Fannin History

This post will ramble a bit.

Fannin History. I’m reading a massive tome called Facets of Fannin. It’s a history of Fannin County. Much of the book consists of family genealogies and histories written by family members of the many old time families in Fannin County.

Reading these family histories provides a glimpse into how tough and rugged the early settlers of this area were. It also serves as a reminder that North Georgia is part of Appalachia: the land of isolated hillbillies and rural electrification via the Tennessee Valley Authority. Lake Blue Ridge was formed by a TVA dam.

The Green Family entry relates how Mark Green bought land in the Snake Nation area of Fannin County and installed a water mill on Charlie Creek to run a saw mill. In 1930 he put a generator in the mill house and ran electrical wires to his buildings. “He had electric lights in his house, barn, smoke-house, and spring-house fourteen years before power came to Snake Nation Community in December 1949.” It boggles my mind that parts of Fannin County did not get electricity until four years after the United States dropped the atomic bomb.

Ida Grace Chastain tells in the Harkins Family chronicle how in 1936 she would walk across the mountain to the post office once a week to pick up the mail. The round trip took an entire day. I guess I better stop bitching about how our mailbox is four-tenths of a mile away.

The Harper family entry includes a letter that William Harper wrote in 1880 to his son and daughter in Kentucky about the death of their mother, Narcissa Ann Russell Harper, during a typhoid epidemic. Narcissa had 15 children. The letter reads in part:

Dear Son & Daughter an famly

I seat myself today anser your kind letter which wee reseived the 14 day of July. Your letter was dated the 27 of June. Hit found us in bad helth. Wee had to prop Mother up in bed to read hit. She is ded. …She had tyfared feaver. … Wee bered Mother the next day after she dide. The doctors said hit wood be best to do hit.

William Harper moved his family from Buncombe County, North Carolina, to the Hot House Creek settlement in Fannin County in 1848. It took six weeks in an oxen wagon to make the trip. Asheville is located in Buncombe County. According to Google Maps, the distance from Ashville to Blue Ridge is 134 miles, and the trip would take about two and a half hours today.

The account of the Alferd Daves family tell how Alferd G. Daves fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War and “served faithfully under the command of General John Hood until the cause was lost.” He was wounded in the leg at the Battle of Kennesaw near Marietta, Georgia. It was said he was given a large drink of whisky and the bullet was cut out of his leg with a razor, which caused him to limp the rest of his life.”

Along the same lines is the following story from the history of the Cobb and Burnette families. James Wesley Cobb served in the Confederate Army and was shot in the jaw by a sniper’s bullet at the Battle of Missionary Ridge in Chattanooga, Tennessee. “He had a large chew of tobacco in his mouth, and his life was saved when it stopped the bullet.” He died in McCaysville, Fannin County, in 1922.

The Callihan Brothers tell of their ancestor Bryson Callihan who died in 1867. “A mule kicked him in the head and killed him.” The Greenway Family history tells how William Francis Marion Greenway was shot down out of a peach tree in 1877 reportedly due to “unsettled feelings” after the Civil War.

The Burger Family memoirs include a story about how Lydia Ann Burger Pack’s death in 1926 left Grandpa Pack a “total loss.” Lydia’s brother, Uncle Whit, was deeply affected by his sister’s death and “unintentionally over-imbibed to lessen the loss. Grandpa Pack, upset already, was doubly distressed at Uncle Whit’s over-indulgence, and, for spite, refused to send Grandma’s body to the funeral home from embalming.” Apparently Grandpa was an obstinate man because the family had to talk the undertaker into doing a house call so that Grandma could be embalmed.

We read about Benjamin Dugger, who died in 1891, in the Dugger Family history. “Ben joined the Baptist Church in Polk County and was baptized by Preacher Chadwinck in Tater Creek. He was later voted out of the church for deer hunting on Sunday and was never reinstated.”

There is no real rhyme or reason to these selections. I just found them interesting.

Local sights. I was in town yesterday. Driving past the feed store I saw a large turkey standing out in front of the store watching the traffic pass. A little later I was coming out of the library and watched a young man on horseback ride through town on East Main Street. It was just another day in a small country town.

Stop signs. If you ever come up this way you need to be aware that country folk tend to treat stop signs as slow down and then go signs. You’ll see cars and trucks come to a complete stop at stop signs in town, but when you come to a stop sign on a country road forget about it. It makes sense to me. There are a lot of four-way stop signs at rural intersections. Coming to a full stop when you are the only car in sight seems pointless. My concern is that I’ll get in the habit and get a ticket the next time I’m in Florida.

Blackberry Winter

Last fall I scoffingly wrote about the locals predicting it was going to be a hard winter based on the fur color of wooly caterpillars. It turned out the locals were right. It was an unusually harsh winter for these parts.

A couple of months ago, when everyone’s thoughts turned to spring, people started to warn me about something called blackberry winter. According to them, blackberry winter is the last cold snap of the year, and it happens about the time the blackberries bloom. I was skeptical that blooming blackberry bushes could be predictive of a cold spell, especially after a stretch of a several days when the afternoon temps were in the 80’s.

Once again, the locals were right. A few days ago, the blackberries bloomed throughout the county in an ostentatiously exuberant display, and the very next day the overnight low temperature was 39 degrees. The following night the low temperature was 37 degrees. If it was any colder my tomato plants would have been at risk. I quickly put my shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops back into the closet and got out my long pants, sweaters and shoes again.

Things are warming up now, and the locals are saying blackberry winter means that summer is in the offing. I’ve learned to scoff less and believe more in local lore and wisdom so my shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops are coming back out of the closet.

Here’s another example of country wisdom and knowledge. A couple of weeks ago, Ed Howard was at the house to discuss putting in a water line to the workshop. Ed has lived in Fannin County all his life. He built the original cabin back in 1980.

I was concerned that the line might intercept the buried pipe running from the well to the house. I knew approximately where the well line was, but I did not know its exact location. Ed confidently said he could find it and asked whether I had any copper wire. I rummaged around and found a couple of thick pieces of wire about eight inches long. Ed fashioned these into two “L” shapes.

I realized he intended to divine where the well line was. “Aw, come on Ed, that doesn’t work,” I told him. “It surely does,” he replied.

Holding a wire loosely in each hand so that it pointed straight ahead, he proceeded to walk across the area where we suspected the well line was. When he got to a certain point the wires turned toward each other along the direction of the well line. “Here’s where your line is,” he announced. Skeptical, I grabbed the two wires and tried it myself. I’ll be damned if the wires did not turn toward each other every time I walked over the buried well water line.

Now I’m very cynical when it comes to witching rods, superstitions, UFOs, Big Foot, and anything like that. Some of that can be traced to the summer in graduate school when I worked in the Pentagon for the Air Force as Federal Executive Intern. My principle job that summer was to answer inquiries to the Air Force about UFOs. The experience convinced me that there are a lot of people who want to believe in things like UFOs, ghosts, the paranormal and the supernatural.

As a result I simply will not take anyone’s word for such things no matter how close, sincere and believable the person is. If my wife or closest friend told me they saw a ghost, I would believe that they thought they saw a ghost, but I would not take it as evidence that ghosts exist. Unless I personally witness or experience a thing like that, I don’t believe it.

So, if you’re like me, you’re not going to believe it when I say that I think the copper wire divining thing works. That’s not to say I wouldn’t have done a test dig if I thought the new water line was going to be close to the well line. Belief and reliability and precision are different concepts.

Ed’s explanation is that running water in a pipe creates an electrical field, and the wires react to the field. I don’t know whether that’s true or not. All I can tell you is that it worked for me. You’ll have to try the experiment for yourself. Be sure to hold the wires very loosely so that they can swing freely. It might be best if you try it when there is no one around so that your neighbors don’t think you’re nuts.

I asked Ed whether he believed people could divine water in the ground with forked sticks. “Nah, that’s bullshit,” was his response.

Rural wisdom is one of the many things I enjoy about living in the country. I also enjoy rural humor. It tends to be understated and wry. That seems to be true regardless of whether you are in Maine or North Georgia.

Last week Ed and his brother, Vernon, were at the house to put in the water line to the workshop. He and Vernon wandered down to my garden where I was working, and I pointed out where Colorado potato bugs had been chewing on my potato plants. Ed said that Sevin, an insecticide, would take care of the problem. Vernon said no, he thought I needed Eight. If you can’t see this coming, you’re awfully slow. The next day I was at Home Depot looking for a pesticide by the name of Eight. It was only after the salesman told me that there is no such product that I realized Vernon was having a little joke at my expense.

They make jokes about the ignorance of a rube in the big city. I’m learning that it works the other way too.

Been Busy

This boy’s been busy now that nice spring weather has returned to the North Georgia Mountains.

I’ve been busy doing projects with the Master Gardeners to get my required 50 hours of service so I can become a full-fledged Master Gardener rather than a Master Gardener trainee. One of the projects was the Rabies Clinic.

In Georgia all dogs and cats must be vaccinated for rabies, and the shot must be done by a veterinarian. Here in Fannin County the extension agent’s office sets up a mass rabies shot clinic once a year on a Saturday. People bring their animals to the clinic to receive low cost rabies shots. It’s done in drive-through, assembly line fashion. As the cars and trailers come in they are directed into lanes where attendants (4-H volunteers and Master Gardener Trainees) take the necessary information from them, and then they are funneled into a single line that leads to the injection station. It’s actually a quite efficient system.

I was assigned the important and crucial job of traffic director. That’s what they told me—the job of traffic director is important and crucial. I’d like to believe I was selected to do an important and crucial job because of my obvious competence at any task I attempt, but I suspect I was given the job because (a) I’m a man, (b) I’m the biggest Master Gardener, and (c) I’m expendable.

This will give you some idea of what the four hours directing traffic at the clinic was like. The clinic started at 8:00 a.m. The first vehicle, a truck towing a trailer with seven large dogs in cages (the type of dogs that eat humans, I think), arrived at 6:56. The truck’s bumper stickers consisted of the Confederate battle flag, a No-Bama sticker, and a sticker that read “The South Shall Rise Again.” The driver and passengers were straight out of the movie Deliverance. I was looking for the albino kid with the banjo.

By 8 o’clock there must have been 50 cars backed up waiting to be processed. The vehicles ranged from high end luxury cars to old rusty pickups.

I noticed a strong correlation between the age and condition of the vehicle and the type and number of dogs it carried. The oldest and most decrepit cars and trucks not only had the most dogs, but they were usually the largest, nastiest, and meanest dogs. I think they were all named Cujo, Fang, or Killer. Some of these dogs were downright scary. I have no idea what breeds they were, but some of them looked like they had a little chupacabra in their background. It tells you something when the animal is restrained with cruise ship anchor chain.

I was walking by one old car when a dog the size of Chewbacca lunged its head out the window and scared the crap out of me. I ended up in the ditch. Then I heard the toothless old boy inside cackle and say, “Don’t worry. He’s friendly.” Yeah, that’s great. What about the friendly stroke I’m having?

The people in the expensive luxury cars, on the other hand, usually had one small dog, and typically it was one of those breeds that real men are embarrassed being seen with. These dogs had cute names like Pookie, Nippy and Pansy. The drivers of these luxury cars generally acted like they had sticks up their asses. They kept their windows rolled up and their air conditioning on in order to hermetically seal themselves away from the unwashed masses. I thought they were cheap pricks driving their $75,000 cars to get $10 rabies shots and acting like they were above it all. I hate to say it, but a number of these cars had Florida plates.

The experience convinced me that there are more Ford Fiestas dating from the 70’s and the 80’s on Fannin County roads than in any place in the world. This place may be elephants’ graveyard for old Ford Fiestas.

I also worked the annual Master Gardener plant sale. It is the main fundraiser for the Master Gardeners, and most of the money raised goes to college scholarships for local high school kids pursuing a career in horticulture. The county not only has a 4-H chapter, but also a Future Farmers of America chapter, so there are a lot of kids who pursue horticultural careers.

I must admit that I’m more qualified to direct traffic then to sell plants. I had no frigging clue what the plants were that the Master Gardeners were selling. Eventually I gravitated to the daylily table because there were pictures of what each type of daylily looked like. I felt like Clint on the TV show Cheers: “Now this here is your Red Ruby day lily…”

The Master Gardeners were impressed at the number of daylilies I sold by the end of the day. What they don’t know about are the sales pitches I used to sell the daylilies. I told the men that daylilies produced a pheromone that turned women into raving nymphomaniacs. I told the women that daylilies produced a pheromone that made them hard as a piece of rebar (if it lasts more than six hours, consult a plant biologist). If that didn’t work I told them that if they didn’t buy a daylily I’d take an ice pick to their tires. I really sold a lot of daylilies.

In addition to all that, I managed to get the garden is fully planted with the help of my son, Mike, who’s back from college. I planted tomatoes, peppers, beans, cabbage, kale, corn, collards, and eggplant to go with the potatoes I planted a couple of weeks ago. Even though the beans, corn and eggplant have not sprouted yet, the garden finally looks like a garden.

This first year’s garden is a learning experience, and next spring I will do some things differently. I will plant the same things I planted this year, but I will also plant English peas, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, winter and summer squash, pickle cucumbers, and a lot more cabbage. I will also plant more sweet peppers and less hot ones. I think the 20 cayenne and 20 Anaheim chile pepper plants that I planted this year may be overkill, particularly the cayenne peppers. Cayennes are prolific producers, and if the plants produce well, I will have enough cayenne peppers to feed the Mexican army.

As I say, this boy’s been busy, and that’s a good thing. So far I’m having an absolute blast in my retirement.

A final note: I pass the Mineral Bluff Baptist Church every time I go to town. Last week it had a sign advertising a multi-day revival. The day after the revival started the sign was changed to say “1 saved.” By day four, the running total was five saved. It reminded me of the old McDonald’s signs that used to give the number of hamburgers sold. I wonder if McDonald’s started with “1 sold”?

Wagon Roads

I have started a project for the Fannin County Historical Society. I am researching early emigration into Fannin County. As a part of that project, I am trying to locate pre-1860 wagon roads within the county.

Fannin County has a complicated history. Northern Georgia was originally designated Cherokee County and was the home of the Cherokee Indians. It was a huge area encompassing almost the entire top one-third of the state. In 1832 the Cherokee were forcibly removed and sent to Oklahoma (the infamous Trail of Tears), and Cherokee County was divided into ten smaller counties two of which were Union and Gilmer County. Georgia divided the land into 160 acre lots and sold them by lottery. Then, in 1854 Fannin County was carved out of parts of Union and Gilmer County. A few white settlers trickled into the area that became Fannin County before 1832, but most settlers started arriving after the Cherokee were removed.

Because of this history, I have to research records in Fannin, Union, and Gilmer Counties to be able to reconstruct how settlers first moved into Fannin County and what roads they used and created.

Complicating the picture further is that many Cherokee adopted the ways of the white man before 1832. They lived in wooden houses, had farms, built and operated grist mills, used wagons and carts, etc. Some even owned slaves. There were at least five Cherokee villages in Fannin County.

Because the Cherokees had grist mills, it seems reasonable that they had some wagon roads or at least cart trails to transport their corn from the farms to the mills. It doesn’t make sense to me that they would take just a bag of corn to the mill on the back of a horse. I think it probable that some early roads in Fannin County are Cherokee in origin. The problem is that there are almost no records dating to when the Cherokee lived here.

So far the earliest map I have been able to locate is an 1897 U.S. Geological Survey of Fannin County. I have references to earlier maps dating to the 1840’s. Even if I can locate maps from the 1830’s and 1840’s, I doubt they will show all the wagon roads in the county. Thus, I’m going to have to identify potential early wagon roads based on geography and the location of early settlements, stores, churches, mills, and fords, then go out and see if I can find any trace of them.

I know that traces of the old wagon roads exist. As you drive around Fannin County you can see winding wagon trails, now overgrown with trees, off to the side of the paved roads. I probably will not be able to confirm with certainty that a particular old wagon track existed before 1860. But if I can establish that it leads from one old settlement to another or to a mill or church that existed before 1860, the odds are that it dates back to the early days.

The thought has occurred to me that my road research could be dangerous. Who knows how many stills, marijuana patches and meth labs are located in those hills?

As part of my research I recently reviewed the 1860 census of Fannin County. It gives the occupations of the people who resided in Fannin County. As you might expect, there were a lot of farmers and farm hands, several merchants, and a handful of blacksmiths. There were also quite a number of miners and mine hands because there were gold and copper mines in this area.

Some of the occupations harken back to an older time: cooper, wagoneer, weaver, basket maker, collier, miller, carpenter, teamster, and wood chopper.

There was one man identified himself as a distiller. From what I know of those days, it was not uncommon for farmers to have stills. Apparently this guy distilled for a living.

Benjamin C. Pugger listed his occupation as plank sawyer. I don’t know if he had a water powered mill to saw logs into boards. If he did it by hand it must have been a bitch of a job.

I’ll say this—wherever took the census was brutally honest. A couple of people are listed as infirm paupers. Arminda Sosebee’s occupation is “no occup./lunatic”, and Margaret Rose’s is “no occup./insane.” The Sosebees, incidentally, are a big family in this county. One of them is a county commissioner, and another is the district attorney. I guess that shows that having a nut case or two in your family doesn’t have to hold you back.

Three women, Catherine Yourther, Mary A. Dillard and Sarah Jones, listed their occupations at “Lady of Pleasure.” I’m not sure what to make of that, particularly since John Franklin listed his occupation as a “Gentleman of Pleasure.” I can buy that there may have been two or three hookers in Fannin County in 1860, but I doubt there was a gigolo.

I don’t know if this is a joke or what, but Thomas L. Redmon listed his occupation as “Pike’s Peak Miner.” As noted above, there was gold and copper mining in Fannin County in those days, but it appears that Redmon specialized in Pike’s Peak mining. I guess he was out of a job in Fannin County.

One of the most interesting things to me, and I suspect this is true in many rural counties, is that history is very much alive among those who are native to Fannin County. They know their lineage, when their ancestors first came to Fannin County, where they settled, and where they are buried. There are a number of family cemeteries scattered back in the hills that date to those early days.

For instance, the chairperson of the Feed Fannin organization I am involved with is Connie Galloway. Frazier Galloway is widely considered to be the first white man to settle in Fannin County. He arrived in 1822. There is a Galloway Road, and you can drive by the old Galloway homestead and visit the Galloway family cemetery.

Obviously, with a last name of Yacavone, I’m not fooling anyone. They know that that I am an import. I tell them that my ancestors fought in the War of Independence, but then I have to admit it was the War of Italian Independence under Garibaldi.

I think it’s neat to be in an area where people have roots, remember them and value them. How different it is here than it was in Pinellas County. I’m glad I came.

Junkmail

I have noticed a difference in the type of junk mail I receive now that I live in a rural area.

Not surprisingly, I have started to receive unsolicited catalogs, brochures and junk mail from farm, livestock, and garden supply companies. Most of this mail is interesting, and I now have supply sources for stuff I never knew existed. For instance, did you know that you can buy rubber gloves that go all the way to your shoulder? I think that’s for shoving your arm up a cow’s ass, but I’m not sure.

Since this is the Bible Belt, I receive the occasional piece of religious junk mail. The most recent one really caught my attention. It is ad inviting me to attend a presentation on “OBIBLECARE—Affordable Health ASSURANCE That Money Can’t Buy.” It guarantees that I will learn “ten simple steps that can reverse hypertension, diabetes, cancer, arthritis, autoimmune diseases, and most other disorders.” I guess that means it will also cure flatulence, hemorrhoids, and the wild eyebrow hairs men get as they grow older.

I suspect the promise of OBIBLECARE is different than the promise of Obamacare. With OBIBLECARE if you like your doctor you can do without him.

The presentation is being given by Pastor Shelem Flemons and his wife, Diane. Pastor Flemons is the Director and Chaplain of the Times of Refreshing Wellness Retreat. I think it’s a safe bet the retreat is not located across from the Mayo Clinic.

Rather impressively, Pastor Flemons is a “Doctor of Biblical Wellness.” I am not familiar with that particular degree or medical discipline, so I did a little internet research. I could not find a school that confers a degree in biblical wellness, but I did find one that gives a degree called a “Doctor of Biblical Medicine.” It’s the New Eden School of Natural Health and Herbal Studies. Here’s a link to New Eden’s website: New Eden.

The New Eden School must be a genuine organization because it is accredited by the PMA according its website. The PMA is the Pastoral Medical Association. That’s comforting.

What I want to know is whether the New Eden School has a school mascot or symbol. Are they the Fighting Prophets or the Healing Herbs? Do they have a school song or a school chant? (New Eden! New Eden! Heal! Heal! Heal!) I’d really like to get a school t-shirt.

I am trying to envision a Doctor of Biblical Medicine in the operating room. Does he hold out his hand and say “Bible” so a nurse can slap a Bible in his hand? When he does house calls does he tell you to say three Hail Marys and call him in the morning?

Now I’m not making fun of religious beliefs or doubting the healing power of faith, but I question the propriety of conferring degrees in Biblical Medicine or calling one’s self a Doctor of Biblical Wellness. My concern is that people with genuine medical problems will confuse a Doctor of Biblical Wellness with a medical doctor. You may think that’s a dim view of humanity, but I’m afraid that in today’s America, you can fool most of the people most of the time. What other conclusion can you come to when sixty percent of the population believes that astrology is a science, and you see advertisements for mediums and the healing power of crystals on television?

But hey, to each his own. All I know is that I would not feel very happy lying on a hospital bed and discovering that the initials “B.D.” on the doctor’s name tag stand for Biblical Doctor. At that point the initials behind my name would be G.M.T.H.O.O.H. (Get Me the Hell Out of Here).

It’s safe to say I won’t be going to the OBIBLECARE presentation.

My Mystical Native American Name

A few posts ago I told you about meeting Dreaming Bear at a Grumpy Old Men beer tasting. To refresh your recollection, Dreaming Bear is a self-professed 71-year-old crusader for gay and lesbian rights who has lived in Fannin County for years. I was jealous of the fact that she had a Native American name, and I didn’t.

I exchanged e-mails with her asking her to confer a good name on me, but she refused. She said that I had to come up with the name myself. As I reported in my post, all I could come up with was Dribbling Turtle, Farting Elk, and Bloated Antelope.

My new friends up here thought Bloated Antelope was a good name, but I was not satisfied so I e-mailed Dreaming Bear again pleading for some hints. She responded that a person’s Native American name represented his or her life’s quest or inner vision.

I meditated on that. I spent close to two-thirds of my life trying to be the best trial attorney I could be. A trial attorney is a person who tries to persuade a jury to rule in a certain way through the deft marshalling of evidence and the power of speech. So my spiritual Native American name may be Man Who Talks and Sways Others. But I’m also aware that many Native American names get shortened in the translation. I’m concerned that Man Who Talks and Sways Others may come out Flapping Lips.

As for my inner vision, like most egotistical, testosterone-driven American males I see myself as a strong, virile, bull elk of a man. Therefore, my inner vision dictates that my true spiritual name should be Stud Muffin.

I ran these suggestions by Dreaming Bear in my last e-mail, but so far I have not gotten a response. This makes me wonder whether her Native American name for me is Man Who I Wish I’d Never Met.

So the quest to discover my spiritual name continues. I’m open to suggestions.

Potatoes and Easter Eggs

Oh yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today. But we got taters, spuds, pommes de terre, or murphies, otherwise collectively known as potatoes. 

 

Okay, so I don’t have potatoes yet, but I’ve got plenty of potato sprouts from the seed potatoes I planted almost a month ago, and I’m pretty excited about that. My garden is starting to look like a garden.

 

Here I am getting worked up over potato sprouts. It’s a sure sign you’re retired and out of the big time when you start getting excited over potatoes sprouting. 

Imaginary scene in a bar

(A loose, attractive woman with a low cut dress is looking for some action. She is talking to two men.)

Loose Woman: Say there, tell me something exciting.

First Man: I’m a lawyer, and I just won a big case in court.

Loose Woman: And you, the big guy in the bib overalls, what got you excited today?

Second Man: My potatoes sprouted.

I bet studies show that women are more attracted to men who win big cases in court than to men who get excited over potatoes. That probably explains two things: (a) why most attractive women leave Fannin County the minute they reach the age of majority, and (b) why I’ve been seeing advertisements for a farmer’s dating service on television.

 

It won’t be long before I’ll be like Don Corleone stumbling around in the garden waiting for the big stroke to take me. And it’s all because I planted two rows of potatoes.

 

Turning to other matters, St. Luke's Episcopal Church of Blue Ridge has held an Easter Egg hunt for the children of Fannin County for the last 19 years, and this year was no exception. Meredith and I volunteered to lend a hand, and that's how I ended up hard boiling a thousand eggs on the Friday before Easter.

 

I thought that all it took to hard boil an egg was to dip one into boiling water for three minutes and presto—one hard boiled egg. So when I volunteered to help, I didn’t think it would take too much time to hard boil a thousand eggs in large batches. I figured I would be at the church two hours at the most.

 

You can bet I was surprised when I showed up at the church, and the ladies told me that the way you hard boil an egg is to put it into cold water, bring the water to a boil, turn off the heat and let the egg sit in the hot water for at least 10 minutes. I believe my actual words were, “You’re shitting me. Really?”

 

Suffice it to say that I was at the church boiling eggs a lot longer than two hours. I was there so long that I got dragged into going to the noon Good Friday service. I’m sorry to say that the service was completely unintelligible to me.

 

To understand why the service was incomprehensible, you need to know two things. First, Episcopals use the King James Bible. The King James Bible was published in 1611 which is the same time that Shakespeare wrote his plays. It is written in the archaic language of Elizabethan England which is often hard to understand. If you’ve ever tried to read a play by Shakespeare, you know what I mean. For example, if I had been speaking Elizabethan English when I discovered how long it takes to hard boil a egg, I would have said, “Thou shitteth me. Verily?”

 

Second, there is a lot of litany during an Episcopal service. Litany is where the minister says something and the congregation responds. When the minister strays from the familiar litanies used in the regular Sunday service and starts digging into the Old Testament for special occasions like Good Friday, the congregation can end up reciting things like "Many oxen are come about me; fat bulls of Bashan close me in on every side” and "Deliver my soul from the sword; my darling from the power of the dog." The one that really lost me was “They called upon thee, and were holpen…” Not only do I not know what “holpen” means, I’m not even sure what part of speech it is.

 

Our minister really dug deep into the Old Testament for the Good Friday service. I’m pretty sure the Psalms we recited were on the B side of the record. Since I'm not a biblical scholar or an expert on Elizabethan speech, I had no idea what I was saying during the service. Which leads to another interesting question: Do you have to comprehend a church service to get the benefit of it or is it like a tanning booth where the length of exposure is all that matters?

 

Episcopals are also big on the congregation reciting lengthy passages from the prayer book in unison. I don’t know what it is about the congregation at St. Luke’s, but they have a problem with the “in unison” part. No one recites the passage at the same speed. If the passage is over two sentences long, it ends up sounding like the babble at a large cocktail party. I made a suggestion to the minister that we get a Karaoke machine so everyone can follow the bouncing ball. He wasn’t taken with the idea.

 

Anyway, on Saturday morning church volunteers hid a little over 1,400 boiled and plastic eggs on the church grounds. The eggs weren’t exactly hidden. The church grounds, including a small cemetery in back, are probably half an acre in size, and there are only so many hiding places. When I arrived at the church there were eggs lying out in the open everywhere. It looked like the church had been hit with an Easter Egg cluster bomb.

 

Children and their parents began showing up for the Easter Egg hunt 45 minutes before the start of the hunt. As the start time grew close, there were over 200 kids lined up on the church driveway. The fact that there were hundreds of Easter Eggs lying out in the open only served to work the assembled children into a greedy frenzy. Some of the kids had been to another Easter egg hunt earlier that morning and had consumed so much sugar they were out of their minds. I was tempted to drop kick one obnoxious little brat over to the Methodist church on the other side of town.

 

When the church bell finally rang to signal that the hunt was on, it was like the start of the Oklahoma land rush. The children spread out like a virulent disease as they scurried around grabbing eggs left and right. It was like watching a hoard of starving rats. Kids were knocking each other over to get to the eggs. It was the Episcopal version of the Hunger Games. In 12 minutes every freaking egg had been gathered.

 

It may have been the scariest experience of my adult life. I’ll have to think twice if I’m asked to volunteer to help with the church’s Easter Egg hunt next year. But right now I think I’d rather wrestle with the devil than face 200 crazed kids again.

The Dogwoods Bloom

I’m sorry this post is a day or two late. Among other things, I was busy studying for my Master Gardener final exam which happened on April 15. 

 

I passed the test with a respectable 95 out of 100, so now I am a Master Gardener Trainee. As a trainee I don’t get a nice plastic badge like the Master Gardeners wear. All I get is a flimsy paper badge that identifies me as a trainee. I don’t get the plastic badge until I finish my 50 hours of service. 

 

The Georgia Cooperative Extension rules require me to wear my trainee badge whenever I’m working on a Master Gardener project. I guess that’s so everyone knows that I’m not a full-fledged Master Gardener, but a half-assed version of a Master Gardener. That seems appropriate in my case. For some reason I feel like I’m in pledge training for my fraternity in college. I half expect the Master Gardeners to require me to shout: “Sir, a pledge is lower than whale shit in the deepest part of the deepest ocean and looks up at the bellies of snakes, sir.”

 

I have to admit that I did not study for the final exam near as much as I did for the mid-term. For one thing, most of the subject matter in the second half of the course did not interest me. There were classes on landscape design, leadership and communications, and water gardens, among others. 

 

The landscape design and leadership classes were absolute bullshit. One of the things I learned in the landscape design class is that you can build a patio too big or too small. The secret is to build it just right. What is this—Goldilocks and the Three Bears? Patio, my ass—I’m still trying to get a lawn.

 

I have no idea what I was supposed to get out of the leadership class. Really, I have no idea what I was supposed to learn in the class. The leadership chapter of the text book informed me that the five stages of group development are forming, storming, norming, performing, and adjourning. What does that mean? What about all the negative rhyming words like nonconforming, nonperforming, and misinforming? 

 

The book also said that a great leader always has an agenda and always sticks to it. I’m sure Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Washington, and Patton always abided by that rule.

 

As for the water garden class, I doubt seriously that I’ll be raising Koi anytime soon, but it’s always good to know that they can grow to 36 inches and they crap like a hippopotamus if you overfeed them. Who knows, that might be a question in Trivial Pursuit.

 

But the real reason I didn’t study as much this time is because it dawned on me that I’m retired. Who gives a rat’s ass whether I graduate summa cum laude from the Master Gardener’s course? It’s not like I’m trying to get a job after I graduate. The way I figure it, the Fannin County Master Gardeners should be happy to have me no matter what grade I got. I’m loud, I’m proud, I’m bad, I’m nationwide. Well, let’s just rip off James Brown and ZZ Top.

 

Another thing that interfered with my studies is that I’ve been really busy. Meredith and I have become involved in a group called Feed Fannin. It’s a local group that raises funds and grows vegetables to feed the needy in Fannin County. I’m on the publicity committee, and my job is to write press releases and articles for the newspapers. That means I have to go to events, take photos and write some copy to ship off to the newspapers. I’m a real Jimmy Olsen. I’m also helping at the group’s five acre farm. I helped plant potatoes last week. 

 

I have some concern that this Feed Fannin thing could lead to me becoming a community organizer and being like you know who. You have my permission to shoot me if that ever happens.

 

Last week I reported that I unwittingly ended up in one of the top three destinations for gays and lesbians in Georgia. I have no problem with that. Now I find out that Feed Fannin is the favorite charity of all the liberals in Fannin County. Some of the people in the group actually drive hybrid cars that sport Obama and Coexist stickers. I didn’t think it was safe to do that in these parts. My pickup with its NRA decal and faded Romney/Ryan sticker is more the norm around here.

 

Well, I have no problem being surrounded by liberals when it comes to the Feed Fannin group. Maybe they don’t realize it, but the group represents the best of the conservative American tradition dating back to the founding of the Republic—local people solving local problems. Neighbors helping neighbors without the intrusive hand of government has been a characteristic of this country from its early days. In the 1830s Alexis deTocqueville traveled our young country and observed: 

The citizen of the United States is taught from infancy to rely on his own exertions in order to resist the evils and the difficulties of life; he looks upon the social authority with an eye of mistrust and anxiety, and he claims its assistance only when he is unable to do without it. 

I wish that was as true now as it was then. But at least here in Fannin County they try to solve their own problems without a handout from Big Brother. So I don’t mind helping Feed Fannin, even if they are a bunch of card-carrying liberals. Who knows, maybe I can show them the error of their ways eventually.

 

Meanwhile, the weather here continues to amaze me. The weather has been mild over the last two weeks. We even had a day when the afternoon temperature was in the low 80’s. The grass in the fields has greened up, the spring flowering shrubs are showing their blossoms, and the apple trees are beginning to bud and flower. Even the dogwoods have burst into bloom.

 

I always wondered about using the word “burst” to describe how flowering shrubs come into blossom, but that’s the only way to describe it. One day they’re just bushes, and the very next day they are covered with bright blossoms. The wonder is that they all do it at the same time.

 

I was waiting for the dogwoods to bloom. If you will recall, I was told at the farmer’s coop that I should plant my buckwheat and soybeans as a cover crop when the dogwoods bloom. I assumed that was because the dogwoods knew when the worst of the bad weather was over.

 

Unfortunately, I have to report that the temperature outside is currently 28 degrees. Yesterday afternoon we had flurries of rain mixed with snow and sleet. The concern around here is that a hard freeze will kill all the apple blossoms. It’s obviously too cold to plant soybeans and buckwheat. So why in the hell are do they rely on the dogwood trees to tell them when to plant?

 

In Pinellas County we had a much better way of knowing when spring was here. It was called spring break. It’s a lot more enjoyable watching for young college girls in small bikinis then it is waiting for the dogwoods to bloom, but I guess that’s the sacrifice I must make for the joy of living in the country.