Smokey Mountain Breakdown

"A good manner is the best letter of recommendation among strangers. Civility, refinement and gentleness are passports to hearts and homes, while awkwardness, coarseness and gruffness are met with locked doors and closed hearts".

Our Deportment. 1881

It is once more, time for me to do my Easter lesson on baby chicks and the hatching process. I do this each year so that kids can get to see a chick hatch out...at least on the internet. They don't do this in schools as they did when I was young, I'm told. And it's probably a good thing, since, as many times I saw a class try to hatch chicks...it seldom worked.

And that was an okay lesson. Things don't always go as planned in the messy, creative world of reproduction. Not only do good things happen. Very bad things happen too. We'll look at some of both.

I like to put my eggs in the incubator about 21 days before Easter. That's how long it takes for a chick to hatch. If you time it right, it's a really wonderful thing to come downstairs on Easter morning and hear them coming out of their shells. My dogs usually let me know as soon as there are signs of life coming from the hatching closet.

Chicks hatch at 99.5 degrees and need a steady source of humidity. You have to measure the temperature and the humidity several times a day for the entire 21 day period.

The Pip

Here is the "pip". Actually this pip is enlarged, the original pip is just a tiny chip in the egg.

Chicks, when they start to hatch, first break through the membrane to practice breathing. You know that pocket of air on the big side of the boiled egg? That's what that is for. Breathing practice.

After the chick breathes up that pocket of air, they break through the shell to let more air in. The chicks have a special little "tooth" on their beak they use to do this. The "egg tooth" falls off when the chick hatches. The little bump on the "chin" of the chick in the top photo is the "egg tooth".

If this looks painful, messy and hard...it probably is. Nonetheless, it's very important not to "help" the chicks when they are emerging from the shell. That is one of the bad things that can happen. If you help a chick out of its shell, then sometimes that chick never learns to walk.

This struggle is also important for internal organ development. Chicks who are assisted at hatching don't survive, or if they do, they tend to be weak and runty. Sometimes they die later. Sometimes, they have trouble laying eggs when they grow up.

Before the chick can hatch, they must first absorb the egg yolk up into their abdomen. This allows the chicks to survive for three days without any water or food. This is why you can order chicks from a hatchery and have them arrive in the mail. They have everything they need at birth to last them three days.

The yolk is one of the last things the chick absorbs into itself. Sometimes it has already broken through the shell and is still taking the yolk up. It sort of sucks the yellow egg yolk up through what we would consider our bellybutton. When we are born, we have a cord that runs from our mother to us and provides nourishment, the chick only has its egg yolk and it takes it with him when he hatches. One of the things that can go wrong is that the yolk will fail to absorb. These chicks don't live long.

Once they are out of their shells, they stay in the incubator for about an hour or more to dry off and fluff up. They make a lot of noise while they are doing this and will sometimes go up to an unhatched egg and "peep" really loudly at it as if encouraging the chick to hatch. The chicks will imprint on you if you are the first creature they see. But they don't do it very strongly. Baby chicks sometimes do better being raised by humans rather than the hen who hatched them. They forget any attachment they feel for you in about six weeks.

They do have to be kept very warm. We use lights to do this and sometimes we use red lights. Red light doesn't show blood and baby chicks can sometimes be very mean to each other. The red light keeps them from doing that.

Some of you may be thinking..."Gee...I thought baby chicks were yellow". Well, certain breeds do produce yellow chicks. Generally, white and lighter colored chickens produce yellow chicks. Buff Orpingtons...a big fat gorgeous golden chicken...produces beautiful rich gold colored chicks. A great place to look at how chicks look next to their adult counterparts is Murray McMurray Hatcheries. They have a wonderful catalog with really beautiful chicken pictures.

My breeds of chicks are darker because they grow up into darkly patterned chickens.

Enjoy your day!

As I poked my head from the covers and wiggled my legs to see exactly how solidly the cocker spaniel cocoon had enveloped me during the night, my eyes focused out the french doors to my balcony towards Sol Messer Mountain. The sky was floating with swirling eddies of snow.

It's a good day for some housekeeping.

Link Love

I've been a bit remiss in spreading the link love that has been so generously offered to me. Please allow me to correct this oversight with my humble apologies. Sometimes when I'm in the midst of a story cycle or getting some research off the ground, I can be most churlish.

Bonnie @ bkfrogma

Bonnie and I met during my Buzznet days, so she's one of my oldest blog friends. I started the blog here, getting the first round of story cycles off in 2003. These stories are pretty rough but tell of my first year here in the mountains and my experiences getting the farm off the ground. Mostly they are about the amazing people who embraced me here. I felt my writing was missing something so I took off to Buzznet for a few years to do some photoblogging and satire. Writing from photos helps me tune my descriptions and think more visually.

Bonnie is an urban gardener, sailor and kayaker extraordinaire paddling the Hudson from Manhattan. She works for a huge corporate media giant...sort of like I used to, but in publishing rather than cable news. She has gorgeous photos of places we'd all rather be.

She wrote a lovely post all about me and the Easter Story about Friend Scott. I'm very honored that she did this for me.

Pissed-Off Housewife.

What can I say about Housewife? She's the Jewish mother we probably all should have had so that we would have turned out better. She's opinionated, shamelessly judgemental (in somehow a good way...not sure how she does it), and the least L-Alien from L.A. that I know.

And I'm absolutely terrified of her and slavishly do everything she tells me.

See, I have this nightmare. I'm as sure as the sun rising tomorrow that I could lick Hershey's chocolate syrup off of any surface in Housewife's home(including the carpet) without ever having to think about the 3 second rule. Me...ehhh...not so good a housekeeper. The kitchen is more my thing. In my dream, someone knocks at the door. At this moment, there are baby goats in the house, the dogs have gotten into the trash strewing it from one end of the house to the next and I, myself, am in nasty old sweat pants, bra-less and eating cheap ravioli out of the can with my fingers. To my horror...it is Housewife and her trusty side-kick Mrs. D and they have come to perform one of those awful TV housekeeping interventions on me.

I'm telling you...I wake up shaking in my bed with a hankering for clorox.

If you don't read her...you probably should. There are just too many funny, sad, angry, heartbreaking things in her blog. And they are all mixed up in a truly endearing way.

Hilarious posting today called:

Everything I've Done is Public Record

What's not to love about stoned teenagers, the press corps and a dead iguana?

and she kindly mentions me in these:

Why I read blogs instead of magazines...
Rosie and Momma and the other Mrs. D.
If you think that people are born good....

****************************************
Snakes in Church Update

I'm almost done reading Jimmy Morrow's book, Handling Serpents: Pastor Jimmy Morrow's Narative History of His Appalachian Jesus' Name Tradition. All I can say is "Wow." For me, as a writer, every sentence is a story all of it's own. His editor, Ralph Hood, has done a superb job. I really want my own copy for my library and I can't wait to digest all of it, then ask Jimmy about some of his beliefs and the history. Actually, I'm really interested in talking with Pamela, his wife. There is a wonderful photo of her handling a really big rattler.

Here's an excerpt:

U.G. Prince and his son, Charles, brought serpents back into the service. Charles got anointed to handle the serpent. He went outside to the parking lot, opened the car door, and got the serpent box out. He opened it and reached inside, got the serpents out, and took them into the church. Members that had not handled serpents for twenty-two years took turns handling the serpents. U. G. told Charles to go to the car and get the "deadly thing" --it was Red Devil Lye. U. G. got the jar and drank it down in the name of Jesus Christ and several more people also drank the lye. (p.42)

Scott called this morning. He's spending Easter weekend with his family. I had been thinking about Scott in terms of our snakehandling expedition. I'm an Episcopalian and we are pretty much immune to the anointing thing they talk about here. At least I am. Scott...I'm not so sure of. I'm going to be majorly pissed if I end up carting he big snake-bit ass to the hospital.

I'm also still looking for one of these: ZOOM H4 Handy Digital Recorder Or something like it. Preferably used and donated but functioning. It seems a shame to go in there and not get some decent quality sound. If you know any sound techy types...I'm desperate for something to take into the field that will work with my computer.

For Friday Ark

When last we checked in with Mutton and Chops, they were enjoying being kept on the back porch while they adjusted to the new digs and were having a fairly nice assortment of foodstuffs and hose water being hand catered into them. Such is the life of a pampered sheep.

Unfortunately, these two boys are badasses. They immediately decided to ditch the ritzy resort accommodations and go native. Go drink some of that goat tequila with the worm in it.

"Hey Mutton, will you check out the udder on THAT doe!"

"Yeah, Chops! I say we go get us some 'strange'!"

So, I come down one morning, a few days after the boys arrived to find that those seemingly harmless curved horns are good for something. That something being busting through a nailed shut barricade I had on the open end of the porch.

So, they cunningly escaped and snuck off to the pasture. Exactly where I would have put them when I took them off the back porch.

Mutton is the friendlier of the two, but he's a bit of a con artist. He has a deceptively sweet face that belies a rather dominant nature. But it's good for getting snacks.

It didn't take long for them to insert themselves in the pecking order of the barnyard. They don't take any gaff from the goats. None, whatsoever. They do show a tiny bit of deference to the geese, who stand unchallenged as far as being the most aggressive animals in the barnyard. I mean, nobody likes being grabbed by their private parts and that is the geese's secret jutsu.

They have even tried that crap with me, but usually they miss and get my very large backside. I got beak shaped bruises to prove it that I will politely refrain from showing you.

Right now, nobody can tell where the sheep's private parts actually are. I'm betting once their armor fleece is removed that they will be skedaddling from the geese like little girly boys.

They are settling in nicely and seem completely unaware that they are not living an exciting life on the sheep lam. (bad unintentional pun alert)

I was five when this photo was taken and my sister was a very elegant 16. We are pictured with each of the grandparents we were named after. My favorite grandfather's name was Simon and my sister was named for him. "Mutt's" actual name was Rose Anne and I was named for her.

My sister had already made her first national commercial by this point. She was riding her horse, Ginger, bareback on the football field in Bluffton one day when the commercial producers saw her. They were filming a Gulf oil spot on Hilton Head that called for a horse running with an engine sort of floating beside it on the beach, as I recall. This is way before the days of CGI so it required some doing.

The beautiful trained movie horse they flew out for the spot refused to have anything to do with the engine. So the crew was stuck on Hilton Head...then still retaining some of its remote barrier island charm...with a horse that wouldn't run.

They saw my sister and hired her to ride the horse bareback on the beach and force him to do his damn job. It was the first job of her career as an actress.


She made a decent living at acting throughout the 70's, 80's and into the 90's. She lived in Los Angeles for most of that time, though she did a stint off-Broadway in NYC for a time and lived there. Some of her films, like Death Race 2000 and Swamp Girl have reached cult status as well as the Golden Girls episode that she did.

I'm not much of an authority on her acting career. Chris, who visits the SMB and seems to be like, her biggest fan, ever....is better suited to be an expert on her work. And V-Man, I met him because he blogged about her, and I've really enjoyed the hell out of knowing him.

She's just my beautiful, talented big sister. And I love her.

I hope she is having a fabulous day doing exactly what she wants to do. I'm going to get off the phone line soon and call her.

Here are a list of links about her. And if you want to leave her a birthday message, I'll make sure she gets it. (please do this...she loves getting messages like that...I know she does, even though she's sort of cool about it) She doesn't read the blog because she's not so good at the internet tubes.



SIMONE GRIFFETH~Velociworld
Yeah...Well...My Sister's a MOVIE STAR! ~ The SMB
African Violets and Major Appliances~ The SMB
Simone on the ImDb

I've been tagged by Karen.

What are five things that give you physical pleasure?

1. A massage...human physical touch being at a premium for hermit goat farmers.
2. Cake. Loves me some cake. Not bakery or box...scratch.
3. A British brewed oatmeal porter...not too cold.
4. A painless day.
5. A warm wind blowing through my hair before a thunderstorm.

What are five things that make you immediately angry?

1. Hypocrisy
2. Animal cruelty and neglect
3. A flogging rooster...I detest a flogging rooster, I do. I really do.
4. Medical and veterinary quackery
5. Lack of civility

What are five things that make you automatically happy?

1. The moment a goat kid draws breath and looks at you with adoring eyes.
2. The fellowship of dogs
3. Hooking a really big trout on my line and playing him out...then releasing him to catch again someday.
4. Hearing a great story that I can retell.
5. Old people...oh...and cheerleader movies.

What are five things that make you automatically sad?

1. A grieving or emotionally hurt person.
2. The loss of my beloved Aegis.
3. The distance between my best friends, my family and me.
4. Really sad movies about lost love.
5. Being out of coffee

I'm tagging Betsy, Erin, Anne(or the bored god of her choosing), Manerva and jbeeky.

An Easter Story ~ Part 1: Gethsemane

An Easter Story ~ Part 2: Faith of our Fathers

An Easter Story ~ Part 3: A Man Hath Friends

An Easter Story ~ Part 4: Cock Crows Thrice

An Easter Story ~ Part 5: The Empty Tomb(final)

He chose his sister, Alice, to tell first, in a letter. She was the logical choice and the sibling he was closest to.

He nervously awaited her reply, expecting silence at the best. And when her reply came, with its offer of love and prayer, he felt elated.

Dearest Scottie,

Of course, I am dismayed to hear this, but not entirely surprised. Please know that I will always love and support you. I will offer prayers for you and if God sees fit to change your heart, then let His Will be done. But if not, then know that I will always be your loving sister and that, too, is God's Will and the dearest wish of my heart.

Lovingly,

Alice

He carried her reply around with him in his wallet for weeks. Every now and again, when he felt despondent, he would take it out and read it, then press the letter close to his heart and weep.

One of his brother's wives found his letter laying on Alice's desk and began to tell the rest of the family. Scott heard of this and was dismayed. He had wanted to tell them each in his own way.

I agreed with him that he had been robbed of something that was rightfully his.

"It may not be such a bad thing, Scottie." I told him, "Remember, you have been coming to terms with this for thirty-something years. They, too, will need some time to come to terms with it. Maybe this is just God's way of working mysteriously."

I began to see subtle changes in Scott as he slowly and painfully confirmed to his closest friends what they had suspected, what had been rumored for so many years.

Their reactions were varied and some shunned him for a time, but as they became used to the idea, the ones that mattered the most embraced the new Scott. For Scottie had first let them know who he was before he revealed what he was. And very few people can resist Scottie's warmth and humor.

And I noticed that Scott began to make better decisions for himself. He seemed less self-destructive and spoke out of turn less often. I could see the man-child I had first met evolving into the man he should have become so many years ago. His health improved and his psoriasis cleared up. Excess pounds began to shed off his big frame as he began to see himself as a person with worth. The intense and consuming energy he had once put into concealing his nature from himself, his family and God was now being used to better himself and to deepen his relationship with the Deity.

He had once upbraided me for being angry at God and expressing that anger.

"Oh, Scottie," I said, "God and I do this all the damn time. He does something... I get mad and stomp off...He then shows me something amazing. I forgive Him...He forgives me. Then the whole damn thing starts all over again."

It was inconceivable to Scott that my relationship with God was most easily described as that of a grumpy old married couple. That I was unashamed to show God my anger and outrage. But in my mind, it seemed silly to hide anything from He who can draw out the Leviathan.

After all, if every parent abandoned every child who blurted out "I HATE you", we would have a world of orphans.

And while Scott seemed incapable of being angry at God for what was happening to him, I was feeling that anger in spades for both of us.

But God was about to show me something amazing.

The most difficult letter that Scottie wrote was to his father. He put off its writing for some time, for he feared losing his father's love more than anything. Again, he waited nervously for the post to arrive, expecting at best, silence.

But what came was a phone call. To Scott's surprise, his father's response was much like Alice's. George's strict and rigid military bearing had softened with age and all he could feel was compassion for his son.

But Scott was still not convinced. He had woven a tapestry of horrible fantasy around this revelation of his and it was so real to him that it could not be dispelled until he met his father face to face, man to man. On some level, his father, a smart and perceptive man, knew this.

The call came from his father a few weeks before Easter that he wanted Scott to come down for Sunday lunch. It would be the face-to-face meeting that Scott both dreaded and hoped for. He had been summoned.

He folded himself into my big leather chair and put that big head in those big hands. His fragility was tangible.

"I don't know what to do!" He whimpered.

"Just go and find out what he has to say." I said. "You owe him and yourself that. He has things that he needs to say and you do too."

His head shot up and and his eyes grew wide with panic. "What if he takes my truck away?"

"Oh, come on!" I said, attempting to inject some reason. "Your daddy doesn't want that nasty old truck. Really!"

As the weekend approached, Scott increasingly grew more fearful. In desperation, he called his father and tried to back out of the planned meeting. But George was not put off so easily.

"I'll meet you halfway." He said.

So, Scott drove off that Sunday to the Shoney's in Waynesville with a pit in his stomach. More than a few times, he wanted to turn back and run away as he had from so many other painful situations. But the new Scott drove onwards. It was a small sign of his increased sense of responsibility.

His father, George, and his sister, Alice, were waiting in a corner booth for him in the packed restaurant. The Sunday church crowd had well and truly arrived. Scott darted his eyes at Alice and noticed that she seemed a bit reticent. His father stood and gravely hugged his youngest son with a stern look on his face.

Scott felt a frisson of uneasiness and felt like fleeing the restaurant. But he sat and let the chirpy little waitress who called everyone "Hun" take his order.

They politely exchanged news about the folks from home until the food came. Scott kept looking at Alice, who seemed oddly fixated first on her salad plate and then on her tea glass. Once in a while, she would shake her head at nothing in particular. Scott's first bite of chicken-fried steak tasted like wood pulp and stuck in a lump in his throat as his sense of impending doom intensified.

"Scott," George said finally, "We need to talk about this letter you sent me. About this three- letter word you mentioned."

Scott pushed his peas around on his plate and made a mortar of them with his mashed potatoes. Alice shook her head sadly again while keeping her face averted.

"Yes, Dad." Scott said in a half whisper, not able to meet his stern father's direct gaze.

George peered at Scott for a moment with those piercing eyes of his. "Son, I sort of hoped you and Rose were going to get together."

Scott continued to avoid looking his father in the eye. "No, Dad. Rosie and I are just friends. Good friends, that's all."

Alice shook her head again and made a disturbing tsk-tsk sound.

"You always did have way too many female friends." His father said, still looking at him. "Guess I always sort of knew."

George suddenly stood up from the booth.

Scott's stomach lurched as he felt sure his father would turn his back on him now and forever, just as the parishioners in the church had.

But instead, George took his spoon and tapped it loudly against his water glass. All of those God-fearing faces turned to stare at the booth in the corner.

"Ladies and Gentleman, your attention, please!" Scott's father's voice, a voice that demanded attention from great men rang out into the restaurant, commanding silence and respect. Scott felt himself shrink a bit in his seat, convinced this was going to be worse than he thought.

"This is my gay son," George's voice proclaimed, "And he doesn't think I love him because he's gay. I'm here to tell you all, here and now, that I DO love my gay son and am proud of him!"

Scott sat in shock as tears began to well up in his eyes. Whatever he was expecting, it was not this. Alice finally raised her face to his and started laughing. She had known what was coming and was in on the gaff. She scooted over in the booth to hug him as tears coursed down his face.

The silence was deafening from the rest of the diners, until a few hands began to come together in applause. Slowly the applause grew and a few of them stood up. Not all, but a few. Maybe they were clapping for George, who had stood bravely and faced the foe of an ideology he had embraced all of his life, but finally rejected in the name of love. Maybe they applauded Alice, the good and kind sister whose comforting presence had enabled Scottie to hold on this long in the face of persecution and a troubled spirit. And just maybe, they applauded Scottie who had finally left his closet...his tomb...allowing all of that love and light to shine forth, dispelling the darkness.

And as Scott told me this story, I realized, that once again, God had showed me something amazing.

God and I were friends again and I was no longer angry.

An Easter Story ~ Part 1: Gethsemane

An Easter Story ~ Part 2: Faith of our Fathers

An Easter Story ~ Part 3: A Man Hath Friends

An Easter Story ~ Part 4: Cock Crows Thrice

An Easter Story ~ Part 5: The Empty Tomb(final)

He vacillated between fragility, elation and sadness during those days. I wondered at times if he was moving too fast. But once he had told me, he seemed to need to tell others.

His family and his faith continued to be the most torturous part of this process. He had built up inside of himself fears and nightmares that were the worst case scenarios and had convinced himself that they could not help but come to pass. And there was some evidence that could happen.

He came home from work one day, his arms stinging from nickle spray from the factory where he was working. He was feeling good that day. The anti-depressants were taking effect and he felt somehow light and free with bluegrass music blaring from the radio. As he pulled the white pickup truck into the driveway, he sensed suddenly that something was wrong. Someone had been there.

On the side of the pink house in the hollow, someone had spray painted "FAGGIT" in big ugly black letters.

He felt the violation wash over him in waves. He reached his large hand out and touched the atrocity. It came back wet and sticky like tar.

"Fucking oil base." He thought to himself. His fists clenched and he bit his teeth together hard. But he did not cry.

His landlord came up from the house down below to help him clean it up with turpentine and paint thinner.

"This too will pass, Scott," Jerry told him, "This too will pass. You can live here as long as you like. I'm okay with it."

He had met a local pastor with a gay brother who offered him counseling. Scott eagerly agreed and went to each session.

"You know, I have to try to talk you out of this." The pastor told him.

Scott nodded and said, "Let's give it a few months and see what happens."

They met each Thursday to pray and go over bible scriptures.

Every once in a while, Scott would run into the pastor and he would clap Scott on the shoulder and say, "So how's it going, Scottie?"

"Still gay, I reckon." Scott would say back.

But he really was trying. He was fully into the bargaining stage. At one point he asked God to give him a sign.

"Oh God," he prayed, "if the next message on my answering machine is a woman, I will truly know Your Will."

It didn't work out that way. But there was a spate of calls, sometimes a string of 20 messages a day, from a rather drunk and stoned woman he had never met who wanted to "hook up" with him. When he didn't call her back, she had her sister start calling him.

"Maybe that's my 'sign'." He said to me after replaying the crazy set of messages.

"Dunno, Scott." I said. "Sounds like a crack whore to me. My God doesn't usually speak through crack whores. Does yours?"

Then one Sunday he went to his pastor friend's church. He wore his best overalls, new and stiff, over a button down shirt. He polished his shoes. His hair was perfect and he carried his worn Bible and hymn book that he always kept close.

The church was already filling up when he sat on the left side in the fifth pew from the front near where the singers were and bowed his head in prayer. When he raised his head, he noticed that the entire congregation was moving to the other side of the church.

They all stood in unison and turned their backs on Scott. They would not let the service begin. His pastor friend looked on in dismay.

He approached Scott, sitting, shunned, all by himself on the left side of the church.

"Go on home, Scottie. Just go on home and I'll call you later."

Scott gathered his Bible and hymnal and stood. He ducked his head to hide the wetness that was gathering in the corners of his eyes. He left the church with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, not in prayer, but in pain.

As he drove home to the pink house in the hollow down the bumpy gravel road of The 15th, his stomach hurt. Tears blinded his sight and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

He was barely aware of pulling into the driveway of the pink house in the hollow and sat there with the engine running, the radio silent. The pink house greeted him with all of its shabby, nearly un-inhabitable silence. No smoke came out of the chimney and he knew the fire had gone out. He shut the engine off and stumbled into the house, shaking in sadness.

Only when he had curled his nearly seven feet into a ball on the worn couch did he allow the great whooping sobs to emerge. But he felt no enmity for the parishioners or the pastor who had abandoned him. They had only done what he, himself, had been taught to do to people like him. And he wondered to himself, and felt with great certainty, that his family would do exactly the same thing.

But I had met his family back before this all began. They were all lovely people and I felt warmed by the love I felt they all shared. They accepted me, a total stranger, as one of their own and included me in their Christmas celebrations. I could feel how much they loved their Scottie.

I couldn't...I wouldn't believe that they, too, would do this to him.

But Scottie was not as sure.

And I wasn't sure what would happen if his family denied him as his faith had.

The pieces would be too numerous to pick up from such a shattering.

Today was hugely productive and I'm so excited I can barely stand it!

Friend Scott comes by today and takes me out to dinner at the local Chinese. On the way he relates this amazing Friend Scott story so hillbilly gonzo in its proportions that it can only be compared to "Snakes and Taxes". So I've got an amazing, hilarious Friend Scott story to relate after this current Friend Scott story is done. All I can say is it involves a drunk and licentious 400 lb "cousin" in a mini skirt with no underwear, rosebushes, calf-tagging, iodine, a consensual gang-banging and the phrase "He's gay...let him do it!"

And I say, "Why do you hang out with these people?"

So, we go into the Chinese and who should be there but the legendary Pastor Jimmy Morrow, who Scott knows and is, of course, related to. I've been wanting to meet Jimmy ever since I moved here mainly because of my fascination with the Pentecostal Church Snakehandlers. So, I finally got my invite, not only to attend one of Jimmy's snakehandling services, but also to come by his house to view his extensive archives of snakehandling history, photos and lore! Jimmy knows more about the history and genealogy of this area than anyone. He's is a backwoods genius and has been featured on The Discovery Channel, The Travel Channel and Nat'l Geographic. I'm so honored to meet him and can hardly wait just to sit and soak up anything he wants to tell me.

So V-Man...I may not have been able to attend the amazing and drunken Feast of Snakes in Claxton with you, Eric, Joe, Zonker, Elisson, Rick, Georgia and Denny, but looks like I'm gonna have my own private Feast of Snakes. And we ain't gonna have no sissy press passes or safe bleachers or boxed in snake pits. I thumb my nose at you sir!

Snakes in a Church....coming soon to a blog near you.

And now, for another installment of the popular "Goats in Chairs" series. Same goat, different chair. We will resume the "Friend Scott" story cycle on Monday.

This is for The Friday Ark Carnival...a couple of days late...since...well...you all know what I'm doing on Fridays.

I went into town today for a few reasons.

I took my two big wethers to the sale barn. It's the most unpleasant part of what I have to do as a responsible goatkeeper. The truth is, I have to do this, because if I didn't, the rest of the herd would suffer. I can only keep so much stock on my property with my budget. There are many months, and this is one of them, when I do without for myself so my animals can eat.

Yesterday I watched my big Togg wether who I've had for so long...who I've kept for purely sentimental reasons...push poor skinny Freaky Didi away from the alfalfa. Freaky is going to be a lovely doe if I can just get some weight on her. She will produce beautiful purebred Nubian kids and give me milk with a 4 to 5 percent milkfat. Winky does nothing but eat and laze about in the pasture and lord his great size over the other goats. He's done this for five years here.

So, today I loaded up Winkin' and Bolly and took them to the sale barn. I did this because I don't want to be remotely associated with assholes like this cruel fuck.

Sheep Hoarder charged with animal cruelty

POSTED: 2:40 a.m. EDT, March 29, 2007

APEX, North Carolina (AP) -- A man who kept 77 sheep in his suburban home was charged Wednesday with 30 counts of misdemeanor animal cruelty.

David Watts, 47, was being held at the Wake County jail in lieu of $12,000 bail after a court appearance. A judge denied a request by Watts' lawyer to release him pending trial.

Watts surrendered the flock to animal control officers Monday after police found some sheep grazing on artificial flowers in the town cemetery in Apex, a suburb of Raleigh.

Thirty of the sheep were euthanized because of various health problems. In addition, sheep bones and carcasses were found in Watts' yard.

Veterinarian Kelli Ferris, who examined the flock, said some of the animals' hooves had never been trimmed, causing infections that led the sheep to walk on their knees.

Watts kept some of the younger sheep on the ground floor of his house and kept the others in pens in the yard, authorities said.

Watts denies abusing the animals. He told The News & Observer of Raleigh on Tuesday that he was overwhelmed by the number of lambs born this year.

Watts, who said he has raised sheep for a decade, called the animals "relaxing to be around."

"It's like in Florida, you can swim with the dolphins. If you can get sheep to follow you, it might be a similar experience."

A high school in western North Carolina adopted 13 lambs. The lambs will live on the school farm, where students will care for them. It was unclear where the rest of the sheep went.

I don't know where my boys went. It broke my heart to leave them there. But I know they lived a pampered healthy life while they were here with me. But I had to let them go for the good of the rest of the herd. Am I playing God? I guess I am. But isn't that what we do when we, as humans, raise an animal solely for our own pleasure, comfort or food? As the gods of these souls we have to make the hard decisions. If we don't, we become some unspeakable something else.

My other task in town was a much better one. I went into the Newport Animal Shelter to give Flash a groom and bath in preparation for his trip to Charlotte where I had coordinated placement for him with A.R.F. Flash is a cocker youngster who got returned from his first shelter placement for objecting to a toddler pulling his ears.

As I clippered back the mop of hair on his little head, I half gasped at the lovely shape of his head. It was so much like my Hi-Lite's. The cocker spaniel who really was my first rescue...the one who drew me into this crazy mess. I haven't had another buff since.

I so wanted to take Flash home with me, then and there. And when he bussed me on the nose to forgive me for trying to scissor his paws, my heart gave a lurch. There was much of Hi-Lite in this pup.

But I bundled him up after his bath and placed him in his nice clean cage. Tomorrow he travels to Charlotte and hopefully soon, a wonderful forever home.

Why? Because that's what I'm committed to doing. The hard part.

It is probably my favorite of the corn based Southern quickbreads. My mother did not make it often enough when I was a child for my taste, but when she did make it, it was a very special treat.

We all eat cornbread down here. Some like it sweet. Some like it crumbly and dry. But spoonbread is in a class all of its own. Basically, it's like a moist cornmeal souffle. Like a souffle, it needs to be served immediately out of the oven before it looses its loft. It's called "spoonbread" because of its soft texture, so different from cornbread.

I like it best drenched in butter with honey or homemade preserves. But it is an outstanding accompaniment to beef or poultry. It's the cornbread to use for a holiday meal or a meal too proud for plain simple cornbread. But it is also excellent if you just want something very comforting on a cold day.


My other grandmother credits her recipe to The Boone Tavern also connected with Berea College. My grandfather worked on the Southern Railroad, and it is possible that he actually collected the recipe. You see, Grandmother Rose was a dreadful cook. When they first married, the first bag lunch she sent off with him was a black-eyed pea sandwich. She was from a family of seven sisters from Lakeland, Florida. Judging by the archives of the family photos, these were girls who knew how to have a good time (she is shown in the photo on the left holding the dog). Even the photos of them from the teens in their white dresses ala "A Little Night Music", have the sisters lolling around on picnic blankets with wine and beaux. They eagerly welcomed the roaring 20's and each sneaked off to have their hair bobbed.

The reason always given for her kitchen disability was that each of the sisters was given a particular part of the household to oversee. Rose's was the housekeeping. And she certainly excelled at keeping house. But the kitchen duties were shared by Emmy Jo and , I believe, Pearl(the other two flappers in the photo). So my poor grandfather learned to fend for himself and the best family recipes from those two are actually his.

Berea College or Boone Tavern Spoonbread

1 1/4 cup corn meal (water ground)
3 cups milk
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter
1 and 1/2 tablespoons sugar
3 well beaten eggs
1 and 3/4 teaspoons baking powder

Stir cornmeal slowly into cold milk in a saucepan on medium heat. Stir constantly. Remove from heat the moment it begins to boil and add the remaining ingredients. Mix well and pour into a buttered casserole dish. Bake for 50 minutes at 400 degrees.* Serve immediately in the same dish.

*note: this does better in a modern oven at 350 for 30 minutes. The later version of this recipe makes this adjustment. Watch carefully and do not overcook.

An Easter Story ~ Part 1: Gethsemane

An Easter Story ~ Part 2: Faith of our Fathers

An Easter Story ~ Part 3: A Man Hath Friends

An Easter Story ~ Part 4: Cock Crows Thrice

An Easter Story ~ Part 5: The Empty Tomb(final)

But for a time, he was very happy living in the pink house in the hollow on the mountain.

He attended church each Sunday and Wednesday at the little church across from the cow pasture and reveled in the hellfire and brimstone services that he loved so well. His beautiful singing voice soared during the songs and his heart felt full in the presence of these people. His people.

Until there was an instance when he publicly drank some beer at a local gathering. It got back to the preacher of his church and he was publicly upbraided one Sunday in front of the congregation. He didn't feel comfortable going back to the little church across from the cow pasture after that. They had hurt his feelings.

He had been here a few years before I met him. And I had been here a few years more before we met.

I had heard of him. Someone would say, "You know Scott? He's that big goofy guy from South Carolina?"

"No, I haven't met him yet." I would say.

"Thought you might have, you'uns being from the around the same part of the country."

I never explained that the lowcountry and the upcountry of South Carolina were entirely different worlds.

I was pumping gas when he first introduced himself. I was fairly bedraggled that day and still wearing my barn clothes. An impossibly tall man with a shock of wavy brown hair came toward me. His face seemed fixed in a perpetually bashful expression. I remember thinking to myself that he looked close to my age, yet was really just a big kid.

"Hey! Are you the 'Goat Lady'?" He asked, ducking his head slightly.

I holstered the pump and screwed the gas cap back on my jeep.

"Some folks have called me such." I said and wiped my hands on my overalls, looking up at him.

He looked embarrassed for a moment.

"Miz Busbee told me all about you. I'm Scott."

"Oh, yes!" I said, "She has mentioned you to me. She has good things to say about you."

He blushed in the cold and ducked his head the funny way he has that is so incongruous on such a tall, big man.

He told me that he was on his way home from his Garden Club meeting and laughed about how he was the only man there. We exchanged some pleasantries about who we knew. I took note of his dialect that had none of the east Tennessee twang that I had finally deciphered.

"You sound like you are from my neck of the woods." I said.

"Well, I'm from upstate South Carolina, but most of my relatives are up here on the mountain."

I invited him to come by the farm for coffee and a visit. He asked me if I had any goat manure I could spare for his rose bushes.

"I've got plenty of that. All you have to do is shovel it up." I said. "You are most welcome to as much as you can carry."

I didn't see him again until the next winter. I'm not sure what he was doing in the meantime. Mrs. Busbee would mention him now and again. He would come clean her flowerbeds out for her. We always seemed to just be missing each other. He never came for the goat poop.

I was getting in my car after visiting the Newport Bargain Barn one cold winter day when I saw him again. His face looked different somehow. He was paler and his bashful face looked like a puppy who had just been kicked.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather and Mrs. Busbee.

Then he said, out of the blue, with a yearning look, "Do you ever feel lonely...well, alone...up there on the mountain?"

I searched his face as I searched my mind. I could tell he was looking for a certain answer.

"No, Scott. Not really. I sort of like my own company."

He looked embarrassed and a bit frantic, like a startled deer.

"Don't get me wrong," I qualified, "I love company. I just don't mind being by myself."

"I just get so depressed." He said, haunted.

I drove away with Scott laying heavily on my mind. A few days later I drove up to the pink house in the hollow to give him a bar of my pine tar soap for his psoriasis. It was a gesture of friendship that I was making, but I knew I should go slowly with him.

We soon became close buddies. I knew he was gay from the first time I met him. But it soon became evident to me that he hadn't made peace with that part of himself. I didn't say anything, and avoided any attempts on his part to discuss the topic. I knew that when he was ready to say the words that he would.

That time came after he tried to hang himself.

He sought help at that time for his depression and began that introspection that we all must face at one time or another...for some reason or another.

I was the first person he told.

He sat down in my big leather armchair and explained what he had been going through.

"Well, you see..." he said, blushing and stumbling over the words, "I think I'm gay."

I smiled gently at him. "I know, Scott."

He looked at me in a panic for a moment, his eyes large.

"Why? Do I look gay? Sound gay?" He said, mustering a bit of outrage.

"Gee, I don't know, Scott." I retorted in my smartass voice, "Maybe it was because when I first met you were on your way home from your Garden Club meeting? Oh no....maybe it is because of your vast knowledge of Absolutely Fabulous? Look or sound gay? Oh no...not you...Mr. Studly Rose Gardener!"

"Fuck you!" He said in mock indignation. "Fuck you very much!"

Almost all of my good friends say this to me at some point in time. That he felt comfortable saying it made me feel good.

We talked further about his feelings about the subject. He was still convinced that he was going to burn in hell. I assured him that he wasn't, though I knew it would take him a long time to figure this out for himself. He had a lifetime of mixed messages to sort out.

But mostly, he was concerned for his family. He was terrified that they would never want to see him. That they would not love him.

"I suspect, Scott," I told him, "that they probably have had their suspicions. But give them time. Tell them when and only when you are ready. This isn't a race."

He placed his big head in his big hands. And as I had so many times before, I wondered how such a big man could be so fragile.

An Easter Story ~ Part 1: Gethsemane

An Easter Story ~ Part 2: Faith of our Fathers

An Easter Story ~ Part 3: A Man Hath Friends

An Easter Story ~ Part 4: Cock Crows Thrice

An Easter Story ~ Part 5: The Empty Tomb(final)

It wasn't by any means the first time that he didn't know what direction he was going in.

He fled to the mountains first, to give his life to God.

His folks were from here. His mother was a gentle soul who took her youngest son with her on Garden Club meetings and bridge parties. She infused him with a love of flowers and culture. But she was born in these hard scrabble hills and never forgot the place or the faith she was raised in. The old time religion of the mountains still sang in Scottie's soul. She was his anchor, his rock, his north star. As long as she lived, he could grasp her hand and feel quiet.

His father was a tall, erect military man, a veteran of multiple campaigns, with sharp eyes and a willing heart. The sort of man with direction and purpose. A man of faith. The sort of man who you were glad to have guarding your back. He didn't miss a trick. He could be harsh, but he was also fair. If you were looking for a hero, you didn't need to look further than George Smith.

Don't even think of filling this man's shoes. It can't be done. They just don't make them like that anymore.

Scottie's values were the values of his faith. The values of his parents. In all the years growing up, following his family to different countries as his father was stationed at different military bases, they kept their faith. The faith of the mountains.

Like the mountains, the faith of the mountains has sides both light and dark. It has it's greatest beauty in the fiery oratory of the pastors, the transcendent harmony of the music, the giving and friendly nature of the people and the womb-like sense of community they inspire. It's more than just literally accepting the Bible. It's more than just being saved or witnessing. It involves following a strict morality code.

Very near the top of this morality code is "Thou shalt not be homosexual." It is enforced with an iron fist. Not only is the sinner shunned but the sinner's entire family can be shunned. There is no single other faceless group that the worshipers hate with such intense biblical rage. The persecution is not a new thing, they were merely picking up a baton from generations of misunderstanding of human nature.

But Scott had a face. He truly was one of them.

He loved his family more than tongue could tell. He wanted to be everything that his mother and father wanted him to be. He really tried. But he couldn't remember a time that he wasn't gay. That he didn't feel gay feelings. The conflict of believing so fiercely in his faith created a destructive worm of self-loathing that he couldn't escape. He worried constantly about burning in hell. He really believed that.

Scott's closet was a dangerous place where he was being slowly eaten alive.

He held it together until his mother died. As long as he had her there, he felt he had an anchor. He could hold everything together for her.

And when she died of cancer, the bottom of his world dropped out.

The rain that night fell like bullets down onto the glassy black of the freeway that other time he took off in his truck eight years ago. He drove blindly with tears streaming down his face. He turned off onto 40 from Asheville and headed towards Knoxville. Lightening crashed in the mountain passes lighting up the interior of the truck.

He had a vague plan to drive his truck off the interstate into the Pigeon River. Scott knew his bible. He knew the penalty was for what he was. It was unlikely that anyone would try to solve this problem for him. He was a mountain of a man and intimidating by his very size.

The route he was taking was toward Grassy Fork, where he had spent so many happy childhood summers with his mother and his large extended family of cousins. As he skidded around a particularly treacherous hairpin curve, light seemed to fill the cabin of the vehicle. Time seemed to stop. His ears were roaring.

He screeched to a halt in the middle of the strangely deserted freeway and stumbled out onto the middle of the road. Weeping he fell on his knees on the pavement.

"Why, God, why, why, why.....?" he wept.

Suddenly, his mind became quiet. He felt a voice speaking softly in his mind.

Go to the mountain, Scott. Go to the mountain. Give your life to Jesus.

He felt at peace suddenly. It was his epiphany. It was the story of his "saving".

Scott got back in his truck and headed toward the mountain. He knew just the one.

The rain had let up as he pulled into his aunt Tullie's driveway. He hadn't seen her since he was a little boy and had fallen into her outhouse. He banged on the door like a madman.

She peeked out cautiously through the screen door wearing a faded print house dress. Her jet black hair stood in sharp contrast to her weather worn face. Her eyes were wide and alarmed and she wondered if she needed the shotgun.

"Aunt Tullie!" Scott said in a rush, his face aglow, "It's me, Scottie...you know, little Scottie, from Pickens! Sarah's boy. I've come to give my life to Jesus!"

Tullie opened the door and embraced Scott. She squealed in excitement and happiness for him.

There was great celebration on the mountain that night. The night Scottie was saved.

And Scottie felt he'd finally come home.

And indeed he had. He moved there shortly after that so that he could feel the peace of the mountain all of the time.

But while Jesus had changed Scott in so many ways, he had left him the same in others. He was still the child that God had made.

You guys are great. I don't know who nominated me for this, but thank you so much.

Whoever did nominate me said:

An Easter Story ~ Part 1: Gethsemane

An Easter Story ~ Part 2: Faith of our Fathers

An Easter Story ~ Part 3: A Man Hath Friends

An Easter Story ~ Part 4: Cock Crows Thrice

An Easter Story ~ Part 5: The Empty Tomb(final)

In summer, the creek runs burbling and laughing past the pink house in the hollow. The profusion of roses climbing every trellis, every possible surface grips the pink house in a desperate embrace. The scent is intoxicating. The azalea bushes bloom and every sort of bulb and tuber capable of bursting forth life whisper to Friend Scott and tell him that they love him, for he has loved them so well in return.

It's how it is in the mountains. Life here bursts forth, screaming in birth agony. It hides the pink house and its humble condition. The pink house is a dilapidated old homeplace that is barely habitable and hidden in the recesses of the dark little hollow. But only in winter do you realize this. In winter, the pink house's dusky shingles look dirty and dull. The rose vines are bare and barbed waiting to ensnare. Waiting to prick. Leaf mold lies rotting in the forest and the bones of the mountains threaten. It's dark. It's cold. It's lonely.

He had stamped off the porch of the pink house that grim winter morning. The light was gray. It was the sort of day when you could imagine the weather would never change. That it would always be dark and muddy.

He took with him a rope and went into the woods behind the house and selected a tree. He hadn't actually given much thought to the selection of this particular tree. He had just sort of picked it at random. No doubt, the big stump that was next to it made it a more appropriate tree to choose. But he hadn't actually taken much time to examine the tree. To touch it or feel a kinship with it. A kinship he felt keenly with all things of a botanical nature. I doubt he even noted that it was a locust tree.

Cold tears fell on his hands making them colder as he sat on the stump and tied the rope into a noose. He made no sound as he did this. He made no sound as he put the noose around his neck. Then he stood on the stump and threw the other end over the branch of the old locust tree. He looped the rope twice over the branch to make sure it would hold and tied the knot.

He said a prayer. He asked God to forgive him, but he couldn't keep living this way. The pressure of being something that he was constantly told was an abomination was just too much. The pressure of hiding for so many years so that those he respected and loved would still love him. Too much in the dead, winter cold of the mountains. Where spring was unthinkable. Where summer was impossible.

Then he flew off the stump, like some giant bird, trusting his six foot nine frame to snap his neck.

But it didn't . The limb broke and he ended up in a heap in the decaying leaf mold. If he had been paying attention to the tree, he would have known immediately that the locust borers had gotten to it. That the tree was on it's last legs and that each branch was a hollow sham of itself. The seemingly solid bough had been eaten up on the inside. Much as he had been.

He lay there for a while in the cold, panting from the exertion. Panting from the release of adrenaline. His hands clenched in fists, gripping the rotted leaves. Crumbling them in his fists.

He thought to himself, senselessly, "This will be about right for mulch come spring."

Then he said, to God...or to no one in particular or perhaps to his father, "I can't even do this right."

That was the day the bough broke. That was the day he realized that things had to change. He had hit bottom and he wasn't going to dig anymore. There was no place left to go.

Like his choice of the tree, he had no idea where this was going to take him. But something inside him had snapped. Like a graft taken too close to the trunk, he had no idea if this would take and bear fruit, or wither...costing him all he held dear.

He shrugged out of his noose and got in his white pickup truck and drove forth into the cold gray dawn.

He didn't know where he was going.