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.

 

The Art of Dining on Amelia Island

       This summer I worked on a project for a talented artist from Memphis named Joy Bateman. She was working on her 5th book, a cookbook called the The Art of Dining on Amelia Island. Joy visited many of the restaurants on the island, procured their "secret" recipes, and drew pictures of their food, ingredients, and their establishments. My job was to take the recipes she received, and type them up into a standard recipe form, plus make sure the ingredients and preparation were correct. Basically, I had the easy part. Joy did all the schlepping around town, made all the contacts, created all the artwork, and even wrote commentaries about the restaurants, bakeries, bed & breakfasts, and their owners.

 
        Then when she returned to Memphis she worked with her graphics person to compile it all, proof it, and send it out to the printer. And all while she works full time as an account executive for Memphis Magazine! She is a busy woman, and I admire her spunk and boundless energy. I believe she even takes her sketch book to bed as she is determined to make her deadline, making sure that every detail is covered, and each drawing is perfect.
       As Joy premieres her new book, Amelia Island's Friends of the Library will sponsor a presentation and dinner at Slider's Seaside Grill, one of the book's featured restaurants, on Thursday, November 15 at 6 p.m. The next night, Friday, November 16, the Book Loft on Centre Street will sponsor a book release party, featuring food and wine from local eateries, 5:30 - 8 p.m. Bateman will be available to sign copies of her book at both events.
       "Perhaps because Amelia Island is so intimate and unique, it has grown very dear to my heart," says Joy. "The people make all the difference. Amelia Island has a community to be proud of - great cuisine and kind people. As a foodie and food writer, what more could one ask for?"
       For more information about Joy's Amelia Island book and the others she has written, visit her web site at: www.joysartofdining.com.
      

Going Back

       Last night I read a little known short story by Mark Twain called The Farm. In the story, Twain describes in explicit detail his Uncle John's farm and some of his childhood experiences visiting the farm during the summer. It wasn't his best story-telling, but his description was so meticulous that I felt as if I was there myself. I thought it would be a great writing exercise to choose a place that I remember, and write a description of it, since writing elaborate detail is one of my shortcomings.
       I decided on my mother-in-law's home in Granville, MA, a place that is most familiar to me. I love the fact that Rose, the Miller matriarch, has kept the house nearly exactly the same over the years. The center chimney salt box house was built in the 1700s, and it is filled with antiques and handmade furniture, folk art, and whimsy. As I began jotting down details of the family home, though, I was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of loss and sadness, even though I have wonderful memories of her house.
       Just a month ago I visited New England, and stopped in to see Rose in Granville, along with my ex-husband, Byard, who has recently moved back to town to be closer to his mother. I have always loved to go back to her house, which to me is kind of like the Catholic church, in that it is always the same, and comforting to me. But this time I was renitent as I walked into a house I had always felt a part of. Certainly there were things in the house that I had given her, as her daughter-in-law; a pair of tiny, hand-stenciled geese, a folksy painting that she claims looks like my sister Laurie, photographs of my children. There are pieces of Shaker doll furniture, hand crafted by her late husband, Hank. Hand hooked and braided rugs that Rose made with scraps of winter coats. Numerous collections of bricabrac, a wooden bowl filled with vintage buttons, and so many other things too numerous to name. All things that had embraced me and made me feel that I was part of the family.
       I was with my husband for 18 years, and although there were many unhappy things that happened that lead to our break up, we are still friends, and can still recount years of happiness with our children, family, and friends. But on this visit, as I sat in the summer room where Rose entertains most of her visitors in the warmer months, the voices of my ex-husband and mother-in-law took on a drone effect. The room and house started spinning, around and around like the passage of time, and I realized that I had somehow been peeled off from that timeline. And everything had changed, almost overnight. So as I smiled and made small talk with the two, I realized I could never be part of what they had, this house, and this life. Because for all the years my husband and I had together, and even more time that we had apart, he was moving home all along. And I was moving away.

A Mysterious Flag

       A couple of days ago I was to meet my friend Terry for lunch, but discovered he was at the dentist, having lost a cap from one his back teeth. He asked me to find something to do for an hour or so, and I drove over to St. Peter's Episcopal Church. I am a member there, although I haven't been participating in church recently, but thought I might sit in the parish hall and read, or maybe play the piano. But my car stopped abruptly in front the cemetery, so that's where I decided to spend my hour.
       The cemetery is beautiful, loaded with history; the tombstones are ornate and weathered. Live oak trees draped with Spanish moss loom over the cemetery like an umbrella, while rays of sunlight shine here and there through the trees. It was a lovely autumn day. I walked through the older part of the cemetery over to the children's garden, a place where there are benches to sit on. In the center is the Christmas Box Angel, a sculpture that pays homage to the lost children.
       As I sat on a bench, I was distracted by some movement to my right, and when I turned my head I saw a confederate flag, a large one, flapping around. Unfurling, I should say, as if it was hanging low on a flagpole and suddenly a breeze came up and caused the flag to wave about. This was happening behind the largest live oak tree. I had never noticed the flag before, so as I was already distracted I decided to venture to the other side of the tree to see where this flag was hanging.
       As I came around the path to the place I assumed the flag to be, I was surprised to see nothing. No confederate flag, no flag pole. Just more graves, stones and paths. And I realized that I had experienced some sort of apparition. This was not something I had imagined, nor was I dreaming. This was a real flag, and I vaguely recall that I heard it flapping in the breeze. I looked around and saw many smaller confederate flags that were placed on the graves of some of the soldiers there. I wandered though the cemetery, looking at every grave, wondering what the flag meant, and what had brought me here in the first place.
      This was three days ago, and today I'm going to stop by the cemetery again. There is something that I have missed, some reason that I saw that flag, apparition or not. A mystery, indeed.

Violin Lessons

       About three months ago I began playing the violin, something I have procrastinated about for over 40 years. I took piano lessons as a child, and although I very much wanted to learn the violin, there was no orchestra in our town, nor any teachers nearby.
       I suppose I didn't have to wait so long to play one -I played other instruments, why not the fiddle? But now that I'm taking lessons and practicing 15 hours per week, I realize that mastering the violin is like caring for a child - it takes a lot of time, dedication and patience. And since I'm not gainfully employed right now, I do have more time to practice than the average person.
       One of the things that drives me is that I have a lot of years to make up for. Not like I intend to play in a symphony orchestra, but I want to play well enough so that I could sit in on a music jam without people sneering at me. I also remember that uneasy feeling in my stomach I used to get when I went to my piano lesson unprepared. I hated the way my teacher would look at me with disdain, and how guilty I would feel about playing with my friends instead of practicing my scales.
       My teacher, Kris Mandrick, is a kind and patient instructor who encourages me with every lesson. When I think I can't possibly play a piece better because I don't have the natural ability, she shows me a technique to work on, and suddenly it sounds better. And although when I'm practicing at home I feel like my violin sounds terrible, I suddenly improve when I show up for my lesson. Kris and I are playing several classical duets together, plus some bluegrass, and a couple of waltzes - a little bit of everything to round out my musical portfolio.
       Each lesson, Kris tells me that my violin must find its voice. That I should not be discouraged, that voice will come. This is something I have never heard of before. Doesn't an instrument sound only as good as the musician who plays it? Well certainly that is part of it, but apparently, a violin matures as it is played, and the sound developes as the musician developes. No two violins sound the same, even if they were crafted by the same luthier. Part of that depends on environment, too. My violin might sound different if I was playing it in New Hampshire rather than Florida.
       Yesterday, Kris congratulated me. "Your violin is finding its voice! Can you hear it?" We played a traditional fiddle tune called Soldiers Joy, with Kris accompanying me on guitar. I messed up a lot of the notes because it's a new song, and we played it pretty fast, but she was right. The violin was singing in its own voice!
       Happily, I am determined to practice my scales more often, and find my own voice in music, with guidance from Kris and my own violin, that has developed a personality all its own. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, "Take a music bath once or twice a week for a few seasons. You will find it is to the soul what a water bath is to the body."
  
      

Shenandoah Memories

       A couple of nights ago I dreamt about the Shenandoah River, the place where it converges with the Potomac, in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I visited there this summer, arriving at the confluence of the two rivers on foot, while my friend Bruce and I were hiking on the Appalachian Trail. In my dream, the bridge we crossed was rickety and frightening, the waters below were dark and seething. I woke up shaking.
       In reality, my trip to Harpers Ferry and the Shenandoah was a wonderful experience. The expanse of water at that place is monumental, for sure. I imagined what pioneers must have thought upon arriving at that same location. With no bridges to cross it, it must have seemed impossible. At Harper's Ferry I met up with my friends Cindy and Tom, who were also hiking on the Appalachian Trail. We had a meal together, and then said goodbye on the trestle bridge that took them back on their path, going north to Maine. Later in the summer, they would make it all the way to New Hampshire before they returned to Jacksonville, FL, their home.
       Bruce and I got off the trail in Harpers Ferry and decided to canoe a section of the mighty Shenandoah. We rented a canoe that took us from Luray, VA, all the way to Front Royal, about 40 miles. We took our camping equipment, lots of food and water, and headed north. The river is wide, deep in some places, shallow in others. Their are many homes along the way, other areas that are pasture, forest, and cliffs. A couple of class II rapids kept us on the edge of our seats, but for the most part, the paddle was enjoyable, and easy. One of the things I loved was pulling the canoe to the bank, and jumping in the water to take a swim. It was summer, hot as hell, and that cold water was a welcome treat. We set up camps along the way, mostly at designated areas. The trip took us three days.
       I guess the reason I've been thinking about the Shenandoah recently, is that while we were in Harpers Ferry, the river seemed so big and unapproachable. Yet when we set out on our canoe trip, and we got up close and personal to the Shenandoah River, it was not at all as I had imagined. It was a friendly river, quiet, tranquil, and just plain beautiful, home to all sorts of birds, fish, and wildlife.
       And like a lot of what happens to us in life, when we cozy up to what frightens us, we realize that our fear is often unfounded. And wouldn't it be a shame not to paddle that river, or climb that mountain, or take that journey that might take us out of our comfort zone for a little while.

Me and Cindy saying goodbye on the trestle bridge in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. She and her husband Tom continued on the Appalachian Trail all the way to New Hampshire this summer.

Perception or Reality?

       Yesterday all the planets lined up for me. It's nice when that happens. Job hunting went well; I have several leads, plus I received five new writing assignments. The thing is, when there are clouds, there is usually rain, and rain is good for growth.
       After the "hunt" I met Bruce at the house and we headed out to a music jam at Woody's Barbecue in Yulee, where we like to play music and hang out with our friends. Me on ukulele, Bruce on guitar and mandolin. Most of the musicians are far better than me, and that helps me improve my skills. We left the jam a little early, in order to go home and listen to Electro Lounge, one of my favorite public radio shows. Last night host David Luckin featured rare Dylan and Elvis recordings. Yeah.
       But the highlight of my day was when I stopped into a local convenience store to get gas. Never a beloved task as I watch my PT Cruiser slowly suck the money out of my dwindling checking account. But as I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed an elderly woman pumping gas into her beat up, red pickup truck. She must have been nearly 90 years old. I don't know much about trucks, but hers was one of those monstrous, gas-guzzling road hogs, one that I would be scared to drive because it was just too big.
      Her husband sat in the passenger seat, slack-jawed and unblinking. He was probably older than she was. I imagined he must have been living in her shadow for 60 or 70 years, at least. The thing about this woman was that if you didn't see her face and grey hair, she otherwise looked like a teenager. She was dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers. She pumped her gas without squinting at the gas pump screen, swiping her credit card like a pro. Then when she was done, she scrambled up into her truck in the manner that a kid climbs up a jungle gym. She unrolled her car window, started the truck, and drove out of the gas station, her left elbow hanging out the window like a cocky adolescent.
       That scene at the convenience store was a gift. I admired her spunk, her independence. I secretly wanted to be her. Maybe not right now, but 30 years from now. Is age a reality, or a perception? For one fleeting moment, I considered that growing older wasn't so bad after all.
      

Job Hunting

       There are so many reasons not to look for a job, and I've invented most of them. I don't have anything to wear. I must lose five pounds. I need to get a haircut. I have to write a new resume. I'm too old. I'm too short. I have no skills. I have a sore toe. Yes, all of these things are good reasons to hide in my office day after day.
       When I first left the catering business and moved to the country, I walked the cottonfield every day, or trekked to the railroad tracks to watch the trains go by. I was relieved not to be working, and found beauty in little things in my environment - a flower, a swarm of tiny insects, an armadillo that was ruining my garden, coyotes howling in the evening. The sun seemed brighter, the air cleaner. It was like living in a brand, new world.
     But all of that goes away quickly when you run out of money and there's no one to talk to all day long. And you get so caught up in your own little bubble that the world keeps spinning around without you, and you wonder how that could be possible.
       It's humbling, for sure. So yesterday, I got out of my pajamas and wrote a resume. Not a brilliant one, but at least all the words are spelled properly. Then I searched my closet and found a pair of black pants and suit jacket that could pass as job-hunting attire. Then I made a list of places that I could apply for work. All of those tasks took about two hours. I spent the rest of the day sick with dread.
       But this morning, I'm feeling pretty good, and thinking about all the things that have come to me without my asking for them. A beautiful sunset. A smile from a stranger. My grandchildren. Incredible things that happen every day without doing anything to actually make them happen. So as I go out and look for work today, I think of the possibilities out there, and with some effort on my part, I know I will find my place in the world.

Beside The Cottonfield

       There are so many things I could be doing right now. Like cleaning my house. Or looking for a real job. Or practicing the violin that I purchased with my already-busting-at-the-seams credit card. But I chose to start a blog instead, simply because it feels right to do so.
       A few months ago I closed down my failing catering business of eight years to do something else. What that was, I can't remember. I suppose I thought I could make a living as a freelance writer, but that's not working out so well. I thought the freedom of not being a small business owner would afford me a new life, and a new purpose thereof. The life is new, certainly; living beside a cottonfield in North Florida is something I have never done before. The purpose has not made itself clear yet, but I hold the belief that there must be purpose in everything we do.
       As I search for my purpose, I yearn to write things - stories, music, poetry, plays. It would probably be in my best interest to write the Great American Resume, instead of the Great American Novel. But I believe there is time for all of that. In the meantime, if you are interested, please read my blog to see how I'm doing. Like a friend who checks in on his wierdo neighbor now and then. I will make us some tea.