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.