try ‘em.
Anyone have a good collard greens recipe without bacon drippins’?
Yesterday I went to the local café restaurant and ordered up a “po’boy” sandwich, which turned out to be fried oysters on a roll. Appetizer? Fried pickles. Note to you Northerners: fried pickles are yummy.
But, if you don’t fry it, at least put some fat in it. Bacon drippin’s are the best. You can put them in everything. I was gonna make okra with stewed tomatoes tonight, but Miss Flo said I have to put bacon drippin’s in if it’s gonna taste any good. I once tried to make collard greens by boiling ‘em and put a vinegar and sugar sauce over them, but everyone said if they didn’t have bacon drippin’s on ‘em, they didn’t want even want to try ‘em.
Anyone have a good collard greens recipe without bacon drippins’?
Monday, February 9, 2009
Valentine's Ball
Saturday night was the Beaufort Memorial Hospital Valentine Ball. Landon and I were to be guests of the Thompsons, an obstetrician/gynecologist and her anesthesiologist husband, who also happens to be a gourmet chef.
We looked great, me in my red strapless velvet gown and Landon in his tux. Gee, I hadn't seen him in his tux since our wedding. :o) Didn't he look great?The food was beyond delicious -- Gary had carefully planned the meal, and before every course, gave a full description of what we would be eating, including the wine selection. We had fresh tuna appetizers; butternut squash soup with candied ginger; filet mignon (cooked to perfection) with a smoked cream sauce, gnocchi and beans. Yum. Boy, was it good!
By far, one of the high points of the evening was the woman who was sitting to my right. During the dinner, she told me her life story, how she was pre-med, not enjoying studies and contemplating life tethered to a "beeper," when the nurses in the hospital she was working in told her all about their Caribbean vacation at Club Med, how they went on a trapeze and how much fun it was, and how they thought, as a gymnast, she would love it. Well, she was so good at it that Club Med hired her to be part of a circus and she was one of the trapeze artists! She assured me that she was working with highly educated people, her fellow trapeze artist a fellow physics major, and that she traveled in style. After her boyfriend (who has since become her husband) approached her in the circus tent with 2 dozen roses and implored her to come home, she did...and started a clown school for kids. There, she taught the kids how to make up their faces, how to have pie throwing contests, and how to make up their parent's faces. Now she is a mom of 5, all of them under the age of 8. What a hoot!
So, to all of you Yankees out there who think that you can't meet interesting people in the South, I give you Exhibit A. People down here are interesting, open and friendly...and most of them are...characters.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
"Either / Or" versus "And"
I'm back in my home with my husband -- the dogs were happy to see me, particularly Blaze who practically bowled me over when he saw me get out of the car. Xena is much better behaved.
And, I was happy to see Landon. It seems like forever that we were together, even though it was only a week.
Sitting in our den, in front of the fire this morning, I'm thinking about yesterday's post and how part of me felt torn about leaving New York and coming home.
Maybe it doesn't have to be an either / or. Maybe my life can include "and." I live in South Carolina AND New York. Instead of choosing, maybe I can choose to have both. I'll never give up my love affair with New York, it's just ingrained in me. But, accepting that, I can also choose to embrace my new life and be open to different experiences. That sure feels better than having to choose one over the other. I feel much better...
It's the transitions that are difficult. When I first got to NYC, I felt like a tourist. I saw the grafetti, looked at people when I passed them, I might even have mumbled a "hi", much to the consternation of those around me. I hope they thought I was just muttering. Up there, that's more acceptable than being friendly.
Then I got back to the South and heard a "Thank you Ma'am" and "Have a good day", both of which sounded really strange to these ears which had been in Northern territory for a week.
So, I am accepting that I can have both worlds, both places which I love. Now I'll work on easing the transition between them so that it doesn't feel like I'm leaving the earth's atmosphere and re-entering, which is how it feels to me at the moment.
Do you have any suggestions for me? Anything that might make the transitions easier? I'm all ears...please feel free to comment. I love listening to my readers.
And, I was happy to see Landon. It seems like forever that we were together, even though it was only a week.
Sitting in our den, in front of the fire this morning, I'm thinking about yesterday's post and how part of me felt torn about leaving New York and coming home.
Maybe it doesn't have to be an either / or. Maybe my life can include "and." I live in South Carolina AND New York. Instead of choosing, maybe I can choose to have both. I'll never give up my love affair with New York, it's just ingrained in me. But, accepting that, I can also choose to embrace my new life and be open to different experiences. That sure feels better than having to choose one over the other. I feel much better...
It's the transitions that are difficult. When I first got to NYC, I felt like a tourist. I saw the grafetti, looked at people when I passed them, I might even have mumbled a "hi", much to the consternation of those around me. I hope they thought I was just muttering. Up there, that's more acceptable than being friendly.
Then I got back to the South and heard a "Thank you Ma'am" and "Have a good day", both of which sounded really strange to these ears which had been in Northern territory for a week.
So, I am accepting that I can have both worlds, both places which I love. Now I'll work on easing the transition between them so that it doesn't feel like I'm leaving the earth's atmosphere and re-entering, which is how it feels to me at the moment.
Do you have any suggestions for me? Anything that might make the transitions easier? I'm all ears...please feel free to comment. I love listening to my readers.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thoughts From A Northerner
I come from a place that doesn't understand the South. Here's a message I just received on Facebook, from a friend I used to have in college. Read on...
"SC?! Good grief. I hope you love him! Is this your second try? I'm looking for a second try now. What are you dong down there? Who can you talk with? My brother is in progressive Asheville, NC, and he can't stand much of the southern bits that penetrate into his life."
Just some Yankee abolitionist thoughts for the day...
"SC?! Good grief. I hope you love him! Is this your second try? I'm looking for a second try now. What are you dong down there? Who can you talk with? My brother is in progressive Asheville, NC, and he can't stand much of the southern bits that penetrate into his life."
Just some Yankee abolitionist thoughts for the day...
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Talking Like Y'All
I actually said it.
Y'all.
"Greeeeeeenville," he answered.
There we are. This is a big milestone for me. My first unintentional y'all. I've become Southern.
Y'all.
When we were skiing in North Carolina, a man was sitting next to me on the chairlift, talking friendly-like, and so, where there was a pause in the conversation, I turned to him and said...
"So...where Y'ALL from?" along with my best Southern drawl I could muster."Greeeeeeenville," he answered.
There we are. This is a big milestone for me. My first unintentional y'all. I've become Southern.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Phones in the Country
We have a really cool phone number.
It ends in "0000."
Yesterday, our line was cut off and when our friends tried to call, they reached a cement company instead.
We've had this phone number for 12 years. Now what kind of stuff is that? I've heard of phone company mistakes, but this is ridiculous!
It ends in "0000."
Yesterday, our line was cut off and when our friends tried to call, they reached a cement company instead.
We've had this phone number for 12 years. Now what kind of stuff is that? I've heard of phone company mistakes, but this is ridiculous!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Proactive Waving
I’m getting the hang of this waving the hand at strangers thing. I call it the “proactive wave.”
One of the strangest, most inscrutable customs down here in the South is having to wave at everyone that drives by – whether you know them or not.
It drives me crazy.
I may sound crazy to you for saying that, but remember, I come from a town where it is practically a criminal offense to look someone in the eye, let alone hoisting up a body part as an acknowledgement of someone else’s existence.
Why should I have to wave at someone I know? Why should I wave at someone I don’t know? What if I don’t feel like waving? Maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Or maybe I’m praying as I walk down the street. Maybe I’m composing the Great American Novel in my head. Maybe I’m appreciating the beautiful scenery around me. Or maybe I just want to be in my own world of quiet reverie. A New Yorker, I am used to creating a protective cone of indifference around me. It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I need and want my protective space.
Why is it considered rude if I don’t wave? There are a million reasons I might not wave at you, and the least of which is that I want to send you a signal that I don’t like you. That would take way too much effort.
It doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you. How can I miss a pick up truck barreling down the road towards me? Or a Lexus SUV? Or a van? I SEE you.
And, another thing. Just a question for folks out there: do people really mean well when they pick up their hand to wave, or is it a developed habit devoid of meaning? I mean, are they really wishing me well or are they thinking “I wish she were dead” while waving and smiling and being “friendly like."
I have a lot to learn down here.
So, in order to deal with all of this friendly hand signaling, I have adopted a new behavior. If I even hear the sound of an engine behind me, I just instinctively raise up my hand and start shaking it back and forth. It feels good. They think I’m waving. They think I’m friendly.
One of the strangest, most inscrutable customs down here in the South is having to wave at everyone that drives by – whether you know them or not.
It drives me crazy.
I may sound crazy to you for saying that, but remember, I come from a town where it is practically a criminal offense to look someone in the eye, let alone hoisting up a body part as an acknowledgement of someone else’s existence.
Why should I have to wave at someone I know? Why should I wave at someone I don’t know? What if I don’t feel like waving? Maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Or maybe I’m praying as I walk down the street. Maybe I’m composing the Great American Novel in my head. Maybe I’m appreciating the beautiful scenery around me. Or maybe I just want to be in my own world of quiet reverie. A New Yorker, I am used to creating a protective cone of indifference around me. It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I need and want my protective space.
Why is it considered rude if I don’t wave? There are a million reasons I might not wave at you, and the least of which is that I want to send you a signal that I don’t like you. That would take way too much effort.
It doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you. How can I miss a pick up truck barreling down the road towards me? Or a Lexus SUV? Or a van? I SEE you.
And, another thing. Just a question for folks out there: do people really mean well when they pick up their hand to wave, or is it a developed habit devoid of meaning? I mean, are they really wishing me well or are they thinking “I wish she were dead” while waving and smiling and being “friendly like."
I have a lot to learn down here.
So, in order to deal with all of this friendly hand signaling, I have adopted a new behavior. If I even hear the sound of an engine behind me, I just instinctively raise up my hand and start shaking it back and forth. It feels good. They think I’m waving. They think I’m friendly.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Coastal Gilligan's Island
Last night Landon and I were invited to visit some folks on a coastal island. There are lots of coastal islands here, but this one was very special. So special, in fact, that I'm not going to tell you where it is. It is a kind of Secret Garden for this couple -- they have constructed their own home -- of sorts -- along with amenities.
My favorite part was the wood-heated hot tub. Made in Japan, this soaking tub operates with a mini wood stove that attaches to an oval, not round, wooden structure, which efficiently heats the water in the tub. Sitting in this tub, you have almost a 360 degree view of the coastline. It's spectacular.
So, there we were...on the dock...watching the sun go down, the dophins feeding nearby, while the new moon emerged. Looking up in the sky, I saw nothing but millions of bright stars. So clear that you could see the Milky Way. We drank wine (except for me...I had ginger ale) and ate pate and cheese and bread and we talked about everything from sustainable farming to chamber music and poetry to the state of the economy.
After awhile, we decided to go back to the mainland and so we bundled up in winter coats, blankets, hats and climbed into the boat where we talked and talked as we made our way back home, under the canopy of a dark, but star-studded sky.
So far from my life in New York, I thought. What a long strange trip this has been...
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Christmas Trees in the South
Here's our Christmas tree...
When I lived in New York City, we would put our trees out on the street when the holiday was over. It was fun to see the city sidewalks lined with trees, smelling like balsam. What would happen to the trees? Well, the city sanitation trucks would pick up the trees and chop them up for mulch. Or, at least, that's what we were told. I always felt good about recycling the trees.
In the South, there is different way of recycling trees, just as there is a different way of doing most things.
What are we doing with our Christmas tree? We have it sitting in our front lawn, ready to be taken over to our farm property so that we can dump it in our pond. Are we littering? Careless? Nope, quite the contrary. Apparently, a Christmas tree makes a wonderful habitat for...bream. And, if you Northern city slickers are reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about, bream is a kind of fish, fish that is very important if you want to keep bass in your pond.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Life Down Here...
I'm getting used to the Low Country.
The other day I took a walk and found myself analyzing the deer tracks on the side of the road, separating the doe from the buck tracks, and trying to figure out how big the bucks were that passed by. Wow! That's cool. Didn't do that in New York.
Later that day, I went on a horse cart ride and we saw a covey of vultures sitting on a fence near the side of the road. There were 9.
And, then last night, I went to a friend's house to have dinner. We ate alligator -- one that was taken, about 11 feet long. The meat came from the sides of the tail. It tasted like tough chicken, in a delicious lemon/lime marinade.
Then we had elk meat from the grill. It was amazing -- my favorite meat. And, I know it was healthy -- because my host killed it, hung and dressed it, and packaged it himself.
He told us about raking littleneck clams. I'm looking forward to clamming, crabbing and shrimping. There sure are a lot of natural food sources down here!
PS. One of the guests told me that he reads this blog! I'm going to commit, right here, to being more regular about my postings. Stay tuned...
The other day I took a walk and found myself analyzing the deer tracks on the side of the road, separating the doe from the buck tracks, and trying to figure out how big the bucks were that passed by. Wow! That's cool. Didn't do that in New York.
Later that day, I went on a horse cart ride and we saw a covey of vultures sitting on a fence near the side of the road. There were 9.
And, then last night, I went to a friend's house to have dinner. We ate alligator -- one that was taken, about 11 feet long. The meat came from the sides of the tail. It tasted like tough chicken, in a delicious lemon/lime marinade.
Then we had elk meat from the grill. It was amazing -- my favorite meat. And, I know it was healthy -- because my host killed it, hung and dressed it, and packaged it himself.
He told us about raking littleneck clams. I'm looking forward to clamming, crabbing and shrimping. There sure are a lot of natural food sources down here!
PS. One of the guests told me that he reads this blog! I'm going to commit, right here, to being more regular about my postings. Stay tuned...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I live in a Red State
It's two days after the election and I realize...I live in a red state.
Right now, I really miss being in New York. I can't believe that I missed the biggest election probably in my lifetime. The superintendent who cares for my former apartment building said that he could hear trumpets in Harlem. My friend Gina was in Times Square during Obama's speech and said that everyone was celebrating -- strangers hugging, cab drivers who pulled over on the side of the street with their doors open so that passersby could hear. Now, that's the America I want to live in. I can't believe I missed it.
I miss the vibe of the city.
I miss the energy of the city.
I miss the passionate engagement of the people in the city.
Am I really going to be able to craft a life in South Carolina? I know that I can, but it's going to take some work. My life is all about affecting change, about getting passionately engaged in what I believe, about speaking out. It was easy for me to do that in New York because I was right in the middle of things -- I'm going to have to work harder down here. Stay tuned...
Right now, I really miss being in New York. I can't believe that I missed the biggest election probably in my lifetime. The superintendent who cares for my former apartment building said that he could hear trumpets in Harlem. My friend Gina was in Times Square during Obama's speech and said that everyone was celebrating -- strangers hugging, cab drivers who pulled over on the side of the street with their doors open so that passersby could hear. Now, that's the America I want to live in. I can't believe I missed it.
I miss the vibe of the city.
I miss the energy of the city.
I miss the passionate engagement of the people in the city.
Am I really going to be able to craft a life in South Carolina? I know that I can, but it's going to take some work. My life is all about affecting change, about getting passionately engaged in what I believe, about speaking out. It was easy for me to do that in New York because I was right in the middle of things -- I'm going to have to work harder down here. Stay tuned...
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