bovine sex when the lights went out in Georgia

Sunday night, Georgia was hit with a blinding blizzard. The heavens opened up and released... oh, easily 3 inches of snow. More, even. Hard to tell, it coated my lawn, but I wouldn't exactly call it drifting.

Well, in Madison County, the lights are still out. It's Wednesday.

This might sound pitiful. Well, it is. But to be fair, the problem is that most of the downed lines are back in fields, and when these large trucks go out in those fields to fix the lines, they sink up to their axles. They need other trucks to come pull them out. This tends to slow the process.

The news this evening interviewed people in the area. One man let it be known that, owing to the loss of electricity, all the electric fences in the fields were also down.

Bulls are mixing with cows and cows are mixing with bulls.

We all know the end of this story.

Business Week says that Atlanta is the 10th Unhappiest City in America. But tell that to the cattle in Madison. It's all about perspective.

---Laura

A Visit to Travelers Rest, Georgia

Last weekend I went to north Georgia for a dose of fall color. In my opinion, if the seasons were four sisters in the same family, fall would be the ridiculously pretty sister, the one who also had a great personality.

We were also able to stay in the city of Toccoa without spending any on lodging, thanks to my aunt, who owns a rental in Toccoa. Her mother would normally be there, but had been recently moved to a nursing home due to some health issues. So we were asked to stir up the place a little, and so that's what we did.

The visit to Travelers Rest was a bit of an accident. After a day of exploring Tallulah Falls gorge, we came back to Toccoa a little early to turn in, but a little late to do an entirely new activity, so I thought a drive to the South Carolina border would be a bit of a novelty. Toccoa sits about 20 minutes from the border, and the road you take passes by the turn to Travelers Rest. So that night, I mentioned it, and promised that we'd stop by to have a look the next morning, when we could actually see it. I doubted that it would be open on Sunday, however, but figured we could look around the grounds.

Well, Travelers Rest WAS open the next day. There was a cost to view the interior and get the tour, but you could wander the grounds for free. Admission: $4. Surprisingly, we were the only ones I saw paying the admission fee. The vast majority of people were wandering the grounds aimlessly reading signs they probably had no context for understanding.

And can I tell you something? I had no idea of the historical significance of the place. I was astounded. This unassuming spot in northeast Georgia has been touched by Creeks and Cherokees, commerce and bloodshed, Civil and Revolutionary war soldiers, politicians and merchants. It's been the crossroads of commerce and the center of obscurity. It was prized by the richest man in Tugalo Valley.

I saw it all for $4.

Some of my pictures are here.

But there's a cautionary tale here as well. The funding for the site is being cut, forcing the facility to cut days, hours and jobs. The jobs they are cutting include people who know more about this facility and the surrounding area than all but some of the oldtimers still living. We spent hours there listening to their stories, about past visitors, family reunions involving the white and black descendants of the same family line, about all the nooks and crannies of this fascinating historical gem. These same people fear for their jobs.

But here's what I'm getting at. The economy is bad these days, but this is our history. So instead of driving long distances to spend money you're concerned about parting with, go online today and find your Travelers Rest. The national register of historical places is a good place to start, and they have listings by state. They won't all be cheap tickets. But lots of historical sites are ridiculously cheap and crying for your attention. And if we don't value them, they will disappear.

If you're going to stimulate the economy, think about saying something with your money, about what you value and about what you think needs preserving. I think all historical societies will appreciate your business.

Museum Day

September 27th is Museum Day, when museums and cultural institutions nationwide open their doors free of charge to Smithsonian magazine readers and Smithsonian.com visitors. The day is a celebration of culture and learning, and treats visitors to the free-admission policy of the Smithsonian Institution.

The local Marietta Museum of History (pictured to the right) is participating in this event. I'm sure there will be at least one museum in your area doing the same. Take the opportunity to see what your local area has to offer - no risk involved, and I guarantee you'll learn a lot.

For a list, by state, of other participating venues, visit the Smithsonian website here.

--Laura

Crackers

Lately I've noticed that when men are trying to be flattering, they call you a Georgia peach. Naturally, this only works in Georgia, but it goes something like this:

I'm just a southern gentleman, looking for my Georgia peach. Or,

I like ladies to be sweet like a Georgia peach.

I'm going to be honest with you. I know they are trying to be cute with that little come-on line, but lately, whenever someone has said this to me, all I thought was, "I need to get my eyebrows waxed and head to the gym again, this man thinks I'm round and fuzzy."

The truth is, I'm nothing like a Georgia peach. See, I come from Crackers. Oh, I know, a man trying to make an impression would get his face slapped if he called some lady a Cracker, but do you know what the word means, because it really fits. Let me explain.

Georgia Crackers were the original settlers of Georgia, so to call someone that name means their family has been around since Moses was a toddler. And as it happens, that describes much of my family on my mother's side.... Rollins.... Byrd... Tyson... Hodges... In fact, I can ride down the main street of a little town called Guyton, Georgia, and I can see the craftsmanship of my great great uncles in the finish work of many of the old houses still standing there. Beautiful old houses with intricate wooden scrollwork along the roofline.

And in front of those houses, the old railroad bed has been lifted up and planted with trees, standing in a straight row like soldiers. But it used to be the old Central of Georgia railroad company, which called Guyton, Station No. 30. William Perry Rollins used to drive that train from Savannah to Guyton, which is how he met Dora Ellen Tyson, his future wife. She was a school teacher who rode the train to her school. They were my great great grandparents. And my family is one of the few left who could be buried in the Guyton Cemetery just down the street, because we were among the founding members of the place.

The term "cracker" came into fashion during Elizabethan times, to describe braggarts. They got the term from the Middle English word crack, as in to crack a joke. There's an alternate spelling to this, which is craic. This word is still in use in Ireland and Scotland, which is where my people came from. In fact, by the mid 1700's, cracker was applied specifically to the Scotch-Irish settlers (still my folks), who came to this country and settled the remote southern back country. There is a passage from a letter written during that time to the Earl of Dartmouth, which says in part, "I should explain to your Lordship what is meant by Crackers; a name they have got from being great boasters; they are a lawless set of rascalls on the frontiers of Virginia, Maryland, the Carolinas, and Georgia, who often change their places of abode."

So as it turns out, I authentically come from a long line of tough crackers - self-reliant people who settled the American south, people who relished telling a tall tale, and were constantly on the move.

As it happens, I have the talent to accentuate or eliminate my southern accent almost at will, so to some, my tough cracker past might not be obvious. But it's there, in all the stories I tell, in the way I quietly take care of my own business, and in the travels I take. I've got cracker under my skin and in my blood.

So listen, if you want to flirt with me, you're welcome to call me a Georgia peach. But if you really want to win me over, you'll need to call me a Georgia cracker. But say it with spunk, okay? Say it like you mean it.

--Laura

The (S)Low Country

Savannah is known as "The Coastal Empire." Just across the river, coastal Carolina is known as the "Low Country." Its nickname: The Slow Country.

When the marketing folks were picking out labels, you just have to wonder, "Did they mean to?"

My mother's family is gathering this week in south Georgia for a reunion, my grandfather's family name is Rollins. That side of the family is more shadowy to me than my grandmother's side of the family, dominated by close knit sisters. Two of those sisters married three of the Rollins brothers; my grandmother married one (Ralph) and my great-aunt Helen married two. Bennie died before his first son was born, and his younger brother Walter felt it was his duty to provide for the widow of his brother. This is a picture of their family in 1963.

So in a true southern cliche, our family contains double first cousins, or "kissing cousins" as some call it.

So this weekend I will drive mom down to see everyone. I will try to take lots of pictures, I will help my mom get the fruit tray which will be her contribution to the reunion potluck, and people familiar and unfamiliar will sit around a table at some random gathering hall to share stories I've heard in one form or another most of my life. They'll talk about Minnie Jean. They'll talk about Freddie. They'll talk about Harold, Walter, Austin and Ralph.

I've been to Savannah several times since I left home in 1988. This weekend it will be a distinctly different perspective, punctuated with family stories and connections. We will all pause from our usual weekend activities for a day to recall where we came from.

It will give Slow Country a whole new meaning.

--Laura

Savoring Slow Food

I woke this morning to an overcast sky and gentle rain. As I took the dogs out to do their business, I moved my strawberry plant from under the eaves where it normally resides to a spot in my yard where it would receive a drink. Yesterday at the farmer’s market I got a basil plant for a dollar, so I placed it right next to the strawberry for company. Later today I will give it a new home in a larger pot.

Yesterday I spent a few hours at the Marietta Square Farmer’s Market. The tomatoes in my garden are still ripening and ones in the grocery stores still taste like cardboard. I decided the next best thing was to buy something fresh from a local grower and get out in the sunshine.

Well okay, it was hot out there. It's July in Georgia. But it was worth the trip. I ran across raw, unpasteurized honey, all kinds of decorative and culinary herbs, beautiful artisan breads, and even cups of worms (for your compost pile). But stand back for the tomatoes.

Heirloom tomatoes are a joy to behold if you’ve never tried them. There’s just one thing you need to understand about them. They are ugly. I was talking to one of the vendors, asking her questions about hybrids versus heirloom varieties, and an elderly woman paused next to me, surveying the Cherokee purples, the green zebras and the Brandywines. She paused though at one of the tomatoes the woman called an “Aunt Anna.”

“Is it a tomato?” she asked cautiously. I nodded. “Yes ma’am,” I said. “It just looks like a mango.” She nodded, listened a few more seconds to the conversation I was having with the vendor, then moved on.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder it seems. I got a few pounds of tomatoes from each vendor who had some. And with that, I made conversation with people who felt strongly about heirloom tomatoes, who were scientific in their approach to growing them, were communal in their approach to sharing them, and who made the commitment to come out to the heat of the farmer’s market every Saturday to make their living from their own efforts.

Those tomatoes were so good.

In two weeks I’ll lay my money down again, to get enough tomatoes to put up for the fall. I still don’t know how my tomato patch will produce this year, so I want to get a batch of them now, so I don’t miss them so much in January. This will be my first experience putting up vegetables in season, and hopefully not my last.

For now though, I’m enjoying the season’s harvest – fresh, local and ugly. It was a wonderful weekend.

For more information on Georgia Organics, I encourage you to visit this website: http://www.georgiaorganics.org/

And for more information on locally grown produce in your area, click on the Local Chapters link at this website: http://www.slowfoodusa.org/