Smokey Mountain Breakdown

The Lord God Bird
It was with bittersweet excitement that I heard about the rediscovery of the ivory billed woodpecker in Arkansas last week. Bittersweet, because I spent most of my childhood searching for him and never found him. I'm glad someone did, but I really wanted to be the one to see him. I have since the first time my grandfather told me about him.

My childhood was peppered with tales of these great birds and the clouds of Carolina Parakeets that blackened the skies above the May River in Bluffton, SC in the early part of the century. I'm not sure how many six year old children were taught the sound of the Lord God Bird at their mother's knee, but I was certainly tutored on it.



It was every bit as exciting as looking for the ghost at Ft. Fredricka on Sea Island, GA. Every time I ventured into the deep woods, that woodpecker was part of my search. The bird was mythic in my universe. I grew up on tales of him and apocryphal stories of sightings. It was fun to claim you thought you saw one...even if you sort of knew that you'd seen the more common pileated woodpecker.

I never heard the distinctive BAM-bam. I never heard the strangely high, nasal and off-key warble of the bird...though my ears strained through every trip into the woods. My grandfather could describe these sounds perfectly....and my mother wasn't too bad at it either.

The ivory bill was called the Lord God Bird because one could be forgiven for taking the Lord's name in vain if he was seen in flight.

I was in town trying to get my tobacco allotment straightened out. The government will pay me to NOT grow tobacco. Actually I think they buy my poundage and sell it to somebody else. I'm not sure how that works. I also got the farm listed under the Tennessee Greenbelt program. It gives me a property tax break by appraising my acreage on its use value. Since the majority of my acreage is sheer vertical drop...that should be not much. Now that the state just leveed property taxes...again...I really need that program.

The weather was yet again, cold, windy and yucky this morning. I didn't go to First Monday since I mostly love taking pictures there and farmers look better in sunlight. I'll try again for the June one and hopefully there will be better weather.

Across from the county extension agent's office, I see this at the monument company.

Oh...please...tell me it's not a rice-burner.

I'm now a member of the Rocky Top Brigade.

This is only fitting since I'm probably the closest geographically to the factual Rocky Top...which is right up the road from me.

The Rocky Top Brigade is "enjoined in the battle for truth, justice, and a good single malt Scotch whiskey for around $20." Plus a whole lotta other stuff with which I totally agree.

It's nice to have company 'cause I've come under attack for eating possum. Turns out, possums have a rabid fan base. (pun totally intended) People always make the mistake of thinking that just because I'm a southerner, that I'm some sort of sloe-eyed, slack-jawed refugee from a Flannery O'Connor short story. Don't make that mistake. I'll hurt you with my terminal degree.

Here are the rules:

If you have the letters "URB" anywhere in the description of where you live and grew up...you can keep your opinions to yourself about my wildlife conservation and pest management practices. I have a right to protect my animals from harm and if wildlife encroaches onto my farm in a destructive manner, I will kill it. After I kill it...I might eat it.

If you don't like the way farmers and ag workers in general manage the land...despite the fact you haven't seen the business end of a cow in who knows how long; are completely divorced from the realities of your food chain; and aren't sure what kind of vegetable a pickle comes from....then stop eating. Get off your rear end and take an agritainment vacation and find out about where your food comes from and the agonizing, back-breaking work that is involved in making it.

Have some respect for farmers...some are highly educated with ag degrees and some have 8th grade educations. What they all do is nothing short of miraculous and country people have their priorities much more in order than most of the rest of us. I may not like the majority of their politics but that's another matter.

I'll probably think of more rules later...particularly if the invasion of the possum people continues.

For the record, I don't need no stinkin' possum lessons.

Day after tomorrow is the First Monday Market at the Morristown, TN Stockyards. I'm hoping it's going to be a fine day for a change so I can go do some shopping.

Morristown is 40 miles away from me and the closest place for serious shopping. They have a mall. Well...sort of a mall. It's not a mall by city standards but it's as much mall as we see without going to Knoxville. Morristown is mostly industrial, but has a charming downtown. It's also fairly big with Civil War Reinactors. Mostly I go there to visit Lowes, Office Max and the Tractor supply. I am now truly happy because they have a T.J. Maxx there.

First Monday is a traditional farmer's small livestock market. You would have seen these fairly regularly throughout history...they are a real throwback to an earlier time when the family farm was king. It's a chance to come down out of the hills, trade stories, sell chickens, take a break from the crushing manual labor, show off your canned and baked goods and make a little money on the side.

I go every chance I get...whether I have money to spend or not. I'll take my cage in the jeep just in case. I'm in the market for some Muscovie duck babies and some guineas.

Okay, I'm driving along and just get a pit in the bottom of my stomach when I see this.

I stop to investigate and am relieved that there isn't a body attached to these boots.

That would've plum messed up my day.

As it happens...somebody forgot to get their wading boots.

The weather here has been absolutely craptastic (thanks to jhaevin for adding that little nugget to my vocabulary). Sunday it was snowing. In Tennessee. In late April. We had a hard freeze, and boy howdy, was I glad I hadn't done one of my early planting sprees. All I had was potatoes in the ground and they are fine with a bit of cold.

Today I got the sweet potato slips...50 of them...in the ground and about 50 cabbage transplants. I'm hoping they do well. The first year here I planted sweet potatoes and they did nothing. The cabbages, I'm hoping to put some kraut up with. I really like kraut on hot dogs and corn beef sandwiches.

Anyway. The sky was mostly this all day today.

How Many Goats Fit in a Jeep?
This is truly madness.

Two does crammed into the cargo area of a Jeep Liberty Renegade. I line the entire thing with tarp but I'll be getting goat smell out of the vehicle for several days.

The two day old kids are crammed into a dog crate in the back seat.

Martha and Lizie (pronounced Lie-zee) were born and lived their entire lives here on Coggins Road off of the Fifteenth. They were twin sisters who stayed behind to take care of their parents and never married. They died a year apart of each other at the ages of 92 and 93.

Martha and Lizie kept a house full of cats. One year, their uncle sent them a shipment of citrus fruit which they turned into marmalade and gave out as gifts. It was the prettiest marmalade you ever saw...except when you held it up to the light, it was swimming in cat hair. Cat hair jelly.

Both were strikingly beautiful women in their youth. They would sit on the rocks of Big Creek with their long black hair hanging about them, as brown as Indian Maidens.

Both girls were known for their beautiful needlework and quilting.

I've felt a certain fondness for these two though I never met them. Perhaps it's because I'm an old maid, too.

"In youth my wings were strong and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains,
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision-
Genius is wisdom and youth."
.....Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology

Remember the possum I trapped last week?

Well, it wasn't for dinner that night, because, silly...it had to age in the bottom of my fridge for at least a week.

I emailed my brother about trapping the possum and he enthusiastically related to me the technique of "perishing" the possum to make it fit to eat. This is because adult possums are pretty nasty and very fat. Perishing involves starving the possum down for a week to decrease the fat content. I'm not sure I'd be up for doing that...even to something as nasty as a possum.

A neighbor down in the holler, told me that they just fed the possum corn until all the nasty things were out of its system.

Well, it was too late for me to do any of this since I'd already kilt the damn thing. Plus, he was a real young male and didn't have much possum fat to speak of.

He turned out quite tasty. I fixed him up pretty much like I do my coon surprise, except I used sherry instead of red wine and went a bit heavier on the garlic. It's basically possum braised in sherry with carrots and sweet potatoes, then served on a bed of baby spinach (should be poke, but poke isn't ready yet) and glazed with a ginger lemon sauce. Cornbread on the side.

This is my first varmint of the season. I don't think he's the real culprit. So far they've killed my last two Pekin ducks and all my chickens are in total lockdown. I'm afraid it's going to go after the geese next so I may camp out up there tonight with the .22 and a flashlight. Dangnabit Varmints!

I was in town the other day at the library and I saw this car parked at the Food City. For some reason, the above was my first thought. My second thought was to wonder if this particular vehicle had been souped up in some way to make it capable of successfully fleeing the wrath of God. I'm not sure which thought was more irreverent. This isn't unusual. Most of my close friends know of my gift for the irreverent. It can go over the line into the wildly inappropriate, but by that time I'm snickering incoherently. Hopefully I'm alone when this happens.

But I go back to these and think about them later. Perhaps it is some sense of existential guilt. As a Southerner, I excel in feeling guilty for things I find delightful.

I have to wonder what sort of amazing experience or spiritual awakening would suddenly possess one to take white latex house paint and paint, "Prepare to Flee the Wrath of God!" on both sides of their otherwise conservative navy blue sedan. You can tell it was a sudden sort of thing because they ran out of room at "the Wrath" and had to tag "of God" underneath it. I mean, if you really wanted to do it up right, you could have it professionally lettered. Or you could at least figure out that you were going to need more room.

No, this was done in a fit of passion. Quickly, and without much thought. I remember studying in my medieval art classes that the reason we didn't have any stone churches from the early Christian church, was that those churches were built of wood. The permanency of stone was not needed since the second coming was about to happen. There is something about that tangible expression of faith...painting your car with wall paint or building things not to last...that is hard for me to wrap my brain around.

I've been reading about the ties between religion and Appalachia. There seems to be a way of looking at God here that is foreign to me. A deep darkness...a dichotomy of love and hatred...all mixed together like a sweet ugly pudding. On one hand is the loveliness, the amazing generosity of spirit of the people I know here. They are smart and funny and have more heart than any group of people I have known. I know much of this comes from the deep faith of the mountains. On the other side is a sense of hopelessness so profound that it could only come from a dark chasm in the spirit.

This place is so amazingly beautiful that God is up in your face most of the time. But like most beautiful things, there is an unpleasant undercurrent lurking there. Like the mud. Like the rain. Like the kudzu. Like the pessimism. I am the queen of pessimism. My theory is that if you expect the worse, you might find yourself pleasantly surprised. These folks put me to shame.

They often speak of just "rolling over and dyin". It's not figurative like when my mother used say such things. Suicide is often the first thought when someone dies...it just seems to flash briefly over the community's consciousness..."Did he kill hisself?". Success just seems like an impossibility. Life is hard and just gets harder.

This sort of despair leads me to believe that this is more the root of fundamentalism in Appalachia. If the only thing to look forward to is the afterlife, then one tends to get excited about the second coming.

I remember an awkward family dinner when an inlaw's aunt suddenly....apropo of absolutely nothing...exclaimed over her green bean casserole, "I'm so excited about the second coming, I can hardly stand it!" We Episcopalians smiled politely and stiffened our spines slightly, wondering what could possibly be offered in reply. I think we wisely chose nothing since "Oh, tell us more!" had too many unpredictable results ranging from speaking in tongues to just plain longwindedness.

The Fundamentalism here is driven, like fundamentalism in most places by the want and misery of everyday life. I'm not cut out for this since I find the want and misery of everyday life to be highly entertaining...plus I actually died once and that puts a damper on feeling that awful about things. Good things do come out of it, like the amazing music of the mountains and people with good hearts and intentions. But I'm saddened that it robs the people who follow this path the ability to see God in the moment; in the commonplace. I'm saddened that it robs them of feeling empathy with people following the exact same path thousands of miles away in hot desert lands. For they are exactly the same people living in misery and wanting paradise.

My wish is that we could all just stop preparing to flee whatever wrath we have in our lives and face it head on...bravely and directly. Because you sure as hell can't outrun it.

I was over on Cabbage County Road today and stopped to visit my friend Aurthur, the muleskinner and his sweet mules.

This is BlackJack...both of Aurthur's mules are very young, gentle and sweet-tempered.

He offered to sell me his red one, Sadie Mae for 700 dollars. She's a sweetie, but if I get a mule, I'd like a bigger boned racking mule.

Just to check in...I've been on another writing project.

I woke up to a snowstorm this morning. Big white flakes whipping across the mountains, driven by 35 mph wind gusts. Needless to say, I spent the day indoors. The snow continued into the afternoon. The goats didn't even want to go out in it.

I love the look of my grandmother in this photo. She is fairly glowing. What's also interesting is that this would have been taken in one of the squares in Savannah,GA. This would have been when the squares were something more than the pretty decorative green spaces that they are now. You can see the packed dirt from a million games of "half rubber". There still would have been horses and wagons delivering milk and ice. There would have been markets with live chickens and flowers and hog's heads.

He's lucky he's not being eaten.

This has got to be the most annoying goat in the world. I wish I knew a petting zoo I could unload him on. Isn't he adorable? Don't you want to take him home with you?

Seriously, I've had to take quite a few deep breaths on more than one occasion and just walk away from the goat. Lest Goat Protective Services come a-knocking on my door.

Lucky is enjoyable up to a point. But the truth is...not even the other goats want to have anything to do with him. He's like the cute, overly friendly kid with a drooling problem in first grade that everyone picks on. You feel bad about picking on him, but feel as though he sort of sets himself up for it.

The fact that I was that kid make me feel even guiltier for being annoyed at Lucky.

I'm not sure exactly how much this story has to do with Sir Malory's classic tale. Basically it has to do with the death of someone named Arthur. I think it also has to do with the fact that I obviously live in Avalon.



When I first moved here, Arthur was someone I'd gotten a heads up about. He was a big man of indeterminate age. He was one of those people who reach a certain age and then seem to hang there like a photograph protected by a glass. You know its an old picture; you just aren't sure how old. I was surprised when I found out he was in his 70's. I was thinking more in the late 50's.

I'd been told that Arthur talked quite a bit and they weren't sure how he got anything done since he chatted so much. I'd also been told that Arthur claimed to hear voices. I've learned the hard way that hearing voices is never a good thing. I tend to steer clear of individuals who hear voices, claim special otherworldly knowledge or see "things". Particularly if they feel free to share these experiences with me, a total stranger.

He drove a white paneled van with a rack on top. It was the sort of vehicle that painters use. Like many of the older and unemployed men in the community, he could most often be found at the Big Creek Deli. He lived in a small camper on top of his mountain near Gaynell's house. He was, like me, a "move-in". We would never completely belong here by virtue of being born someplace else.

Gaynell didn't care for him. But then, Gaynell didn't get along with a number of folks on The Fifteenth. I think it was from Gaynell and Clinton that I first heard the giant bird story. Arthur swore up and down to anyone who would listen that he had seen a giant bird the size of a passenger plane fly over his property. Many people thought he told such tales to get people to leave him alone.

There were other stories. He would often recount a bizarre tale regarding his ex-wife's repeated attempts to poison him. His property had a family graveyard on it. Arthur evidently wouldn't let the relatives up there to take care of the graves. That didn't sit well with this community that regularly holds reunions for the express purpose of cleaning and decorating graveyards.

Still, he did seem to be a respected member of the community. He was a retired teacher, a profession that is held in high regard here. All in all, he was a well-liked paranoid schizophrenic. So Arthur lived on his mountain in a tiny camper with his dogs, chickens and guineas. He opted to build his barn before building his house. I thought it an odd choice, but then, maybe it made sense to Arthur.

It was there, this winter that death found him. Carbon monoxide from his portable heater flooded the camper. Arthur was found dead by a friend the next day. The first thought was that it was suicide. Arthur was fighting cancer and his health was not the best. I can’t imagine living in that tiny camper while being on chemo, but that was what he was doing. But no, it was just a senseless accident.

I think many of us that come here, like the Arthur of legend, come to these mountains in search of some form of healing. In my case, it was quite literally a physical healing. For most, the wounds are spiritual or emotional. There is a misplaced quote about philosophers, poets and madmen being attracted to high, wild places. I think, this, our Avalon, is like that. Perhaps that is why there are so many Arthurs and Rosies running around up here.

I hope Arthur had his wounds healed. I think he did. I think he was happy here. At least, I hope he was. They sprinkled his ashes over his property to mix with the ever-present mist.

Lord have mercy. Heaven help us. Hunter S. Thompson has done gone and shot hisself dead.

I awoke today amidst thunder in February to learn that Hunter S. Thompson had committed suicide. Rarely does the death of a public figure bring tears to my eyes. Roy Orbison's death resulted in a week of dimmed lights, covered mirrors and a mournful wailing to the tune of 'A Love So Beautiful'. I'm still trying to deal with the loss of Warren Zevon. This was a man who had followed me from 8-tracks to CDs. He was the rebellious bad boy boyfriend from high school that I never truly got over. The one that you secretly check up on well into middle age. I wept through each late show appearance and each playing of 'Keep Me in Your Heart'. It was like losing a lover who had looked into the darkest part of my soul and called it beautiful.

I'm sort of pissed at H.S.T. right now. We are in the middle of a political environmnent in the U.S. that rivals the darkest days of the McCarthy Era and Nixon administration. Surely this was worthy grist for the mill of Hunter S. Thompson's mind? The enormous absurdity, the monumental hubris and the willing suspension of disbelief of an entire nation must have moved him. Perhaps it just depressed him beyond the point of existence. I don't know. I just know that we desperately need Hunter S. Thompson and his ilk right now.

Perhaps he had learned of something that he couldn't deal with. Up here on the mountain, Jamie's granddaddy shot himself in the head last month. The pain from inoperable brain cancer finally was too much to bear. The unfortunate consequence of oxycontin abuse is that the people who actually need it, don't get it. Perhaps H.S. T. found out something along those lines.

All I know is that one of the great journalists of our time is gone by his own hand. He was truly an original and I can't think of anyone capable of filling his shoes. Let the rest of the world mourn its princesses...I'll reserve my tears of the like of Hunter S. Thompson.

We've had so little sun this winter and perhaps the only good thing has been the lack of snow. It feels like England, this winter. Oddly warm at times and always wet. The mist comes up from the holler like a solid thing that you can touch and taste.



I've been fighting a cold. Actually my second this winter. I didn't even make it to church today. I'm an Episcopalian and things would be much easier if I were Baptist and could go to one of the hundreds of little churches dotting the countryside. Instead I travel to Newport for church. I still haven't gotten an invitation to attend a snakehandler's service. I still want to go...not to handle snakes...just to watch. It's illegal so you have to know someone.

I'm working on the blog and writing a new skin for it. Once I get that settled I'll upload some more stories.

Greetings everyone.

I haven't been a-blogging in a while, but am picking it back up in a more traditional formatte. The original stories are still being edited and expanded in hopes of being published someday. Things just keep happening in my day to day existence that I know seem odd to the outside world. So, I'll try to keep a running tally of these, along with some of my musings. I need the discipline anyway.

Today I planned to burn a pile of slabs. Those are the outside bits of trees once the sawmill cuts the good bits into 2 x 4's and such. I need to burn this pile because every summer, since I've been here, I've nearly gotten bitten by copperheads while trying to gather eggs or just basically mind my own business around the property. I really want a snazzy big gun to strap on my thigh to blow the snakes away. This seems fun and sexy to me, though I think the reality will be sort of rednecky and awkward. Anyway...it's too windy to utilize my burn permit today.

Shadow killed one of the young roosters. Actually, I pulled him off of him before the roo died, but it was too late. The rooster's comb was cyanotic and I'm pretty sure he's had a heart attack. I slit his throat and hung him on the back porch. Looks like there will be real Coq-au-vin for Sunday lunch.