Deep South Thoughts

By the time we arrived in Savannah, Georgia, we'd adopted cartoonish southern drawls and taken to entertaining ourselves with conversations that went something like this:
"Skeeter, honey, I reckon you done missed our turn. That rat there looks like the swimmen pool."
"I don't see nuthin Cricket."
"Look rat there."
"Rat where? That lil bitty thing? We can't swim in that; it ain't no bigger n' a biscuit."
And so on and so on.

I could listen to those southern accents forever. They ran the gamut from smooth and sophisticated to almost unintelligible. I spoke to people that sounded like Jimmy Carter and to those that sounded like characters from "Porgy and Bess," with remnants of the African Gullah dialects brought to America and spoken secretly by the slaves. I found myself engaging people in conversation a little longer than usual just to hear them talk. This was easy to do because everyone was so damned polite. At first I thought this "southern hospitality" was contrived. Some of it probably was, especially in the areas catering to tourists where waitresses actually said "y'all come back now." But it seemed genuine and the nicknames given to Savannah - Hostess City of the South, and Charleston - Best-Mannered City, were both well deserved.

We began to notice the obvious and superficial distinctions between the North and the South sometime after crossing the Mason-Dixon Line in Maryland. Originally the delineation of a land dispute between two guys named Mason and Dixon, it is now a symbol of the cultural boundary that divides the North and the South. That boundary is still very real and in many ways the deep south felt like a different country.

We woke up in Rocky Mount, North Carolina after driving most of the afternoon and evening from New Jersey through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. The trees had changed; the vibrant colors of fall were behind us. The weather had changed too; it was 20 degrees warmer. And then there were those accents. The kids called there mothers "momma" for starters. And it was "rat" instead of "right." People were "fixen" to do this and they "reckoned" they'd do that. And the "y'alls" just picked up speed the farther south we traveled.

Savannah, Georgia was our next destination. But we got turned around outside of Santee, South Carolina when we stopped for gas and got seduced by a stray dog. She was a beauty. A little on the scrawny side, she looked like a brindled golden retriever. This girl was smart. She knew she had me at "woof" so she directed her most brazen flirtations toward Hilary and Layla. She wagged her tail and soulfully gazed into Hilary's eyes. She ran around in circles in front of Layla. Guarded at first, both were soon intoxicated by her southern charm. "Should we call her Carolina or Savannah?" I wondered out loud. What a great story for the blog, I thought to myself. Was this meant to be? What about the plan to simplify our lives?  We went back and forth - the first of many moral dilemmas presented by the South. We had reached the point where we were talking about where to find a veterinarian when a shiny red truck pulled into the station and off she ran, wagging her tail and putting on a little show for the driver as if he was Mr. Wonderful. "What a slut," I muttered under my breath. "Ingrate," sneered Hilary. Layla's eyes narrowed as she watched Carolina sashay into the sunset. I knew exactly what she was thinking: "You bitch."

We knew this was for the best, but the rejection still stung. So we soothed our hurt feelings with the best southern remedy for everything. Barbecue. Actually, we didn't need an excuse; we had been eating barbecued ribs and links and brisket once and sometimes twice a day since we arrived in North Carolina.We ate at the big popular chains like Ken and Candies and at the off the beaten path joints like our favorite, The Georgia Pig, a hole-in-the-wall run by 5'0" and 250 lb. "Aunt Jeanette" and her toothless, but obviously very well-fed, progeny. I wanted to take a picture of this group but, along with missing their teeth, this family seemed to be missing that "southern charm" gene and I was afraid that one of them might shoot me with a bazooka or a sling-shot.

The barbecue at Coasters in Santee was pretty good, but the local history lesson courtesy of our chatty waiter, Mark, was very informative. We were told that the people from this part of the world, known as the low country, were quite resilient. They have been economically depressed for decades, with many living below the poverty level, so the present economic crises is nothing new to them and they are weathering the storm pretty well. For anyone considering relocation, according to Mark, South Carolina is very affordable. He told us that decent homes could be had for 80K and that it wasn't hard to eke out a living in Santee on 20K a year. I quickly did the numbers. "Skeeter, honey, do you reckon we'd be happy in South Carolina?"

We decided to follow Mark's advice and stop in Charleston, South Carolina on our way to Savannah. I'm not sure why Charleston wasn't on our radar to begin with as it is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen. Both Charleston and Savannah surrendered almost immediately during the Civil War, leaving both cities looking as grand as they did in 1860. But Charleston is a much bigger city and it seemed much grander. The historic cobblestoned downtown district was much larger. There were more statues,   monuments, and cannons in the parks along the waterfront. And the mansions south of Broad Street were far more impressive than those we saw in Savannah. Charleston's reputation as the mecca for the aristocracy was apparent from the looks of those impressive antebellum mansions running for blocks and blocks in the neighborhood south of Broad Street. We were told by those in the know that a penchant for the aristocratic still lingers in this city and there is a saying that "in Atlanta, you are asked what you do, in Savannah, you are asked what you drink, and in Charleston you are asked what your mother's maiden name is." But no one asked for our credentials, and Layla held her own among the canine gentry at Battery Park at the southern tip of the city where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers meet. We wandered around the neighborhood, desperately looking for something that our waiter told us we could buy for $80,000K. "Skeet, I think he must have meant $8,000,000..."

Charleston is also a culinary destination for foodies from all over the world. We ate at the highly recommended Jestine's on Meeting St. They served the best shrimp creole I had ever tasted and they were the first restaurant we ate at in the south that didn't have Fox News blasting in the background. Lest we forget, Sean Hannity was there, in every motel lobby and in most restaurants, to remind us that we were in a very "red" section of the Bible Belt, painful in light of the recent election results. Fox News wasn't the only reminder. There were also those creepy billboards, in the shape of crosses, telling pregnant women to listen real hard for the sound of their fetuses crying "Momma, don't kill me. I'm ALIVE."

Savannah may not have had Charleston's food and culture, but there was a mysterious and sensual vibe to the city that was very unique. And that Spanish Moss... I am still dreaming of that Spanish Moss. It had this gothic fairy-tale like quality to it and it draped from the trees like trippy Halloween decorations. When the light filtered through it, especially at dusk, it had this ethereal glow that just took my breath away. It is actually a plant called an epiphyte. It grows on the branches of the oak and other trees when the temperatures are warm and the humidity is high and it flourishes in Savannah. It was particularly memorable in Forsyth Park, where "The Garden of Good and Evil" was filmed. Everyone seems to have something to say about the Spanish Moss. I've heard that it is a member of the pineapple family, that it is not toxic, that it is filled with bugs and very toxic, and that it is somehow even responsible for the east-coast bed-bug epidemic. In any event, it was very beautiful and the Spanish Moss will be indelibly linked to my memories of Savannah.

I almost forgot about another highlight of our visit to Savannah. After walking around the Colonial Cemetary, we decided to visit the museum in the Congregation Mickve Israel, the oldest Jewish synagogue in the south. We turned the corner and there was Bevis Marks staring right at us. An ancestor? Hard to be sure, but Hilary learned a lot about Bevis Marks, one of the first Jewish settlers and the founder of the synaagogue, originally called Bevis Synagogue. As for me, I finally understood my strange fascination with the "Beavis and Butthead" cartoon characters. Heh, heh, heh.

We were about 30 miles out of town when the "check engine" light came on. Shit. I guess we better go back to Savannah. After three hours of diagnostic testing, it was determined that we will probably need a new catalytic converter in order to pass smog in California. But according to our mechanic, nothing needed to be done in Georgia because "down here in the deep and dirty south, we don't give a shit about emissions and pollution and such." Probably because they all watch Fox News and don't believe in global warming..."

After spending all afternoon at the Subaru dealership, we decided to spend the night on Jekyll Island, an old cotton plantation nicknamed "Georgia's Jewel," about an hour south of Savannah. We got an additional dose of Spanish Moss, walked on the beautiful beach, and stopped by a rehabilitation center for turtles where the patients float around with little bandages and splints and eye-patches even. Aaargh. It might have been really depressing if we hadn't learned that many of the turtles recover completely and are successfully returned to the sea.

There was a lot to love about both South Carolina and Georgia. Impressive old cities with magnificent mansions, historical landmarks, and old-towns with cobblestone streets and horse drawn carriages that hearkened us back to another era. Of course I couldn't help thinking about the price that had been paid for that era. It was hard not to think about it. Plantation tours are a booming business and little trains and golf carts carry tourists through the grand manors and the refurbished slave quarters. The Savannah Cotton Exchange is now a historic monument along the Savannah River. And the Old Slave Mart Museum in Charleston was a reminder of exactly how the southern wealth was amassed. It was especially difficult to think about our country's history as we considered the deeper and more disturbing distinctions that still exist between North and South. Confederate flags flew unapologetically as soon as we got out of the cities. And active secession movements remain afoot in both South Carolina and Georgia. If the south seemed like a different country, maybe it's because there are forces still trying to make it a different country. While racial divides exist throughout the United States, it is just seems more overt in the south. At times, all of this made it feel wrong to even appreciate the beauty of Charleston, Savannah, and the south in general. Yet it's beauty couldn't be denied and, in the end, the undercurrents of something ugly were part of the southern experience.

Shopping for houses in Charleston, South Carolina

We were told we could find something in the 80K range

I guess our waiter at Coasters

wasn't talking about the houses south of Broad St.

Hilary had a brainstorm while looking at the cannons at Battery Park, Charleston

We had recently watched "Dr. Strangelove" again

Let's channel Slim Pickens

Painful reminders in Charleston

And in Savannah

Spanish Moss in Savannah

Layla in the Garden of Good and Evil, Forsyth Park, Savannah

Historic Downtown Savannah

This might explain my attraction to cartoon characters

Jekyll Island, Georgia

I needed another dose of Spanish Moss

And a trip to the turtle rehabilitation center where

we watched them treat injured turtles

And patch them up with turtle bandages

So that they could heal and return to the sea

Y'all come back now

Ya hear?

And if y'all don't like the blog, blame my ghost-writer

.

A Sign Of The Times

I have been complaining about the state of baby strollers for years now. I think they represent everything that's wrong with the world. They are big and ostentatious and unnecessary. Now they are being made by Gucci and Burberry and Pierre Cardin. Bigger is better, money is no object, and everyone has to have the "best." But forget about America's obsession with excess. These "doublewides" are downright dangerous. They crowd the streets of San Francisco from Pacific Heights to the Mission. And don't even get me started on Chestnut Street; it's definitely the most hazardous street in the city. Sleep-deprived zombies wielding lattes, cell phones and obligatory golden retrievers, navigate these mini-hummers down the block, leaving scores of dirty looks and sore toes in their wake. Don't get me wrong. I don't hate children. I have a child. And I used a stroller. But these things are ridiculous.

So imagine my delight when I saw the "no strollers allowed" signs all over New York City. On the Upper East Side and down in the West Village, the news for twins and triplets (thank you in-vitro) and their harried parents was not good. Even in breeder-friendly Brooklyn, the signs were everywhere. Hopefully this is a sign of the times; New York will live up to it's reputation as a global trendsetter and San Francisco will be a little safer by the time I return home.

While we were staying in Jersey, we tried to eat in New York City as often and as much as possible. There were two visits to Katz's, the lower east side institution made famous by that scene from "When Harry met Sally." I had what she had. And then I had it again the next day. We also made the pilgrimage to Grimaldis, at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. Droves of New Yorkers wait in line for over an hour to eat the best pizza in the city. "It's just Pizza!" someone shouted from a passing car. We also ate at John's in Greenwich Village and at Al Di La, the hottest spot in Park Slope, Brooklyn. But some of the best food on this trip came from the cafeteria of a Hindu temple in North Jersey. I ate the best dosas in my life and insisted on going back 3 times in the two weeks we were there. We were always welcome despite being the only only honkies on the premises.

New York City is intoxicating. The women are beautiful and fashionable and I love trying to get a sense of where the fashion trends are moving. It's blacks and greys and charcoals with short skirts and tights and boots with a flourish (to make them different than last year's styles.) We spent a lot of time visiting our step-mother on the upper east side and the kid's stores on Madison Avenue just kill me. I would wear those outfits designed for three year olds, many in back and drab olive. They were exquisite and obscene at the same time. And speaking of exquisite and obscene, I ran into Janice Dickinson on 37th and Lexington. She's a supermodel from the seventies and eighties who went a little crazy with the plastic surgery. I thought she looked beautiful, but scary. "Which would I rather be," I wondered, "old or scary? I'm embarrassed to say I'm leaning toward scary...

We had our dog with us this time, and the city felt different to me. I liked it; I gave me a sense of what it must feel like to live in New York City. Instead of doing the usual museum circuit, we spent more time walking around the city with the dog. We strolled in Central Park, Washington Square, and Prospect Park. Layla continued to be a big hit wherever she went. Our beautiful black and brindle mutt was especially popular on the upper east side; we suspected white guilt, but who can know for sure?

New York is also intense and fast-paced and aggressive. When I returned to San Francisco after spending a week in Manhattan last summer, "Bagdad by the Bay" seemed so low-key. There was almost too much space between the people on the streets. And everyone seemed so casual and relaxed. I really missed interacting with New Yorkers. It's not that I found them particularly friendly. Far from it. I found them subtly arrogant; the whole city seems to think/know that it's  better than all the others. Once engaged, however, New Yorkers skip the formalities and cut to the chase. Since patience is not my strength, this style suits me well. I thought then and now that I could easily get used to living in this town. Still, it's even more expensive to live in New York than in San Francisco (NY is #1 most expensive city in the US and SF is #5.) And my goal these days is to simplify my life; to learn to get by on less not more. So I'm not sure New York is such a good idea on that front. And yet I can't stop thinking about the corned beef at Katz's...

Still the city with the most famous skyline in the world

And the best Jewish delicatessens

And the best thin-crust pizza

And the best brownstones

Our dog, Layla, got us out in the streets

In Prospect Park with our cousin Alex

And in Central Park with step-mother Rhoda

And in Washington Square Park at night

I love NYC, but it is a little crowded

And at times I feel the sensory overload

It's hard to get around during rush hour, which is most of the time

And shopping is difficult without a car

Tom Joad in Greenwich Village, "It's a nice place to visit, but it's time to hit the road"

Ba-Da-Bingville

Is it my imagination or is New Jersey becoming cool? It seems that people are more interested, impressed even, with our connection to the Garden State these days. What's up with that?

Let's face it, New Jersey has gotten a bad rap over the years. And certainly much of it is well deserved.  New Jersey is, after all,  the car theft capital of the world. Camden was recently voted the nation's most dangerous city. Jimmy Hoffa is reportedly buried under either Giants Stadium or the New Jersey Turnpike. And the Garden State has more toxic waste dumps than anywhere else in the world. I suppose all of those pharmaceutical companies decorating the corridors of Hwy 22 have to do something with their trash. In fact, New Jersey's trash problem is legendary. Abundant garbage dumps and a long history of industrial pollution are responsible for the nickname "The Garbage State." How much garbage are we talking about? Well, enough to warrant a Trash Museum.

Still, New Jersey has consistently produced far more than massive amounts of garbage. Some of America's most popular artists and performers hail from New Jersey: Bruce Springsteen, of course, Bon Jovi, Patti Smith, Simon and Garfunkel, Jack Nicholson, Alan Ginsburg and Jon Stewart, to name just a few. And every Italian restaurant in the state has that booking photo of native son Frank Sinatra on it's wall. New Jersey is also lush and green and very beautiful; it is called the Garden State for good reason. It is home to the United States Equestrian Team and many of New York's most affluent suburbs. It boasts the nation's most liberal State Supreme Court and the governor of New Jersey eliminated the death penalty in 2007. Wow.

There is a  mystique to New Jersey as well. It is one of the original 13 colonies and there are some reports that it is ... haunted. It was dubbed the "Crossroads of the Revolution" because of  the many important battles that took place during the American Revolution and, according to some, casualties still roam their burial grounds. My husband has been telling me the ghost stories for years. One of them goes something like this: Hilary and his friend, Little Dee Pasquale were alone in the study one night when they heard the sounds of breakfast being cooked in the kitchen. They saw the lights go on under the kitchen door and they heard cupboards opening and closing and the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan. They could hear the sounds of footsteps and voices. When they walked toward the kitchen, the lights went out and the noises stopped. They opened the door and there was... no-one there. Recently, I was told this story for the fiftieth time and I still got shivers.

And then there is the legend of the Jersey Devil. The offspring of someone called the "Leeds Witch," the Jersey Devil is reported to live in the Southern Pine forests where it sports wings and cloven hooves and kills animals and small children. Pretty interesting stuff.

Yet I suspect America's new found fascination with all things Jersey has more to do with the success of a couple of  television shows that are set here in this state. "The Sopranos," of course, is the HBO masterpiece about lovable and not so lovable mobsters from Jersey who plot their dirty deeds from the backrooms of a strip club called the Ba-Da-Bing. "Don't disrespect the Bing!" And "Jersey Shore," is the MTV (definitely not a masterpiece) reality phenom about idiots with big muscles and bigger hair who run around calling each other "guidos" and "guidettes." Leave it to offensive stereotyping to capture the perverse fascination of the American public. In any event, New Jersey has much to offer and you would do well to follow the Official State Slogan and "Come See For Yourself."

We have been here for almost two weeks now, staying with our friends on their farm in Oldwick, a township (they don't have towns here) in northern New Jersey. This is a real farm, with sheep and chickens and my favorite, a Mediterranean Donkey, like the one Mary rode into Nazareth on. There are rolling hills, a creek that meanders through a black walnut forest and pastures where the animals wander around looking like paintings. Our friends, Ana and Henry, have given us a beautiful apartment in the loft of their refurbished barn and they tell us they don't ever want us to leave. They have been incredibly gracious. Their dog, Nika, however, may be the Jersey Devil.

Nika introduced herself to our dog, Layla, by promptly lunging at her neck. She continued with these "special hellos" during the course of our stay. I pretended not to freak out as Hilary and Henry tried to convince each other that the girls would "work it out." Nika wasn't having any of it. We took to planning our comings and going with military strategy. "You watch the door and I'll cover her on the way to the car. Go, now!" Layla began dragging on her leash as we walked toward the house and at times she refused to leave the barn at all. I didn't blame her and we thought we might have to cut our visit short.

Nika would back off for brief periods of time, only to attack again when least expected. Like when Layla was rolling in the hay (she was such a cheap fighter) or when we were leaving the main house for the barn (we were leaving for Christ's sake.) Henry finally kicked at Nika during one of the attacks (frankly, this is something I wish he'd done a lot sooner) and she slunk off and hid under the bed for a few hours. "Good," I thought. "Maybe that will do it." Wrong. The next morning, she went for Layla's neck again as I turned to take a picture of the donkey. Okay, that was it. I lost it. "Don't you fucking touch her" I was shaking as I screamed at the top of my lungs." And don't you EVER  fucking touch her again. EVER! Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?" Henry and Hilary just stared at me. But Nika rolled over on her back and submitted for the first time since we arrived. From that point on, Nika cringed and withdrew a little whenever she saw me coming. But things began to improve and there were moments when the girls actually played together. They had worked it out after all and when it was time for us to leave, Layla didn't want to get in the car.

Ana is an artist who can turn walls into things of beauty with gold-leafing, glaze and  venetian plaster. I tagged along on one of her jobs and learned all about venetian plaster. "That's great," said my mother, "You're finally learning a trade." Uh, I was a nurse and a lawyer, but okay." Ana has lived in Jersey most of her life, but she was raised in the Dominican Republic and this combination gives her a very unique and entertaining spin on the world. Willing to give her opinion on almost everything, she is particularly ruthless, and often hilarious, when the subject turns to corporate corruption. Or genetically engineered food. Or western medicine. I am the choir, of course, and completely agree with her assessment that the world is in big trouble because a bunch of "Dooosh Bags" are running the show.

While Ana and I made things beautiful, Hilary played farmer with Henry. According to Ana, much of the work on a farm entails moving things from one pile to another and  Henry's farm does look a bit like an antique shop. When I told Henry about New Jersey's Trash Museum, he asked me where it was. Ana already knew: "It's on  your farm Henry." One of Hilary's jobs was collecting the fresh eggs every morning. Which are, by the way, incredibly delicious. It turns out that eggs taste better when they come from chickens who run around with their beaks intact. So you might want to find out where your eggs come from. Or where your chickens come from (whichever is first.)

Hilary's farm instincts turned out to be a lot better than Layla's. She continued to try and engage the sheep and the donkey as if they were big dogs. The first time she ran up behind the donkey, I was relieved when it turned around; I thought it was going to walk away. Not so, according to Henry. Apparently the donkey was getting ready to kick Layla's head into New York City. "Laaaaylaaaaaaa."

And then there was the unfortunate incident with the chicken. The gate was left open one morning and somehow Layla found her way into the chicken coop. The corpse was found later in the afternoon - the chalk outline is still in the straw. There were no witnesses to the crime. None that can talk, that is. But the circumstantial evidence pointed to Layla. "Great," I thought. "Farm living has turned Layla into homicidal sociopath." I knew from my experience as a criminal defense attorney that most inmates on death row 1) had been victims of domestic violence and 2) had tortured and abused animals. Layla was certainly a victim of domestic violence (thank you again Nika) and now she'd killed a chicken. Was she in danger of becoming a serial killer next? We considered staying on in Jersey. "They've abolished the death penalty," I thought, "At least we'd be able to visit her on weekends." But nowhere was calling again, and it was time to hit the road.

Henry and Ana were really happy to have us on the farm

The Jersey Devil (aka Nika) wasn't as gracious

This was a real farm

With a tractor

And sheep and a donkey

A very, very cute donkey named Abilene

The sheep were cute too. But they didn't have names. I don't want to talk (or think) about why.

The Back Forty

And The Trash Museum

Preventing another attack

Her speed saved her ass a few times

I think the girls worked things out (but I'd never leave them alone)

One of the lucky survivors

Henry insisted that everyone, including Layla, eat the fresh eggs

Learning a Trade

You can take the boy out of Jersey...

Life on the farm was a lot of work

The Reisen Family Farm 

Cover Shot for 2010 Farmer's Almanac