Dear Romania,

It is 8:50 a.m. here in Alabama and it is a warm morning with clear blue skies.  Up early, I went for a long walk and along the way began working over in my mind exactly what I want to share about growing up here in the southern United States when I get to Romania.

     There is so much.  If I am to expound on the power of storytelling here in our region, I will have to first describe the area’s earliest settlers and how they were shaped by both their heritage and the terrain of the South as it once was.  And there is the melding that comes with the influx of even more settlers, their customs, beliefs, foods…
      …and our history.
     See?  There is so much to explain before the sharing of stories even begins!
     But isn’t it the same everywhere?!
     Of course it is!   WE are shaped by our elders and their teachings; the land and our attachment to it; our beliefs and the fundamental ideals of which we are comprised.
     Nearing the end of my walk, I acknowledged that while I can share so much, it would be helpful if I understood your interest in our South- what is it YOU want to know?
     I would greatly appreciate your response.  I so look forward to my days in Bucharest, and to meeting you all and learning something about each of you!
     Share with me something YOU love about your country, memories of the area you grew up, your stories!
See you soon!
Elizabeth Mozley
woman in field

 A Day in Central Park

(Excerpt from the memoir, We Share the Same Sky)

 

“As if in him the welkin walked, the winds took flesh, the mountains talked…”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.   Society and Solitude
     Outside, it rains. I can hear it and I can see it. But from where I am there is no feeling or experiencing it, and yet, I know it carries lonesome notes. Easily, wantonly, I shut my eyes and slip back into bliss.
__________
I close the door gently, careful that the draft does not pull it quickly shut and awaken others.  Outside steps and streets remain damp; puddles of water stand along the sidewalk, if only for the hour.  Back home the humidity following a summer rain is miserable, but here it transforms the air, touches the skin softly like a Swedish massage, plays with the senses.  It feels almost like fall, or the warm yet crisp morning of a false spring.
     Acknowledge the melancholy, I tell myself, go get lost in the world.
CENTRAL PARK
      The distance to Central Park is not great, so I choose to walk and think.  How many days since I last spoke at length with an adult, or followed a routine, resided indoors for any real amount of time?  How many days since I blamed myself?  What good can come from all this?  I stop and repeat the question.  What good can come from this?  And, then I realize that the attitude with which the question is posed is as important as the answer.  Attitude is a powerful thing.  It can temper regret.  It can propel us forward.
    The best lessons are learned from the young.  Recently when Isaac beat me in chess, he covered my hand with his and told me, “Sometimes you have to lose to get better, Momma.  You know, forfeit a knight to save a queen.”  Laughing, I’d reminded him, “Funny thing is, Isaac, it didn’t save my queen!”  Learning to view a negative in a more positive light helps.  But it takes practice.  Sometimes losing is what makes an experience worthwhile.
__________
    Everyone has a favorite place.  Some of us find ours at a young age and then later seek others like it throughout our adult lives –somewhere we can go and just be ourselves, unwind and find some comfort away from others, a place of solace.  My favorites are usually near the water or in the woods.  Both places serve as reminders of my childhood home.
      When I was young, my parents owned a piece of heaven, where lolling hills beckoned, undivided except for a wide hyaline, clear creek lined with large smooth stones.  In Green Valley, the pasture ran deep to the edge of a forest that bordered a gradual slope up into dense mountain.  There I ran wild and free through soaring broomsage, toughened my bare feet against the harsh forest floor.  Most afternoons I spent stretched out in the cold running water, soothing tender skin freshly cut by long brazen grasses, blackberry thorn and wild briar.
      Then late one evening following dinner, I overheard my parents discussing the necessity of selling the property.  I walked alone back down the hall to my room, squeezed myself into the small space between bed and wall and mourned like one who has lost everything.
      Several months passed.  We loaded into Papa’s jeep for a Sunday ride along the steep narrow pass that wound around Dunaway Mountain before creeping downward to where the road widened, leveled out and ran along the length of the Coosa River, broad, murky, and pungent. Years ago, Lister Ferry was located here.  For a minimal price, folks from Riddles Bend could cut their drive to Southside in half and avert the steep climb up the unpaved mountain pass.  The road, though widened and paved now, retains the name Lister Ferry.
     Having driven only a short distance, Papa pulled the jeep alongside the woods.  We parked and hiked through the tall pines where shed needles appropriately silenced steps in what felt to be an otherworldly place.  Small hardwood leaves blazed molten, the color of lava and fresh syrup.  Fall here was as significant, as decadent even, as spring and summer had been on our pastured land.  Again, with child’s heart, I fell in love.
      We spent months camping and clearing the land.  Breaking away from our work during midday, we were free to climb the mountain, follow the well worn deer path into the deeper hollows to catch salamander and tiny crawfish in the untouched waters that originated there.  These made superior fish bait and a worthy day was often determined by our find.  Later, blinded by a night without stars and light, we slipped along the mossy bank and looked without luck for our Ivory soap, not realizing it was being nibbled down to nothing by the fish we caught and dammed in.
     Oh, how I want to be that little girl again!  All these memories flit across my mind in but a moment, the moment it might take a baby to drop a pacifier or a young boy to skin his knee.  It is this park.  It is miraculous!  I pause to breathe, listen and feel.  How can you love two differing things so completely?  There is the companionship of the city and the solidarity of the country.  Yet even alone, both places keep me company.  Never could a choice be made between one or the other.  Even suggesting this would be like asking a child, “Do you love your mother or your father the most?”  Or asking a chef her favorite food, a musician his favorite song.  Choosing between two things you love is inconceivable.
     How unfortunate that often in life we must let one thing go before gaining a grasp on another, as a too-full fist remains stuck in the cookie jar.  Greed and fear can curtail true growth.  And yet, thankfully, it is especially healthy to fill ourselves repeatedly with the things that bring us joy!  And I intend to do just that.  Today I’ve designated as Central Park day, a day to rest and give thanks.
     The horse drawn carriages are almost tempting.  At the southernmost point of the park, I bypass other sightseers busy reading the plaques and posing for photos.  I imagine that even folks who grew up in the city possess the ability to recognize the smell of horse flesh a mile off.  But, do they appreciate it?
     My cousins grew up on a farm and were lucky in that their father loved horses.  He was at times, however, overprotective.  That is to say which he was more concerned for, us or the horses, I’m still unsure.  Either way, we were forbidden to ride without permission.  But, our young hides had long since grown thick and not to be dissuaded by threat of rain or a good beating, my cousin Denise and I snuck Midnight and Playboy, my uncle’s favorite horses, out for a quick ride along the back mountains of Green Valley.
     Consumed by the thrill of defiance, our senses heightened and this spurred us onward at a careening, furious pace.  The wondrous beauty of each mountain easily enticed us to climb yet another.  The sound of rain hitting the leaves, thunder rolling low overhead and the heavy breathing of the animals beneath us as they heaved was strangely captivating.  All my senses were suddenly in tune and I wondered if I had become part of the animal or part of the storm.  Either way, I felt untamable.  Drunk on exhilaration we lost track of all time.
     At dusk we returned soaked but invigorated.  Heavily in the air, the scent of us, wet leather, and sweat from the exhausted beasts mingled.  These smells rose, bonded with the dank aroma of old barn, dirt floors and sweet hay.  Outside, the relentless rain sounded heavily on the tin roof, battered against it, puddled within its rusty folds, then dripped down around the rafters as if to create a seal against the outside world.  I was at home here, too.
      At the time, I did not recognize this day as being significant.  And, honestly, I am unsure even now of its relevance although it was exciting, liberating.
      Homesickness hits me hard.  It has come just as quickly as the memories.  I move further into the shade.  What makes an event stick so perfectly within the mind that it can be remembered in such great detail?  Do we remember best what is either truly miraculous or horribly hideous?  Possibly.  I lean against the railing and recognize within the memory what I miss.  Age has mellowed me to a degree.  I miss the younger, more vivacious me.
     The Pond and Hallet Nature Sanctuary are not the specifics of my destination, but are enjoyed none-the-less.  The object of my pursuit is Gapstow Bridge.  Built in 1896, the simple stone arch is probably the most recognized bridge in the park.   Approaching it from a distance, the pond and lay of the land could easily be mistaken for a reservoir in North Alabama –if the skyscrapers could be removed from the foreground. Stopping at the gentle crest, I turn and silently applaud the view.  Slivers of The Plaza peek from between limbs and leaves.  Bells from a distant church peal crisply, marking the time.  I walk away wishing I could see the bridge standing lonesome in winter gray.
     At the Dairy I grab and stash visitor pamphlets, then walk across Sheep Meadow to see the Tavern on the Green, debate looking for Mineral Springs, then decide to head to the Mall.  Mineral Springs is tempting because of its name alone.
     Found in abundance throughout the United States, people traveled far “to take the waters” of mineral springs.  During the 19th century the spas and resorts that built up around these springs prospered and offered an optimal family vacation.  The therapeutic and restorative properties of the springs were considered an integral part of holistic healing and therefore lauded loudly.
      It is said the minerals can increase appetite, improve digestion and purify the blood.  They are also reported to help skin conditions and relieve joint pain.  Sometimes they are even accredited for aid in chronic disease.
     The types of springs are many.  The various waters include:  acidulous, chalybeate, sulphur, saline, calcic, alkaline, silicious and thermal.  Although most of the spas have long since closed, people continue to visit mineral springs for therapy and artesian wells for pure drinking water.
     I stop at an outdoor eatery for coffee and to people watch, but instead find myself examining their companions.  Sunday, it seems, is the day for bringing a favorite friend to the park for a bit of out-of-doors.  Dogs are everywhere.  There are more of them than their would-be owners!
     Leisure, free, unrestrained time.  Me time.   I am enjoying myself immensely.  Quickly claiming a small table, I dump my things and walk to the window of the cafe to order a little something, then settle in to watch a man and woman nearby.  She pulls at the leash of a small Scottish terrier whose only interest is to chase the tiny birds that hop about so enticingly in search of breakfast crumbs.
     A slower pace everyone seems to find here today.   For me, Sundays have always cast a magical spell.  Longer than other days, stretching out until after bath and prayers, Sunday was the last of the sweet before the reality of Monday began to settle in.
      There is again that silent recognition.  There are some things I need to work on. And some I have.  I have slowed down in almost everything I do.  Owning my time, I am not rushing to the tempo of another.  I walk slower, breathe slower, eat slower and life seems to have geared down to keep pace just with me.  I have mastered being passively active these past days, voided deviant behavior, kept in check the sardonic self.  If my life is filled with nothing but work and worry and I do not pause or stop to simply enjoy, what is the point of it at all?  This knowledge seems to reaffirm something only recently realized.  Don’t choose the things in life, choose the moments instead.  I didn’t take the gondola in Venice but purchased a cameo ring instead.  A year later, while trying on gloves, the intricately carved shell was lost.  Another lesson learned.  I got lost in Florence.  Twice.  Both times were wonderful.
     It was also in Venice that I began to reflect on the importance of perspective.  Climbing the gradual steepening streets to The Ponte di Rialto, Mother, Anderson and I paused to admire the work of a handsome Italian painter.  His wares were piled high on a cart, but before he would allow me to look, he had me answer a dozen odd questions.  Do you like this or that?  When you think of this, what do you see?  All these questions made me wonder until he exclaimed, “Bella!  You love impressionism.  You are a romantic!”
      He was correct in his brief assessment.  I do love impressionism.  It is like my life, sometimes appearing a mess.  Until I step back.  Until I focus less.  His painting of a Venetian canal hangs in my bedroom on the wall opposite my bed.  A reminder of time, it whispers.  It is the first thing I see upon awakening each morning.  The sunrise seems to come from behind the buildings’ terra cotta roofs rather than the window nearby.  Then late in the day and near its end, when I have been writing and oblivious to the passage of time, evening settles in to fill the room and the Venetian waters therein darken black and blue.
_________
LITERARY WALK
      There isn’t a more enchanting place in all of New York City, than this!  I find a vacant bench and sit to take it in.  Quiet, most lonely and serene, the line of trees seems to say, “I would keep more than silent company with you, if only I could.”  These limbs that reach out as if in want to touch will soon be bare and dark against the glint of a brilliant first snow.  Surely the cloak of January well suits this peaceful scene.
        I take out my book, turn the bookmark and notice my hands, so rough, so telling of my age, my ambivalence.  Once they were pretty.
      —My young hands followed her hands.
Fill the delicate china cup with flour four times; put a small fistful of Crisco in, run flour between fingers but not too much; make a small well for the buttermilk in the center; work the batter gently, then pat it out flat; cut the biscuits with my tiny juice glass, place them on an old pie plate and put them in the hot oven.  Sipping coffee, we talked while they baked. —
     As long as she was there, my biscuits were like hers.   But, without her, later, it was as if the spell was broken, the charm gone.  If only my personality and temperament had been more similar to hers, my life would have been more serene.  “It’s all about timing,” GrandMosie would patiently say, moving in and out of the early light that brightened the dark corners of the kitchen.
     The most important lessons I’ve found in the little things.
     Sitting, soaking up the healing sun, I read above the noise of strange birds, their glut-throated tweeps, twerps and full song.  Because I am sitting, reading and not moving about, the breeze that earlier was refreshing is now too cool.  Pulling my sweater about me, I notice a young woman seated nearby.  She smokes one cigarette after another.  An interesting sort, she is attired in orange runner’s pants and a bright green tank.  The kicker is her pink suede pumps and matching handbag!  Other than the weird get-up, she appears very well put together.  Looking closely, I recognize her odd beauty.
      “Are you here with family?” I hear a man’s voice ask.  Startled, it takes me a full minute to realize that it is me who is being addressed.  Turning, I see a gentleman, some years older than my father, settling onto the bench near me.
     “No,” I answer, smiling nervously, thinking the question strange.
     “So you are working or vacationing.  What is the reason for your visit, then?”
     “I am here on what I call a somewhat sabbatical,” I tell him laughing at myself.  Feeling my response somewhat vague, I explain that I’m here for a quiet reprieve, some time alone.
     “I do not understand the young women of your generation.”  He huffs, sounding irritated as though he has been trying for years.
     Amazed, I wonder which generation he means, exactly.
     “Your incessant bemoaning of stress and needing time alone,” he continues.
     No thank you, I think.  What had begun as a pleasant exchange is over.
     “Enjoy your day,” I tell him, rising.
      Graciousness doesn’t cost a thing.  I hear my mother say and so sit back down.
     “Why are you here?” I ask.  To my surprise, he tells me.
     “My wife and I married in this park in 1953.  Every year we visit on our anniversary and also on every holiday.”
     “Every holiday? Which holidays?” I want to know.
     “Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, the Fourth of July.  And, of course any of the others she wanted.”  Silently, I catch the change in verb tense.  “My wife loved this park.  Always did.  She had old black and white photos of the place all over the house.  ‘Can’t we get something else, something with a little color?’ I would tease her.  And, she would laugh and tell me that I loved her park.  She was wrong.  I didn’t love this park and I don’t love it now.  But love her I did.  This is what made her happy and so it made me happy.  Now, I come here alone.”
      “Well, I think that is wonderful,” I tell him, trying to sound cheerful.
     “There were times it pained me to come all the way out here instead of celebrating with friends or staying home.  But, I had rather be somewhere I didn’t want than be alone, without her.”
     He rises to leave.  “I hope you enjoy your sabbatical, Mrs…?”
     “Mozley,” I answer, realizing with a start that I’ve given my maiden name.  “Thank you for talking with me,” I tell him before he turns away.
     Although I know I’ll not be able to return to my book following this exchange, I sit back down for a moment and think about all that was and was not said.  Recently, I have become so caught up in thoughts of the past and the future that I have let the precious moments of the present pass me by.  Often as not this recognition that time cannot be reclaimed is made without a pause in whatever it is I am doing, regardless of the knowledge that I should be spending time on something more worthwhile.  There are times I exasperate even myself.
_________
     A book can only captivate a willing mind, so I wander to Bethesda Terrace and the Fountain.  There are a few things within the park that really hold my heart.  Visiting these qualify as one.  There is something about this place that calls to me –the steps, the terrace courtyard, the pull of the lake and the fountain.  All are irresistible!  Children play sing-song along the steps while people stand and talk.  Others move about the place as if they are drawn here as well.
     Within the terrace bellow, I find a spectacular passageway I’ve never seen.  It is regal and rather like the woman’s beauty of which you often hear but upon meeting are unprepared for!  I feel like I am walking the halls of some long forgotten, golden palace.
      Back outside, bronze blessings beckon.  Angel of the Waters is an Emma Stebbing’s fountain, the first sculpture commissioned by a woman in New York City.  The work was sculpted in 1868 and unveiled in 1873.
     Standing high upon a pedestal base, the angel reaches out to bless the waters of Bethesda.  The cherubs represent Temperance, Peace, Purity and Health.  I dip my fingers into the cool pool before bringing them to my face.  Throw in a coin for a blessing.  Rummaging through my bag I find only leftover Euros, souvenirs from Italy.  Though I hate to part with them I toss three, pausing before each to say a quiet prayer.  Keep my children safe and healthy.  Bless them all the days of their lives.  Help me find my way.
     Moving toward the lake, almost in a daze, I recall a quote by Longfellow:    “Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.”
     Quotes, like Bible verses or words of wisdom given by a loved one, if taken to heart, are remembered.  When you stop believing in something, the good leaks away.
     If there is a liar in every crowd, why is it always turning out to be me?  Detesting a lie as I do, it is amazing the extent to which I will go in order to convince myself of something I deeply know to be untrue.  Like the ultimate politician, self can be serpentine.  Is it also that there is a vein of stubbornness that runs through me, one that makes it almost impossible to acknowledge defeat?  Is there a difference in calling it quits and giving up?
     Simple acts to symbolize my freedom.  These are things I constantly find myself doing.  How many times in my life have I declared my independence beginning with the statement, “From this day forward…”?  However, like most things of any significance, liberty cannot be simply declared but must also be characterized by some action, a turning point, some representative of change, the symbolic act being paramount.  Changes to a telescopic past cannot be made.  There can only be an acknowledgment of the person I once was.
     I walk to the terrace edge nearest the water and lean against the railing to look out across the lake.  To my right is Loeb Boathouse, a restaurant where I would love to eat, relax away the afternoon on the deck, rent a bike or a row boat if time allowed.
If time allowed.
     To my left is Bow Bridge and just beyond is the border of the Ramble.  Decisions.  Do I want to walk through the lightly wooded area of the Ramble or back-track to Strawberry Field and the Imagine mosaic?  The place offers a natural sanctuary for many people, not necessarily just followers of the Beatles or artists who want to pay homage to a muse but people who were, perhaps, born idealists.
     Just as some must have cursed a life working the soil or toiling under the weight of manual labor, others too must have thrilled at the euphoria of its exhaustive, natural state.  If it is true that the backs of immigrant labor built Central Park, then they must have taken as much pride in their work as the designers themselves.
     In Walden Thoreau states, “One generation abandons the enterprises of another like stranded vessels.”  So much of this city fell into ill repair during times of economic strife.  It took the iron will of the dedicated to return it to its former grandeur.  This is true of the park as well.
      I set off in search of the most appealing footpath through the Ramble.  Walking with the sun in my face, I might as well be home.  The sounds are the same.  The smells are the same.  Hunting the lolling hills of Sand Mountain when I was in my teens, my eyes wandered across all that lay before me.  What was once pasture land had become neglected fields grown up in sweet broom sage, silvery rabbit tobacco, and thorny briar.  Papa and I had spent the morning quail hunting only to find singles.  Enumerable coveys once thrived there.  It was now land almost barren of fowl.  Pests like coyote, fire ants, and the thriving hawk had all but decimated the population.  Everything left untended goes back to the wild.
     Background noises from the lake seep into my thoughts:  barking geese in the distance, strident insects, perhaps crickets or maybe katydids, and the agreeable sound so very far away of a fish breaking the water’s surface.  Tip-toeing through shallow pools of water, leaves and mush, I think how unfortunate it is that we are so tuned in to technology and so tuned out of nature.  How does one determine if a storm is brewing if they live in the city?  What I mean is –are there things you notice when out and about that foretell a change in weather?
     Thank Country folk look about and notice what the animals are doing.  (Of course, we also look to the moon when children become unreasonably unruly and ex-husbands more obviously insane.)  My great-grandmother Lela Bell used to say you can tell a storm is brewing if dogs are eating grass, cows gather in the field to feed and songbirds quieten.  A thick coat of fur on animals, squirrels collecting and burying nuts early.  Both are signs of a bitter winter.  And, there is the symbolic owl.  If you hear one hooting midday, high winds and heavy rain are soon to follow.  The dreaded owl sighted before the setting of the sun, however, announces only death.
      The South still thrives on tales of wonder and awe.  The character of those in awe remains just as often described ages ago; a likeable people open with home and conversation, God-fearing, yet prone to violence.  It goes without saying, that the better the tale, the more often it is told.  I recently heard a wonderful story while attending a friend’s family reunion.   One summer day, my friend’s Uncle Jule was out raking hay with the younger James when a storm came up unexpectedly.  Afraid of losing half the hay, Uncle Jule grabbed a double bladed axe from the back of the pick-up truck and planted it deep within the earth, at the center end of the field nearest the approaching storm. The younger James stood astonished as the storm clouds separated and went around the pasture.  Although Jule was not present at the gathering, James was and verified the story.  Our region is comprised of the strange and unusual.
      Oh, how these thoughts stir the desire to just sell all and move out into the country again, purchase an old farm house, stock the pantry so that it feeds for a month, trek into town only as the want arises.  Away from others and all outside influence, turning  inward toward taciturn, would I slowly become myself concentrated, filtered free of the impurities of society or would I work myself into something more like sour mash?  Does it matter?  At least I would be free to quietly reflect on and practice the often odd beliefs and charms of honest country folk, tend chickens, bees and smoke house, grow a grand garden!  I laugh.  Children might pass by my house on Halloween, rumoring it to be the home of some crazed woman or a witch.  I smirk.  Considering my profession as an educator, this may not be too far from the mark.
     Trees, trees everywhere! Oaks, maple, elm wild cherry, locust, sweet gum, dogwood, hawthorne, crab apple, silverbell and sassafras. The Ramble was envisioned by Olmstead as providing a natural landscape within an otherwise orderly park, a slice of nature beyond the crowded city, where people might wander, think and feel as though they have stepped away from it all.  But we cannot foresee the future.  Some places become what they are not meant to be.       For many years, the Ramble held a questionable reputation.  But, images can yet again change.
     Today I’ve passed a tour group and several bird watchers.  I overheard one of the women say she had just seen a Red-Tailed Hawk.  These are prevalent back home, being protected as they are.  Often, they are blamed for making off with kittens and the thinning of our bird populations.  What I regard as the most beautiful bird of prey, other Southerners see as a damn nuisance.
     Passing through an area that appears to be a recent planting, I cannot help but think that so many of these young trees are perfect for fiddling worms and wonder if anyone ever tried here so many years ago.  If I were with a guide I’d be tempted to ask but probably wouldn’t for fear of embarrassment.
     Every summer on a day after there had been no recent rain, my brother and I would go fiddling worms with Papa in the woods along the outer hills of the old forgotten cemetery.  We arose early and knew instinctively what to gather for this was a habit of so many years: a five gallon bucket, the old handsaw to cut the young saplings, rubbing alcohol and a wet towel.  We would load up in Papa’s old International, and stop at the store for Cokes and small fried apple pies before heading on our way.
     Parking in an area where we were forbidden to travel alone, we would walk the short distance into the sparsely wooded hillside surrounding the cemetery.  Searching along the south side of the hill, we would locate a small sapling around which the floor of the woods was well covered with leaves, and then cut the young tree off about two feet above the ground.  Papa then placed the saw within the center of the cut, blade down into it, and began to pull gently against the wood, sending out vibrations along the remaining trunk down deep into the soil. Within minutes the leaves around us would begin to come alive with movement as the long fiddle worms made their way to the surface, seeking the quiver they thought was rain.  We would reach, grab and throw them into the five gallon bucket, layer them with soil and leaves.  Our work finished, it required the entire bottle of rubbing alcohol and the rough texture of the towel to remove the gluey slime from our hands.
     Unable to walk thirty yards in any direction without my mind jumping to yet another memory, I decide to find a place to sit and journal.
Journal Entry:
If only someone could chart out these frequent memories for me and explain what they all mean.  But really, it is not so much what they mean, but that they are memories of an earlier version of me, of how I once was.  As children, we are very near our truest character; we have yet to be so influenced by society.   Mother said the most important thing I would ever obtain would be an education.  Papa said it would be memories.  They were both right.  Although my education allows me some independence, the memories remind me who I really am.
The distance provided by this trip gives me room to think.  There are some who say you should still the mind; others believe you should let your thoughts flow unimpeded and simply recognize them.  Personally, I would just like to make it from point A to point B without making myself crazy.
 
The lack of schedule and the freedom of open days have worked magic.  Like muscle coaxed to relax by healing hands, day-to-day living has released a poisonous tension from my body and mind.  There remains the weight of decision but even that has been smoothed down and buffered.  The fear and dread remain but do not inflict the same damage.
 
What do I want?  What do I expect?  Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the rotten root of the problem.  Are my expectations so high as to handicap me as an individual?  When it comes to expectations, what constitutes healthy?  I can’t imagine lowering them!  But, what if they are the reason I keep ending up in the same predicament time after time?  Am I stuck in a cycle created by my personality, my choices and my expectations?
——-
SWEDISH COTTAGE MARIONETTE THEATRE and BELVEDERE CASTLE
     The footpath I follow leads out to the Swedish Cottage Marionette Theatre.  Constructed for the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia in 1876, it was moved here by Olmstead a year later.  The Marionette Theatre puppeteers present daily shows for young audiences.  Further down the path, I arrive at Shakespeare Garden and although I am only passing through, decide to sit for a while on a handsome rough hewn bench and admire a similarly constructed fence.  There is nothing here I do not appreciate.  Lucky are the children of the surrounding boroughs who get to visit on free weekends  and let their imaginations run wild.  The quiet garden is well planned.  Its free flowing feel so real it is easy to forget that these are well thought out plantings, that within the artist’s original idea the garden was most likely just as it is.  Gathering my things, I look about with regret.  I missed the emergence of the daffodils, the unfurling of the fern.
     Drawing near its stone façade I wonder -what could a kid not love about Belvedere Castle?  From an English garden to a Victorian folly sitting high atop Vista Rock, this section of Central Park leaves nothing to be desired for anyone with a touch of imagination.  Belvedere Castle is a Victorian folly that was designed by one of the designers of Central Park, Calvert Vaux, in 1869.  The castle is constructed of a mica schist known as Manhattan Schist and gray granite.  A mythical cockatrice beacons from a transom and high above a wind vane dances atop the castle tower.   The Central Park website states that the National Weather Service began using the tower in 1919.
      After suffering from years of neglect, the castle was restored in the early 1980’s and reopened to the public as the Henry Luce Nature Observatory.  Children today experience hands-on lessons in natural observation and hone critical thinking skills while learning the fundamentals of scientific method during free community programs.
      I watch the children play, listen to carefree laughter that trills amid the wildflowers, observe their shadows shift and grow long.  There is almost no discernable difference between their cheerful sounds and the vivid colors of the garden.  Both are without want, without care, their essence the satisfaction of just being.
     Cold biscuits with a fine cut of cheddar, residue of butter and crumbs on fingertips.  Is this why the dragonfly alights on me, for something of smell?  Or is it to bring the luck that I may soon need, come to stay with me a while before moving on?  Sitting for some time, drinking a bottle of lukewarm water and thinking, the realization comes clear that I find myself at this juncture in life quite without friends.  I put myself into my kids, my husband, my work, but I’ve let my friends go.  It is a jarring thought.
     The child in me tugs gently.   I have one more thing I simply must see.  A fascinating icon for adults, the Obelisk or Cleopatra’s Needle, is located on Greywacke Knoll, a short distance from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  The 220 plus ton granite needle once stood in Alexandria Egypt.   It is estimated that the Obelisk was built around 462 B.C. as ornamentation at the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis.  The Obelisk is one of a pair and was given to the United States around 1869 by Ismail Pasha, the Khedive of Egypt.  The gift, given in hopes of improving trade between Egypt and the United States, arrived in New York Harbor in 1880.  Following a parade and ceremony, The Masons laid the cornerstone for the Obelisk.  It seems a strange but wonderful addition to the park.  Until I began researching for my visit, I’d never heard of the needle.  Today, the hieroglyphs which are engraved on all sides have deteriorated quickly due to the city’s climate and pollution.
     There was the idea of visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and so I took the time to scan the “on view” paintings online.  The Sacrifice of Isaac, oil on canvas by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo is one that I really wanted to see for its amazing color and riveting Bible story.  Another, Virtue and Nobility, also painted by Tiepolo is noted for its symbolism.  Soap Bubbles by Thomas Couture 1859, and Leon Bonnat’s Roman Girl at a Fountain 1875, are also a must.  My desire to see these iconic works is based on the most immature of reasons.  One I wish to see for a child’s expression, so obviously lost she is in thought, a sight with which I am all too familiar.  The other I want to see simply because I find the combination of color and texture beautiful.  But, as much as I would like to go, I cannot today.  The idea of being held indoors, even for the briefest amount of time, has me stalling, like the condemned before the hangman’s noose.
     I think today, more than any other has me missing my children. Of all the things I’ve experienced these past days, perusing Central Park has been something that Anderson and Isaac would have enjoyed and remembered.
      Just inside the subway an old black man sits on a wooden crate, strumming his guitar, his voice almost surreal.  When he finishes the song, I step forward and ask if he will play “The House of the Rising Sun”.  Without any acknowledgement that he hears –no understanding crosses the eyes nor is there a nod of the head –as if channeling, he begins to play, strumming the blue notes, talk/singing the folk lyrics in an uncanny, easy way.  I smile a thank you, then put my loose change and some ones in his open case.
“Well, I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train
I’m goin’ back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain…”
     Walking the last few blocks alone in the early evening, I let myself consider what may or may not be and try to visualize again what my best life might look like.  The winds seem to push the gray black sky along with me.  I am hungry, physically tired and emotionally worn.  I want nothing more than a glass of crushed crackers mixed with cold milk and a soft place to lie down with a warm blanket.
Journal Entry:
If, at the end of our lives we were given the opportunity to relive five moments, which ones would we choose?  The choices would reveal what is most important.
 
The first time I remember ever hesitating over an important decision, my grandpa reminded me that wringing hands is a waste of time.  “Flip a coin,” he said.  I was shocked and told him I was afraid of leaving an important decision to chance.  But, he handed me a quarter anyway.  I called each side of the coin then flipped it.  When I uncovered the coin, I smiled and Grandpa said, “Your reaction when you first see the coin should direct your choice –not the coin itself.”

 

Fried green tomatoes @ both Whistle Stop Cafés

When it comes to fried green tomatoes, I thank God Alabama and Georgia are sister states!  However, this weekend was about more than just food.

Well, somewhat!

There are days I crave a road trip, and when I can’t take a long one I pick something I’m interested in, do a little research and take a short one (or two related ones) instead.

Now being a Southern woman, it goes without saying that I am a Fannie Flagg fan.  If the name does not ring any bells, please let me try to ring them.  Fannie Flagg is the professional name for Patricia Neal, an Alabama native, actress/writer/comedian.  You may remember her for co-hosting our local “Morning Show” on WBRC-TV or her appearances on Allen Funt’s Candid Camera & the game show Match Game.  OH, and let’s not forget that little Southern book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café and the amazing movie Fried Green Tomatoes! 

Friedgreenbookfilm box red

The Irondale Café, also known as The Original Whistlestop Café is not new to me. Located in Irondale, Alabama in the greater Birmingham area, it is a short 45 minute drive from our house.  And the food is worth every minute of it!  Originally begun in 1928, the business was ran after WWII by three women -Bess Fortenberry, Sue Lovelace & Lizzie Cunningham-who together turned the café into a sensation.  It just so happens that our author, Fannie Flagg, is Bess Fortenberry’s niece.

The idea of visiting both the Irondale location and then driving over to Juliette, Georgia where the movie was filmed struck me as something fun to do.  The trip would take two and a half hours there, two and a half back.  Just far enough to get away for a while and fill my tank (creativity tank/ happy tank & the bottomless pit/hunger tank). You know what I’m talking about!  I just needed to get lost a while, enjoy some soul food and smile.

***

       Knowing how everyone likes to hear how the food tastes and see how it looks, I decided to revisit the Irondale Café first and order a few things I don’t normally get.  Being out of school last Friday because Talladega County schools can’t run buses for all the race traffic was a plus I took advantage of.  It was also my excuse to hit the road!

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The place was packed and plates were fully loaded!  I grabbed a tray and got in line.

 1The pies are always my weakness! 2The special was smothered chicken livers~ a Southern favorite!  I’m not sure what it is about cafeteria style restaurants, but I love how they bring out the little girl in me -I just get so excited about all the choices right there within arms reach!  You get to see the food before you choose…smothered chicken livers

 It is extremely difficult for me to give up something I love in order to try something new.  So, I went for a few -a very limited few- of my favorites…

 

the best fried catfish around

 

 

 

 

 

…cornbread dressing, fried green tomatoes & a huge slice of toasted coconut pie!

Their chocolate pie is still my favorite dessert.

 

***

Sunday Morning, arrived and it could not have been a more beautiful day -70 degrees and sunny!  When I drove down Hwy 78 to I-20, Talladega race fans were already crowding the roads.  I cruised along with my windows down enjoying a little Tony Bennett & Frank Sinatra, constantly checking my speedometer because every State Trooper in Bama was out and about.

atl    Lost in a daydream I was in Atlanta, Georgia before I realized it!

       As I exited I-75 South and entered Forsyth, Georgia my heart began to sing.  There is nothing as wonderful as a drive in the country on a pretty day!  I was nine miles from Juliette and I was beyond ravenous!

 forsythA farmhouse in Forsyth filled me with envy!

JULIETTE & THE WHISTLE STOP CAFE at last~

       When I arrived, there were only a few tables taken by families having Sunday dinner; church had just let out. (In the South, dinner is your biggest meal on Sunday, taken at lunch & supper is your evening meal.)

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I chose a little table in the front corner  near the door where I could people watch and snap photos without being too intrusive 😉 y

Leslie brought me the menu, a big glass of sweet tea and a plate of hot fried green tomatoes to munch on while I looked over the menu.

“You like potato and I like potahto
You like tomato and I like tomahto
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto…”

 f

whistle-stop-cafe-menu-frontwhistle-stop-cafe-menu-back

sToo many things called to me; I was so hungry I couldn’t think clearly.   Oh, what a lie!

I just wanted what I wanted: fried okra, macaroni and cheese, collards & cornbread.  And, that is exactly what I got.

*The macaroni and cheese was so good I could have made a meal on it and the cornbread alone!

When Leslie returned to refill my tea glass and ask if I wanted dessert, I was ready!  As usual, I felt the need to explain that I want to sample, and no, please do not bring me smaller portions!   That’s what a carry-home box is for! 🙂

and the winner is...  I followed my heart and ordered the peach cobbler.

d   Then I ordered the pecan cobbler & the apple dumpling.

“Are you trying all of these?” She asked, trying not to smile.  When I nodded yes, she simply grinned and said, “Yes, ma’am.  I’ll warm them all up!”

I tried the peach cobbler first. It was perfectly creamy with                                        dumpling-like breading in some spots and flaky crust in others!

I set aside my spoon, saving it for last and tried the pecan cobbler.  It had the same flavor as a pecan pie but less of the custardy filling.  Like the peach, it was also heavenly and so sweet it made my teeth hurt!  I decided to box it for later.  I took one bite of the apple cobbler and boxed it as well.  It was good, but I was filling up fast.

The peach cobbler and the dense lightly vanilla flavored ice cream was all I wanted.  If a group of bikers had not come in and filled the cafe and the table next to mine, I’d have ran my finger through the bowl to get the rest of it!  But, I’d already garnered enough raised brows and smirks for one day.

***

bank

After lunch I decided to walk around, see the sites and browse the antique and novelty shops.

       Before the filming of Fried Green Tomatoes began, many of the buildings in Juliette were run-down and overgrown with ivy and vines.  Needless to say, Hollywood gussied it up.  If you pay attention, at the end of the film when Ninny returns to her home and finds it is not the quaint little town she remembers, you will see Juliette as it was before the clean-up and filming began.  Today, the little town remains as it did during filming -quite picturesque and very Southern.

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Directly across the street from the restaurant is Vern Cora’s Antiques.

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I loved the interior of this store as it was so bright and colorful.  I also found too many things I wanted~

My daughter, Anderson, would love Purple Hayes which is next door!  The shop was opened by Delores Hayes after her husband passed away.  She came up with the name by combining his favorite color and their last name.

p

wp

As I walked from store to store, I stopped and spoke with the owners.  It’s amazing how personable everyone was, how willing and eager they were to talk about their little town.  I met Shelley George and Jennifer Yozviak at Ruth & Idgie’s Gift Shop, where they happily showed off the back room as it is featured in one of the scenes in the film.  Gives me an excuse to watch it yet again and look for matching wallpaper!

poAt  The Blackberry Patch I found a turquoise colored mixer I should have purchased, but told myself I didn’t need!aa

And, all about are the quirky props from the film!   Like Smokey Lonesome’s cabin, and the gravestone of Frank Bennett. The town of Juliette really is a lot of fun!

bbdd

The old buildings are the prettiest.

o

The last store I stopped in was Tommy Moon’s store, The Honey Comb.  What can I say, I just have a thing for honey…

Before I left Juliette, I drove out to get a pic or two of the dam.

nn

nnu

dam

little houseAnd fell hard for a little white house!

Every once in a while it’s nice to just get out of town!  By the time I made it back to Oxford, Alabama the race was over and Nascar fans were again filing onto I-20.  Talk about perfect timing~

***

LINKS –

The Irondale Cafe:  http://www.irondalecafe.com

The Whistle Stop Cafe, Juliette:  http://www.thewhistlestopcafe.com

 

If you enjoy fall festivals you should head to Juliette this weekend for the Fried Green Tomato Festival!  You’ve just missed the Whistle Stop Festival in Irondale, AL.

The grandbaby and I highly recommend it! 

 me and bug

Me & Elizabeth Rileigh enjoying the annual Whistle Stop Festival!

*****

ELIZABETH MOZLEY

@ElizabethMozley  &  @CentipedeYAread

And on Facebook – We Share the Same Sky, author Elizabeth Mozley

We Share the Same Sky, a memoir

https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozley/e/B00J7KJWIU

Bar-B-Que… Need I say more?!

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I’ve a tendency to slip away as often as possible when food is involved. 

And, Bar-B-Que calls to me like no other!   Steve N’ Jan’s BBQ is one of those little out-of-the-way places that folks don’t necessarily know about -unless you are a local, that is.  It sits out in the country, on roads I don’t even know the name of but drive daily to and from work -just so I can see the lolling hills of Alabama farmland, old barns and recently baled hay.

I pulled in and parked; opening the car door I was immediately engulfed by the smell of smoked meats!

Daily, I join 400+ students for lunch in our school cafeteria.  My schedule doesn’t allow me to get out and about and until this weekend, I’d not had the opportunity to slip away.  When I arrived, Shelly (Steve and Jan’s daughter) greeted me with a huge grin and was more than happy to recommend everything on the menu!  Steve was busy behind the counter chopping meats while Jan flitted about, being gracious and refilling everyone’s sweet tea.  Last summer, Steve N Jan’s BBQ won The Taste of Lincoln.  I’ve been ready to dig in ever since!

3 4

Shelly stood and chatted with me while I looked over the menu.  When I told her I was having a difficult time choosing she smiled and suggested, “Why don’t you go grab yourself a milkshake and come back at 4:00 when we put out the buffet.  That way you can sample everything!”  I raised a skeptical brow and asked if she was kidding.  “I’ve never heard of a BBQ buffet!  But, I’m too hungry to wait and I’m ordering a lot…” I warned, returning her smile.

I told her I wanted to start with the BBQ Nachos.  She grinned, and headed off in the direction of the kitchen.  “I’ve got something I want you to try,” she said over her shoulder.  “We make the most amazing potato salad -but it doesn’t have any of the regular potato salad ingredients,” she explained.  “Dad also makes a Loaded Baked Potato that starts with this as the base.  He warms it then stacks it with mounds of cheese and BBQ.”  She slid a plate of warm, pork rinds across the table too, telling me that they make these as well.

8My mouth was watering for the BBQ, but after one bite of the creamy red potatoes, I only wanted more.  I’d say there will probably be a time in the near future that I’ll show up for just these, but it would be a lie.

The nachos are amazing as well! 1

As are the ribs…         9 And the onion rings…6

But the best -or at least the best thing I had this weekend- was the 5″ Pork BBQ Sandwich, pilled high with extra meet and loaded with pickles! 57I CAN HEAR WHAT YOU ARE THINKING 😉  Yes, much- MUCH of it went home in a to-go box, or two!

I’ve every intention of returning this coming Saturday for the buffet.  The granddaughter, Elizabeth Rileigh, is a BBQ baby & is always ready to go out to eat!         Love Brisket? They have that too 😉baby girl at el agave

Before heading out, I got to talk for a few minutes with Steve.    He gladly discussed his love of cooking and smoking meats, explaining too how he refused to postpone his dream until after retirement.  The restaurant has been open for four years.  Following retirement this coming year, he will begin opening some during the week.

Hours of operation for Steve N Jan’s BBQ are: Friday and Saturday from 11- 8 p.m.  *Buffet is ready at 4:00.  They open on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday for special occasions. Catering for important events is also available. *They are NOT difficult to find and instead of giving you typical Southern directions (i.e. take the road in front of the schools, go past the big house, the old farm with the beautiful pasture and hang a right at the church…) I’ll just give you the address.  You are Welcome!

                         BTW, If you didn’t read this in your softest, Southern drawl                              you must read it all over again -correctly!

Steve N Jan’s Bar-B-Que, 13849 Jackson Trace Road Lincoln, AL 35906 Phone: 205 763-7712  They are also on Facebook!  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Steve-Jans-BBQ/133141530061622

You can join me there as well!

*****

ELIZABETH MOZLEY

@ElizabethMozley  &  @CentipedeYAread

And on Facebook – We Share the Same Sky, author Elizabeth Mozley

We Share the Same Sky, a memoir

https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozley/e/B00J7KJWIU

 

hOneY, you know I have a thing for you!

photo of bees and flowers to use                Why else would I leave 130 wild, eleven/twelve year old students and head for the hills of Eastaboga, Alabama?

That’s not exactly true.  I am drawn to the countryside like a bee to…  😉   The entire day, I thought of little else.  My father, the herbalist in the family has long lauded its praise.  He insists that local honey is best for all that ails you.

Even if it wasn’t healthy, what’s not to love?!

I met up with Justin Hill of Eastaboga Bee Company this afternoon after having missed him at Oxford’s fall festival & then again at the Anniston Farmer’s Market.  I first learned of his business on Twitter and was shocked to find there was a bee company so close to home.  When I called, a young man with the most beautiful Southern drawl answered the phone and graciously offered to show me his farm.

“If you get here early, I’ll let you help me feed the cows,” he promised.

road pastureland

I turned off Mudd Street and traveled down a long dirt road, wondering if perhaps I was in the wrong place.  I parked out front, knocked at the door and paused before going back to wait at the car.  Brilliant Alabama sun shone down.  Even in October it can be stifling here in the South.  Surrounding fields, acre upon acre of pastureland, rolled like waves, steadily climbing and steepening behind the home place.  In the distance, I could just make out a white super; the air around it shimmered with movement.  I stood and filled my eyes –Alabama is such a beautiful place!  The tension created from being indoors all day began to slip away.

 pic field 2

I’d just begun to wonder if I’d been forgotten when I heard the far off sound of a motor.  Puffs of smoke rose across the pasture.  It was Justin driving a Polaris 570 Ranger.  He pulled up, drawled, “Climb in” and gladly, I did as I was told.  We quickly introduced ourselves, exchanged pleasantries, then rode, talked of bees … and fed the cows!  I shared my spot with Jake, Justin’s dog. (He reminded me so much of my childhood bird dog, Lemon, that I wanted to take him home!) Jake looked at him, obviously puzzled by the change in their daily feeding schedule.  Justin, a 4th generation farmer, works his family’s 300 acre cattle farm.

honeybees_post_cards-r016dfcd52a904a58927e034574095d33_vgbaq_8byvr_512

 

 

 

 

Justin pulled over to show me a hardwood where he had captured a swarm the previous season.  I told Justin that before meeting, I searched the internet for current information on honeybees, apiary regulations and current statistics on Colony Collapse Disorder.  I had no idea that every hive had to be registered, or that beekeepers were required to submit a map marking all of their hives.  Justin patiently explained the ins and outs of his business and corrected several misconceptions I had about beekeeping.


use white boxes
pulling the framebee super

He pulled us closer to a nearby group of supers.  The bees carried on with their work, unfazed by the sound of the engine.  He explained that the black bees I helped rob in my younger years were not English bees, but rather Italian bees.  These were obviously much calmer.  I asked about the various colors of honey and he described being able to taste the difference in them based on the bees’ food source or when the honey was robbed from the hive.  We discussed at length the necessity of feeding new or struggling hives.  I discovered he currently tends over eighty supers!  In 2013 and 2014, Justin was chosen for the Outstanding Young Farm Family in the Bee & Honey Division at the Young Farmers Leadership Conference.

justin photo

 

Before leaving, Justin invited me in to sample his new Honey Mustard and loaded me up with a handful of products available from the company’s website: Honey Hand Sanitizer, emollient hand & body lotions containing beeswax and shea butter, soaps, a honey infused lip balm and a leather conditioner comprised of both lanolin and beeswax.IMG_7881-Body_Butter-Eastaboga-1024x680

IMG_7903-Eastaboga_Lip_Balm-1024x680honey

In the coming season, the company is also scheduled to come out with a Honey Vinegar Sauce/Marinade… and Mead!  Justin’s degree in marketing from JSU is obviously coming in handy.  However, his ingenuity and a hard work ethic are just something he was born with!

If, like me, you are into honey and all its health benefits you must visit Eastaboga Bee Company’s website and check out the honey & the products: http://www.eastabogabeecompany.com

You can also find Justin on Twitter @EastabogaBeeCompany

Now, about that GREAT LOGO. The following excerpt is taken from Justin’s website.  He said he didn’t mind me sharing it at all!

bee

“The Tree & The Tractor”

How Heritage Became The Symbol Of Unwavering Quality….

What does an antique Oliver Tractor, with a tree growing through the middle of it, have in common with a bee company?

Justin Hill, Founder of the Eastaboga Bee Company, says it’s the opening chapter to the story of his family history.

“The love of farming in my family comes from generations back,” says Hill. “That Oliver Tractor with the tree growing out of it is the foremost symbol of my Great Grandfather, Elvin Hill. It marks the beginning of my family’s history of farming in Alabama.”

As the story goes, Elvin Hill farmed the lands across East Central Alabama in the late 1800s. After a long hard day of working the fields, Elvin parked his Oliver Tractor and returned home for dinner.  Before the meal could be served, Elvin Hill suffered a fatal heart attack.

The grieving Hill family left that Oliver Tractor in the spot where Elvin had parked it. It served as a monument of sorts, which represents the last life act of a great man and the leader of the Hill family.  As the months past, a small tree began to sprout from underneath. Through the years, the tree continued to grow, committing the Oliver Tractor to the very ground it was parked on.

 blue bees

Notes:

While colony loss has been noted and investigated for decades, the rise in numbers during 2006, 2007 (some beekeepers reported a loss of up to 80% of their colonies) created great concern for both apiculturists and agriculturalists.  It was then that the term Colony Collapse Disorder was coined.

Due to the large drop in U.S. hives from mites, disease, harsh weather, insecticides, etc. many farmers now “rent” honeybees for pollination. Thus, migratory beekeeping has become crucial to U.S. agriculture.  Many beekeepers earn more money from renting bees for pollination than for the production of honey.  The business is both necessary and lucrative. However, researchers are currently investigating migratory beekeeping’s effect on spreading viruses and mites.

*****

ELIZABETH MOZLEY

@ElizabethMozley  &  @CentipedeYAread

And on Facebook – We Share the Same Sky, author Elizabeth Mozley

We Share the Same Sky, a memoir

https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozley/e/B00J7KJWIU

Goodbye Summer, Hello Fall

When the weather changes, the closet gets changed out and the plate offered at the table follows suit.  It is time for fall foods, folks!  While I am sure some eat biscuits year round, for me they are a cool weather food; as summer is reserved for fresh fruits that are readily available at our local farmer’s market.  Admittedly, I’ve not always been a fruit lover.  (Laughing, because I can hear the actor in Tombstone drawling, “You, music lover”. It’s funny only if you know the film and once you hear it, you can’t UN-hear it.) But, I digress.

It’s fall and it’s time for cool weather foods.  And for me, warm, just-baked breads are at the top of the list!  Of course, the memoir We Share the Same Sky is filled with reflections of growing up in the South, foods my grandmother’s and mother made, breads they baked and the hours we shared around the family table.  So, I thought today I would share an excerpt, followed by a sweet potato biscuit recipe.  My cousin, Dana Lynn, has been at work perfecting our Grandmother Libby’s square dinner biscuits.  Perhaps she will allow me to share these as well in the near future.

 

From:  We Share the Same Sky (an excerpt from Chapter 2)

Simplicity -free of complexity, refinement or pretentiousness

     The importance of the making and sharing of bread is an amazing thing.   The       women in my family all make a variety of breads. But, of them all, my favorite continues to be the humble biscuit. My GrandMosie’s were the most divine!  She got up early every morning to make my Grandpa breakfast before he went to work. She would fill several with butter and granulated sugar, then slip them to me with a hot cup of coffee at three a.m. because she knew I preferred them hot. I’d eat, drink, crawl back beneath the weight of handmade quilts and fall right back into a deep sleep.  She also made sweet potato biscuits for me and Papa on days we went hunting.  We would eat our fill, then wrap those remaining in paper napkins and tuck them in our coat pockets.  They were thick, dense biscuits, so rich in flavor.

My Grandmother Libby also made incredible biscuits, though they were somewhat odd.  She kept her flour in a huge tin in the cupboard; when she readied to make biscuits she would pull out a stool, open the tin and make a well right there in the flour then work in the shortening and buttermilk.  The biscuit dough was removed, the lid fastened back onto the tin and put away. After rolling out the dough into a long rectangular shape, she placed it on a flat baking sheet and cut it into squares.  She was the only person I knew who made them this way. Always, they were served alongside her falling-off-the-bone, fried pork chops.

Baking bread is often the basis of tradition. And, many of these traditions are linked to religion. Unleavened bread is partaken when receiving the Eucharist or the Lord’s Supper; Artos is a Greek celebration bread; elaborate wreath breads are indicative of many German celebrations and King Cake is a common Christmas tradition in countries commemorating the festival of Epiphany.  Southerners in Mobile, Alabama and New Orleans, Louisiana begin the merriment of Mardi Gras with a King Cake iced in carnival colors of purple, gold and green.  Whomever finds the token- be it bean or baby- baked within the cake, receives both a favor and responsibility.   A Christmas custom in Poland is the making and sharing of Oplatek.  This thin wafer has a holy picture pressed into it.  Family members make it together, then share it with close neighbors.  Each person breaks a wafer and as they eat it, forgives the other of any wrong doing or hurt that has occurred over the past year.

Today, wheat is the most widely cultivated crop on earth.  But, I believe that mass production has diminished our appreciation for it.  Surely, the women who grew, milled, and made their own breads viewed the final product very differently. They claimed a connection to the soil, and therefore to the land and to home.  The Russian immigrants who secretly brought over their more resilient grains understood this bond. How true it is, the quote by Aldo Leopold that “the oldest task in human history [is] to live on a piece of land without spoiling it.”   In our effort to progress, we have not only severed our tie to the land, we have let go of traditions that connect us to our heritage.

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

 

Unfortunately this is not my GrandMosie’s recipe. 

She never used one for breads or pies.

sweet-potato-biscuits

 

Sweet Potato Biscuits

Ingredients:

  • 1 sweet potato prebaked and cooled
  • 1 1/4 cups sweet milk
  • 3 1/2 cups self-rising flour
  • 4 tsp. sugar
  • A good pinch of salt
  • 2/3 cup cold solid vegetable shortening, cut into
    small pieces
  • 4 Tbs. cold unsalted butter, cut into
    small pieces

Directions:

Preheat an oven to 400°F.

Position a rack in the upper third of the oven and increase the temperature to 450°F.

Peel the sweet potato and mash with a fork, then add the buttermilk and mix until smooth.

In a large bowl, sift together the flour, sugar and salt. Add the shortening and butter; use a fork to cut them into the dry ingredients. Add the sweet milk mixture and stir until a soft, crumbly dough forms. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured surface and knead very lightly, just until it holds together.

Roll out and pat the dough into a rectangle 6 by 12 inches. Use a biscuit cutter or old juice jar to cut out biscuits. Transfer to a lightly sprayed baking sheet. Bake until the biscuits have risen and the edges and bottoms are lightly browned, 12 to 14 minutes.


*Recipe was given to me by a dear friend years ago –thank you CW. *Photo via tiny banquet committee.

*****

ELIZABETH MOZLEY

@ElizabethMozley  &  @CentipedeYAread

And on Facebook – We Share the Same Sky, author Elizabeth Mozley

We Share the Same Sky, a memoir

https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozley/e/B00J7KJWIU

 

The deepest shade of envy green~ Southern Hospitality

watermelon

Nancy, a dear friend of mine, posted this picture to her Facebook recently and I immediately turned the deepest shade of green!  She explained how a neighboring farmer had left the gift on her doorstep.  The thoughtfulness made me wish I lived nearby.  It also got me to thinking about how much I love this area.  Understand, I am not blind to all that is wrong with the South, but for me it is a love that goes deep enough to appreciate all this region has to offer.

The greatest of which is still good ‘ole SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY.  And, yes, even today it still exists.

Being hospitable in the South is often defined by food.  Always has been and I have a feeling it always will be.  It is one of the things I love about HOME.  It is also the easiest way we Southern women know to say, “I love you” or “I appreciate you”.

When the children and I moved to Oxford, Alabama in 2007, our neighbor across the street whom we had not yet met, left a plate of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on the little café table in our carport.  When we returned from school that afternoon, the children and I were all smiles.   Anderson poured us tall glasses of milk (mine with crushed ice) and we sat down and devoured the still warm cookies.

Looking back some of my sweetest memories involve food.

I remember Mother surprising me in the campus parking lot while I was in college.  She was standing next to my vehicle holding a chocolate Coca-Cola birthday cake.

And, the first year I taught elementary school, I returned home and was surprised and delighted to find a pot of chicken and dumplings warming on the stove.  My father had come, cooked supper for us and returned home.

My heart hurts with the memories too of all the trips my Grandpa and GrandMosie made to Talladega County when I first moved away from home.  They would show up out of-the-blue bearing gifts –always a sweet potato and pumpkin pie.  They are still my favorites.  (I enjoy them warm, but still prefer a slice after they’ve cooled in the refrigerator, with a glass of sweet tea of course.)

For me, food will always be associated with hospitality or small acts of kindness.

“Be good to strangers; be better to family,” my Grandmother Libby used to say.

In the South, when someone is sick, you take them food.  When a family is placed in hardship, folks show up with casseroles, buckets of chicken… desserts.  That’s just the way it is around here.  And, I like it!

Even at work, I am surrounded by teachers who bring and give –many mornings there is something fresh baked, or a box of doughnuts from Lamar’s waiting in the workroom.   And, boy does the faculty miss Ms. Camp and her wonderful zucchini bread since she retired.  Though I’m not sure which we miss most –the bread or her contagious laughter!

It seems the older I get, the more rushed life becomes.  I hope that in the future this changes, but I doubt it.  The one thing I am sure of though is that I want the giving to continue –even when I am tired, even when I am busy.

I hope that looking back years from now, my kids will remember the meals shared with family, will remember the hospitality that is part of their heritage.

 

Coca-Cola Cake

If you haven’t had it, you need to ASAP!~

  • 2cups sugar
  • 2cups all-purpose flour
  • 1cup Coca-Cola
  • 1 ½cups small marshmallows
  • ½cups butter or margarine
  • ½cups vegetable oil
  • 3tablespoons cocoa
  • 1teaspoon baking soda
  • ½cups buttermilk
  • 2eggs
  • 1teaspoon vanilla extract
  • ½cups butter
  • 4tablespoons cocoa
  • 6tablespoons Coca-Cola
  • 1box (16-ounces) confectioners’ sugar
  • 2teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 1cup chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  *In a bowl, sift the sugar and flour, then add marshmallows.

In a saucepan, mix the butter, oil, cocoa and Coca-Cola.   Bring to a boil and pour over dry ingredients; blend well.  *Dissolve baking soda in buttermilk then add to batter with eggs and vanilla extract.  Mix well and pour into a well-greased 9- by-13-inch pan and bake 35 to 45 minutes.   Remove from oven and frost immediately.

Coca-Cola Cake Frosting

Combine: 1/2 cup butter, 4 tablespoons cocoa and 6 tablespoons of Coca-Cola in a saucepan. Bring this to a boil and then pour over confectioners’ sugar.  Blend well and add the vanilla extract and pecans.  Spread over cake, carefully.  When cool, cut into squares and serve.

coca-cola-cake

*****

ELIZABETH MOZLEY

@ElizabethMozley  &  @CentipedeYAread

And on Facebook – We Share the Same Sky, author Elizabeth Mozley

We Share the Same Sky, a memoir

https://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozley/e/B00J7KJWIU