Smokey Mountain Breakdown

Okay, a few "unforseen" things have happened this past month, so I'm going to give myself a week or so before beginning the promised story cycle.

I've had some really interesting ideas floating around about stories but I need to center myself after the most recent nastiness. It's really hard to get in a positive headspace to write positive or poignant love stories while there is ugliness around you.

Anyway, I did write this very interesting story called 48 Years the other day. It was prompted by a chance encounter I had in Asheville. It's up on EditRed if you are on my reader list. It's unlike anything I've ever written and it is the sort of story I was thinking of concentrating on this month. I always love my stories right after I write them--well--almost always, but this one feels sort of special.

Bebe Goatlie is doing fine. He's beginning to toddle around and discover the world. It's driving Rose nuts because she really believes he should never be more than 5 inches away from her. I brought him in last night because it was so cold. Max loves to lick and nibble his tiny hoofies.

Again, thank you all for your support of Friend Scott. I'll try to get him to guest blog one day to let you all know how he is in his own words.

The paper made it sound like some sort of domestic dispute--pointing out prominently that Scott and the suspect were related and had words. Words in which the suspect threatened to burn his house to the ground. Never mind that everyone here is related to each other. Pointing out that they were related is rather like pointing out that they had a mouth and a nose. But make no doubt--this was a hate crime. Just as the attack when Scott was coshed over the head was a hate crime. Just as when his house was vandalized was a hate crime. And honestly, the shunning of him at church was a hate crime--just not one that was a federal crime.

And of course, Satan's whisperers are out in full force. Saying things like, "He deserved it," or "It's God's punishment for him being gay." That they don't feel the cloak of evil suffocating them as these words form in their brains speaks only to how lost their souls must be. Even I, with my crippled faith, can see that.

The thing is--this was a really beautiful spot. The Pink House in the Holler was set back off the road deep in a holler off of Granny's Branch. It's a tiny little holler--just big enough for one cabin. Friend Scott's great great grandmother was born there.

The place had its own monster called a Three Toe--sort of a Smoky Mountain chupacabra. Friend Scott used to get freaked out about it at night. He could hear it snuffling around and crying. It seemed to like and tolerate Scott most of the time. Perhaps it will wreak a dreadful vengeance on Scott's persecutors. Perhaps it will come to their houses and breath its foetid breath down their necks. Perhaps Scott was the only thing appeasing the Three Toe. Perhaps now with Scott gone, the Three Toe will finally be free to rampage across the community, gnashing its dreadful fangs and shredding with its razor claws.

But of course, there's no such thing as a Three Toe, is there? Right? Just tell yourself that over and over and maybe everything will be just fine.

Of course, I have a perfectly logical and reasonable explanation for the Three Toe. I thought it up as I walked around the ruins of Scott's house, wondering about the strange dinner plate sized tracks I saw there. They had three deep indentations such as would be made by curved knives.

This is what I think.

The Three Toe is the evil thoughts, words and actions of the people in this community made real. It is the hulking specter of their own intolerance and hatred. It screams like a banshee in the night and seeks its victims on the breath of gossipers. It stalks the dark places where people complacently allow evil to happen, unseen by those who avert coward's eyes.

You, my fair community, are the Three Toe.



I want to thank everyone who has come forward to help Friend Scott. As promised, here is a list of his sizes. If you have any hand me downs you could send in his larger than life size, just email me and I'll give you the address to send them to.

Friend Scott sizes:

Height: 6'9"

Shoes: 13 Wide
T-shirts - XL
Dress shirt: Neck- 18.5 Arm-37
Other Shirts - XLLong
Pants: 40-44-Waist 36-Inseam
Sports Jacket- 46XL or L

I was still asleep when she started hollering. But I'd left the balcony door open for just such a reason, so she woke me up. It's her first time freshening so she was pretty indignant about it.

So, Rose Goat ends up having this hugantic buck. He's basically Leonard with a white topnot. He did absolutely nothing to help--I did have to give a few tugs to get his enormous head out. Betsy stayed on the phone with me to talk me through it, since I sort of thought for a moment there that we would have a hard time of it.

But everything was okay. He's got all his parts. Rose has plenty of colostrum and he's been filling up. It was a nice morning for a kidding.

No Food Porn today.

I’ve been stuck here on goat watch and trying to catch up on some of my writer business stuff.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Friend Scott.

They burnt his house to the ground last night. He lost everything except the clothes on his back, his vehicles and a change of clothes. His cat got out with singed paws.

Scott is okay. He was at work. He’s in shock.

The cops have a fair idea who did it.

Anyway, I’m very upset for him. He didn’t have much to start with and now he has nothing.

If this sort of intolerance doesn’t lead to damnation, then I don’t know what does.

People are evil. My faith is shaken.

I haven’t been talking much about Rose Goat’s pregnancy. We are indeed expecting, but I’m not entirely sure it is going to be a happy event. She’s the only one who got bred out of the girls and is the one who least needed to be. She was the runt of last year’s kiddings. She’s still very small for a goat. Short and squat like her mother, Blinkin’, she may be okay—maybe not.

The only reason she is still here is because she disappeared when the goat rapture happened. Since no one else got bred, I sort of assumed Rose Goat wouldn’t be as well. As I've watched her udder fill out, I've continued to think maybe she wasn't bred.

Anyway, it’s getting near time. I’ve got her tied up to the porch. She made a nest in a weird place up on the hill and was “talking” to her babies. They make this funny little whickering noise at their stomachs. I also saw her have a contraction. Of course, her mother led us on like that for six weeks.

But I can feel them. I think there are two—probably an enormous buckling and a small doeling. I pushed against the right side of her belly and somebody pushed back. That’s such a weird feeling.

Anyway, she’s settled herself on the porch for now. Let’s hope she lives through it. That’s a big head or something I’m feeling in there.

I will say that her goat lady parts are enormously large and out of scale for a goat her size. So, maybe she won’t have a bad time of it.

I've been pondering the disappearance of culture.

As a child, my mother told me stories. She told me all the stories. On quiet days, near sunset, I remember going into her room. She would pull out her jewelry box and we would go through each piece. The jewels became anchors for me. Little shiny bits of the past. Each having its own tale to tell. Things are like that. Trees and rocks and land are like that. It's never been a stretch for me to see the souls of the inanimate.

I'm not sure how Mother knew that I had the memory to hold all of these things. I'm certain she did not suspect those stories would end with me, since I have no small ones to whisper the histories to. No small ones to sing the old songs to. I write to leave them here--but honestly, most of that knowledge will die with me. There was just so much of it, you see.

I see the same thing all around me here. But it's a willful death caused by the dearth of close listeners. I didn't realize I was special. I never thought myself so. But I must be, for I don't see many willing to hold the stories in their souls--to bear that responsibility. Jimmy is like me. I think that's why we get along so well. But we are unusual people.

It's not an evil thing--it just is. The lore written down by the Firefox project in the 1960s is for the most part, extinct knowledge. It is now the stuff of legend and no longer recognized and practiced. The generation following that generation kept much of that lore--but much of it is still strange to them. That generation is in their 70's and 80's now. Those of my generation hold even less of the knowledge and it is fuzzy. The youngsters are caught up in the modern world in a way that makes it difficult to imagine or incorporate the old stories. This is how culture dies. It fades away like a lost god weeping for worship.

This is sad, I think. I so admire Japanese culture for its ability to keep old and new together. I think we could use a bit of that reverence.

If you have little ones, consider spending some quiet time--away from the soccer practice, away from the sports and all the things that make this life so hectic--and curling up in a dim room with the relics of your past to tell the stories. Pass on the lore. Honor the ancestors.

I am a strict dog mother. Oh, yes I am----Oh, yes I am. Really.

Cocker spaniels are well aware of their cuteness. The genetically modified generations of long floppy ears and big sad puppy eyes that last way beyond puppyhood. Like spoiled beauty queens, they manipulate us, using their assets to get what they want.

They are masters at this.

Early on I started the “nothing for free” program. You want a cookie? Okay, do something. Sit. At the very least you could freaking sit.

I’m not sure when or at what point Max turned this around on me. But he has indeed done exactly that.

Now, Max demands a cookie for the simplest of actions. At bedtime, he needs bribing to go to bed. In the morning, he needs another bribe to leave his crate and another to walk outside. To come inside, even when he had scratched on the door to come in, he waits for a cookie before coming in the house. He even requires a cookie for that most desired of treats, a ride in the car to the mailbox.

How did this happen?

I’m not living with a cocker spaniel. I’m living with a corrupt South American bureaucrat.

It was late on Thursday when I drove down the Fifteenth toward Del Rio. I hadn’t made that drive in a while, but I was making sweet bean jam and I needed to get honey from my local beekeeper. I was enjoying a splurge of driving. Driving is a real treat for me now with gas prices being as high as they are. It’s better and more luxurious than going to the movies—something I almost never do anymore without feeling dreadfully guilty.

My beekeeper lives about eight miles down the one lane, gravel and tarmac road. This is the road where the Christy mission is located. When I first moved here, it was all gravel and you really needed a jeep on all but the finest of days. That road made me fall in love with this area.

I drove into the beekeepers yard, which is immaculate in ways my yard never is. It is a commentary somehow on the orderly life a beekeeper must surely lead. His hives stand in rows and the bees lazily swarm around the tops of them. It is late afternoon, around seven o’clock and that light—you know—that honey colored light is flooding my vision, making everything beautiful and fragrant.

The beekeeper and his wife are not there. For some reason, his wife is always taking a shower when I’ve arrived in the past. It doesn’t matter what time of day—her hair is always done up in a towel. But they aren’t here right now.

No matter. The card table is set out in the carport with quarts and pints of honey, a cash box, ledger and a calculator. They do that here, just as the doors are often unlocked to the houses. This is a place of contradictions. They are the most trusting people in the world, while being the most suspicious of outsiders.

I leave my name and my money and take three quarts of the thick raw amber liquid. It tastes of mountains and flowers I will never be able to climb to. Secret flowers only the bees know. It is my second favorite honey—my absolute favorite being tupelo. I leave a paper bag with some bars of soap I made with this same honey and the wax from these bees.

I stand on his carport and breath in the air, scented with honey and bees and flowers. In the distance, I hear the cries of coyotes and answering yips of foxes. They are frisky somewhere out in those woods, playing. I wonder what it must be like to enjoy the love of coyotes and foxes. I think of them out there in those secret places only the bees know, nipping each other’s ears in lust and showing their bellies. What a wild sort of joy that must be. The dreadful love of coyote and fox.

This is Pippa, Betsy's one-eyed doe kid. She was born without the left eye and also no tail. I would have probably named her something heinous like "Odinetta". Pippa is way mo better.

Us one-eyed goats gots to stick together.






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Note: Someone tried to leave a writing critique for a journal post on the blog. I didn't pass it. There are more than enough venues should one wish to critique my writing in a professional manner. I'm on EditRed and do my serious workshopping on Zoetrope. Those are the appropriate places to do this and I am very receptive to peer review. You may also send me a private email, though there isn't really a way to figure out exactly what I'm going to harvest from the blog. Sometimes I'm just nattering. If you see something you think needs developing--email me and tell me.

Critiquing on a blog, is rather like walking into someone's home, accepting their hospitality and saying, "Your fried chicken tastes like ass." Sort of marks you as a cad and a boor--which is why I saved you the embarrassment of having the comment posted. Because that's what good hostesses do.

Sorry if this comes off a bit snippy "Miss Manners", but for crying out loud people--it's not like I made any secret of the fact I had a stroke last week and lost half my sight. I think I'm entitled to a little fragility. Be nice to me, damnit.

Betsy and I went to Carver's for lunch. The orchards are blooming. Very pretty.

I've been following the Pope's visit to NYC with interest. It occurred to me that being German, he's no doubt a sausage eating fool. I hope some of the Tennessee Catholics have made sure his Holiness has been able to sample some of our excellent whole hog sausage. I'm partial to Swaggerty's, myself.

I've run out of miso and that is a fairly urgent need, but I'm not scheduled to make a run to the Asian market for another thirteen days. I guess I could make a trip in specially but that doesn't feel right with gas prices being as they are.

So. I must go into the passive-aggressive health food market. Hopefully they will carry it. My Korean market only stocks chu miso and I actually prefer the stronger aka miso. I was going to check at a new place in Asheville. But in the meantime, I must gird my loins and go to this market that is closer.

The people who run it are preachy and sort of scare me. Their bones poke through their sallow skin and their eyes are overly bright. I think they practice calorie restriction--you know, the people who eat like famine victims because it makes you live longer. I'm never really sure where to draw the line between that and anorexia. I think I scare them too. I think they think my steroid puffiness and fatness may be infectious.

When I lived in other places, I always found the health food stores to be very restful places. I liked how I felt when I left there. I liked the smell and the people who worked there--young women with wildly curly hair, india print dresses and hairy armpits. Clear faced, earnest boys in tie-dye and Birkenstocks. These places felt healthful--even though I knew 80 percent of what was there was snake oil. But some of the snake oil smelled pretty, so I didn't mind.

This place--this place is just not like that. I've been in houdou shops that felt more welcoming. Honestly, I've been a bit weird about the place after going in there and asking for something that would otherwise be standard health food store fair, but that they didn't "believe" in. I was treated to a lecture. Proselytizing.

You know, I used to regularly eat at the restaurant attached to the Hare Krishna Temple in Dallas. Amazing vegetarian food. Delicious. Best advertisement for giving up meat is good food. It's not something we do very well in the US--really good vegetarian food. Not once did a Krishna try to chat me up and convert me. And the food was so good that I took bunches of leaflets, bought their incense and a cookbook.

I think what bothers me about this place and why I avoid it so much is the over-weaning weight of obligation that hangs in the air there. It's not that the scary, skinny people are unfriendly or fail to smile--it's the sense that they find no joy in what they do. That what they believe and practice is as rigid and judgmental as some of the religious groups with similarly burning eyes and proselytizing speeches.

Sure, we all want to live longer--but let me live dancing, laughing and eating. If you can't infect me with the bliss you feel--if all you have to offer me is your reproach--then I'm not interested.

Big clots of snow came down in the rain that fell throughout the day. They called it Dogwood Winter. I suppose it might as well be Redbud Winter—since the redbuds are blooming too. I don’t think it was cold enough to freeze anything, but it was chilly.

I’m hoping to get a few good days—at least enough to dry sheep out. They stand out in the rain and snow looking stupid. It’s what sheep do best. Anyway, if I can get them dry, I need to shear them. It’s that time again.

I don’t have a picture of these for you but I did want to tell you about them. They are just too yummy. I may make a mess of them tonight and will try to take a photo for you.

We are huge on sweet potatoes here in the south, particularly where I’m from back in South Carolina. They do sweet potatoes here but almost always they are of the candied yam variety. Big chunks of sweet potato glazed with sugar. I really haven’t seen any of the many variations on sweet potato here that I grew up with.

I think I first had sweet potato fries at a health food restaurant in Atlanta. They had an amazing veggie burger there. A little know fact about me is that I spent half my life as a vegetarian. What else would you expect from a girl with a tail?

I’ve made them in a variety of ways over the years but I think the way I fixed them last night was perhaps the best. I have yet to invest in a fry-baby to do tempura and I think that will be my next experiment with them.

You first peel and cut up your sweet potato into fries. It’s sort of hard the way I do it with a knife. You may have a tool that does it better. Rinse them in cold water, then dredge them in self-rising flour and sesame seeds. Fry them in a pan with the bottom just covered in vegetable oil until they are golden brown then transfer them to a cookie sheet covered in paper towel. Stick in a low oven until they finish cooking. While still hot, shake a generous amount of Cajun seasoning on them.

These are really good! Give ‘em a try!

Which in sheep-eese means, I gots nothin'.

You can tell Mutton is the thinking sheep. See, sheep elect one member in a group to do all the thinking. It's a terrible fate, being a thinking sheep. It means everyone else has to follow you and do as you do. Blindly without question. Sheep are poorly suited to responsibility and it weighs heavily upon them. You can see that in his face. At least I can. He didn't ask to do all that thinking. It's just not fair.

The eye thing is still processing. I think I'm going to need to find a way to replace my trusty old Optiquest monitor. Got it for free through Freecycle. It's been great. Big, chunky and bright and best of all--free. Not so good for my new visually impaired state of being. It feels like it's burning holes through my bad eye. So, I guess I need to look for something that doesn't do that. My laptop isn't nearly as painful to look at.

Of course, if I put something up on Freecycle for that--I will look like all the idgits asking for wide screen TVs.

I miss so much staying here so much on the farm. On the way to the hospital with Betsy, I saw an elderly couple in a car. She didn't have her teeth in. It was quite a nice car.

They were feeding each other ice cream. It was the most adorable thing I've seen in--like--forever.

When I see something like that, my heart soars and I feel so warm inside. Even though I know I'll most likely not ever experience that, I just can't feel a lick of envy. I just think--that's adorable. What must it be like to be that much in love and that comfortable with one another that you can take your teeth out and feed each other ice cream in the front seat of your car?

On the way to Knoxville there is a huge billboard. It is red and in the middle of it it says in big letters something to the effect, "Hell Exists." And then, just underneath it, in tiny little fine print that my one eye could hardly make out, "And Heaven Does Too." I mention to Betsy how I can just ponder the dreadful irony of the placement and size of those letters for hours.

Betsy had triplets born--damn, was it Friday? Anyway, one was a perfect buck, one was a transgendered kid--neither one sex or the other and the third doe kid was born without a tail and with only one eye. I can't wait to meet the one-eyed tailless baby. She's my little omen.

Me? Well, Intrepids--I had a stroke in my eye. The sight will most likely not return. The lack of blood to the eye killed off all the little thingies that make me able to see properly. My optic nerve is really swollen. It's a bit scary since I was on maximum blood thinners when it happened.

So--I'm now one-eyed and was born with a tail. I think me and that little goat are gonna have lots to talk over. Both of us need "do-overs".

This was what I woke up to this morning. Took this off of my bedroom balcony. Pretty eh? Thought I'd treat you to a Sunday pix since I didn't get one in yesterday.

Been on the phone all day with doctors. Yeah. It's a big deal. Acute vision loss. It's worse today. So, Betsy is going to drive me into UT tomorrow so they can see me and figure out why I'm going blind in that eye. The good news and what makes me feel better is that the MRI was negative back in December. That was after an episode like this but not quite as bad. So, they don't think I have a clot back there.

I've been thinking a lot about what I would do if I lost my vision. I mean, if this happened in both my eyes I wouldn't be able to see at all. I wonder if I would be able to write. Writing is such a visual thing--and I've always been such a visual person. It's how I learn things. I don't only write to write stories, but there is something about the arrangement of words on a page that is beyond just the craft. It's a visual-design thing. There are nuances on the page of how certain punctuation looks. Like, emdashes look muscular and semicolons are much more feminine--it's about how they look as much as what they do. How will I function if I can't see that?

I didn't really understand what was happening until I looked at a printed page. The letters look like they've been typed with an overused typewriter ribbon (for those of you too young to know what this looks like--a laser printer that has run out of toner will do the same thing). How ironic is that? The writer loses the ability to see print.

I'm being really brave about this, but you know what? I'm really scared.

Day before yesterday, I awaken and one of my eyes isn't working properly. It still isn't. Anyway, I had an MRI about this issue and they didn't say anything on the last Dr. visit so I'm assuming it is just some sort of anomaly. But it is very inconvenient at the present time since I'm in edit and polish mode. I can't seem to focus on the screen. I'm trying to work as much on the laptop, which doesn't seem to strain my eyes too much.

Congrats out to Val, whose story, Liturgy for the Abandoned, won 2nd place in Tattoo Highway's "Stories worth 500 Words" contest.

Things have been greening up nicely and I've wanted to go out and take some photos but the rains just don't seem to be stopping. Not that I'm complaining--I just hope we don't have a week of 20 degree temps in April or May this spring. My neighbor's tree is full of pear blossoms and I'm dreaming of making my pear chips again this year.

Anyway, I was going to run around and visit blogs today but it looks like I need to save my eyes for other stuff. Just know I'm thinking of you.

Where I am from, the Lowcountry of South Carolina, benne seeds have a long tradition. They were brought over by the slaves from west Africa. The name “benne” is the Nigerian name for sesame seeds. But if you say “benne” in Charleston or Savannah, everyone will know what you are talking about.

They are a good luck food, and have various superstitions attached to them. I always heard to throw them over your left shoulder from the porch and your true love will hunt you down. They also say that once you start planting them, you must plant them every day until you die to keep the good luck you receive from them.

I think many people think them to be a sort of grain, but they actually grow on very attractive leafy plant. The seed pods are like those on touch-me-nots and you have to be careful gathering them. They are one of the oldest edible seeds known to man and have been used world wide since pre-history. The Chinese have been using them for 5000 years and were used by the Egyptians and Romans.

I usually buy large bags of them from the Oriental grocery store rather than fooling with those itty little spice bottles. If you toast them in a dry skillet, they are superb sprinkled on everything from soup and salads to meat and fish dishes. They can be used both sweet and savory. They are so amazingly versatile that I find it unusual that we Americans don’t do more with them.

Many of you are familiar with Tahini, which is basically benne butter. It’s the key ingredient for hummus along with chick peas.

The recipe I am passing on to you today is from the famous Charleston Receipts cookbook. If I were only allowed to have two Southern cookbooks, one of them would be Charleston Receipts. The other would be the River Road Recipes. Between those two books you have all the jewels of Southern food culture.

Okay, so I'm sort of being slack and just doing a post every other day. Honestly, though--I've got stuff I'm doing offline right now with the writing thing that's going to have me occupied for a bit. But hang on, because the spring story cycle will begin on Thursday, May 1st and will continue through the 31st. It will be another story a day event, and barring unforeseen catastrophe--that's what I'm planning. I haven't completely decided how I'm going to do this, but I'm thinking the majority will be flashes and drabbles with one or two serialized short stories.

Let me know what you think of this and if you have any "requests". You know...some story idea you don't feel comfortable writing but would like to see written in 1000 words or less. I'm also thinking about keeping one day a week for a guest blogger/writer to do a story. So, If you'd like to sign on to do some guest fiction--drop me an email. I think it would be sort of neat to have a bit of participation. So far, the theme I'm thinking about is "Love Stories about Nothin'". Absolutely no death elements allowed--unless there's some R & J or eternal lurve angle I'd like to explore. But a minimum of death elements.

Sheep came home yesterday. Chops, who basically lives to follow Mutton around and do as he's told, was very upset that he was required to figure out what to do. It took him 24 hours. All I can figure is that it must have been the sheep equivalent of losing your keys or your glasses for an entire day. He lowered his head at me, snorted and stomped his foot. Extremely petulant sheep.

Oh, and Popcorn Sutton was released from jail pending whatever they are going to do to him next. He's under house arrest.