In Vino Veritas?

It all started with a glass of red wine. 

My sister, Lisa, visited last week, and on Saturday night, we planned a big country supper: barbecued ribs, fried okra, corn on the cob, squash with onions, and cucumber salad.  More than the two of us could eat, I invited my friend Pat, who lives in the cabin up the hill.

Pat and I became close ten years ago when she did a complete makeover on my cabin, painting the living room “Cornstalk” gold and “Indian Pudding” red.  She shopped thrift stores for a drop-leaf table and discarded objets d’art; sawed-off the legs of ladder-back chairs; found fabric to match a painting and made curtains with pinking shears and a glue gun. She spray painted the paper-towel rack, the napkin holder, the clock, and light-switch covers to match the trim.  Brought “doo-dads” from her house to decorate the eaves.  Everything on a thousand-dollar budget.  Walking into the changed space was like being on HGTV.   

During the summer, Pat and I frequently share meals.  If one of us is cooking, it’s understood that the other is invited.  So her inclusion in Saturday night’s feast was a given.

For her contribution, Pat brought an over-sized jug of what the local supermarket calls “economy wine.”  My sister and I were nursing mojitos made from wild mint, so we declined.

After eating all we could, we decided to play cards, a typical way to spend an evening at Pine Log.  By this time, Pat had refilled her wine glass several times, and Lisa and I had switched to beer. The music was playing, the card game was in full swing, the scores neck-and-neck, when it became clear that Pat had crossed a threshold. 

Like many up this way who are strung out on “hillbilly heroin,” Pat relies on pain pills to treat fibromyalgia.  If a doctor tries to cut her off, she goes shopping for a new doctor and seems to have no trouble getting a steady stream of hydrocodone.  To sleep, she swears she needs Xanax.  There are other pills for other ailments; I can’t keep up with them all.  I do know they shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol, but Pat’s 72 years old, hard-headed, even contrary, so I knew she’d scoff at the suggestion she should slow down.

And who am I to say anything?  Just the night before, my sister and I had indulged ourselves, sang along to favorite cd’s, told family stories and laughed uproariously.  Have I ever over-indulged while playing cards?  I can’t count the times.

But Pat was getting nasty, calling me “asshole” and “bitch” when I’d roll my eyes because she couldn’t play her cards correctly, mistaking clubs for spades, dropping her hand on the floor.  It was time to wrap things up for the night, but I couldn’t convince Pat that she’d had enough.  Then she knocked over a newly-filled glass of red wine. Too hammered to clean it up, she ran to the bathroom while Lisa and I sopped up the mess.

Without so much as a “good-night,” Pat staggered out of the bathroom and headed to her car.  Although a walkable distance, it is all uphill, so she often drives down when she knows she’ll be here after dark.  I grabbed a flash light, ran out, and told her it would be better if she walked, that I would walk with her.  “I need my car,” she slurred. 

“I’ll drive you home and walk back,” I said.

Ignoring me, she got in, gunned the engine, spun the wheels, sprayed gravel—her two precious little dogs that go everywhere with her, who are beyond beloved, were skittering to get out of the way—and she bolted up the hill.  As she turned into her driveway, I heard her smack the outdoor light at the end of her drive, heard glass breaking.  Unaware that she’d hit something, she got out and shouted down the hill where I stood watching, “I made it.  See, I made it.” 

The party clearly over, my sister and I turned in, but I had trouble sleeping, worrying whether Pat had made it all the way to bed, worrying that she wouldn’t wake up in the morning, worrying whether I was responsible for letting her drink too much, wondering whether I really am a bitch and an asshole.

Ten or Free

Although it’s North Carolina’s smallest county at 221-square miles, Clay County is not the poorest—but it’s close.  Perhaps that’s why graduates look for ways to move elsewhere and why retirees are flocking this way.

Many of the residents are what they call “half-backs”: people who migrated from the North down to Florida and have moved halfway back.

   

Combine those on fixed incomes with locals, who simply don’t make much money, and you get a fair share of things that are ten-or-free.

Ten dollars will buy a straight-from-the-smoker barbecued pork (or chicken) plate with homemade sides and a sweet tea—sometimes even a slice of pound cake thrown in—at most of the free, and frequent, music festivals around here.  One favorite venue is the monthly concert on the square, where people bring their lawn chairs to sit and listen to local bluegrass bands play in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn.  They close off the street for those who’d like to dance.

 

Ten dollars will buy an all-you-can-eat plate at the Friday-night fish fry at the local VFW, where they hand you a Styrofoam plate and point you toward the steadily-replenished buffet of fish, fries, hushpuppies, and the homemade slaw and baked beans that seem to come with everything here.  Of course, tea is included, but if you’re a big spender, you can get a pitcher of beer for $5.00 more.

 

Ten dollars will buy a week of fresh-from-his-garden produce at Mr. Jimmy’s.  He grows more than he and the wife can eat, so the rest is for sale under the honor system.  Most things are a dollar a pound; some things are cheaper.  There’s a large coffee can glued down with a slit cut in the top to deposit your money.  “What if somebody doesn’t pay?” I asked.  Mr. Jimmy, who is also a Baptist preacher, responded:  “If they need it bad enough to steal it, then they need it worse than I do.” Last week I was looking for some potatoes, but he was sold out.  “If you got a minute,” he said, “I’ll dig you some right quick.”  It doesn’t get fresher than that.

The women’s golf league I play with had their monthly luncheon last Tuesday, yep, ten dollars.  There was a fabulous salad bar that included ham, turkey, and boiled shrimp.  While some stuck with tea, the tables were also plied with frosted glasses and pitchers of beer.  Claudia, who runs the snack bar, also whipped up a delicious chocolate cake.

When folks aren't eating, some are playing cards.  Tables are available at the Senior Center or at most of the golf course club houses.  Depending on which day you can play, there’s bridge, or the local favorite, Hand-and-Foot, a game somewhat like Canasta.

 

And this year, everyone is playing Pickleball, a game that combines badminton, ping-pong, and tennis.  Everyone’s first question seems to be, “Do you play Pickleball?  Want to learn?”  This is quickly followed with, “It’s free.”  I've already ordered my paddle from Amazon.

It’s always been free to walk the winding path atop the Chatuge Dam, or to float in Lake Chatuge’s cool waters, or to simply sit and watch the sunset dip behind the mountains.

 

Tonight, I’m busting the budget a bit.  I’m going to see the local production of Annie at the Peacock Playhouse. Tickets are twenty-bucks apiece.  I guess I’m doing my part to support the local economy. 

Clover and Honeysuckle

Sometimes I wonder why I love spending summers in this raggedy cabin.  Except for the stunning view of the Nantahala—Land of the Noon-Day Sun--there’s little to recommend its shabby 700-square-feet.  Thrown together with plywood and a staple gun, it was designed in the late 1960s by developers looking to make a quick buck off “Floridiots,” who trek to the Blue Ridge Mountains in June, July, and August to escape the heat and humidity. 

Each summer at Pine Log begins with a new bug infestation—this year’s carpenter ants look healthy enough to carry off my screened-in porch on their collective backs; a half-inch layer of pollen lets me know the dogwoods bloomed well even if I wasn’t here to see them, and let’s not even think about the black snake—a “good” snake everyone assures me-- that lives in the basement. 

There is hot water for my shower and a flush toilet.  A refrigerator and stove.  So it’s a cut above camping.  But it lacks many of the comforts of home.  There’s no television or Internet.  There’s no air conditioning.

And I think that’s what I like best about it, the non-conditioned air.

 

When Willis Carrier invented air conditioning in July of 1902, he forever changed life in Florida. Summer in the panhandle, where I live during the school year, means a tightly-sealed house with the a.c. set on 72, errands in air-conditioned cars, and outside activities that must be done very early or very late—oh, and don’t forget the mosquito repellent.  

   

Up here in Warne, North Carolina, the air smells of clover and honeysuckle.  Trips to town—it’s about 30-minutes to anywhere—mean curvy roads that open onto pastures of newly-cut hay, grazing cattle, and red clay plots where husbands and wives hoe weeds between the rows of crook-neck squash, pole beans, and tomatoes.  

Mornings are so cool I need a long-sleeved shirt to throw over my pajamas.  If it does get hot, a box fan, a good book, and something cool to drink will see me through to sunset. 

    

I also like being able to hear summer: the morning-song of cardinals and thrushes, humming birds zooming to the feeder, the distinct laugh of the pileated woodpeckers that nest in the 100-year-old pines.  Yesterday, I heard something moving through the woods and looked out to see a couple of deer making their way down the hill.  Neighbors say that a bear’s been prowling around, too, but I haven’t heard it yet.  When my friend, Pat, leaves to play cards at the senior center, I hear her tires crunching on the gravel road, and I know she’s safely back home when I hear them again.  

I feel more a part of the world here.  When I’m not out walking through the woods, noticing the last few blooms on the Mountain Laurel or the buds swelling on the Rhododendron, I spend my days on the porch, where only a thin layer of screen separates me from towering trees, waves of daisies and Queen Anne’s lace, and a view of the blue rolling hills. In fact, that’s where I’m writing this, fighting to keep my concentration because of the shrill call of a broad-winged hawk.  When it’s finished, I’ll drive to the library in Hayesville to upload it.  I’ll do so with all my windows open.