An Accent on Travel

We are having a marvelous time with Lise and her friend Chris. They flew into Asheville, giving us an opportunity to see the little airport for the first time.

Chris is a train fan, which of course delighted John. We rode behind a steam engine at the Tennessee Railroad Valley Museum in Chattanooga. There were photo ops galore.

Chris, Lise, John

John, Lise, Chris in train car

We stayed at the Chattanooga ChooChoo hotel, a place still full of railroad memorabilia. There used to be a nice restaurant in the old railroad station, but no more. Now that space is used only for a $10 breakfast. Sitting in the lobby, Lise and I checked our cell phones and found a local barbecue joint that looked authentic. Tasting barbecue was high on Lise’s list for Chris. Photos couldn’t capture the fun we had. Our young waitress noticed John’s accent and had him pegged as a New Yorker. I was listening to her and found she was a local. The young lady checked on us often, and finally asked where we came from.

John answered, “Denmark, England, West Tennessee, and New York.”

She was intrigued and stood there chatting. I think she was hoping for a brief bio from each of us so she could listen to our accents. The owner sauntered over, and I wanted to keep him talking so that Chris could soak in his Tennessee mountain version of English. It was unique. I didn’t ask Chris if he understood him. I’m almost positive the man would not have been able to decipher Chris’ Manchester accent. When we left, we all agreed we had experienced authentic tastes and sounds of the area.

Thanksgiving Hunt

Now I’ve heard it all! Sister-in-law Beth told me about a pastor my brother Bob knew. The man had two churches, one in town, and the other out in the country. He told Bob the country church, Carolina Presbyterian, had a long-standing tradition for Thanksgiving Day. People gathered at the church for a short service and hearty breakfast, after which all the men went hunting. They came to church in their hunting clothes, and their dogs were waiting in the trucks.

Philosophy of House Cleaning

I’m not the only person in the world who hates housework, as evidenced by comments on the internet. One of my favorites goes something like this, “Housework has not been proved to be deleterious to your health, but why chance it?”

Neighbor Amy voiced a very humane philosophy the other day. She said, “I clean for the guest.”

“What does that mean?” I wanted to know.

“Well,” she said, “if the person coming to your house is a clean freak, then you disinfect everything. If her house is a pig sty, you wouldn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable in contrast, would you?”

I love it! At least half of it. It would get me off the hook for a slob. But what about the huge majority of the people who visit us? Let’s be honest. 100% of our guests have standards that would send me reeling into cleaning shock. I see this as a choice. Either give up letting people come here, or find a different philosophy that works for me.

I’m still feeling guilty for making Amy self-conscious. I wrote about her being a master gardener, one of those who will lean over and flick a weed out of your garden without realizing she’s done it. It’s possible my gardening skills are even worse than my housekeeping skills. Just leave the first “s” off skills, and that is my rating for gardening. We’ve had at least four master gardeners wander through our property. I didn’t catch it on their faces, but I know they were cringing.

Getting back to a housekeeping philosophy, I’m thinking along the lines of, “When my dirt bothers you, please feel free to remove it.”

Now I just need wording for a sign that can be posted discretely.

Dust/weeds bother you?

Duster in closet.

Gloves on porch.

When folks are used to that, I might keep small loaves of banana bread in the freezer and post, “Reward for dusting and weeding.”

Would you be drawn in by that?

The Devil’s Printer

In this tale, my husband is the printer’s devil, an apprentice in printing. The printer itself is possessed by the devil.

John was not the only one contending with the printer. Just the other day I sent a six-page document, requesting a double-sided job. This was not a cruel and unusual punishment, since we’ve done it successfully before. No, out came six separate sheets. Not wanting the hassle of reprinting three pages on the correct side, I paid extra postage and went on.

John was disgusted when he asked for a few pages of a 90-page document, 111915 The Devil's Printer and the demented printer began spewing out everything. His reaction was normal, to shut it down. He left it off for a couple of days, thinking the crazy thing would get the message. Of course, it sprang to life again when he turned it on, determined to have the last say.

John said, “I didn’t know what else to do, so I let it run.”

“You needed to delete it from the print cue,” I said. “Why didn’t you get me?”

“It was the middle of the night,” he said. “I wouldn’t wake you for that.”

“I have a solution,” I replied. “Here’s what you do if it happens again. Shut off the printer. Go to the kitchen and make a cup of hot chocolate, preferably dark. Bring it to my side of the bed and say, ‘Darling (!!!!!!!!) Here is a lovely mug of hot chocolate. You can sip it, put a hex on the printer or fix it, and go right back to sleep.’”

What do you think? Isn’t any chocolate solution a winner?

Sneakers Say “Sorry”

Chris and Steve were waiting for us when we first arrived and helped carry everything in. I wasn’t paying attention and presumed my Sunday sneakers stayed in the car where I left them. I told John I was going to fetch them, but he insisted they were in the house.

He said, “They are right inside the front door where you left them.”

“But I didn’t bring them in,” I said.

Sunday morning I went down the stairs, and there were those sneaky sneakers. They seemed to have a defiant attitude, so I was compelled to scold them. The toy camera piously jumped in to record their position.

111515 Sneakers say Sorry.JPG

When Chris came in the room, the sneakers apologized as nicely as sneakers can. They said, “We’re so sorry. We were left by the front door when you were having company. We didn’t intend to be so rude.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if they were sticking their tongues out when they said it. Have you noticed I have a hard time keeping my shoes in line?

Spanish Moss

Our friend Al thought we moved to an area where Spanish moss grew on trees. We told him a year ago that would be further south. I hadn’t thought about it again until I spotted some moss draped on a tree beside the interstate in South Carolina. Thankfully I kept talking about it when it counted. There was a tree in Charleston covered with the airy stuff, and I took a photo of it in case we didn’t see more up close. There was lots of it along the road, but you couldn’t just stop the car and steal some. After we came back from our walking tour of Charleston, Chris pointed out lots of the moss hanging from a tree near their garage and offered it to us. I hadn’t noticed it there. She fetched a stepladder, and John cut some down.

111415 Chris holds ladder for JC cutting moss.JPG

We thought a plastic bag would be best to take the moss in the car.

The next day Steve asked how we planned to get the moss to Al in New York.

I said, “I’m going to tell him he has to come down to get it himself. That’s because we’d love to have him visit again.”

We don’t think it would be such a hard sell to get Karen to return, thus the pitch to him.

I didn’t think to ask Al why he wanted the moss. What do people usually do with it?

What do I Miss from New York?

I have missed family and friends from New York since we moved. There was one other thing I missed that only came to light during dinner. Chris and Steve invited Nancy and Ken over for dinner so we could visit with them. They were friends from our church on Long Island and moved to the same town in South Carolina about the same time Chris and Steve did. We figured they were going to the same church, and so they were! They became friends there.

111415 Ken Nancy Blekicki — Ken and Nancy

As Nancy talked animatedly, I realized I really missed the Long Island accent. How good and natural it sounded! Nancy was a stitch and a half, telling stories in her rapid-fire manner. To me she looked a bit like Diane Keaton, so imagine Diane with a Long Island accent in a series of comedy skits. She had us laughing loudly all evening. Ken’s speech was more deliberate and practical in a down to earth way. It was marvelous to reconnect with them for a full evening.

Our niece Barbara came in with her college daughter Amanda and friend Kylie. They were tired from their own outing in Charleston and whisked themselves off to bed. I may be mistaken, but I had the feeling we old fogies had more stamina than they did.

Charleston

Out of many choices, John and I elected to do a walking tour of Charleston with Chris and Steve. What a delight that was! Chris consulted the map from time to time and guided us by the major sights.

111415 Chris points out interesting fact.JPG

As we passed a market, she pointed out the baskets for sale. Out of earshot, she explained that sweetgrass baskets were a hallmark of the area. Down the next street were several women weaving baskets on their laps and selling their wares. If I were a basket person, I would at least have checked out the prices.

111415 Woman weaving sweetgrass basket in Charleston 111415 Finished sweetgrass baskets in Charleston

Chris explained that many of the homes had two and three decker porches at right angles to the bay. The thin side of the house was the part that faced the street. Many homes had a door, like a formal front door, to the lowest porch. It tickled me that it opened from the outside into the outside. I always expected something a little different on the other side of a door. The rules of etiquette were strict. You could walk along and see people enjoying their porches, but you should not speak to them. It was fun to stroll there and peek into the small gardens, many of which had lovely fountains flowing in full view. I’m sure John took in much more of the history as we saw churches, statues, and commemorative signs.

After eating sandwiches Chris had packed, we wandered along the battery, enjoying the view of the harbor, Fort Sumter, tourists, and sea gulls. Before going back to the car, we went on Chris’ favorite pier where there are several large swings for the public. Also in that area was a large fountain with a sign that said no lifeguard was on duty. What a farce! The water was all at sidewalk level, the depression keeping it contained!

111415 Anne Chris Steve on pier swing — Anne, Chris, and Steve swinging on the pier

Sister’s Shower

We visited John’s sister and husband Steve for the weekend. I shouldn’t have been surprised by Chris’ shower, but I was. She is a very “together” person, borne out by the bathroom accouterments. The guest bathroom was decorated in blue and yellow, and all the toiletries there for us were in yellow bottles!

The shower itself appeared completely normal, that is until I was using it. I put the soap on the ledge, and WHAM! It jumped off and hurled itself at my feet. I know it was my fault, but it was a rude surprise, nonetheless. It seems senile showers are here to stay at my unwitting invitation.

Skates for the Birds

There was frost in the night, and I walked out on the deck to see a lightly whitened world. When I stopped, my feet kept going for a fraction of an inch. Wow! It really was icy! I could feel it on the railing and noticed frozen webs festooning the plant stand. After taking a photo of the frozen bird bath, I touched the ice lightly, thinking my finger would immediately pierce the film. Not so! It was solid! If I knew bird language, I’d put out a sign, “Skating Allowed.”

I was out of bed in the middle of the night and was drawn to the glass doors. I intended to sit outside and gaze at stars when it was warm, but I didn’t. No amount of persuasion could get me to open the door then. I could feel the cold near the glass and could almost hear the warm duvet whispering my name. Caught between the pull of sky and bed, I looked at the twinkling stars. Suddenly a shooting star streaked across the sky overhead. What a beautiful sight! It was much closer and brighter than any of the meteor showers we stayed up to watch several months ago. Content with my special night sign, I went back to bed.