White Michigan

angels
are always near
when new soft snow covers
churches' earth to welcome winter's
new year

Lemony Christmas

Lemons -

  orbed ornaments

 glisten winter's sunshine

 under peppermint-striped cactus -

   Christmas

Is That a BaNANa bread in Your Pocket?

I have three first names. My birth name is Nancy Jane Barbara.  I was named after my mother's best friend Nancy Jane.  My last name, Barbara,  is really pronounced Bar-bear-a, but over the years, much to my father's dismay, its rich Italian pronunciation evolved to Bar-bra as in Barbra Streisand. I don't know when it happened or how, it just did. And it's a nuisance especially when people ask me my last name and I say "Bar-bra." They react by stating, "No, your last name." So, I say "Bar-bra" again, and they get exasperated and say something condescending like, "No, honey, I mean your LAST name." I'm now so accustomed to saying Bar-bra that when I try saying Bar-bear-a, that extra syllable makes me feel like another person. I tried it for an entire day once and it was truly an odd feeling; but no one ever asked me to repeat my last name.

When I was a child, I knew I was in trouble if my mother called me 'Nancy Jane!" And, strangely enough, my cousins always called me Nancy Jane whether I was in trouble or not.  Everyone had a middle name on the Bar-bear-a side of the family and used it; they also used the correct pronunciation of Bar-bear-a.  I think my mother "Americanized" our last name, but the story, as with all of my family's stories, is convoluted. 

Before I was enrolled in kindergarten, if I ever did get in trouble, which was rare, my punishment led to a nick name I still carry from time to time, and that's Nancy-Pantsie.  You see, my mother would make me sit out on the back stoop in just my underpants. The punishment was not only humiliating, but it stopped me in my tracks. I was an active kid, always running, biking and playing shink-ball all over the neighborhood. Often times, I'd go past the two-block limit that was set for me, so sitting me down in my underwear thwarted me from going anywhere far from home.

All through grammar school and high school, I was just plain Nancy (guess I never got in trouble).  When I went to college on a tennis scholarship, my nick-name was Ace due to my clever ability to ace my opponents on the first serve. I wasn't ever really sure if anyone knew my real name because by the time I was a sophomore everyone referred to me simply as Ace.   When I went to graduate school,  I ended up being called Nance by most people, which I didn't mind. It's always been interesting to me how people juggle my name. 

My moniker at my day job, for at least the last twelve years or so, is Nan.  A former manager at Barnes & Noble just started calling me Nan and it stuck.  There have been several variations on Nan, such as Nanners, Nanager (blending Nan and Manager), and Banana Nan. Outside of work, my friends still call me Nancy, although some have jumped on the  Nan band-wagon, and now and then, a Nance escapes the lips of others. 

In case you're wondering where Banana Nan comes from, well, 'tis the season for Nan's annual baNANa bread bake-a-thon. I started this tradition about ten years ago by making 45 or so mini-loaves of banana bread to give to the staff at B&N during the holidays. Sometime before  Christmas, I pick a time when, from sunrise to well past midnight, I can spend flouring up the kitchen and spattering the walls with  thick, rich banana bread dough. It's quite an ordeal orchestrating what's now come to baking about 100 little loaves of banana bliss. I pull out the 20-pound cobalt-blue mixer, line up all the ingredients in the order that my recipe calls for them and I start the assembly line from spraying each tin with cooking spray, to filling them just the right depth with smooth banana goodness to wrapping them in festive plastic wrap. The mixer spins non-stop for hours and the house smells like vanilla-baked bananas with buttery cinnamon drizzled on top.

These days, there must be some kind of banana bread button that gets subliminally pushed right around Halloween, because lately, starting in early November, people begin asking me when the baNANa breads are coming .  Those initial 45 loaves have now doubled, at least. No longer do I bake just for the staff at B&N. Friends and neighbors who hear of my 16 hour banana marathon ask when their mini-loaves are coming. And, now, it's not just one loaf per person! Lamenting friends and colleagues drop hints such as, "Oh my husband ate all of mine! Can I have two next year?" or "I'm going to eat this one for breakfast, too bad I won't have another to eat later on at home!" Despite the constant pleas, I still make the loaves mid-December and deliver them slightly warm from the oven around breakfast time at the store.

For the holidays, we hang bright red stockings trimmed in white in our break room; each tagged with a bookseller's name.  I stuff each little pocket with one or two loaves, depending on the order. The break room quickly attracts hungry booksellers sniffing and smiling at the wafting banana breath exhaling from the room. 

It looks like the time has come to get shopping for this year's baNANa bread boNANza..  Let's see, one-hundred mini-loaves? Here's what I'll need:

12 pounds of butter 

10 pounds of sugar

24 pounds of unbleached flour

72 eggs

24 tablespoons of baking soda

24 tablespoons of salt

24 tablespoons of cinnamon

150 bananas

9 quarts of sour cream

24 oz of pure vanilla extract

100 mini pans

1 can of Pam with Flour for Baking

2 rolls of festive plastic wrap

comfortable shoes

Christmas music

Imagine what that shopping cart looks like, not to mention the looks I get while standing in line with my very own banana boat. 

In case you want to make just one banana bread like a normal person, here's a pared down recipe:

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups unbleached flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup mashed very ripe bananas
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350,  spray or butter your loaf pan (9x5x3), cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer. Add eggs and beat well. Sift (important) dry ingredients together and combine with the butter mixture. Blend well and add bananas (very ripes ones), sour cream and vanilla (use the real stuff, not the imitation kind).  If you want, you can add nuts. My breads, however, are all female.  Stir well. Fill pan almost to the top and bake 1 hour.

And, that's why it's called BaNANa Bread. If you want one in your pocket, place your order now!

Bebe Rolls Over

Ten weeks of puppy school and one year later, Bebe rolls over, at last!

Thanksgiving and other Endings

Wednesday, Thanksgiving "eve", the pies and muffins were baked and the pilgrim-themed table had been set all by the time I'd finished my third cup of coffee. Between the sweet drippings of the apple pie and the spice of the pumpkin, the kitchen smelled like a gingerbread house with a fireplace ablaze. Before noon, the chill of the morning turned into an almost tropical warmth. The sun was turning the lime green lemons corn yellow and the six heads of broccoli were proudly awaiting their inevitable decapitation for the upcoming feast. Then Tony died.

Tony was a war veteran, a good neighbor, and an animal lover. He hung a tattered American flag from a tree outside his bedroom window. He once cried over an ill and orphaned baby squirrel whom he adopted and then had to take to the Humane Society. A gruff New Yorker with a tough exterior and a soft heart, Tony was a character. He ambled side-to-side due to multiple hip operations; walking caused him great pain. He had no family; his neighbors were his only friends, especially Mary Ann, who lives next-door. From our backyard, you could hear Tony's cigarette-aged voice laughing, animated and playful when he visited Mary Ann for their morning smoke and coffee chat. His dog Reggie, a gentle Pit Bull mix, was always by his side. He had a black and white tuxedo cat he called Felix who would sit on a ledge lording over Reggie as if to pounce on anyone who would dare disturb the stocky white would-be beast with a splash of caramel across his rump.

For two days, Reggie sat vigil at Tony's feet until a friend discovered Tony had quietly slipped from here to there. When the sheriff arrived, Reggie gave up his watch and paced outside with his tail set south. By the time the medical examiner drove up in her hearse-black car followed by a sheet-white van, our neighbor George invited Reggie into his home where he could mourn the loss of the man who rescued him two years ago. He'd have the company of another dog and and a few other cats for the rest of his days. And of course, George took in Felix as well.

When Tony was wheeled from his front door down the path to the van, he was clad in a blanket of black vinyl. Our neighbors stood side-by-side saying their silent goodbyes; this would be his only funeral. I took down his flag and waved him well, thanking him for his service to our country and strew petals from his Bougainvillea in his path. As they drove off, we could hear Reggie howling his version of Taps.

That night I went to Red Lobster for dinner with Kim and Kim. We discovered the best time to go there is the night before Thanksgiving as it was practically empty. We spent our entire dinner conversation going around the table stating what we're thankful for. It started with our friendship, the roofs over our heads, food in our cupboards, our significant others, to our parents, each others' parents, good neighbors, the election results, our jobs, our bosses and even the little boy whose dying last wish was to feed the homeless. Dinner was satisfying.

Thanksgiving morning, I made the stuffing, stuffed the bird and started roasting well before noon. Two more guests were added to the list, thus, two more place-settings. I decided I still had time to make bread. I mixed the dough and yeast and added water. As I was transferring the canister of rising dough from the counter to the bread machine, it slipped from my hands, sunk straight down to the Terrazzo floor hitting it with a sickening crack. The mixture sucked in a deep breath, looking like a belly button. Then, it catapulted thick rising dough straight up like a rocket directly onto my mouth-agape,  aghast face with a resounding "whoosh".  I was covered with fast-acting, yeast-activated dough. Quarter-sized droplets doubled in size by the seconds as flour puddles spread on the tablecloth, on the rims of water goblets, silverware, plates, Saran-wrapped pies. The little pilgrim people had blobs of dough obliterating their smiling faces and I had yeast dripping from my chin, earlobes, eyelashes, hair.  I could see a dinner roll starting to rise on my nose. The chairs looked like black cows with white spots and the floor looked like one big cookie sheet. All I could do was laugh. From the tips of my hair to my slippers, I was the Pillsbury Dough Boy's twin. I had two hours to get rolling (no pun intended). I stripped, ran for the mop and some rags and started cleaning from the counter tops on down. The dough started to harden on the floor, mopping only spread the mess. I found an industrial scraper in the closet and started scraping the newly waxed floor. I cleared the table, washed every dish, glass, knife, fork, spoon and pilgrim while the table cloth was in the washer. The dough was hanging like icicles from my ears and when I had chance to glance in the hall mirror, I should have taken a picture, but I'll let your imagination do the talking. In an hour, all was clean. I took the once-starched tablecloth out of the dryer and draped it over the table. It was one huge wrinkle, so I ironed it right on the table!

By mid-afternoon, my guests arrived and everything was Martha Stewart perfect (in my dreams). Uncle and Mike, Nile, Kaye and Evan and I enjoyed string beans and broccoli picked fresh from the garden, turkey, stuffing, muffins, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies and Mike's homemade candy. Before dessert, we even stopped to take a plate to a homeless man up the road. By the time everyone left, and the dishes were done, I was full and satisfied. As I was turning out the light, I noticed a big blob of hardened dough defiantly hanging from the shade in the kitchen.

This morning while picking green beans, I noticed the absence of Tony's New York bravado echoing between the yards, and two other miracles of nature. First, the squirrels had had their own Thanksgiving feast. All the ears of corn were neatly chomped down to the stems, leaving not a trace of silk behind. And, it seems the time has come to prepare for the next holiday; the Christmas Cactus is getting ready to bloom. One thing for sure, though, there will be no dinner rolls on the menu (just memories of them rising from the flour, uh, I mean...floor).

My Ode to Thanksgiving (written when I was 14 years old)

Preparing for Thanksgiving, I remembered a poem I wrote when I was in grade school. Luckily, I had a copy of the original; it was in an old blank book I'd filled with childhood ditties which I had given my parents as a gift. I remember reciting this at the dinner table one Thanksgiving.

"A Thanksgiving Prayer"

And now I sit me down to eat.

To consume what's in front of me,

I call a big feat.

I pray from my soul that I will not gain weight,

and promise myself

not to refill my plate.

I tried not to think how that bird must have felt,

to be baked at a temperature

even God couldn't help,

The turkey all shiny and dripping and stuffed.

It's all so delicious, on to seconds,

the first is not enough!

The cranberry sauce, the potatoes, so good!

The pumpkin pie! 

Oh, I ate all I could!

Remember that turkey, how luscious and fat?

Well, the next time you see me,

I'll look just like that!

As for today, I made pumpkin pie with a little less sugar than what Betty Crocker called for in the old red-plaid cookbook, and the apples in the apple pie are organic. The veggies and herbs will come mostly from the garden this year, and the turkey is all natural. It will be stuffed with Jayne's sage dressing recipe, and garnished with rosemary, both herbs snipped fresh from the garden as well.  It will still be luscious and fat. Hopefully, the next time you see me though, I won't look just like that! 

Grateful

picking green beans -

broccoli dew drops glisten

I snip herbs to rosemary's scent -

Thank you

Look What Just Rolled In

Sometimes, the smallest of things are the most irksome; such as the small pee-puddles of pinkish fluid my car leaves behind to mark every place I've parked like an alpha-cat. As if my car were named Hansel or Gretel, it now leaves a trail of breadcrumbs.  I can trace back a day's worth of errands by the slowly spreading spots left between the yellow lines of a parking slot or worse, on our driveway or in the garage. 

This morning, I decided to lay my woes on the mechanic at Tire Kingdom. I loaded Bebe in the backseat and arrived at the storefront at 8:35, a mere 25 minutes before they opened. I was the first car in line. The next vehicle, whose front tire was gasping for air, parked lopsided next to mine. The manager was inside sipping coffee and when I glanced inside, he raised his Styrofoam cup to me in a gesture of cheer. He recognized me, which is the beauty of being a frequent-flyer in a neighborhood establishment; it gives you the feeling that everything will be alright, no matter how irksome the problem. 

At 8:45 he came out and quasi-diagnosed my problem with the smell of cheap coffee on his breath.  I presented him with the saturated newspaper which acted as an overnight puppy-pad, capturing the errant fluid escaping the underside of my car and he mumbled "tranny fluid, not good."  He moved on to the deflated tire and said when he opened at 9:00, he'd get us both in right away. He led us inside and started the paperwork. In the waiting room, a tele-preacher was reminding us to thank God for little things, and by thanking people, who are messengers from God, we're actually thanking God himself. I half-listened, but got distracted.

While he was typing our information into the computer, Bebe, still in the car, started doing her begging routine while barking her shrill, ear-piercing protests at being left alone. As I went to get her, a pencil-green, cheaply re-painted KIA-looking car screeched into the lot and parked directly in front of the door, not in a slot. Out stepped a flannel pajama-clad woman in a bath robe, with pink plastic curlers piled Carmen Miranda-style high atop her head. She was wearing gold flip-flops and had freshly painted cherry-red toe nails. I know this because there was still cotton stuffed between each toe.  She was screaming Spanish into a cell phone while waving frantically to someone in a car which was apparently her ride home.  She slammed the car door and oblivious to Bebe's tip-toe pleading dance, she stepped over the leash and barreled into Tire Kingdom. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat animals; this person was either entirely self-absorbed or hated animals. More than likely both.

With no greeting or introduction, she stepped to the front of the counter and said "You said there was only one other person in line! I'm in a hurry and have to be in Orlando by noon.  I don't have anything done yet. I still need to get showered, put on my make-up and get dressed."

The manager smiled and asked what she needed. "I need my old rims replaced with the custom rims! How long will it take?" He explained that the shop didn't open until 9:00 and he'd get to it by 9:15 or so. It would take a little under two hours to complete. She blew a fit. Bebe laid flat to the floor and if she could, would have covered her ears with her paws. Curlers danced as she ranted half in English and half in Spanish. Her head bobbled so, that one of the rollers started to disentangle from her over-dyed hair and dangled like an earring. Then, the printer wouldn't print. Try as he might, the manager, who, by the way,  did not understand Spanish, could not encourage the printer to spit out a sheet of paper before 9:00.  He tried to calm her down to no avail. She said she'd fix the printer herself and tried to get behind the counter. Bebe barked right on cue. The woman turned her head so fast that the curler hanging by a thread,  flew off her head and Bebe went for it! The woman screamed, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" At this point, I had a giggle-fit. I had already envisioned Bebe with the pink curler in her mouth, but I snapped on her leash and she stopped barely an inch from the run-away roller.  

By 9:00, the printer still was not cooperating. Curler-head was verbally abusing the manager. When her cell phone rang, she snapped at the caller and  said "I do NOT have an attitude!" I snorted back a laugh too late and she looked at me and said "What are YOU laughing at, bitch?"

I said, "Watch it, lady..don't upset my Pit Bull." The manager cracked up and the woman took a double-take,  gave me that "whatever" look and continued complaining to the caller about how she'd been here an hour already and the loser behind the counter can't even work a printer.  She hung up and said she was going to leave her keys here and come back in an hour and her car better be done when she gets back.  The manager said to just leave her keys on the counter and he'd get to it. She said "I ain't leaving keys to a Jaguar sitting on a counter! One of these people might steal it!" Did she say Jaguar?? I glanced outside, and sure enough, that miserable looking car was indeed a Jaguar! Ugly, dented, filthy inside and out. She left in a flash of pink and we all took a breath. The manager said, "What a piece of work! And, that Jaguar is nothing but a Ford with a cat on the hood."  

Turns out my fluid leak was the result of a loose oil pan plug. I said "thank you" just like the tele-preacher advised and said a little prayer for the miserable witch with a faux entitlement complex just because she drives a fake foreign car. As I walked out the door, the manager said, "Nice Pit Bull, by the way!" 

P.S. I later found out from the manager, that the rims "roller-babe" wanted put on her car were the wrong size. Guess what goes around, comes around and bites you in the butt.  Gotta love karma.

Flash-Freezing Green Beans a la Granny

The beans just couldn't wait until Thanksgiving to shimmy out of their white blossoms and dangle like earrings from their stems. Each bean is long, slender and shapely like a woman's leg in silk stockings with a seam up its back. I pick them by fistfuls; sometimes twice a day I'll go out and see if there are any I've missed, and sure enough, there are.  Last night, I called Granny and asked her how she freezes her beans which she explained in three simple steps. 

Here's what I did this daylight savings morning a la Granny's instructions:

Wash the beans thoroughly, place them in a pot on the burner with warm water and let them simmer just until the bubbles come up through the beans. Remove from the burner, rinse them in cold water and place in a freezer bag. Squeeze out all the air (apparently, this is important). In order to get all the air out, use a straw and suck out all the air from the bag. (Somehow, I can't imagine Granny with straw in her mouth, attached to a bag, sucking the living daylights out of it; the thought of  it made me giggle).

I followed her instructions step-by-step. What she didn't tell me was to make sure once I took the pot off the stove, to be careful not to place the gallon freezer bag on the hot burner, which shriveled up like the Wicked Witch of the West in nano-second in a gust of putrid steam, then, ignited the fire alarm, which in-turn sent Bebe into a frantic barking fit and Felix into the bathroom tub (that's where he hides when he's a scaredy-cat). 

Once the histrionics were over, I placed the freshly flash-frozen fruits of my labor into our new deep-freeze and closed the lid with an odd sense of satisfaction.

 

The Cats' Hallowed Eve

Cats chat -

Sit statuesque.

Some fat, one with a hat;

mews heard only by a toothless

pumpkin

October Fest

Roses are white....

String beans are green... 

                                                                                       Corn's growing silk!

Bebe's  ready for Halloween!

Good Morning, Moon.

  morning moon reflects

   sunshine on the cardinal's breast -

    resting between nests

(click on photo to enlarge)

Fall Garden Update

Luckily, there aren't any rabbits in the neighborhood, otherwise this lettuce would be history.

Some people compare apples to oranges. I think comparing this lemon to a cherry tomato plucked straight off the vine is more dramatic!

The broccoli is getting off to a slow start, but as soon as the temperatures start to drop more at night, we'll be having broccoli every night with dinner.

                   By Thanksgiving, there will be enough green beans for a giant string bean casserole!

                                                                                          

Morning Snapshot

buzzing bumble bee

slides inside petunia's lips

sipping sweet nectar

 

Is That a Lemon in Your Pocket?

No...just in our backyard! Seems our dwarf-like Ponderosa lemon tree is celebrating Fall. The huge grapefruit-sized lemons are slowly going from lime-green to lemon-yellow. I can't wait for Granny to come in January to make her lemon pie. In the mean time, I'll pluck the first one so I can start making lemon ice cubes. They're great for floating in a tall glass of water or melting into a cup of hot tea. I also toss them into a chicken soup base, or in the frying pan with a piece of chicken or fish! Yummy. Thank you, Mother Nature!

Falling for Fall in Michigan

Summer's
lush green trees bend
with autumn's breeze - blowing
golden, crimson red, floating leaves
up north

Geese honk
the morning's horn
playing a symphonic
cacophony - wings beating to
go south

Crackle
the fallen leaves -
naked the outstretched limbs
span blue skies touching sun's last warmth
it's Fall

Falling Back Into Old Habits

Sleepily stepping out on to the damp pool deck this morning, I was greeted by a lemon-pale sun trying to rise past purple clouds. Bebe tore past me in a flash of fur, her nails scraping the concrete as she rushed to race with the squirrels who were feasting from the bird feeders. They tantalize her by swinging from the branches of the orange trees to the palm tree, then they leap to the power lines and onto the feeders. Once Bebe starts her chase, they spring from the ledge of the feeders, spraying seed like rain and dance across the edge of the fence. Bebe chases them relentlessly barking her 7am alarm. The two red-tailed hawks who have taken up residence in a neighbor's yard, circle and watch the chase from above contemplating either Bebe or the squirrels for their babies' breakfast. Cardinals take the opportunity to sneak in a few pieces of seed while the squirrels are being herded away, and the scrub jays sip from the birdbath.

Suddenly, Autumn escaped the lips of Summer in a breath of cool air which I inhaled like a long-awaited drink. The breeze was brief, but long enough to make an impression. Long enough to blow the wisps of hair on Bebe's ears straight back, to make the scrub jays look up from their drinking pool and swallow just a bit longer, to encourage the hawks to circle one more time on the dime of Mother Nature and to make me breathe a sigh of relief that Autumn is back. I knew it was close. The Ponderosa lemon tree's pendulous orbs of fruit are starting to strain the already bent limbs. There have been juvenile Ibis lurking at dawn and dusk plunging their long beaks deep between grass blades for a juicy snack. And, just the other day, I caught sight of two Love Bugs flitting by - a tell-tale sign that the seasons are about to pass the baton.

In anticipation of Fall, I consulted the Old Farmer's Almanac to make sure I planted my winter garden right with the moon's good mood. I tilled and turned the parched grey sand from last year's garden into espresso rich black soil moistened with beads of sweat dripping from my chin. I imported over 200 pounds of coffee grounds from the local Starbuck's where the barisita now knows me by name. Then came the 8 bags of cow manure and the dozens of cracked egg-shells I've been saving for half the summer. Lastly, the layers of rich compost from a local horse farm where Bebe is deathly afraid of the horses. With the soil ready, now comes the plotting and planting. There are 15 tomato plants along the fence, an herb garden to the south, 8 corn plants to the north and in between, broccoli sprouts two rows. Two kinds of lettuce, Romaine and Red Leaf hold center ground and are surrounded by thin lines of ground cinnamon to deter pests. Peppers, red, green and yellow lead the way to 40 or so bush bean seedlings. Every foot or so all along the border of the garden, Elephant Ear garlic cloves have been sunk the depth of a pencil-length to ward off evil aphids. I've left enough room for onions, peas and a few more herbs once the weather really begins to promise Fall and not just tease those of us who live for that first breath of fresh air.

Going UP?

Summer, in other than Florida is a treat. This summer, I've had plenty of treats away from home with numerous trips to both California and Michigan thanks to Jayne's ingenious, ace-up-her-sleeve planning. My last trip to Michigan, we went to the U.P or the Upper Peninsula. On the way, we stopped at Higgins Lake and stayed in our friends Kim and Marvonne's log cabin (it sleeps 17, so if you're thinking about a little cabin, think again). What a fantastic retreat this property affords. Lake-front living, tucked away on a cul-de-sac and bordered by raspberry bushes; divinely delicious in every aspect from the quaint downtown antique shop to the ice cream shoppes which speckled the town on every side of the street. Thanks, Kim and Marvonne, for the great get-away.

The main reason for this trip, was to host a Welcoming Ceremony for Jillian. The mini-vacation to the UP was a perk! Jillian's Welcoming Ceremony was a spirited, intimate gathering of family and friends with a promise to mother and child of unconditional, eternal love and support. If you click on the link (below on the right) to Gen's Blog, you'll see some photos of that special day.

After spending a relaxing night on Higgins Lake, we spent the entire next day, sunrise to midnight traveling the UP. Having never been, I was wide-eyed and smiling from the ferry ride across to Mackinac Island to the full moon who followed us back to the lake that night. On Macinac Island, we walked and shopped, collected sea glass, walked some more, took a horse and carriage ride when walking wore us out, and even climbed the Fort which was well worth the view from the top. We left when thunder rang its bell and dark clouds threatened to put a damper on our day. I almost got on the wrong ferry coming back, by the way. Luckily, I had my personal GPS by my side who guided me on to the right boat!

After a day at the island, Jayne drove us up to White Fish Point where we walked the beach on Lake Superior, looked for sea glass and collected pocketfuls of rocks. On the way home, we found a fish joint and got some white fish to go to eat lake-side in the car. Jayne asked for Tums a little while later; fish has never really been her cup o'tea. We capped-off the night by laying dock-side on Higgins Lake, counting the billions of glistening stars shimmering on the indigo back-drop of midnight. I even caught a shooting star out of the corner of my eye and giggled with glee. Check out the slide show for pictures of our trip going UP.

Rubies Everywhere

Usually, our road trips to Michigan entail a straight shot from Tampa to Attica with a stray pit-stop here and there. We're always in a hurry to get to see family and there's always a full agenda once we get there. This time, Jayne had a few surprises up her sleeve. I should have known something was up when we didn't leave Tampa at the crack of dawn and didn't rush through Atlanta. All of the sudden, this was a leisurely trip and the stops along the way were terrific fun. Our first day, we only drove as far as Georgia and stayed over night in an Atlanta Hampton Inn. We stopped at a local mom & pop restaurant for dinner, bought Georgia lottery, and simply enjoyed not being rushed. The next day, we drove an hour to Cleveland, Georgia to a little spot called Gold n' Gem Grubin' and mined for gemstones! It was really exciting to sit and sift through buckets of dirt and find gems. We had seen a show on the Travel Channel where Becky Worley found all sorts of great gems...and so did we. We found rubies, sapphires, tiger's eye, garnet, emeralds and fool's gold, just to name a few. There were families and couples from all over sitting and chatting. One old guy kept us laughing by keeping a running commentary on what he found in his sifter. A pebble! A cigarette butt! Fool's Gold! I countered him once and said I'd found a kidney stone. That got a chuckle as well. It was a great way to spend the morning and we have bags of gemstones to polish and maybe turn into some great jewelry eventually.

After grubbing for gems, we took the long and winding way around the Blue Ridge Mountains, stopped at great farm markets and made our way to Chattanooga, Tennessee, where Jayne had yet another ace up her sleeve. This time, we stopped at Ruby Falls and took the underground tour to see the falls. What an awesome sight! It was worth the long walk through the underground shaft to stand under the mist and hear the roar of these magnificent falls.



Between our gemstone stop and Ruby Falls, we found ourselves in a little town called Dahlonega. It's a quaint little mountain village just at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains through which we had just spent an hour or so winding our way up and over. For about five miles, from one end of Dahlonega to the other, about every 25-feet, on both sides of the road, there were American flags planted on top of white crosses. Each cross had inscribed the name of a local fallen hero going down the cross, and the name of the war they served in going across the cross - from wars dating back as far as World War I including World War II, Korean War, the Gulf War, and Vietnam War.
Hundreds and hundreds of these flags on crosses decorated a parade route for Memorial Day. If you looked carefully, you'd also see that several streets were named after these same heroes as well. One of the main streets, Morrison Moore Parkway, was also named after a fallen soldier who has his memorial flag-cross planted near his street. The white crosses go up long before July 4th, around the week before Memorial Day, and stay up through July. Then, they emerge, again, in early November, just before Veterans' Day. We were both awestruck and proud. What a gem of a find that was, on top of all the other rubies of the day.

Yet another gem awaited us at the end of the day when we stopped in Caryville, Tennessee, at a Hampton Inn tucked into the side of a mountain. This was not just any Hampton Inn. It had llamas grazing on its property (which I didn't notice until the next morning; I actually thought they were statues until they started moving)! Quaint and historic is how I would describe this museum of a hotel! The owner, Hack Ayers, was on-site when we went down to breakfast and his pride just about busted out of his chest when he talked about the history of Caryville, his family's connection to the town and the way he's maintained that history in his hotel. The walls are decorated with war photos and family photos. Framed in the hallway by the elevator, was his late father's leather jacket with a bullet hole in it; there it proudly stands as a testament Johnny Ayers' bravery. Hack owns the llamas, by the way; a little fact he told me while he was busing tables, serving tea and chatting up his customers. This is one hotel we'll certainly stay in again.