Madness in March

It is madness in March*–especially in the mountains of Western North Carolina–to dream that a couple of warm days mean spring is nearly here. A couple of warm days is just that: a couple of warm days. We’ve had them this week–beautiful, blue-sky days with temperatures in the 70’s…but you just can’t trust ‘em. The Bradford pear trees up and down Biltmore Avenue might have been fooled into blooming, but those trees are always foolish like that.

February 2009 was mostly gray and cold and miserable, and if there is global warming, WNC hasn’t gotten the message yet. As the old-timers say, “I grew up so far back in a hollow that we had to pipe in sunshine–and we only got it about three hours a day!”

Speaking of old-timers, here’s a legend for you: the Bride & Groom of Pisgah. (That’s Mt. Pisgah**, if you’re not from around here, but mostly it’s just Pisgah.)

Anyway, legend has it that a young couple fell in love, but their parents (or maybe just the girl’s father) didn’t want them to marry. They were so much in love, however, that they decided to run away and get married, even without parental blessings. The couple planned everything in secret, and one cold, snowy night, the young man came to the girl’s house and they stole away under cover of darkness. Her father found out and chased after them. The couple ran up on Pisgah to get away from him, but the father was close behind, threatening to kill the young man. Unfortunately, it was so cold and dark and icy that the young couple missed the path and fell off the mountain (or maybe they froze to death; depends on who’s telling the story). The girl’s father found them, and knew he’d caused the tragedy. Forever after, so the legend goes, whenever it’s cold and snowy, you can see the “bride and groom” in their wedding finery on the side of Pisgah.

"Bride & Groom" of Mt. Pisgah

From a distance, it really does look like a man (left) standing beside a woman (right) in a veil and a long dress. Yes, it’s obviously a rock formation that ices over and stands out white in the winter…but isn’t the legend of the “Bride & Groom of Pisgah” a much nicer way of describing it?

(I’m actually guilty of thinking the formation looks a little bit like a matador waving his cape [the groom's head could be that odd little hat-thing bullfighters wear, and the bride could be the cape], but I prefer the original. It’s not my story, exactly, but I’m sticking to it!)

*If you stumbled across this post looking for “March Madness,” you’re barking up the wrong blog!

**The original Mt. Pisgah is in the present-day country of Jordan. In the Old Testament, God spoke to Moses and said, “Get thee up into the top of Pisgah, and lift up thine eyes westward, and northward, and southward, and eastward, and behold [it] with thine eyes: for thou shalt not go over this Jordan.” (Deuteronomy 3:27).

 

Here’s Your ‘Cue…

Asheville may not have the reputation of towns like Memphis and Austin, but we still have some mighty good options when it comes to barbecue (or ‘cue, as some enthusiasts prefer to call it).

My latest find is Okie Dokie Smokehouse on Highway 70 at Exit 59. It’s the quintessential ”little red barbecue building,” which immediately puts you in mind of the roadside barbecue stands that dot the byways of America. You can smell the smoke from the parking lot, which was still slap full this past Saturday at 2 pm.

Inside, you can seat yourself at the various tables or booths or the L-shaped counter and wait for a server to bring your menu and take your order. I’ve had takeout from ODS several times, but this was my first eat-in experience. My friend and I started with sweet tea and and an order of fried pickles while we waited for a pulled pork plate with black-eyed peas and new potatoes (mine) and a roast turkey plate with cheese grits and collards (my friend). If you’ve kept up with my blog, you know how I feel about fried pickles, and these did not disappoint!

An order of fried pickles at Okie Dokie Smokehouse

Our plates arrived soon after, and we dug in to really excellent pork, turkey, and sides. A lot of places can smoke or roast meat, but sometimes the proof of a superior barbecue experience is actually in the sides–and these were mighty good! In fact, these sides were *better* than most of the other ‘cue joints in town*. Made me wish I had enough room to try the mac-and-cheese and slaw and beans…and top it off with chocolate banana pudding. Never fear, though–I’ll be back for more of what the staff T-shirts proudly proclaim as ”Swannanoa Swine Dining!”

Pulled pork w/black-eyed peas and new potatoes

roast turkey w/cheese grits and collards

*The most written-about barbecue restaurant in town (which shall remain nameless, since my point is not to run them down) has not won me over with their sides. It always seems like they’re trying too hard, like adding nutmeg to collards to give them a “new” kind of flavor.

 

Back In The Proverbial Saddle…

Goodness! What a long time since I last posted an entry! Chalk it up to work load (work-related writing that makes it less than thrilling to write in my free time), increased workload with my masters class, turning 40 (I was weepy throughout October at the thought of embarking on my fourth decade in January), an overload of political maundering (made me avoid the internet in November), the holidays, the economy, and a wretched rhinovirus that made me felt as if I’d been stomped by a rhino.

All that now being past, I’m ready-ish to pick up the reins again and launch myself into a second year of blogging. Time flies, whether or not you’re having fun, so I hope each of you, Dear Readers, will fall back into your occasional habit of checking in with my blog. With any luck–and perhaps with some better work/life balance–I’ll have something to say…

 

The Maine Thing (wrapped up)

View of Casco Bay from Portland

Wow–got so busy for the last couple of weeks that I couldn’t finish describing my trip to Maine…

Stuck a little closer to Portland for the last half of my trip. Went south to Wells and ate lunch at Billy’s Chowder House. Delicious…although it was the first time I ever ate “anatomically correct” clams (i.e. belly clams) and found their syphons a little disconcerting, to say the least!

Billy

Went on to visit the new Cabela’s store; loved their taxidermic displays of animals in different habitats, including the following prairie dogs (notice the backside of one disappearing into its burrow!):

Prairie dog display at Cabela

On through Ogunquit and Old Orchard Beach; beautiful little towns, and not too crowded this time of year (in between summer sunbathers and fall leaf-lookers). Drove to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and walked around the downtown area for a while.  I love the old bridge over the Pisquata River and wished I was hungry enough to justify eating at the Portsmouth Gas Light Co., which has a lovely wood-fired oven pizza menu (http://www.portsmouthgaslight.com/pizza_menu.cfm) that I’ve enjoyed on other trips.

As for the rest of the trip, it was lots of “gomming and yowing” (that’s Southern for eating and talking) and hanging out with my friend. I caught up on my reading (Dombey & Son by Charles Dickens, which was fabulous and made me weep at the death of little Paul Dombey and the subsequent harsh treatment of Flora Dombey by her father); caught up on some videos (No Country For Old Men and Juno); and had dinner at Fore Street (http://www.forestreet.biz/), which has become a tradition when I visit Portland. Very simple, open interior features the entire kitchen at a glance, and everyone’s food looks and smells heavenly as it’s carried by your table.

Wrapped up my visit with a quick trip through the beautiful neighborhoods around the Eastern Prom(enade), then off to the Portland airport, through Detroit, and back into Asheville. A truly wonderful week, as the following photographic evidence supports:

Belted Galloway steer near Wells, Maine

Fresh Brussel sprouts on display

 

Giant LL Bean boot (Portland, ME)

 

The Maine Thing (continued)

The second full day of my trip to Maine, we drove north up the coast as far as Belfast. (Maine seems to have a high percentage of towns named after European cities and countries, although not necessarily pronounced the same way. Calais, for example, is pronounced “Callus” by the locals.) Beautiful day of blue skies, blue water, and white sailboats in the harbor.

Belfast Harbor

 

Turned back toward Camden; visited all the little shops and had lunch at the Camden Deli. The food is good, and the seats at the back of the deli have a perfect view of the spillway that flows down into the harbor. It’s like a scene from a New England calendar.

Went through Rockport after that, and Thomaston. The small coastal towns have definitely changed since my last visit–they’re still peaceful and rural, and still have the obvious strong connections to shipping and sailing heritage on which most of the communities were founded in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries–but there are many more people and houses and businesses than I remember.

The next day, we attended the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine. The fair is an annual event sponsored by the Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association (MOFGA; www.mofga.org), and features local products, environmentally-friendly products and ideas, and a pretty hefty emphasis on social activism.

Common Ground Fair sign

I’ve attended the fair several times, and it’s always an interesting mix of vendors, exhibitions, families, local foods, heirloom plants and animals, speakers, demonstrators, and crafters. Some booths are new every year; others feature folks whose wares are very familiar. Trillium Soaps was there (www.http://www.trilliumsoaps.com/), and Peace Fleece (http://www.peacefleece.com/); the balsam pillow people (I don’t have their contact info, but I bought a balsam pillow from them at the 1994 CGF and it still smells good!); honey and bee products from Sparky’s Apiaries; and, of course, the french fry stand featuring hot-out-of-the-fryer hand-cut fries that can be drenched with sea salt and garlic-flavored vinegar. Lots of family farms with flowers and herbs and apples and anything else they grow; a plethora of all-natural “unguents and ointments” for every imaginable condition or situation, and, of course, bales and swags and heaps of Sweet Annie–a  pungent herb that helps control things like moths and mice in your house.

Harry Brown Farm of Starks, ME

A fair-goer with a backpack full of Sweet Annie

Booth featuring dried rose hips

Left the fair late in the afternoon, and made a point of stopping at the A-1 Diner in Gardiner for dinner. The A-1 is located on Bridge Street (can’t miss it if you go through Gardiner) and the structure is an actual dining car.* The food is always good, from the basic burger to the specials of the day (specials are often elegant–even exotic–for diner fare). I enjoyed my Greek salad with calamari and hoped to try the caramel pumpkin pudding, but had to pass on dessert–insufficient stomach space! 

A-1 Diner in Gardiner, ME

Back to Portland after dinner, and still several days of vacation left! I’ll try to wrap it up in the next post.

*The bathrooms at the A-1 were legendary:  Their location at the end of the dining car required you to exit the diner completely and cross over the creek on a little metal footbridge that always felt a little rickety, plus you could hear and see the water running underneath. The bathrooms were part of the structure, but you “couldn’t get there from here,” as the saying goes. They’ve been remodeled since my last visit, and though you still have to go outside to get to them, the footbridge is much sturdier now (and not nearly as exciting!).

 

The Maine Thing

Spent a wonderful week in Maine recently. They’re about two weeks ahead of us in fall color, so the leaves were already changing, and it looked like it would be a beautiful season.

Flew into Portland and stayed with a friend who lives on Pine Street. In 1994, I spent a semester at the SALT Institute for Documentary Studies (http://www.salt.edu/), which was located at 21 Pine Street (it’s moved a couple of times since then). My apartment was right next door, and in the last ten years or so, the space has become The Percy Inn (http://www.percyinn.com/). Owner, innkeeper, and travel writer Dale Northrup has turned the entire place into an elegant establishment, right in the midst of Portland’s historic West End, just off of Longfellow Square. 

Kicked off my visit with dinner at DiMillos (http://www.dimillos.com) – a floating restaurant  located on a big boat in Portland’s harbor.

Sweet Leaves Teahouse in Brunswick, Maine

The next day, my friend and I visited Sweet Leaves Teahouse in Brunswick, Maine (http://www.sweetleaves.com/). The setting is delightful–a large room that oozes the quiet conviviality of tea and conversation. We tried the special of the day–a lovely chicken salad sandwich with avocado and other good things; drank White Pomegranate Tea (described in the menu as Pai Mu Tan with Pomegranate , China , Organic: Smooth cup with hints of sweet fruit); and indulged in a trio of homemade sorbets flavored with cantaloupe, grapefruit, and watermelon. 

Went to Damariscotta after that and visited all the little shops I hadn’t seen in several years. I love Weatherbird, which features a small deli with all sorts of local foods and gourmet specialties, and also has a section featuring cards, clothes, body lotions–with an emphasis on the local and unique. 

Oh, what a lovely trip–and I’m still just recalling the first full day! More in the next post…

 

Sideshow (Part VI)

“The ring, Jack?” Marko prompted, and Rosemary became aware that Jack was already there on the carousel, waiting for her. His long, cool fingers closed over Rosemary’s hand and she flinched, just a little, although he had warned her he grew his fingernails long as part of his act.

Rosemary heard footsteps. The Incredible Frog Boy–his name was Roy Pruett and he was forty if he was a day–shuffled onto the carousel and pushed something into Jack’s hands. Rosemary felt the flat, confused webbing that should have been separate fingers on Roy’s hand brush against her cheek, and then he was gone.

“By the power invested in me,” Marko intoned, “by the mighty auspices of the Blake Brothers Big-Top Bonanza Extravaganza–” his pause was well-timed, but the effect was shattered by Norah’s tremendous nose-clearing honk into the pillow-slip. Marko glared at the offense and Norah shrank back against the calliope, wringing her hands and batting away Thumbo’s further attempts to minister to her.

“–I now pronounce you RAT AND RAT-WIFE!” Marko said as Jack eased the ring onto Rosemary’s finger.

Rosemary’s heart skipped a little as Jack tucked her arm through his to guide her between the painted unicorns and bears toward the low-slung double swan seat on the carousel.

“Begin!” Marko shouted, stepping down from the platform as Norah, sniffling, fidgeted through the sheet music until she found something appropriate.

One of the roustabouts threw a lever and the carousel lurched into motion to the strains of “Love Makes The World Go Round,” complete with steam and leiderhosen.

Rosemary and Jack circled, circled again, and three times made their union complete in the eyes of the circus family.

*****************************************************************

“Greetings from Baraboo!” the card exclaimed in bright red letters above a picture of an old-timey circus wagon.

Aunt Fanny held it at arm’s length, trying to make out the message without resorting to her reading glasses. A photograph fell out of the card as she opened it. Groaning, Aunt Fanny bent to pick it up.

“Dear Aunt Fanny,” she read aloud from the card, “Congratulations to you–you’re a great aunt again!”

Aunt Fanny shook her head and glanced at the photograph. It was a picture of Rosemary and the two older boys, all smiling at the camera, and pointing toward the blanket-wrapped bundle Rosemary cradled across her knees.

“Hmmph…” Aunt Fanny snorted. “Just like the others. Looks like a drowned rat.”

She placed the card carefully back in the envelope, smoothing the ragged flap where she’d torn it open. She propped the snapshot against a ceramic clown that Rosemary sent from Sarasota the year before.

“Well, I never,” Aunt Fanny said, shaking her head. And she never did.

 

Sideshow (Part V)

It was impossible for Rosemary appreciate the scene before her; Norah’s vast rump hung almost to the floor on both sides of the red velvet stool and she trembled all over with excitement and the effort of not crying—not yet.  Marko the Magnificent caught her eye and gestured once with the tip of his leather whip.  It was time. 

Norah’s pink, dimpled hands rose with a flourish, then fell.  She pounded the old, cracked keys of the steam calliope, causing both music and a procession of smiling clock-work milk maids and youths in gilded plaster lederhosen to issue out of the depths of the organ.  Thumbo, the World’s Tiniest Man, was perched on a stack of milk crates by Norah’s left elbow, poised to mop her streaming face with the pillow slip she kept tucked in her bosom for sentimental occasions.

“Are you ready, Miss Day?” Marko asked Rosemary. 

She nodded, jangling the bangles on her borrowed veil.  It belonged to a dancer in the sultan’s harem show, but it made a fine bridal headdress just the same.

“They’re coming!” Thumbo shouted over the noise of the calliope.  Norah abandoned the sheet music in front of her and craned her head back over one shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the bride.  Fresh tears welled up and breached the dam of Norah’s cheeks until Thumbo staunched the flood with the already-damp cloth.

Marko patted Rosemary’s hand as he guided her between the hay bales and barrels that served as seats for the audience.  Bare light bulbs dangled from each side of the makeshift canopy overhead, flipping and flickering shadows every which way.  Rosemary stumbled and Marko glared at the red-nosed auguste whose oversized clown shoes stuck out in the aisle.  The clown made a rude face and the points of Marko’s waxed moustache quivered, but Rosemary walked on, tugging at the sleeve of Marko’s scarlet frogged ringmaster’s jacket. 

The calliope groaned under Norah’s manipulations as she ground out a particularly wheezy version of ‘Here Comes the Bride’.  Rosemary smiled beneath her veil, wishing she could see her surroundings.  It wasn’t so bad to be blind—she’d never known any other way—but she would have liked to view the splendor of her own wedding party, just the same. It smelled splendid anyway—all fried dough and wild animals and exhaust from the generators that powered everything.  It was as exotic as anything she’d ever read or dreamed of in the little room above her aunt’s front parlor.

“Beautiful,” Norah sniffed, snatching a quick musical heading before she lost her place.  The wedding march was sliding into a sort of oompah-pah that was more in keeping with the German figurines that waltzed in and out of the calliope.

“She’s something, all right,” Thumbo said.  “Looks like the Flying Fanandas must have dressed her—she’s spangled from stem to stern.”

“Ohhh…” Norah breathed, shuddering with delight.   “I wish somebody else knew how to play the ‘Bridal March’…”

Marko led his charge past the calliope and up to the steps of the carousel.  He looked to Norah and twitched one perfectly tweezed black eyebrow; her hands slid off the keys with a final, mournful ‘bride’.  It was all quiet, except for a few moths flapping against the light bulbs.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Marko said, his voice as bold as if he were addressing a full house at a three ring show, “We are gathered together to witness the union of Miss Rosemary Day—“ he swept a bow in Rosemary’s direction, “and our good friend and comrade Jack, the Human Rat!”

The audience roared, stamping their feet against the hard-packed dirt. 

“Jack, Jack, Jack!” they cried with one voice, clowns and acrobats and snake handlers all mixed up with barkers and dancers and fortune tellers.

“Miss Day, if you please…” Marko helped her up the carousel stairs and eased the veil back from her face. 

Rosemary smiled at all the people she couldn’t see, her new family.  In the morning, they’d take her far away from this place, away from the little room where she’d spent her whole life, shut away from warmth and laughter and feeling.  What would Aunt Fanny think, Rosemary wondered, to find her niece run away with the circus?

 

 

Sideshow (Part IV)

It was easier than she ever imagined for Rosemary to run away with the circus.  She simply lingered on the porch after supper until Aunt Fanny finally went to bed, grumbling about night chills and willful, headstrong girls and what was the world coming to when children didn’t do as bid by their elders. 

Earlier, Rosemary had written a note for Aunt Fanny, carefully guiding the pen with the edge of her hand so the lines would not trail off the paper and be lost.  She slipped it under the front door and sat down on the steps to wait.

Jack came at last, in a truck driven by a sad-faced clown.  They eased down the street and idled to a stop across from the yellow house.  A tiny Chihuahua stood at nervous attention in the clown’s polka-dot lap and he kept one white-gloved hand wrapped around the dog’s ankle to keep it from leaping out the open window as Jack leaned across and whistled, low, to catch Rosemary’s attention.

It took almost no time to drive back to the carnival, and the clown dropped them off at a trailer full of people, all shrieking in a language Rosemary couldn’t understand.  Hands pulled her here and there, but they were gentle.  At some point, Jack and all the other male hands that belonged with the deeper voices were ushered outside and they began to laugh and sing in their strange language.  The women set-to in earnest, handling Rosemary as if she were a child or a doll.

“Bellisima,” one of them sighed, snatching at Rosemary’s hair with a comb. 

“That Signori Jack certainly works fast,” another giggled, peeling Rosemary out of her dress as neatly as a grape.

At last the women were done and they led Rosemary out of the trailer, leaving her alone against the side of a rough canvas tent.  She clutched at it, hoping that Jack would find her soon.

“Miss Day,” a deep voice said, startling Rosemary.  “If you will be so good as to take my arm, I will direct Norah, our most charming and talented Fat Lady, to begin, no?”

“No,” Rosemary squeaked.  “I mean, yes.  Oh, yes.”

The ringmaster—Marko the Magnificent—laughed out loud.  “No, yes—yes, no—simply different sides of the same thing, my dear.  Come, then.  Our Jack is waiting.”  He drew her carefully past the anchor stakes and inside the shelter of the tent.  

 

 

Sideshow (Part III)

Perched on the peaked porch roof over her aunt’s porch, Jack told Rosemary about his life with the circus, and how the stars looked away across the world in other skies.  He brought the clowns, the contortionists, even the dry, gray hide of the elephants to life for Rosemary, all the time watching her face and the wonder reflected there. 

Jack came the next night, too, when the carnival was winding down, easing over the porch, somehow clinging with fingers and toes, right up to the second story of the house where Rosemary waited at her window. 

Aunt Fanny snored on, untroubled by whispers and dreams and the age-old kind of magic unfolding right over her head.  She loved her niece, she meant well, but unfortunate blind girls like Rosemary should not be encouraged to dream of romance.  “There’s heartache enough in the street,” Aunt Fanny often remarked, “without asking it to sit with you in the parlor.”

The next night, Jack was so late that he was early.  He apologized with wisps of still-warm cotton candy, pulled off the paper spool in thin strands to melt on Rosemary’s surprised tongue.  Still, it was much more than the promise of spun sugar that lured Rosemary over the windowsill, at last, to sit on the porch roof beside him.

Jack settled Rosemary onto his folded jacket to protect her from the rough surface of the shingles.  He invited her to touch the tattoo on his bare arm, and her sensitive fingers could feel the faintest difference between his skin and the inked design.  His arm was very different than hers, Rosemary thought.  She smiled to herself, pleased to have that different arm between her and the distance to the ground below.

“We’re pulling out tomorrow,” Jack said.  “Show’s run its course.”

“Where…” Rosemary had to clear her throat to finish, “where will you go?”

“Farther south, maybe, for a while.  Norah—she’s our Fat Lady—has folks around New Orleans she hasn’t seen in a while.  Look at that,” Jack said, not knowing what else to say.  “Sun’s coming up.”

“I know.  I can feel it,” Rosemary said.  Her fingers, gritty where she’d licked cotton candy from them, followed his arm down to his hand where it rested near her elbow. 

“Jack,” she hesitated, thinking briefly of Aunt Fanny, “I’d like to feel the sun come up in New Orleans, too.”