In the Late Garden

The tomatoes have slowed down and are showing signs of blight but I'm still picking. This neat looking bug is a scorpion fly -- harmless but named for his fancy reproductive equipment (wonder what he calls it?) that curls up like a scorpion's tail. He's a scavenger who feeds on dead or disabled insects and is welcome in my garden. Sorry I didn't get a shot of his cute face -- he has a long proboscis and a somewhat bemused expression.

The potatoes we planted back in early April are ready to be dug and I grabbled out a few to have for dinner tomorrow night. It's always like a treasure hunt, pulling potatoes from the earth. Justin weed ate off the patch once the vines began to die -- now it's just a series of bare, mounded rows. But if you look close, you'll see the remains of the vines flat against the rocky soil. It's here you stick in your potato fork to dig for potato gold. (By the way, tomorrow is International Talk like a Pirate Day -- get ready!)

Sungold cherry tomatoes, Cherokee Purples, Romas, assorted peppers and a lone shitake -- these are a few of my favorite things!

Non-Political Hodge Podge

This is a post of odds and ends -- partly because I'm in a hurry and partly because I have some pictures that I want to share. Also, I want to call your attention to the little survey on the right -- I'm interested in knowing which posts you all enjoy most. If I judged by number of comments for a post, it would be chickens -- but I know number of comments isn't an accurate indicator of readers. I'm becoming increasingly aware of a number of readers out there -- everywhere I go, there's someone who seems to know a lot about me and I'm struggling to remember where we met and then they say, "And I love your blog."

I know the commenting is a hassle if you're not already signed up. But I'd love to hear from any of you (my email is vicki_laneATmtnarea.net) -- tell me what interests you about this blog.

No promises -- I'll probably still write whatever comes to mind. Right now I'm struggling with whether I should make a political comment -- I've tried to avoid that, though I suspect most all of you know my views. And I really don't want to rant.

So, here are a few recent non-political pictures.



Turtlehead:Chelone is a rare-ish fall flower. And, by the way, let me recommend my favorite book for identifying wildflowers: Wild Flowers of North Carolina: Also Covering Virginia, South Carolina, and Areas of Georgia, Tennessee Kentucky, West Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware by William S. Justice and C. Ritchie Bell. I wore out my first copy, dragging it here and there.

Ali Ali and Otis playing by the pond. These are such beautiful, healthy dogs -- it's a pleasure to watch them tussle.

Thanks to a recent rain, we've had colonies of toadstools popping up along the road.

John built this pretty gate, worthy of a haiku, and at last the morning glories are doing as they should.

The Grady Record

Sheila P., noticing how much I like old journals and how fascinating I find the trivia of the past, sent me this book to peruse -- a record from 1938 into 1958 -- thinking I might find some interesting tidbits for my Birdie book. Sheila said the record book was originally the property of Neva Grady of Cullowhee, NC. There seem, however, to be two record keepers at work -- different handwritings occasionally.

Neva and her Significant Other, from what I can tell, seem to have divided their time between NC and Florida - among the entries for 1938 are records of planting lemons, tangerines, and Temple oranges -- purchased, evidently, from A.E. Nichols, Box 1645, Tampa.

These folks were serious about their record-keeping. Low temperatures, miles traveled, purchase prices and serial numbers -- all went into the book. If they sent off a coupon for a sugar and creamer set, the address and date were recorded, as well as the date the item was received.

It's a window on the past -- fuel oil at 10-15 cents a gallon (and my keyboard doesn't even have the cents symbol -- more's the pity). They furnished their new-built mountain home -- a dropleaf table for $50, a double bed for $35, a corner cupboard for $35.

In 1940, on April 1, Neva had a tooth pulled, in May, two and then three more were extracted. Then in June, she records first five pulled, then eight, after which she notes "(All gone)" and two weeks later, "New dentures."

As WWII comes on, ration books are applied for and serial numbers noted down. War bonds are bought. And every once in a while there's a very human note. After an eye exam and a prescription ($3), there's the note "This guy is full of crap." Two weeks later, there's a second eye exam -- by a different doctor.

I'm not sure why I find this all so interesting -- but I do! I do! There are stories lurking here, as in the entry for the 18th on the page below: " For the 2nd time in as many months, Neva left my bed to go off by herself."

. . . And These Pictures

A few more pictures from my weekend -- odds and ends, really.

An early evening moonrise

Ironwork on the Burnsville library windows

A sign that caught my eye as I drove home before dawn

And look who was in the river to greet me as I crossed the bridge! Those of you who've been reading this blog a while may remember I upgraded my camera so as to get a better picture of the Great Blue Heron that was always to be seen at the river. Only, as soon as I got that camera with a better zoom capability, there was a Total Absence of Heron, whenever I crossed the bridge. So I was delighted to see that he was still around -- just on an earlier schedule.

Meanwhile, over on Amazon, I've just posted about my Writer's Toolkit -- something some of you other writers out there might find interesting. Or not.

Carolina Mountains Literary Festival . . . and a Surprise

I'm back -- and what a weekend!!!

I couldn't make it to Burnsville in time for the opening of the three hour session on the Cherokee Removal -- aka the Long Walk or the Trail of Tears -- but managed to slide in for the last hour. Such a sad story but one that, like that of the Holocaust, should never be forgotten.

There was time for a quick lunch with Sallie Bissell and Rose Senehi, the other two members of the panel I moderated yesterday, and then on to attend an incredible session with the multi-talented John Grant Jr, who played the Native American wooden flute and told Cherokee folk tales.

John was followed by Myrtle Driver ( this picture doesn't do her justice) a native Cherokee speaker who has translated Charles Frazer's Thirteen Moons into Cherokee. Barbara Duncan, Education Director for the Museum of the Cherokee Indian (in Cherokee, NC and well worth a visit!) read a scene in English and then Myrtle gave a very dramatic reading in Cherokee -- a lovely sound that I guess reminds me (in my limited experience with different languages) a bit of Japanese but somehow more musical.

When the reading was over, I approached these folks to tell them how very much I'd enjoyed the whole session and was thrilled when Barbara Duncan said she loved my books.

"You do?" I stammered. "Have you read Old Wounds? Did I get the Cherokee stuff right?"

When she said that I had, I felt like I'd just won a prize -- I did research, of course, but I didn't have anyone to check on my assumptions. So I have, ever since the books came out, hoped that I hadn't made some really dumb mistake or, even worse, said something offensive.

Whew! A load lifted!

That was Friday. On Saturday morning I led a three hour workshop of writing fools -- they wrote and wrote and wrote! It's amazing what interesting and accomplished stuff came out of a very quick workshop. They were given pictures (torn from magazines) of people and places and asked to construct a dialogue between two people in their pictures in a setting based on the picture they'd chosen. They all rose to the challenge, constructing little vignettes that left us all saying "And then what happened?" A great class!

That afternoon I did a solo presentation with a slide show -- you all have seen all the pictures -- going on behind me while I read selections from all four Elizabeth books. And then the panel, where all three of us talked about using the mystery to address social and environmental issues.

The festival ended with a banquet where I sat with another mystery writer, the charming Suzanne Adair. Fred Chappell, former NC poet laureate, spoke and read a poem created for the occasion -- actually, a poem within a poem. Another wow! moment.

I was up early this morning, on the road before 7 AM and arrived home in time for breakfast with John. Unpacking, laundry, email, bills to be paid, lunch (incredible leftover pizza by our own Papa John), and I was just settling down to post on this blog when the phone rang.

"Hi, Vicki? It's Tony Earley. We're in Mars Hill , on our way to Tennessee, and thought we'd come by."

I posted a while back about my admiration of Tony so all I'll say is I can't think of a better close to a literary weekend than to sit and rock on the front porch with the Earleys and their beautiful little girl.

Chunn's Inn

This historic photo showed up today in our county's weekly newspaper -- one of the stock stands on the old Drovers' Road near the end of its days. It's gone entirely now, but for the foundation stones.

But while it stood, like my mythical Gudger's Stand, the house was the stuff of legends. For one thing there were the brown hand prints on floor and ceiling --they looked like dried blood but couldn't be removed, so it's said, even when a carpenter's plane shaved away layer after layer of wood.

They still talk of Chunn's Inn, rumored to be the last stop for many an unwary drover returning home with pockets full of gold. and this is the story they tell.

A drover, riding home from markets to the east, stopped at Chunn's Inn for the night. Perhaps he drank too deeply; perhaps he spoke too freely of the good price his beasts had fetched; whatever the reason, the drover slept fitfully that night, his pistols close at hand. He seemed to hear footsteps or the doorknob turning and would start awake as soon as ever he drowsed.

When morning came at last, he breakfasted, bid farewell to the company, and resumed his journey along the river road.

In spite of his restless night, the drover rode cheerfully, thinking of his return home. The way was lonely, with not another soul in sight and he sang and whistled to pass the time.

Suddenly the horse shied as a dark figure stepped out of a laurel thicket above the road and leveled a pistol at the drover's breast. The bandit's black face contorted in an ugly scowl as he demanded that the drover halt and throw down all his money.

Thinking quickly, the drover reined in his horse and tossed a handful of silver into the dust of the road. When the highwayman bent down to retrieve the coins, the drover pulled out his own pistol and fired.

As the robber fell to the ground, the drover, fearing the man might have accomplices, wheeled his horse and galloped back to Chunn's Inn.

Mrs. Chunn was in the doorway as the drover pulled his lathered horse to a stop, shouting out that he'd killed a Negro highwayman.

"My God!" she shrieked, "It's my husband you've killed!"

Interested bystanders went to see for themselves -- there on the road, sprawled dead as a hammer across the coins, was Alfred Chunn, his hands and face blackened with soot. When they brought the body back to the inn, Mrs. Chunn was nowhere to be found -- but investigation revealed a small back room where blood stains and a chute leading down to the river gave evidence of the Chunns' murderous ways with their moneyed guests

I'll be at the Carolina Mountains Literary Festival tomorrow and Saturday -- no posts till Sunday!

That Indian Costume

This is seven year old Ethan in a hastily constructed Indian outfit (with matching quiver.) I imagine this was in the back of my mind when I had Elizabeth make Indian costumes for Rosie and Maythorn in Old Wounds.

My boys were great ones for costumes -- dyed long underwear made superhero costumes; my old wraparound skirts turned into cloaks for adventurers -- who skirmished with wooden swords and shields constructed by their father. Once Ethan spent half a day drawing neat circles in indelible black marker on a long underwear shirt to make 'chain mail armor' for his little brother.

That imagination hasn't gone away. Ethan makes his living as an editor and developer for White Wolf Role-Playing Games -- coming up with new ideas for said games and overseeing and contributing to the production of various titles such as Changeling:The Lost, Tribebook- Silent Striders, Mage, Predators, Vampire:The Dark Ages. He has a list of credits longer than Plastic Man's arm -- and in the world of role-playing games, he is a definite Somebody.

Just recently Changeling swept the awards at a role-playing games convention -- taking gold in every category for which it was nominated. Ethan and his wife Aileen (who is an art director for the same company -- convenient, that) were kept busy accepting medals and making thank you speeches.

I'm taking some credit here -- it was I who long, long ago introduced Ethan to his first Dungeons and Dragons game, never imagining that he'd end up making his living this way.

Nor was I imagining that his Indian costume would turn up in a book of my own!

Nasturtiums

Nasturtiums are such rewarding flowers -- easy to grow, undemanding, and beautiful.

As soon as the danger of frost is past, soak the seeds saved from last year's crop (or from a package) for a few hours, then poke them into the dirt. You'll be rewarded, in time, with cascades of yellow, scarlet, orange, coral, cream, and apricot, as well as lush green foliage.

And for a bonus, both leaves and blossoms are edible - a little spicy, like water cress. And of course, nasturtiums are part of the crop on Elizabeth's Full Circle Farm.

". . . we got a call from Lidio -- their usual supplier had let them down and they have a huge wedding party tonight and their chef was pitching a fit because he didn't have fresh nasturtium petals for the salads. . . . Kyra and I picked all the nasturtium blossoms-- get this, the chef only wanted red ones no orange, no yellow." (Ben in Art's Blood)

I'm not that discriminating -- and I use the whole flower, not just the petals.

Water from the Mountain

We call it The Best Water in the World -- pure, chill water that flows out of the ground about a hundred and fifty feet above our house. The spring was discovered and dug out long ago by Louise Freeman when she and her family (husband and four boys) lived in the little cabin that still stands near our house. Tired of toting water uphill from the spring near the barn, Louise persevered till she found this one.

When we built our house, my husband 'headed up' the spring which had not been used for many a year -- digging back till the water was coming out over rock and gravel, then building a small concrete dam to make a catch pool for the water. Set into that wall is a pipe that runs into the reservoir. (A piece of screen covers the mouth of the pipe to keep 'spring lizards' (salamanders) out.) The water flows into the reservoir and from there into the house --- gravity water from the mountain -- an elegant thing!


Our first reservoir was a 30 gallon wooden barrel, purchased from the Mother Earth News Truck Store. It served our needs for many years and was completely adequate back when we had an outhouse and did our laundry at the laundromat. But with a second child, the need for our own washing machine grew and indoor plumbing was next.

To meet the increased demand John built this concrete block reservoir -- It holds 750 gallons! An amazing amount of water!

Of course, that doesn't change the fact that the input from the spring -- a steady stream of water about the diameter of a pencil -- takes quite a while to fill the tank. But, once again, for many years the reservoir up the hill was adequate for our needs. Till the older boy went to college . . . and came back for breaks, bringing with him what seemed like hordes of friends -- frequently showering, constantly flushing friends.

The next step was a well -- but, we told ourselves, we'll keep the water from the reservoir running to the sink and use the well water -- which will likely taste funny -- for everything else.

Oh, the joy! When the well was dug and we tasted the water, it was impossible to tell the difference! So now we flush and bathe and irrigate with The Best Water in the World.

The reservoir's still there -- last in use during the Great Blizzard of '93 when we lost power for five days and had a houseful of college kids home for Spring Break. But that's another story. . .

CORRECTION! -- John tells me the reservoir is not concrete block but poured concrete with rebar -- and all the materials, including the wood for the form were hauled up the hill to the site on a sled pulled by our mules, Pete and Molly.

Getting those details right.

September Walk

Two classic poems, from the Japanese ~ ~~

~

In my well bucket
A morning glory --
I borrow water

(Lady Chiyo-Jo 1703-1775)


Please wait
For the light of the moon --
The mountain path is covered
With fallen chestnuts

(Ryokan)

Follow this link for more fall pictures.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

"Do you see what's wrong here?" John asked, shoving the magazine down the table to me.

I put down my coffee cup and studied the picture -- a farmer working in the 'baccer. The mule looks like our Ol' Pete in his younger days. The sun's going down, the pretty white house has smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, and Mama's on the back porch, calling Pa in to supper.

Hmm. No kids around -- maybe they're in doing homework or back at the barn doing chores. Nice barns and out buildings. It's an idyllic scene -- change the hound to a collie and it could be an episode from "Lassie."

Then I spot it -- and wonder how many other readers of Progressive Farmer are groaning. Maybe some of you farmers or ex-farmers will see what's wrong. Right click on the picture to biggify it for a closer look. It's not something tiny; it's up front and is akin to a mystery writer saying a revolver had a silencer -- just doesn't happen. At least, this wasn't the way Our Mentor taught us.

The devil is in the details they say. I remember once painting a picture with mountains in the background and a barn in the foreground. I used two different photos to work from and it wasn't till I'd finished the picture that I realized why it just didn't look right -- the shadows on the mountains showed that the sun was to the right while the shadows in the foreground . . . yep, the sun was to the left. Just doesn't happen. (I'm not totally happy about the shadows in this picture either -- but that's not the error that caught my husband's eye.)

As a writer I really try to get my details correct. (Thus my recent research into teenage slang which caused some of your answers to be identified as naughty spam.) You never know what slip -- the revolver that fires ten times without reloading, the quilt being pieced, not quilted, on the quilting frame (this was in a best seller), the shotgun that later turns into a rifle, or the DNA report that's back in 24 hours -- is going to cause your reader to fall out of the story and fling the book against the wall, shrieking "Just doesn't happen!"


Oh my goodness -- I just found another thing wrong with this picture. This is something I pay attention to in my books -- not having things blooming in the wrong season. Anyone see what's bugging me here? You western NC or east TN folks might get this.

Apparition in a Tobacco Barn

Among the pictures I took yesterday was this -- the apparition of a long gone tobacco farmer, come back to judge this year's crop?

Every year when 'baccer's barned,
The sweet fragrance of drying leaf
Drifts on the mild September breeze
Uphill to where the old man lies
And stirs him from his well-earned rest
Amid the stones and plastic flowers.

Wakened, he wafts like thin blue smoke,
Swirls bodiless through time and space
Back to the barn -- the old home place.
He studies -- and allows at last--
Fine leaf -- should fetch a pretty price.
Right glad to see it still goes on.

Gettin' Up the Baccer

Is it some lovely ceremonial dance with ladies in long gowns sweeping rhythmically to and fro? Nope, it's tobacco, waiting to be barned. Not ours (she said with a sigh, half relief, half nostalgia)-- we don't raise tobacco anymore.

A few days ago these tobacco plants were cut and slid onto sticks, five or six plants per stick, then left in the fields to wilt down, rendering the yellow-green leaves less 'brickle' and liable to break, as well as considerably reducing the weight of the laden stick.

Back when we were making our first crop of tobacco, Clifford (our mentor) didn't approve of leaving the cut plants in the field, saying that the leaves weren't as pretty when faded by sun and spattered by dirt. Also, it was easier that way -- a shortcut for a lazy man. And Clifford was not a lazy man. So we did it his way for a few years, cutting in the morning and barning in the afternoon.

Back-breaking work -- but then the system changed and instead of making the leaves into 'hands', another labor-intensive practice, farmers were encouraged to bale their leaves -- and pretty didn't matter so much.

We switched to the lazy-man's way at once.

Rain may be on the way, fueled by Hurricane Hanna, so the tobacco is ready to be hauled to the barn where it will hang to air-cure for several months before the leaves are pulled off, sorted into grades, and baled.

Barning is a rough job, even with the reduced weight of wilted plants. And the roughest is that of the one at the top, near the heat of the metal roof as well as the inevitable wasps' nests. But with a man (or woman) on each tier, one by one the sticks are handed up and the barn is packed full of the fragrant tobacco, top to bottom, front to back, each stick resting horizontally and supported by two tier poles.

There are lots of reasons I'm glad we no longer raise tobacco -- but I sure do like to see it mark the seasons in our still-rural county.