Winter Backpacking Trip, part two

     
        Remember in the movie, The Poseiden Adventure, when Gene Hackman and what's left of his cronies emerge from the bottom of the big ship, (which is actually the top, now) after Shelley Winters suffers a major heat attack swimming fearlessly through deep waters to save the other passengers? And Maureen McGovern sings "There's Got to Be a Morning After" and tears fall embarrassingly on your cheeks because you can't believe you're crying after watching such a campy movie as The Poseiden Adventure?
       Well, that was how it is as my friends and I emerge from our rain-soaked, frozen tents the first morning of our winter backpacking trip to St. Mark's Wildlife Refuge. A few rays of sun shine down through the clouds, and the four of us run toward the light, basking in the warmth, shivering with gladness. But with gladness and joy comes cocky and boastful behaviour, as we slap each other on the backs, swaggering with pride on how brave and strong we were the night before. Yes, it was only 36 degrees, it rained all night, we were lucky not to have hypothermia, but are BACKPACKERS, after all, and backpackers are prepared for all sorts of bad weather and unfortunate circumstances.
       And what happens next is we throw back some coffee and eat a few tangerines, and then we are ready to pack up and head off to our next destination. That is, until we realize that everything we have is soaking wet. And wet things are heavy. Our clothing, our sleeping bags, tents, and tarps are soaked, and now we have to stuff 200 pounds of these items into our packs and carry them 12 or 15 miles. Our hiking boots and socks are slushy and slimy. And JR is not there with his gun to put us out of our misery.

     

      
       Thank goodness for the plethora of wildlife in the wildlife refuge. We see alligators and woodstorks, and other birds that I can't name. Our hike takes us along the forgotten coast, a remote and beautiful wilderness that includes coastal marshes, islands, tidal creeks, and the estuaries of seven north Florida rivers. Rainwater runs out of the bottom of our packs as we walk.
       The first thing I do when we get to our next campsite is to throw myself on the ground and curl up into a fetal position. I'm so tired and still so wet from dragging 50 pounds of soggy bedding around all day, that I can barely walk another step. My youthful companions have a little more energy than I, and rig up a couple of clothes lines to hang all our wet things. By the time we get our tents up and lay everything out to dry, our rustic wilderness campsite looks like Jedd Clampett's back yard before he moved his family to Bevery Hills.
       In order not to make the story about this trip even longer than the four days it took us to hike it, I will cut some details short. After a good night's sleep, we hike to the famous and historic St. Mark's Lighthouse, that was built in 1832, admire it for a bit, until Cindy's husband calls her on his cell phone. He and Paula's husband, Brent, are hanging out in a bar in Jacksonville, about to watch a football game, and want to know if their wives would like to cut their trip short and join them. The beer is cold, the peanuts are salty, and Cindy and Paula bid us a swift sayonara. Roger and I never figured this out, but somehow the two women, in haste to get away from any further trail shenanigans, manage to switch the cars themselves so that mine is at the end point, at the Wakulla River, and in a few hours they are enjoying a cold one in the warmth of a neighborhood saloon.
       Roger and I feel determined to continue our trip, but find ourselves hiking on a highway, which is sometimes necessary when you travel on the Florida Trail, because much of the trail is not developed yet. As cars and trucks whizz by, we come along all sorts of interesting litter, that includes a hammer, a tape measure, and a bag of pot, none of which Roger lets me take into my pack. When we get to the Wakulla River, we decide to get my car and drive to a private campground instead of sleeping at a wilderness site. The temperature is dropping again, and by 4 a.m. it is in the mid-20s.  Roger starts a campfire, and we stand there, shivering, until 6 a.m.. We haven't slept at all that night, anyway, and decided to pack it up, if anything, to drive around for a couple of hours in my warm PT Cruiser.
       Surprisingly, or maybe not, my car takes us to JR's Aucilla Store, the only place that is open at pre-dawn hours. It is almost as if JR is expecting us. He makes us coffee, and tea, and sausage sandwiches, and encourages us to sit in front of his potbelly stove, where we are forced to pet his dog, Stupid. There is a twinkle in his eye, as if to mock us, albeit in a gentle way. After all, his business depends on silly people like us, adventurers, who go out into all kinds of weather to enjoy the wilderness, then come back to JR's Aucilla Store, our tails between our legs in shame, hungry for only what JR can give us - warmth, food, and friendship.
       I ask JR for his phone number, so that if we decide to come back to hike the eastern section of the trail, we can call him for advice about the weather, and make driving arrangements in advance. "Hopefully we'll be back next year," I say brightly.
       "Oh, you'll be back," says JR. "They always come back."
      
      

A Winter Backpacking Trip, part one

       Each winter I plan some backpacking trips with my friends. In Florida, the best time to hike and camp is November through March, although braver individuals who don't mind heat and mosquitoes will not adhere to this rule. The winter of 2011 was a particularly memorable trip, as my companions and I headed to the forgotten coast of Florida, to hike in St. Mark's Wildlife Refuge, along the National Florida Scenic Trail.
       Technically, there is no camping allowed in the refuge, unless you are through-hiking the trail, but somehow I managed to convince a park ranger that he should let us go through. This is what is called "Trail Magic", when unexpected little surprises come your way on the trail. There are other unexpected surprises that are not trail magic, however, they are simply really bad things that you hadn't planned on. And this was one of those trips.
       We decided to do a little car-switcheroo, where my friend Roger and I would park our car at JR's Aucilla Store, on US 98 in Aucilla, and my friends Cindy and Paula would park theirs at the end point, the Wakulla River. Our plan was that we would convince JR (who we had never met before) to give us a ride to the trail head on the FT, then hike four days or so west to the Wakulla River, get Cindy's car, and drive back to JR's place, where Roger and I would pick up our car, and we would all drive happily home from our wilderness adventure.
       When we arrived at JR's Aucilla Store, we found JR to be a likable man, and we easily convinced him to give us a ride as we had planned. We had to hang around quite a long time in the store, however, as JR made a few calls in an attempt to get someone to watch the shop for him, and figure out what to do with his mangy dog named Stupid, who wouldn't fit in the van with us, and who doesn't like to be left behind. While the four of us waited for JR to make arrangements, we shopped a bit, purchasing items like venison jerky, sausage sandwiches, and fountain drinks, while admiring the enormous taxidermic wild hog heads gracing JR's walls. There was a cozy, pot belly stove in the store, where hunters could warm their hands and drink coffee, and talk about hog hunting while their hound dogs bellowed outside in the back of their pick up trucks.
       I forgot to mention that it was pretty cold that day, and we began the process of bundling up for the hike, packing and repacking our backpacks, talking amongst ourselves about various types of cold weather gear - gloves, neck gaiters, and the like. Once we were confident that we all had the proper clothing and we were just about ready to go, one of those surprising things happened, that is not what you would call trail magic. It started to rain.
       When I say rain, I don't mean a gentle dampening, I mean a cold, gusty, winter squall of rain that pelted the windows of JR's Aucilla Store like bullets, as my friends and I pressed our noses against the glass, with Stupid, wondering which one of us we could blame for not checking the weather report before we went on the trip. A quick glance at each other, without speaking, and we all started unpacking and repacking our packs to don our rain gear and look for our waterproof pack covers. And all the while JR is waiting patiently for us, hoping that we'll get our act together, as his van is running outside. Whilst we fumble for our gear, JR says, "You gotta gun with you?" We looked at him oddly, and I reply, "No. We don't carry guns. Why would we need a gun?" JR says, "Because when you get out there, you know you're gonna wanna kill yourself."
       The rain is coming down even harder at this point - the van's tires are sitting a in a puddle that comes halfway up the wheels. A flood is forming on the other side of the road, across from JR's Aucilla Store, threatening to wash across the street, and we scramble to put our backpacks into his vehicle.
       We pile into the van, and JR drives us about 3 miles up the road, where he ditches us at a grassy clearing, chuckling the whole time. It doesn't occur to us at this point that we could have changed our minds and cancelled the trip, so we begin our hike, 7 miles, to the Pinhook Campsite. It is late afternoon.
       After 10 minutes, we are soaked to the skin. I realize that expensive rain gear is no damned good, no matter what they say about it at the outfitter stores. I also realize that I have never put up my tent in a driving rainstorm before. And that I don't even know if my tent will hold up to a driving rainstorm because we usually plan our hiking trips around pleasant weather conditions. We hike and we hike, as if we really think that the faster we walk, maybe we will get away from the rain. We stop once to take a break and are chilled to the bone, so we keep hiking as if our life depended on it.
       After 3 long hours we arrive at our primitive campsite and it is pouring like God is putting an end to the world in the forgotten coast of Florida. We set up our tents as best we can, and I make a mental note to be better prepared, maybe invest in a rain tarp before my next backpacking trip. I am happy to have brought a chamois cloth with me, though, as there is a gallon of water or so inside my tent. I soak up the water with the chamois, and wring it out the door, soak some more, then wring some more. Every time I open the door of the tent, more rain comes inside. Cindy and Paula are having better luck with their tipi tent, but Cindy remarks anyway, "We should have brought the gun." Roger, as usual, is not complaining, but methodically setting up his own tent and wringing water out as I am doing. There is a short break in the rain, a welcoming 10 minutes, where Roger fires up our camp stoves, and prepares tea and ramen noodles, which we slurp down just in time for it to start raining again.

 

Attempting to make tea and soup before it starts raining again.

      
       There is nothing more that we can do except to retire into our wet tents. I have placed my foam pad and sleeping bag on the floor of my tent; like an island it sits with rain water all around it. Luckily I have dry fleece sleeping garments to put on, and a few hand warmers that I bought at the checkout counter at Walgreens, an impulse buy that was the smartest thing I have ever done in my life. I stuff the hand warmers inside my fleece and socks, and climb into my sleeping bag. The temperature is dropping and it's raining like crazy again. It was going to be a long night.

(to be continued)


      

Trainspotting

       A few years ago, I thought it would be nice to take up trainspotting as a hobby. My inner hobo loves trains, and having traveled extensively on trains in many places, I thought I might want to become a train expert. The only things I needed for my new hobby were a pad of paper, a pen, a camera, and a railroad depot to sit at and watch trains go by.

      
       Folkston, GA is famous for their Folkston Funnel, a double track which serves as the main artery for railroad traffic into and out of Florida. Nearly 50 trains a day run through the Folkston Funnel, sometimes even more. I invited a friend of mine to go to Folkston with me one weekend, to spot trains and record their activity. I didn't really know anything about the hobby of trainspotting, except that when a train goes by, you take note of what kind of train it is, and then research where it's going, and where it's coming from, and what it's carrying. Then you take a photo of the train, if you desire. Then you record all your information in your little pad of paper, sort of like how a bird watcher records the birds he sees. Then after you get good at identifying trains and rail activity, you join some sort of club where you can brag about how much you know about trains to other trainspotters. Then when you die, your children will find your little pad of trainspotting notes and throw it into the trash, along with all your other useless stuff.
       At the Folkston Funnel there is a viewing platform, which features lights, ceiling fans, and a scanner to listen in to radio traffic in between trains going by. Adjacent to the platform are picnic tables, a restroom, and even a grill, because one is sure to get hungry watching trains all day long. There is also a train museum and a few shops nearby, plus lots of noisy bells ringing and lights flashing all day, because attempting to drive a car through the Folkston Funnel is a dangerous thing.
       I managed to find a parking place close to the viewing platform, then grabbed my pad of paper, pen, and camera, and got down to some serious trainspotting. My companion and I chose a seat on the blistering hot platform, and listened as the train engineers radioed information back and forth to each other. After a few minutes a train came by and I wrote down notes about it in my pad of paper. I tried to take some photos with my digital camera but they came out blurry. All of this took about five minutes. I bounced happily on my seat, though, all fired up about my new hobby, until my friend said to me, "What exactly are we doing here, Karen?"
       I looked at him, dumbfounded, and explained for about the tenth time what trainspotting was all about, and he sighed heavily. "This is boring. I'm hungry. Let's go." If I had known the Folkston Funnel had a grill and a restroom, I would have brought some steaks with me, maybe a bottle of wine, or a baguette to keep my companion busy while I trainspotted. But I was unprepared for his lack of interest, so pouting, I left the platform and we found a barbecue joint down the road.
       Trainspotting is not as easy as it looks. Nobody I know wants to do it, and if you go trainspotting by yourself, it's not much fun to get all excited and point delightfully at trains with no one there to share your enthusiasm. And I found out that trainspotting isn't even the proper name for watching random trains, as I was doing. Authentic trainspotters are looking for certain types of trains, what they call "rolling stock," whatever that means. I wasn't a trainspotter, I was a rail fan... a common rail fan.
       These days I walk with my beau Bruce up to the railroad tracks behind our house. We bring our ukuleles and sing freight train songs until trains come by, then we wave at the engineers, who blow their train whistles madly, in an attempt to get us to move back from the tracks. When the trains go by, there is an acrid smell and scary sound, as metal grinds against metal, and then a great whoosh of hot wind as the train passes at top speed.
       After the train is gone, I sigh heavily, and say, "Well, that was fun. I'm hungry. Let's go." And we head back to the house.
      

Porridge Weather

       December is porridge weather, and I say porridge, not oatmeal, because plain oats don't do much for me. Oats are healthy, certainly, good for your heart, but I always think about them as just breakfast food, and for me, I'm still hungry after a bowl of plain oatmeal. Last year I came up with a recipe for a special whole grain porridge that could incorporate any combination of your favorite grains, cooked in water and soy milk in the crockpot. This method of cooking eliminates the need for constant stirring.
       Whole grain porridge can be served any time of the day. I have it for breakfast with butter and honey, but  I also like it for lunch or dinner with salt, pepper, and fresh herbs, eaten like you would rice pilaf, maybe served with a side salad or steamed vegetables.
       If all this sounds way too healthy for you, well, we're not getting any younger, you know. Now and then I find myself eating way too much meat, sweets, and fountain drinks, and I wonder why I have no energy. So this past week, after I finally digested all those Thanksgiving pies and turkey thighs with crispy skin, I thought it would be best to eat a healthier diet.
       I'm also thinking about doing some serious backpacking in January and February of next year, and losing a few pounds will take a lot of pressure off my joints. And if you think you need to be on a diet for weeks to get results, I assure you that you will feel better after just two days of fruits, vegetables, and this porridge. I figured out there are about 10-grams of protein per serving, so it's quite filling and satisfying. Diet or no diet, try this porridge, because it's delicious. And eat a couple of apples, too, just for good measure.

December Porridge

Ingredients:
1/3 cup farro
1/3 cup steel cut oats
1/3 cup quinoa
(or any combination of grains to total 1-cup)
1-1/2 cups water
1-1/2 cups soy milk

Preparation:
Combine all in a crock pot. Cook on high for about 2 hours or low for about 4 hours. Makes six good size servings. You can make the porridge in advance and reheat successfully in the microwave or over a double boiler on the stove.

There's No Place Like Route 301

       To get to South Carolina from North Florida, one must drive through Georgia. My route of choice is 301, mostly because it's a friendly back road, not an interstate highway. Route 301 is only a mile from my home - once I get on that road, I can pretty much sit back and drive blindfolded for several hours without thinking about anything, until I reach South Carolina.
       The part of Georgia that 301 runs through is never a destination for me. It's only a means to get me where I want to go in another state. There are not too many of my friends who think much of Route 301, because it is straight, narrow, and seemingly boring as hell. But I like Route 301, and I'm going to tell you why.
       The road runs through all these little Georgia towns, with weird names that I don't even know how to pronounce. Like Nahunta. And Ludowici. And in between the towns there are cotton fields, pecan groves, and prisons. There are little restaurants and run-down thrift shops, and all of these seem to be frozen in time. There is the town of Claxton, famous for its fruitcake. If you turn left after the railroad tracks, the fruitcake plant is about a block down on your right. You can get free samples of fruitcake and sometimes a mini tour of the plant, if you speak nicely to the proprietor on duty.
       Speaking of Claxton, before you actually get into the town, there is a restaurant on the right called Mrs. Rogers. This place is a Southern buffet that features fried chicken, ribs, and the like. You can smell the collard greens in the parking lot. I can attest to the fact that they make their okra and tomatoes from scratch. If you go in there after church, you will see pious Baptists gorging on Mrs. Rogers' specialties, since they're not allowed to drink beer after church like we Episcopalians do.
       In the town of Glennville, there is a little Mexican restaurant called Mi Plaza. They make delicious chili rellenos. You can get an enormous lunch for only $5.29. And keep those diet Cokes coming, because I don't think you can drink alcohol in Glennville, either. The servers are amazingly friendly, and when you tell them you are from Florida, they look at you as if you had said you were from France. Apparently, they don't get many out-of-towners at Mi Plaza.
       In Statesboro, there is a bakery called Sugar Magnolia, and it's located on Savannah Ave. I'm not sure how I found the place but perhaps I needed a restroom and ended up there. They make yummy bakery items, and also pizza with their own homemade dough. I would say that Sugar Magnolia is probably the most sophisticated of all the places I have come to know on my trips along Route 301.
       You can buy pecans all along Route 301. Some at farm stands, some from people sitting in their cars on the side of the road, with cardboard signs on their bumpers advertising their wares. You will come across several prisons and detention centers, surrounded by razor wire, which sparkles in the sun and reflects off your windshield in a cosmic sort of way. Right next to the prisons you will see cotton fields that go on for miles, and especially in November, right before the cotton is harvested, it's really quite a beautiful sight.
       When I finally get to South Carolina, I am feeling a little sad to get off Route 301. Now I have to read my map, drive on interstates, through big cities and on beltways, and find my way to my destination without the help of a GPS, since I don't own one. There are family members to visit, trails to hike, rivers to paddle, and mountains to climb, all north of Georgia's Route 301. And after all is said and done, I look forward to coming back the same way I drove up. Because I live in one of those little towns off Route 301, in North Florida, and gee, it feels great to be home.

Armando

       Bruce and I live out in the country, on Canaan Way, in Callahan, Florida, to be exact. Country life is a good thing for us. It's quiet here in Callahan, with the exception of some crowing roosters, and the trains that run behind our house several times a day. The two-acre lot is dotted with trees that Bruce planted himself. We have a small garden, and expansive yard, which Bruce mows every week or so. These days, however, the lawn mower is silent, since an armadillo named Armando has moved onto the property. For Armando, the yard and somewhat manicured grass have become his grand buffet, and in the wee hours of the night, Armando is on a feeding frenzy.
       Armadillos eat grubs, worms and ants, but also enjoy fruit and lettuce, if provided. Armando has become accustomed to tearing up large sections of the yard each night, before delving into the compost pile for leftover apple cores, which I suppose, to Armando, are his dessert. When Armando first came onto the property, Bruce tried to lure him into a trap with bait, but Armando would have none of that. Born with terrible eyesight, armadillos dig and eat using their sense of smell. And with our rich soil that is loaded with fat worms, our Armando is not easily enticed by much of anything else.
       Bruce is of Irish and Welsh descent, and his people pride themselves on green grass and meticulously trimmed lawns. When Bruce walks outside each morning to see the extensive damage that Armando has done to his lawn the previous evening, he is grateful that his ancestors are not alive to witness such a sacrilege. It is difficult to walk across the yard, lest you twist your ankle in one of the hundreds of holes that Armando has dug. There is less and less need to mow the grass, since it has dwindled away. And if you were to come visit our home, you would think that we were working on some sort of construction project out back. Perhaps preparing the ground for a one-acre patio or something. That's how bad it's getting.
       But Bruce and I are live-and-let-live people. We want Armando to go away, but we don't want to harm him. We have realized that Armando is very elusive and impossible to trap. Bruce has only seen him a couple of times, because Armando is never around when we're in the yard at night. Even when we sneak out under the moonlight to see if we can spot him, Armando manages to slip away.
       Bruce says that Armando is big. So big that you could ride him. He is the master of trickery, and he just might be the king of armadillos everywhere.

Backyard Adventures

       A few weeks ago I wrote about putting up a tipi in our backyard in North Florida. Hoping to spend the winter sleeping in there, my beau Bruce and I created a little haven for ourselves with lots of blankets, quilts, pillows, books, a lantern, and other homey necessities. But unfortunately, things didn't go very well with the tipi, and we had to take it down last week.
       Inasmuch as we loved the tipi, so did some other folks - particularly cockroaches, spiders, and lizards. And since the tipi doesn't have an attached floor, our secret little getaway was no secret anymore, especially to the insects. We also had a problem with moisture - tipis have holes in the tops of them, and yes, it gets wet inside when it rains. We put some plastic over the bedding to protect it, but it wasn't good enough. Plus the tipi cover started to look a little mildewed, and rather than wait for the weather to ruin it completely, Bruce took it apart one sad, November afternoon.

 

      
       So I came up with another idea, and this past Saturday we put up a tent instead. I had purchased a huge tent from Walmart several years ago, in order to go "car camping" with some of my girlfriends. That trip never materialized, so the mammoth tent has been sitting a camping box for a long time. The tent is a a cheap one, that probably wouldn't hold up to any serious storms, but as long as we don't get a hurricane, I think we're okay for now. Bruce built a nice bonfire after we put up the tent. We cooked up a pork loin, tossed a salad, and played some music around the campfire - Bruce on guitar, me on tenor ukulele. And it was a fun evening.
       It was cold that night, only about 28 degrees. But the tent kept us warm and safe, and in the morning we brewed some tea, stoked the fire a bit, and enjoyed our campsite as much as we would have staying at a state park. But something was missing, something magical that we had experienced with the tipi. Maybe it was lying on our backs, looking at the stars through the hole in the top. Or maybe it was that the tipi was made with Bruce's own hands. Or maybe we actually missed our little cockroach friends, who only came into the tipi to stay dry and warm, like us.
       When I look out the window of our house today, I see a billowy, blue monster, which resembles one of those children's bounce houses you find at birthday parties. It's ugly. It's made in China. But it's our new winter abode, anyway. And I think I can learn to like it.
      

Owl People

       Once while I was hiking alone on a trail, I stopped to pitch my tent at dusk. As I was trying to push the tent stakes into the solid ground, an owl swooped down from a tall pine tree, and landed only two feet from where I was kneeling. The owl snatched up a mouse (which I hadn't even noticed) and flew away in a split second. There wasn't even a sound, just the wind on my face from the owl's wings.

      
       That was my only up close owl experience. But I have friends who are owl people, who have rescued owls, held them in their hands, fed them, and continue to visit with them from time to time. Sherry Garbarini is one of my owl friends, who helped raise an owl named Sushi several years ago. To this day, Sushi comes to visit her in her backyard, often times perching on a patio chair, turning its head as if to say hello. Sherry's friend, Ellen Ensley, used to work at an animal rehab facility in Yulee, FL, where she came to love owls. She and Sherry have shared in Sushi's upbringing, and that has bonded their friendship for life.
       Ellen is a contributor to Owl Pages, an web site that tells you everything you wanted to know about owls. Ellen tells a story about how Sushi once flew down to her on her deck, talons bared, in an apparent attack. Ellen tries to defend herself, broken hearted that Sushi has turned on her. But just seconds later, a large tree branch falls onto the deck, right where Ellen had been standing. This is an excerpt from her story.

       "As I whirled around, I saw a giant limb had fallen from the huge old dead oak tree that towered above the grill on the other side of the deck. This monster limb had crushed the top of the grill, splintered the deck railing, and smashed the Mexican stone fireplace into a million pieces. The limb was so big, it covered half of the deck on which I stood. It probably would have killed me if it fell on me. But, it didn't fall on me. Sushi had deliberately, and repeatedly attacked me to drive me away from that side of the deck. Birds will attack their mates to drive them away from danger. Sushi knew that limb was going to fall. The birds incredible hearing must have told him the limb was cracking. Sushi had been out by the deck all day. I never heard anything but the final loud snap before the limb hit the deck. I understood what Sushi had done. The owl kept me away from the grill and that side of the deck the only way he knew how. He drove me away from danger."

       There is much we can learn from our natural world, if we just take some time and listen. I have learned a lot from the owl people, but they have learned a lot more from the owl. To read more of Ellen's stories, visit: www.owlpages.com

Falling Back

       Daylight Savings Time ended on Sunday, and five days later I'm still in a head-fog. I used to love it when we "fell back", gaining an hour of sleep. (Sleep, by the way, is my favorite hobby, and who doesn't like to spend an extra hour on one's hobby?) But the last couple of years, changing the clocks forward and back has become drudgery. I don't sleep an extra hour, if anything, I wake up at 3 a.m. and find myself going to bed at 7 p.m. At 9 a.m. I'm ready for a nap, yet I couldn't possibly take one, because I've drank too much coffee to keep myself awake after getting up at 3.
       Because I work as a writer full time now, I do get the privilege of staying in my pajamas most of the morning, but that doesn't do anything for my productivity. Padding around in bunny slippers means you're just one step away from being horizontal in front of the television. So if you work at home, and you're sleep-deprived from falling back or springing forward, nothing good can come of it.
       I have an acquaintance on Amelia Island, FL, though, who has tackled this problem successfully by never getting out of his pajamas. His name is Pajamadave Voorhees; he is a boat captain, and also a minister. My guess is that the time change doesn't matter much to him because his wardrobe knows no schedule, and he manages to get to work on time at Amelia River Cruises. I often see Pajamadave riding happily around the island on his motorcycle, obviously unaffected by Daylight Savings Time or lack thereof.
      Proponents of Daylight Savings Time include business owners, folks in the tourism industry, and guys who like to mow their lawns. But Daylight Savings Time is the foe of transportation workers, and farmers, who can't explain to their cows and chickens that because it's time to set their clocks forward, or back, please chill out and let the farmer sleep in a little bit. In a week or so I will have gotten into the groove of a regular day-night pattern, and just when my schedule is on a roll, it will be time to change the clocks again.
       Spring forward, fall back - why can't I leave my clocks the way they are? Heck, why am I writing about this anyway? I'm going back to bed....

Working at the Simsbury Pharmacy

       When I was sixteen years old I got my first “big” job working at the Simsbury Pharmacy in Simsbury, CT. I was to be their new waitress and short-order cook. Under the tutelage of a scary woman named Betty and her side-kick Dottie, I was trained to fry hamburgers, make omelets, and pour coffee without spilling a drop and make a real root beer float. Since I was hired as the “closing girl”, I spent most of my evening shift mopping the floors, cleaning the grease trap and scouring the grill. But we had a few evening customers that required food and coffee, so I was able to hone my cooking skills, practice my pancake-flipping and create monstrous ice cream sundaes in the privacy of my own little soda fountain world.

      
       My favorite menu item at the Simsbury Pharmacy was their Western sandwich. A Western, or called a Denver by some because it originated in Denver, CO, is simply a scrambled egg, open-face omelet with green peppers, onions, and chopped ham. All the ingredients are tossed into a bowl, scrambled with a fork, and then poured onto a lightly greased griddle. While you are cooking the omelet, you must scrape the mixture as best you can into a square shape the size of your bread. While the Western is on the grill, toast 2-pieces of white bread, butter them and spread with a light coating of Dijon mustard. Place a piece of Swiss cheese on the egg mixture right before taking it off the griddle, place on one piece of toast, top with the other, then cut in half. Poof! A perfect Western sandwich.

       You can’t find Western sandwiches anymore, except perhaps the Waffle House, but theirs are more like gigantic omelets with toast on the side. A real Western sandwich is not a gastronomic explosion; it’s a small portion, a satisfying treat, great for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I have tried to “upscale” the Western sandwich idea by using organic eggs, smoked Gouda, country ham, but to no avail. The regular, tried and true Western sandwich is still the best, and should not be messed with.

        I visited the Simsbury Pharmacy last summer on a trip to New England and found it hadn’t changed as much as I thought, although the soda fountain and lunch counter were gone, replaced by a horrific reach-in beverage refrigerator. I chatted with the present owner, Robert Kevorkian, who shared some of his memories of the old time lunch counter. Little did I know when I took that job back in 1973 that I would someday open my own lunch establishment and catering business, based on many of the skills I learned from my first, real job.
      
       I tried offering a Western sandwich at my shop on Amelia Island, but it didn’t go over well. Everyone liked it, sure, but folks these days are into more glamorous and complex dishes. So when I’m hankering for some comfort food, reminiscent of simpler times, I cook up a Western sandwich just for me, served with a piping hot cup of coffee. And it still tastes a good as it did at the Simsbury Pharmacy many years ago.

 

On Reading

       One Thanksgiving, when I was about nine years old, our family gathered at the dining table to have our meal. In one of those semi-awkward silences when every ones mouths were full of mashed potatoes and stuffing, I piped up, "Mom, what's a concubine?" The adults at the table gasped in horror and my mother glared at me sternly. "Have you been reading Pearl S. Buck again, young lady?" We were all embarrassed and later my mother hid all of her books under her bed where I couldn't get to them easily.
       Not like I was a particularly smart or precocious child, but reading good literature was something my mother instilled in me. She rarely even read novels, unless they were something highly acclaimed, by authors she respected. I never saw a Danielle Steele or Harlequin Romance in her posession. She liked to read good books and so that's what I read, when I was able to sneak into her bedroom and read them.
       This weekend I met some women who also loved to read, and we traded good book suggestions, and had a lot of discussion about other not-so-good books, and whether it's worth it to read them. The general consensus was, sometimes yes, sometimes, no. It depends on how much time you put into a lousy book. My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew I had read Fifty Shades of Grey, a not so good but somewhat pornographic novel that spiked my curiosity. My mother read Carl Jung, and Silvia Plath, and biographies of political figures from all over the world. She was into philosphy, religion, and doomed characters with so much intellengence they simply could not find their way in the world.
       The following is a list of books I gleaned from my new friends' suggestions, in case you are also a bookie looking for something new to read: The $80 Champion, Child of God, Random Family, The Sense of an Ending, Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness, Beloved, Glass Castles, and Tiger's Wife.
       I do like to download books on my Kindle, but not all books, because there is something I still like about holding a real book, that smells of ink and paper. At present I am reading a book called Lambs of God, that I bought at a library book sale last week, and since I'm much more into fifty shades of Earl Grey, cuddling up with my book and my cup of tea is about as good as it gets.

Message in a Bottle

       A few days ago one of my friends posted something about a little boy from Ireland who found a message in a bottle. That brought back a memory, something that I forgot about from years ago. I once sent a message in a bottle, when I was vacationing on Cape Cod, in Massachusetts. I was probably about 8 years old. Our family used to rent a sandy, little beach place in East Brewster with my aunt and uncle. It was the highlight of our year, as we were allowed to do whatever we wanted, could get as dirty as possible, swim all day, build sandcastles, and dig for clams. One day my father suggested I write a message, put it in a bottle, and throw it into the ocean, and perhaps someone from a faraway land would find it.
       When we children were little, "go send a message in a bottle" or "go skip rocks" or "go build a sandcastle" were all code words my parents used that really meant, "get out of our hair because we're on vacation, too, and perhaps we might want to have sex in the afternoon." It didn't matter, though, we complied. Because I didn't have a piece of paper, I used a paper plate and with a ball point pen, I wrote a short letter that stated who I was, my age and where I lived, and that if someone finds my message in a bottle, perhaps we could become pen pals. Then I rolled up the plate, shoved it in a used wine bottle, stuck a cork in it, and tossed it into the bay at high tide.
       Then I forgot about it. Until one day, several months later, when I was back in Granby, CT, where we lived, I received a letter in the mail. Can you imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope and there was my rolled up paper plate and a short note from a man and woman who found my message in a bottle. They lived across the bay on Cape Cod, although I don't recall the town, and found the bottle while walking on the beach one morning. So what happened was, the tide carried the bottle a few miles away from where I threw it. And you'd think I'd be delighted, but I wasn't.
       Instead, I was irritated that my message in a bottle took a short journey, not a long one, and I was also a little ashamed of my geographical stupidity - I mean, seriously, where else would the bottle go, except across the bay? If I had any sense I would have gone to the other side of Cape Cod and tossed it into the ocean. Then maybe the tide would have carried it to Ireland, or Portugal, or at least Nova Scotia.
       But the reality of the story is that I sent a message in a bottle one day, and someone found it and sent me a letter back. How often does something like that happen, anyway? With all the flotsam and jetsam bobbing about in the oceans these days, who would even care to look inside a bottle? And the fact that the bottle made it to shore without breaking on a rock is a miracle itself, even if it just traveled to the other side of the bay.
       I didn't appreciate that miracle back then. But I do today. And perhaps I will send another message out and see what happens. But maybe not in a bottle. That would be littering.

A Winter Tipi

      
       This weekend, Bruce and I put up a tipi in our backyard that we intend to sleep in this winter. I should say, rather, Bruce put up the tipi while I offered words of encouragement and took photos. The tipi was one that Bruce crafted nearly 25 years ago. The poles are cyprus and bamboo that he cut himself, and the cover is one that he designed and pieced together with his mother, Bobbye. Some of it is even hand-stitched, and it has real buttonhole closures, and funky vintage buttons. Bruce, an elementary school teacher, originally made the tipi as a Thanksgiving project for his students back in the 1980s.
       After the tipi was erected, I covered the ground inside with a plastic tarp, then a piece of canvas, then a quilt, for warmth and comfort. Today I plan to add a lambskin rug, some pillows, more quilts, and a few homey touches, like a battery operated lantern, a stack of books, and I'm even thinking about bringing out my tiny backpacking stove so that I can make tea.
       This morning it was nice to get out of bed and see the tipi standing beneath the pine trees, while the sun was coming up. If I can get the inside of the tipi to my liking today, tonight will be our first night sleeping in there. Some people think it's strange that people in their mid-fifties would want to sleep in the backyard. But there are several very reasonable explanations for this. First of all, state parks are up to $30 per night, and we'd have to drive at least 45 minutes to get to one. And we'd have to lug everything over there, only to realize that we have left something vital behind. Also, as the tipi is just a few hundred feet from the house, we're just seconds away from a flush toilet, a hot shower, a sizzling steak, and liquor.

 

      
       If I was nine years old and wanted to spend the winter sleeping in a tipi, my parents would have locked me in my bedroom. If I was ninety and sleeping in a tipi, my children would send me to a nursing home. At 56 years old, I'm going to spend the winter in a tipi, simply because I can.

 

 

Almost-As-Good-As-Ikea Swedish Meatballs

      

       Let’s say I wanted to open up a furniture and home accessory store, plus a café that sells little meatballs. You’d think I was crazy, right? But that’s what Ikea has done. And with forty eight retail stores across the country and new ones popping up everywhere, they’re doing something right. I’ve never been to an Ikea store; the closest one is in Orlando, five hours away. And as I don’t need any furniture, I can’t see driving that far to buy little meatballs.

       But I want their meatballs, because everyone is talking about them. Tasty, tiny Swedish meatballs in a cream gravy, served with whipped potatoes and lingonberries. The word on the street is Ikea is not giving up their secret meatball recipe, but after a lot of research I believe I can make some almost-as-good-as-Ikea Swedish meatballs. Friends of mine who are fortunate enough to have eaten the little gems claim the meatballs have a velvety, smooth texture and a certain flavor that is different from other American-style meatballs.
       There are some key ingredients that need to be included. The meatballs should be made with a combination of ground beef and pork, and if you can get a butcher to grind the meat finer than usual, that would be a plus. The other ingredient found in real Swedish meatballs is rusk. Rusk is a little toast, similar to Zweiback, the little biscuits shoved into the mouths of teething infants. You can find rusk at nearly any grocery store. The rusk should be finely ground in a food processor, so that it practically turns into flour. Regular breadcrumbs do not work in this recipe. There’s something about the flavor of rusk that cannot be imitated.
       Another necessary ingredient is mashed potatoes. That adds to the smooth texture of the meatballs. And the last secret ingredient is allspice. It adds a subtle flavor that makes these meatballs so special. The sauce for the meatballs is simply brown gravy mixed with heavy cream. I have plenty of homemade brown gravy in my freezer, leftover from other meals, but you could use canned brown gravy successfully for this recipe, if you don’t have time to make your own.
       The meatballs are always served with lingonberries, a staple in Scandinavian cooking, and naturally I can’t find them anywhere in my town. But lingonberries are similar to cranberries – they are tiny and tart, so I’ve decided to serve cranberry sauce with them instead.
       Are my Swedish meatballs as good as Ikea’s? I don’t know about that, but they were delicious. Someday I hope to visit a real Ikea store and see what all the fuss is about, but in the meantime, I’ll stick with my outdated furniture and home accessories, and my almost-as-good-as-Ikea Swedish meatball recipe.

 

Almost-As-Good-As-Ikea Swedish Meatballs

Ingredients:

1 small onion, finely minced

1 tablespoon butter

2/3 lb lean ground beef

1/3 lb lean ground pork

1/2 cup finely mashed potatoes, no lumps allowed

½ cup finely ground rusk

1 egg, well beaten

¼ cup milk

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon black pepper

½ teaspoon allspice

Butter for sautéing meatballs

10 ounces beef gravy mixed with ½ cup heavy cream

Directions:

Saute onions in butter gently until soft and translucent. Add next nine ingredients, and mix gently with your hands. Form into tiny meatballs. Saute meatballs in butter, or alternatively you can drizzle them with butter and bake them in the oven until cooked through. Heat the gravy and cream mixture and pour over the meatballs right before serving.

What's in a Name?

       A few people have asked me why I call my blog Girl Hobo, and what does that mean? It began when I was a very young girl. All of my childhood friends wanted to be ballet dancers and astronauts when they grew up, but I wanted to be a hobo. I dreamed of stowing away on freight trains and traveling the world. One Halloween, I dressed up like a hobo, with a black hat, red nose, and a sooty overcoat. I didn't know back then that the life of a hobo was sad and lonely, at best, that hobos were hungry most of the time, and not well respected by the general population. It seemed like an exciting life for a dreamy, little girl growing up in a small agricultural town in New England. I read a lot of books about adventurous children, including "My Side of the Mountain," which at one point prompted me to build a fort in the woods behind my house where I spent a scary night completely alone, telling my mother I was staying down the street at a girlfriend's house. But that is another story.
       In 2006 I decided to take a stab at thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail with several of my friends, and one of the things you must do is to take on a trail name. The name is important for several reasons - first of all it gives you anonymity, and protects your privacy. It also puts you on a level playing field with other hikers. You may all be different ages and from different backgrounds, but you all have a silly trail name, and it's a great way not to take yourself too seriously.

Above, Wild Poodle and Girl Hobo hiking on Cumberland Island, GA,
 below, All Right and Half Left on the Appalachian Trail.

 

       My friend Jane Bailey is the one who named me Girl Hobo. Others approved of the name, so it stuck, and for the past six years it has become my alter ego. Most people who start on the Appalachian Trail have already named themselves, but some have not. For those folks, they will take on a name that someone else gives them while on the trail. For instance, my friend Cindy, who was single at the time, wore a visor that said "Magic" on it. At one point she left the trail to get water and didn't come back for a long time - she had gotten lost. Finally she returned, just as we were all sick with worry, and when she approached the campsite everyone yelled, "Yay!! There's Magic!!" Whew! So that name stuck with her, until she got married a couple of years later, and she and her husband hiked the Appalachian Trail with the monikers, All Right and Half Left. But more about them in another blog post.
       My other friend Roger needed a name, so I named him Sherpa, in the hopes that he would volunteer to carry all of my stuff while we were on the AT. I discovered, however, that Roger does not fall easily for female trickery, although on another excursion through the Osceola National Forest he did carry an entire jar of peanut butter and two dozen granola bars in an act of gallantry. Another acquaintance named Paula is called the Iron Maiden because she drives a motorcycle when she is not hiking on trails. My hiking pal Barbara calls herself Wild Poodle, a nickname given to her by her late husband Tom. When she was in a stressed out, frenetic state, he would sigh and say to her, "Such is the plight of the Wild Poodle." It's a perfect name for her, although nowadays we just call her WP.
       Sometimes a hiker will name themselves, but will get renamed while on the trail for something stupid they have done. This summer I met a young British fellow, Patrick, while I was hiking the AT in Virginia. He was named Wrong Way because he accidentally hiked back down the mountain he had just come up. He tried to shake the name, but to no avail. (Trail people can be ruthless bullies.) Another hiker, a doctor named Buffington from Florida, was attempting to rig up a bear bag by throwing a rope with a rock attached to it, over a high tree limb. The rock came back at him and hit him in the head, quite hard, in fact, so to this day he is named Bear Bag.
       There are hundreds of stories like these, and for more of them, I would suggest you visit www.trailjournals.com. All Right and Half Left have written about their recent adventures on Trail Journals, and when I read their posts, I feel like I'm hiking right along with them! If you were hiking the Appalachian Trail, what would your trail name be?

Sleeping at the Granby Motel

       The Granby Motel is located on Salmon Brook Street in my hometown of Granby, CT, and has been there for as long as I can remember. Considered a dump back in the 70s, its rooms were still always full of traveling salesman, truckers, and tourists who took an unfortunate wrong turn off the main highway, finding themselves with no other place to sleep. My friend Debi worked there cleaning guest rooms while she was in high school. Another high school chum, Beth, recalls attending a party in one of the shabby rooms, and it must have been a pretty good party, because there was not much else to remember about it.
       I visit Granby every year when I go up to New England, and try to see as many friends as I can while I'm there. This year I had lunch with my first grade teacher, Shirley Ryan, attended the Farmer's Market with my friend Lenny DeGray, went  hiking with Bill Rogers, (brother of Debi, who used to clean the rooms) and then headed over to the Cambridge House to have dinner with girlfriends I have known for over 40 years.
       Usually I stay with a friend or relative while in Connecticut, but as I drove into my old stomping grounds this time, my rental car went straight over to the Granby Motel. Knowing it was an utterly ridiculous idea to stay there, I convinced myself that it was the practical thing to do at the time. It was right down the street from the restaurant, it would give me some time to myself, and I wouldn't have to mooch off my usual cronies. When I went to the office to check in and get my key, the motel owner, who was from India, gave me a card to fill out, with a space to write in my credit card number. I shook my head, no way am I leaving my credit card number laying around the Granby Motel. I asked him to please run it through the machine, as we modern business owners do these days. He grumbled a bit and pulled the dusty credit card machine out from under the counter.  I guess most of their customers pay with cash.
       I smelled Indian food wafting through the office. "What are you cooking back there?" I asked. "It smells delicious." "Indian food, " he says, without looking at me. "What kind of Indian food? " I ask again. "Indian food," he says as he hands me the key, a bored look on his face. I grab the key and walk down the sidewalk to my room. The first fiasco of the day, or perhaps it's the second if you call the credit card thing the first fiasco, is that the key doesn't work in the lock. There is a young girl cleaning one of the other rooms and she helps me with the key, jiggling it around in the lock for several minutes until the door finally opens. I make a mental note not to have any drinks at the restaurant that night, as I would never be able to get back into the room.
       I step into my room at the Granby Motel, for the very first time. Heavens, if the motel was a dump back in the 70s, in 2012 it is a shit-hole, at best. The place is clean, though, I can smell bleach and Comet, and some sort of disinfectant normally used at nursing homes. But the room itself and everything in it is probably 50 years old. (And even if you vacuum or steam clean a 50-year old thread-bare carpet, it's still a 50 year old carpet.) Excited to see just how more awful the motel can get, I wander around the room, checking every little thing. And not to my surprise, each item in the motel was either broken, soiled, or battered beyond belief.
       The television came on but I could not change the channels. The fluorescent lights were yellow and dim. The lamps over the beds were missing light bulbs. The beds were lumpy. The sheets were clean, but incredibly dingy. The pillows were so flat and lifeless, that when stacked upon each other, they were no taller than four slices of Wonder bread. The fossilized air conditioner was too high up on the wall for me to reach. The upholstered chairs were covered with horrible stains of God-knows-what-and-I -don't-want-to-know-what. In the bathroom, the right sink faucet didn't work. The left one did but there was no hot water coming out of it. The toilet seat was broken. The bathtub drain was clogged. The windows wouldn't open. The crumbling ceiling left flakes of plaster in the bottom of the tub. The mirror was glazed over with years of reflected morning-after hangovers. And if the main part of the motel room was dim, the bathroom lights were so bright I felt like I was in an interrogation room at a police station.
       But there were two good things about the Granby Motel, besides its convenient location. There was a lovely backyard, that was off-limits to customers. But I went back there anyway after dark, to watch the moon rise behind the pine trees, and mostly to kill time while I was getting up the nerve to sleep in the lumpy bed. And the other good thing was that staying at the Granby Motel gave me something fun to write about when I got home from my trip.
       So that's what I'm doing right now.

MagnoliaFest 2012

    
       After four days of music, camping, partying, and an epic rainstorm, Bruce and I are back from Magnolia Fest, unscathed. We had a great time at the Suwannee River Music Park in Live Oak, FL, and met a lot of interesting folks. And here is how it all went down. We arrived on Thursday night and set up our tents. Our friends from Jacksonville had already set up the "primitive" campsite, that included a bar, kitchen, campfire, and music jam area. Oh yes, and a large hammock, because nap-taking is a must when you stay up until 2 a.m. Music began on Thursday night with Canary in the Coalmine, who received rousing applause from concert goers. Thursday's highlight, though, was Mosier Brothers at 9 p.m., fronted by Jeff Mosier on banjo and Johnny Mosier on guitar. After that concert we hung out at the campsite and played music until the wee hours of the morning. At around 4 a.m., we were awakened by a monumental thunderstorm that flooded our campsite. Although we all managed to get some more shut eye after the storm, there was a lot of clean up to do the next morning.
       On Friday we spent much of the day wandering around the festival, checking out the bands playing at the various venues around the park. As you would expect, there are a lot of food vendors, and a favorite is The Solar Cafe, whose vegetarian food is powered by the sun (well, their electricity is, anyway) and served by super cute girls. A carton of stir fry noodles with peanut sauce hit the spot for me. They also make smoothies and homemade lemonade sweetened with maple syrup. Best bands that day were Grandpa's Cough Medicine, whose devilish blend of blood and beer-soaked orginal music has been rocking Atlantic Beach for several years. Del McCoury Band and Emmylou Harris were also a big hit on the ampitheater stage that night.

 

      
       On Saturday morning we attended a New Orleans-style parade, led by Tornado Rider's cello-wielding Rushad Eggelston and a myriad of colorful characters including our own friends, Cristy and Wendell Holmes from Jacksonville. I spent a good part of the day seeing various bands while my friends hung out at the campsite, playing music. I especially liked Sloppy Joe, a bluegrass/hillbilly-style band with great song lyrics and traditional instruments. Favorites on Saturday were Tornado Rider, Donna the Buffalo, and of course, Bonnie Raitt, whose late night concert in the meadow sent me to my tent, exhausted from the day's activities.

 

      
        On Sunday morning, Practice World Peace Yoga was held in the meadow, where I witnessed a girl stand on her head for nearly 45 minutes, while I sipped coffee on the sidelines, ready to head back to civilization. Sunday's concerts run from noon until 8 p.m., but many of us packed up and drove home after breakfast. Four days of music and fun is great, but the clean up and unpacking is a dreary chore. Perhaps next year we'll take Monday off. Did I say next year?

First Time Music Festival

       I'm 56 years old and have never been to  large music festival, with the exception of the New Orleans Jazz Festival, which doesn't count for my purposes here, since my companion and I stayed in a five star hotel and drank champagne for breakfast. I'm talking about a camping-out, four-day festival with thousands of other folks all doing the same, listening to bands, dancing, and partying. This afternoon I'm headed out to Magnolia Fest, located at the Suwanee Music Park, in Live Oak, FL, and after I finish writing this blog entry, it's time to do some last minute packing and go.

 

     
       I'm not sure what to expect, so I've based it all on what I've heard about Woodstock. I'm picturing round-the-clock folk music and a certain amount of playful pandemonium, including skinny dipping in the Suwanee River, and pot-smoking around the campfire. I've packed my peace sign tea shirt and my grubbiest bell bottom jeans, hoping to blend in as best I can. Many of my friends are attending the festival, and they've promised to show me the ropes.
       My beau, Bruce has purchased the tickets, thankfully, which were a whopping $325 for two people. But when you consider the artists appearing there this year, that's a bargain. Musicians include Bonnie Raitt, Emmylou Harris, Donna The Buffalo, Paul Barberre and Fred Tackett of Little Feat, and nearly fifty more bands. Whew, that's quite a round up of music.
       There are cabins to rent on the premises, which some of my friends are taking advantage of, but Bruce and I are primitive camping with a few other people, and since this group attends the festival every year, they know what they're doing. The key is, from what I can surmise, is to get there early, set up your camp right away, and don't bring a lot of cooking equipment, because we are there to hear music, not to be grill chefs, nor dishwashers. And I'm all for that. A few finger foods liked cheese, crackers, nuts, cookies, and deviled eggs are tucked away in our coolers, along with seltzer and orange juice. There are vendors at the festival that can feed us if we get really lazy.
       Another perk of this festival is that most of our friends are also musicians, and those who don't play an instrument love to sing. So in between music sets we'll be jamming. Bruce and I have already gathered guitars, mandolins, ukuleles, banjos, and harmonicas, lined up and ready to go into the van when he gets home from work.
       I'll try to post some photos from our first day at Mag Fest tomorrow, if I can get some free WiFi while we're there. In the meantime, peace and love to all!

Fun at the Fair

       Tomorrow is the opening of the Northeast Florida Fair, held in Callahan, FL, (my fair city) and since I just moved to Callahan this year, aren't I lucky that I live right down the road? Yesterday morning I stopped by the fairgrounds to interview a gentleman about the rodeo that's going on next weekend. (More about that later.) The place was a flurry of activity as everyone was getting ready for the opening - putting out tables, decorating booths, and setting up midway rides. And although I won't be attending the fair this weekend because I'm going to a folk festival (more about that later) I will be sure to head over to the fair as soon as I get home.
       Last month I attended the Big E, which is a nickname for Eastern States Exposition, the largest fair of its kind held in New England. Springfield, MA, to be exact. I met my daughter, her hubby, and my grandaughter there, for part of our family vacation together. For my relatives, going to the fair is not about midway rides. In fact, we don't even venture to that section of the fairground, which is enormous, by the way. We are all about fair food, farm animals, and agricultural displays. At the Big E, there are huge buildings set up in a charming town square, each one designated for a state. The states proudly display their own specialties, with food and craft booths, and also informational kiosks. So if you go into the Vermont building you can eat maple cotton candy, watch a quilt being stitched together, and learn how to get rid of invasive insect species, all in one convenient location.
       Anyone who knows how I operate wouldn't dare get in the way of me and a piece of fried dough, and in New England, we eat fried dough with pizza sauce and cheese, rather than sugar, like they do in the South. And my fried dough at the Big E was delicious, as usual, washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. But wait, there's more, as we spent the whole day at the fair, and appetites run big when you're pushing around a baby stroller for seven hours.

       We then moved onto corn dogs, that we bought at a local vendor just outside of the state buildings. These gems are all-beef hot dogs, hand-dipped in corn batter, not the frozen variety, and my son-in-law, Jason ordered one that was the size of a yard stick.  Later we tried the giant pickles from a real pickle barrel - these are naturally brined, unprocessed pickles with lots of garlic and vinegar. My daughter Avery's favorite, as you can see by the photo I took of her.
       While we were eating fair food, we strolled around the entire fair, which is why we go there in the first place, to see the 4-H projects, arts and crafts, fruits and vegetables, sheep-shearing, horse-showing, and more, including some great music that included an authentic steel drum band from New Hampshire. And by the end of the day, after our tummies were full of chocolate-covered bacon and homemade birch beer, we were happy that the fair comes around only once a year.
       Except in my case, twice a year. Look out Northeast Florida Fair, here I come.

A Found Poem

       Yesterday I was going through some greeting cards and things that belonged to my mother. I have an old, decorated cosmetic suitcase where I keep that sort of memorabilia. I wasn't looking for anything particular, but I came across a manila envelope with my name on it. Inside was a stack of poems that I wrote when I was in high school.
       My, I was a terrible poet, but certainly I was prolific when I was 16. I was surprised that my mother saved these, as there are other creative endeavors I am more proud of, like the lanyard  I made at 4-H Camp, and the pipe cleaner Christmas ornaments my brother and I made when we were in grammer school. When I saw those poems, I cringed, knowing that I would have to read them. And so I did.
       It was a painful process, to go back and remember that teenage angst I felt, and how I must have thought that putting pen to paper would somehow quell those emotions. Well, that was forty years ago, and we've all come a long way since then. But one particular poem deemed worthy to put into my blog today, especially because it is timely, even today. It's called The Election.

The Election

His hands are damp from touching others' in phoney haste
Shiny teeth radiating from a mouthful of promises
Small babies get a swift kiss, then cry from their carriages
Waiting for the world he'll make better.

Signs twist and twine their way through streets
Elephants stampeding
Donkies in herds
All wearing striped hats
Praising, promising, cursing, degrading
Words like rocks are hurled
Battling, attacking, one against one, brother against brother

All ends on an eve of late.
The victor stands alone.

Funny, not much has changed since 1972, has it? Hope everyone has some time to watch the presidential debates tonight. And be sure to get out there and vote.

Is it Stealing?

       Last week I posted something on Facebook about how I started taking packets of sugar and Splenda from restaurants like my Aunt Irene used to do. See, my Aunt Irene grew up during the Great Depression and anything that she could get for free was to be coveted, especially things like sugar. However, my dear aunt did not fill up her purse with sugar packets; she only took two per each cup of coffee she drank, since she drank her coffee without sugar. She felt that she was entitled to the sugar, so that made it okay. My aunt had thousands of sugar packages spilling out of drawers and closets in her home, along with tiny cups of jam, peanut butter, salt, and pepper. My aunt and uncle went to restaurants nearly every day. Which made me wonder why in heavens name did she have to steal sugar packages when she had all this money to eat out? But I digress...
       My original point was that I started doing this, too, and I wondered why. Even though I don't have a full time job, I can still afford to buy Splenda now and then. And when I posted my queries on the social network, I had a gazillion (exaggeration, I just like the word gazillion) reponses from other people about stuff they take at restaurants. Some of the favorites are honey packets, wet naps, plastic forks and knives, mini-moos (the little cups of half and half), and other condiments like mustard, mayonnaise, and hot sauce. Most of the comments from my friends expressed delight over having received these items for free. And I guess I'm pretty delighted over free stuff, too.
       I used to own a restaurant and I suppose I wouldn't care if my customers purloined a few mustard or sugar packets. I mean, if they're paying for a $10 lunch, I can turn a blind eye to the kidnapped mini-moos jostling around in their purses. But if every single customer took three or four of these items every day, maybe that would be a problem.
       I think we just like getting things for free. And things that make our lives easier - a packet of honey to use in your tea while you're on the road, a packet of hot sauce to flavor your ramen noodles while on a backpacking trip. And lots of Splenda. Because you can never have too much Splenda.

Amelia Island Jazz Festival Features David Benoit and Spyro Gyra

       “The 2012 Les DeMerle Amelia Island Jazz Festival is swingin’ hard this year – the jazz is smooth and in the groove,” according to artistic director Les DeMerle. The festival is celebrating its 9^th year on Amelia Island, with astonishing and acclaimed music and artists. The week-long event, which wraps up this weekend, has grown so dramatically that most of the concerts and events this year will be take place at the Festival’s new partner, the Omni Resorts Amelia Island Plantation.
       Multiple Grammy Award nominated jazz-fusion artists Spyro Gyra and contemporary pianist David Benoit are set to headline this year’s festival. A hugely successful and internationally acclaimed group which has sold over ten million albums since its 1977 inception, Spyro Gyra will appear Saturday, October 13, at the Omni Resorts Amelia Island Plantation. 2012 marks 35 years since their first album release; their newest album, A Foreign Affair, was released in September 2011, and features a collection of world music done in Spyro Gyra’s innovative style. Formed out of Buffalo, New York’s fertile jazz scene by saxophonist Jay Beckenstein, Spyro Gyra quickly made a name for itself by creating a distinctive style that sounded like nothing before it. Beckenstein is pleased to bring the group to Amelia Island for the festival this year. “This is my first trip to Amelia Island and I’m very excited to see a place I’ve heard is so lovely. History being my hobby, I’m also looking forward to seeing a place so rich in history,” said Beckenstein.

 

       David Benoit will appear on Friday, October 12, also at the Omni. His expansive career as a highly regarded jazz pianist has included over 25 solo recordings. His ‘80s releases This Side Up, Freedom at Midnight and the Grammy nominated Every Step of the Way are regarded critically as jazz-fusion classics. Benoit has also penned notable film scores such as The Stars Fell on Henrietta, produced by Clint Eastwood, and starring Robert Duvall. Heavily influenced by Vince Guaraldi, Benoit coincidently performed and recorded with DeMerle’s 1970s fusion band, Transfusion. Both Spyro Gyra and David Benoit will perform in the Omni’s tented pavilion area in Racquet Park.
       For more information visit: www.ameliaislandjazzfestival.com.