by Lil Cromer
It took some getting used to the cacophony of the cicadas each night. Guess if you were cooped up underground for seventeen years, you’d want to make all the noise you could muster.
The Appalachian folks are a contrast. On the one hand they are very clannish but on the other hand can be friendly and helpful. Here folks don’t lock their car doors; some even leave the keys in the ignition. For all I know they may also leave their homes unlocked.
Less than a mile away is a walking track, built and maintained by the Cherokee Nation. In the center of the track is a soccer field as well as a disc golf track. One morning during my ritual two mile walk, two deer came down from the mountain took a look at the track then moseyed back up.
While the Christians are getting gussied up for Sunday church I head to the trail for my two mile walk, stop for both the Atlanta and the Asheville Sunday papers then spend the next several hours reading about religious zealots killing Christians.
Someday I intend to move to the mountains into a non-profit retirement center and have toured several so far. I’ve whittled my list down to three which are all located near the I-26 corridor; one just south of Asheville, one in Hendersonville and one near Tryon. I’ve got a few more years before I make a decision.
Wine tasting events make me a savvy wine buyer, so I attend them on a regular basis. However, up in the Bible Belt they host apple tasting events in the fall. Now there’s a first! Attending local festivals and fairs makes for educational experiences. One thing that stands out, without exception, are the prices charged for bottled water and canned sodas, only $1.00. And to think in some venues in Florida I’ve paid upwards of $4.00 for a bottle of water, shameful.
When I live dangerously, I feel completely alive. Actually I love life more than I fear death. How dangerous it is up here alone in the mountains is relative. Some people find it difficult to engage strangers in conversation — not me. I must admit that driving on mountain roads is a bit intimidating, but you just take it slow. One thing that does take some getting used to is the utter darkness up here. Street lights are rare and only on main roads.
WHAT WAS I THINKING? It sounded like a good idea flying through the air over tree canopies above the Nantahala gorge. Before making the reservation, I asked if this was an adventure suitable for an overweight older woman. The boy asked if I was afraid of heights, no. Could I climb steps, yes as long as there was no rush to get to the top. No problem he said.
There were four people on the tour, three males and me. The guides were cute twenty-three year old girls who couldn’t have been nicer. After we suited up and had a practice zip, off we went, straight up a steep hill 200 yards to the first line. This should have been my tipoff to turn around and head for the brewery. It only got worse. I couldn’t properly apply the breaks, which amounted to laying your right hand flat on the cable and putting pressure on it. We were wearing thick, thick gloves with padded palms. Hard as I tried I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. When my hand met the first resistance, I grabbed the cable – BIG MISTAKE! I spun around like a whirling dervish, let go of the cable and crash landed on the platform. Out of thirteen zip lines, I only landed smoothly twice.
The guides were so patient as was a guy named Cecil. I was so apprehensive of stopping I had a hard time enjoying the scenery while flying. That wasn’t all!
There were several more steep climbs (without handrails) to get to the next level as well as walks over swinging suspension bridges, a few with missing boards. To unhook the cable you had to hop up on a two foot high tree trunk, yeah right. Once or twice there was a two step ladder, which I was able to maneuver.
By the time we got to the final zip, I was totally exhausted. It’s a good thing I had plenty of Motrin with me — my shoulders and legs felt like somebody put them in a vice. It’s hell to get old!
Stuff mountain folks like, in no particular order: Mountain Dew, ball caps, guns, hunting, fishing, dogs, BBQ, pick up trucks, noisy mufflers, small curd cottage cheese, beer, Jesus, snuff, gardens, thrift stores, fried bologna and Velveeta cheese biscuits.
On various trees and telephone poles were hand painted signs that read: Jesus, Repent, John 3:16, Pray, and my favorite, Jesus Lives.
Right before I left a cold front came crashing down into a hot front and produced the most beautiful sky I think I’ve ever seen. The clouds were various shades of gray, some hanging over the mountains, some above the mountains. Then when the sun set it took my breath away.
Alas, my three month retreat ended. On the way home I stopped overnight in Valdosta, GA and heard about the delicious food at the “Smokin’ Pig.” What a feast! Pulled pork, okra, mac/cheese, salad bar, peach cobbler with ice cream and a bottle of Yuengling beer for the bargain price of $19.00 which included tax and a generous tip!
Can’t wait until next summer!
*
It’s the summer of 2015 and I’m ready for another relaxing three months in the mountains. My little house beckoned. I rarely get a manicure or a pedicure, but I had been neglecting my toe nails for years and decided to break down. My hairdresser recommended this family. It’s a mother and two daughters who have their own shop and work like beavers. I asked one of the daughters, Tammy, who looked like sixteen, if she had a boyfriend. She smiled and said her boyfriend proposed recently and they are engaged. Turns out she’s twenty-eight years old. I asked her why the nail tech industry seemed to be dominated by Vietnamese; she had no clue. In researching, I discovered the fascinating story behind it. Fifty years ago Tippi Hedren, Hollywood actress of The Birds fame, visited a refuge camp in Sacramento and spoke with twenty young women. Hedren wanted to teach these girls a trade so she brought in a seamstress and a typist to teach them. The girls were enamored with Hedren’s fingernails, so she and her advisor brought in a beautician and a nail tech and the rest is history.
The second instance happened at the flea market. One of the booths was loaded with confederate stuff including handmade quilts. I said to the young mountain girl, “You’re not letting them intimidate you are you?” She responded, “I ain’t skeered of ‘em! This here is still a free country.”
This summer I decided to try something less adventuresome than zip lining, so I signed up for a ninety minute horse back ride up in the Nantahala Forest.
Chunky Gal Stables, not named because of chunky women like me riding horseback but because of Chunky Gal mountain range, sits at the foot of this beautiful range. Midway through the ride we stopped dismounted and walked to a small waterfall. Weather was beautiful, however, five minutes from the barn a horrendous thunderstorm hit, spooking the horses and drenching us down to the bones. I’m happy to report that I won the wet T-shirt contest.
As we were coming off the mountain and back to the barn after the ride, I spotted a sign that read, “If you enjoyed your ride, kiss your horse and tip your guide.” Our guide for the day was the owner of the stables a sweet forty something soft-spoken guy with a wry sense of humor. I couldn’t resist asking if I could kiss the guide and tip the horse. Wish you could have seen him blush.
You would have loved to see the two country plumbers that came out, without calling first as my landlady had requested, to fix a sluggish toilet. They were right out of Mountain Man Journal, beards and all. One of them could have been on Duck Dynasty. When they removed the tank top and flushed, water shot up and onto the floor. One of the guys headed out to the truck to get a once-white towel to wipe up the tile floor. Turns out, the flusher mechanism was not working properly, so the tank was only half filling — no wonder I had trouble.
After lunch I was walking through the little town watching demonstrations and conversing with the locals. I ran across a seventy something Annie Oakley type with a pistol strapped on. I commented that it was good that she was protecting the town from terrorists and she said, “Did you say tourists?” I responded, “Whichever group gives you trouble.” She let out a belly laugh.
It’s surprising how a regular happy hour at the same location can
bond one to the regulars becoming almost a family. Each Monday and Friday I’d head over to FATZ for cold beer, good food and interesting conversation. Paula, the exuberant bartender, makes sure all her customers are well taken care of. One couple, both still working, are there most Friday nights; Lisa and Randy, two of the less eccentric who get just as big a kick out of the regulars as I do. We have nicknames for many of them. There’s K., a soft spoken man, who limps in then staggers out. He’s always talking about “his girls;” he does odd jobs for a couple of elderly horsewomen. He drinks beer with a shot of Jagermeister in each one; it finally caught up to him, he was cited for drunken driving. M, another regular, fixes cars, drinks beer, smokes and has been thrown out on more than one occasion. He talked about moving to Belize someday.
A delightful old codger named Jerry and his sweet wife Wilma are also regulars at FATZ. They’re from Tallahassee, FL and big FSU fans. As soon as Jerry starts on his third martini, he relates a joke or two. Not having a knack for remembering jokes, I was surprised to remember this one, and laugh every time I see Jerry. Seems as this woman was a real fan of classical music, so much so that she decided to get a tattoo relating to music. She told the tattoo artist she wanted tattoos on her buttocks: Beethoven on one cheek and Brahms on the other. The artist said that was a lot of writing for the space and suggested a “B” on each cheek. Afterwards, she hurried home to show her husband. She pulled down her pants, bent over and said, “How do you like my new tattoos?” To which he responded, “Who the hell is Bob?” And yet another … an old guy goes to the doctor for Viagra, told the doctor he only needs to take a half a pill at a time. Why asked the doc? I just need enough so I don’t pee on my shoes.
My girlfriend Rachel and I met in Asheville for a few days of sight seeing. We checked into a Sheraton right downtown, Rachel is a points member and was able to strike a great deal. The checkin process went smoothly and we were given a room on the 5th floor. Next morning I went downstairs to retrieve some caffeine for Rachel and got stuck in the elevator. The time was 7:30 a.m., the elevator was stifling, and the phone didn’t work so I kept ringing the alarm button. After 10 minutes, I heard a female voice telling me someone would be along soon to get me out. After a total of thirty minutes in the elevator it finally moved, the door opened on the 3rd floor and I walked up to the 5th. We went to find the general manager and met Mr. Shannon Mason who couldn’t have been more apologetic. He gave us one night free lodging and a couple of breakfast coupons. A couple of other minor issues with plumbing will not deter us from making plans to meet at this hotel again next summer.
Met a couple of locals at an Asheville bar who made my day. Keith (it was his birthday) and Angie live in Weaverville and have two kids. She is a former teacher who taught in private schools. Angie was fired for caring about kids that had learning disabilities. But Keith related a story that choked me up. He worked for International Paper Company for thirty years, when he was called in, along with other management personnel, and given his severance package. Too young to retire he had to recreate himself. The first morning he was out of a job he told his wife he would take their ten year old son to school. When he dropped him off at school the son said he loved him and turned to walk in but came back and said, “Dad, this is the best day of my whole life!” Keith said he finally realized that money can’t buy what’s important in life.
One Sunday I stopped in for the newspapers and poked through the sales bin. There were several cans of spray to treat jock itch. I said to the manager, “Must not be too many incidents of jock itch in the area.” I laughed but he didn’t crack a smile.
While killing time one day, I wandered into Repeat Consignment and was immediately greeted by a little cowgirl who said, “Hello, I’m seven.” She was dressed in denim shorts, a pink belt with a sword wedged in it and pink cowgirl boots. This little blonde was so precocious I couldn’t resist chatting her up. Her name was Angula, from the French spelling she was quick to add. Her mother came over and said if she was bothering me to let her know. On the contrary, it was refreshing to meet someone so animated and willing to talk with strangers, reminds me of me. Finally she said, “I have a question for you. How old are you?” I suggested she guess. She said, “Twenty-one.” I was so elated I gave her a $1.00 and told her to buy herself whatever she wanted at the dollar store. She remembered to thank me and told me to come by again.
Last year I met a unique shopkeeper Sandy who has a sign on her door in the Whistlestop Antique Mall that reads, “I’m open when I’m here and closed when I’m not.” Well, I went back again this year for another visit and Sandy was eager to show me what she did to the back of her shop. There stood a high “altar” with religious icons, statues etc. She proudly proclaimed they were from all over and represented all religions. People were sending them to her and bringing them to her as she now had become a minister in the Chapel of Angels. I asked how that came about. She told about a couple of customers, both female, who came in one day to shop. One was chatty and the other was quiet. The quiet one finally spoke up and said she was a nun and had been observing Sandy and thinks she is definitely a minister. Sandy said she didn’t have a church and the nun said this is your church. So Sandy went to work, filled out her divinity certificate, and built her chapel in the back of her shop. She now counsels military veterans. She was in the Navy years ago because her folks wouldn’t let her join the convent. Did I mention that Sandy is gay and has no teeth?
Chapter 8
San Francisco
*
I’m in love with cities I’ve never visited and people I’ve never met.
Tony Bennett claimed to have left his heart in San Francisco — I left with a really good taste in my mouth. In October 2010 in L.A., while waiting to join my tour to Australia, I met a forty-something couple from SF. Tom, Tanja and I bonded while sipping red wine for four hours in the hotel bar. They invited me to visit SF sometime, suggesting October 2011. Many folks just offer lip service but T & T were genuine people. They took two days off work during my visit, driving me to Sonoma and Napa valley one day and then all around the city the next day. I hope to be afforded the opportunity to return the favor if and when they visit Florida. Tom made an interesting observation: “You travel alone, Lil, but you’re never alone.” That comment made my day.
On the plane from Tampa I sat next to a girl from Jacksonville who was going to a conference in SF. Kim owned a business called Inner Wisdom and touted herself as a Tranformational Business Strategist, providing business solutions to female business owners. When I tried to understand the nature of her business, she talked in riddles, i.e., “You can ask the universe for anything and get it.” I quipped, “Why didn’t the universe answer my request for the winning lottery numbers?” Kim and I met at Fisherman’s Wharf the night we arrived and enjoyed some tantalizing Dungeness crab. She refused a glass of wine saying, “I can feel the pain and emotions of those I’m around who are drinking alcohol.” Don’t know what kind of pain she could feel from me as I was pain free; I won’t even surmise a guess about emotions.
My hotel was two blocks from Fisherman’s Wharf and right on the bus routes. Each day I started out walking a different direction. The day I climbed up hilly Lombard St., my calves screamed for two days after. A walk along the Embarcadero provided picture post card views of ships docked at the various piers. I took a trolley down to South of Market (SOMA) to visit the Museum of Modern Art; as luck would have it, admission was free that day. This hotel provided happy hour wine from five to six each day, a real treat after touring all day. The folks I met and ask questions or directions of couldn’t have been more helpful.
In 1906 both a fire and earthquake devastated many parts of the city. Very few of the Victorian structures are still standing. It’s odd to see the old right across the street from the new. Lillian Hitchcock Coit moved to SF with her parents in 1851. She was an eccentric woman who wore pants before it was acceptable, shaved her head so wigs would fit better, smoked cigars and
was an avid gambler. It was said she dressed like a man so she could enter male-only places to gamble. Lillian was enamored with the fire department and became a volunteer. She built Coit Towers, in the shape of a fire hose nozzle, to honor the firefighters she admired.
No trip to SF would be complete without a drive down Lombard Street, the most crooked street in the world with a 27% grade. My tour guides T & T negotiated the eight sharp turns through expensive real estate with ease. Seems as the residents of this street petitioned the city to close off their street as the hordes of tourists disrupted their quiet neighborhood. The city turned them down flat.
Spectacular Golden Gate bridge is the second largest suspension bridge in the country — the largest being the Mackinac Bridge connecting lower Michigan to the Upper Peninsula, which I drove over this past summer. Golden Gate Park is the largest urban park in the country, 20% larger than Central Park in NYC. John McLaren, a Scot, was commissioned to turn a large chunk of land comprised of sand and shell dunes into a big park. McLaren brought trees from his native Scotland as well as from all over the world. He didn’t want any statues in “his” park, so when the city erected one, McLaren promptly planted trees all around the statue to hide it.
More dogs are registered in SF than there are kids registered in schools. I’ll have to say most all were on leashes and seemed to be pretty well behaved.
While driving in Haight-Ashbury, I noted that the hippie era did not die in the ‘60s. Several stores sell pot which is legal in California if you have a doctor’s prescription. Our tour director said a bad back, migraines, or a bum knee could get you a medical card. I learned that Jerry Garcia was born near Haight-Ashbury and died there. I missed the fact that a gaudily dressed person was a cross dresser because I was looking at the pink tights, high heels and black leather mini skirt rather than at his makeup.