Five states!
October 31, 2009
How lucky we are that we pulled into Perdido Key two days ago and not today. There was rain last night, continuing this morning with temps hovering just under a breezy 60. It puts a whole new face on the area not to be able to loll around in the sunshine.
We’re driving north to get around Mobile Bay, thus avoiding the expensive ferry across it. This is our short time in Alabama’s little reach-down-to-have-a-gulfport region, then shortly over into Louisiana. We heard last night there were tornado watches in a number of Alabama counties north of us, so when the rain started last night, I was nervous about it, especially after our weather turned sour. Oh well, it wasn’t long before my anxiety turned to sleep.
This is good agricultural land - lots of cotton and truck farming: nice farm stands abound.
As we cross over a finger of Mobile Bay on I-10 (we have joined up with that interstate highway, now heading west) that looks miniscule on the map, we are bridge-bound for miles over water that appears to be shallow and muddy with many sandbars and reed-covered islands. The section has a huge shipyard with at least one battleship at anchor.
Alabama soon disappears behind us when we cross into Mississippi’s neighboring gulf grab. All this coastal area is primarily water: some of it in the multitude of tributary-swollen rivers regally approaching their emptying point, the remainder in swamps, marshes, lagoons, bayous and quiet lakes wandering around treed islands.
Traversing this area so alien to my native Arizona, I am reminded of lessons learned out hiking in these boondocks. Darren pointed out stinging nettles so that we would avoid touching that plant. Wish he’d done that about five years earlier before I walked that long lane to an abandoned graveyard in the Texas outback. Seems it abounded with nettles that caused me incredible pain for quite a while afterwards.
While indicating hazards to avoid, he indicated banana spiders: large (harmless, he said, but who would believe that claim) arachnids poised at frequent intervals to snatch a person up into its web for sure destruction. After having to examine my head for lurking spiders after I walked into a web, he handed me a stick and suggested I swing it around in front of me as I walked so as not to encounter a spider. That worked until I tired of it and devised a much better spider avoidance system - walk behind Darren - simple and surefire.
Continuing our westward dash, we come into Louisiana just about the time we drive out from under stormy clouds. Rowdy got excited just as we were crossing the Mississippi River and came up front to look the situation over as if he knew it was a signpost on the road home.
Crossing the intriguing and impressive Achafalaya Swamp reminds me how much I like this region. Last year, we spent some good Louisiana time, visiting Kelly cousins, watching the rice and sugar cane harvests, doing research, exploring the Bayou Teche area and just generally soaking it all up. The Achafalaya marks our movement into intermittent dry ground, much of it planted to sugar cane. I am sorry to miss time here, but mark the intention to visit again soon.
We have made good time today, so have come to a midafternoon decision to press on to a park in east Houston, thereby completing our first-ever five-state day. Being just about the slowest of slow travelers, this is an entirely new experience for us. I fail to see the joy for those who zoom from starting point to final destination, seeing little along the way but roadside; however, whatever gets me closer to home right now is jim-dandy.
Perhaps this is the time to note that I flubbed up in yesterday’s blog. I shall adopt that term, “flubbed up”, for the times I make mistakes; it was Dad’s term and I think defines those moments just right. Oh yes, back to the flub: it is not the Floribama (a namby-pamby wine bar name), but the Flora-Bama (a robust “stop here for beer and grub” title), an obviously distinctive distinction.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
A gentle day
October 30, 2009
Perdido Key was a convenient stopping spot on the road home, but was chosen for one reason only: The Floribama. Leslie told us last year we must stop there to eat; however, she failed to mention what road it was on, only that it was at the juncture of Florida and Alabama. This year, we were armed with a more specific location and found this nice RV park within walking distance. What a great score: we shall return to this area and most likely this park for sure in order to spend lots of time enjoying the attractions.
Primary among those are the miles and miles of barely used beaches with the most beautiful sand I’ve ever seen: soft, cool, white, powdery - really lovely. The surf is good for swimming, water temps are terrific and the beaches are open for the entire length of the key, evidently, and we have the place nearly to ourselves.
A walk across the road is all it takes for us to get to the superb gulf surf, and the Perdido River is almost right outside our door the other direction. The park has a private fishing dock on the river. Chris fished there this morning and I found the lure (pardon the expression) irresistible so joined him in the endeavor. Just beyond the park’s nice little lawn, gardens and patio, we sat and enjoyed the breeze and sights as a dolphin swam lazily down the river in front of us. A great blue heron joined us on the dock, waiting patiently until we caught a fish to throw to him. A second one joined its counterpart down the gullet. He allowed us to approach within a few feet of him, have never seen a heron act like this.
Surfside called and we answered, took our chairs, books and binoculars and relaxed away the remainder of the afternoon, going into the water occasionally, mostly watching the surf in its mesmerizing repetition. Walked some on that great sand, watched tiny clams washing up onto the beach by the scores and were fascinated when, before the next wave came, they turned on one side and magically disappeared under the sand.
Hunger pangs finally got the best of us and good sense was shunted aside as we decided to try out a Mexican food restaurant, the first for months. Surprisingly, it was excellent by Arizona standards. Which brings me back to the Floribama, a shanty-like conglomeration of upstairs, downstairs, open air, barroom with live music and covered deck overlooking the gulf. Hurricane Ivan was not kind to the structure and local zoning conflicts have not allowed it all to be rebuilt, but there’s plenty of space and areas to still enjoy the fare. And enjoy it we did.
A singer/guitarist of a name unknown to me was exceptional, said he played for years with Waylon, one of my favorites. A friendly fun place with good food - what more could a person ask. Oh yes, there was the matter of decor. There seems not to be square inch of the interior that is not autographed by those who have visited, and I mean ceilings, beams, walls, plasticized windows. But the best is the display of brassieres: a multitude of them are draped from the ceiling beams a la men’s ties at some steakhouses. Alas, we did not witness any bras being shed and draped, but I confess a certain relief at that. Perhaps that’s best left to the Saturday night crowd. The evening was topped by a peaceful and beautiful walk along the beach with the moon showing its face occasionally between scudding clouds.
Just before sundown today, we drove along the National Seashore, a stupendously beautiful spit of sand between gulf surf and river. The siren call of home is strong indeed to induce me to leave this place after one day’s sample.
October 30, 2009
Perdido Key was a convenient stopping spot on the road home, but was chosen for one reason only: The Floribama. Leslie told us last year we must stop there to eat; however, she failed to mention what road it was on, only that it was at the juncture of Florida and Alabama. This year, we were armed with a more specific location and found this nice RV park within walking distance. What a great score: we shall return to this area and most likely this park for sure in order to spend lots of time enjoying the attractions.
Primary among those are the miles and miles of barely used beaches with the most beautiful sand I’ve ever seen: soft, cool, white, powdery - really lovely. The surf is good for swimming, water temps are terrific and the beaches are open for the entire length of the key, evidently, and we have the place nearly to ourselves.
A walk across the road is all it takes for us to get to the superb gulf surf, and the Perdido River is almost right outside our door the other direction. The park has a private fishing dock on the river. Chris fished there this morning and I found the lure (pardon the expression) irresistible so joined him in the endeavor. Just beyond the park’s nice little lawn, gardens and patio, we sat and enjoyed the breeze and sights as a dolphin swam lazily down the river in front of us. A great blue heron joined us on the dock, waiting patiently until we caught a fish to throw to him. A second one joined its counterpart down the gullet. He allowed us to approach within a few feet of him, have never seen a heron act like this.
Surfside called and we answered, took our chairs, books and binoculars and relaxed away the remainder of the afternoon, going into the water occasionally, mostly watching the surf in its mesmerizing repetition. Walked some on that great sand, watched tiny clams washing up onto the beach by the scores and were fascinated when, before the next wave came, they turned on one side and magically disappeared under the sand.Hunger pangs finally got the best of us and good sense was shunted aside as we decided to try out a Mexican food restaurant, the first for months. Surprisingly, it was excellent by Arizona standards. Which brings me back to the Floribama, a shanty-like conglomeration of upstairs, downstairs, open air, barroom with live music and covered deck overlooking the gulf. Hurricane Ivan was not kind to the structure and local zoning conflicts have not allowed it all to be rebuilt, but there’s plenty of space and areas to still enjoy the fare. And enjoy it we did.
A singer/guitarist of a name unknown to me was exceptional, said he played for years with Waylon, one of my favorites. A friendly fun place with good food - what more could a person ask. Oh yes, there was the matter of decor. There seems not to be square inch of the interior that is not autographed by those who have visited, and I mean ceilings, beams, walls, plasticized windows. But the best is the display of brassieres: a multitude of them are draped from the ceiling beams a la men’s ties at some steakhouses. Alas, we did not witness any bras being shed and draped, but I confess a certain relief at that. Perhaps that’s best left to the Saturday night crowd. The evening was topped by a peaceful and beautiful walk along the beach with the moon showing its face occasionally between scudding clouds.
Just before sundown today, we drove along the National Seashore, a stupendously beautiful spit of sand between gulf surf and river. The siren call of home is strong indeed to induce me to leave this place after one day’s sample.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Darren, ghost train
October 29, 2009
At long last, we have made it to Florida to see Darren. We were here last November, but the time between visits with those we love always seems so much longer. We checked into Williston Crossings RV resort mid-afternoon, saw Darren at home, and then he spent the evening at our place. While Chris was playing the keyboard, D and I set off on a little stroll around the resort, or so we thought.
Almost immediately, we spied an old road veering off into the brushy woods; of course there was nothing for it but to see where it led. Of all the things we might have imagined would be out there in the brambles under huge trees, a railroad caboose was not one of them, yet there it was with vines climbing up and through the railings, around the sides and into the interior.
Closer inspection revealed four train cars behind it (or wouldn’t it be in front?). Eventually, as we made our way through jungle-like foliage, we came across interesting vehicles from the 1920s and 1930s, many more 
railroad cars, two steam engines, lots of track, mountains of pipe, lumber, cinder blocks, semi trailers filled with cargo, heavy equipment and much more. It became plain after a while that this multimillion dollar treasure trove had been left in place after cessation of construction of another phase of Willston Crossings, the RV park at which we are staying. Questioning of staff verified that this was the case: the resort’s master plan has been rendered unfulfilled for now. I can’t imagine it’s doing any of that equipment much good out there in the weather, but at least the mystery is solved. It all made for some great photo ops.
Our visit with Darren is too short, as are all visits with those we love, but we are grateful to have had the time with him. He keeps me laughing with his continual witticisms. We’ve spent time at his place where he’s doing major remodeling preparatory to the property being marketed. That area is extremely rural: ranch land with sandy soil vegetated by a variety of pines and much that I don’t recognize.
Gopher tortoise, ticks . . .
Darren had located a gopher tortoise den near the house, so we did a stakeout to allow me a glimpse of it. Unfortunately, despite our diligence, the tortoise didn’t show. He has seen it several times, so I had hoped to photograph it. Evidently, they are a protected species; Darren says developers sometimes obscure the dens so inspectors won’t know the tortoise is on the property. I was able to find quite a bit of interesting information about them online. Somewhere in our boondocking, we picked up a couple of hitchhiking ticks but jettisoned them at the earliest possible moment.
Darren said he leaves them on until they get big and fat, then has a friend whack them off with a nine iron. As I groaned in disgust at the alleged humor he said, “Yeah, I know, they oughtta use a sand wedge” This I begat?!
Ah well, we had good times fighting our way through various cypress swamps and wildlife management areas. Cypress can grow in waterlogged regions because their roots send up "knees", gnarly woody protuberances that allow the tree to breathe in the air rather than drown in the saturated ground. These areas
have a singular beauty of their own.
RV band . . .
One morning, we added to the members of what I call our RV park pick-up band. A banjo player by the name of Bernie came over to jam with Chris. The two of them created some very nice music. Bernie and his wife Coraline (not Caroline, she emphasized) are here from their home in Buffalo visiting their son in Gainesville. He’s one of the first docs to graduate with a degree in palliative care and now is employed by Hospice.
Cedar Keys . . .
As we did during last year’s visit, we drove to Cedar Keys, a quaint historic small town on the gulf at the Suwannee River’s outlet. We like it there very much; it’s quiet and unassuming. Of course we got lots of new trip birds while in the area. We met a nice couple from Massachusetts who had previously lived in Newbury, Mass where my 17th century ancestors, the Ilsleys immigrated, so we had fun talking to them. They were fellow birdwatchers and alerted us to bald eagles out at shell mound.
We had not been there and were very glad to have the tip about it. The shell mound is a fascinating place - an archaeological site - with beautiful intriguing trails leading through the moss-draped trees over and around the mound. Approximately 5,000 years old, the hill consists primarily of shells from an astronomical number of meals. It covers five acres and is 28 feet high - I could barely believe it even when I was there.
When I commented about what seemed like an awful mono-diet, Darren piped in with an imagined dialogue of that ancient age. It went something like this: “How about oysters for supper tonight? Again? We’ve had that for the last 3,000 years!”
We spent a goodly amount of time exploring the jungle of the mound, but were rained out when we emerged onto the beach hoping to spot the eagles. I opined that if we were home at Lynx Lake, we could see bald eagles any time.
Snow, farewell . . .
And speaking of home: SNOW! while we are bopping around barefoot on the beach in shorts and tank tops. In fact, it remained so hot at night that we’ve run the air conditioner all night for the past two nights. The temp reached 89 yesterday, but felt much higher with the humidity.
Darren came to bid us farewell this morning. I’m at a loss for words when it comes to leaving behind all the people I love. We did skype with Sara while we were here so Darren could get a “live” look at his new niece crawling and trying to talk. She (Trinity Grace, not Sara) just got her third tooth in honor of the occasion.
We added onto our life bird list while here with a black and white warbler, blue-headed vireo and a red-shouldered hawk, in addition to a bunch of birds new for this trip.
Florida panhandle, Perdido Key . . .
Judging by the road kill we’re seeing, I’d say we’re into armadillo country; I’m guessing some of them are still alive and well out there in the trees, but the slower of the species signal southern driving. We drove out of an hour’s worth of heavy fog this morning into sunny skies with scattered clouds. Just heard on the radio about some place with two feet of snow - cripers!
Made me feel even better about sitting on the patio scarfing down a fresh pomegranate with juice running down my chin - the only proper way to indulge in such fruit. Reminded me of long summer days growing up in the then-rural area of Phoenix, where we kids would be out and gone from home through every bit of sunshine, no need to carry lunch: citrus, strawberries, pomegranates, grapes and dates abounded. I hope those farmers knew how much we appreciated them.
After a day of threading the Florida panhandle, we are arrived at our abode on Perdido Key. “Perdido” is “lost”, but obviously this key is found and getting founder. High rises along the beach are in the process of being joined by even more development. Quite a switch from Cedar Keys, but nevertheless attractive to me with lots of public beach access. We are just across the road from those white sands on a cloudy muggy afternoon. Our park is Playa del Rio, a small crowded friendly place inhabited primarily by motor homes and large fifth wheels. Our little Totee is satisfactorily perdido in here.
Florida’s panhandle is close to Texas’ in monotony but way more treed. We were surprised at one point when we got up high enough to see over the trees into the distance - how far I couldn’t say since there were no mountains to look at. Seems we were close to the state’s highest point: 346 feet above sea level. A person could drive that stretch without noticing that it is made up primarily of swamp. A casual look shows trees, trees and trees, but in the instances where you can see beneath them, it is most often standing water.
I just looked up the meaning of “key” lest I not know on what I am ensconced. Wow, I had no idea the word had so many meanings. It must be some kind of record. Anyway, this lost place is a reef or low island. We shall hold here for two nights, no longer. Rowdy and I are both riding with our noses to the vent; we smell home getting closer.
Best newspaper name: The Mullet Wrapper
October 29, 2009
At long last, we have made it to Florida to see Darren. We were here last November, but the time between visits with those we love always seems so much longer. We checked into Williston Crossings RV resort mid-afternoon, saw Darren at home, and then he spent the evening at our place. While Chris was playing the keyboard, D and I set off on a little stroll around the resort, or so we thought.
Almost immediately, we spied an old road veering off into the brushy woods; of course there was nothing for it but to see where it led. Of all the things we might have imagined would be out there in the brambles under huge trees, a railroad caboose was not one of them, yet there it was with vines climbing up and through the railings, around the sides and into the interior.
Closer inspection revealed four train cars behind it (or wouldn’t it be in front?). Eventually, as we made our way through jungle-like foliage, we came across interesting vehicles from the 1920s and 1930s, many more 
railroad cars, two steam engines, lots of track, mountains of pipe, lumber, cinder blocks, semi trailers filled with cargo, heavy equipment and much more. It became plain after a while that this multimillion dollar treasure trove had been left in place after cessation of construction of another phase of Willston Crossings, the RV park at which we are staying. Questioning of staff verified that this was the case: the resort’s master plan has been rendered unfulfilled for now. I can’t imagine it’s doing any of that equipment much good out there in the weather, but at least the mystery is solved. It all made for some great photo ops.
Our visit with Darren is too short, as are all visits with those we love, but we are grateful to have had the time with him. He keeps me laughing with his continual witticisms. We’ve spent time at his place where he’s doing major remodeling preparatory to the property being marketed. That area is extremely rural: ranch land with sandy soil vegetated by a variety of pines and much that I don’t recognize.
Gopher tortoise, ticks . . .
Darren had located a gopher tortoise den near the house, so we did a stakeout to allow me a glimpse of it. Unfortunately, despite our diligence, the tortoise didn’t show. He has seen it several times, so I had hoped to photograph it. Evidently, they are a protected species; Darren says developers sometimes obscure the dens so inspectors won’t know the tortoise is on the property. I was able to find quite a bit of interesting information about them online. Somewhere in our boondocking, we picked up a couple of hitchhiking ticks but jettisoned them at the earliest possible moment.
Darren said he leaves them on until they get big and fat, then has a friend whack them off with a nine iron. As I groaned in disgust at the alleged humor he said, “Yeah, I know, they oughtta use a sand wedge” This I begat?!
Ah well, we had good times fighting our way through various cypress swamps and wildlife management areas. Cypress can grow in waterlogged regions because their roots send up "knees", gnarly woody protuberances that allow the tree to breathe in the air rather than drown in the saturated ground. These areas
have a singular beauty of their own.RV band . . .
One morning, we added to the members of what I call our RV park pick-up band. A banjo player by the name of Bernie came over to jam with Chris. The two of them created some very nice music. Bernie and his wife Coraline (not Caroline, she emphasized) are here from their home in Buffalo visiting their son in Gainesville. He’s one of the first docs to graduate with a degree in palliative care and now is employed by Hospice.
Cedar Keys . . .
As we did during last year’s visit, we drove to Cedar Keys, a quaint historic small town on the gulf at the Suwannee River’s outlet. We like it there very much; it’s quiet and unassuming. Of course we got lots of new trip birds while in the area. We met a nice couple from Massachusetts who had previously lived in Newbury, Mass where my 17th century ancestors, the Ilsleys immigrated, so we had fun talking to them. They were fellow birdwatchers and alerted us to bald eagles out at shell mound.
We had not been there and were very glad to have the tip about it. The shell mound is a fascinating place - an archaeological site - with beautiful intriguing trails leading through the moss-draped trees over and around the mound. Approximately 5,000 years old, the hill consists primarily of shells from an astronomical number of meals. It covers five acres and is 28 feet high - I could barely believe it even when I was there.
When I commented about what seemed like an awful mono-diet, Darren piped in with an imagined dialogue of that ancient age. It went something like this: “How about oysters for supper tonight? Again? We’ve had that for the last 3,000 years!”
We spent a goodly amount of time exploring the jungle of the mound, but were rained out when we emerged onto the beach hoping to spot the eagles. I opined that if we were home at Lynx Lake, we could see bald eagles any time.
Snow, farewell . . .
And speaking of home: SNOW! while we are bopping around barefoot on the beach in shorts and tank tops. In fact, it remained so hot at night that we’ve run the air conditioner all night for the past two nights. The temp reached 89 yesterday, but felt much higher with the humidity.
Darren came to bid us farewell this morning. I’m at a loss for words when it comes to leaving behind all the people I love. We did skype with Sara while we were here so Darren could get a “live” look at his new niece crawling and trying to talk. She (Trinity Grace, not Sara) just got her third tooth in honor of the occasion.
We added onto our life bird list while here with a black and white warbler, blue-headed vireo and a red-shouldered hawk, in addition to a bunch of birds new for this trip.
Florida panhandle, Perdido Key . . .
Judging by the road kill we’re seeing, I’d say we’re into armadillo country; I’m guessing some of them are still alive and well out there in the trees, but the slower of the species signal southern driving. We drove out of an hour’s worth of heavy fog this morning into sunny skies with scattered clouds. Just heard on the radio about some place with two feet of snow - cripers!
Made me feel even better about sitting on the patio scarfing down a fresh pomegranate with juice running down my chin - the only proper way to indulge in such fruit. Reminded me of long summer days growing up in the then-rural area of Phoenix, where we kids would be out and gone from home through every bit of sunshine, no need to carry lunch: citrus, strawberries, pomegranates, grapes and dates abounded. I hope those farmers knew how much we appreciated them.
After a day of threading the Florida panhandle, we are arrived at our abode on Perdido Key. “Perdido” is “lost”, but obviously this key is found and getting founder. High rises along the beach are in the process of being joined by even more development. Quite a switch from Cedar Keys, but nevertheless attractive to me with lots of public beach access. We are just across the road from those white sands on a cloudy muggy afternoon. Our park is Playa del Rio, a small crowded friendly place inhabited primarily by motor homes and large fifth wheels. Our little Totee is satisfactorily perdido in here.
Florida’s panhandle is close to Texas’ in monotony but way more treed. We were surprised at one point when we got up high enough to see over the trees into the distance - how far I couldn’t say since there were no mountains to look at. Seems we were close to the state’s highest point: 346 feet above sea level. A person could drive that stretch without noticing that it is made up primarily of swamp. A casual look shows trees, trees and trees, but in the instances where you can see beneath them, it is most often standing water.
I just looked up the meaning of “key” lest I not know on what I am ensconced. Wow, I had no idea the word had so many meanings. It must be some kind of record. Anyway, this lost place is a reef or low island. We shall hold here for two nights, no longer. Rowdy and I are both riding with our noses to the vent; we smell home getting closer.
Best newspaper name: The Mullet Wrapper
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Florida bound
October 23, 2009
So much for cleaning . . . Chris washed the trailer’s exterior, cleaned out and organized the truck cab and camper in addition to lots of other neglected chores plus lubing the trailer and hitch. I, on the other hand, did my blog, showered and got ready to go to Mom & Dad’s for our last evening with them.
It was a bittersweet time: how we have enjoyed being with Mom & Dad; hopefully, another visit will not be too far away.
We readied ourselves for departure this morning later than planned. We choose to blame our oversleeping on gloomy skies and daylight savings time. By skipping breakfast, we managed to get on the road by 8:30, about 600 miles to go, so not too bad.
We didn’t manage to beat the rain, though. A slight drizzle turned into real rain as I was finishing the hitch-up just so I could be wet before I got into the truck. Stopping for gas, I was surprised to see the picture I took of Dad on the front page of the newspaper. Seems the Tryon daily unexpectedly decided to run another story about his volunteerism award.
Andersonville Prison . . .
It didn’t take very long to zip across South Carolina’s corner and gain our day’s destination state: Georgia, with gray threatening skies continuing to loom above us. We planned our trip leg to Florida with a one-night stop near Andersonville, Georgia, to allow us to visit ancestral grave of Daniel Coykendall. He is buried in the National Cemetery at the site of Andersonville Prison, the most infamous of Confederate camps, where he perished from disease, one of 13,000 prisoners to expire in those unthinkable circumstances.
Coykendall’s wife, Julia Ann Perry, died in March 1862. Daniel enlisted in the New Jersey infantry the following August, was captured in May 1864, and died in August, leaving eight orphaned children, including our g.g. grandmother Ada Belmont Coykendall who later married John J. Rhodimer. The children were taken in by relatives, causing hardship and bitterness that as a legacy for later generations. Who can know what motive was behind Daniel’s leaving his family in such dire straits? I suspect it will likely remain one of those mysteries never solved.
The visitor center at Andersonville is a POW museum, a place that projects somberness at first glance; its architectural style evokes a prison-like atmosphere. The museum itself leaves a person decidedly thoughtful and gloomy. We chose not to go through it again; our visit nine years ago was more than sufficient to absorb the lesson,
This Confederate prison camp existed for only 14 months, but its horrors reverberate through time. It was designed to hold 10,000 prisoners, at one time housed 32,000 in unthinkable conditions. The complete and utter lack of food, water and sanitation created a situation of disease and starvation beyond imagining. Even the men who escaped via tunnels were recaptured and returned to die in those confines.
The stockade’s commander, Captain Henry Wirtz, was tried as a war criminal and hanged shortly after war’s end.
The names of those lost there would likely not have survived but for the efforts of a 19-year-old prisoner, Dorance Atwater. His assignment was to record the identities of the dead; fearing the loss of those lists, he made his own copy which allowed him and Clara Barton to later mark most of the graves. Because of their work, we are able to visit Daniel Coykendall’s grave and leave flowers. We photographed him with an American flag, but it is not allowed to leave flags at the site.
The records maintained at the visitor center years ago put us in touch with Coykendall kin from New Jersey, even to obtain from them a letter written by our grandmother Ada. They had found Daniel before us and left their contact information. We were surprised on this visit to find neither their nor our family material still being held there, so we will send it to be filed again. I hope that lack has not caused us to miss being contacted by other kin.
We left Andersonville behind to find our one-night-stand RV park, chosen only for its proximity to the area. It had a low Good Sam Club rating, so we were not expecting much; what a pleasant surprise to find it one of the nicest spots at which we have stayed.
Bonded brothers of bluegrass . . .
Located on a grassy meadow surrounded by trees, it is across the road from its companion golf course, a very nice-looking course indeed. The host greeted us immediately on our arrival and informed us that we were just in time for a fish fry and bluegrass festival. Seems the Bonded Brothers of Bluegrass meet many weekends to make music, only once a year at this park - lucky us! The owner is an excellent musician, a member of the group, and a cigar-smokin’ fool.
We had eaten earlier in the day so thought we wouldn’t join the meal gathering; however, we had little choice in the matter. We were lounging in front of the trailer talking to a fellow RVer from Alaska when I saw a man by the clubhouse making an enthusiastic “come on over” gesture in our direction. I waved back to acknowledge him and the next thing I knew, the feller was on our doorstep in a golf cart, come to fetch us.
It was a great southern feed - catfish, hush puppies, lima beans, collards, cheesy grits, sweet tea and desserts galore. What a great setup they have: a nice clubhouse with many evenly spaced double French doors around the perimeter so that it can be opened up to the surrounding verandas and overlooking the ponds. A buffet area on one side insures that everyone gets all they want to eat; the whole allows for great socialization. We met Ed and Julia, even older than us, who RV for four day weekends to follow the music.
As they were ready, the musicians gathered on the pond-side veranda and commenced to produce excellent music - old time country, mountain and bluegrass. About ten folks rotated in and out of the group and exchanged instruments; most played numerous instruments and vocalized. Listeners pulled up chairs around them and sat back for an evening of exceptional music in a perfect balmy Georgia evening.
We were grateful that we had arrived at the exact right time in the exact right place - could not have been any better. I shot a lot of photos that I will share with the group. It would have been great fun if Chris could have played with them, but the keyboard does not conform to their strictly acoustic genre.
Moving day . . .
We were happy to leave behind the ten-lane interstate highways that conveyed us around Atlanta and Macon.
As we proceeded south of those metropolitan regions, we found ourselves traveling through lots of very pretty agricultural land - cotton, soybeans, hay and cattle pasture plus miles and miles of pecan and peach orchards. It’s been fairly level country, slightly rolling in places. We zipped right on through some lovely historic towns, mostly founded in the early 1800s. In Marshallville, I spotted a house we remembered checking out when we last visited here. Darren was with us then; that handsome structure was empty and in disrepair. Intrigued by it, we wandered the grounds and porches. It is presently being renovated, I was happy to see.
Our Saturday morning, we heard bright and early from Darren wondering about our arrival time, which should be early afternoon. We’re definitely getting into a more tropical clime - have spotted a few palm trees and cypress swamps.
One tiny town we passed through begged a photo stop. Desoto, or Desota depending on which sign you believe, had a downtown that looked exactly like something out of “Fried Green Tomatoes”, a perfect movie set.
Although we drove in rain much of yesterday, temps were up into the 80s, something we haven’t seen for quite some time. Still scattered clouds, but nothing that looks very threatening. I have high hopes of driving into summer for one last fling, have given up the search for bears, now on the lookout for ‘gators.
October 23, 2009
So much for cleaning . . . Chris washed the trailer’s exterior, cleaned out and organized the truck cab and camper in addition to lots of other neglected chores plus lubing the trailer and hitch. I, on the other hand, did my blog, showered and got ready to go to Mom & Dad’s for our last evening with them.
It was a bittersweet time: how we have enjoyed being with Mom & Dad; hopefully, another visit will not be too far away.
We readied ourselves for departure this morning later than planned. We choose to blame our oversleeping on gloomy skies and daylight savings time. By skipping breakfast, we managed to get on the road by 8:30, about 600 miles to go, so not too bad.
We didn’t manage to beat the rain, though. A slight drizzle turned into real rain as I was finishing the hitch-up just so I could be wet before I got into the truck. Stopping for gas, I was surprised to see the picture I took of Dad on the front page of the newspaper. Seems the Tryon daily unexpectedly decided to run another story about his volunteerism award.
Andersonville Prison . . .
It didn’t take very long to zip across South Carolina’s corner and gain our day’s destination state: Georgia, with gray threatening skies continuing to loom above us. We planned our trip leg to Florida with a one-night stop near Andersonville, Georgia, to allow us to visit ancestral grave of Daniel Coykendall. He is buried in the National Cemetery at the site of Andersonville Prison, the most infamous of Confederate camps, where he perished from disease, one of 13,000 prisoners to expire in those unthinkable circumstances.
Coykendall’s wife, Julia Ann Perry, died in March 1862. Daniel enlisted in the New Jersey infantry the following August, was captured in May 1864, and died in August, leaving eight orphaned children, including our g.g. grandmother Ada Belmont Coykendall who later married John J. Rhodimer. The children were taken in by relatives, causing hardship and bitterness that as a legacy for later generations. Who can know what motive was behind Daniel’s leaving his family in such dire straits? I suspect it will likely remain one of those mysteries never solved.The visitor center at Andersonville is a POW museum, a place that projects somberness at first glance; its architectural style evokes a prison-like atmosphere. The museum itself leaves a person decidedly thoughtful and gloomy. We chose not to go through it again; our visit nine years ago was more than sufficient to absorb the lesson,
This Confederate prison camp existed for only 14 months, but its horrors reverberate through time. It was designed to hold 10,000 prisoners, at one time housed 32,000 in unthinkable conditions. The complete and utter lack of food, water and sanitation created a situation of disease and starvation beyond imagining. Even the men who escaped via tunnels were recaptured and returned to die in those confines.
The stockade’s commander, Captain Henry Wirtz, was tried as a war criminal and hanged shortly after war’s end.
The names of those lost there would likely not have survived but for the efforts of a 19-year-old prisoner, Dorance Atwater. His assignment was to record the identities of the dead; fearing the loss of those lists, he made his own copy which allowed him and Clara Barton to later mark most of the graves. Because of their work, we are able to visit Daniel Coykendall’s grave and leave flowers. We photographed him with an American flag, but it is not allowed to leave flags at the site.
The records maintained at the visitor center years ago put us in touch with Coykendall kin from New Jersey, even to obtain from them a letter written by our grandmother Ada. They had found Daniel before us and left their contact information. We were surprised on this visit to find neither their nor our family material still being held there, so we will send it to be filed again. I hope that lack has not caused us to miss being contacted by other kin.
We left Andersonville behind to find our one-night-stand RV park, chosen only for its proximity to the area. It had a low Good Sam Club rating, so we were not expecting much; what a pleasant surprise to find it one of the nicest spots at which we have stayed.
Bonded brothers of bluegrass . . .
Located on a grassy meadow surrounded by trees, it is across the road from its companion golf course, a very nice-looking course indeed. The host greeted us immediately on our arrival and informed us that we were just in time for a fish fry and bluegrass festival. Seems the Bonded Brothers of Bluegrass meet many weekends to make music, only once a year at this park - lucky us! The owner is an excellent musician, a member of the group, and a cigar-smokin’ fool.
We had eaten earlier in the day so thought we wouldn’t join the meal gathering; however, we had little choice in the matter. We were lounging in front of the trailer talking to a fellow RVer from Alaska when I saw a man by the clubhouse making an enthusiastic “come on over” gesture in our direction. I waved back to acknowledge him and the next thing I knew, the feller was on our doorstep in a golf cart, come to fetch us.
It was a great southern feed - catfish, hush puppies, lima beans, collards, cheesy grits, sweet tea and desserts galore. What a great setup they have: a nice clubhouse with many evenly spaced double French doors around the perimeter so that it can be opened up to the surrounding verandas and overlooking the ponds. A buffet area on one side insures that everyone gets all they want to eat; the whole allows for great socialization. We met Ed and Julia, even older than us, who RV for four day weekends to follow the music.
As they were ready, the musicians gathered on the pond-side veranda and commenced to produce excellent music - old time country, mountain and bluegrass. About ten folks rotated in and out of the group and exchanged instruments; most played numerous instruments and vocalized. Listeners pulled up chairs around them and sat back for an evening of exceptional music in a perfect balmy Georgia evening.
We were grateful that we had arrived at the exact right time in the exact right place - could not have been any better. I shot a lot of photos that I will share with the group. It would have been great fun if Chris could have played with them, but the keyboard does not conform to their strictly acoustic genre.
Moving day . . .
We were happy to leave behind the ten-lane interstate highways that conveyed us around Atlanta and Macon.
As we proceeded south of those metropolitan regions, we found ourselves traveling through lots of very pretty agricultural land - cotton, soybeans, hay and cattle pasture plus miles and miles of pecan and peach orchards. It’s been fairly level country, slightly rolling in places. We zipped right on through some lovely historic towns, mostly founded in the early 1800s. In Marshallville, I spotted a house we remembered checking out when we last visited here. Darren was with us then; that handsome structure was empty and in disrepair. Intrigued by it, we wandered the grounds and porches. It is presently being renovated, I was happy to see.
Our Saturday morning, we heard bright and early from Darren wondering about our arrival time, which should be early afternoon. We’re definitely getting into a more tropical clime - have spotted a few palm trees and cypress swamps.
One tiny town we passed through begged a photo stop. Desoto, or Desota depending on which sign you believe, had a downtown that looked exactly like something out of “Fried Green Tomatoes”, a perfect movie set.Although we drove in rain much of yesterday, temps were up into the 80s, something we haven’t seen for quite some time. Still scattered clouds, but nothing that looks very threatening. I have high hopes of driving into summer for one last fling, have given up the search for bears, now on the lookout for ‘gators.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A final North Carolina week
October 22, 2009
I have determined to write a bit while we are enroute to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Chris’ chosen destination that has continually been shunted to the bottom of the list. It’s a longish drive from here, perhaps 70 miles. The prospect of additional driving was not all that exciting to me, but C held out the strong possibility of spotting bears to entice me to agree to the journey.
Speaking of bears, I saw a news article recently about a llama being mauled by a bear. Seems its owners raised sheep and kept the llama as a guard animal, a practice I had not heard of, but which seems to be common in these parts. Obviously, the llama protects against coyotes and dogs, but a bear is an entirely different matter.
In the course of the article, I learned that bears are thriving in western North Carolina (WNC is the common reference to this geographic region. North Carolina encompasses a wide and diverse area, thus the major three sections - WNC or mountains, the Piedmont and coastal - are referred to separately.) At any rate, WNC purportedly shelters approximately 10,000 bears, a figure that gives me pause. Even in such a vast area, it seems that I should be seeing bears all around me.
I have not, although they have been in Mom and Dad’s back yard, but today’s the day for my bear sightings.
Tarheels . . .
North Carolinians, and later their sports teams, have been called Tarheels, a moniker that seemed so obscure it caused me to do a bit of research. Sad to say, the research enlightened me very little in that regard. Evidently, the true origin of the name is lost in antiquity, leaving the arena wide open for speculation. I have copied a bit of Wikipedia’s take on it.
“The exact etymology of the nickname is unknown, but most experts believe its roots come from the fact that tar, pitch and turpentine created from the vast pine forests were one of North Carolina's most important exports early in the state's history.
Because the exact history of the term is unknown, many legends have developed to explain it. Many believe it to be a nickname given during the U.S. Civil War, because of the state's importance on the Confederate side, and the fact that the troops "stuck to their ranks like they had tar on their heels.
The earliest surviving written use of the term can be found in the diary of 2nd Lieutenant Jackson B. A. Lowrance who wrote the following on February 6, 1863 while in Pender County in southeastern North Carolina. "I know now what is meant by the Piney Woods of North Carolina and the idea occurs to me that it is no wonder we are called 'Tar Heels.”
There was much more; it all kinda made me wish I hadn’t been curious . . . I have dubbed North Carolina "the rocking chair state". There are few front porches that do not sport at least two rocking chairs. They are literally everywhere, even in institutional and commercial settings. I love the feeling that sight evokes: welcoming and relaxing with family and friends.
Weather, visiting, dogs . . .
We have been a bit stymied by the weather while we have been in Tryon and Flat Rock. Unseasonable cold, wind and rain have been the norm, but we are now relieved of weather worries for a couple of days. We broke out the coats and were required to turn off our water at night, lest Jack Frost do damage to the spigot. Mr. Frost did deposit ice, but only lightly, and has now departed the region for a spell.
We have spent most of our time with Mom & Dad W., of course, and enjoyed every minute of it. We’ve dined out some, Mom has cooked, we have cooked, and we’ve just generally had a bang-up time visiting, once with friend Rick joining us. One of the meals out, at The Hungry Fox, rewarded me with such a great meal that I shall add the dish to my repertoire. It was chicken breast glazed with hot wings sauce and topped by sautéed onions and bleu cheese - superb combination!
Their two new rescue dogs - Yorkshire terriers named Apache and Cheyenne - have added great amusement to the scene, especially “Pache” who is quite the clown.
The Beacon . . .
We were treated to lunch out in Spartanburg at The Beacon, established 1946 (a very good year, I might add), a place demanding mention. The iconic drive-in can seat 350 people, and is visited by national notables including presidents.
A description from their website: “Fast, loud, and big, The Beacon is the most intense restaurant you will ever visit. The moment you enter and approach the serving line, you are virtually accosted by an order-taker – J.C. Strobel, the senior man, if you’re lucky – who will demand, “CALL IT OUT!” (If you don’t arrive knowing what you want, sheaves of printed menus are available for study or as souvenirs near the door.) Say what you want to eat and say it quickly, or else JC will tell you to stand back and allow other, swifter customers to say their piece. On a good weekend day, The Beacon will serve five thousand people.
Once you manage to convey your order, J.C. or a comrade will shout it back to the huge open kitchen, then ask you in no uncertain terms to “MOVE ON DOWN THE LINE!” Grab a tray and by the time you have moved twenty paces forward, there your order will be – miraculously, exactly as you ordered it, with or without extra barbecue sauce, double bacon on the burger. A bit farther down the line, you get your tea, lemonade, or milk shake and pay the cashier, then find a seat. Total time from entering to digging in – maybe two minutes.”
We explored a couple of motor homes on the way home and did some Costco shopping.
John & Melissa, Mast General Store, Sunday drive . . .
Chris and I froze our buns off while on a short trip to the Mast General Store in historic Hendersonville. While there, I was thrilled to find a tree face of the type I admired at a Kansas RV park. We managed to fill a shopping bag there; what a fun place it is. They have an online presence, but you can’t beat wandering through there perusing everything from shoes and clothing to candy, kitchen ware, jelly and tools - a true general emporium and a very popular one.
Mom and I enjoyed a girls’ talk morning while Dad and Chris golfed.
We brunched out with our friends John and Melissa on Sunday at a great pancake house - The Fireside. I miss having J&M in Prescott, but acknowledge that they are in their element in Melissa’s native North Carolina. It was fun, as always, to have time with them, and to hear about their new, first grandbaby.
We enjoyed one small Sunday drive on Tuesday, wandering alongside the Pacolet River, having no idea where the road would lead us. It was through a softly wooded area as the river wound around hills and skirted horse farms. It was fun to spot a flock of wild turkeys. We stopped to watch them climb a steep road cut, all except one that couldn’t manage the climb. In danger of being left behind, he did what seems like the obvious and flew.
Cowpens, Cooley Farm . . .
One day, C and I went to the Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War site we have wanted to visit. That battle was pivotal in turning the tide in favor of the Colonials. General Daniel Morgan’s strategy in luring the Brit’s General Banastre Tarleton into a trap was well planned and executed, resulting in the American forces taking many prisoners in less than an hour with very little loss of life.
The visitor center showed a film that did a nice job of explaining the encounter. The battlefield is accessed by a walking trail with interpretative signs at each place Morgan posted his regulars, cavalry and militia as they awaited Tarleton’s approach, making it easy to visualize exactly what transpired. Various things we read indicated that the area was basically open woods with little underbrush, often utilized to pasture cattle before they were shipped to market in Charleston. Restoration is taking place; the area seems close to the 1781 descriptions.
The site’s trail is a section of the historic Green River Road, and so continues on past the actual battlefield. The sun was out, the birds were flitting and the air was comfortably hikable, so we extended our walk to and past the Robert Scruggs house, an 1828 log cabin that was in its early years part of a small settlement. We enjoyed talking to the volunteer who was manning the place; he is a retired Charleston police officer. Seeing him sitting alone on the front porch as we approached made it seem as if we had walked back in time.
As we wandered here and there, we added two birds to our trip list: yellow-bellied sapsucker and cedar waxwing. I also picked a small fruit left hanging on a leafless tree and carried it until we located a local to identify it. It was a persimmon, which Chris had ventured to guess. How does one reach the venerable age of 63 without knowing what a persimmon is???
On our way back from Cowpens (it’s in South Carolina), we were astounded at the vast peach orchards and strawberry fields along the way. In the midst of it, we stopped at Cooley’s farm stand and got some information about it, in addition to some great pecan cinnamon bread and apple butter. They have under cultivation a whopping 800 acres of peaches, 80 acres of strawberries and 40 acres of blackberries. My mind balks at the thought of organizing those harvests. The strawberries were in orderly plastic-mulched fields with American flags proudly waving at the ends of rows. A billboard proclaimed it “Strawberry Hill, U.S.A.” Surprisingly, they replant the entire strawberry crop every year.
Boiled peanuts, haircuts . . .
At Cooley’s, we experienced an “event”. Throughout the South, one sees sign after sign offering boiled peanuts. For years, I have been saying I wanted to sample that fare, so when we spotted said legume being placed out for sale, we requested a trial. What an incredible mistake that was! What are those people thinking to pay real money and eat that horror? It was hours before I erased the taste and thought of it. I would describe it if I were able; however, words fail me. To say that they taste like horrid salty mush does not come close.
Back in Tryon, we shaggy two got our hairs cut by Paula as recommended by Mom & Dad - what a relief - we were looking pretty disreputable and she did a nice job while imparting lots of helpful information about great RVing destinations in the South, primarily North Carolina and Florida. I made notes to use on a return trip.
Dad enabled us to get our flu shots, another necessary that is complicated by being away from home.
More Blue Ridge Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains . . .
We are returning from our big day in the Smoky Mountains. We got there via a part of the Blue Ridge Parkway that was new to us and returned through the Cherokee Reservation, a traffic congestion nightmare in its commercial center. Of course we made only the slightest dent in seeing the park, another of those “must returns” for sure.
The Blue Ridge Parkway afforded many beautiful stops along the approach. We climbed to somewhere around 6,000 feet elevation: doesn’t sound like much compared to our western heights but it was spectacular here to look out across the autumn-hued Appalachians with one hazy blue range following another into the distance.
At one overlook, we were startled to see included on the interpretative sign a quote from a book authored by Rita Cantu, a fellow Prescottonian and a member of our church. I didn't even know she wrote, for crying out pete's sake, and of course she sings beautifully too.
We loved the Oconaluftee River that rushed along the canyon bottom through Cherokee country - a great trout stream for sure. Interesting places we saw on another section of the Parkway were the Altapass Orchard - centenarian orchard turned cultural center - and the bed and information about the Clinchfield Railroad that brought the outside world to much of the Appalachians. Difficult and slow to traverse even now, it’s plainly evident why the mountain people remained so isolated. It was quite simply nearly impossible to move around for any distance at all within the confines of the seemingly-forever steep slopes.
Mingus Mill, Clingman’s Dome . . .
Our first non-scenery stop was at the Mingus Mill, a fascinating restored 19th century gristmill that is busy gristing away. It is powered by a turbine that is fed water dropped down a wooden chute after being transported from the creek via a long hillside flume and another supported on something like a railroad trestle.
Extremely fascinating to see the operation and to examine both floors of the mill, watching the corn being ground.
Our big exertion was to climb to the top of Clingman’s Dome. The sign says it is a half-mile climb, but I know for sure that’s a big fat lie. I would have stopped at about halfway, but seeing the people returning from up top who were some of the most unlikely hikers you ever saw caused me too much shame to give it up. I may have overstated the case just a bit, but not by much.
Anyway, it was pretty cool up there with a stupendous lookout tower that allows absolutely knockout 360-degree views for many, many miles across the mountains. Actually, everything up there is just gorgeous - just one awesome sight after another.
At one point, I spotted a UO, unidentified object, below the road so there was nothing for it but to force my weary legs out of the Toter to see what was what. Down in the canyon, we found a spring and accompanying spring house and an old road that required we strike off along it. It was quietly beautiful down there and a welcome walk after the crowds at Clingman’s Dome. C says Smoky Mountain Park is the most visited in the country with 9 million visitors per year - twice the volume of Grand Canyon. This is one of Chris’ pronouncements that makes me say, “No way”, but as usual, he turns out to be correct.
Historic trails and roads . . .
We walked a bit on the Appalachian Trail so as to find a quiet place to picnic. We snacked and I spent even more time trying to get our self-portrait. Of course, the handy dandy little twistable tripod that Suzie gave me was stowed carefully back in the truck, so I spent considerable time semi-reclining in the damp forest duff while willing the camera to remain in whatever semi-sliding position I placed it, requiring a large number of attempts to get it balanced, push the timer shutter button without dislodging the camera, climb over logs, slip and slide down the slimy leafy slope to gain my position beside C in time to plaster a smile on my face. Quite a few feeble attempts before a satisfactory solution was reached. One can only wonder what urges me on to these convoluted charades or even why the thought arrives unchecked into my mind. . .
We came across another interesting place, Indian Gap Road, or at least a remnant of the former Indian trail that was later enlarged only slightly to become the major north/south route through the Great Smokies in 1830 until the Newfound Gap Road was developed in the 1850s. Seems the Indian Gap was long thought to be the lowest pass through the mountains until Newfound was explored, thus its name is the description of its discovery.
We saw a fascinating photo of a long-ago endeavor on the road, men utilizing a sled to transport a load. Evidently, that was a common way to transport through there, possibly because of the rough rocky surface. Obviously, a sled would be far easier to construct and to repair.
Alas, despite extensive time in WNC’s mountains, nary a bear ventured into our sight.
This ‘n that . . .
Remnants of Halley’s Comet, the Orionids meteor shower, has come and gone without my venturing out to view the show. I hate to miss anything excitingly celestial (for that matter, I hate to miss anything excitingly earthbound). Note to self: kick self for forgetting the meteor shower.
I nominate Harris Teeter as my favorite grocery store ever. They abound in this area; perhaps they will branch out to Prescott? Wonderfully and attractively stocked, they are a pleasure to shop in, and besides, I love the name; it has a certain presence.
Most unexpected mailbox display spotted in North Carolina: A mailbox with an impressive prickly pear cactus guarding it.
Thursday: I’ve been trying not to dwell on this being our last day with Mom & Dad, but departure looms. Very sad to be so far away. The good news is that we will soon be in Florida visiting son Darren, who is sadly also a great distance from us. This is not how families are supposed to be, methinks. And to top it off, brother David who has been in our home area for quite a while departed for Minnesota today. Oh well, one more place to run around to (right after we upgrade to a larger RV - hint, hint).
As guilt tugs on my heartstrings, I end this episode: Chris is washing the outside of the trailer and here I sit enjoying my little journal - must clean . . .
October 22, 2009
I have determined to write a bit while we are enroute to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Chris’ chosen destination that has continually been shunted to the bottom of the list. It’s a longish drive from here, perhaps 70 miles. The prospect of additional driving was not all that exciting to me, but C held out the strong possibility of spotting bears to entice me to agree to the journey.
Speaking of bears, I saw a news article recently about a llama being mauled by a bear. Seems its owners raised sheep and kept the llama as a guard animal, a practice I had not heard of, but which seems to be common in these parts. Obviously, the llama protects against coyotes and dogs, but a bear is an entirely different matter.
In the course of the article, I learned that bears are thriving in western North Carolina (WNC is the common reference to this geographic region. North Carolina encompasses a wide and diverse area, thus the major three sections - WNC or mountains, the Piedmont and coastal - are referred to separately.) At any rate, WNC purportedly shelters approximately 10,000 bears, a figure that gives me pause. Even in such a vast area, it seems that I should be seeing bears all around me.
I have not, although they have been in Mom and Dad’s back yard, but today’s the day for my bear sightings.
Tarheels . . .
North Carolinians, and later their sports teams, have been called Tarheels, a moniker that seemed so obscure it caused me to do a bit of research. Sad to say, the research enlightened me very little in that regard. Evidently, the true origin of the name is lost in antiquity, leaving the arena wide open for speculation. I have copied a bit of Wikipedia’s take on it.
“The exact etymology of the nickname is unknown, but most experts believe its roots come from the fact that tar, pitch and turpentine created from the vast pine forests were one of North Carolina's most important exports early in the state's history.
Because the exact history of the term is unknown, many legends have developed to explain it. Many believe it to be a nickname given during the U.S. Civil War, because of the state's importance on the Confederate side, and the fact that the troops "stuck to their ranks like they had tar on their heels.
The earliest surviving written use of the term can be found in the diary of 2nd Lieutenant Jackson B. A. Lowrance who wrote the following on February 6, 1863 while in Pender County in southeastern North Carolina. "I know now what is meant by the Piney Woods of North Carolina and the idea occurs to me that it is no wonder we are called 'Tar Heels.”
There was much more; it all kinda made me wish I hadn’t been curious . . . I have dubbed North Carolina "the rocking chair state". There are few front porches that do not sport at least two rocking chairs. They are literally everywhere, even in institutional and commercial settings. I love the feeling that sight evokes: welcoming and relaxing with family and friends.
Weather, visiting, dogs . . .
We have been a bit stymied by the weather while we have been in Tryon and Flat Rock. Unseasonable cold, wind and rain have been the norm, but we are now relieved of weather worries for a couple of days. We broke out the coats and were required to turn off our water at night, lest Jack Frost do damage to the spigot. Mr. Frost did deposit ice, but only lightly, and has now departed the region for a spell.
We have spent most of our time with Mom & Dad W., of course, and enjoyed every minute of it. We’ve dined out some, Mom has cooked, we have cooked, and we’ve just generally had a bang-up time visiting, once with friend Rick joining us. One of the meals out, at The Hungry Fox, rewarded me with such a great meal that I shall add the dish to my repertoire. It was chicken breast glazed with hot wings sauce and topped by sautéed onions and bleu cheese - superb combination!
Their two new rescue dogs - Yorkshire terriers named Apache and Cheyenne - have added great amusement to the scene, especially “Pache” who is quite the clown.The Beacon . . .
We were treated to lunch out in Spartanburg at The Beacon, established 1946 (a very good year, I might add), a place demanding mention. The iconic drive-in can seat 350 people, and is visited by national notables including presidents.
A description from their website: “Fast, loud, and big, The Beacon is the most intense restaurant you will ever visit. The moment you enter and approach the serving line, you are virtually accosted by an order-taker – J.C. Strobel, the senior man, if you’re lucky – who will demand, “CALL IT OUT!” (If you don’t arrive knowing what you want, sheaves of printed menus are available for study or as souvenirs near the door.) Say what you want to eat and say it quickly, or else JC will tell you to stand back and allow other, swifter customers to say their piece. On a good weekend day, The Beacon will serve five thousand people.
Once you manage to convey your order, J.C. or a comrade will shout it back to the huge open kitchen, then ask you in no uncertain terms to “MOVE ON DOWN THE LINE!” Grab a tray and by the time you have moved twenty paces forward, there your order will be – miraculously, exactly as you ordered it, with or without extra barbecue sauce, double bacon on the burger. A bit farther down the line, you get your tea, lemonade, or milk shake and pay the cashier, then find a seat. Total time from entering to digging in – maybe two minutes.”
We explored a couple of motor homes on the way home and did some Costco shopping.
John & Melissa, Mast General Store, Sunday drive . . .
Chris and I froze our buns off while on a short trip to the Mast General Store in historic Hendersonville. While there, I was thrilled to find a tree face of the type I admired at a Kansas RV park. We managed to fill a shopping bag there; what a fun place it is. They have an online presence, but you can’t beat wandering through there perusing everything from shoes and clothing to candy, kitchen ware, jelly and tools - a true general emporium and a very popular one.
Mom and I enjoyed a girls’ talk morning while Dad and Chris golfed.
We brunched out with our friends John and Melissa on Sunday at a great pancake house - The Fireside. I miss having J&M in Prescott, but acknowledge that they are in their element in Melissa’s native North Carolina. It was fun, as always, to have time with them, and to hear about their new, first grandbaby.
We enjoyed one small Sunday drive on Tuesday, wandering alongside the Pacolet River, having no idea where the road would lead us. It was through a softly wooded area as the river wound around hills and skirted horse farms. It was fun to spot a flock of wild turkeys. We stopped to watch them climb a steep road cut, all except one that couldn’t manage the climb. In danger of being left behind, he did what seems like the obvious and flew.
Cowpens, Cooley Farm . . .
One day, C and I went to the Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War site we have wanted to visit. That battle was pivotal in turning the tide in favor of the Colonials. General Daniel Morgan’s strategy in luring the Brit’s General Banastre Tarleton into a trap was well planned and executed, resulting in the American forces taking many prisoners in less than an hour with very little loss of life.
The visitor center showed a film that did a nice job of explaining the encounter. The battlefield is accessed by a walking trail with interpretative signs at each place Morgan posted his regulars, cavalry and militia as they awaited Tarleton’s approach, making it easy to visualize exactly what transpired. Various things we read indicated that the area was basically open woods with little underbrush, often utilized to pasture cattle before they were shipped to market in Charleston. Restoration is taking place; the area seems close to the 1781 descriptions.
The site’s trail is a section of the historic Green River Road, and so continues on past the actual battlefield. The sun was out, the birds were flitting and the air was comfortably hikable, so we extended our walk to and past the Robert Scruggs house, an 1828 log cabin that was in its early years part of a small settlement. We enjoyed talking to the volunteer who was manning the place; he is a retired Charleston police officer. Seeing him sitting alone on the front porch as we approached made it seem as if we had walked back in time.
As we wandered here and there, we added two birds to our trip list: yellow-bellied sapsucker and cedar waxwing. I also picked a small fruit left hanging on a leafless tree and carried it until we located a local to identify it. It was a persimmon, which Chris had ventured to guess. How does one reach the venerable age of 63 without knowing what a persimmon is???
On our way back from Cowpens (it’s in South Carolina), we were astounded at the vast peach orchards and strawberry fields along the way. In the midst of it, we stopped at Cooley’s farm stand and got some information about it, in addition to some great pecan cinnamon bread and apple butter. They have under cultivation a whopping 800 acres of peaches, 80 acres of strawberries and 40 acres of blackberries. My mind balks at the thought of organizing those harvests. The strawberries were in orderly plastic-mulched fields with American flags proudly waving at the ends of rows. A billboard proclaimed it “Strawberry Hill, U.S.A.” Surprisingly, they replant the entire strawberry crop every year.
Boiled peanuts, haircuts . . .
At Cooley’s, we experienced an “event”. Throughout the South, one sees sign after sign offering boiled peanuts. For years, I have been saying I wanted to sample that fare, so when we spotted said legume being placed out for sale, we requested a trial. What an incredible mistake that was! What are those people thinking to pay real money and eat that horror? It was hours before I erased the taste and thought of it. I would describe it if I were able; however, words fail me. To say that they taste like horrid salty mush does not come close.
Back in Tryon, we shaggy two got our hairs cut by Paula as recommended by Mom & Dad - what a relief - we were looking pretty disreputable and she did a nice job while imparting lots of helpful information about great RVing destinations in the South, primarily North Carolina and Florida. I made notes to use on a return trip.
Dad enabled us to get our flu shots, another necessary that is complicated by being away from home.
More Blue Ridge Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains . . .
We are returning from our big day in the Smoky Mountains. We got there via a part of the Blue Ridge Parkway that was new to us and returned through the Cherokee Reservation, a traffic congestion nightmare in its commercial center. Of course we made only the slightest dent in seeing the park, another of those “must returns” for sure.
The Blue Ridge Parkway afforded many beautiful stops along the approach. We climbed to somewhere around 6,000 feet elevation: doesn’t sound like much compared to our western heights but it was spectacular here to look out across the autumn-hued Appalachians with one hazy blue range following another into the distance.At one overlook, we were startled to see included on the interpretative sign a quote from a book authored by Rita Cantu, a fellow Prescottonian and a member of our church. I didn't even know she wrote, for crying out pete's sake, and of course she sings beautifully too.
We loved the Oconaluftee River that rushed along the canyon bottom through Cherokee country - a great trout stream for sure. Interesting places we saw on another section of the Parkway were the Altapass Orchard - centenarian orchard turned cultural center - and the bed and information about the Clinchfield Railroad that brought the outside world to much of the Appalachians. Difficult and slow to traverse even now, it’s plainly evident why the mountain people remained so isolated. It was quite simply nearly impossible to move around for any distance at all within the confines of the seemingly-forever steep slopes.
Mingus Mill, Clingman’s Dome . . .
Our first non-scenery stop was at the Mingus Mill, a fascinating restored 19th century gristmill that is busy gristing away. It is powered by a turbine that is fed water dropped down a wooden chute after being transported from the creek via a long hillside flume and another supported on something like a railroad trestle.Extremely fascinating to see the operation and to examine both floors of the mill, watching the corn being ground.
Our big exertion was to climb to the top of Clingman’s Dome. The sign says it is a half-mile climb, but I know for sure that’s a big fat lie. I would have stopped at about halfway, but seeing the people returning from up top who were some of the most unlikely hikers you ever saw caused me too much shame to give it up. I may have overstated the case just a bit, but not by much.
Anyway, it was pretty cool up there with a stupendous lookout tower that allows absolutely knockout 360-degree views for many, many miles across the mountains. Actually, everything up there is just gorgeous - just one awesome sight after another.
At one point, I spotted a UO, unidentified object, below the road so there was nothing for it but to force my weary legs out of the Toter to see what was what. Down in the canyon, we found a spring and accompanying spring house and an old road that required we strike off along it. It was quietly beautiful down there and a welcome walk after the crowds at Clingman’s Dome. C says Smoky Mountain Park is the most visited in the country with 9 million visitors per year - twice the volume of Grand Canyon. This is one of Chris’ pronouncements that makes me say, “No way”, but as usual, he turns out to be correct.
Historic trails and roads . . .
We walked a bit on the Appalachian Trail so as to find a quiet place to picnic. We snacked and I spent even more time trying to get our self-portrait. Of course, the handy dandy little twistable tripod that Suzie gave me was stowed carefully back in the truck, so I spent considerable time semi-reclining in the damp forest duff while willing the camera to remain in whatever semi-sliding position I placed it, requiring a large number of attempts to get it balanced, push the timer shutter button without dislodging the camera, climb over logs, slip and slide down the slimy leafy slope to gain my position beside C in time to plaster a smile on my face. Quite a few feeble attempts before a satisfactory solution was reached. One can only wonder what urges me on to these convoluted charades or even why the thought arrives unchecked into my mind. . .
We came across another interesting place, Indian Gap Road, or at least a remnant of the former Indian trail that was later enlarged only slightly to become the major north/south route through the Great Smokies in 1830 until the Newfound Gap Road was developed in the 1850s. Seems the Indian Gap was long thought to be the lowest pass through the mountains until Newfound was explored, thus its name is the description of its discovery.
We saw a fascinating photo of a long-ago endeavor on the road, men utilizing a sled to transport a load. Evidently, that was a common way to transport through there, possibly because of the rough rocky surface. Obviously, a sled would be far easier to construct and to repair.
Alas, despite extensive time in WNC’s mountains, nary a bear ventured into our sight.
This ‘n that . . .
Remnants of Halley’s Comet, the Orionids meteor shower, has come and gone without my venturing out to view the show. I hate to miss anything excitingly celestial (for that matter, I hate to miss anything excitingly earthbound). Note to self: kick self for forgetting the meteor shower.
I nominate Harris Teeter as my favorite grocery store ever. They abound in this area; perhaps they will branch out to Prescott? Wonderfully and attractively stocked, they are a pleasure to shop in, and besides, I love the name; it has a certain presence.
Most unexpected mailbox display spotted in North Carolina: A mailbox with an impressive prickly pear cactus guarding it.
Thursday: I’ve been trying not to dwell on this being our last day with Mom & Dad, but departure looms. Very sad to be so far away. The good news is that we will soon be in Florida visiting son Darren, who is sadly also a great distance from us. This is not how families are supposed to be, methinks. And to top it off, brother David who has been in our home area for quite a while departed for Minnesota today. Oh well, one more place to run around to (right after we upgrade to a larger RV - hint, hint).As guilt tugs on my heartstrings, I end this episode: Chris is washing the outside of the trailer and here I sit enjoying my little journal - must clean . . .
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Ruminating, Blue Ridge Parkway, Hot Springs
October 13-15, 2009
Doing a little ruminating while going down the road. We passed a tobacco field in the process of harvest and saw it being done a different way. I had noticed one crop being taken up into a tractor-pulled machine with a cage/bin up high, which seemingly then let the leaves settle back into the bottom of the trailer.
This particular field appears to have been harvested by hand with the entire stock cut off and stacked into ricks - teepee-like affairs. My guess is that method works for someone who doesn’t use the mechanical method. Perhaps they are preliminarily stacked that way in the field, then picked up in a wagon or truck for transport to the tobacco barn.
We have seen lots of old-style tobacco sheds here, but I have yet to get a photo of one, or of either type of harvest. I have no idea if those tobacco sheds are still in use. Perhaps cousin Eva will answer a bunch of my tobacco questions. I’m also wondering if it is the norm for tobacco to develop tobacco mosaic disease. The fields we have looked at appeared to have it, so I wondered if it’s standard and doesn’t actually hurt the crop.
Tomatoes are susceptible to that disease, which is why it is recommended that smokers not handle the plants without washing. It’s harmful to tomatoes, but maybe not so much to tobacco. More research required here.
We were delighted to see deer in our pasture this morning. Something evidently startled them because they bounded away to be swallowed up by the thick fog even before reaching the tree line. Afterward, the cows showed up near the fence, so Chris took Rowdy over for a look-see. One cow decided to come on over for a closer inspection, at which Rowdy laid back his ears and hissed. Pretty gutsy for someone a fraction the size of his growl’s target. The cow, of course, was entirely unimpressed.
It was a very wet leave-taking this morning - sopping leaves plastering the awning, everything soggy, but at least it wasn’t raining. We caught a glimpse of blue sky above this pervasive fog, so have hope of spotting ol’ Sol today.
It has been interesting, and trying, to publish my first blog. It has encouraged me to stay current with the trip journal because of feeling some sort of obligation to complete the blog, once begun, so that the many times I would rather have read or vegged or anything else, I wrote instead. On the down side, the blog has mostly been written while fatigued, tired or otherwise pooped, causing it to be less than optimal. That has been the most frustrating part of it to me: I have sent out some things that are scarcely proofread, much less refined, because most of it has been written in such a rush to be done with it. All in all though, it’s being great fun to know that some folks are traveling along with me and enjoying the trip - makes me feel more connected.
Sayonara spa . . .
A soggy sayonara to Hot Springs: we hooked up and drove on in rain, a situation that has been steady since we arrived at Hot Springs two days ago. We might express gratitude for these folks that North Carolina’s drought has broken; however, I would have liked it so much more if it had not done so during our visit. Now, if we could just bring the same situation to Arizona, we could probably rent ourselves out as rainmakers. When we got into the Toter, we had to laugh: it was so plastered with wet leaves that it looked as if we were doing some kind of camouflage thing.
Despite the wet, our hot mineral soaks were luscious. I purchased a book that covers the history of the springs - I think it’s called “The German Invasion of North Carolina”, kind of an odd name. I know it goes into the time the hot springs property was a German internment camp.
From staff, I learned that there have been three hotels on the place each lost to fire. Walking out the back door of the office/salon now puts a person on what was the front porch of the last inn. Next to the modern porch are the old ornate steps now leading to large ruins: an open basement with the boiler that started the conflagration and the attractive remains of brick walls, now covered with moss and 
vines. I am fascinated with ruins, love to think about all that transpired at that place and all the people who passed there in a different time and age - what were their thoughts, what were their lives like.
The modern setup is nothing so elaborate as the older one, just a reception area with massage room to each side in addition to the rv park across the road, some cabins and what they call suites. The rv park and cabins are down low in wonderful woods; we were parked right on the French Broad River.
The hot springs (100-104 degrees) are piped into individual jacuzzi tubs arranged on the banks of the river and Spring Creek. Each one has a wooden fence around three sides for privacy and is open to whichever waterway it sits on.
There are various sizes from two-person to groups. And luckily, they have shed roofs over the top. We had a one-hour soak when we got there, another the next day, after which I had a massage and a nap and then we soaked again. A nice little 30th anniversary gift to ourselves.
We topped it off with dinner out and had a chat with a couple who have retired to Panama and were anxious to tell us about their house in the mountains, house on the beach and their house in Chicago (whence they came) which they visit for a week or so every year, also their gardener, their maid, etc., etc. Oh yes, all their houses are huge.
We chose the Blue Ridge Parkway as our route to Hot Springs. We had previously driven a portion of the well-known highway, but were even more wowed by this particular 50 miles of it. We discovered that’s there much more opportunity for hiking, even an rv forest campground, than we had previously known. Our first time there, we did hike through forest so wondrous I can’t begin to describe it. Now I would like to come back not only to drive the entire length, but to spend extended time exploring the area.
Autumn was showing off her beauty so gaudily that I simply could not stop taking photographs. The dampness of the day contributed its part also with wraithlike wisps floating here and there in hollows and around peaks, 
especially at Grandfather Mountain. At one stop, we walked out to an overlook where some folks pointed out a 
snake just below us, so I included him in my nonstop snapping.
Appalachian roads do not lend themselves to reaching destinations in short order, so our day of driving was fairly long and tiring, thus we were happy today that we could get to Flat Rock by midday. There still was the small matter of setting up in the rain, but now later in the afternoon, it has ceased to fall even though there remains no sign of sun.
Best advertising slogan: “Improve your text life.”
October 13-15, 2009
Doing a little ruminating while going down the road. We passed a tobacco field in the process of harvest and saw it being done a different way. I had noticed one crop being taken up into a tractor-pulled machine with a cage/bin up high, which seemingly then let the leaves settle back into the bottom of the trailer.
This particular field appears to have been harvested by hand with the entire stock cut off and stacked into ricks - teepee-like affairs. My guess is that method works for someone who doesn’t use the mechanical method. Perhaps they are preliminarily stacked that way in the field, then picked up in a wagon or truck for transport to the tobacco barn.
We have seen lots of old-style tobacco sheds here, but I have yet to get a photo of one, or of either type of harvest. I have no idea if those tobacco sheds are still in use. Perhaps cousin Eva will answer a bunch of my tobacco questions. I’m also wondering if it is the norm for tobacco to develop tobacco mosaic disease. The fields we have looked at appeared to have it, so I wondered if it’s standard and doesn’t actually hurt the crop.
Tomatoes are susceptible to that disease, which is why it is recommended that smokers not handle the plants without washing. It’s harmful to tomatoes, but maybe not so much to tobacco. More research required here.
We were delighted to see deer in our pasture this morning. Something evidently startled them because they bounded away to be swallowed up by the thick fog even before reaching the tree line. Afterward, the cows showed up near the fence, so Chris took Rowdy over for a look-see. One cow decided to come on over for a closer inspection, at which Rowdy laid back his ears and hissed. Pretty gutsy for someone a fraction the size of his growl’s target. The cow, of course, was entirely unimpressed.
It was a very wet leave-taking this morning - sopping leaves plastering the awning, everything soggy, but at least it wasn’t raining. We caught a glimpse of blue sky above this pervasive fog, so have hope of spotting ol’ Sol today.
It has been interesting, and trying, to publish my first blog. It has encouraged me to stay current with the trip journal because of feeling some sort of obligation to complete the blog, once begun, so that the many times I would rather have read or vegged or anything else, I wrote instead. On the down side, the blog has mostly been written while fatigued, tired or otherwise pooped, causing it to be less than optimal. That has been the most frustrating part of it to me: I have sent out some things that are scarcely proofread, much less refined, because most of it has been written in such a rush to be done with it. All in all though, it’s being great fun to know that some folks are traveling along with me and enjoying the trip - makes me feel more connected.
Sayonara spa . . .
A soggy sayonara to Hot Springs: we hooked up and drove on in rain, a situation that has been steady since we arrived at Hot Springs two days ago. We might express gratitude for these folks that North Carolina’s drought has broken; however, I would have liked it so much more if it had not done so during our visit. Now, if we could just bring the same situation to Arizona, we could probably rent ourselves out as rainmakers. When we got into the Toter, we had to laugh: it was so plastered with wet leaves that it looked as if we were doing some kind of camouflage thing.
Despite the wet, our hot mineral soaks were luscious. I purchased a book that covers the history of the springs - I think it’s called “The German Invasion of North Carolina”, kind of an odd name. I know it goes into the time the hot springs property was a German internment camp.
From staff, I learned that there have been three hotels on the place each lost to fire. Walking out the back door of the office/salon now puts a person on what was the front porch of the last inn. Next to the modern porch are the old ornate steps now leading to large ruins: an open basement with the boiler that started the conflagration and the attractive remains of brick walls, now covered with moss and 
vines. I am fascinated with ruins, love to think about all that transpired at that place and all the people who passed there in a different time and age - what were their thoughts, what were their lives like.The modern setup is nothing so elaborate as the older one, just a reception area with massage room to each side in addition to the rv park across the road, some cabins and what they call suites. The rv park and cabins are down low in wonderful woods; we were parked right on the French Broad River.
The hot springs (100-104 degrees) are piped into individual jacuzzi tubs arranged on the banks of the river and Spring Creek. Each one has a wooden fence around three sides for privacy and is open to whichever waterway it sits on.
There are various sizes from two-person to groups. And luckily, they have shed roofs over the top. We had a one-hour soak when we got there, another the next day, after which I had a massage and a nap and then we soaked again. A nice little 30th anniversary gift to ourselves.We topped it off with dinner out and had a chat with a couple who have retired to Panama and were anxious to tell us about their house in the mountains, house on the beach and their house in Chicago (whence they came) which they visit for a week or so every year, also their gardener, their maid, etc., etc. Oh yes, all their houses are huge.
We chose the Blue Ridge Parkway as our route to Hot Springs. We had previously driven a portion of the well-known highway, but were even more wowed by this particular 50 miles of it. We discovered that’s there much more opportunity for hiking, even an rv forest campground, than we had previously known. Our first time there, we did hike through forest so wondrous I can’t begin to describe it. Now I would like to come back not only to drive the entire length, but to spend extended time exploring the area.
Autumn was showing off her beauty so gaudily that I simply could not stop taking photographs. The dampness of the day contributed its part also with wraithlike wisps floating here and there in hollows and around peaks, 
especially at Grandfather Mountain. At one stop, we walked out to an overlook where some folks pointed out a 
snake just below us, so I included him in my nonstop snapping.Appalachian roads do not lend themselves to reaching destinations in short order, so our day of driving was fairly long and tiring, thus we were happy today that we could get to Flat Rock by midday. There still was the small matter of setting up in the rain, but now later in the afternoon, it has ceased to fall even though there remains no sign of sun.
Best advertising slogan: “Improve your text life.”
Monday, October 12, 2009
Moonshine, Quakers, cookies
October 12, 2009
I read in the news that a North Carolina man was arrested after producing and stashing 929 gallons of moonshine. Think about this: they put the man in jail when in reality they should have awarded him the “entrepreneur of the century” award, for crying out pete’s sake. The guy’s a marvel. The least they could do is let him pay some nominal tax and go on his way. The money is what they’re after anyway.
Today was Quaker day for us. Our last day at this place, we ran around like chickens with our legs cut off trying to get to as many of our ancestral Quaker meeting houses as we possibly could. One is too far away, so will go there another time.
What is the reason for doing this? It’s beyond me, but just something I wanted to do. Some, such as Jacob Brown, had moved away and are buried elsewhere. We visited his grave in Indiana last year, gave him flowers and a flag in honor of his service in the American Revolution. Obviously, that is not an activity accepted by the Quakers, so he was disfellowshipped for his trouble, but evidently later accepted back into the fold because he is interred in a Friends burying ground.
Of the local Quaker ancestors, we believe we know or can guess pretty accurately where they are interred, but could find nary a stone to mark any of their resting places. I was satisfied, though, to haunt the places near their habitations, where they worshipped and probably were buried.
Truthfully, my vision of going to these places was akin to time travel - driving along a backwoods track through deep woods, coming around a bend in the road and seeing a small Quaker meeting house with its adjacent burying ground.
So much for reality. In this world, the one I don’t always inhabit, two of the meeting houses are large handsome red brick buildings, complexes of structures actually, in urban settings. They are adjacent to cemeteries - large well-kept grounds with interesting histories, especially at Guilford where the American Revolution’s Battle of Guilford Courthouse transpired.
Encyclopedic partner explains that this particular battle sealed Cornwallis’ fate and turned the tide of the war in favor of the colonists. Some of the soldiers fallen in that battle are buried in the Friends’ burying ground probably aside my ancestors in the New Garden cemetery. We are told that our William Armfield, for one, is buried at New Garden.
We talked to folks at all three of the meeting houses we visited. At New Garden in Guilford, we obtained a brief history of the congregation along with a sketch of the old meeting house.
At Deep River, we also got a listing of the known burials, but no picture of the older church. And at Deep Creek, we purchased a small book with history and graves, in addition to kayaking and fishing tips for the area from the fellow who sold us the book.
There was an interesting and tragic interlude at Deep River during the Civil War. It occurred at the parsonage and involved Quakers attempting to avoid conscription into the Confederacy and ended in the shooting and killing of a Rebel officer and killing and wounding of several other people.
Back at Pleasant Garden, we learned that Guilford College across the road is a Quaker establishment with a library that boasts a Friends history section. That was an exciting idea, so we drove over there in the rain (actually, the entire day has been the wettest, dreariest yet - unceasing rain and cold - in the 50s - how thoroughly unpleasant), circled and circled looking for a parking place to no avail and finally gave it up, parking farther away than we wanted lest we melt in the wet.
When at long last we located the library, we dripped on in there, only to discover that the Quaker room is closed on Mondays. Ah well, they promise that most of their holdings are online, but I yearned to venture through that glass door to peruse those enticing volumes.
Interestingly, our circlings on the lovely campus showed us two facilities named for our ancestors who were there - Armfield and Moon - well, possibly named for their descendants, one doesn’t know this for sure. This is a charming place, one in which I’d dearly love to have sufficient time to research and take in the surroundings.
At all the places, I couldn’t resist wandering through the burying grounds despite the complete sogginess of the atmosphere. I snapped a few photos from the shelter of an umbrella and tried to imagine what it was like for those folks during the colonial days and the strife of the Revolutionary War, which the Friends mostly attempted to avoid. I’m sure it is beyond our ken what our progenitors endured and survived throughout the ages.
Since discovering last summer that we have Quaker ancestors, we have learned quite a bit about them and their history. I hope to delve more deeply into the culture they created.
Our very first stop of the day was the sweetest - a tour of Mrs. Travis Hanes’ Moravian cookie factory. I knew before going there that all Mrs. Hanes' cookies are hand made; however, seeing those ladies rolling the dough out by hand and cutting each and every one of the thousands and thousands of cookies is simply mind boggling. The bakers then place each cutout on the baking sheets. Even the packing into tubes, tins and packages is done by nice local ladies who work at it eight hours a day.
Ms. Hanes actually began this endeavor in her kitchen years ago, and now resides semi-retired in a wonderful house next to the factory. The process proceeds with the active participation of her son and daughter. When a tour is requested, one of the cookie cutting ladies obliges, including at each stop a sampling of each flavor produced - ginger, sugar, lemon, black walnut, chocolate and butterscotch.
Prior to this tour, I did a bit research about the Moravians and came away fairly overwhelmed and less than enlightened. Suffice it to say, the religion goes back for many centuries.
We arrived home to discover that Rowdy was without food, a circumstance so frightful as to cause great distress. He did recover quickly and seems to have forgiven me. We will see - if he bites my nose tonight while I’m sleeping, we will know that I’d best not let that happen again.
Tomorrow we trade wifi for hot springs; we shall stay at the hot springs rv park for two nights, but will be without wifi for the duration. Personally, I’m guessing it will be well worth it.
October 12, 2009
I read in the news that a North Carolina man was arrested after producing and stashing 929 gallons of moonshine. Think about this: they put the man in jail when in reality they should have awarded him the “entrepreneur of the century” award, for crying out pete’s sake. The guy’s a marvel. The least they could do is let him pay some nominal tax and go on his way. The money is what they’re after anyway.
Today was Quaker day for us. Our last day at this place, we ran around like chickens with our legs cut off trying to get to as many of our ancestral Quaker meeting houses as we possibly could. One is too far away, so will go there another time.
What is the reason for doing this? It’s beyond me, but just something I wanted to do. Some, such as Jacob Brown, had moved away and are buried elsewhere. We visited his grave in Indiana last year, gave him flowers and a flag in honor of his service in the American Revolution. Obviously, that is not an activity accepted by the Quakers, so he was disfellowshipped for his trouble, but evidently later accepted back into the fold because he is interred in a Friends burying ground.
Of the local Quaker ancestors, we believe we know or can guess pretty accurately where they are interred, but could find nary a stone to mark any of their resting places. I was satisfied, though, to haunt the places near their habitations, where they worshipped and probably were buried.
Truthfully, my vision of going to these places was akin to time travel - driving along a backwoods track through deep woods, coming around a bend in the road and seeing a small Quaker meeting house with its adjacent burying ground.
So much for reality. In this world, the one I don’t always inhabit, two of the meeting houses are large handsome red brick buildings, complexes of structures actually, in urban settings. They are adjacent to cemeteries - large well-kept grounds with interesting histories, especially at Guilford where the American Revolution’s Battle of Guilford Courthouse transpired.
Encyclopedic partner explains that this particular battle sealed Cornwallis’ fate and turned the tide of the war in favor of the colonists. Some of the soldiers fallen in that battle are buried in the Friends’ burying ground probably aside my ancestors in the New Garden cemetery. We are told that our William Armfield, for one, is buried at New Garden.
We talked to folks at all three of the meeting houses we visited. At New Garden in Guilford, we obtained a brief history of the congregation along with a sketch of the old meeting house.
At Deep River, we also got a listing of the known burials, but no picture of the older church. And at Deep Creek, we purchased a small book with history and graves, in addition to kayaking and fishing tips for the area from the fellow who sold us the book.
There was an interesting and tragic interlude at Deep River during the Civil War. It occurred at the parsonage and involved Quakers attempting to avoid conscription into the Confederacy and ended in the shooting and killing of a Rebel officer and killing and wounding of several other people.
Back at Pleasant Garden, we learned that Guilford College across the road is a Quaker establishment with a library that boasts a Friends history section. That was an exciting idea, so we drove over there in the rain (actually, the entire day has been the wettest, dreariest yet - unceasing rain and cold - in the 50s - how thoroughly unpleasant), circled and circled looking for a parking place to no avail and finally gave it up, parking farther away than we wanted lest we melt in the wet.
When at long last we located the library, we dripped on in there, only to discover that the Quaker room is closed on Mondays. Ah well, they promise that most of their holdings are online, but I yearned to venture through that glass door to peruse those enticing volumes.
Interestingly, our circlings on the lovely campus showed us two facilities named for our ancestors who were there - Armfield and Moon - well, possibly named for their descendants, one doesn’t know this for sure. This is a charming place, one in which I’d dearly love to have sufficient time to research and take in the surroundings.
At all the places, I couldn’t resist wandering through the burying grounds despite the complete sogginess of the atmosphere. I snapped a few photos from the shelter of an umbrella and tried to imagine what it was like for those folks during the colonial days and the strife of the Revolutionary War, which the Friends mostly attempted to avoid. I’m sure it is beyond our ken what our progenitors endured and survived throughout the ages.
Since discovering last summer that we have Quaker ancestors, we have learned quite a bit about them and their history. I hope to delve more deeply into the culture they created.
Our very first stop of the day was the sweetest - a tour of Mrs. Travis Hanes’ Moravian cookie factory. I knew before going there that all Mrs. Hanes' cookies are hand made; however, seeing those ladies rolling the dough out by hand and cutting each and every one of the thousands and thousands of cookies is simply mind boggling. The bakers then place each cutout on the baking sheets. Even the packing into tubes, tins and packages is done by nice local ladies who work at it eight hours a day.
Ms. Hanes actually began this endeavor in her kitchen years ago, and now resides semi-retired in a wonderful house next to the factory. The process proceeds with the active participation of her son and daughter. When a tour is requested, one of the cookie cutting ladies obliges, including at each stop a sampling of each flavor produced - ginger, sugar, lemon, black walnut, chocolate and butterscotch.
Prior to this tour, I did a bit research about the Moravians and came away fairly overwhelmed and less than enlightened. Suffice it to say, the religion goes back for many centuries.
We arrived home to discover that Rowdy was without food, a circumstance so frightful as to cause great distress. He did recover quickly and seems to have forgiven me. We will see - if he bites my nose tonight while I’m sleeping, we will know that I’d best not let that happen again.
Tomorrow we trade wifi for hot springs; we shall stay at the hot springs rv park for two nights, but will be without wifi for the duration. Personally, I’m guessing it will be well worth it.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Shelton Winery, music, Holly Ridge
October 11, 2009
Moving pretty slowly this weekend and fine with it. Following a recommendation for winery tours, we wended our way over to the Shelton Winery on Saturday. It seems the norm on this kind of random wandering trip that we land in a place the week before, after or near an event, but seldom at the correct time to enjoy a scheduled concert, fair or event, but this time was different.
Thinking we were only going to have a tour of the winery, we drove into a gargantuan fall festival at an incredible vineyard - a nice score. The tours were free; the wine tastings were free; the rotating bluegrass bands’ music was free; the hayride was free; even the popcorn was free.
The Shelton Winery is totally impressive: 600 acres of parkland, gorgeously landscaped and maintained, with 150 acres of grapes and a goal to have 150 more planted. Everywhere were vast rolling lawns, waterways, bridges, attractive landscapes. The winery is huge to accommodate the quantity of grapes. There is an onsite restaurant, great gift shop and of course, many wines with large tasting bars - a separate one for each of red, white and sweet wines.
The tour detailed the process from destemming the grapes to their oak barrel storage in a manufactured cave.We just partied around there all afternoon, got to talking with quite a few very nice people who were set up as vendors - some wonderful, unique craftspeople - while enjoying the music by bands who were set up in the impressive outdoor bandstand. The grounds are so inviting that people use the place like a park, enjoying and picnicking there even when no events are scheduled.
What a beautiful setting with the Blue Ridge in the background.The day was a little rainy, giving way to Sunday’s gray leaden low sky all day. Then suddenly about 4 p.m., everyone was surprised and pleased to see the clouds part and move away, allowing the sun to do what the sun does best. We had already eaten. After all, might as well try out new recipes and eat early when it looks so dreary out, so when the light came, we jumped up and ran on down to the river for some catfishing.
A couple of fish later, we wound it up and came home to plan tomorrow.
Holly Ridge has turned out to be a super place to stay. Many of the trailers here are utilized as vacation cabins, resulting in an atmosphere in which lots of the folks know each other and have for years. There are usually a bunch of folks sitting on the front porch at the office, visiting and laughing. Surprisingly, many of them keep golf carts or ATVs here for getting around the grounds.
Last night, Chris set up the keyboard outside to play for a bit and we ended up with three golf carts, one pickup and four pedestrians stopping to enjoy the music. It was very fun. One of the men who sat in told me about a hot springs near Asheville. Anything about hot springs gets my attention, so I looked it up today (love that internet!). The result is that we changed our plans to detour up to Hot Springs (also the name of the town) for a couple of nights before going back to Flat Rock and Tryon.
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