Alina's Adventures

"Goodbye Tuscaloosa", a poem by Bruce Smith.

I read the poem in a 2014 issue of Five Points and I spent all morning being struck-- and restruck-- by it. It's a beautiful paean to the time from 1998 to 2002 which Bruce spent in Tuscaloosa, "equidistant from William Faulkner, Otis Redding, and W.E.B. DuBois.... the axis of bourgeois ante-bellumism among the legacies of blood and blues."

Italics are mine, things that spoke to me, people I've known or imagined, places I've tasted, plants I've touched. The familiar re-envisioned in the wave goodbye.

Lee Bains playing at Druid City Brewery last month.

GOODBYE TUSCALOOSA 

Goodbye Rufus and Ditzy, Goodbye Don Dove, Goodbye Tim Early,
     Goodbye Bebe Barefoot.
Goodbye to the Brooklyn Jew-boos and the boys from Des Moines
     who wandered in their trail of tears to Tuscaloosa.
Goodbye to the Ur ovens of Woodrow's. I loved the slaughtered hog,
     the gloried grease, the human nature standing around,
     standing around the fire.
Goodbye to the state flower, the shredded layer of rubber
     the truckers call alligators.
Goodbye to my face in the window at night.
Goodbye to the songs I sang to you beginning in bright vocals
     continuing through licking to the dark lies
     ending in parlando where our burdens are put down.
Goodbye to those I could not understand and could not understand me.
     When you said, "Troy" I heard, "Charlie."
Goodbye All-American Storage and my birthright exchanged for a mess of
     postage.
Goodbye rained-on cardboard box. Goodbye corrugation--chart of my          heart.
Goodbye roach, you were my ontology.
Goodbye wind twisted in the Gulf and bitch slapped
     and spun through Tupelo
     and sent like the Po-lice to the homes of the poor.
Goodbye Druid City Car Wash whose spray was scrupulous to me at two
     ayem,
     whose mist was an exercise by St. Ignatius.
Goodbye to my face in the window at night.
Goodbye Blondel. Goodbye Aquanetta.
Goodbye, too, to the West Alabama Veterinary Clinic where I waited
     with the sick furred thing with the owners of Wabbles,
     L'l G'l, Dollbaby, Mrs. Pinkerton and Honey Bun
     for yours is the pure devotion.
Goodbye to the Crimson Tide fans who worshipped the hypermasculine
      for yours is the pure devotion.
Goodbye Mr. Vaughn of the 103rd bomber squadron, blind, kind, for no
      white reason.
Goodbye to the machinery of the horizon and the fried foods of Ezel's
     Catfish Shack,
     where I could taste my mud and slumber.
Goodbye crepe myrtle and the vertigo of the last hundred years
     when I lived here (there) George Wallace died
     the coach was fired and you were my alibi.
Goodbye three hours drive to M'fs. Goodbye elsewhere.
Goodbye red Camaro in a black bra. Goodbye hairdo as the Kabuki
     of the South. Goodbye blues.
          If there's a labial among y'all, let it be heard now.
Goodbye Alfonso. Goodbye Tyrone. Goodbye Stella. Goodbye student
     who prayed for me in my sin and affliction.
Goodbye freight train for yours was the pure devotion.
Goodbye nights of the fragrance I never named and days of noon,            tongue,
     and handgun.
Goodbye manners as tongue and handgun.
Goodbye unknown woman with a drink in her hand who burst through the        tea olive
         without spilling, walking in the back and out the front door.
     I kiss your Jack and coke goodbye.
Goodbye to the bird saying Preacher, Preacher.
Goodbye to the three legged-dog who suckled the twins, Tusk and Lou,
     who founded the town on snarl and hunger.
Goodbye to the dirty silence clarified. Here's my reparation.
     Here's my face in the window at night.
Goodbye to the 4X4's on lawns and the Pain Care Center.
     I became an orphan like you here (there).
     There was no shade for me under pin oak or magnolia.
Goodbye to the Black Orchid and your transvestites. Goodbye Miss
Mystery.
     I kiss your post-op lips goodbye.
Goodbye and thanks for the Jesus.
Goodbye Time as a pure form of sensuous intuition. Goodbye Immanuel Kant
     of Queen City Boulevard.
Goodbye Bible verse on the cash register receipt.
Goodbye pool hall, cabstand, pawnshop, and storm door company.
Goodbye He's as Rude as a Yankee.
Goodbye red velvet cake and ersatz rue.
Goodbye Little Zion Tabernacle Church with your brush arbor
          built from wood milled in the hollow
      and your darker than blue.
Goodbye bathtub covered with a mattress during the tornado.
     You took my form.
Goodbye tetchy, goodbye triflin', goodbye mama love and moonpie.
Goodbye my little scuppernong.
Goodbye interlocutor with the lost. I kiss you reluctantly
     as one kisses the forehead of the child
     whose fever will kill.
Goodbye to the Enola Gay of race, and to Mr. Vaughan, who flew in you,
     blind, kind for no white reason.
          Thank you for the two-dollar bill.
Let me lie down between Rama Lama's and Vinyl Solutions one last time.
Let me lie down between the porch and the battle reenactment,
     the bombers and the lambs,
     the bonfires and the birthplace of Sun Ra.

Wisteria growing through the tin shed cannot find me.
From now on the law against kudzu is lifted.
From now on I will be translated into this.
You were my Dollywood. I was your Judas.
     Maybe some Tara will save me.
I will look back.
I will become cold and salted.
I will go up into the morning, sometimes.
I will be measured. I will be shattered.

Mary Tylosaur concert at Kentuck Art Night plus Druid City Brewing Company this Saturday.

I think the French word for Mary Tylosaur is super.

The band played live at the most recent Kentuck Art Night in downtown Northport. For those unfamiliar with Mary Tylosaur, here's the skeleton as offered in an interview with The Tusk.

D.C. Moon: guitar and vocals, composer and music director
Sandra J. Hunt: lead and backing vocals, percussion and sass 
Celesta Riner: bass guitar and attitude 
Katie Grayson: keyboards, composer and sex appeal 
Robby Roberts: drums, percussion and general wizardry

When asked to describe the band's sound, D.C. Moon said: 

Noted author John Shirley had this to say: " ‘My Boyfriend is a Zombie' opens the fun rockin' first album by Mary Tylosaur, kind of B-52s meets The Ramones meets Southern rock, with some Cramps happening, too. And fans of my old friend D.C. Moon will recognize his distinct touch here, too, in guitar, vocals and ... ‘The Communists, The Martians and the CIA' (which is a damned funny song). Some vocals by Moon, most of the lead vocals are by the sexily deep-voiced Sandra Hunt. Check it out."

I think the French word for a hot pink guitar is incroyable.

I think the French word for what my husband kept wanting to do is dance.

I think the French expression for what they did is playing down the sun.

I think I'm not speaking French anymore when I say they rocked the spring night.

Free pinot, free oven-baked pizza, and good live music. A few French subtitles. Husbands who want to dance like robot puppets. Pink. Black. Whatever color comes up.

You can catch your own Mary Tylosaur this Saturday night, 8:00 pm, at Tuscaloosa's favorite place to show up beardy (or post-beardy, or pre-beardy, or recently-seen-with-beardy)- the treasure known as Druid City Brewing Company.

If you haven't spent five hours at the Taproom yet, the weekly schedule includes Live Trivia on Fridays at 8 pm and Open Mic on Sundays at 6 pm. Bo and Bob are the best- good people who brew delicious beer. Oh, and one more thing about Druid City Taproom: the saison never stops.

Two days and nights in Covington, Georgia.

Leather chaps for sale.

My in-laws kept the kids while the King and I escaped to a bed and breakfast in Covington, Georgia. Upon our arrival in this charming small town, we were greeted by loud, incessant revving-up of a biker rally in the square. I considered a pair of leather chaps but decided in favor of a blueberry muffin instead. 

Alas, the King could not find a ring in my size.

Wandering back towards the spaceship we witnessed what could only be described as flash mob happening, possibly organized by a coalition of missionaries and Bikers For Jesus. They did a really good job of looking angry and confrontational. Such a good job that I wanted to get away quick before scene went Hamlet.

We checked in to Twelve Oaks, the home that inspired "Twelve Oaks" in the Gone With The Wind film. To show how clueless I can be about all things Scarlett O'Hara, it was the Eldest who made the connection and informed me there was a "Twelve Oaks" in the book by Margaret Mitchell. I looked it up and sure enough-- he was correct. He's never seen the film and I wondering if he's ready to watch it and apply his critical thinking skills against the romantic portrayal of southern antebellum life.

A sitting area in the common area on the third floor.

The common area.

The King found a fridge in the common area where he could leave a bottle of pinot for proper cooling.

Our luxurious Suite Home Alabama bed.

On the first night, we stayed in the Suite Home Alabama on the uppermost floor. 

Surveying the writing desk in suite.

It was indescribably relaxing to sit down and write without looking over my shoulder to make sure little ones were doing their assignments or playing safely. To do nothing but let the pen run across the page. There are times when the tension rises between who can run free- words or children- for both require my eyes, my watch, my time. Usually, I choose free children. But it was wonderful to free the words without having to make a choice.

I love the light in the bathroom.

And of course there is nothing like lounging around in a bathrobe that feels like a down comforter. I brushed my teeth at all the recommended hours- a rarity for me.

Breakfast table waits.

Breakfast was delicious: fresh eggs and bacon with home-made strawberry pancakes and whipped cream infused with bourbon and vanilla. The food was wonderful but sitting at a table with friendly strangers was even better. Guests from Portland, California, DC, Germany, and more shared our backgrounds- and our reasons for being here- and wound up leaving the table at 11, two hours after breakfast began.

The sitting area where wine and cheese were served at 5 pm.

Lichen patterns on gravestones..

I was reminded again of how enchanting people can be if you have the time to hear their stories. And I had all the time in the world.

Bankers wear very shiny shoes.

The King had to attend a work-related conference in downtown Atlanta so I had the day to myself. As he shined his shoes, I was reminded how fortunate I am to no longer worry about "work clothes" and business attire and hairstyles- he does the part neither of us particularly admires. It is a birthday gift he gives me every day of our lives in common.

A beautiful and rather serious iris.

I borrowed an umbrella and spent hours walking in the rain without worrying about oncoming traffic and frothy children always tippling, close to spilling into busy streets.

I came across a back alley that led into a large and very old cemetery, so I found a few bricks and sat down to scribble for a spell.

The King is all business in the morning.

Around lunch, I returned to move our luggage into The Salvatore Brothers' Study. Then stole the handful of sunshine hours to sit on a blanket in the backyard and read Robert Musil's journals.

A little chandelier hanging from a trellis in the Twelve Oaks backyard.

Little purple flowers opened their faces towards the sun.

When I brought the King back for a sunset cemetery stroll, the little purple flowers had closed their faces. We are vulnerable to light and dark, wind and rain. Our plant friends have needs as well.

Lo and behold, we stumbled across a house with a Hollywood style marker out front. I felt insufficient for having no idea about "The Vampire Diaries"- what are they and what is the show about?

More beautiful flowers along the way.

Rust a relic of Darden Cemetery.

Why not take our sketchbooks to a tiny cemetery and see what falls on the page?

As a prompt, the kids "collected" nouns- everything from oak leaves to infant tombstones. The Eldest settled into leaves and quickly began sketching the peculiar lineaments of lichen on stones.

Prophet copies the letters from gravestones- she feels confident when copying letters because they don't flip around on her as much. What is more difficult about dyslexia- the lagging behind on reading curves or the sense that letters play tricks with you, a fundamental mistrust of the written word?

Gnome abandoned her sketchbook to chase a squirrel. Something about the shadows and the silhouettes of a four-year-old's sketchbook wanted to become a story... but there is not time enough in the universe for all the stories I want to tell.

Upon her return, Gnome attempted various sketches before getting frustrated that her drawings "didn't match." The eraser washed across the paper.

"It doesn't have to match," I said, "just to capture the way you see it." Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

The Eldest sauntered through a corridor of graves and paused briefly to remind me how easy it is to get frustrated- and how hard to crawl out of it. There are moments when he takes life in stride (this one) and moments when he stomps hard enough to hurt.

The fence captivated all four of us so that we found ourselves sketch-collecting it together. Four people scrunched down like pinecones catching the fence from different angles.

I wondered who made the small fence- it didn't look like anything I've seen around Tuscaloosa- maybe a small business that passed away. Is there irreverence in attributing death to a business, in saying aloud what we believe at heart- that the life of a business bears more value than the life of children whose mothers raise them alone, scrimping every penny, worrying about whether they can afford the power bill this month?

How will they blend their colored pencils to capture the vagaries of rust?

We collected nouns and marveled over rust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, those with enough mullah may also earn rust.

The old cattle barn in Hurricane Creek Park.

Fred Fisher, the husband of Angelynn Parks Fisher, spent many happy days at Hurricane Creek where his father-in-law, the late Stanley Parks, owned a large chunk of property. Upon the death of the late Stanley Parks, this property was sold to the Trust for Public Land, a land trust, for the purpose of fulfilling Stanley's wish that the public enjoy this land for perpetuity.

This area is known as Hurricane Creek Park, though the Friends of Hurricane Creek (disclaimer: I am on the Board of this organization) would prefer the name be Stanley Parks Nature Preserve. If you walk the trails, you'll discover all kinds of stories. 

The North Loop leads through the area where Mr. Fisher once raised a barn and kept cattle.

You can recognize the premises by the mossy fence and the massive old tree, a survivor of storms and incubator of stories.

The relics of remain to be interpreted. Once upon a time, there was a barn built painstakingly by men to house and nurture cattle. 

A tornado whirled through and demolished the barn and the workshop, the hallowed family places and spaces, pockets of nature that begin to feel like home. What you see is the remains-- what looks like junk from here is the skeleton of a family story.

What was this? What can we read beyond the rust? How do we keep the past from haunting us by its incompleteness?

After roaming through the old stable area, remembering Mr. Fisher mentioned horses- horseback rides through the woods at family events- I think of how much care we put into places that disappear. How much we hope in our hearts that someone will keep these places from disappearing completely. How only stories keep breathing when material expires.

The Eldest looks for tadpoles in the lake created by Mr. Fisher as a watering hole for the cattle. If you're looking for stories written in trees, visit Hurricane Creek Park and wander through the North Loop. Do it for the late Stanley Parks, whose family left this land for you.

Hiking the Lily Pad Lake Trail near Silverthorne, Colorado.

My blogging break began to feel like a traffic congestion with all the unsaid unsayables lining up behind the red light, clogging lanes, leaving me no way to move forward except by blogging through. It's funny how beautiful things keep us moving, and too few remarked wonders strand us between this breath and the next.

Back in Colorado, we came across a marvelous trial, the Lily Pad Lake Trail. The Dillon Forest Ranger first suggested it to us- a stunning trail through aspen and lodgepole pine forests, culminating in a lily pad-laden lake.

Each equipped with a backpack and water bottle, we set parked near the base of a hill and ascended for a half-mile before arriving at the official trailhead- just beyond a mountain-top meadow of wildflowers.

Up a small hill and into a meadow of wildflowers.... 

And into Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area, a mecca for plants, fragrant breezes, and moose scat.

After passing through a meadow that gave us an unbelievable view of Lake Dillon and the entire Blue Valley, we stepped into the forest and crossed our first hand-hewn bridge.

Monkshood (Aconitum columbianum)

We stopped to sip some water and snack on fresh peaches at this boulder field almost halfway.

Gnome noticed the lack of underbrush at this altitude- and how much it easier the hiking without the tangle of southern vines wrapped round our feet.

The last stretch before reaching Lily Pad Lake involves a little incline. Prophet takes a breath, counts a step, blows out the number, and starts again. Everyone finds their own way to get up the hills.

And those who rush through run the risk of overlooking tiny divinities, like the shy mountain hareball.

Or the bewildering beauty of the miniscule death camas, a wildflower overflowing with mystery.

Just when you think your legs can't walk another mile, the air so thin it feels shrill in your nostrils, Lily Pad Lake unfolds before you.

And each yellow water lily peers up from the pond's dark black ink.

A reflection upon a reflection.

Pebbles to skip- never enough time to skip every possible pebble.

The hike down is lighter than the ascent, but we didn't pack ample snacks or fruits or chewables. If I had the hike to do over- and I'd do it over and over- I'd pack more food, leave loose more time, and linger longer at Lily Pad Lake.

How we learned about the Girl Riders Organization (GRO).

Prophet and Mary climb the ramp after co-skating.

Why not wander around a park in Silverthorne and spend those last minutes of daylight surrounded by local chatter? Before you could say lickety-split, the Eldest made a playground friend. 

The Eldest and his friend climbed rocks around the skatepark before daring one another to race through the ramps between skaters. I tried to warn them that watching out for little folks reduces the flow state of skating for the folks on boards.

Just as I was about to launch into my lecture, a nice girl wearing kneepads asked if the kids would like to try skating.

Mary takes Gnome for her first skating spree.

Having watched her skate for half-an-hour or so, I felt confident in her skills and abilities.

"Sure. Why not?" I replied.

Prophet couldn't get enough.

Mary told me about a national group in which female skaters teach young females how to skate. Meanwhile, Gnome and Prophet begged for "one more ride" and "one more try". 

I'm so grateful to Mary for extending a hand, inviting the kids to try her skateboard. Mary is affiliated with the Girl Riders Organization (GRO), which hosts regular free skating clinics at skateparks across the country. Check the GRO Facebook page for details of a skate session near you. 

Silverthorne Skate Park is located at 430 Rainbow Drive right next to the Silverthorne Rec Center in Summit County, Colorado. Though more land sits and waits to be added to the park, the city of Silverthorne has not put this land to use yet. 

If you're interested in putting your skateboarding skills to use to make the world a better place, you MUST check out Skateistan, a nonprofit that teaches Afghani kids to skate. 

Taos, briefly.

We drove through Taos and wandered the streets for an hour. Prophet declared that she was "going to live in Taos when I grow up". Gnome seconded the sentiment.

"You can't live with me in the same house, though," insisted Prophet.

"Yes, I am," declared the unstoppable Gnome.

"No you're not! Mo-o-o-o-m, tell her she can't live in my house in Taos!"

Mom declined to get involved.

"I'm going to live with you just cause that's what I'm a gonna do," announced Gnome. I admire the way she doesn't fear rejection and doesn't get defensive or catty (which tends to be the usual response). Fortunately, there was much to distract them from this minor disagreement.

Including piles of delicious food. We feasted on tex-mex at The Alley Cantina.

I slipped away for a few seconds to jot notes in my journal. If it weren't for the bewitching effect of the drain pipes- their linear form contrasting so sharply with the rounded silhouettes of the pueblos- I might have used my "alone time" more wisely.

Imagine the noisy fun of a torrential rain on the streets of Taos.

And then this juxtaposition of metal pipes with a lodgepole pine fence. Lovely, beguiling Taos.

A nature walk with Diane Kappel-Smith.

Dutchman's breeches in Dublin, Ohio.

All the recent, rather immediate demands of a growing garden have kept me from reflecting on our trip to Ohio- from mining it for tiny kernels of insight.

But this morning, I found a crack, the kind that swells into a crevice, between the comings and doings.

As the kids worked on their book reviews, I flipped back through the photographs of our nature outings with the writings of Diane Kappel-Smith in the forefront of my mind. In retrospect, posting the photos alongside the text makes me feel as if Diane and I walked the woods together.

It's so much easier to write about the wonder and obvious beauty of nature than it is to acknowledge the extent to which it satisfies and cultivates a craving for fantasy. Surely I am not the only woman to have trudged through muddy trails with Thoreau at my side.

Today, I walk with Wintering in my head. Or, rather, I return and revisit under the electrifying influence of a particular writer who has more to reveal to me in all the things I have seen.

Walk with me. 

"I come back to the papery leaves, the spring beauties, the sun which reaches me here, now, unfiltered. The twigs, leaves, and flowers that are on their way are already formed, were made last summer and packed away in scales and sheaths; all they have to do is expand like balloons, and then their branch tips will begin their hurry to make more."

Diane Kappel-Smith

"Trees grown in the open are thicker of trunk because the wind has blown them, and they choose to thicken in the parts of themselves most stressed by their own bending. Trees in the dense woods where the wood can't push them are thin as wands".

I would make an exception for the dense, heavy hardwoods growing in the Carpathian mountains of Transylvania. Their trunks are as thick as houses, possibly because their location on the side of high altitude mountains demands heftiness as a form of hardiness for the snow-heavy Transylvanian winters and sharp mountainside winds. 

Of course, if American corporations have their way, these old trees will soon be logged to make fancy dining room tables for the rapacious consumers of Hollywood and Aspen. But I hope against hope that something happens to stop them.

BLOODROOT

The large white petals of the bloodroot plant radiate outward, but often only last for one day. One of the ways to recognize this plant is the leaf often looks like it wants to wrap itself around the flower. If you cut the stem or dig the root, it will bleed a bright red-orange juice.

"In these maples and birch and beech the branches reach out year after year, running skyward like the fingers of rivulets when water is poured on dry ground."

Critical Thinking Exercise on Diana Kappel-Smith review (PDF)
A little something I made for the Eldest and wanted to share.

YELLOW TROUT LILY

Trout Lilies like to keep their feet wet and are common, especially along river floodplains. There are both white and yellow species here. The six petals are usually recurved like this. The mottled leaves is a diagnostic character.

I love the way the leaves resemble purple tie-dyed shirts.

A golden goodbye whose shadow is even lovelier than its hue.

Painted faces and fresh strawberries at Homegrown Alabama.

Little B.'s free face painting from Homegrown Alabama.

I love Homegrown Alabama. The people are as locally-fresh and unfabricated as the veggies, cheeses, and craftmanship we find there.

The Eldest didn't shy away from face painting.

A few weeks ago, we went straight from ballet to the Homegrown Alabama market on the UA campus (located on the front lawn of our church). Prophet couldn't resist pointing out that we hadn't "been to church in years", by which I think she meant weeks. 

While the Eldest hunted down tomatoes, Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. hung out in the children's area in the hopes of getting as many animals painted on their faces and hands as time would permit.

I discovered a delicious new goat cheese, purchased a Left Hand soap gift for Bill's super-late birthday present, scored another bottle of Hewett's honey, and simply enjoyed being able to touch and sample local creations while the little people were otherwise occupied. 

Little B. is upset that I agree to take a picture of Prophet as well.

Then there were the strawberries....

Alabama homegrown strawberries for the taste test.

Originally, I purchased the strawberries to toss with the hearty arugula from Snow Bend's farm, but my salad plans fell apart upon our return to the castle. You see, the kids decided the weather was perfect for the succulent sweetnesss, as indicated by their boisterous parade bringing grocery-store strawberries into the backyard.

"Why not turn this into a contest?" I inquired. "Let's pit homegrown strawberries against those of Winn-Dixie. The winner receives the Coryell Castle Seal of Approval."

More cheers and merry-making, a consensus to taste-test had been established. 

The results of the taste conclusively determined that the homegrown strawberries tasted better- "more tart and tangy"- than the grocery store strawberries.

In less than five minutes, two bowls of strawberries had disappeared from the planet known to its inhabitants as Earth. Alas, my arugula-strawberry salad with goat cheese will have to wait until next week- next Thursday, to be precise.

Officially, in the overly-concise language of nonprofit mission statements:

"Homegrown Alabama is a student-led group at the University of Alabama that seeks to educate students about the value of local produce, as well as to foster partnerships between local farmers and the University of Alabama".

You can visit the Homegrown Alabama Farmers Market at the Canterbury Episcopal Chapel lawn every Thursday, April 17- October 23 from  3:00–6:00 p.m. It's a lovely segue between school and dinner- a lovely way to fill in the blanks of what should be brought to table.

Geocaching for Riverboxes at the Dublin Arts Center.

After parking outside the Dublin Arts Council, we took a moment to savor the view. Then we decided to go ahead and hunt for the first geocache, a riverbox with an uncanny name, D'art's No Litter Cat Box, one that deserved further investigation.

For those unfamiliar with riverboxes, the Dublin Arts Center sponsors a series of geocaches called Riverboxes, all of which are created by local artists or artisans. You can download a Riverbox Passport and guide for free online. 

The Eldest survyed the base of a statue on the front lawn of the Dublin Arts Center. He held the printouts which included only descriptive clues (rather than GPS coordinates) to the riverbox.

Once we got within ten feet of the cache, we were alerted to its hiding spot by the simultaneous chirp of three children- "Found it!" The riverbox was filled with swag and goodies. We left our names and logged it in the Coryell Castle Geocaching Logbook.

Upon entering the Dublin Arts Center, we discovered a large, golden tabby cat curled atop a desk near the front door. For a few moments, no one else appeared- it was just us and the cat. Gnome wasted no time in sneaking a pet.

Soon, a friendly lady appeared to introduce us to D'art, the gallery cat, the namesake of the riverbox we had just discovered. The ladies offered supplications and thanks for the swag. Meanwhile, the Eldest had wandered into the art gallery. We followed suit.

In addition to the wood art exhibit, there was a funky-looking piano in the center of the room. First they gawked at it.

Then they rocked it.

Because a funky blue-polka dot piano is only yours for the playing once in life. And who would you be to refuse it?

We set out down the hill behind the Arts Center in search of our second riverbox, Riverbox of the Sun. The littlest ones took the lead.

Bunicu stops to scout out a stump.

Inside the Riverbox of the Sun, we found a collection of painted rocks and pebbles, the sort of swag that hangs heavy in the pocket. Prophet counted the pebbles before announcing that each of us could only take one so that a total of twelve pebbles would remain.

As the Eldest and I did the dull work of logging and noting, other members of the caravan argued the case for running down the rest of the hill to the bank of swollen Scioto River. 

Bunicu apparently spotted a few geese across the way, and the King noted a geocache located on the uninhabitable 10 foot island plumb center of the river. "It would only take a minute to swim across and log it......" observed the King.

Fortunately, everyone got distracted by the presence of an eerie building out back- the kind of building that ached to tell us a good, old-fashioned ghost story. Possibly the dwelling of the Scioto River rambler, a ghost known to travel with a hobo stick and knotted kerchief? If not a ghost, then at least an excellent creative writing prompt for the Eldest and his journal.

What happened at Toddler Theatre in Dublin.

There they are- the King, Gnome, Prophet, and Eldest, sitting in the pews of the Abbey Theatre of Dublin, Ohio.

The whole thing was my idea, of course. We went to watch a show billed "Toddler Theatre". The name evoked images of costumed creatures singing and dancing, a play especially crafted for toddlers, an introduction to the fascinating world of theatre, a world well-loved by myself and the King. 

But Gnome and Prophet were neither amused nor intrigued by the interactive toddler dancing and music. They watched with all the curiosity of spectators.

"You two look like intellectual snobs," I parrotted in my best Katherine Hepburn voice. 

Performer Marlene Metz played children’s music on her guitar and sang like a happy mermaid.

Marlene was joined onstage by Ladybug Girl, one of Prophet's favorite characters. I thought this might bring the snobs from their seats.

Prophet quickly informed me, however, that "the Ladybug Girl was not a real one", merely a "pretend version" paid to trick gullible toddlers.

Would you believe it if I told you that the ladies didn't budge from their seats for a second? It was the Eldest who saved the day. Because if anyone in that theatre was singing every single song and clapping right along, inserting his own cheers and "hoorays", it was our 10-year-old boy, the same boy who begged to go down and shake hands with Ladybug Girl, the only child above the age of six on the premises. 

If it weren't for the Eldest, our excursion would have been a bust. Instead, it was an excuse for maniacal laughter when we jumped back in the spaceship and started back towards Bunicu's place. At the first stoplight, the Eldest announced, "Boy, that sure was FUN!". Then he added, "We should do that again sometime," as Prophet and Gnome glared ominously in his direction.

Exploring Dublin, Ohio for a week.

Stopping to collect dandelions at a truck stop other than the one we keep hunting.

Every couple of years, we pack the family into the spaceship and jet off to Dublin, Ohio for a week-long visit with my dad, Pam, and Grandma Vicki. Every year, it seems that the King spends the entire trip checking maps and reconfiguring old memories to try and locate the truck stop where he asked me to marry him.

A statue slumbering on the front porch of Bunicu's abode.

Every year, the truck stop eludes us and the memories grow a little fuzzier. In a way, it's like the Holy Grail of our relationship- this elusive, mysterious location where the King proposed holy things and I surprised myself by doing what I vowed I would never, ever do, namely, marry a male of the homo sapiens sapiens variety.

We arrived safely in Dublin with none of the usual spaceship troubles. Bunicu and Pam were overjoyed to see us. Apparently, they had forgotten how much non-stop, noisy fun occurred during our previous visit. I figured it wouldn't take long for them to remember.

Prophet and Gnome find some friends on the front lawn.

I was taken by surprise to find snow in the forecast for our first few days. Alas, I had packed light coats and cardigans- but nothing anywhere near a winter coat. After spending the full course of an hour complaining about the cold weather and reverting to less mature version of my teenage self, it finally struck me that whining was ultimately the most boring activity of all. All the nearby thrift stores were be hosting end-of-season sales for winter coats, so we made off with $10 and winter wear to last us through the next day's snow.

Undeterred by their mother's self-pity festival, the kids found ways to amuse themselves almost immediately. Much to the surprise of Doru and Pam, the kids decided that the silver lawn art was made for riding. Their superior horsemanship skills stunned my dad into admiring silence.

Even the town of Dublin, Ohio boasts its share of cowboys. 

All the exciting activity on the front yard of a Dublin historic home inspired us to set out on the first stroll of many. The cold weather kept us moving and exploring. 

We noticed several homes in which people kept bees.

"What is that white tree with flowers that looks like a fountain, mom?" inquired the ever-curious Eldest. When it doubt, resolve to figure it out. I made a note to snap a picture and save it for identification.

The beautiful weeping cherry tree opens its white blossoms in April.

Our gallivanting landed us at Monterey Park, where the Eldest organized acorn boat races down the small creek whose baptized name slips my memory. 

Prophet's acorn was marked with a yellow dandelion flower, which she promptly rescued after a brief shipwreck. I love how this photo captured the presence of her reflection as well as her shadow, one super-imposed upon the other.

My dad's fancy-pants wine cellar.

After strolling for several miles, the little people got tired. So we ventured back, where the dudes played so many rounds of Dominion that the girls found themselves inventing songs with "dominionate" used as a verb in a lyric.

Ode to a lovely grave.

A grave at the Dublin Cemetery in Ohio.

She died four years after they married jack-squat in the midst of her childhood.

She took two of their children with her, their lives left as mere tribute to the way in which a virus ravishes the proud, American landscape. 

He honored her with a statue in a graveyard that can only be discovered by driving down a dirt road and looking for a private place to pee after hours in the car.

I don't like crying when crouching to pee, but it seems he wanted it that way.

And he seems like the kind of man who got what he wanted.

Studying aquatic macroinvertebrates to learn about Hurricane Creek's health.

Yesterday's annual Hurricane Creek clean-up featured a wonderful learning opportunity for creekophiles young and old. Thanks to the University of Alabama Natural History Museum, the girls and I were able to learn how to determine stream health by surveying aquatic macroinvertebrates. 

Our benthic "macro" friends.

Gnome expresses her opinions about how macros might taste.

Recent rains left the water unusally high- where the creek normally displayed riffles, we discovered mostly roars. Amanda showed us how to collect the water from the stream and use the macro key to identify the critters.

Peering through the portable microscope to view identify local macro life is like opening your eyes to a whole new world. I was so enchanted by what I saw that I couldn't resist running back up the hill to share it with older and wiser members of our group.

Can you see the friend we spotted in the lower right hand quadrant of the view? Identification is half the fun- everyone has their own opinions and underlying reasons. Amanda thought the macro friend resembled a type of beetle larvae. Jim erred on the side of the fly fisherman's ideal- "I think it looks like a caddisfly larvae," he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

Stanley Park, Jr. surveys the macro scene.

Sharing the snapshot of stream life with Stanley Park Jr., the son of the late Stanley Park who left this land with the Trust for Public Land for the purpose of a public nature reserve, was more wonderful than I can verbalize. Something timeless permeated the scene.

The late Stanley Park, Sr., in a photo shared by his daughter, Mary Angelynn Fisher.

I imagined his father's spirit watching the microscope move from the hands of tiny children to the aging hands of his son on the banks of the beloved creek.

Fred Fisher, son-in-law of Stanley Senior, tries to determine which macro we might be seeing.

Standing there together, surrounded by the blooms of native azaleas, the voice of the Hurricane Creekkeeper mingling the play sounds of the kids, softened by the rushing of the water over the rocks, only a run-on sentence can convey the way in which our actions and awe felt like a tribute to the late Stanley Park, Sr.

I am so grateful to have met Fred, Maryangelynn, and Stanley Junior (not to mention all the other friends of Hurricane Creek who teach me so much about our local treasure)- so honored to hear these stories along the banks of a southern stream, stories which deserve to be told and retold as the future of highways and pavement strangles the delightful whispers of our natural world.

To learn more about the local history of Hurricane Creek, visit the Friends of Hurricane Creek's website and take some time to explore the memories.

Tell me a tree story- one about the ways roots dig and reveal.

When my dad came to visit last week, we took the kids to River Road Park and wandered around, struck by the way in which the exposed roots paralleled family reunions. The way family life leaves us exposed and vulnerable at our most tender spots, the areas which keep us connected to this earth and the world of meaning woven by intimate interactions.

Every family, like every tree, has its own adaptations to the soil and environment in which it grows.

There are ways, for example, in which my trunk is crooked with cravings for books and tender touch, desires so exorbitant that the native soil in which I grew could not possibly have met them. 

Over time, we reflect the way in which light and shadow crossed our path. Each new branch suggests a new growth- a new way of reaching towards something in life- so each hope becomes a possibility, a fork in the endless numbers of path defining who we are and how we grew into it.

"Tell me a story about trees and roots," I ask the Eldest, hoping the lilt in my voice will go unnoticed. He tells me about the way the tree trunks facing the river bear more moss on their sides. I am struck by the courage with which he tells a story that remains open to the question of "why".

There is a sense in which I am just an unintended audience, a woman on the banks of the Black Warrior River who happens to overhear a boy's conversation with the trees. A bystander inclined to read too much into the seeing the reflection of the ivy's burden staring back up from the water.

There is more to see. I find myself admiring the graceful tree whose roots are completely exposed. How the root stretches sideways into the bank, building strength into the horizontal axis.

I make a note to myself to journal the associations of the word exposed and horizon or horizontal.

I make a note to myself to honor the engravings of time in my dad's face, setting them next to the trunk of a tree, discovering how life marks us with the storms we have weathered.

"Hey dad," I say, stifling a laugh, "keep talking like that with your arms in the air..."

The professor expounds his contrarian views on climate change. I agree to let myself disagree with him, saying only that we are responsible for the ways in which we change the world, whether for better or worse. It is easy to argue with the professor- and easy to love him in spite of the disagreements. The Strawberry Shortcake sticker on the underside of his sleeve ends his serious lecture and leaves us laughing. 

Bunicu and the king, between beards.

Find a tree, survey the roots, and tell its story. The words you find, like the soil we cultivate, are held in common.

Road-tripping across Arkansas.

On the drive to Colorado, we crossed Arkansas and stuck to I-40 all the way. First came the spectacular border crossing of the Mississippi River in West Memphis. Then came Forrest City and Little Rock, followed by Conway (where we stopped to spend the night), Russellville, Clarksville, Ozark, and Fort Smith. The little people colored their maps as I chanted out local wildlife to keep on their radar. 

GEOGRAPHY: Using maps as guides for questions

Using highway map to answer questions about Arkansas (PDF)
Key to highway map and lesson plan (PDF)
Make mystery picture postcards lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and water resources lesson plan (PDF)
Rivers and counties map activity (PDF)
River boundaries key (PDF)

NATURE STUDY: The ivory-billed woodpecker

As we drove through Arkansas, I remembered having read about a Arkansas scientist's controversial ivory-billed woodpecker sighting back in 2005. A documentary film about "the God bird" sighting offered us a chance to hone our critical thinking skills- not to mention learning a little more about the fabulous ivory-billed and its close cousin, the pileated woodpecker, who lives in the woods near our Alabama yard.

Max colored the pileated woodpecker as I recapped the controversy over the sighting. Critical thinking skills were duly exercised. We explored the woodpecker's natural habitat, and debated whether climate change or human development had more to do with the woodpecker's demise. The never-fail Cornell ornithology hub offered a map listing possible encounters with ivory-billed woodpeckers since the 1940's and NOVA boasted a focused and thoughtful video on the sighting controversy. 

The sad part of our ivory-billed woodpecker exploration came later- a few days later as we sat by the fireplace, watching the embers, burning scissor-scraps of remaining vacation brochures. Laying on his stomach, pencil working its way through the college-ruled lines of his journal, Max turned to me and said, "Mom, all the stuff about the woodpecker makes me sad."

"Why?" I wondered.

"Because I don't know if I want to be a scientist anymore."

Not seeing the connection, I asked him to explain.

"Well," Max began, hesitating for just a second, "That one scientist in the video could not believe in the ivory-billed sighting- and he said it was because he was a scientist. And I felt sorry for him when he said that..."

"Hmmm.... but we can't always believe things just because we prefer to believe them, Max."

"Yeah, but if being a scientist means you can't believe in fantastic things anymore, I don't want to be a scientist. I want to believe in things that make me happy- things that might even be impossible." His voice trailed off as he leaned over his paper to write again. 

I tried to tell him that many scientists believe in fantastic, impossible things- that science is the poetry of the universe and life at the cellular level, that beauty need not be sacrificed to the dull standards of evidence-gathering. But I knew he wasn't really listening- his pencil never paused long enough on the page. And I knew, somehow, that his concern deserved more than a standard reply.

In retrospect, maybe I should have told him that the tension between hopeful imagination and rationalistic materialism exists in every field and career path- that this tension is a facet of every modern life more than a fact of the scientist's life. And that it is only while teaching my children that I find myself free from it....

Road-tripping through the great state of Texas.

 

TEXAS TRAVEL COLORING AND HANDOUTS (PDF)

A few printables brought along to enhance our long drive through Texas.

Max kept up with the towns and parks on his highway map.

I did my best to co-navigate with the King.

Stopping along the road to stretch and poke ourselves with tumbleweed.

“I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion. And this is true to the extent that people either passionately love Texas or passionately hate it and, as in other religions, few people dare to inspect it for fear of losing their bearings in mystery or paradox. But I think there will be little quarrel with my feeling that Texas is one thing. For all its enormous range of space, climate, and physical appearance, and for all the internal squabbles, contentions, and strivings, Texas has a tight cohesiveness perhaps stronger than any other section of America. Rich, poor, Panhandle, Gulf, city, country, Texas is the obsession, the proper study, and the passionate possession of all Texans.”

John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley

The kids chased tumbleweed across the hard, dry dirt of Texas.

The sunsets turned the arid landscape into a rum butter pie.

I imagined the sharp sting of scrub-brush scratching summer-bared legs.

The lonesome echo of acoustic guitars left us shivering in the palpable sunset.

Discovering Christmas decorating ideas along the Tuscaloosa Tinsel Trail.

Earlier this week, after discovering we were too early for ice skating, the kids, Angie, and I took a stroll down the fantastic Tinsel Trail along the Tuscaloosa Riverwalk. Each tree was sponsored and then decorated by different community businesses, nonprofits, or individuals.

Max found a sign that had fallen over. He quickly picked it up and staked it back in the ground. Because, in his words, "Duh, that's what boys DO, mom." I bit my lip and kept the "ideally" from coming out. One should appreciate the ideal rather than demand it. Or so I've read...

So many trees to see.... There were large, bombastic trees smothered in bows....

Angie strolled along, looking relieved that the ice-skating rink would not give her a chance to skate.

And there were many discoveries and inspirations for our own crafting plans...

1. CD ornaments painted with reindeer scenes.

  

2. Little yarn Dr. Seuss-ish ornaments....

  3. Lovely little critters cut from pinecones and brush....

4. A gauze-wrapped snowman tree.

5. Stockings cut from burlap and decorated with paint and glitter.

6. Candycanes also cut from burlap and painted.

7. Recycled aluminum can ornaments.

8. Aluminum soda can tree people.

9. Classic glitter-dipped pinecones hung with rope.

10. Instruments and horns adding glitter to the tree.

11. Laminated sunshine photos of children at the R.I.S.E. tree.

12. A rope garland lined with bells and pieces of bandana fabric.

13. Hand-painted glass globes with black and red backgrounds.

14. A collection of colorful handprints with glitter decorations.

15. A glue-covered and glitter-dipped CD.

16. A tree covered with toys- this was B.'s "favorite".

17. An Eric Carle inspired butterfly tree-topper.

18. Monopoly money and game pieces as upcycled tree decorations.

Our vote for the wackiest, "cutest" tree- the big mouthed Bama Fan?

As we neared the end of the Trail, Milla found a fellow she deemed intriguing. B. stopped to scope him out. Before I understood what was going down, Micah joined them..

The luckiest faux gingerbread man on the block earned a kiss from three little ladies far sweeter than himself.

We headed back to the spaceship with the words from one advice-giving tree still in our minds- "Peace on earth begins at home". 

Imaginary play: Victorians.

Dreary days do not eliminate the need for play. So we packed up the spaceship and set out for the Children's Hands-On Museum with the explicit purpose of imagary play revolving around life in the Victorian era.

As the ladies played dress-up, Max wrote a brief essay surveying the artifacts and historic information found in the Victorian display. He wrote it from the perspective of an 8-year-old girl who is spending the night with her grandmother and happens to venture into the attic. I will intersperse excerpts of Max's composition throughout the photos of the girls' imaginary explorations.

B. asked if she could be the one to pour tea.

"My Grandmother's Attic" by Max Coryell

This attic is full of 18th century things. I walk up and I see the windows. There are quite a few paintings in the stairwell. The windows have doily lace curtains, and in between a pot of ivy overhangs a picture of four kittens.

On the other side of the window there is a bookshelf. Over this bookshelf, a picture of five kittens and their mother is hung. There is a large locked trunk and, across from it, an old Victorian tea table complete with three chairs, a tray, and four cups of tea. A doll's rocking chair is also there. 

Marvelous whimsical Micah.

An old-fashioned carriage, complete with doll, sits next to a large trunk in the corner, with two more dolls on it. Under a lot of family pictures on a striped wallpapered wall, there is a bed with three more dolls.

Eminent Victorians.

Now I walk over to another window, with the same lace curtains. I notice two more trunks in front of the window. Next to them, a large amount of boys' clothes are in wardrobes, cupboards, and another trunk, but I am not interested in these. Instead, my eyes turn to the rug, then to the dress on a peg by the locked door I tried in vain to open, and lastly, to the many pictures on the wall by the antique cupboard.

The sobriety of Victorian life: Virginia Woolf's version.

There is a large mirror with a white dress hanging on it. Another tea table set and stools sit to next to cupboards, wardrobes, and trunks of clothes for women! There is a coat rack with purses, four portraits, and two dresses! Lamps are everywhere. When I ask Grandma about it, she says, "I keep it this way so when the Old Women's Club comes, we can have tea up here."

"Do you want to spend the night up here?" Grandma continues. "I can assure you my breeding cats will not hurt you." Grandma bred cats. 

I decided I wanted to stay up there. There was so much interesting stuff up there to look at that I wouldn't get bored.

Thus ended Max's story. But then he decided that he could set up a small hunt for kids visiting the Grandmother's Attic at C.H.O.M.- "important things they might want to find and learn more about". He couldn't resist adding a few follow-up questions.

Things to Look for in Grandmother's Attic

The large number of trunks
Were trunks a fashion in Victorian times? Why were they so popular?

Pictures of cats
Were domestic cats popular in Victorian times? Why or why not?

Furniture style
Do you notice any specific style that is popular? If so, what?

Lots of portraits
Why do you think portraits were so common in homes back then?

Types of clothing
What do you notice about the clothes from that time? Why do you think they were popular?

For further exploration, we chased butterflies around the following, among which the printables are marked with an asterisk:

Victorian Britain (Primary History, BBC)
Toys Victorian children played with in the 1800's (Victorian Children)
Rich and Poor Victorian Children 
Victorian Fashion Detectives activity (Teaching Ideas) *
Victorianopoly game (Teaching Ideas) *
The Victorian House with audio (Fun Kids Radio)
A Victorian Child paper doll coloring page (Helen Page)
What the Victorians did for Christmas (Victorian School)
The Great Exhibition of 1851 worksheet (Victorian Workshop) *
Victorian Inventions wordsearch (Teaching Ideas) *
Mind Your Manners Game (McCord Museum)
Victorian Lapbooking pages (Rebecca Black) *
Design a Victorian garden game (Geffrye Museum)
The 1900 House interactive (PBS)
Organizing a Victorian Day Experience (Victorian School) *
Aunt Mary's Primer (Victorian School)
Queen Victoria coloring page (Crayola) *
Victorian Walking Suit coloring page (Karen's Whimsy) *
Victorian Evening Wear coloring page (Karen's Whimsy) *
Victoria As a Girl: The Patient Rebel (BBC)
Victorian Christmas Play (Alex Wilkinson) *
Queen Victoria Timeline worksheet (Teaching Ideas) *
Queen Victoria Mind Map (Mandy Smith) *
List of kings and queens of England (Victorian School) *
Royal family tree from Victoria to present (Victorian School) *
Make your own Victorian school (Victorian School) *

OUR KOINONIA EXPERIENCE: The first day at the farm.

Milla chases a kitty towards the herb and vegetable gardens at Koinonia.

Having been raised in a home where the basement often served as temporary residence for an Eastern Orthodox monks, nuns, and artists, my heart holds a special fondness for monastic communities and their devoted denizens. As an intentional community, the days at Koinonia follow a deliberate pattern which soon feels like a flow- a rhythm subject to changes in volume and tone yet unfluctuating.  

There is a daily discipline. For the residents and interns, communal life begins at 7:45 a.m. with silent meditation and prayer at the chapel, followed by morning devotions at 8:15. On weekdays, after chapel, everyone stands in a circle on the dew-covered grass and discusses daily work assignments and service. 

“Faith is not belief in spite of evidence but a life in scorn of the consequences.” 
                Clarence Jordan, The Substance of Faith: And Other Cotton Patch Sermons

We woke up the first morning to a room bathed in light and the unmistakable sound of roosters crowing nearby. Still tired from the drive, I lingered in bed with the kids, listening to the roosters and trying to decide if we could get dressed quickly enough to make it to chapel.

My long-haired Max, still flirting with sleep, observed, "Hey, maybe the roosters are like church bells here..." Clearly, we were being called to chapel by the combination of ethereal morning sunlight and rooster bells. Groggy and hungry, I followed the kids out the door just a few minutes too late. Before the guilt set in, the little people started gallivanting through the bright green grass, sniffing flowers (and weeds), exclaiming over spectacular "fire ant castles", and befriending a couple of very friendly kittens.

Clearly, we were being called... to life.  So we set out to explore the farm. The seasonal interns that shared suites and rooms with us in the Jubilee House were returning from chapel. Clad in rubber books and carrying coffee cups, they stopped to greet us warmly before setting off on their assigments for the day. Lacking an assignment, we set off down a path following the kittens.

Max keeps an eye on the ladies who lay the eggs.

Lo and behold, the henhouse awaited us. Max tried to classify the feathered friends while the girls avoided a rather startled turkey that lumbered around the corner of an old wooden shed. 

And then we discovered "three little piggies", to borrow Milla's phrasing.

Soon all three kids found themselves enamored of pigs.

Milla carried our cardboard butterfly book from path to path.

The Koinonia bell rings three times a day for a moment of silent meditation and prayer. Whereever you may be working or studying, whether in the fields or in the bakery, the bell rings at 10:30 am, 3:30 pm, and 8:30 pm. As the days slipped past, I found myself listening for the sound of the bell to divide the morning and afternoon, to make me aware, again, of the rhythm behind everyone's actions and intentions.

At the 10:30 ringing, folks congregate in the coffee house to brew a couple of pots and share their thoughts with one another. Coffee creamer waits in the pitcher of fresh milk coaxed from resident cows at the first crack of dawn by Brendan; something about the coffee (probably the creamer) tasted sublime. We introduced ourselves to a couple of Koninians, though names and faces still tended to run together at this point.

A charming intern named Susie shared her own experiences as a home-schooled child. As we chatted, I found myself thinking (probably contrary to her own impressions) that her independent spirit and openness were exactly the sorts of qualities I treasure in Max, Micah, and Milla- the qualities I hope to honor and cultivate, the qualities that may one day lead them to choose the sort of journey that brings them back, as interns, to Koinonia. 

My restless desire to help somehow rubbed against the three little people who needed my guidance and care. In my imaginary world, of course, I could volunteer while somehow juggling the needs of three kids (one still potty training). But reality intervened to put a kink in my plans. Trying to avoid the sense of annoyance- "I came here to help and then but for the small folks"- I reminded myself that I was here to serve and to learn; and that the two did not have to take the form I imagined.

I closed my eyes, counted to ten backwards, and vowed to stay open to what the surroundings, and the spirit that filled them, wanted me to learn. Even if it was something as unexciting as the realization that my own impatience and eagerness often stands in the way of my humility towards the daily tasks and demands of life. 

Milla stares down a goose outside the dining hall.

We camped out at Jubilee House sharing Clarence Jordan stories and writing (or coloring) poems and hymns until the lunch bell rang. Then we wandered over to the dining hall for what would be our first communal meal- an experience that truly merits a post of its own, one which I look forward to sharing later this week. The short version is that the shared meal time transformed my understanding of communion and fellowship. The meal took two rituals which had managed to stay separate and brought them together with all the force and power of an intergalactic collision. 

I think we ate a few of these delicious flowers at lunch in the salad.

Our explorations took us to the town of Americus and then back to the farm, where we read, wandered, chatted, and played before meeting everyone again at dinner. I kept finding funny stories- tales of Clarence- in books and magazines, stories I read to the little people over laughs and giggles. Stories like this one.  

Once when he was being given a tour of a new church building, the pastor pointed to the cross on the steeple. The pastor said something like, "That cross alone cost $10,000."

Clarence said, "You got cheated. Times were when Christians could get them for free."

"Clarence was a funny farmer," Micah declared. 

The sun set without a sound. As Micah and Milla changed into their pajamas ande debated whether or not to brush their teeth, I read the free copy of Koinonia Farm Chronicle laying on the table in our room. Just reading it made the world feel like a better place- the kind of place in which it made sense that I never once locked a car door or a room door during our stay. Once everyone finished their pre-bed preparations, we changed our minds about the bed and set out on one of our "starlight walk", a tradition quickly started under the vast, starlit Koinonia skies. 

"Mom, we're really just tiny things," said Max, staring upwards from the center of the meadow where we settled and snuggled in the tall grass. 

"No Max!", replied Micah, huffy as always. "Milla is tiny but I am big- my feet are big too!"

The lull left a space for me to speak, maybe to soothe the misunderstanding by reasserting the hierarchies of big, small, and in-between. Older, younger, wise- all the known quantities- felt too heavy to handle in that open field. Something about the beautiful night skies always steals the words from my lips.

Making sense of language pales next to the mysteries of existence- the wonder of all that remains ineffable. So we talked about the word "ineffable" instead. And then we sat together, all four on the verge of a shiver, and paid a silent tribute to the ongoing ineffability of things.

Previously, I blogged a little bit about the history of Koinonia. Stay tuned for the next post about our Koinonia experience...

The last of the summer beach days.

Dolphins danced for us one morning. The kids stood with buttered honey biscuits in hand cooing and marveling at the edge of the balcony. Max told us that the dolphins warn of coming storms.

Then Milla said she did not like "those sharks be there". I explained that the difference between a shark and a dolphin is in the way they move. Dolphins undulate and move along a curve while sharks swim in a straight line. The predator, on both land and sea, is a linear-minded creature.

After spending the morning in the ocean, Micah and Milla alternate between sketching and coloring the crisp blues and whites below the balcony. 

Of all three little folks, Milla turned out to be one most dedicated to collecting small pieces of shell and molding large quantities of sand.

The ocean water couldn't have been more clear or sublime- you could see clean through to the bottom. That's how Max noticed the sting ray fishing nearby. Fortunately, he did not make a close acquaintance.

Of course I started to feel guilty when I noticed this short, dark, and handsome dude playing in the waves right in front of me. I looked around to make sure my husband didn't notice and then felt mighty pleased to discover that the fellow I was watching was none other than my husband. 

The jetties behind Milla brim with treasures. Old fishing lures, beat-up tennis shoes turned into flotation devices, colorful scraps of twine and fabric- a place pocked with stories waiting to be told....

There's something about sitting in the sand just close enough for the waves to maybe lap the tips of your toes with a fistful of sand being the only thing on your mind for the moment. 

The girls loved my $5 thrift store proxy prom dress, so I put it on and wore it to the grocery store. At the beach, anything goes...

Dancing with the kids at the Flora Bama Yacht Club.

One night at the beach last week, we decided to try out the Flora Bama Yacht Club. It was the outdoor eating, beach access, and sand play areas that twisted our arm in this direction. While we waited for our food, I invited Max to dance with me. He courteously agreed.

Max and I do-si-do.

I had set my heart on the rudiments of a tango, but Max had other beats in mind.

He preferred the old cheek-to-cheek, goofy, fun-loving frolick- one the best dance forms ever invented by humankind.

Micah wanted to dance with me as well, but she takes after her mommy and tends to go her own way. And then, our graceful little dancer sees the camera and decides to hide behind my skirt.

The food was good, the sand was even better, and being able to sit in louge chairs on on couches in the open air while eating is what the beach is all about. A great choice for family outdoor dining on the Gulf Of Mexico.

Adventures at the Faunsdale Bar & Grill.

In another Alabama town with no stop lights or main intersections, the King and I satisfied our curiosity abou the Faunsdale Bar & Grill. 

As I scoured through the local newspaper in the hopes of running across some bunnies or hens for sale, the King instructed the ladies in a the fine art of how to roll and blow a good spitball through a plastic straw. Max couldn't resist the opportunity to arrange and rearrange the condiment bottles- a favorite pasttime since the tender age of two.

Waiting for the lucscious burgers and cabbage to arrive, I got a little restless and decided to wander up and down the street looking for stories to help make sense of Faunsdale. Any bit of rubbish held out the prospect of further illumination. 

The "bar" next door was closed. The owner later told me that it is only open on certain days because Faunsdale is such a small town that there isn't a demand for a full-time bar and juke joint. I noticed that the flag above the entrance had been perched there for a long time. Was it intended to be symbol of history or a sign of warning? One never knows, and I seldom dare begin those conversations when still waiting for my food to be arrive.

The main street didn't give me much to read or untangle- not even crushed cigarettes suggesting a favored local brand.

So I focused on the bricks and the cobwebs between them- the way in which the spider's web healed the cracks by bridging them, by bringing everything back together on the surface with home-spun silk. 

I sat on the hot cement sidewalk for a moment and tried to imagine what the future might bring to Faunsdale- if the future even bothered to visit. And then I remembered that a hot burger overflowing with mayo and tomatoes was waiting for me just two hollers down the street. So I left the sidewalks, the spiders and their stories in the hands of a less hungry suitor that may chance to pause and read what they see.

A visit to the Alabama Rural Heritage Center.

 

En route to the beach, we bit back into our royal plan of making a pilgrimage to every Rural Studio construction in the state.  So we stopped and spent some time exploring the Alabama Rural Heritage Center in the tiny town of Thomaston. The wide open spaces combine with ingenious construction innovations to produce the effect that made Rural Studio so famous.

The kids explore the handmade local wares.

Unlike other schools of architecture, the Rural Studio celebrates the story which emerges from every single design and construction. In many cases, the designers create a website which reveals the plans and charts the journey through the project. The ARHC building's story, like the audacity of those who first dared to dream it, is preserved eternally at the project website. 

In August of 2003, the Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation, and the Rural Studio of Auburn University began a partnership helped along by a $400,000 grant from HUD with the intent of helping to stimulate economic development in the community of Thomaston. Using less than half of this grant money, five determined Auburn students in the Rural Studio Program, Abbey Barnett, Melissa Harold, Paul Kardous, Nathan Makemson, and Robert White, embarked on a thesis project to design and construct the Alabama Rural Heritage Center (ARHC).

Free experimental beams made from recycled, compacted trash.

Rather than starting from scratch, the students renovated the Home Economics building of the old Marengo County High School and constructed a new 5,000 square-foot addition which includes a gift shop, commercial kitchen, packaging room, and vegetable cleaning/processing area. A separate grant allowed the students to add an outdoor pavilion/deck intended for use by the community.

True to the Sambo's building philosophy, the students' construction process made use of experimental and eco-minded materials, including the free "trash beams" pictured above. 

On April 9, 2005, The Alabama Rural Heritage Foundation celebrated the grand-opening of the new Alabama Rural Heritage Center. 

Max concurred with the ingenuity of offering free meteorites to little people. Each of the kids selected at least two "Alabama meteorites" with accompanying brochure. I crossed my fingers quietly, hoping that the idea for a "meteorite fight" would not leak from my brain to theirs.

The sense of community is enhanced by the prodiguous pamphlets, signs, and cards announcing the work and support of local artists, artisans, and nonprofit centers. Deeply-rooted communities tend to be those that engage us at multiple levels- from our individual preferences and affinities to our group identities and social concerns. 

The gift shop overflowed with the with the creations of local artists, artisans, and traditional crafters. Since many creators leave a business card next to their creations, it's more like a gallery of local creatives than it is a gift shop. The gourmet Mama Nem's Red Pepper Jelly is made and sold in-house.

Local historian and advocate Foster Dickinson collaborated with Nancy Anderson to birth a book/curriculum guide which is now on my wish-list, Treasuring Alabama's Black Belt: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Teaching Place. If you can't find it in stores, I'm sure ARHC wouldn't mind maling a copy in exchange for a phone call and little mullah. 

Hours of operation for the gift ship are Thurday and Friday from 10 am to 4 pm and Saturdays from 10 am to 1 pm.  You can also make purchases by email ([email protected]) or by placing a call to 334-627-3388. The kitchen and dining area are still available for rent if you're seeking a special place to host an event in Alabama. 

The kind lady who eagerly answered all my questions at the gift shop (and who even went so far as to compliment me on my "well-behaved children") explained a little project she had started on the back wall of the old school. This project, the Kid's Korner, featured art for sale by young Alabama kids who donate their creations as a fundraiser for the Center.

When she said the project "wasn't going as well as she had hoped", I had a feeling we'd be mailing some art donations from the Coryell Castle before the tomatoes got fat enough to fall from the vines. If you live locally and find yourself staring at that same "feeling", just write a short note about the artists, scoop up the art, and mail the whole cornucopia to Rural Heritage and Gift Shop, 133 Sixth Avenue, Thomaston, AL 36783.

Otherwise, scurry over to their Facebook page to learn more about upcoming events and opportunities.

"Celebrate Something", a poem by Emily Wheeler.

The king takes a ride down small rapids in the Cahaba River as lily pilgrims flock through 
the shoals. Photo credit goes to Kevin Gray.

If only the absence of the co-worker whose life’s dull plot 
     you know by heart,
or the shiny nose on the tiny bust of the great dead man 
     on the lobby wall.
Lean away from the desk, instead toward the window, its view of a bend
in the tracks where the bullet trains whoosh by, blurring
present and past and the many years you hope to have ahead.
Then walk home at a loll, letting the lush profusion of nasturtium
and the sound of the phrase itself re-instill the loyalty to beauty
that work downplays, savor the way trout tune their flex to turbulence
to survive the whitest water, as well as the triumph of mystery
in the stutter-step flight of a common butterfly,
which evades understanding and so ensures the simple questions
will continue to be asked, for example, how does it fly and did your wife know
by placing the pot of night-blooming tobacco at the back door
in her absence its perfume would moisten your sleep
until her return; and isn’t it luck that each ladder in the cherry orchard
wedges so safely against a tree of almost any shape,
long marriages are like that;
and the urge to be wholly known, the places it takes us,
the villa among the black pines where the table out back is laid for two,
you and a beloved, sweet cakes, warm milk, and ten sorts of dates await you
when you rise refreshed from the blue dreams of early morning that waft
like smoke out the bedroom window, open to allow the breezes of love
to envelop you all night long—can you recall the way?

Cahaba lily photos and a free printable learning packet.

We ran into a number of friends and neighbors at the Cahaba Lily Festival this past weekend. Today, one of our kind neighbors shared the photos she took of our family while we played in the Cahaba. I am so grateful to Linda for taking these photos (I hardly ever get pictures of us all together) and sharing them with me so I can share them with friends and family. Here they are:

The water was chilly- but I couldn't resist the first river swim of the season. Although it doesn't look like it, I am wearing a swimsuit in this photo.

Micah and Milla "swam" or waded in their shorts and spent most of the time collecting tiny, spiral-decorated shells in more colors than we could imagine, including green.

I was the only without shoes- and I deeply regretted my folly. There is nothing more slippery than bare feet on river rocks. As you can see, the gentleman in the kayak persistently tried to do the same flip in the rapids. It was very cool to watch.

Max on his return from touching a lily. I think this is the moment he realized that a "short-cut" through the hearty poison ivy patch lining the river bank would be no short-cut at all.

Max and Patrick set their hearts on a small stream of rapids which empties into a pool. Yes, they rode the rapids. Yes, Max could not get enough. Yes, the lady watching the kids on the banks was very, very jealous.

Kevin caught a few photos of the kayak king while Patrick walked Micah back from the rocks to the beach, where Milla had happily rearranged all the river rocks and shells collected. 

Our experience left us with much more to learn and explore about the Cahaba lily and its river. So I created a small lesson plan with readings, questions, and activities all about the Cahaba lily. You can download a copy below.

Cahaba Lily Learning Packet (PDF)

Here's a screen shot from one of the pages in the learning packet, which includes information about the noctural hawk moth that pollinates the lilies.

The Cahaba Lily Festival: A best-kept secret.

Those Saturday visits to West Blocton always leave the ruffling of favorite memories in their wake. Actually, the Cahaba Lily Festival is not a secret at all- it is well-publicized and you can find details at the Cahaba Lily website. 

We arrived in West Blocton one hour after we rolled out of Saturday morning bed at 10 am. The streets were closed to traffic so the entire Coryell Caravan wandered around and chatted with some of our favorite artists, including Sue Blackshear, who was displaying her paintings.

Inside the Cahaba Lily Center, folks from all walks of life were enjoying homemade food and the company of fellow lily-lovers. We missed Larry Davenport's morning lecture, which gnawed at me quite a bit since Larry is one of the naturalists who helped put the lily on the map. Larry began to study the Cahaba lily in 1989 "as a candidate species for a threatened or endangered listing with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service". What began as a small project turned into a fantastic flower reconaissance as Larry "expanded the known lily populations in Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina from an initial 10 to 70.”

Milla dangles her pony bag as she takes in the streets of West Blocton.

But it takes a community and a dedicated citizenry to save a river and its fairy tale flowers. Around 20 years ago, Dr. Randall Haddock and other local lily lovers formed the Cahaba River Society, a state-wide model for cooperative and sustainable ecological preservation. At about the same time, the tiny town of West Blocton began their festival to honor the local lily. For Haddock, "the lily immediately became symbolic of the beauty, fragility, and certainly the resilience of the Cahaba River itself.

Patrick and Kevin discuss paddling the Cahaba as Milla weighs her options of possibly touching more art.

Conservation photographer Beth Maynor Young, who has taken some of the most famous photos of the Cahaba lily, describes it as "pompous" and daring enough to dwell in the middle of a river in rapids. But she can't cloak her respect and awe for this persistent, fragile flower. Beth has expressed her sadness over the fact that the Cahaba lilies grew in so many Southern rivers located along the fall line back in the days before the dams.

Milla found a few paintings on the sidewalk that no one seemed to be guarding. She took the opportunity to "touch that purple", as she put it. Then we loaded up and set out for lunch along the banks of the Cahaba at the Cahaba River National Wildlife Refuge. You can get there by driving approximately six miles east of West Blocton on County road 24. Access is provided by a gravel road on the south (right) side of Bibb County Road 24 approximately 250 yards past the refuge entrance sign. Prepare for river clay-colored dirt roads.

The king had packed a picnic basket so we sat down along the banks of the Cahaba to snack and read brochures about local life along the Cahaba. We learned that the area in which we were picnicking was greatly impacted by previous human actions. Coal mining first occurred within the area that is now the refuge in the mid-1800's. Piper #2 underground coal mine cut through the refuge. A portion of the area was strip mined in the mid-1900's. This mining pit is still visible today.

Following the depletion of coal within the refuge area, commercial timber companies purchased most of the area that is today Cahaba River NWR. Most longleaf pine left following coal mining days were cut and, over the years, replanted to loblolly pine. Efforts at longleaf pine restoration are currently underway- exciting!

We spotted a few specklings of Cahaba lilies off in the water. At this point, the earnest plotting began- "I'm going to cross those rocks and then swim to that lily patch..." and so on.

Photo taken by Alan Cressler.

So what's all the fuss over a flower? The Cahaba Lily is also known as Hymenocallis coronaria. The plant grows in rivers across the southeast United States. Current populations exist in South Carolina, Georgia and Alabama, where it is sometimes referred to as the Shoals Lily because it grows in shoals.

Photo taken by Alan Cressler.

At 182 miles, the Cahaba River is the longest free-flowing river remaining in Alabama. It is also one of the favored living locations for the aptly-named Cahaba lily. The Cahaba River houses 64 rare and imperiled plant and animal species, thirteen of which cannot be found anywhere else in the world. In fact, with 131 fish species, the river holds more than any other river its size in North America. In defiance of the dams, the river and the lily stand together every spring.

Hargrove Shoals, located near the small town of Centreville, contains the single largest lily concentration in the world. Marking the center of the river and roughly a center point for the state, this is where the lily-lovers come to seek her enchantment year after year. 

The flowers bloom between early May and late June. They usually open late in the day and begin to wither the next day. In most cases only one flower will open each day. The seeds take shelter in the crevices of rocks found in swift-moving currents. In this sense, each lily is a momentary marvel.

Max had no qualms about mingling with all the lily-spotters out in the shoals. He eventually made his way over to the farthest patch of lilies all on his own as I tried to keep the girls from eating snail shells that looked like candy. 

See that lily patch up in the left hand corner of the photo above? That's where Max claims to have touched one of the lilies with all the smugness of a medievalist on a pilgrimage. Granted, it takes at least 30-45 minutes of carefully stepping over slippery rocks and through knee-deep rapids around plants and small crevices to earn the right to see a lily up close.

If you missed the festival, you can still learn about the lily at the Cahaba Lily Center in West Blocton (driving directions here). My sources for this post include a brochure from the Cahaba National Wildlife Refuge, an article in Flower Magazine, the 2013 Cahaba River Festival Flyer, the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and various kind persons who take pleasure in passing on what they know.

On our list of things to do in West Blocton this month: Hike Piper Trail in the Cahaba River National Wildlife Refuge. Only one mile long and one way in with the same way out makes it toddler-friendly. Benches dot the trail, and two overlook platforms allow you to look down at the Cahaba River and get a birds eye view of the lilies below. The entrance to the trail is one mile east of River Trace Road on Bibb County Road 24.

A visit to Hewett's Honey Farm.

Thanks to Candace and Mary, we started the day with a field trip to Hewett's Honey Farm in Duncanville, Alabama.

I created an information sheet about how bees live and make honey which also includes a few interview questions to ask on your field trip. Feel free to print a copy and go find your local beekeepers during this beautiful spring weather!

HONEY FARM FIELD TRIP HANDOUT (PDF)

We were lucky enough to have Mr. Hewett for our guide into the beekeeping process. He was proud to explain that Hewett's Honey is 100% organic and direct from the hive to the table, Mr. Hewett does not pasteurize his honey to prevent from granulating as most honey will over a period of time. When honey granulates simply place the container in hot water-110-120 degrees- and it will return to it’s natural state with all the health benefits still in tact.

He also refuses to "blend" his honey to develop a certain flavor or color. Instead, the color and flavor of his honey depends on the source of nectar the bees gather to make the honey. Each season has its own shade.

 

First we observed the bee "hives"- a stack of simple wood boxes hiding the kernel of mystery within. See that stack of boxes on the table? That's the magic source of the honey we took home. Mr. Hewett warned us not to get in the path of the bees as we scooted closer- bees don't like to be bothered when their legs are carrying heavy loads of pollen to the hive.

Mr. Hewett took quite a bit of time to explain the inner workings of hive civilization to us- it was fascinating and spiked with the sounds of little ones frolicking and chasing each other around.

We learned that the yellow goldenrod is the last plant from which the bees extract their food before the winter sets in. Because pollen is scarce in the winter, the female worked bees send the male worker bees packing. Mr. Hewett said this is because the male bees "eat a lot". I laughed out loud.

Mr. Hewett told Max that beekeeping is a full-time job in this season- and this job has its own workshop and equipment. Then we ventured inside the honey-extraction hut with a little bee blazed on the front door. The first thing to greet us was a set of three large metal tanks holding sweet, sticky honey.

So many instruments and tools to use, touch, see, explore, and, of course, handle....

Hanging on the wall, the classic beekeeper suit ready and waiting for the moment.

Mr. Hewett explained how the bees use these planes to build elevated beeswax tubes. Max listenend as if rapt.

As Mr. Hewett explains, there is an interesting dynamic between the little people. D. stares down from his mommy's arms with all eyes on Milla, while Milla keeps her eyes on little Sadie across the way. 

Beeautiful honeycombs.

Mr. Hewett told us that you can measure the queen bee's health by how fills and builds the honeycombs- a half-moon pattern means she is very healthy while scattered, haphazard fillings means the queen is ready to retire.

Mary bought some beeswax, which is what the bees use to make the honeycomb cells.

Then we stepped into another honey hut with a yellow door and a blazed bumblebee- only this time, we encountered rows of bottled honey.

Mr. Hewett even had flavored honey straws. Each one of the munckins picked their own flavor- and the fought over which one was the yummiest.

Max took some time to interview Mr. Hewett at in the last honey hut while all the little people were busy slurping honey from spoons. He learned that bee stings can help with rheumatoid arthritis in some cases- and that the sting is not something a beekeeper can completely avoid.

You can always pick up your own stash of local Hewett's Honey in Tuscaloosa from Manna Grocery or the River Market. You can also order online at the Hewett Honey website. We are so grateful to Mr. Hewett for taking the time and energy to share this marvelous process with us.

Local history investigation: Does the Memnon-Tierce house qualify as a Wright-style prairie house?

The Memnon-Tierce House in Tuscaloosa

Right now, we're knee-deep in the study of Frank Lloyd Wright's "prairie houses". In 1936, during the USA depression, Frank Lloyd Wright developed a simplified version of Prairie architecture called Usonian. Wright believed these stripped-down houses represented the democratic ideals of the United States. In fact, the only community that Wright ever helped build was one based on the Usonian-type house. To see how Wright’s prairie houses continue to influence American architecture, we explored the Prairie Styles website. 

As Max read about the Robie house and Wright's adaptation of the prairie house style to downtown cities, he mentioned that he thought Tuscaloosa might have its own prairie house "somewhere near the University". Intrigued by the prospect, I did a little online sleuthing to quickly discover that Max, of course, was probably right.

The Memnon-Tierce near downtown Tuscaloosa (pictured above) includes many features of the prairie style popularized by Wright. Technically, a prairie house usually includes the folowing features:

• Low-pitched roof
• Overhanging eaves
• Horizontal lines and rectangular shapes
• Central chimney and hearth
• Open floor plan
• Clerestory windows

I created a worksheet for Max to frame his analysis of what the Memnon-Tierce house. You can download it below if you'd like to try and determine if the Memnon-Tierce house qualifies as a prairie house.

MEMNON-TIERCE HOUSE WORKSHEET (PDF)

Like all local history investigations, the family behind the house is a story in itself. You can learn more about the fascinating Tierce family history and chase it with Rick Bragg's article about the Tierce house. 

The Tierce family in 1901 on the front steps of their home just south of North River (Lake Tuscaloosa) on Highway 69 North (Crabbe Road) .

Exploring world culture for kids.

Yesterday, our family story, "The day the sheep came home in Transylvania", was posted as part of MamaSmiles' awesome World Culture for Kids series. There are some great photos of this unique cultural event, as well as follow-up links to learn more about life and culture in Transylvania.

If you haven't read it or seen it, please go take a peek. It was written in a way that makes a great family read-aloud, and our photos are sure to make you smile (especially the one of Max hitching a ride in a wagon). Quick, go see! And thanks to MaryAnne for putting together such a great educational resource!

A spring picnic at Tannehill with an unexpected visit from Mr. Triangle Head.

Today took us to Tannehill. The weather veered unexpectedly towards summer, and I reminded myself that once a chigger graveyard does not mean always a chigger graveyard. Fortunately, Amy, her girls, and the young castle crew distracted me from chigger PTSD. 

The girls were hungry, but Max and his ponies were itching to hit the trail. So we spread out a blanket and ate as Max wandered up and down the creek reporting back on various twists and turns in the trail. It felt like the beginning of summer- the sweat-sticky hair glued to my nape, the crimson roses on the kids' cheeks.

I only noticed a sprinkle of violets on the trail, but there were many other spring wildflowers eager to lap up the sun.

We aren't sure about this plant yet, though I've sent it along to a someone who knows all the secrets languages of plants. When we get an ID on it, I'll probably re-post along with information and a nature notebooking page. Cause I can't help myself when it comes to mysterious flowers friends.

Amy and I agreed that this was the native azalea, and I made a note to myself to see if Eugene Allen Smith was the person who had originally identified it. Anna and Milla delighted in the lemony, sweet scent of the funnel flowers (which many confuse for honeysuckle unless they've been lucky enough to learn the truth from Carol Brooks or Richard and Nancy Cobb).

The Alabama azalea, or Rhododendron alabamense, usually begins blooming towards the end of April and continues its show until the end of May, which worries me because I would hate to miss the beauty of the blooms along Hurricane Creek. Why so early this year?

The thriving shrubs of poison ivy lured us on a trail that turned away from the creek's edge- a trail that Max believed would "not be as good". We never really got to test his assertion because, after walking for ten minutes, Amy and I lagging at the rear and Max playing trail leader, we noticed Max and Anna smiling and walking back towards us.

"Hey, there's a snake in the middle of the trail- come see!"

I decided to hang out with the kids while Amy investigated. All was silent from her end of the trail, though she spent a few minutes snapping photographs. When she strolled back up with a smile, I asked her what kind of snake was sunning. She never stopped smiling as she said, "Oh, I think it's a copperhead..." 

It was time for Mr. Triangle Head and myself to exchange large vocabulary words involving whether or not we two-legged creatures should continue down what apparently was HIS trail. Being a snake works well when it comes to social skills because you don't have to bother with all that silly human stuff. He stared at me and I stared back at him. He didn't move one bit. I think I got his message, though.

Max, of course, thought we were being "silly" to listen to a snake. He insisted that it was a nonpoisonous species, but I erred on the side of Amy's intuition. I explained to Max that the snake probably wouldn't hurt us, but he definitely wanted that trail and we were just visitors to his home. Bad visitors insist on turning every place they visit into their house. Better to read the writing in leaves and accept it like our Native American friends. Sometimes, after all, being pushy and overly-analytic is equivalent to missing the point.

(Addendum: Mr. Triangle Head was determined to be a cottonmouth by someone who knows such things.)

Fortunately, Max concurred, his attention quickly taken by the sight of a fisherman up the other trail. By the time Amy and I caught up him, he had sweet-talked his way into casting the kind fisherman's line. The fisherman told us he wasn't catching anything- "just some time off"- and Amy mused about the rangers possibly stocking the stream with trout. Clearly, there is something fishy in the Tannehill waters that allows them to host an educational program called "The Fishes of Tannehill".

As Max fished, the girls wandered over to the old grist mill and started playing around the flume, which is the long wooden trough that carries the stream water from the spillway to the water wheel. 

After giggles and grunts, Micah hopped over to us to explain all the excitement over at the flume. For Micah, an explanation usually amounts to a "showing". She said, "Look!", and quickly dropped a smattering of snail shells into our hands.

Amy recognized one of the shells as the one her husband had used in his graduate research. She also explained how the shells were different species; her eyes picked up those delicate details I am prone to overlooking (not that shells are within my repertoire).

The vast chunk of our remaining time at Tannehill was spent sitting and chatting as the kids took their ponies and fairies for dips in the creek. Of course, Max had to remove shoes and socks and ford the stream at his leisure. And then, of course, others wanted to try as well. And then, of course, I was happy that spring meant wet toes and pant cuffs, pebbles in shoes, and all that other good stuff.

Each spring brings its own particular treasures. This one brings Amy and her family for a lazy day at Tannehill. I am grateful for all of the above and how it fits together in its own special way.

What we found by getting lost.

We spent at least two hours driving through back roads in Alabama, getting lost or, as Micah put it, "even loster".

But we also found a place to which we will return once the King the free time to burn with us. Driving through Helena, lured by the running water, we stopped at Buck Creek Park.

Google map it: 776 2nd St, Helena, AL 35080

Micah picked a fresh clover bouquet that made it back to Tuscaloosa and to the castle table-top.

Always the most generous human being in the twenty-foot garden, Micah carefully distributed a dandelion to each of us, reminding us to wait and "all blow together for the fairies".

Max and Micah took off their shoes and socks for the first toe-dip of spring. Max reported that the water was "freezing ice-cold yipppeee."

Then everyone sat on the grass and thought about Frances, my canoe, and how she must be eager to kiss the creeks right about now.

Finally, we headed back to the spaceship to begin the long journey through the ozone-eaten stratosphere supposedly protecting our home.

But not without giving in to the giggling call of the creek just one more time....

Goodbye gorgeous green treasure. We'll be back before summer fades your colors.

The perfect day that made no promise.

It didn't have to be a perfect day.

One might even say that I began the day by jinxing it. We drove to Alabaster for an herb co-op only to discover that I had mixed up the times. Suddenly, we had three hours to kill in a town sixty miles from home. 

Though I always forget to bring along food, drinks, diapers, and all the necessaries, I never forget to bring a book just in case the right meadow should present itself.

Today, I found Ruth Sawyer's The Way of the Storyteller tucked in my backpack, using the space normally taken by the baby wipes.

Perhaps I needed Ruth more than baby wipes today. Her words reminded me of my own blind spots- the way in which I use stories to "teach" rather than tell, to train rather than liberate, to "educate" rather than elucidate the intangible shaded areas of human existence. Though her book is intended to reframe storytelling as a folk art, Ruth clears many cobwebs along the way. So I sat in the grass, reading Ruth, peeling clementines, and watching the little people turn rusted old pipes into balance beams.

"Storytelling is not for remedial purpose or for training. It is not a mechanical process to be made easy and pleasant. It is not a means of presenting limited material to the minds of children. It is an art demanding the utmost of your capacity and mine for living and understanding ; it us dependent upon our power of creation; it asks for integrity, trust, and vision."

We see different things. They see a perfect line to follow like a thread. Maybe they see something small enough to master.

I see a tunnel running underneath their little feet- a subterranean world with its own songs and arguments, a passage beneath our habitual empiricism, a possibility whose darkness symbolizes comfort rather than cruelty. 

"I think stories must be acquired by long contemplation, by bringing the imagination to work, constantly, intelligently, upon them. And finally by that power to blow the breath of life into them. And the method? That of learning incident by incident, or picture by picture. Never word by word."

"Here is a sad paradox: those musical instruments invented on the pattern of the human body, and stringed to produce the most sublime qualities of the human voice, have so far outdistanced us in resonance and beauty of tone that now we turn to them to get the quality we would like to hear in our own voices." 

The story changes every time I try to touch it with a word- maybe the light didn't hover so much as it haunted, or the shadows moving quickly across the grass left us dizzy rather than lulled. Or my viewpoint went from vertical to horizontal. Where does the story stop changing? 

Ruth might say this is a problem not for the storyteller but for the writer, who must choose one fixed version to pass along. The storyteller never stops spinning or weaving, adding new colors, removing salted ones.

The storyteller is free from the bindings of one weather- free to inhabit the "whether".

What can I say? The story continues. My words don't equal the watching. The perfect day that made no promise also left me with no settled story to tell Patrick.

Maybe when the images finish pickling and I hanker for the salt, my hunger will get the best of me and today's story will hatch, shiver, shake its feather, and wander out in the world unsettled, changing each season, that chick-turned-hen I'd rather follow than catch.

On the grounds of the Alabama beer revolution: Suds of the South 4.

THE KING: I know you love taking care of sick kids, but how would you feel about trying some local beers instead?

HER: Today?

THE KING: Right now.

HER: Don't twist my arm.

7.8 minutes later.

 THE KING: You look like a lollipop.

HER: Perhaps. But I am not actually a lollipop. Don't be superifical.

THE KING: I like your lollipop dress.

HER: Don't get sentimental. Let's run before the chorus starts. 

Run we did. Straight to Wilhagan's, where the 4th Annual Suds of the South was brewing. The entry lines stretched along the street. At one point, even Wilhagen's looked as if it might be too small to accomodate all the eager beer festers.

From Birmingham, Avondale Brewing Company introduced us to the saison, a pale ale that in modern versions is generally around 7% abv, highly carbonated, fruity, spicy - sometimes from the addition of spices -, and is influenced by Saison Dupont Vieille Provision. Then Good People Brewing Company shared insight about the Hops for Honeys, a group for women interested in the study of beer and brews which meets monthly in Birmingham. Something about beer education for women sounds better than a book club (and I'm the girl who adores book clubs).

Hailing from Huntsville and environs, ye Old Black Bear, Straight to Ale prides itself on being southern-born and southern-brewed, Yellowhammer Brewing harks back to European traditions and serif fonts. There's quite a bit of brew-haha going on in Huntsville these days, with a beer fest on the calendars soon. No self-respecting Huntsvillian should miss out on it.

From Gadsden, Back Forty Beer brings kudzu and swine to the tasting table in original, fragrant combinations. Hailing from Madison, we thoroughly enjoyed the company of Blue Pants Brewery folk. And they won our personal prize for the hoppiest brew. In Montgomery, Railyard Brewing Company combines food and good brews for those who care to cultivate the combinations.

Keeping it by our bed....

And then there is Tuscaloosa's own Druid City Brewing Company, whose logo pays tribute to one of Alberta City's classiest no-tell motels, the Moon Winx Lodge. When the King and I first signed those Free the Hops petitions a few years ago, little did we know how beautiful freedom would taste. But, as some folks are wont to say, freedom isn't free, and the beer revolution is still revolving. It's exciting to learn more from the brewers and to begin our own beer education- the kind of education that creates local jobs, builds small businesses, and rewards passionate entrepreneurs that enrich our local communities with their visions and creations.

More to chase in this direction:

Well That's Cool has the requisite spiffy blurb.
David Smith has the vertigo-inducing photo gallery as well as the more fleshy description.
Ben asks Bo a few worthwhile questions about the Druid City Brewing Company. 
Plan a local beer pilgrimage as part of your summer schedule. 

Family Farm and Fleece Day in Huntsville.

If you're looking to escape the egg hunts this weekend, drive on over to Huntsville for the Family Farm and Fleece Day, presented by the Tennessee Valley Women in Agriculture. There will be lots to do, and more to learn about local agriculture and animal husbandry. Make sure to visit their website and print a copy of the coloring page for the kids coloring contest- it might make a great project for the road.

The best sledding hill near Keystone.

The best sledding hill in the Keystone area can be found right off Highway 6 across from Cemetery Road (or County Road 98). Just pull into the parking area for the jogging trails that go around Lake Dillon and the beautiful hill will be right in front of you. Here's a link to the Google map location if you're hankering to sled.

Ski hard, love better.

Putting the kids in ski school so we could ravage the mountains alone was the best choice we made on this vacation. I'm not going to lie about this one- skiing with the King was more fun than I made room for in my list of plans.

Generally, we started the day dropping off the kids at the base of River Run and then taking the gondola up to the summit of Keystone Mountain. As you can see, they were thrilled as we waited for the bus.

He must have been right about something.....

She loves it when he makes sense....

Something beautiful about all of it and just being present in the moments...

Taking a break midslope while waiting for Ratpaw and Bunica to catch up with us.

Taking a break to drink water and eat granola bars at The Summit.

In retrospect, we took as many "breaks" as we could because normal life doesn't make space for those soul-savers. I told the royal family early on in our trip that I planned to take every break that came my way this week.

More Keystone fun for royal families and happy serfs:

Keystone Trail Map (PDF)
Keystone Resort Official Website, for the landed aristocracy 
Keystone childcare and nursery
Arapahoe Basin Official Website, for the powder-eaters
Breckenridge Ski Resort, for the Dayplanners
Copper Mountain, for beginners and aging hipsters
Loveland Ski Area, for the natives and nativists 
Summit County, Colorado Official Website, for the dreamers 

Museum Monday at the Museum of Natural History.

This past Monday, Max learned about local dinosaurs with a little hands-on paleontology at the University of Alabama's Museum of Natural History's Museum Monday.

The girls and I wandered around the museum lobby for a little while to make sure Max wouldn't miss us too much. Which turned out to be nothing approximating a problem of any sort....

Max hardly noticed when we left....

A friend and a friend of a friend and I dropped our olders ones off and then wandered over the quad for some spring fever frolicking with the little people.

The clovers and wildflowers advertised the glories of chlorophyll all around us. It was hard to look past such a vibrant shade of green. 

Of course, the little people immediately begin collecting clover flowers. We were amazed at how much they smelled exactly like, well, clover honey!

Milla got a little excited when she learned that the bees have a special relationship to the clover flowers that accounts for the way in which their scent is like "a honey and butter sandwich". 

Just as we moms plopped down in the grass, the girls returned with a large log. We spotted them about 100 feet away walking side by side with the sun behind them when lo and behold, the lasses brought some decomposed wood. Wonders never cease.

A headless pile of bricks in the grass became a "castle" to which they urgently needed to return after we went inside for a bathroom break and just long enough for me to purchase a coffee and spill it all over the floor while apologizing profusely to the staff and trying to clean it with paper napkins as the girls climbed a potato chip shelf. Sometimes the only way to describe the momentum involves a run-on sentence.

The "castle" from our vantage point kerplunck in the grass.

To join the fun, add one of these upcoming dates to your family calendar. Or check the Alabama Museum of Natural History Facebook page for more details. (Hint: it helps if you "like" it.)

April 1 – Museum Monday 3:45 – 5 (Grades K – 5 – $8)

April 5 – Growing Up Wild 10 – noon (Pre-school – $2)

April 6 – Sander’s Lecture 10 – 2 (General Public – Free)

May 6 – Museum Monday 3:30 – 5 (Grades 1-5 – $8)

Dream houses.

Some houses are simply unbelievable. See for yourself. Dream something small and incredible.

The Dream Green House Pamphlet (PDF)

The Maker's Market in Tuscaloosa.

Handmade holidays sometimes require us to buy handmade rather than make absolutely everything. Balancing the two this year has given me more time to spend with the kids just dilly-dallying instead of frantically stitching and painting during every waking moment. 

Tuscaloosa offers a burgeoning market for handmade local goods- the Maker's Market is the latest treasure trove where you can find a variety of makings at a variety of prices. 

Stunning wood whistles from Wild Wood.

Festive baby bibs with ric rac trim.

The best of funky bow ties.

Delightful fabric birds, baby hats, and vintage quilt stockings.

Inspiring doily and lace stars.

Ornaments, baby boutiqueries, and handmade dolls.

And amazing knitted stockings...

But don't take my word for it- see for yourself. The Maker's Market is located in downtown Tuscaloosa across from the bus stop near the Chamber of Commerce. Your support of local artists, artisans, and crafters makes a positive difference in the lives of those living in our community.

5th Street Vintage Market.

I almost spent more than I earned at the 5th Street Vintage Market this weekend. It was beautiful and chock full of fabulous vintage frocks, old books, records, trinkets, and collectibles. 

One of the hardest parts about selling handmade goods for me remains picking a price and sticking to it. When someone likes something, I find myself so happy that I slash the price into shreds for the satisfaction of seeing a person with a y.so.str8 goodie going home. Everything happens so fast that it's hard to keep track of what you sell if you operate on a cash-only basis (as I do). Super grateful to Monica for her half-sandwich and general kindness.

I've been trying to go through my goods and make note of what I sold.... I do remember that the fairy tale bonnets went to two lovely little kids. Made from upcycled sweaters that needed a new raison d'etre, the bonnets were created from a design based on the fairy tales I share with the kids. 

Working with cashmere for bonnets and winter hats is lovely because the awful itchiness of wool hats as a young child sticks fresh in my mind. Wherever the little red riding hood may be, I know she isn't itching when she wears her bonnet.

The green lacey bonnet went to a little girl with a head full of beautiful black curls which peeped out around the lace. 

I kissed a number of handmade cards bye-bye. I also sold my old friend, the two-faced doll, as well as a funky grate-full packet for a young lady whose mother wanted "something creative and different for Christmas". I think the doily bib also found a home. (Boy, I would be easy to rob....)

Astri's star ornament.

What I sold is dim in my memory. But what I got is fresh. Dani Beach's itch for kitsch landed me with a dress straight out of my wildest 1970's daydreams. I stocked up on soap from The Left Hand- the scent of vetiver still lingers in my car. I also discovered some lovely old books from a vintage dealer impacted by Hurricane Sandy, and found myself the proud owner of a knit star ornament made by Astri Snodgrass, who has way too many talents up those sleeves.

The next 5th Street Vintage Market will take place in March of 2013. I'm so grateful to its organizers and planners who did the legwork of making it happen and bringing a little more awesome to Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

Critter Creek Farming.

It was a hay ride of a day- complete with tigers, bears, and potbellied pigs. Critter Creek Farm just outside Tuscaloosa has become an annual autumn pilgrimage for us...

Roosevelt State Park in Morton, Mississippi.

On our way to Jackson, Patrick decided to rent a cabin at Roosevelt State Park so we could catch some fall colors and scents. The girls quickly adopted their new home and created beds for the babies on the back porch while Max caught up on his Native American legends and myths.

Our cabin edged up to the lake/reservoir, so we had the pleasure of feeding various winged creatures in the area.

Max led the munchkins in taking this pleasure very seriously as he rushed back and forth to the cabin in search of pita bread for the ducks and our strange friend. The woods added an extra layer of cold to the fall weather- a reminder of the cooling power of trees.

Micah kept her eye on a duck that resembled a turkey and keeps circling us. She fed him long enough to earn a special piece of karma in the kingdom of duck-like folk.

Before you could say "turkey duck", he had crawled up onto the bank to discuss local bird migration patterns and the Canada geese that kept inching in on his terrain on the other bank. (I wouldn't know this if Max had not offered to translate for me.)

After wandering around the park, we came back to the cabin for dinner and then went outside for a night-time stroll. 

Geese at a different part of the park.

Everyone was super restless from the car trip, so we extended our current study of Native Americans into the night. First we learned how to sit in the dark and let our eyes get used to the darkness. Then we learned how to walk without making a sound- a skill necessary for Native hunters in search of game in the woods.

Patrick thought stepping on his heels produced the least amount of noise, while Max insisted that treading tiptoe was faster and more effective. Technically, Max was correct, but practically, Patrick was more successful. The award for "Most Native Woods Walk", however, went to Miss Micah, who managed to walk across acorns without making a sound.

Early next morning, the kids were out by the lake again to feed their breakfast to various winged creatures. I sat with them and watched them marvel over a group of ducks that dropped by to eat bread; they invented their own songs to communicate with the ducks- songs involving quacks and "heeere ducky ducky".

Patrick pointed out to us that there must be a paper mill in the area because there was a strong smell permeating the air. I joked, "No honey, someone is frying up all their chickens- that's what it smells like to me." Little did I know....

From Tuscaloosa to Jackson, Mississippi: The road trip plan.

Rumor has it that fall foliage along the Natchez Trace Parkway is a stunning, and we have the possibility of picking it up around Jackson. Our tentative plan includes stopping, eating, sleeping, and cabin renting as follows:

monday

Explore Tallahalla WMA or Caney Creek WMA
Check-in to cabin (COO2, COO10)  at Roosevelt State Park
Lazy Acres Plantation has a pumpkin patch and a super map

tuesday

Sunny day options in Jackson
LeFleur's Bluff State Park with camping, fishing, and playscapes
Maye's Lake Campground has trail to Natural Science Museum
Mississippi Museum of Natural Science, the must-see
The Oaks House Museum  

Grub
Rainbow Natural Grocery Cooperative
Cool Al's 
Keifer's Downtown
 Sal and Mookie's for lunch

Rainy day options in Jackson
Russell C. Davis Planetarium 
Children's Museum (open 9 am to 5 pm)

 

View Roundtripping: Tuscaloosa, AL and Jackson, MS in a larger map

The Tattoo Experience: A case of "disaster discrimination"?

In Tuscaloosa, Alabama, tattoo artists are classified alongside porn shops and payday loan centers. As a college town, Tuscaloosa boasts a number of skilled tattoo artists who specialize in creating designs that allow customers to express themselves with body art. While the ear piercing is considered common currency among the preteen set, tattoos are still associated by some concerned citizens with Armageddon, heroin use, and eminent physical danger. That's why the Tuscaloosa City Council is trying to eradicate this dangerous practice from within the confines of the city. Or something.

Currently, eight types of businesses are classified under MX Zoning ordinance's "Restricted Uses" table. Any of these eight types of businesses are prohibited from being two or more to a block face, or from being within 300 feet of each other. The amendment to the zoning ordinance places these eight business types, plus one more, into a new "Prohibited Uses" table, which means they would be banned from opening as a new business or relocating an existing business. 

So what are these nine dangerous business type? A few come as no surprise- check cashing enterprises, payday loan enterprises, pawn shops, "sexually-oriented adult use" businesses, and title loan companies are not on anybody's list of cool neighborhood accessories.  But the other four fall under the category of useful - minor vehicle repair shops and hand car washes- or unique local experiences- tattoo and body piercing parlors and tobacco shops. 

Original legwork by Todd Boling, owner of The Tattoo Experience.

Todd Boling, owner of The Tattoo Experience, a tattoo parlor located in Alberta City, lost his business in the April 2011 tornado. If the Tuscaloosa City Council has its way, he won't get that business back- not in Alberta City and not anywhere nearby. Currently, a minor vehicle repair shop, a tattoo/piercing parlor, and a tobacco shop already exist in Alberta City and have been "grandfathered in".  None of the three meet the current aesthetic building codes recently enacted as part of the controversial Tuscaloosa Forward plan, but the fact that they survived the tornado means they are safe to continue business. 

Call it "disaster discrimination"- what happens when natural disaster is by city officials as an opportunity to remake a town to their liking. If your business was destroyed by a tornado or flood, then you'd better make sure that the reigning officials consider your line of work to be part of their "vision for the future". Disaster discrimination plays favorites with people's lives and compounds personal loss for victims of natural disasters.

The Tattoo Experience wants to relocate and build a brand-spanking new mixed-use building approximately one-half mile northwest of its current location. Todd thinks this new location will "become a panacea for the Alberta Business District" by negating the opportunity for pawn shops, loan sharking shops, and other unsavories to open nearby. In his opinion, "property values should be positively affected by the construction of a nice, new building that meets the stringent new Tuscaloosa Forward codes".

But Todd's opinion doesn't matter as much as that of Kip Tyner, our City Councilman. And Kip has his heart set on making sure that tattoo parlors leave Alberta City. Honestly, it doesn't make sense to me and I hope he wakes up one morning with a rosier look on life and community. If Tuscaloosa is grow and bloom in a way that encourages and draws creative people, then tattoo parlors like The Tattoo Experience should be welcomed. 

Todd sketches an original tattoo design.

The real reason for the attack on Tuscaloosa tattoo parlors lies in unspoken stereotypes and assumptions about body art and its artists. City officials assume that tattoo parlors bring crime or drive down property values- but this assumption is applied in a patently discriminating manner. For example, people may shop at Wal-Mart, but no one in their right mind wants to live near a Wal-Mart for fear that it would diminish the value of their property. Likewise, few families want a nursing home to relocate across the street. Such establishments do not promote neighborhoods and community- they promote traffic and mass consumption (something our City Council seems to favor when vote comes to shove).

Todd shows me how the blackwork lines up with the sketch design. 

While the Tuscaloosa City Council cleans up the streets of riff-raff and social refuse, they might also consider closing down or re-zoning the following businesses which have been hot-beds for crimes and misdemeanors during the past year- gas stations, college football games, the Wal-Mart parking lot, Publix parking lots, and nursing homes. If the concern is crime, then football games and tailgating, a primary driver for DUIs and assault events, wouldn't even take place inside the limits of town. It's time to confront our prejudices and look at them through the lens of reality- we Southerners do best when we scrap the dated stereotypes and embrace a wide variety of art forms and fashions.

Discovering a hidden cemetery in Dayton, Alabama.

When we drove down to the beach last month, we took a different route on the back roads, seeking new scenery and dangling predicates. Bunica mentioned a cemetery she accidentally discovered while driving around the state with her sister, Sanda. Of course, I couldn't resist..... and Patrick was game.

The tombstones, lacy iron fencing, and vernacular-laden light evoked Lousiana, Duke University gothic, and Chip Cooper photographs. Dazed from driving, we wandered around, reading the stories etched in stone and marveling over the meanings.

"Loved and Lost", an anthem.

What happened in 1887?

The Alexander family tree grows thick through these parts. On November 11, 1887, Clara L. Alexander died. Two weeks later, on November 26, Millara L. Alexander passed away. It seems they were sisters, perhaps stricken with influenza or a communicable disease that tore through a family home. The dates of their births are not noted on the tombstone, so its hard to tell if they died as infants or adults. 

The tombstone of Ira Caldwell, whose life remains a mystery.

It seems Ira Caldwell was the daughter of John D. Alexander Sr. (1829-1901) and Rebecca Lawson Alexander (1836-1894). 

Spiders go about their business of spinning and trapping amid the tombs

A Christmas tree left behind for one who left this earth still loving Christmas.
The sun singled out the solitary stocking.

The tombstone of Mary Eliza Jane Smith, who passed away on October 7, 1839.

Details from the tombstone of Mary Eliza Jane Smith.

The tombstone monument of Emma L. Reeves, wife of Levi Reeves.

There is a love story swirling around the tombstone of Emma L.  Reeves, the young bride of Levi Reeves who lived from 1841 only to die at the tender age of sixteen on July 10, 1857. What drove him to build a monument so beautiful it belongs in a museum? Who was the sculptor of this stone portrait? 

Emma Reeves gazing skyward.

Born to Adolphus Sellers Cade and Thurza Jane (Catline) Cade, who remained residents of Dayton throughout life, Emma's three siblings played a prominent role in her life- and in the the life of her husband. Her brother, John Catline Cade (1843-1875), maintained a large plantation in Dayton, Alabama. Her sister, Carrie Cade, married Eddie Prince, while her other sister, Adolpha Cade, married Col. Levi Reeves after Emma's death.

John Catline Cade was the owner of a large plantation near Dayton and had many slaves. He served as adjutant in the Confederate States Army and after the war was appointed probate judge of Marengo County in 1867. He was married at Tuscaloosa, Ala., December 24, 1864, to Sallie Jemison, daughter of William Henry and Elizabeth Armlntine / Jemison of Tuscaloosa.

Emma was married for less than six months before she died- not long enough to leave Levi with an heir or a child. Perhaps the monument was the idea of the Cade family?

Young Ira A. McKnight almost survived the seasons to live a full year- from July 1892 to the beginning of June 1893. I wondered what claimed her life- what illness or what accident would be likely in June in the 1890's?

After using the GPS function on my IPhone camera, I noted the latitude and longitude and made use of Google Maps to identify the location. The name of the cemetery is Little Flanders Field Cemetery (a.k.a. Dayton Cemetery), and it lies on the left bank of Highway 25 just past Little Flanders Road in Dayton, Alabama. Make the drive through Marengo County on a beautiful day which beckons every linger-loving bone in your body to stop and sit a spell.

NOTE: I have been informated that this cemetery is called Dayton Cemetery. Little Flanders Field cemetery is a separate cemetery next to Dayton for African Americans. Dayton Cemetery is the white cemetery with all the ornate headstones shown above. There are three separate cemeteries adjoining one another in this area.

Crafting clay pots with creek clay: The kind of long stories that beg to be told.

The best experiments come as opportunities to connect the dots between the ideas we love and the lives we lead. When we dropped by the Clay-Coop at the Kentuck Arts Center a few weeks ago, an unintended field trip turned into an incredible learning opportunity. 

Hayes shows a bowl that she made with some kids in the summer clay co-op.

We met Hayes Dobbins, a truly unique local clay artist, who welcomed us into the wonderful world of clay. Many clay artists purchase their clay from online dealers or art stores- the benefit is working with a known quantity. Hayes finds her own clay and uses it in her sculptures. In the process, she gains a working, living knowledge of local soil and clay qualities that allows her to craft truly local works of art.

Finding and Digging Your Own Clay

Hayes walked us through the process of digging and preparing your own clay. (I've added a little to what she told us from information provided by Marvin Bartel.) First, you need to find local clay sources. The best locations are stream and river banks, construction sites, or any place that gets slippery after a rain and sticky as it starts to dry. When clay dries, it almost as hard as a rock. Next time you go for a walk around the neighborhood, look for locations that are super-wet after rain and then dry and hard in rainless weather. Many backyards have their own clay sources just beneath the top soil or in areas where top soil has been eroded.

Some clay is too sandy and some is too sticky. Mr. Bartel looks for clay that can be rolled between his hands into a pencil thick coil of soft clay and wrapped around his finger without cracking. If the coil cracks, it may be too sandy or its clay particles may be too large. Sticky clay sticks too much to the hands and tends to undergo drying shrinkage and cracking during drying. Potters often blend several clays to get the right properties. 

We stand and watch as Hayes explains the process of getting clay. Grandma Vicki, the kindred spirit, enjoyed every minute of it.

Hayes explained that she takes a big bucket after it rains and visits her favorite sites where she digs and collects the clay- most of it doesn't even require digging because it seeps from banks. Then she takes the bucket home for the next steps.

Removing Impurities and Making A "Slip"

Most common clay contains impurities, often in the form of iron oxide, sand, roots, and other debris. Hayes encouraged us to remove the large obvious ones (pebbles, twigs, etc.) by hand. Kids get a kick out of this part.

Troublesome tiny impurities can be removed by making a thin slip. Let the clay become totally dry- don't break it up. Now it's time to slake the clay, which is another way of saying "turning it to mush".

Flood the clay with clear water in large bucket or garbage can. Use enough water to completely submerge the clay. Do not stir the clay. Just don't. Stirring it clogs up the porosity and prevents good slaking. In a few days, even large chunks of clay will turn to mush. 

The sand settles to the bottom first. Allow the sand to settle a short time. Then decant the clay water (the good slip from the top down to the sand) and discard the sand in the bottom. Allow the clay (slip) to settle.

Now you're ready to make a slip and remove the little impurities. When it's all soft and mushy, stir it until it is a slip. You can used an electric drill, a blunger, or the little red tool that Hayes is holding in the photo above. Add some more water if it's too thick to stir.

Now pour the slip through an old window screen (the kind you find at any hardware or building supply store) into another bucket or can. This screen removes stones, roots, and other small but not teeny-tiny trash that gets in the way. You want to remove the limestone because limestone pieces and particles cause pots and sculptures to break after firing.

When the clay has settled and turned to mush, drain or siphon off the extra water from the top of the mixture. Hayes explains that she spreads the mush a few inches thick on a clean, dry porous surface like a concrete driveway, old jeans, or canvas. Smooth the top with your hand to avoid getting small pieces on the surface. When it is almost dry enough, make coils as thick as your arm and set them around like big arches (a foot tall) and they are ready to use in 24 hours or less.

Impure clay can be used to add special touches to clay creations. For example, stoneware potters use local clay as a source of glaze material. These "slip glazes" have been used for thousands of years for lining jugs and traditional crockery. The bright red Moundville clay pictured above probably has a high iron content.

Storing Your Clay

If you can't use your clay coils in the 24 hour time period, store them in an airtight plastic container for as long as you need before using. Hayes gave us a large chunk of creek clay stored inside a plastic grocery bag wrapped around the clay and covered by another plastic grocery bag wrapped around the clay. Everything she did made use of existing materials that might otherwise be thrown away.

Sense-Based Learning

After showing us the light grayish color of the Hurricane Creek clay, Hayes encouraged us to touch it. Milla couldn't get enough of the clay.

Touching the soft, feathery creek clay which Hayes gave to us to take home.

One of Hayes' creek clay creations.

We didn't get around to sculpting and crafting until yesterday, when some friends dropped by and clay caught the attention of all the little ones. They used stamps and twigs to leave imprints on the clay. Max decided to make a pot, a platter, and a pot hot plate. You can use the instructions for making a clay bowl with kids to arrive at a similar place- though letting them get there on their own is much more fun to all.

A side view of Max's clay "pot".

Max's "hotplate platter" for his pot.

A view inside the "scoured bottom" of his pot.

As Max's creation dries to a soft gray, I can't help thinking about how much I love the circuitous way in which this came about. All thanks to meeting a super-nature-knowing lady by the name of Hayes Dobbins. 

If you live near Tuscaloosa and would like to play with local clays, stop by Kentuck A La Carte this month next Saturday from 10 am to 2 pm in downtown Northport and meet Hayes. She will be out there with to share her clay-work and let kids and adults experiment with clays.

Rural Studio Pilgrimage #4: The Safe House Museum in Greensboro.

The Safe House Museum is at 2401 Davis St. in Greensboro, Alabama. its operating hours are 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. on Wednesdays and Saturdays and 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. on Fridays.The hours of operation are very specific, so you need to plan carefully if you'd like to go inside (an example when spontaneity got the better of the Coryells).

The story goes something like this, according to the Rural Studio blog:

On the night of March 21, 1968, Martin Luther King Jr. sought refuge from the Ku Klux Klan inside a small shot gun style home in the depot neighborhood of Greensboro, Alabama. Today that house is known as The Safe House Black History Museum. It is a site of great significance to American Black History as well as the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950’s and 1960’s. The museum documents the struggle for equality at the local level, along with other highlights of the civil rights movement in hale county. The Safe House Museum is unique as it contains many artifacts of the struggle from slavery to equality, as well as unpublished local and state photos of the civil rights movement.

There is living history at the museum as it is directed by Ms. Theresa Burroughs, a Greensboro native who participated actively as a foot soldier during the movement. Theresa and her family kept Martin Luther King Jr. safe in their home on the night of March 21, 1968.

The little green thread spool, the beginning of a story.

The idea of "safety" takes on a non-pedestrian meaning in the context of the Civil Rights movement.

The Rural Studio design for the courtyard.

Looking in the main entrance.

The civil rights movement brought together extraordinary ordinary people who couldn't accept the injustice of everyday racism in Alabama. Learn more about the Safe House Museum Team and their design.

Rural Studio Pilgrimage #3: Mason's Bend.

Getting to Mason's Bend

Following the footsteps of Samuel Mockbee and the Rural Studio school around the corners of Alabama begins with a trip to the Pie Lab in Greensboro for us. After polishing off some quiche in the courtyard, I sidled up to the counter hoping to get directions to Mason's Bend. The lady behind the counter didn't know, but she knew someone who did. Before long, I was speaking on her iPhone to a man who provided the following directions:

Take Highway 14 from Greensboro to Sawyerville. Once you pass the only blinking traffic light in Sawyerville, take the next left (might be Highway 15). Follow that road all the way on out until you pass a huge mansion. A little futher, the road will continue as a dirt road or a hard top- stay on the hard top which veers left. 

Grandma Vicki used the spotty cell phone reception to consult Google Maps as we drove. Between the two of us, we balked at the rolling green hills and hot orange dirt while trying to figure out which roads we needed to follow. Max chirped up from the backseat that "This is like an awesome puzzle and we have to find our way with a few clues." The thrill of the chase kept us laughing- it also kept our eyes and ears attuned to the landscape and world around us in which any road might be "the one clue". I'm convinced that we learn so much more from these pilgrimage outings combining verbal directions with slipshod maps than any perfectly-planned field trip. 

The Glass Chapel at Mason's Bend

When I explained to Grandma Vicki that Rural Studio uses "local ingredients", including clays, dirts, salvaged materials, and metals, she expressed the oft-repeated question of how dirt houses withstand Alabama thunderstorms. Little did we know that our adventure would provide a first-hand experience of exactly this building lesson.

The last thing I remember before the zombie apolcalypse is that we turned left onto Mason's Bend Road. Before we knew it, a bright orange dirt road stretched out before us in a curve that could only be called "Mason's Bend". And there it was.

The Glass Chapel-   a transportation stop, community gathering space, chapel for the local choral group, and distribution center for children's summer school meals- made from car windows salvaged from a Chicago scrap yard provide set atop rammed earth walls. Anderson Harris, owner of the Butterfly House, donated the land for the center and before his recent death tended to its garden.

Max and Micah visit the Glass Chapel, a community center in Mason's Bend.

Inside the Glass Chapel, which once held picnic tables.

A close-up of the exterior Glass Chapel walls.

The Basketball Court at Mason's Bend

The Basketball Court was completed in 2000 around the same time as the Glass Chapel. The same rammed earth technnique was used for the court shelter. One difference is in the composition of its creators; the Basketball Court was the first Rural Studio Outreach project which brought together students from different disciplines.

Grandma Vicki poses with the kids near the Basketball Court which is currently missing a basketball goal.

The Butterfly House at Mason's Bend

On the right at the beginning of the bend stands the Harris/Butterfly House, built for Anderson and Ora Lee Harris in 1996. Its name comes from the sharply angled roof structure that collects rainwater and shelters a screened porch. The house is largely heated and cooled passively, with assistance from a wood-burning stove. The roof's "tail" funnels rain into a cistern, which is used for washing clothes and flushing toilets. The house is now occupied by Anderson and Ora Lee's children.

The water spout just barely misses the bird bath, probably intended for less furious showers.

Chance encounters are my favorite kind, and we just chanced upon a young lady standing on a porch with her children. I asked her if it was alright to photograph the Glass Chapel, and she said, "Of course." We got to talking about the Bend, her kids, the basketball court that used to sit behind her house before the balls kept landing in her windows, and her mom, who lived a few houses away in the Butterfly House. When I asked if there was some way we could contribute money for local kids to maintain the Glass Chapel, she called her parents, Daniel and Lori Harris, one of which I presumed was a descendant of Anderson Harris. 

As the kids exchanged cockadoodles with a handsome rooster strutting across the road, Daniel and Lori Harris appeared- warm smiles, welcomes, no concern for the clouds just beginning to shed a drizzle overhead. While the drizzle turned to a shower (my first shower of the week, I confess), Daniel and Lori told me how we could could help the community of Mason's Bend maintain the Glass Chapel and the Basketball Court. They gave their name and number, and Max immediately began drafting a poster to collect money for Mason's Bend- for upkeep and to add a playground/basketball area for the kids. 

The Green (Dirt) House at Mason's Bend

Turning left onto Green Lane will lead you to the Green Dirt House and the Willie Bell House.

The Green Dirt House bore a group of 8 children, possibly Greens, playing on the porch, but the rain drove them back indoors.

The Green (Dirt) House, completed in 2005, was marked by fantastic overhanging eves which protect the dirt blocks from the elements and its inhabitants from the hot summer sun. Experimental blocks made of newspaper and Hale County red dirt molded into papercrete form the exterior wall that bears no load. Papercrete is a construction material composed of pulped paper, clay, and cement and has existed since the early 1920s, but has never been used extensively. As such, the wall is an experiment and consequently is protected by a big roof and does not carry any load.

The central column clad in metal serves as a towering chimney. Based on common African building techniques, the tower is located above the kitchen and creates a natural convective current by causing a pressure gradient — warm air rises and is pulled up and out the column while makeup air is pulled in creating cooling breezes.

The Willie Bell House at Mason's Bend

In 2005, Rural Studio students tried their hand at a more disciplined project using conventional lumber and a standard box frame. The Willie Bell House next door to the Green House was the result. We saw brightly colored bowling balls on the front lawn, but the house itself was very difficult to see in the rain.

The barely-visible Willie Bell House.

What we missed at Mason's Bend

The advent of a torrential downpour kept us from visiting the Harris Hay Bale House, completed in 1994. With 24-inch-thick walls constructed from stacked hay bales enveloped in concrete stucco, this house is a model for sustainable insulation. Hay bales act as a highly effective insulator, economical, and mildew- and mold-resistant. The awning windows pull air off the large front porch and form a natural convective current for cooling the home in the summer. 

The Harris Smokehouse was made from broken concrete salvaged by the Hale County Highway Department. It was built for a total of $40 and now functions as a henhouse. The roof is made of salvaged road signs and beams from a local barn. Glass bottles are embedded in the walls and glow when seen from the inside. Mockbee dubbed the smokehouse style "Alabama Ronchamp". I was hoping to see the special "bricks" up close and nab Mr. Shepard for a chat. 

We also missed the Manor Bryant Seed House, 1999 thesis project for Rural Studio also located at Mason's Bend.

The thunderstorm waltzed across the state with us as we drove Grandma Vicki to the airport.

Topsy-turvy clouds= cheering kids in the car.

If you'd like to help the community of Mason's Bend, please send an email to rainscented @ gmail dot com. Include your name, suggestions, and possible donations for a playground.