If It's Not Winter

If it's not winter here in Georgia, then it's something close, and it sure has me fooled. I’m in the workshop watching the sun come up. The grass in the upper pasture is white with frost. Even the tips of the branches of the white pines along the fence line are coated with frost. It looks cold outside. It is cold outside. I feel like I’m in a store window Christmas display. I’m playing the role of an icicle right now. If it warms up I get to play a puddle.

I’ve got a little heater pumping out hot air at my feet. It’s supposed to heat a space of 150 square feet, but in the large workshop it’s about as effective as pissing in the ocean. I’m warm from the knees down, but the rest of me is nippy.

I’ve always wondered about word “nippy”. Why do we describe a cold day as nippy? I could be wrong, but it may have something to do with the effect that cold has on nipples. Back in the good old days of the women’s liberation movement when women were burning their bras, I used to hang out in the frozen food section of the supermarket leering at braless women shoppers because it was nippy in that part of the store. God, I loved the late 60’s. Make love, not war. Yeah, Baby.

I’m wearing gloves to keep my hands warm. They are the type of gloves that that expose the ends of my fingers so I can type. I look like Bob Crachet slaving over Scrooge’s ledger. Please Mr. Scrooge, can I put an extra lump of coal in the fire? Because I’m a two finger typist, I’m looking for gloves that only expose my index fingers. I bet a proctologist in Alaska could tell me where to find them.

I pay a lot more attention to the weather now. The only time I ever paid any attention to the weather in Florida was when a hurricane was days away or I wanted to go fishing. But it’s different now. I check the forecasts daily because the weather here is more variable than in Florida, and it has a greater impact on my daily activities. Thus, I derive the following essential truth about living the country: you are forced into a closer relationship with the elements.

It was a dark and stormy night a couple of nights ago. That may be a literary cliché, but it is not a trivial one when you live in the country. The wind howled through the trees and shrieked around the corners of the cabin. The sound rose and fell; sometimes it was a faint whisper and sometimes a full throated roar. Sporadic gusts caused the rain to rattle sharply against the windows. There was an occasional odd thump outside in the darkness. The weather interrupted my reading; I could not ignore it. I found myself looking up and listening when a particularly intense gust came through.

The darkness outside was total and complete. There was no moon, no street lights, no comforting glow from a neighboring house to take the edge off the darkness and reassure me that I was not alone. All I could see looking out a window was my own reflection staring back at me. Beyond the window pane was utter blackness like the cold dead eyes of a snake. I am not given to irrational fears, but I could not help but feel a faint uneasiness over what could be lurking in the night. I believe it is a primal fear shared by all humankind; a racial memory from our earliest days huddled around a fire on the African veldt.

So I did what any sane, rational person would do. I went to bed and pulled the covers over my head. I plan to pick up silver bullets, garlands of garlic, and holy water when I get a chance.

High Hope Plantation. Fannin County continues to surprise me. Meredith and I have started going to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Blue Ridge. The church held its annual crafts bazaar a couple of Saturdays ago at High Hope Plantation just outside of Blue Ridge, and Meredith and I went to check it out.

High Hope Plantation is incredibly cool. You will not find it listed in any tourist brochure. It is a reproduction of Colonial Williamsburg, though on a smaller scale. The 44 acres of grounds feature a large house, a tavern, stables, a post office, a church, and various out buildings all modeled after colonial buildings. Click on this link to see photos of High Hope Plantation.

The story behind it is interesting. It was built by a man who inherited a small fortune. He admired Colonial Williamsburg, so he built High Hope Plantation using designs he copied from Williamsburg.  He lived there in his make believe colonial world until he spent his fortune and went into bankruptcy. I’ve heard about people pissing away their money, but this is probably the neatest way I’ve ever heard it done.

The second owner of the property operated it as an attraction for a few years, and then he sold it to the present owner. The present owner and his wife are members of St. Luke’s. They live in Atlanta, but spend many weekends in Blue Ridge. Obviously, they’re not living off social security. When they are not in Blue Ridge, the property is cared for by resident caretakers.

The property is not open to the public, but the owner lets St. Luke’s use it for the crafts bazaar. The crafts are made by members of the congregation who, I might add, are very talented and creative. Now that I’m a member of the church, I suppose I will be expected to contribute to the crafts that are for sale. This poses a quandary for me since I’m not particularly talented or creative when it comes to crafts. When I went to high school you had to take shop class. No matter what I tried make, it always ended up as an ash tray. Even my project in electrical shop ended up as an ashtray.

I’ve been a lawyer all my adult life. I have no practical skills. I don’t think a jar of opening statements and closing arguments will fetch much. Maybe I can make walking sticks. How tough can that be? You find a stick and cut it.

If push comes to shove, I may buy some jelly, put it in mason jars, and slap a handwritten label on it. This leads to a moral and legal question: Is the Deceptive and Unfair Trade Practices Act implicit in the Ten Commandments?

While at the bazaar I met members of the Revolutionary Patriot Guard who put on a demonstration for the crowd. No, they are not former supporters of Mao Tse Tung, expatriate Iraqi soldiers, or members of the local Tea Party. They are like Civil War reenactors, only they reenact the American Revolution. They dress in authentic Continental Army costumes.

I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a Civil War reenactor for a long time, but this may be better. I wouldn’t have to choose sides like I would as a Civil War reenactor. I also think I would cut a dashing figure in knee breeches, a powdered wig, and a three cornered hat. If it didn’t work out, I would still have a hell of a Halloween costume. I could be anyone from George Washington to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Still, I hesitate to join. I am genuinely concerned that being associated with an organization that has the words “revolutionary”, “patriot”, and “guard” in its name will cause my emails to be flagged by the NSA or me to be scrutinized by the IRS. It’s a sad commentary that such a thought would even occur to an American citizen. I have to wonder whether we as a nation have forgotten the principles for which the Founding Fathers pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.