The Present Formerly Known As

Speaking of locations, there is always the assumption that you know the geographical history of our town. Visitors are often confused. When they ask for directions, they find local citizens very happy to help, however there is often a failure to communicate. And, we are not talking about a language barrier or even a problem due to our accent.

For instance, if someone was coming into town from the interstate and asked for directions to the middle school. They would get something like this, "Well, go down this road, and as you come into town and get to the old K-mart you are going to turn left at the stoplight. Go 2 lights and at the old Food Lion turn right. Now you will pass the Old Mall on your left. Just pass the next light, the school will be on your right. You know that used to be the high school."

Now, that visitor would have some issues here since K-mart moved from that original location 15-20 years ago and to confuse matters, is around the corner. There is no Food Lion, it left years ago, and left no evidence it was ever there. If they ever get to the "Old Mall" their ignorance will serve them well because even locals are having issues with this. Seems that what we call the "Old Mall" is really the "New Mall" because that property was abandoned twenty-something years ago when they built the "new" Mall on the by-pass. However, recently the "old" Mall has been redeveloped so it is now the "New Mall" and we are not quite sure what to call the old "new" Mall.

When the 911 emergency system was implemented the city and county had to certify the names of all the roads. That meant that some roads and streets that had had traditional local names for years suddenly had "official" titles. I can remember a friend of mine laughing that her family had "moved up in the world." Their address had changed from "Wannamaker Pond Road" to "Longwood Drive." It was bit confusing (and still is.) It would have been a lot simpler, if the powers that be, had just asked someone on every street (if they didn't already know), "Excuse me Mam, but what is the name of this street?"

And, jeez, they went out of their way to make it convoluted. Please explain why "Cherry Street" had to be renamed "Cherrywood Lane". And, with the long road that follows the river, appropriately named "Riverside", the powers that be, decided that that little quick turn around a block as the road came into town was confusing. I'm not sure, confusing to whom. Everyone in town had been using the road for years and I never saw anyone miss that turn. But, oh no, the road is now divided right there into 2 different streets - "Riverbank" and "Riverside". Official, or not, God help the out of towners asking directions.

I would imagine some sociologist, after doing a study of our town, would report that we live in the past. It's not so much the past, as it is the land marks of our lives. In today's fast times, it is comforting to hold onto something (even if it is just memories of days gone by.) We are all about tradition. Some would say we are just old dogs and these are new tricks. Perhaps the new street signs should read "Cherrywood Lane formerly known as Cherry Street".

Pyro Pride

One thing my DH truly loves is a camp fire. I cannot decide if it goes back to his mother's strick refusal to let him play with matches or just a slight case of closet pyromania. Nonetheless, give the man an opportunity and he is going to have a camp fire. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that the whole purpose of his insane obsession about camping isn't just an excuse to fund a campfire. But I digress.

When we take off for the great wilderness or a state park campground, which ever is on the agenda, more likely the latter than the former, a good third of the weight of our gear is in fire wood. Now this does not matter what time of year we are talking about, if we are camping we are going to have a camp fire - come summer or winter. And, like most folks like to have their own tent, my DH wants his own firewood. No sir, you won't find him buying those small bundles they sell at the ranger's station. If you ever walk by our campsite it is hard to miss his stack of firewood.

During our last camping adventure, I awoke to find my DH out by a roaring camp fire early one morning. "What time is it?" I asked. "4:30" "Just couldn't sleep?" "No, I slept just fine. I have been looking forward to making this campfire." "But, it's 4:30 in the morning." "I know, if I didn't start now the sun would be up soon and it would be too late to enjoy it." I just snuggled back into my sleeping bag and ingested that nugget of wisdom. If I stay here I don't have to get up, can go back to sleep, do not have to make a fire, and peace will be with me for 2 more hours or so. What am I missing here?

Later that morning (at a much more sane hour) I join my DH around his glorious fire. And, I will give you this, the man can make a fire. I find myself constantly circling the fire ring. "What are you doing?" "Trying avoid the smoke. Every time I sit down, the wind changes and smoke blows in my face." "Oh, a little smoke never hurt anyone." Realizing that I may be offending his fire, I moved over to the picnic table. "You can't appreciate the fire from over there. You have to be over here by it to really enjoy it." And, with that he adds another log and rearranges the already burning logs to keep the flames at their peak.

That evening after dinner, we are once again enjoying a wonderful campfire. In the distance you can hear children playing and adults chatting over dinner. Things are quieting down in the campground. My DH suddenly points to a bright orange blaze in the woods. "Look at that campfire." As I look that way, I can see the wheels turning in my DH's mind - our campfire is becoming a bonfire. Fire envy has raised it's ugly head. "We" must not be shown up by another camper. "Our" pyro skills must not be questioned. I immediately try to assuage any thoughts he may have by reminding him that the other fire is most likely being maintained by a large group of campers, not just your run of the mill campers. His reputation is not in jeopardy.

I notice from then on that our fires tended to be larger, a little more "robust". But, I'm sure that was my imagination. Another thing, that was not my imagination was the smell of smoke that permeated everything at the campsite, every article of clothing, our hair, our skin. By the end of the trip, I felt like even my inner being was smoked. Somehow, I don't think this was the inspiration for the lovely song, "Smoke gets in your eyes."

Evil Weeds

There are two (legal) notorious weeds in the south - the ever maligned Kudzu and the evil Poison Ivy. Both are infamous in their own way. Kudzu is fairly aggressive with an un-Godly growth rate of as much as a foot a day . (Which means an abandoned Ford Pinto in the front yard can be totally covered in two and a half weeks. The old GE washer in only eight days.) Poison Ivy, on the other hand, is more personal, in that its mission is to inflict misery upon those who come near.

For fifty years I have played in the backyard, worked in the garden, and hiked in the woods all the while some how always managing to avoid the evil effects of Poison Ivy. That was until last week. And when it struck, it was with a vengeance. As if it took it personally that I had evaded its wicked reach all these years.

Last weekend, you may remember, (See July 19) my DH and I took a Kayak trip down the river. Now, if one could stay on the water while kayaking, it would be a boring activity - not so much boring as lacking consequences. It is easier to avoid the snakes, alligators, and Poison Ivy while on the water. It is when you have to navigate the downed trees and bushes that the odds are ramped up. And, when it comes to portaging your boat into the swamp to circumvent a downed tree blocking passage on the river, well let's just say all odds are off. You're on your own.

It was during one of these episodes that the evil weed made its subversive attack. And, one of the cruel  things is that even after you have been exposed, it lies in wait to raise its ugly head. Our river trip was on Saturday, and it wasn't until Thursday that I started to see small red dots on my arm. Now having fair skin, it is not unusual for mosquito bites to show up with such symptoms. However, it when the red "dots" started to connect and it got messy, that I realized that I had a full blown case of honest to God Poison Ivy. Next, came the itch - the aggressive itch.

Now, if you are not familiar with this affliction, once it appears, it starts to take over. And, if you scratch one place, then touch another it can spread. After several days, this small annoyance has become my worse nightmare. Then the irritating itch becomes a maddening agony. Not only are you aggravated trying to avoid scratching, the itch now becomes a low level pain. Then insult to injury, your skin takes on the look of leprosy. It cannot be hidden. Well, I guess you could wear long sleeves, a turtle neck sweater, and gloves. However, this may attract more attention during the summer, than the weeping red wounds on your exposed skin.

I found I get the inevitable question, "On my, what happened to your arm?"  When I explain that I have a severe case of Poison Ivy that I contracted while kayaking in a swamp, the attention is quickly drawn from my grossly afflicted arm to the amazement that someone my age had kayaked down a swampy river. (I'm sure they are thinking that I got what I deserved for trying to attempt such a sport at my age.)

Back to my arm. It hurts - it itches - and I am aggravated that after all this time my immunity to this cruel plant no longer exists. And, it continues to spread from my arm to my torso, to my legs. I've never seen anything with such aggressive growth.  Well maybe something - Kudzu!

By The Time I Get to Phoenix

By the time I get to Phoenix . . . it will be hot as you know what. And, everyone tells me, "Oh, but it's a dry heat." Well, so is my oven, but I have no desire to stay inside it. Seriously, it is a different type of heat. And, surprisingly, I find that I can adjust fairly well. You don't have to worry about "glistening" (a southern woman's variation of sweat.) But I digress.

I decided to fly in on Saturday to have a day to myself to drive up to Lake Powell. (A good idea at the time.) My flights went well. The temperature, a mild 102.  The nice guy at the rental car counter informed me that yes, I would be going through Flagstaff (which I thought was my final destination) but Lake Powell is on the Arizona/Utah border, 130 miles north of Flagstaff - a small error in navigation. My 2 hour drive just got extended by an additional 2 hours.

Another fun fact about Arizona is that they don't play by the rules. They don't like Day Light Savings Time, so they opted out (I didn't realize it was an option.) So even though all the states around them are on Mountain Time they are an hour behind. You know they are "special" when you go to program your cell phone and the choices are "Eastern Time, Central Time, Mountain Time, Arizona Time, Pacific Time". This is confusing. Do I subtract 3 or 4? Do I subtract 4 and add 1?

As I leave Phoenix the speed limit continues to rise, 55, 65, 70 . . . 75. This I can deal with , 75 miles per hour and wide open spaces. Although, I notice there are many white crosses along the side of the road, which I assume represent locations of loss of life. Maybe everyone shouldn't be driving 75. The Desert is incredibly beautiful, the scrub bushes, the tall cactus, the mountains in the distance. And, the occasional cars on the side of the road that had run hot. I am suddenly concerned about the lack of cell coverage out here. I can see the headlines now, "She headed north toward Flagstaff never to be heard of again."

As I start climbing into the mountains, the steep inclines slow traffic down. The scenery is incredible. If I had done my homework, I would have realized that I was going to the Grand Canyon. Of course, if I had done my homework and looked at a map, I would have realized that my hotel was 130 miles out of Flagstaff. A minor detail that is quickly becoming major as my day gets longer. Oh well, I'm sure the Grand Canyon is on the list of 1000 Places You need to See Before You Die. (I did check and both the Grand Canyon and Lake Powell,  as well as Red Rock Country are on the list. A Trifecta!!)

My main motivation for this journey was to tour Antelope Canyon. I had seen the most awesome photographs taken of this canyon. After doing some research, I learned that you needed to be in the canyon between 11:30 - 12:00 (AZ time) March - September for the sun to be directly overhead. After further inquiry, I found a well recommended photography tour which promised a small group for serious photographers only (and no young children.) I had a reservation for the tour on Sunday and I was excited.

When I showed up for the tour, there were 25 or so people standing outside the tour company. This was bad. Then they ask all the people in my tour to gather by the Ford Excursion, there were only 7 of us. This was good. The other six were French and spoke only passable English. This was unfortunate. As we load up with our guide, I asked her how we would be able to photograph in the canyon with all those other tourist (the remaining 17-18). "That's why we are leaving first to get ahead of them."

Then she explains that the upper canyon we will be in is only 1/4 mile long and fairly narrow. (I would later appreciate her use of the term "narrow". )

It took us 15-20 minutes to get to the canyon. In the meantime, I learned that my fellow photographers were from Paris, vacationing here, and chose Arizona for its "Wide Open Spaces" (this canyon not being one). As we turned a corner and first see the entrance to the canyon, there were 7 or 8 tour vehicles parked. (I assume they were not there for show.) This was not good. We climbed out and made our way into the narrow slot. The canyon is maybe 10 feet wide at a very few places, usually 6 feet wide, and at some places as narrow as 3 feet. It is probably 75 - 100 feet deep. It is hard to describe the effect the sun light through the small cracks in the top of the canyon has on the different colored striated walls.

But, when you put 75 -100 people in this canyon at the same time, suddenly trying to capture this beauty is a little frustrating. But beauty trumps all. Thankfully, our guide was most helpful working with us to manage the crowds and in some cases, hold them back (for a minute or so) to enable us to take a photograph of the natural beauty of the canyon with out little Jimmy in the picture trying the climb the wall. After two hours of, what seemed to me, to be hand to hand combat at times, we were making our way out of the canyon.  The crowds had thinned and we actually had time (and room) to take some (hopefully) great photos.

Now it was time to make my way back to Phoenix. I returned my rental car and boarded the shuttle bus to return to the terminal for transportation to my hotel. As I sat down, I looked down at my clothes. It was not pretty. I still had on my garb from earlier, that showed evidence of dirt and grime from crawling around on the canyon floor and generally being out in the desert heat. (Not what one generally sees leaving the car rental complex.) On the hotel shuttle I am with an American flight crew. But, I am not concerned. With the way I look, they will never recognize me if they see me tomorrow. Of course, that is if the hotel will let me check in.

Water Water Everywhere

I know he wants to help, but some times I'm not sure I need it that badly.

I have two small greenhouses for my orchids which are located in our sunroom. Now being down here, in order to keep them cool in the summer I have a misting system. To supply the misting system, I have had a 96 gallon trash can (reservoir) that, I will give him credit here, my DH talked me into purchasing. During the summer, I need to replenish the reservoir every 10 days or so. As I am preparing to leave for Arizona I want to make sure that the greenhouses are set so my DH doesn't have to worry about them. I empty the drainage buckets and check the pump. (Oh yeah that's the fun part - due to our humidity - in the summer most of the water in the misting system ends up in drainage buckets that need to be emptied (And no, you cannot recycle it back through the reservoir due to possible plant -to-plant contamination.)) As I turn the corner by the reservoir, I see water, puddles of it. This is not a good sign.

After grabbing some towels, a quick inspection shows the leak is coming from a small crack in the bottom of my reservoir (which has just been filled). This is not good. This is disastrous. I frantically get my DH to syphon the water out of the container and I continue to mop up the floor, careful to avoid all of the electrical cords and devices near by. In 10 minutes or so, the crisis has been averted. But, I need a replacement and fast.

Always ready for a project my DH goes into action with a list of possible options. We rule out using the same type of contained I had due to its failure. We look at 55 gallon drums. This would work. My DH starts talking about how he could put a connector between 2 drums so I would have the capacity of 110 gallons. Immediately, a project is born. He is thrilled. I just want the reservoir replaced in time for me to leave on my trip and know my plants are going to be cool.

He makes some calls and prices used drums - $12 each. This is looking better (the failed container cost well over $80). Even with the fittings and supplies, this will come in below $50. And, my DH should pay me for giving him a project. I go back to my chores. Then he walks in my office with a sheet from the internet."I have found exactly what you need. A 165 gallon plastic tank that is 55 tall. And, it is only $175." (I knew the $50 budget was too good to be true.) "But what about the drums." "No this is much better." It may be better, but is it necessary." "I'm not telling you what to do, but if it were me, this is what I would do." Then I realize the place that has them is an hour and a half away. "We don't have time to go over there and get this." "Sure we do, we can go this evening. I've already called and they have 5 in stock."

An hour later, he sticks his head in my office, "Have you decided what you are going to do?" "I guess, I don't really have a choice." "This is totally up to you. But if it were me, I know what I would do." Reluctantly, I agree and thank him for taking the time to find the tanks. (And, increase my investment 3 fold.) And, off we go on a procurement run.

When we get to the farm supply company they have all kinds of tanks including a slightly smaller size tank than the one we are talking about getting. I look at that one. As I turn to look at my DH, he just shakes his head,"It's up to you, but if it were me." So I tell the lady I'll take the larger tank which is huge. As we are driving off the lot, I ask my DH, "What happened to the $12 drums?" "Oh, this is so much better." Meanwhile, all I can think about, besides the tremendous amount of money I just spent, is the 100's of things I need to do at home.

We get the tank home and my DH insists on washing it and making sure it ready for use. Then we set it up. I will say one thing. It makes a statement and it is substantial. I bring the hose in to fill the tank. As I am putting the hose into the tank, my DH comments,"Why do you always put the hose all the way to the bottom of the tank." "So the hose won't fly out and get water everywhere." "It's not going to do that, it's too deep." Being late in the evening, I only fill the tank two thirds full. The next morning, I go to finish filling the tank. As I pull the hose in, I only have enough hose to go half way into the tank. That should be no problem (according to my DH). I leave the hose running in the tank and go finish the laundry. Suddenly I hear what sounds like the Trevi fountain in the sunroom. I turn the corner to see the hose shooting water full blast through out the sunroom. I close the valve and go get towels to clean the mess. (This is beginning to be a familiar task.)

My DH comes in. "What happened here?" When I told him, his only comment was, "And, I suppose you are going to blame that on me." Thirty minutes later, the tank is full, the hose is back outside, and the floor is dry - or is it? I notice a small puddle coming from beneath tank. Upon further investigation, I see that the valve on the bottom of the tank is leaking. I summon my DH for help. He is able to tighten the valve and solve that problem. "You know", I said, "Those $12 drums wouldn't leak because they don't have valves on the bottom." "I've told you along this was your decision."

Slow Bunnies

OK, I take back (some of what) I said about our reputation down here for being slow and perhaps some of us not being the brightest bunnies in the woods. If I were to drop in from Mars, and while waiting for a cup of coffee at Starbucks, pick up a local newspaper and read that my alien spacecraft has flown 4 million light years to land in a place where (1) a candidate for the most exclusive club in America wants to make and sell action figures of himself to jump start the economy (and his name is not Arnold Schwarzenegger), (2) a former city official is being investigated for stealing 1.8 million gallons of water, and (3) a man gets killed when he attempts to slap a moving train. (He did not heed the advice of a friend who tried to tell him you slap the back not the front.) And, for goodness sake, please don't go find the YouTube video of 2008 Miss South Carolina Teen USA trying to answer a question about maps. Charts and graphs can't help explain what was going on there. However, she knew how to smile and had the beauty queen wave down pat, but I digress.

Yes, sir Mr. Martian, you have sat yourself right slap dab in the middle of the most intelligent part of the universe. (I still swear we don't marry our cousins.)

Honest to God, it's a wonder that the Union doesn't want to reestablish the Confederacy just to get rid of this insanity. But, maybe they keep us around simply for the pure entertainment value. (And, the Baptists are concerned about us buying batteries on Sunday morning?) Now granted Illinois has had, what 3 of their last 4 governors indicted, but that's just politics and accepted. No news there. (Vote early and vote often.) And, as for our fair state, there are still some folks who can't understand what the Appalachian Trail, Argentina, emails, and a suburban parked at the airport have to do with the governor. Bless his heart. (Back to the slow bunnies.)

All this said, for the life of me I cannot explain why anyone would question the integrity of the citizens of a state where according to the law it is perfectly legal to beat your wife on the courthouse steps on Sunday and we have a town festival celebrating boiled hog intestines. (Well, how else were they going to raise money to buy the Christmas lights for the town?) I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Red Necks

There is a thin line between a "Red Neck" and the rest of us down here. Well, of course there are those Charleston "blue bloods", but that's a whole different group and it's real obvious who they are. And, if you have any question, they make it very clear. They have the lineage and the land grants to prove it. (Now, maybe the lands have long since been sold but they can show you where their family owned it "forever" until the Yankee carpetbaggers took it or they lost it through poor management.) But I digress.

Back to the Red Necks. Now down here, when someone says Red Necks, we think of a red car named The General Lee, old house trailers with cars jacked up in the front yard, or houses with peeling paint and a "dead" washing machine on the front porch. Jeff Foxworthy has made a fortune defining this genre. Apparently, the rest of country, thinks of the term as a description of the general population of most of the southeastern United States. They need to be educated.

I'm here to prove I am not a Red Neck

• I have read Sherlock Holmes' and therefore am aware that that is not the name of a housing project
• I do not think possum is the other white meat, it's spelled opossum
• My name is not spray painted in any public place (that I know of)
• The taillight covers on my car are not made of red tape (I don't think the duct tape on the seats of my old car counts)
• I don't have three cousins named "Bubba" or "Junior" (However, I just learned that a niece of mine and her husband have adopted a new last name after moving half way across the country.)
• I have never barbecued Spam
• We do not have any "dead" major appliances on our front porch (we keep our "dead' washing machines and dryers in the garage)
• I don't have any relatives named after Confederate Generals (as long as you don't count Stuart, Lee, Jackson, or Bragg)
• I do not have a NASCAR item in my home nor in my possession
• I have never shopped on QVC (although I understand Dale Jr has a wide variety of quality merchandise there)

So see, you have us all wrong. The rest of us are not Red Necks. If you came down here you'd see it is easy to spot the Red Necks, they are the ones who get dressed up to go to Wal-mart (they put on shoes.)