Bearded Trees

Whenever we travel to Georgia to see my family, I know we're getting close when I start seeing Spanish moss in the trees. The closer we get to the coast, the more there is of it, and the happier and more at home I begin to feel. Spanish moss is in fact, not a moss at all, but an epiphytic plant, a plant that grows on another plant (in this case, trees) but which does not rely on the host plant for nutrients. Although it is not a parasite, it can cause some harm by blocking needed sunlight, weighing down and breaking branches, and in hurricanes, by creating more wind resistance and causing greater damage to the tree during storms.
Besides making the trees interesting or creepy-looking, depending on how you see it, Spanish moss has some practical uses, too. These days it is most commonly used by florists and gardeners as a mulch, for moisture control, and for decoration. It is used by crafters for making everything from birds nests to angel's hair and Christmas wreaths, and in some places, it is used as packing material. In the past, it was often used as stuffing for car seats, furniture and mattresses, and by Cajun builders in Louisiana, as insulation in houses. Wild creatures and songbirds, especially use it as nesting material. My brother and I once used it to stuff a burlap bag ( which we call a croker sack) to make a swing. We tied the neck of the stuffed bag to the end of rope attached to a high limb on a big oak at the farm. To swing on it, we ran at and jumped onto the bag like little monkeys on their mother's back. It was great, free fun for us.
Because of its similarities to gray hair, another name for Spanish moss is grey beard. In both of the legends that I know about Spanish moss, the moss originated as hair. According to the legend told on the Georgia Coast, the moss is the hair and beard of a Spaniard who bought an lovely indian maiden for a yard of braid and a piece of soap. When the maiden ran to escape her fate as wife of this evil Spaniard, she climbed a tree, the Spaniard followed her, she leapt from the tree into a creek, and when her pursuer tried to leap out of the tree after her, his hair and beard became tangled in the tree. As punishment for his intentions, the Spaniard died in the tree, which now produces this moss as a reminder.
In the South Carolina version, it is a Cuban man and his lovely long haired bride who are pursued through the woods by Cherokee indians, who kill them both and toss the woman's raven locks into the tree as a warning to other foreign invaders. According to this legend, by the next day the hair had shriveled up, turned, gray and spread to other trees. And as the Cherokee moved, the hair in the trees followed them, a constant reminder of their crime. So, you can decide which story you like best. The politically correct choice to make is the one which makes the white man the culprit and the Native American the victim. Not really a happy place for either, I think.

I Still Voted

Okay, I will admit it. I am so disillusioned by the state of this country, by its polices at home and abroad and by just the sheer stupidity and self-serving practices of politicians, that for the first time since I became eligible to vote, I was tempted to just give the whole democratic process a miss. It's a bit sad, I think, that I should feel this way about something I have always taken so seriously and been so enthusiastic about. When I turned 18, I was more excited about finally being able to vote than I was about being able to buy alcohol. I went with my grandmother, her mother, and my own mother to the polling place in my little hometown and felt like I was a part of truly something important, that my right to vote, a part of the freedom that members of my family had fought for, had carried life-long scars for, that a few had even died for was a sacred right not to be taken for granted. I have volunteered my time to campaign in every Presidential election since 1980, and cried for those in countries where they don't have such freedoms, and lectured friend and foe on the importance of voting. Don't worry: I did vote, though I pressed the buttons with the least amount of conviction I have ever had in a voting booth. And as for my lack of enthusiasm, just watch this video. See if you see anything to account for this apathy.

What did this man do for me? What would any of the candidates do for anybody other than the rich?

A Crying Shame

We saw this pile of books tossed out with the trash in a neighborhood in Gainesville. There is no excuse for this. It is isn't that much trouble to put them into a bag or box and take them to a donation center. And if it is, Goodwill or some other charity will come to your house to haul these books away for you. The only time I ever saw anything like this in Europe was in a photograph of Nazis burning books. Can you imagine a Czech doing such a thing with a book? I can't.

Večera Sněžilo!

No school, no work, no buses---all day.

Co mysliste? Bude sněžit nebo ne?

That's the big question here. Actually, the forecast is calling for sleet and ice and maybe a little snow, but judging from the way we act around here, you would think we were expecting a month-long blizzard. We got an email from the school this morning reminding us of their inclement weather policy. The grocery stores were unusually crowded most of the day with people standing in long lines at the checkouts, a sight normally only on paydays and holidays. The shelves were already being emptied of milk and bread by two in the afternoon! And tomorrow, if there is snow or ice in the morning, the schools will be closed, there will be no public transport, factories and businesses will either close for the day or operate at reduced capacity. Are you laughing yet? I remember what a miracle it seemed to us in Brno when there was snow and ice and school and work. I knew then that when we came home I would miss the snow in winter, and I do. Thanks to Ivana and Lenka, I at least have plenty of good ovocný čaj, Czech movies, and Becherovka to keep me happy here for a little longer with or without snow.

The "Do Over" for PF 2008

I used to be terribly annoyed by my brother and his friends at play; their games were so often punctuated by sudden outbursts and interrupted by fights that I wondered how they could enjoy each other's company at all. We girls didn't seem to fight as often. We never yelled at each other, and our arguments were more likely to take the form of long silences, maybe tears and hurt looks instead of shouting and hitting. It seemed to me, though, that the boys had a better way of dealing with their differences of opinion: they just shouted or swapped blows and got over it. Like firecrackers, they went off and were done with it. Because of this, I usually ended up playing with the boys. It was just easier for me to get along with them. (One of my former bosses would say it is because of my natural "firecracker-y" disposition.) The boys had one other way of dealing with things when they didn't go right. It's called a "do-over". In a game if a turn was wrongfully taken or ended badly, a shot was interfered with or even just missed, if you were playing with the boys, you could just shout for a "do-over" which meant another chance. So now I will get to my point: I want a do-over for New Year's Day. I was sick and didn't get to call my family and friends, as has been my habit for a long time. I didn't even feel like emailing, either (though it wouldn't have mattered since the internet was out most of the day). I am a bit superstitious about that one day and I think that whatever I do on that day will be what I am doing all year. I don't want to be sick and missing my friends for the next twelve months, so sometime in the next week or so, you may get a call or a card from me with your New Year's wishes.

Laurel and Hardy (Pat a Mat?) Museum

In a small, unassuming former bank building in Harlem, Georgia is the Laurel and Hardy Museum. We've been meaning to stop here for years, but we have always been driving by at the wrong time. But last week, we finally got our chance. We were greeted by the museum's docent, a sweet little yankee lady named, Nancy. She is quite possibly the most enthusiastic museum docent I have ever met. She was friendly, knowlegeable, and so eager to please that she not only took our picture, put on our favorite Laurel and Hardy movie for us to watch, but she also made popcorn for us.
Oliver Hardy (the fat one, in case you don't already know) was born in Harlem at the home of his paternal grandparents, to a mother whom I hope he called every day to aplogize to. Oliver weighed in at a hefty 14 pounds (6.4 kilo) at birth! And if that is not a reason to lavish your mother with kindness, generous gifts, and grateful ovations, I don't know what is. But I digress. Norville (his real name) Laurel was actually reared just north of Harlem, in Milledgeville, where his mother (God bless her) ran the Milledgeville Hotel. Local historians in Milledgeville credit Mrs Hardy with the hard work that resulted in the hotel's eventual success and popularity.
As for her son, Norville, well we all know what became of him. After making movies for a time in Florida, he went on to California where he was teamed with Stan Laurel and ended up performing together onstage and in films in which they behave quite a lot like Pat and Mat, but with more violence. Here are a few clips which someone has compiled and put together with music from ABBA. I know how you feel about ABBA, but this is just too too funny not to share.

Dam(n) That's Pretty

After Christmas, we drove to Georgia to see my parents at the farm. We took a different route, one which takes us right over the Strom Thurmond Dam across the Savannah River which forms the boundary between South Carolina and Georgia. The dam was built in the late 1940's and mid 1950's by the US Army Corps of Engineers (a division of the armed forces responsible for the nation's water and related environmental resources). It was built for flood control, hydropower, and navigation, and the resulting lake, Lake Turmond, is more than 70,000 acres, has more than 1200 miles of shoreline, and is surrounded by more than 80,000 acres of land. It is the largest lake east of the Mississippi River, and is one of the 10 most used Corps lakes in the US. But I don't really care about all of that. I like it because it is a pretty place to stop and rest during the 5 hour trip south.

What is interesting, perhaps, is the person for whom the lake and dam were named, Strom Thurmond, a South Carolina politician and US Senator, known for his conservative politics in public, and his rather hypocritical behavior in private. A Civil Rights opponent and segregationist, a great campaigner with a "family values" platform with a very strong anti-abortion stance, he fathered his first legitimate child at age 68. For the first time, at age 100, he became a grandfather publicly. I am not sure just how many children he fathered (who is?), but it must have been quite a lot since he was so often called "Sperm" Thurmond. Don't laugh. It gets better: Shortly after he died, it was revealed that Sperm's, perhaps, first (??) illegitimate child was a girl he fathered by the Thurmond family maid, who at the time was a tender 16-year-old black girl. Strom was then 22. Interesting, isn't it, in light of his vehement campaigns against equal treatment for blacks, abortion and reproductive rights for women, and for "strong family values"? I shouldn't judge, I guess. Maybe ole Sperm felt it better to decide for everyone else whether integration and equality of the races (and sexes) was a good thing, since he himself had such intimate knowledge of mixing and mingling and the consequences. Where would the world be, after all, without such moral superiors making the decisions for the rest of us?