Solomon's Castle

I didn't know there was going to be a mechanical problem when I'd scheduled our van for a routine oil change in a neighboring town (my hometown of Arcadia, to be exact). In fact, to maximize the efficiency of my day, I'd also arranged for Maggie (our dog) to have a routine teeth cleaning and toenails clipping while the van was being serviced. When I was told by the service tech that it'd be some time before a diesel expert was available to do my repair work, I rented a car and went to pick Maggie up, only to be told that she'd not yet come out from under anesthesia and could not be released. Hmmm ... what to do with my time? I tried calling a couple of friends, neither of whom was home. Aimlessly, I began to drive a little west of town, then decided to turn on the Second Bunker Road, a rural route which has a pretty spectacular view: looking back toward Arcadia, you see the that the town does sit elevated above the Peace River, hence its old name "Tater Hill Bluff." (Just a little Florida Cracker history for you.)

Next thing I knew, I was driving on the First Bunker Road, past some orange groves that my dad used to tend, past Oak Hill, toward Limestone. (Don't bother, you may not find all of these names on the map.) I saw the sign for "Solomon's Castle" and made the spontaneous decision that I would pay a visit. On toward Lily, and then the drive toward the castle. Though I'd heard of this attraction for years, I'd never been there. I believe that Howard Solomon first began building his remote Florida paradise in 1972, after I'd already left Arcadia for college. On subsequent visits home, and even during a brief period after college graduation when I returned to Arcadia to teach, there always seemed to be something more pressing than going out to visit what I'd assumed to be just another tacky tourist trap. This day, I hadn't passed another car on the road for several miles (only great trucks hauling late-season oranges and watermelons) so I was very surprised to find a dozen or so cars in the parking lot for the castle.

And after paying my admission I was again surprised, in realizing that Solomon's Castle is far from being a tacky tourist trap. It is (a) a monument to recycling, the epitome of the old saying that "One man's trash is another man's treasure;" (b) a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a true artist; (c) proof that "If you build it, they will come;" (d) a lot of fun; (e) all of the above. It is difficult to describe in words what you'll find, but here's a link to the website: Solomon's Castle

I enjoyed seeing old metal coat hangers made into a zoo that included a giraffe and an elephant. There were numerous sculptures made out of discarded oil drums. There were montages paying tribute to masters such as Picasso and Matisse. And lots of jokes and really bad puns about the different works of art that revealed a delightful wit. (Even the restrooms -- sporting an old "Rooms To Go" sign -- were labeled with humor.)

The tour of the "castle" is but a small part of the experience. If you're hungry, you can get a really delicious home-made meal or scrumptious dessert in the "Boat in the Moat." There's shopping, of course, for both Howard's works as well as some carefully selected items that echo a nature theme. I chose to wander one of the trails leading down to Horse Creek, and marveled at how long it'd been since I'd felt good ol' Florida scrub sand between my toes. Heck, with advance reservations, you can spend the night in the castle, or in the luxurious B&B that's on the grounds!

I'm not sure this event qualifies as "serendipitous." Perhaps it lacks the connection to divine providence that a strict definition of serendipity requires. However, the experience refreshed me, and reinforced for me the notion that there are treasures all around, sometimes hidden under our noses, sometimes (as in my case) for years ... and maybe it takes a little inconvenience or some similarly not-altogether-pleasant thing to nudge us in their direction. Yes, I'm disappointed that our van is still, as of this writing, waiting for the mechanic, and no one seems to know just when it'll be set right. (Maggie, by the way, is right as rain!) But it turned out to be a fun day, an enlightening experience ... and quite an inspiration.

Maggie Muggins at Biltmore

We are now staying in what we consider our home away from home: Swannanoa, North Carolina.  Endured a terrific wind storm on our first night, but since then, it's been pretty tranquil.  We do love it here.

Today, Maggie Muggins (our dog) and I went to the Biltmore Estate, which is currently celebrating its Festival Of Flowers.  The two of us gals had previously visited the Estate's Riverbend Farm back in July, so we concentrated our sightseeing on the gardens adjacent to Biltmore House.  The photo is one of The Mags examining water lilies in the Italian Garden.

Visiting gardens with a dog is probably as much fun as visiting a circus with a child -- minus the excited chatter!  Maggie wanted to explore every path, sniff every tree, delight in wading through the ivy that covered the ground.  Her senses must have been overwhelmed, especially with the scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and rose that perfumed the air. 

I wonder how many people visit the grand Biltmore House without ever venturing into its gardens?  The house, its furnishings, its priceless works of art are indeed a wonder to behold and not to be missed.  But inside the house, one must keep moving along with the long line of visitors; there's no place to stop and take time to process the experience.  There are several Flemish tapestries, for example, that have all sorts of Biblical or classical imagery woven into them, and I've often wished that I could pull up a chair with a friend and take time to identify every scene or event depicted in those tapestries.  Impossible!

It's all different in a garden.  There's plenty of time for contemplation, for study ... for simple enjoyment of nature.  Take a look at the first picture above.  Maggie had to choose to cross stepping stones over a rushing stream in order to continue on our path.  Pretty scary stuff for a dog!  She hesitated at first (so did I) but figured out how to get across, because she wanted to experience everything.  Instinctively, I suppose, she knew that there were great rewards beyond that obstacle.  If she were able to talk, she'd probably tell you that her instincts were right!  It reminds me of a quote that my grandmother had in her house: "You're nearer God's heart in a garden, Than anywhere else on earth."

Smoky Mountain Side Trip

Greg and I have made little day trips into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Maggie has gone too, and yesterday's visit was along the Gatlinburg Trail, which is one of few Park trails that dogs are permitted on. Today we got up really early and went into Cades Cove to view wildlife, and were rewarded with sightings of wild turkey, groundhog, deer, and even one bear. We were absolutely blown away by how calm the animals were, as if they know they have a safe haven inside the park.

The Great Smoky Mountains had human inhabitants for many, many centuries. First, of course, were the Cherokee, who camped and hunted there. In the early 1800's, Scots-Irish settlers came to farm, raise livestock, and log. In 1927, the states of Tennessee and North Carolina began buying tracts of land which they would eventually give to the federal government for the establishment of a national park in 1933. This must've been quite a hardship on families who'd lived in the Smokies for generations, and a few resisted the forcible sale of their land, though ultimately  they lost their battles against the government. Residents who agreed to accept a little less money for their land were permitted to remain on it until their deaths, but their descendants could not inherit.

The Great Smoky Mountains is the only park in the National Park system which was created from privately owned land. Lumber companies had owned more than 85% of the park, and had logged vast portions of it. Though I can certainly empathize with the hardy souls who'd carved out their daily existence in those mountains, their sacrifice, forced though it may have been, was a boon to us all, and particularly to the wildlife. When white settlers first came to the Smokies, deer and bear were described as "plentiful." By the time the National Park was created, only an estimated 30 deer lived in the park. Otter, once hunted for their pelts, were no longer to be found in the mountains by the 1920s; elk had disappeared from the landscape in the mid-1800s due to overhunting and loss of habitat. The deer population is now at an ecologically sustainable level, and both otter and elk have been reintroduced. About 1500 bears live in the park, and the park now boasts the greatest biological diversity of any area in the world's temperate zone.

After leaving Cades Cove, we slipped into Townsend, Tennessee, to pay a visit to the Wood-N-Strings Dulcimer Shop. Now we're back at our campsite in Pigeon Forge, listening to thunder in the distance and enjoying a cooling afternoon rain.

Here are a few more pictures from The Smokies and Cades Cove:

This photo was taken along the Gatlinburg Trail, near the Sugarlands Visitor Center. It's an easy trail -- the first half-mile or so is paved -- a perfect warm-up for future visits into the park!

The Primitive Baptist Church in Cades Cove -- the church was founded in 1827, and this building was built in 1887. To the left is a cemetery. One of the stones bears this epitaph: "_____ murdered by North Carolina Rebels." This congregation were Union sympathizers and had to suspend services because of harassment from Rebels. From an official church correspondence: "We the Primitive Baptist Church in Blount County in Cades Cove, do show the public why we have not kept up our church meeting. It was on account of the Rebellion and we was Union people and the Rebels was too strong here in Cades Cove. Our preacher was obliged to leave sometimes, and thank God we once more can meet."

These deer couldn't have cared less that we were about 60 yards away. They are used to visitors, and know quite well that they own the place!

The cabin of George Washington "Carter" Shields

Yes, that really is a bear in the center of this photo. Yes, that's about the best shot I could capture of it. About 1500 bears live in the park, but for the most part they manage to elude visitors.

George

Just when you think you've seen everything ...

I've mentioned how much I enjoy the street festivals: getting to play dulcimer out in the fresh air, seeing old friends, making new friends, selling CDs, promoting our upcoming events ... people-watching is enjoyable, too, and, in many of the festivals we enjoy dog-watching. Dunedin, Florida, the site of last weekend's festival, is one of the best places to see dogs on parade! It's near a huge dog-racing track, so there are all sorts of rescued Greyhounds to admire; over the years I've also come to recognize the three Chihuahuas who are shuttled around in the baby carriage, the two Boxers, the huge black Great Dane; we saw dogs of all sizes and colors and breeds ... 

So who was the Pet of the Weekend? George, the goose. Yes, that's right. An exceptionally well-trained goose, who evidently thinks he's a person. He was quite a celebrity. He graciously allowed children and adults alike to pet him. He certainly wasn't intimidated by the dogs. He paused, briefly, to check out my CDs ... but his master, who was a few paces ahead, called out, "C'mon, George, you're falling behind!" And George waddled along, squawking under his breath, to catch up.

We're still chuckling.

Blackjack

The past 10 days in Ohio have been for the most part unseasonably warm, and the leaves slow to change to their autumn hues.  But in the last three or four days we've been treated to a riot of color as the trees have finally begun to break into their rich golds and yellows; deep, almost purplish, reds; and my favorite of all, a shimmering color that's too soft to be red, yet too vibrant to be orange; I've decided it's God's Own Red, and it takes my breath away every time I see it.

Our Ohio place of residence was the Lock 30 Woodlands RV Resort, "officially" located in Lisbon but actually closer to tiny Elkton.  It may be the nicest campground we've ever stayed in, with all of the campsites forming a single-file ring around a huge partially wooded infield.  I'm a little too spoiled to declare it perfect, as we had only intermittent cell phone service and no cable TV, but there was WiFi, a spotless laundry, a game room with pool, foosball and arcade games, and a library.

And there was Blackjack.  When we first arrived, I was a little suspicious of the large black dog that wandered around the grounds.  Since campgrounds are usually very strict about dogs being on leash, I assumed that he must be a stray, or a wayward resident of some nearby farm.  But after observing him a couple of days, I noticed that he made rounds, visiting select campsites, hanging out for a brief period, then moving on.  One day as I left the laundry, he loped over towards me and began to follow me back towards our site.  Knowing that he might not be welcomed by our own pooch, Maggie Muggins, I turned to him and firmly said, "No.  You stay."  To  my amazement, he obeyed.

A few hours later, Greg and I were sitting outside with Maggie when the black dog, quietly and with bowed head, began pacing back and forth at the entrance to our site.  It was as if he were asking permission to visit.  What a polite dog (if a dog can be polite)!  We called to him; slowly and cautiously, he approached us.  But Maggie would have none of it!  She strained at the end of her chain, barking and growling, defending her little territory against this intruder.  So the black dog made a dignified retreat (if a dog can be dignified), as if to say, "I do not go where I am not wanted.  There are plenty of others who welcome me and I don't need to waste my time."

I was sorry for the snippy behavior of my pet, so I followed the dog until we were out of Maggie's sight, then called to him.  He immediately lay down and rolled over which, if you are a dog lover, you know is the dog's way of signifying that he's not a threat and doesn't consider you to be one either.  I petted the huge head and rubbed the belly and as he turned to face me, saw that he had only one eye.  "Poor old fellow," I thought, "what's your story?"  His collar said that he was Blackjack, and listed an address that looked familiar; perhaps the address of the campground itself.  Greg came over then, and the two of them had a brief visit, before Blackjack made off for the rest of his rounds.

Next day I was at the laundry when one of the workers drove up in a golf cart, and who should be her passenger, but Blackjack.  So I asked her about him, and was told that he was "sort of the campground dog."  As to the eye and the slight limp, I was told that in his younger days, Blackjack was an inveterate chaser of cars, who liked to pretend to bite at the tires.  But one winter day, the truck that he was chasing slid on a patch of ice, and Blackjack was hit.  Badly injured, he ran off into the woods -- to die, they thought, and though they searched and called, he was not to be found.  But two days later, Blackjack came back.  It took a while for him to mend from his injuries, and his blinded eye had to be removed, but he did recover, and his tire-biting days are long past.  Nowadays, Blackjack trots alongside certain vehicles, occasionally barking, noisily, happily, but always at a safe distance.

I suppose Blackjack's story is much like the story many of us could tell.  We engage ourselves in foolish pursuits, the possible negative consequences of which are so obvious to practically everyone but ourselves.  Sometimes we encounter suffering and pain -- and not necessarily of the physical kind.  The wisest among us learn from the experience.  But the wisdom is in two parts: one part is the specific lesson learned; one part is in the approach to the lesson.  Dogs have the right approach -- they may appear to possess human virtues such as politeness and dignity, but they are incapable of the bitterness and self-recrimination that we humans wallow in after a setback.  And they certainly are incapable of destructive wishful thinking -- you know, the one where you think over the bad situation and analyze it to determine the specific error that led to your injury, and then you spend lots of time wishing that you could continue your behavior unchanged except for that one outcome.  If Blackjack were human, he may have decided that the blame lay with the icy road conditions, rather than chasing cars!

But dogs aren't human -- thank goodness! -- they're dogs, and they live in the here and now, rather than in the what if and if only.  I've long suspected that God gave us dogs as examples of unconditional love, faith, loyalty, trust, living in the present and so much more; yet I know that God's lessons come through whatever "teacher" we are most in tune with.

I'd like to say that Maggie and Blackjack eventually became best buddies, but that's not what happened.  Oh, there was the time that Greg ducked inside the trailer to fill Maggie's water dish, and returned outside  to find that she'd somehow slipped her lead and was heading full-tilt toward -- you guessed it -- Blackjack.  We held our breaths as we watched the two dogs circle each other, sniffing at pawing at each other.  When we called to Maggie, Blackjack turned toward us with a grin (if a dog can grin) and then galloped right over to where we were standing, Maggie frisking right behind him.  When it was Frosty Paw (a frozen treat for dogs) time that night, we gave Maggie her treat, and Blackjack one too (he happily ate both the ice cream and the paper cup!).  After they'd had their little frolic that afternoon, and later had eaten their treats in companionable silence, Greg and I figured that Maggie had finally warmed to Blackjack.  But it was not to be.  She continued to snarl and snap whenever he offered to come on our site ... and he continued with his philosophical acceptance of her behavior.

Good-bye, ol' Blackjack, 'til next year!  You taught me a lot in a short period of time.  Good Boy!    

Pilgrimage to Cooperstown

It is the dream of every baseball fan to make a pilgrimage to Cooperstown, New York, the birthplace of baseball and home to its Hall Of Fame. Greg (a Mets fan) and I (a Red Sox fan) decided to fulfill that dream for ourselves today.

Baseball has been a part of my life since I can remember. My dad was a huge fan, and some of my fondest memories are of us watching baseball games called by players-turned-TV-commentators Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese. My grandfather was a fan, too; heck, he had a cat named Stan, after Stan "The Man" Musial. My brother evidently took after him, as he named our pet chow mix Roger Maris, just a couple of years after Maris beat Babe Ruth's single-season home run record. My mom got into the act, too, with an amazing trading card collection (that was unfortunately lost to us after my grandmother sold her home, leaving all of the contents of the attic to the new owner).

Young ladies did not play baseball when I was growing up. At least not formally! Thus, the DeSoto County (Arcadia, Florida) Little League was deprived of what would have been one of its most consistent hitters, in my best friend Nancy York, and one of its hardest throwers, in me. We contented ourselves with pick-up games in the vacant lot next to our house; Nancy routinely hit home runs and I was always called upon whenever one of the neighborhood boys needed to break in a new glove. In later years, after we both began teaching school, Nancy and I would catch as many "Grapefruit League" (Florida's spring training) games as we possibly could, sometimes even taking sick leave to do so! (I guess it's safe to reveal that now, since we're both retired!) Nancy's a Red Sox fan, too, so most of our trips were made to parks where the Sox were playing. I can even still recite the starting lineup for the 1979 team! Disappointed by the Sox's loss to the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1967 World Series, disbelieving of the loss to the Cincinnati Reds in the '75 World Series, devastated by Bill Buckner's error that helped the New York Mets turn it around and beat the Sox in the '86 World Series ... I cried tears of joy when the Red Sox finally won the 2004 World Series over the Cardinals. I only wish my all-time favorite player, Carl Yastrzemski, could have been a player on that 2004 roster. Below is an exhibit that pays tribute to "Yaz" and the 1967 team. Hey, Carl, I finally made it, even if it is 18 years late ...

There's more to Cooperstown than just baseball, Greg and I discovered. There's also the Glimmerglass Opera that must be awesome, because it certainly has an impressive facility; The Farmers' Museum, with its carefully preserved buildings and demonstrations of farm life; The Fenimore Art Museum -- hey, I didn't realize that James Fenimore Cooper had ties to this area! I've never read any of his books, but now I'm inspired to do so. I'm sure we'll pay another visit here one of these years, because the area has a yesteryear charm that is disappearing from the American landscape. And Maggie Muggins seems to really love it here -- the Amish fellow who works at the KOA drives to work every day in his horse-drawn carriage, and Maggie is absolutely fascinated with that horse! 

Autumn In New England

We're headed toward Northern Ohio for Christmas In The Woods.

After the close of The Big E, I was so happy at the prospect of spending a few extra days in Massachusetts -- seems like my whole life I've heard about "Autumn in New England!" This year, autumn was a little different: extreme record-setting heat delayed the leaves' changing color. Despite the lack of color and the peculiar haze in the air (due to the unseasonal heat), the scenes were really beautiful.

The only activity we permitted ourselves during the last week was visiting with the good friends we've made in Western Massachusetts over the past few years. One evening I got the grand tour of the area from my friend Peggy. We drove through her hometown of Holyoke, and through Easthampton, Southampton (everywhere a Hampton, Hampton), and had a spectacular sunset dinner at Tavern On The Hill, in Easthampton. We talked and laughed for hours!

We also spent some time at Collins Tavern, which Greg and I had discovered on our very first trip to the area, five years ago. Collins caught Greg's eye as we were tooling around in a totally unfamiliar area, trying to find materials for our Big E display. "West Springfield's Best Kept Secret," he mused, "Looks like a friendly place. Let's stop in after we've finished our errands."

It was a little after lunch time when we got back to Collins. The menu, hand lettered on a dry-erase board, boasted items such as Sausage Grinder -- $2 ... Meatloaf Sandwich -- $1.75 ... Pot Roast Soup -- $1.75 ... and at the bottom of the board, the phrase I Can't Believe It Myself. I tried the soup, and I couldn't believe it, either. It was goood! We made several stops there before the fair, and on some nights, stopped in after the fair closed. It was a great refuge from the busy-ness of the fair, a great place to grab a bite of non-"fair food." And, gradually, we made friends. Over the years since, we've made even more.

At Collins everybody knows your name ... like "Cheers" of TV fame, without the dysfunction! On one of the front windows is painted the slogan, "You're a stranger but once" and it's the truth. Bob LeDoux, the hard-working but ever-smiling owner, is the soup chef and chief cook, and he genuinely likes to see people well-fed and happy. His daughter, Melissa Cauley, is another one of the hardest-working people I've ever known. Melissa's vision for Collins has brought a grill and fryer and some delicious new temptations on the menu, like the Philly Cheesesteak, sweet potato fries, and the oddly-named but delicious Buzzy's Big-Ass Kielbasa Sandwich, but the prices remain unbelievably low.

Here's a public "thank-you" to Melissa and her husband, John, for all they've given us over the years: storing our display set-up in their basement, accepting shipments of merchandise for us, finding interesting places for us to have dinner; most of all, smiles and encouragement and good friendship. And thanks to Bob for the gorgeous jacket, embroidered with a Collins Tavern logo, that he gave to Greg. Hey, Bob, you wondered if Greg would ever be able to use a heavy lined windbreaker down in Florida -- you gave it to him less than a week ago, and he's already wearing it here in New York! What a perfectly well-timed gift! I Can't Believe It Myself!