Spring Is Busting Out All Over

Greenville, South Carolina

Sunday, 7th April 20013

I had time to write Sunday morning, with the in laws going to church and all.  He runs one of the cameras that records the service and so leaves earlier to set up, while she stays behind to make sure she looks her best before leaving.

Upon their return early in the afternoon, we all drove into downtown Greenville.  I had no real expectations either way of the city, but even entering it on I-185 was impressive---with the freeway in scale with the surroundings and beautifully landscaped.  The urban forest, though largely bare or just bursting into bloom, gave a sense of history and permanence lacking in the exurbs.  The core of the city has just the right balance of old and new, height and breadth.  There is no sense of history lost.

Most impressive were the crowds strolling the streets.  I've never seen so many people walking hand in hand, but it was a perfectly balmy day---with a stiff breeze blowing at exactly the same temperature.  Love was in the air.

We bumped into a friend of theirs from the senior center---a tiny Russian who was on the way to open her gallery.  Although her gallery was home to a number of artists from amateur to impressive, most of the space was given to her tremendously prolific output.  Although her vivid and urbane style was not to my taste, she displayed good composition.  I favored her sketchy watercolors over her scratchy acrylics.

"Oh, those are my more traditional works," she replied offhandedly.  They obviously didn't interest her much, and I wondered if they were nothing more than her ideas to later reproduce in acrylics.  She has lived all over the world, and her street scenes reflected this.  Her watercolors were of the type expertly slapped out and sold on the Champs d'Elysee.

As my husband and I pursued her gallery, the in-laws stayed close to their friend, who they had not seen in some time.  It turned out her husband had been critically ill, and now it would be months before he could leave the hospital.  There was a lot of catching up to do.

"When he regained consciousness, they started asking him all sorts of questions to ascertain his mental abilities," she said once we finished our rounds.  "When they asked him who the president was, his blood pressure went sky high---so they knew he understood that question!"

There were guffaws between the three of them and wan smiles from us.  My brother-in-law winked at me and announced:  "Careful, there are a couple of liberals among us."

My husband protested because he often can't leave well enough alone when it comes to his brother.  He offered a lame dissertation about neither being liberal or conservative when they damn well knew we're liberal.  His message was that he didn't appreciate being boxed in and didn't have any real fondness for any politician.  I agree, as I'm only impressed by an exhibition of intelligence and diplomacy over party rhetoric and philosophy---and needless to say I've rarely been impressed.  Nothing gets done if one changes their politicians as regularly as their underwear---and if you want change, you need to start at home by doing something positive and a bit out of your comfort zone.  And by positive, I don't mean mounting a counter-attack...

Anyway, my husband later remarked to me about this occasion in that he was pleased that his brother had introduced me as his partner.  I was pleased that he was pleased, but there didn't seem to be any alternative other than introducing me as his love child...

Sitting in a barbecue restaurant---where I should have ordered the barbecue instead of the barbecue salad, I duly mused to myself that my in-laws weren't seeing the same things out the window as I did.  There was a lesbian couple and their three children, the two men---the one man. Of course none of them were holding hands. Sitting close to the plate glass, I was at eye level to what gay men like to look at most, and indeed it looked like spring was busting out all over Greenville.

On the streets I walked behind the other three.  Being a head taller than them made sight seeing a breeze, and I could stay out of the way of other pedestrians if I took up the rear.  So naturally I saw first to see what my husband had to turn back to point out to me: a man holding his girlfriend's hand across the corner from us.  He was built like a brick shit house, wore skintight trousers and his penis was pointing to ten o'clock and the object of his affection.

"Look," he said, too loudly.

"Shhh," I hissed.  Like I wouldn't notice that.  Not that we don't share such observations, especially on days most conducive to hand holding.

"What?" asked my brother-in-law.

I suddenly had an interest in the heavens above and my husband darted back to the curb as an avoidance maneuver.

"What?" he asked again, fortunately not to me.  Perhaps he was just once more playing the instigator.

My husband finally muttered something to his brother---obviously picturesque enough to receive an icy oh in reply.

We wandered through the Mast General Store, a Greenville fixture since 1883.  Past the large outfitting department up front one finds local foods, kitchenware and once-penny candy.  Walnettos and hard ginger candy were my favorites---the latter a complexity of mild heat, spice and a pronounced floral scent on the breath.  Horehound is to be avoided in the future.

Eventually we ended up on the river, walking midst a happy juxtaposition of the man-made and natural.  Multiple spots for lingering and lounging or listening to concerts make the parkway most inviting, and the suspended arc that is Liberty Bridge is a favorite spot to hang out and watch the water slip over the limestone shoals in the river below.  Since the water level was low, many people were tempted by the forbidden act of walking out onto the shoals---gingerly moving about on the slippery, wet surfaces.

"I could live here," I murmured to my husband beside me on the back seat.  It would only be a day before we'd be reminded of the wretched humidity, but in this moment---this hand-holding day of growth and diversity---a little brick bungalow in some downtown Greenville neighborhood literally felt good.

The Roundabout Way

Saturday, 6th April 2013


Map: Norcross, Georgia to Simpsonville, South Carolina---172 miles

Driving from Norcross to Gainsville is a study in the problems of driving the Interstates.  They can even be beautiful once one gets out into the exurbs, such as Buford---but then the smooth, climbing roll becomes bland, the endless forest with sky scraping billboards as quotations boring.  The need for speed become paramount, and motorists comply.  Of course we also covered our first 36 miles in as many minutes, avoiding the frantic stop and go of suburban Atlanta and having a true context to thoroughly enjoy the next 25 miles to Cornelia.

Old Cornelia Highway is a 1930s joy to drive---fast enough to feel like you're getting places, but rolling and banking enough for motoring pleasure.  Once above Lula the highway climbs out of the ravines and rides the ridges, offering farther vistas that occasionally reach the Smoky Mountains.  Along the way are plenty of old houses to add interest, and most of all, endless roadside service buildings---most built unusually substantial.  Many of the smallest buildings were still built of brick, quaint as cottages, though now mostly unused.  The trashy aspects of the South are largely absent.

This is still an important railroad corridor, and Lula has an annual Railroad Days every May.  There's a real sense of transportation history around there, with the rumbling train adjacent and the remains of our past highway culture.  Going a bit astray in Cornelia, we stopped at the old train station to study Patsy's GPS.  Downtown was tidy but rather empty.

From here the old highway is Georgia 13/Dicks Hill Parkway, arcing around its namesake and dropping into Toccoa---a city decimated by the fact that furniture manufacturing has moved to China.  Even the Dairy Queen was boarded up, much to our dismay.  Somehow both the Lincoln and Cadillac dealers remained open, slumming like debutantes.  East of town we passed one shuttered factory after another, although some small family businesses remained---such as So-and-So and Son Spindles and Table Legs.

Butia capita, courtesy of Google Images.

East of Toccoa we were traveling on a combine of two Georgia highways and old US 123---which became merely US 123 after crossing the South Carolina border.  The first thing I noticed there was the appearance of exotic plants---mostly the very hardy Mediterranean fan palm, but also a Butia capitata, the Pindo Palm.  While the Argentinian native is still hardier than most palms, it's considerably less hardy than the Mediterranean, being damaged by temperatures in the mid-teens and likely killed at around 10 degrees.  Perhaps the area around Westminster is what gardeners and climatologists call a 'banana belt'.  The palm is also known as the Jelly Palm for a popular South American product made from its fruit, which is intensely flavored like banana, pineapple and apricot---one flavor predominating, depending on the soil conditions.  The Butia is rare in California, mainly because it grows very slowly under any conditions.

Fruit cluster on B. capita (Google)

The scenery degenerates to strip malls at Seneca, where we stopped and substituted our ice cream craving with a Hardee's "real" chocolate shake---Dairy Queens being a rarity in South Carolina.

We drove on through prettier-from-the-highway Clemson, home of the University and the South Carolina Botanical Gardens, and then tried to make our way to my in-laws in Simpsonville over lesser highways.  We were jinxed on many levels, the first being that this atlas page was impossibly small in scale and so lacking details, such as county road numbers.  Patsy's GPS also shrugs at the Carolinas, and it doesn't help she was built before their street was.

"You're supposed to get you're GPS updated!" barked my brother-in-law over my husband's cell phone.  We had the same 'discussion' when we visited several years ago.

Since they never wander about the back roads, they had no clue where we were.  I had done well by traveling South Carolina 88 then 8 then 418 to Fountain Springs, but then my personal GPS/memory failed me and I turned to the right instead of the left and we wandered far off and around towards Woodruff.  The lack of horizon under the dull blue metallic skies really throws off my usually infallible sense of direction, but I knew I was circling in appropriately.  At least the scenery was pleasant and traffic almost non-existent.  A gaggle of Ford Model As passed us in the opposite direction.

I finally landed in the eastern outskirts of Simpsonville, me a basket of crabbiness from the loud debate going over the cell phone---and then the four of us finally figured out we were quite close to their house.  I was most annoyed with myself for not studying Google maps before we left that morning.

Patsy offered a consolation prize of 56.7 MPG---she was really making up for her previous days of lackluster performance.  The curse of systems rebooting was off her.

Family Affairs

Friday, 5th April 2013

Atlanta, Georgia

Now don't get all excited.  If you think I'm going to spill the beans here, you'll only be disappointed.  You're just going to have to wait for my book Everybody's Dead Now, Vol. 4---to be published posthumously.

Dreary weather was cast aside for springtime.  Flowering pear petals were floating in the breeze as we went for a lunch date with an ex-cousin I hadn't seen in some twenty five years.  That is, a cousin's ex.  We had reconnected through that Pandora's Box known as Facebook---she blackmailing me with fat childhood photos and I scraping for hush money payments.  Naturally I came prepared with plenty of brugmansia cuttings in all colors as well as a fragrant Petunia axillaris and a double lilac, which will likely lead a very unhappy Southern Lifestyle---but hey, something must be sacrificed.

We lunched at a very loud burrito joint---we would discover on this trip that it seems the South serves more of them than grits these days.  We maintained a conversation in spite of the music.

"You must have inherited your green thumb from your grandma," she said.  "You two were very close."

"Yes, we were," I replied---but the interior conversation was more complicated.  I ended up knowing and seeing too much.  It was a much simpler relationship when I was child, when it all revolved around flowers, buttermilk waffles and her chow mein dinners for my birthday.

"I always thought you'd take care of me," she said straight to my twenty-something face.

I burst out laughing---and I cringe at that recollection.  But hers was a passive-aggressive act, presented in front of other family members who were taking care of her the best they could.  I responded in kind.

"I have a life to lead," I replied airily.  Meaning this was a new age, where gay men aren't always nice and stay home with their mothers, or grandmothers.  I had a sex life---I mean relationships to pursue.  Never mind that I spent most of my twenties as a born-again virgin.

The music turned from grating to funky, and I strutted out of the restaurant---much to her amusement. It was good to hear her laugh as I remember it.

For some reason my husband went around the opposite end of the restaurant to Patsy Prius, so I had a moment alone with her.

"He yeeaahs in agreement just like she did---it's almost like being married to Grandma!"

The next visit was with my dear elderly auntie down off Caldwell Park---'elderly' being a family joke ever since a long-ago doctor once reported to her children that she was 'elderly' at the tender age of sixty-something.  This remembrance was only the first step going into family overdrive, which peaks at just below hysteria.  That's the way Grandma liked it---everyone practically wetting their pants (figuratively or otherwise), having fun, fun, fun.

"Can we throw our panties in your washer?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she drawled in her fifty-year-old Southern accent.  "You wrote and asked about that.  Well, I guess so."

She took me the laundry room and adjusted the dial for me, since her washer is about as old as she is and tends to start washing in spite of one's instruction.

"Put it on scalding; our panties have been on the road for a long time."

"Oh gawd," she groaned.  "Do you want me to throw some Hexol in there, too?"

We sat and visited with aunt and uncle, drinking wine and eating brie and crackers---I conscious of the next impending date.

"I guess I better call Sally at work and see where we supposed to be next," I mused.

"Oh, I can tell you all about that," replied Auntie.  "We're ordering pizza and everyone is coming here to see you."

"My, what a surprise---and to think I left my tiara at home!"

"So you can visit without all that restaurant noise.  Isn't that nice?"

Well, yes---and no.  Because one isn't going to have the same type of visiting with parental units hanging on every word.  When I was asked for a run down of Western cousin relations, I quickly got into a pinch.

"But Momma," protested a cousin, "I know what he means.  You don't ask for something else when someone brings you a gift."

So that form of visiting was dropped for family stories---which, being the family historian, I'm highly proficient at.  I'd toss one out, Auntie would elaborate and then I'd interject another story, just to see if I got a different version or new information in response.  It's sorta like playing poker---if I knew how to play poker.  This is the only game I'm good at---this storytelling, where the truth squeaks out between gales of laughter.  This time I got Auntie to admit great grandfather had a mean sense of humor.

While Auntie received but another Petunia axillaris, I brought a family heirloom for the eldest cousin: our great-grandfather's mantel clock with his and my cousin's name on its face.  It just seemed more appropriate that he have it instead of me, and then there was the happy coincidence that he'd be soon celebrating his sixtieth birthday. The lesser gift for anyone at hand was an assortment of Grandma's Fostoria, which may be still sitting behind Auntie's couch.  I'm not a sentimental person, and since the latter-day Fostoria had only vague memories of birthdays and afternoon guests attached to them I didn't want anymore.  They may divide it as they please, or sell it---as I did the pedestal cake stand to pay for a road trip before I met my husband.  After all, I'll be inheriting a lot more down the road.

In the eye of this social storm was the newlyweds, my second cousin and her husband.  Poised and slightly incredulous, they reminded me of myself and my husband when I'm not 'on' or the center of attention.  It's easy to imagine them going home and exchanging observations: Did you hear what so-and-so said? or Couldn't he butch it up a bit more?---but of course they haven't seen my back hair.  I think they may be brave enough to visit our Rancho Notorious.  I hope so; I'd like to hear more of his mellifluous voice and have a quiet conversation with her.

"I'd like to do a family reunion," sighed Sally, "but the very idea makes me tired.  I was thinking of renting a big beach house in Ventura---what do you think?"

"I think y'all should treat it like a vacation, and let everyone know far in advance when you'll be in town---and then just see what happens.  Our social arbitrator is gone, you know---I don't think we have the same drawing power as she did."

It was an evening of new girlfriends and old boyfriends, raised voices and impromptu exits---all heavily outweighed by obligatory laughter.  We'll see if we ever manage it on the grand scale as Grandma did some twenty-five years ago.