Smokey Mountain Breakdown

You know the post where I showed you the pictures of the birdnest with the eggs? I checked in on them tonight and they were hatching! Looks like one straggler there has "pipped" his shell. And the others are all nekkid and ugly--looking all big eyes and skin. The skin is always a little obscene looking on baby songbirds who come out not quite done yet. Not like chickens who are all furry and downy and peeping. I really want some more chickens. I really do. I miss hatching them in the closet and hearing them start to complain before they even bust open the shells. So, as soon as the weather permits, I think I'm going to pull down the old goat shed and recycle the materials into a backyard coop--close to the house so I don't have to hike up the hill like before. Just enough room for maybe six hens and a roo. Of course, then I'll want to hatch them and before I know it I'll have a yard full of chickens again.

Each spring they build them. Little shelters of moss, grass, twigs, but also shreds of plastic Wal-Mart shopping bags, paper towels and cellophane. Sometimes they use the discarded wool I leave out. I find locks of hair from the past groomings of long dead dogs, much beloved. Cozy little wreckages. Twisted heaps of memories. Baskets of the forgotten and thrown away. All done up with a hole in the middle, ready to receive new life who will look at such things as the ultimate newness. Such a marvelous thing, bird nests.

These aren’t special birds, the house wrens. They are common little birds that some think of as pests. But I love having them nest on my back porch. They build these nests in every space they think might work. They lay cinnamon toast eggs in surreptitious clutches. I try to be careful not to disturb them. This year, her nest is in my tool cabinet. I was going to move that thing but now will have to wait until her babies are hatched and flying. Flown away to their own little lives.

I’ll try to give you updates on their progress. Cheep. Cheep.

Shall I write to you of food again on Fridays? Maybe. While I'm not avoiding the comfort foods of the past, I am working with some major portion control disciplines. So--I'm not eating out so much anymore unless I have someone I can say, "I'm not going to eat this--do you want it?" And the one person I do this with most often mostly eats very healthy food--so I'm not haunting the greasy spoons I used to haunt. There is this place in Oak Ridge the Goat Yoda told me about I've been wanting to check out though.

But I'm dropping pounds, so it's worth it. And I'm not exactly giving up things. I'm using Julia Child's philosophy of just enjoying small portions of the best available. With me and the steroids, it's more like tiny, minuscule portions to have success.

I've also been reading food writing. This, Bourdain, Zimmern and The Food Network seem to hold my attention when I can't actually eat as I would wish.

I picked up a copy of Isabel Allende's remarkable book of aphrodisiacidal (I think I just made that word up) recipes and memories, Aphrodite, A Memoir of the Senses, kept me rapt throughout my vacation just past. I've always loved Allende's writing--it's rich in sensual metaphor and ripe with tactile promises. So I wasn't surprised her food book zeroed in on the rope that binds together sex and food.

The thing about truly good food writing is that it's not so much about the food (well, it is but it isn't!) as it is about the connections between humanity, society and food. The breaking of bread, the communion of souls, the licking of mousse au chocolat from the tender spot behind a lover's knee. That's what makes for beautiful food writing--and Allende does this so well, diving into intimate anecdotes from her life. Including the tip to make sure that chocolate mousse is on you--so you don't have to absorb the calories!

It's not a new book, but I missed it when it came out in the late '90's. I think I picked it up at McKay's, Knoxville's big second hand bookstore, but I think now that I've read it, it's a "must have". And it does have recipes--excellent ones. They are all very simple, but elegant. All using very fresh ingredients, perfectly seasoned and clearly influenced by Allende's Chilean heritage. Nothing too heavy, but everything fraught with suggestion. Also very basic--so it's an excellent book for newlyweds who can't boil water, bachelors looking to impress the objects of their affections and 20-somethings lost in the kitchen. And so much fun to read.

I'm tackling M.F.K. Fisher's The Art of Eating next.

A recipe for today is something not in Allende's book, but something I recently rediscovered. It's a salad dressing, pasta sauce and spread. My sister served us Caesar salad while I was visiting her recently and I remembered how much I enjoyed this. It's very garlicky so everyone must eat it if kisses are to be had.

I've gotten a bit lazy with my writing, I think. I've been working on edits and collections, but no new material. I think it's time I remedy this, but I started a story yesterday and found myself struggling. It's a new feeling. I've never been one of those people who believed in "writer's block". Have always maintained it's just laziness and can be remedied by discipline. But I've never felt at a loss for tales before and now I'm wondering... So. My plan is to come back here. Here where it all started with an exercise in discipline using this blog. I'm going back to daily blogging to fight off this ennui. And I'm going to try to pick up reviewing again on Zoetrope. So there.

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Yesterday and the day before were the sort of glorious spring days in the mountains that make one glad one lives here. Visually, it's an orgy of brightness, color and contrast. Out in the deep woods, you can see the white blossoms of the serviceberry trees dotting the mountains. Rarely do you see them on the verges of the roads as they used to grow here. But if you mark the location of those white blossoms and return in mid to late summer, you'll find the dark, sweet fruit. If the birds don't get them first, that is.

The other tree that is so lovely to look right now are the Bradford pear trees. They've planted those fruitless pears as landscaping--managing to breed out the quality of the tree that makes them yellow-jacket traps later in the season. No fallen fruit to clean up. It seems counter-intuitive to me--to make a fruit tree that has no fruit. That is only good for it's visual appeal. But we do that with people all the time, don't we? Ignore the hidden, intrinsic values in favor for that which is pleasing to the eye. We are odd creatures.

But they haven't been able to rid those pears of their stench. In fact, I think these pretty pear trees are even stinkier than their fruited cousins. There's this dramatic stand of pear trees just on the other side of the dump past the bridge where they dump the stocker trout. Cor! What a pong! Absolutely stunning, but stinks of rotting meat. It would be too much to ask for them to smell of hyacinths or peonies.

At least the pears are partly honest. Not their fault for being barren. Peonies are the true liars. Lovely and sweet smelling, but harboring the troubled darkness of nightshades.

There is this ad playing ad nauseum on one of the local top 40 radio stations that's been setting my teeth on edge. Every time it starts, I switch over to NPR's Begathon. It's so incredibly east Tennessee.

A young woman's quite reasonable voice interrupts my listening pleasure of Lady GaGa with:

Be famous...for God!

WTF?

She goes on to explain that I might not be happy with the current role models coming out of Hollywood and that if I think I can do anything...any old thing at all along the lines of singing, dancing, modeling--maybe yodeling that I should show up for this enormous cattle call for a Christian talent agency. (Which is all fine and dandy except this so isn't how this is done.) So...

Be famous...for God!

She tells me Christian actors and models are taking Hollywood by storm! It's revolution! (Obviously the invasion hasn't begun, or they'd know by now exactly how many days of LA sunshine it took before their Christian soldiers were snorting coke off a 21 year-old blond's firm buttocks. I swear, there's something in the bean sprouts out there...)

God evidently wants me to be famous. I wonder if God has his own photographer that He will insist I use for a modest fee of around 800 dollars. Or if God runs His own acting/modeling school on the side He might insist I enroll in. I wonder what sort of signing fees God is charging these days? And what's His cut?

I think this is Porn & Donuts fodder for sure--right up there with the Christian sex toys trade.

...a real shitstorm is brewing.

I often wonder about the karma thing. It seems to make an awful lot of sense in my case. I've noticed that positive experiences are usually followed by horrid ones of equal or greater magnitude. Strangely though, the converse is not always true. You can have horrid events any old time and there doesn't seem to be a need for something happy or lovely to happen to balance them out. I desperately long for a mediocre, uneventful life.

I haven't updated in a long time, I know. I had the most fabulousest vacation down to the Lowcountry ever. I got to see my brother and sister, walk out on the dock, eat lots of local seafood, hang out at the Oyster factory and even drove up to Charleston to see the Angel Oak. It was so special and I felt restored, healed and so many other wonderful things. I probably have some stories to tell--the Bambipocolypse, for one.

But...I don't know...things just went south real fast when I got home. Bad things. Really bad things beyond post vacay blues. I can't really get into it all, but Fat Buddy is paralyzed in his hind end and he's hard to lug around, I'm sick, exhausted and so depressed I don't know what to do with myself. And of course the effing insomnia. You know, I need lots of rest after a major exertion and the vacation was certainly that. It just doesn't take much to send me over the tipping point. I can't sleep--when have you ever known me to update the blog at 7 a.m.? Now I've got the mother of all kidney infections. All I really want is to curl up by myself. I vant to be alone...

Have you ever noticed that when people know you want to be alone and you are pretty clear about it and it's a sort of dire need that it's like cats and the people who hate them? They understand you want to be left alone--but they seem irresistibly drawn to getting one last word in. Or one more tchotchky dusted. (Yes, dear, I'll be leaving this room as soon as I ...) But I've always been this way. It's the most canine thing about me. Like old Fat Buddy. He's totally acting like everything is OKAY. Except his hind legs don't work and he can't walk. (I'll steal snacks without any legs!) The more wounded a dog is, the more he wants to spend that time with himself. That's how I am.

And really, all that last word, whether it's comfort or condemnation , is going to do is prolong my suffering. I just need to curl up in my hidey-hole until I can work it out for myself. Don't worry. I'll come out eventually.

Either that or you'll find me here dead with some very obese cocker spaniels.

...is up on Dew on the Kudzu. You may read it HERE.

I hope you enjoyed it. I need to write more short story length work. Flash is so addictive, satisfying like dark chocolate, that it's hard to give up.

I have a cold. A bad one. I'm pitiful. I've been awfully sick many times in my life. The thing about being seriously ill is that you don't care about things. You lose interest in everything that is important to you. And because of that--you feel very numb, even in the midst of unbelievable pain and physical trauma. What's what's so sadistic about the common rhinovirus, is it makes you feel like you imagine you would feel if you were dying. Sort of an imaginary sense of dying--but trust me--dying doesn't feel nearly this bad. It's scarier, but not nearly as miserable. This, they should put me in a coma for.

...on Dew on the Kudzu.

"The Ghosts are Dancing" is a story I wrote some time ago loosely based on the flood of 1972 that struck the Hartford/Grassy Fork area. It's a long one, so Idgie has been running it through the month of February. Would of let you know sooner, but I forgot it was out there and scheduled to run.

It runs each Monday. Here are the links to the past three installments:

The Ghosts are Dancing: Part One

The Ghosts are Dancing: Part Two

The Ghosts are Dancing: Part Three

There should be another one tomorrow.

This flood weighs heavily in the minds of everyone who lives here and lived through it. Everyone has vivid memories of it and I collected many of the stories from local residents to get a feeling for what it must have been like. The flood wiped out every single bridge in the area. Livestock washed away ten miles from where it lived. They say it was a freak rainstorm that hit "The Gulf" and washed everything away down Big Creek.

The title comes from the Cherokee myth of their great flood story. It's one of the more haunting stories from their mythology--with one of the most evocative images. I chose to begin the tale with it:

This was what the old women told me when I was a girl. The dog came to the man and said, “Build a boat for a great deluge is coming.” So the man built the boat for his family to ride out the great storm. The water rose until it covered the tops of the mountains. When the waters receded, the man and his family built a fire in celebration. They heard in the night, drums beating in the distance. They went to look, happy others survived the great flood. But all they found was a great pile of human bones and they realized--the ghosts were dancing.

I have a story just up on the new issue of Up the Staircase. "Tandava" was inspired by the deceptively sweet looking canine (I say sweet looking, but you can clearly see he has mischief on the brain) above. Well...him and a host of relationships I've had that eventually, literally, went to the dogs.

Dogs in stories are like dogs in movies or dogs on stage or dogs just about anywhere. They steal focus. Everyone loves a dog story. You just can't help it---dogs make stories that make you smile, cry, laugh or react in a purely visceral manner. Cats are more thoughtful, subtle story devices. You know they are up to something, you just never figure out exactly what. Dogs, though--dogs are obvious, wysiwyg animals. Their pratfalls are almost always slapstick and foreshadowed.

But the coolest thing about dogs is that when one is your friend, you always have a willing conspirator. A being who will goad you on to do your worst--and unerringly say you are the very best, most brilliant, most sublime person on the face of the earth, whatever foolishness you have just committed. Whatever egg is drying on your face. Whatever lover has just walked out of your life. The dog will still be there. Wondering if you taste like chicken.

I wake up this morning to 50 mph winds and blowing snow. It's already snowed more this year than it ever has since I came here seven years ago. Of course, I'm in the tiny little tail of this storm that is wagging over the NC/TN border.

I have always loved the winters here. There's a certain Zen beauty to the bareness of the mountains. The stark gray-green forests--misty, linear outlines marching steadily toward a vanishing point. Who knows what's beyond that? Some dark glade where In the Hall of the Mountain King is playing softly and a troll gnaws on a human femur, no doubt.

Friend Scott used to get dreadfully depressed here during the winters. He would be full of dark stories and imagine "Three-Toe"--the monster purported to live in his dreary little holler--scraped at his bedroom window. The mountains always have a little bit of magic, whatever time of year--sometimes dark, sometimes whimsical, always dangerous.

But even I am not immune to the darkness this winter has wrought--I find myself trapped in my little cabin as the snow piles up outside thinking dark, Friend Scott thoughts. Okay, not exactly Friend Scott thoughts--he's always so over the top about everything and I'd need to be seriously depressed to get that dark. But I do wonder sometimes if there is an end to this cold. I can't envision the warmth of spring or the apple blossoms at Carvers. I feel like throwing a fit. I feel like raging at the sky. I feel like the end is nowhere in sight and serious magic must be brought to bear to end this frigid winter.

I don't know anyone who drives a Toyota but I can only imagine how awful it must be to be looking at your mild-mannered Japanese import turned serial killer in your garage--wondering when it's going to cut you up into tiny pieces and stuff you in its trunk. It must be very stressful to have one of these cars about now.

I go pick up my paper down the driveway today. I'd taken a drive because we were without power for most of the day (I know, big surprise). I was cold. It's Thursday's Newport Pie Hole--it's delivered late in the day and The Pie Hole isn't all that urgent a paper that it's important for me to read it hot off the press. It's a dish best served cold. And a little soggy. Of course, Newport would put it's own spin on the Toyota thing.

The headline reads:

Yes, that's right. A 2008 Camry LE ran amuck on the streets of Newport and of all the places it could have attacked, it chose the funeral home. Ran itself right into the lobby.

Of course, it could have been much more serious. There could have been a casket with a body the car hit, throwing the body up into the air so it landed in a crowd of horrified mourners. The immediate family might have screamed out the deceased's name and the funeral directors would be so shocked that their pleasant expressions might have slipped. Finally, the evil, possessed vehicle might have come to rest right in the middle of a "Jesus Calls" floral arrangement--it's spinning wheels spraying crushed mums and lilies all over the place. None of that happened, of course. But it could have.

The driver is okay so, yeah--I'm snickering a bit. It's just so Cocke County.

I've got a new story out on DecomP's new and improved site. It looks great and while I was expecting this story out in January, it's well worth the wait to be on such a handsomely designed page. I'm in good company with fellow Zoetropers Ethel Rohan, Bonnie ZoBell...and many others.

It's is one of my "ships in the night" stories. I keep revisiting that theme for some reason. There's probably some submerged psychological reason for that. I wrote the story for a dear, dear friend, who gets dearer by the day. I hope you enjoy Cold Dark Matter.

Haven't seen hide nor hair of the groundhog that lives in the big woodpile in my pasture, but the turkey "herd" saw Max this morning (and he saw them) resulting in great flapping of wings, gobbling and outraged turkey flight. It will be six more weeks of miserable cold, drizzle and slush. Or not. I hope my firewood holds out.

The turkeys group in small groups, I've noticed, during the early fall--then they seem to gather in one huge turkey conflagration (I made that up--but it sounds like it might be right. A conflagration of turkeys). Even the white turkey I saw earlier in the season is with them. So, about forty of them were in the "bowl"--the steep hollow in front of my house.

Max jumped into the midst of them like a kid into a pile of leaves and damn, those suckers can fly! Not at all like my guineas, geese or chickens used to. I'm still left with the question as to why they are so hard to hunt when they are so careless in the road or field when I see them. I could have easily murdered one of them, even with the sights of my .22 being all messed up.

I've not been keeping up lately with the blog. So sorry. I'll try harder.

Basically coming on today to tell you I'm most likely going to be disappearing from the Internet for a few days. We are expecting somewhere in the realm of 16 inches of snow here in the next 24 hours. I take it a foregone conclusion that Newport Utilities will be unable to keep the power on.

But I'm ready this time. Took an overly long hot shower. Filled the tubs with water and filled extra jugs for dog and drinking water. Pulled down the hurricane lanterns--forgot to restock candles so the lanterns will have to do. Shame, since candles give much better light for reading--the only thing to do here when power goes out. Though I do have a lot of yarn I'm spinning and will be able to do that in the dim light--and knit on my knit only projects. Light gets too dim for counting rows. I cleaned the house, since it gets impossibly dirty when the power goes out for days. Have ramen noodles, camp coffee pot and foil and potatoes to cook on the stove. A rick of wood on the porch stacked. Did the laundry so I have clean wool socks, long underwear and sweaters. Clean wool socks make me happy.

So. Here I am awaiting the inevitable blackout. It gets so cold in the house and I think I'm supposed to be stying off my feet. But I'll be schlepping firewood instead. Left leg has gone all hinky and I'm thinking clot. I'll get it looked to when the roads clear and I take the meds they'd give me in the hospital anyway so there's not much else that can be done. I don't mind the cold and snow--it's just the unreliable utilities that depress me.

I'm hoping they'll be able to keep the power on through the night, but it is Friday--aka Drunk Hillbilly Night. Every Friday people get together here to drink rottgut at people's houses--at least that was what Scott used to do. It's not actually a social event--it's just to get drunk. So that combined with the weather is going to take out a few utility poles.

But the frogs woke up twice this past week! So spring can't be that far away, can it?

Should we bleed orange while others are actually bleeding?

I'm not the biggest football fan. It's just not something I care about. In fact, when I first moved to Tennessee, I thought it damn odd they named their football team for a small rodent. I just think sports are a fun, healthful activity but a very silly thing to get worked up about. Yet, people have been violent about it throughout history.

Now, I'm not beating up on Vols fans for being upset about the Coach Kiffin thing. But you've heard me go off before on the local news--Newport Pie Hole, included. So, really, my beef is with them. They are responsible for Tennesseans, once again being nailed as insensitive, uncaring, xenophobic rubes. After all, it's not like the viewers actually have any say over the K-town affiliates breaking into the national newsfeed for everything from homey cooking shows to high school sporting results. Knoxville, like that selfish blind date from hell, just seems to think what it has to say is so much more important than what the rest of the world has to say.

I turn on the television to check the news about Haiti. Haiti is a big deal--200,000 people thought dead. It's the sort of huge news story we all need to be concerned about. It's the sort of news story that needs to be reported whether or not the viewers can bear to look without hiding their eyes. A story for responsible journalists, but evidently not for the Knoxville affiliates.

No, across the board, "breaking" news had interrupted all programming to report on Coach Kiffen's defection to USC. How it was going to impact Vols football. How enraged the students were. Blah, blah, blah.

Meanwhile, people are smothering under rubble in Haiti.

WTF? Knoxville? Grow a damn conscience, some balls and oh--how about a heart while you are at it. News flash. You ain't all that important in the scheme of things. In a week, no one will care about Kiffen--but people will still be agonizing over this earthquake. What the hell were you thinking?

There are things everyone needs to listen to whether or not it's the popular thing. It's your job to know the difference. Do your fucking job, already.

For crying fucking out loud--how much longer am I expected to live in this godforsaken frozen hellscape?! Tell me. I need to know.

I think it's official. It is never going to get warm again in the American South. Not now, not ever. I think it's time we pull on our muttluks and start the mass exodus the hell out of here before the glacier covering my jeep envelopes my house.

I've not even gotten down the driveway to check the mail since I last posted. It was 10 degrees this morning. The sun is out this morning--perhaps the third time I've seen it in two weeks.

Anyway. I'm cold, broke, itchy and irritable. Thought I'd share. Muah.

I drove into town today to pick up some drugs at the pharmacy. Have been sticking pretty close to home with the cold. It's bitter--not summery or fall bitter like the pucker of a green persimmon, but winter bitter like dryness of hearth ashes long dead. There's been pitiful snow squeezed from clouds too frozen to shiver.

On the drive down, the creek is iced over and in another few days it will be solid ice. I'm attracted to those white stretches broken by violent black water. It's the contrast of it I love. Hard with liquid, dark with light, stillness with motion. The temperature sign at the bank said 19 degrees at three in the afternoon.

I didn't stay in town long--guess I wanted to get back to my warm little nest and there wasn't much to do in town at any rate. The library was packed--cold weather brings bookworms out of the ground. I've been trying to slog through The Story of Edward Sawtelle by David Wroblewski but I think it's about time I admit defeat and declare it unreadable--at least by me. It's been the book I've been keeping on my bedside table to read at night and in the morning, but for some reason my eyes just glaze over when I pick it up. Blah, blah, blah, Almondine. Blah, blah, blah. So I checked out Dan Simmons' Drood. What's not to like about Dickens and his weird personal life? It's a nice chunk of book--hopefully I'll have better luck with it.

The trip back made my day. Sorry I didn't bring my camera with me because Mt. Cammerer was covered in snow and just stunning. If I'd had my camera, I might have chanced a drive up on The Parkway to get a good pan of the mountains. It was most likely closed--the rangers shut it down at the first snowflake. But I wish you could have been there to see it--it was lovely.

Not sure I'm doing much tomorrow. Was told an old Appalachian saying is that what you do on New Years Day, you will be doing all year. So...guess I'll have a good workout and schlep some firewood onto the porch. Be as active as I can be. Think I'm going to do butterbeans and rice instead of hop'n'john. Mostly because I have some. Butterbeans, that is.

Other than that, just catch up on some craft projects and watch the parade. Hope everyone enjoys their day.

I love being in Night Train. This is my second appearance there--and also a roundabout "bug" story. What is it about me, fiction and insects? I think it's how I see bugs as being such an alien, completely different sort of life form from ourselves and I can't help but draw comparisons. See the life we share--our shared creaturehood.

"Roadside Attractions" is sort of a fanciful blast back to some childhood memories for me--in an odd, entirely fictional sort of way. We used to take 17 down to St. Simon's Island where we vacationed at my grandparents home on East Beach. On the way down were various roadside attractions--you could find these all along the way down the coast to Florida. Crazy places with alligators, monkeys and parrots with weird photo opportunities. Most of them were falling into decline by the seventies and the signs advertising them decayed and faded. I think they were where old carnies went to die. We didn't stop . My family also seemed obsessed for much of my childhood with finding the perfect fried seafood platter. There was a place in Midway or Darien, GA we always stopped for lunch on the ride to St. Simons. But we would drive quite out of our way to look for fried seafood.

And then there is this memory I have of my great aunt Emmy-Jo--one of those childhood memories that is like a foggy dream seen from the corner of my eye. You aren't quite sure if it happened or not. But it is of her wearing a living tenebrionid beetle as a brooch. It was decorated with paste jewels--macabre, beautiful and gothic.

So--that's where this story comes from. Mishes of mashes of memories. And look! Here I am at one of those roadside attractions! I'm the Diver of the Day!

Friend Scott!!!
Perhaps the best Christmas present was having Friend Scott show up on my doorstep for the whole weekend yesterday. Today we drove around to different friends houses (he's much more social than I am and welcome everywhere for his funny jokes and impressions of local folks). We ate two Christmas dinners--both delicious and way off my diet. And look at that itty baby! Scott's head is bigger than her entire little body! So sweet--I got to hold her too!

He's gonna kill me for using this photo--but I love how his eyes light up--it's so Scott. We've been having a great time during our pajama party. He's already redecorating the house. We've been sitting up late and gossiping, telling stories, laughing. Such fun. I so miss him!

Today I was telling him something a little "blue" and he claps his hands over his ears and says, "Stop! It's Jesus' birthday!" Then he told me something even raunchier.

I think we're going to see a movie tomorrow after he visits with a friend in town.

Anyway, I've got him all the way until Monday and I knew you'd all love to see a picture of him. He wishes everyone a happy Christmas and a merry new year. As do I.

And since it's Christmas...here's some of the dreadful snow I ran into Friday on my way home. This is just turning into my road--little did I know there was a pine tree fallen across my drive just around the bend. My neighbor cut me a path. Then later that night, the ancient beech fell. Got a cord of firewood off that bad boy when it was cleared. But today was sunny and warmish.