Slip Sliding Away

I’ve not written much because I guess I’ve let stress take a strangle hold. Often that happens when you’re flying pretty high—the top branches kinda stall out the engine when they get tangled in the propeller. It’s a conscious effort to remember that whatever happens is for some unknown and unforeseen reason, and that I’m in exactly the place I’m supposed to be.

That place is here—

and if it isn’t a mountaintop, someone needs to rework the driveway. Here is owned by a terrific woman, Lisa Gagnon, I met through couchsuring.org. She opened her house for as long as I need it, and has even hooked me up with a job, and introduced me to tons of townsfolk who are just lovely. Susie Homemaker she is not—but then neither am I—are you? Some of us are or are not to varying degrees. It is this variance that not only distinguishes us from each other, but determines our level of homemaking endurance. With three dogs and a teenager with several friends, Lisa has made me realize I’m at the other end of the endurance pendulum. But hey, I’m living here for free (or semi) so I can’t complain.


The semi portion of the living expenses is primarily food or the cooking area of said food. Suffice it to say, I’ve found it necessary to eat out mostly, which cuts into the house savings, which feeds into that stress strangle hold. I find myself taking frequent deep breaths of mountain air and staring wistfully into the blue tinge of the mist so that I can imagine my dreams’ image etched into the slate. “You know the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip sliding away.”

I went to look at a mountain cabin listed on Craigs List. Can you see the difference? There is not one slat or log in this home that is treated. OK, I know I’m looking for the ‘natural’ or ‘organic’ lifestyle, but I believe there are natural and organic treatments that will hinder termites, ants, spiders, mice, ticks, and all other living, flying, crawling creatures from nesting deep into the wood of your home. I may be wrong and if I am, I need again to readjust my sites—but I don’t think so.

The logs on the outside were the logs on the inside and they were all deep, rich, warm, and very, very dark. The bathroom was huge and opened onto the back deck. The kitchen was as large as the bathroom—take that however you like. When you opened the front door you were at the bottom of the stairs going up—immediately. The windows in the bedrooms were half windows at the top of the room, allowing in very little of whatever light there was beneath the forest canopy. I WANT my house beneath a forest canopy to alleviate heating and cooling costs, but windows are mandatory. Am I asking too much?

Put aside the house, the living, the eating and look out for the important things in life, right. So, Friday night was the American Cancer Associations’ Relay for Life at the downtown park. I went as part of the Fannin Democrats. Yeah, Democrats in Georgia. And let me tell you, some people took wide berths around our booth, some rolled their eyes, and some shook their heads. Yeah? Democrats in Georgia?

The theme for the evening was Carnivale, so the Fannin Democrats did a cake wheel. My hostess, Lisa, baked five; total we had 11 cakes we sold at $1 chances. I learned this morning that $200 was made for the AMA from just the cakes. I wouldn’t know. I left.

It was a 24 hr event with food, games, and music, and I lasted 2 hours. The temperature had been 95 with 70% humidity all day (and I’d been out and about selling ads for the newspaper), and when evening came, it was still 93. Not only couldn’t I walk around the park to support the cancer survivors, I couldn’t walk around carrying a cake announcing the wheel either. I was exhausted. Additionally, the spiders spinning down from the trees and the little gnats whizzing all over me was just more than I could do. Once again, yes nature, and yes, deal with the bugs. For one, no hairspray or perfume; plant natural bug repellants, like marigolds or lavender. Particularly if this is the city park. Help make your citizens comfortable in using the public facilities. Again, am I asking too much?

I look back on my past posts and then re-read this and there is absolutely a different tone. I am not disillusioned. I think all can be adjusted to and dealt with and it would ALL be so much better if I had a home. The tone will swing back around soon, I can feel its return, but for now, deal with it. Oh, and by the way, I AM taking care package donations of whatever you’d like to send.

Donna Kiser
c/o Fannin Sentinel
29 State St.
Blue Ridge, GA 30513

p.s. This is where I am currently writing this. Can it get any better? Uhhh, you tell me.

p.s.s. This is my hostess--just LOOK at that smile.

The Constant

A truck tire swings from the low branch of a magnolia tree, awaiting the laughter of small boys returned from a slow afternoon of creek fishing. An apple pie cools on the window sill while chicken pieces crackle in hot grease, and biscuits stay warm beneath a yellow-checkered towel.

White lace curtains sway in a southern breeze scented by apple and cherry blossoms. The white rocking chair creaks on the white porch beside a hanging swing-seat cushioned in a rose covering. Chickens scratch lazily in the dirt and a milking cow lows softly from the barn.

It is so close I can almost touch it, this dream. The smells tickle my nose and the sights tear my eyes. It’s not a new dream. The mists roll in off the mountains and whisper to my senses. I have never, not known this place that wavers at the edges of my consciousness. My name has lingered on its winds and through its rustling leaves until I could no longer deny the calling.

It’s there, just beyond my fingertips. What keeps it from my grasp? I write to quiet the voices, and I chase this dream to still the images that race and disturb reality. Soon, they will merge and create certainty. Or is it mere fantasy?

Pictureless on a Brakeless Day

I journeyed out once again for that ever elusive waterfall here in northern Georgia. Actually, I was really going to just sit by Blue Ridge Lake. Close to town and my latest couch. It’s right behind Wendy’s—the sign said so—but of course, I had no luck in finding it. Truth be told, one could say I had no luck at all today, but since I am here telling you this story, I’ve been very lucky. But I have no pictures to support that.

Yesterday I had my couch’s mechanic do an oil change and rotate the tires on the truck. I’ve driven over 3000 miles, so it was time. As he was looking under the vehicle, he informed me the rear shocks were broken off. I said replace them. After all, if I’m going to get lost on gravel roads at 4000 mile elevations, I need the truck to balance properly and stay on the road. It really did handle better, felt tighter this morning as I set off on a new expedition.

I again ended up on a gravel road winding up and around the side of a mountain. You see, there are no roads around here that don’t wind around a mountain, however, I understand there are a lot more paved roads than what I’ve been finding. Today’s route was different in that it was primarily residential, albeit foreclosed residences. Every 100 yards or so was a monstrous sized new construction home with a for sale sign at the end of the long and winding driveway. Log homes built, I imagine, for only sitting on the deck, inviting folks to see their elegant abode, and then closing up and heading back to whatever corporate urban area they hailed from. Large, glass-paned structures with no one to see in or out any longer, except maybe a squirrel or bear. They were very pretty to look at although I enjoyed more the wilderness path of my last excursion.

As I slowed to let a couple bikes exit a campground, the brake pedal didn’t stop—and neither did the truck. It just kept going and then slid on the gravel. It finally stopped and my mouth fell open at the bikers who I’m sure thought I was demented. They rolled on and I did not. I tried, but the right front clunked and clanged and groaned until I was afraid the whole front end was falling off. I got out and looked, but I didn’t really want to crawl under a truck on a 45 degree incline. So, I got back in and tried to drive again. There was no change.

And of course, there was no signal on my phone from the world’s largest 4g network—T-Mobile, so what could I do? I put on the flashers, jammed my foot on the mushy brake pedal and went forward. A man I had talked to earlier said it was about 12 miles to the Interstate and then who knew how far back to Blue Ridge because, once again, I had no idea where I was. I was just rolling.

I eased over whenever I saw a vehicle coming up behind me, and since it was a residential area, there were quite a few. I thought of stopping at one of the hundred churches I saw along the way, but I wasn’t sure how their god, or his followers, would take to me in my sports bra and dago-T interrupting the Sunday hellfire and brimstone rally. So, I went forward, clunking, clanging and groaning all the way, while pumping the brakes whenever I came to one of those usual hairpin turns going downhill.

By the time I got to the Interstate, the clunking, clanging, and groaning had stopped. The brakes hadn’t come back though. Without the noise, I felt safe. Similar to smoking. You know perfectly well your lungs are corroding, blackening and shriveling but if there’s no cough and no pain, you keep right on going. And so I did.

I parked in the Burger King lot in Blue Ridge and returned my sons call. We talked about his garden and fishing and my loss of brakes. Didn’t seem so drastic sitting in Burger King. Even though the fear oozing from my pores made me smell like I’d not showered in weeks—he didn’t know that. I laughed and he laughed and all was well. I talked to my grandsons and smoked a few more cigarettes. Afterward, I called the mechanic and his girlfriend said he was still in the bed—11am. I asked her to have him call me because I’d just lost my brakes in the mountains. Told her it was a scary situation and I’d be by the phone when he called.

Hell, I figured since I’d made it down the mountain, I could make it downtown to the coffee shop. It would be a nicer place to wait and I could do some writing. At 2pm I called Rick, the mechanic, and he said he’d planned on coming as soon as he finished for the day. When I told him where I was, he was surprised. She hadn’t told him I’d lost brakes on the mountain and that I’d be waiting—just that I needed brakes. I must get better at my southern language skills.

He came, looked at the right front where the noise had been, and nothing was leaking. Looked at the brake fluid, which was dry, but nothing leaking. Then he looked at the rear wheels and the right one was soaking wet. Who knows? Certainly not me. As I write this I had a passing thought if maybe he had knocked something loose when he replaced the rear shocks, but does it really matter? I sit here safe and he’s there. Tomorrow, I will be short more dollars but I’ll be on the road again, this time not waterfall searching, but viewing a house. I think I’m going to leave the waterfall searching alone for awhile. I mean after all, they aren’t going anywhere. Today, I was brakeless which caused me to be pictureless; I don’t want to be less anything again for awhile.

Blue Ridge Outsider

I’d planned to write this piece about Blues in Blue Ridge at Blue Orleans Bistro in downtown Blue Ridge, GA (boy, that’s a lot of blue) from an outsider’s perspective, but I’ve come to realize, there are no outsiders in Blue Ridge. Coming from Chicago where you can stand in the corner of a function or benefit for hours without anyone even acknowledging your presence, the warm and welcoming reception I received at the fundraiser for Snack in a Backpack last night was refreshing and exciting. 

I was passing through Blue Ridge on my way to find an off-the-grid mountain home and had the luck to land at the home of Lisa Gagnon of the Fannin Sentinel. Lisa has opened her home for “as long as you need it” and has been a wealth of information about everything. This ‘pass through’ is quickly becoming a ‘stay home’ place. It’s not a place you leave easily—nor should you.

I saw the signs for Blues in Blue Ridge but failed to notice that it was a reservation/donation event to benefit Snack in a Backpack. When Elaine, Lisa’s mother and owner of the Sentinel, decided to pass on her reservation because of a rigorous day of interviewing, Lisa included me. I went clothed in a “Fannin Sentinel Press” name tag and had more fun, felt more accepted, and smiled more than I have in many years—as an insider, because there are no outsiders in Blue Ridge.

The host location, Blue Orleans Bistro, is housed in a Louisiana plantation-style white-pillared Victorian with screened porches, a separate dining room with southern belle bonnets hanging from the fireplace, and delicious bayou food—the crawfish tails with Remoulade and Hoisin sauce are to die for. And the owner, Tim Huffstetler, belts out a mean “Polk Salad Annie.” 

The real entertainment, The Buckeye Band, was electrifying. Feet were tapping, hands clapping, and by the end, tables were moved to allow for the hips swaying—and mine were included. It’s been years since I’ve danced, even if the music is jumping, but last night I was invited. People smiled, waved me up and actually danced with me, looked me in the eyes and smiled. I was an accepted and enjoyed part of the in-crowd.

Everyone who was anyone in Blue Ridge was there, and the MC for the night, Jack Morton of Wrapsody in Blue, was engaging as an MC as well as being both interesting and interested as a conversationalist. Even Gaye Whalton, who is the creator of Snack in a Backpack and coordinator of the extravaganza, took the time to inquire about me personally and welcome me heartily as a prospective new Blue Ridge resident.

Besides my own profound experience of warmth, the event itself was a booming success. Local businesses donated such auction items as diamond rings from The Diamond Center, a mountain cabin stay from BR Lodging Assoc., Atlanta Braves tickets, and the phenomenal Blue Orleans Bistro chef for a private party, and much more. The Buckeye Band donated a Fender Stratocaster signed by a host of blues artists, which went for a whopping $800 for the Snack in a Backpack organization, who were the real winners of the night, and the reason for all these welcoming and generous people coming together. Kids will continue to receive their weekend backpacks full of food thanks to the concern, generosity, and warm kindness of folks in Blue Ridge, GA—where I am not an outsider.

Donna and the Mountain

I swear I was only in search of a waterfall to sit beside and write—a blog post of my continuing journey to my off-the-grid mountain home, and some poetry from a few inspiring prompts. I’d been in search of these allusive waterfalls for days. Thursday, I stopped at the Blue Ridge Chamber of Commerce and picked up maps that promised to get me to a waterfall. Any would do. I opted for Jacks River Falls because it was close, or so it looked on the map. I put my little Yankee self in my 4x4 GMC pickup, and headed off down Old Highway 2 looking for the turnoff onto Highway 22 where it looked like Jacks River Falls was located. I never found the falls but I did find a bit of myself up on that mountain.

It started as a relaxing scenic drive over winding paved road, looking wistfully at the cozy homes nestled in the cool forest. I was glad I was the only one on the road. I was still traversing the mountains roads at a novice pace. I passed Jacks River Falls Diner so I figured I must be close to the falls itself. To be perfectly honest, I did see the sign that read, “Paved road ends in one mile,” but I kept on anyway. There is something inside that relishes fear, thrives on pushing my comfort level beyond the boundaries of sanity. So when the paved road ended and the pickup bumped, bounced and rattled on the washboard-rutted road, I pushed forward—and forward—and forward.

I have to admit, the road smoothed out and it was fairly wide enough that I didn’t really worry about going over the side. But it was a very long way down if I did. And it was a hard wall on the other side. It was another white-knuckled drive for me. To my credit though—or at least I convinced myself so—I only kept going because there were intermittent US Dept. of Forestry signs posted—overgrown with vines and dust-coated, but visible—that identified the different areas. Cohutta Wilderness area, Lake Conasauga, East Cowpens Trail and even a sign that specified “natural lures only”. It’s understandable that I concluded this was a safe road and was supposed to be traveled. So, travel I did.

On one of the maps I’d seen Big Frog Mountain, elevation 4k+, and when I looked out the window, it felt every bit of 4000 miles in the air. Often I wandered what exactly was I doing here? Why was I driving this road? Obviously, it was no longer about finding a waterfall to write beside. Particularly as the road became more gutted and scarred with deep winding ruts scattered with riverbed rocks. It was here that I told myself I could do it. I can make it. I just need to follow the road and it will lead out. At some point, I relaxed enough within myself to drive one-handed, and do very well.

I passed a parked SUV—which comforted me to know people were out and about—covered in dust. On the back window someone had fingered “Help! Kidnapped by a bald man…” I kept driving. Moments later I thought I should’ve taken a picture, just in case it wasn’t a joke, but by then it was too late. I certainly wasn’t going to park and walk back. Later, I passed a pickup on with a shovel leaning against it and a t-shirt drying in the window. I kept driving there as well. I did stop to take a picture of Dyer Mountain Cemetery.

 

Finally, I came to a crossroads. Conasauga Lake straight ahead, Jacks River Falls behind me—yeah, right—and Highway 55 to the left 9 miles. It really was a moment of decision to continue or to head for the highway. I opted for the out. Two cars and a squad passed me heading in the direction I’d just come, and I thought about the kidnapped vehicle and the shovel. I wished I’d taken pictures. A newer pickup stopped in the road ahead and as I was driving around him—slowly because he’d not moved over very much—the driver got out and walked towards me. I nodded as I’ve seen others do on this journey but he put his hand out in the stop gesture.

            “Do you have any idea where you are up here?”

That was hilarious, and I laughed heartily.

 “NO. Do you?”

Even though I told him I didn’t know anymore than he did, he still asked about Conasauga Lake and I was proud that I was able to direct him. Thanks to the US Dept. of Forestry signs, this little Yankee girl was able to direct the big, bad Yankee boy. And we went on our separate ways.

I saw a “Welcome to Boatwrights Cabin” ranch sign where the road led through a creek to a house. Then I spotted a tent in the trees on the other side of the creek. I parked the truck and waded in the creek, cooling my feet. I waved at the campers and told them that was a damn nice campsite. One of the young men came down to the creek and told me all about how to find the site—and others—and how to park—he was up a path and in under the trees. When I said that he must be from around here, he confirmed, “Just up at Eton.” We wished each other a good day and I was back on the road.

As the road winded down and ran along the creek, there were more and more cars parked along the side. Couples and families with kids were in the creek, lying on tubes, forking under rocks with big sticks, and just enjoying life—an easy, slow life. I couldn’t wait to find my home and bring my grand-boys down to do the same. We’d camp in that perfect spot and play in the creek all day. I never did find Jacks River Falls but I sat on a rock in the middle of the creek and was happy. I was strong, self-sufficient, able, and I was happy.

When I finally exited, I was on Highway 411/61/2. It took me a minute to find Highway 411 in Eton, GA on the map, and then to decide which way to go. There didn’t seem to be a highway back across those mountains, and I needed to go back east to Blue Ridge. On the map, I saw Highway 411 connected to Highway 2. I figured I’d probably gotten off Highway 2 somewhere on the mountain, so I should get back on it and end up right where I started. When 411 hit 2, I turned and it wasn’t a ½ mile before the road was gravel again. I stopped in the middle of the road. Do I want to do that again? Is there a reason I need to do that again? Both answers were no, so I backed up to turn around and promptly got stuck in the ditch. Rather than get angry or frustrated, I was just very thankful that didn’t happen when the ditch dropped 4000 feet.

I unstuck the truck by dropping it in low and rocking back and forth—Yankees know about getting stuck—and I headed on north to 64 East. I took the long, easy way back and driving the paved mountain roads was a piece of shortcake after the gravel. Yes, I’d found a peaceful, quite, acceptance of Donna on that mountain, even if I had missed Jacks River Falls.

And as you can see, I carried a bit of the mountain down with me. 

Red Clay Cherokee Council Grounds

I thought I knew a lot of Cherokee history but I missed the all important fact of the last Cherokee Council held at Red Clay in Cleveland, TN. This is where they learned the treaties were lies and they were to be “relocated,” in the Indian Removal Act of 1830 signed by Andrew Jackson, who ironically, was saved from death by a Cherokee. This was the beginning of the Trail of Tears.

It was also at Red Clay that The Cherokee Nation from Oklahoma and the Eastern Band ofCherokee Indians came together in 1984 to hold the first joint council session in over 150 years. It is commemorated by the Eternal Flame.I offered tobacco as thanks to the Spirits of the Four Directions, and sat in silent, peaceful meditation for quite some time.

Red Clay has interpretive trails where Cherokee housing is displayed, and the Council house and meeting area. While they are both “federally recognized”—been sanctioned and given labels by the white man—they both call themselves the “real” Cherokee Nation. It’s my opinion, as a portion Cherokee, that the blood is what is real. Although, I must admit, North Carolina Cherokee ARE a bit arrogant and refuse any assistance whatever in researching Cherokee genealogy unless the relative is on the roles. There are MANY reasons a native would not be listed on the rolls, some of their own choosing, and others due to white man policies.

It’s in the blood and spirit, and a printed name proves nothing. My blood and spirit is what brings me home.

Council Meeting House

Council gathering area

Farmstead inside

Cherokee sleeping cabins

Cherokee Farmstead

Also at Red Clay is the  Blue Hole Spring. The water bubbles up from the ground and ripples away down a cool, clear creek. I took my shoes off and stepped into the water. I was refreshed from the toes up and ready to carry on--seriously!

Couch #3

It’s been a few days since I’ve written because it’s been a full few days. Actually, as I look back at the posts, it’s been damn near a week. I should probably split up the posts, but we’ll see as it goes along. 

 I left Johnson City, TN on Friday, May 27^th and took the back roads south. When I headed out, I was reminded of Led Zeppelin’s “Misty Mountain Hop” and I was humming it all along as I watched the Smokey’s do their morning dance. There’s no better way to start a day than feeling you are right where you belong. It just forces a smile to your lips and a skip in your heart, and I was no exception. I drove along Highway 321 with a bit of a snap on the gas pedal.

Just north of Gatlinburg, TN, I was urged to pull over for the rolling white water beneath the bridge I was crossing. People had a small stand on the side of the road just selling stuff—something I could probably make a lot of money doing once I unload from my move down. I wanted to just sit beside Little Pigeon River, just sit and listen to the gurgles, the splashes, the voices of the water spirits as they skipped easily on their journey. No concern of how they get there or where it is they are going, just flowing. I wanted to sink my feet in the clear, coolness; close my eyes and drift along, however the only parking was for the roadside stand, and I didn’t want to take away from any potential customers. I couldn’t leave without the pictures though.

As I drove into Gatlinburg, I couldn’t resist taking the shot of tiny little specks amongst the trees in the mountains. Million, and half million dollar homes breaking the wooded skyline of the Smokey’s, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening inside those wide-open-floor-planned glass facades since the local newspapers and Craigs List is littered with “elegant mountain home” foreclosures. Of course I’m not happy that anyone is struggling, yet it is tangible evidence of our living-beyond-your-means lifestyles that created the financial crisis currently strangling the world. Scars of capitalism seared into the mountainsides.

Once inside Gatlinburg, one would never guess that there was such a thing as a financial crisis. Traffic began to back up three miles out, so I parked at City Hall and took the trolley in for $.50. Every shop was full, there was a good hour-length line for the Aquarium—which I’m sure had nothing on Chicago’s Shedd Aquarium, so I didn’t even bother. No, I wasn’t there to spend, just look. It always amazes me that people will shop in stores that have absolutely nothing to do with the area they are visiting. I think there is an Aunt Mahalia’s Candies in every tourist “square” in the country. I know there’s one in Wisconsin Dells and one in Gatlinburg, and what does it have to do with either place? To get out of the heat, I wandered around an incense shop with tie-died wrap-around skirts and silver wizards. Souvenir from the Smoky Mountains anyone?

I ended that road trip in Cleveland, TN at the house of the sister-in-law of my Rogers Park next-door neighbor, Toni Westfield. Toni was one of the best neighbors I’ve ever had and I already miss him. A week after he moved in, he rang my doorbell and asked me if I liked to cook. For the next three years, Toni would drop off multiple packages of meat, and I cooked. We rarely dined together; I’d just bring him plates of food. And huge bowls of potato salad. Toni loved potato salad, steaks, pork chops, bbq’d chicken, and pies—apple and cherry—and strawberry shortcake. He did share Thanksgiving dinner with us when he wasn’t on the road for Amtrak, and my last Labor Day bbq before this countryside journey of mine. My grandkids called him Uncle Toni, and one even tried to fix me up with him—but we’re not each others’ type. 

I don’t think there’s one solitary place in Cleveland, TN where there isn’t a Westfield or a relation to a Westfield, or someone who knows a Westfield. His sister-in-law Sharon was a terrific host, saying, “You can stay as long as you do here what you would do at home,” and I did. That night she made hamburgers and I made homemade French fries. The next night I made spaghetti. Then Toni’s niece came down from Clarksville, and it was a whirlwind Memorial Day weekend.

Uncles, aunties, daddy’s, cousins—2^nd, 3^rd, distant—all treated me like family. The Westfield’s and their relations range from 10-93. Everyone cooked at every house on big ole’ fifty-five gallon drum bbq grills. We ate ribs, chicken, steaks, venison burgers and hot cheese bratwursts with mac and cheese, potato salad (of course), baked beans, cob corn, and watermelon, all washed down with cold beer. There was cold ‘shine’ too, but I passed. Kids ran around climbing trees, parents ran around cuttin’ switches, and uncles pretended to take off their belts. Laughter could be heard a mile away. I will definitely return to couch #3 in “Westfield” TN. 

Me & Toni's oldest brother, Zeke

Toni's niece Zatonda w/her daddy

center=brother Anderson, 

right=brother Kokomo with assorted cousins, etc

 

 

Niece Zatonda & nephew Zamus

1/4 of the party