Christmas gift shines from the light on a 'silent night'

[This column originally appeared in the Friday, December 18, 2009 edition of The Daily Dispatch. We believe that our readers will enjoy what we hope to make an annual tradition.]

Christmas Moon arrived for her annual visit early on the holiday morn. Bowing to the still Earth — cloaked by the cold breath of Winter — the sliver of Christmas Moon cascaded over the frame of a newly built house surrounded by barren fields.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating this sacred morn with the accompaniment of a host of star-glittering winks.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the infant House, as faint puffs of gray smoke waved greetings from her freshly bricked chimney.

“Tell me, young House,” Christmas Moon said to the structure modeling a coat of fresh white paint, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls anew? What do you see of Christmas this very morn?”

The excitement of the home’s first Christmas beamed from within her timbers. House answered: “I see a father. I see the young man bent before a fireplace, his muscled arms and agile hands kindling a fire to warm his family on this most special of days.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon, smiling on the newborn House. “What else do you see?”

“I see a mother, her nimble fingers sewing the last stitch of a doll’s dress.”

House continued sharing the early morning scene with Christmas Moon — shoeboxes filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts! All goodies the father purchased on the eve of this festive day.

Merriment-filled, House turned to her new friend.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said the infant House. “What do you see?”

Wee-hour darkness already fading as sunrise threatened the silent night, Christmas Moon answered, “I see your youth. As I have seen others in their youth.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as Sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

Christmas Moon disappeared, and House soon felt the quick steps of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

As the seasons passed, House and Christmas Moon reunited early every Christmas morning. And each year, their communion began the same.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, her greeting illuminating a few faded shingles.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the maturing House to her annual visitor.

“Tell me, House,” began Christmas Moon, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

House answered, “I see a father. His steady hands are building a fire for his visiting children this Christmas morn.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon to her friend. “Tell me, growing House, what else do you see?”

Saddened, House answered, “I see a mother. I see her praying for her son, who is away battling a war in foreign lands. And I see the silent worry on her husband’s face, as he continues to build the fire. “

After a moment of silence, House looked to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” House began. “What do you see?” “I see that you have grown older. Still, I see there are things you have yet to learn.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun invaded their privacy as he did each holiday, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As the ancient moon disappeared, House felt the quick steps of mother and father, preparing breakfast for their now grown children; those who were present, at least.

The Christmas communions of Moon and House continued as each year passed.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating the sacred morn over a weathered House clearly showing her age.

“Merry Christmas,” answered House, as faint puffs of grey smoke waved greetings from her chimney, now missing a few bricks.

“Tell me, seasoned House,” said Christmas Moon. “What do you witness from within your great walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

Excited by this Christmas, House answered, “I see a grandfather. I see the old man, silver-haired and with soft arms building the fire for his children and his grandchildren.”

“Yes. I see, too,” answered Christmas Moon. “What else do you see?”

“I see a grandmother. She’s hanging the final ornaments on a Christmas tree. And she’s wrapping boxes, filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts. All goodies the grandfather purchased on the eve of this great day.”

Satisfied with this most festive of morns, House turned to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said House. “What is it that you see?”

Darkness quickly fading as sunrise, as always, threatened her peace.

Christmas Moon answered, “I see you have grown older, as I have seen others grow older. And yet, I see you have more to learn.”

Confused, House creaked, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As Christmas Moon disappeared, the old House felt the quick step of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

Several years later, Christmas Moon arrived for her annual communion with House, accompanied by glimmering stars who’d long shifted since their first meeting.

But no smoke waved greetings to Christmas Moon. House, her foundation slumped, paint chipped and windowpanes cracked, sat quiet among the barren fields.

“House?” called Christmas Moon.

But House did not answer.

“House,” Christmas Moon called out again. “Tell me, what you have seen? Tell me what you have witnessed within your old walls.”

And with that, House began to cry.

“I have heard the excited shouts of children, whose bare feet met my chilled floors each Christmas morn. I’ve watched these children grow to become parents themselves, and I’ve felt their children’s bare feet on my chilled floors. I’ve seen boxes of oranges, apples, raisins and nuts – handmade presents and homemade feasts. I’ve seen great trees, adorned with lights and ornaments. And I’ve seen them all come, and I’ve seen them all go. I’ve seen a mother and father turn into a grandmother and grandfather. And I’ve seen them go away, too.”

Through tears, House cried, “Tell me, Christmas Moon, tell me what else is there for me to see?”

Christmas Moon bent before House, illuminating her torn-shingled-roof, and began:

“On this very night, many years ago, I saw a young man, in search of a place to rest his wife, who was soon to deliver their first son. I watched as this infant, the Son of God, lay in a manger of hay, worshiped by kings, His promise of peace heralded by Heaven’s angels. I watched as the infant Son of God grew into a man, a healer, deliverer from evil — our Savior. And I’ve cried, as you are now, to see this Savior suffer crucifixion at the hand of man.”

The old House listened.

“I have seen loss, just as have you, ancient House. Yet I have seen the resurrection. I have seen love — the greatest love that grants us reason to celebrate life, despite such sadness.”

At that moment, House comprehended the meaning of this great life – she finally understood Christmas Moon.

And as the darkness faded into sunrise, the fallen House, never before silent on the inside, heard the heavens singing for the first time that Christmas morning. It was the most magnificent of any sound she’d ever heard. Despite the life and beauty that had lived for generations within her once-strong walls, none could match the splendor of this chorus. And suddenly, the house no longer felt old, no longer worn and collapsing. And as House said farewell to Christmas Moon, she joined the angels in singing:

Christ is the Lord;

Let ever, ever praise we;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Christmas gift shines from the light on a ‘silent night’

Listen to your own song, Elizabeth

Few topics blaze the headlines these days like the John Edwards political sex scandal — a scandal that has cast his wife, Elizabeth, into a media-blitzed spotlight.

The mere mention of Elizabeth Edwards' name elicits varied reactions, following the release of Andrew Young’s book, “The Politician.” The former top aide to John Edwards not only details the tabloid sex scandal that publicly emerged two years ago — he unflatteringly portrays Elizabeth Edwards alongside her husband.

Despite these recent events, the name Elizabeth Edwards doesn’t evoke such adverse associations within me. Instead, it awakens my memories of an unlikely graduation commencement message that still resonates nearly six years following its delivery.

It was the culmination of my college career — one that had been interrupted midway as I journeyed the railroad tracks of Europe to “discover myself.” And oddly, I had found myself — back home, working to pay off my accrued debt. Such reality had proved unromantic, and so I had returned to college. My parents’ persistent prayers answered, I was finally graduating.

Although thrilling, it was a day permeated by uncertainty. My future seemed somewhat directionless. And as my Peace College classmates and I sweltered in the May morning’s heat, I questioned both what lay ahead and why bathing suits weren’t deemed appropriate attire beneath graduation robes.

I remember fanning myself with a graduation program, periodically flipping its contents for amusement as Elizabeth Edwards approached the podium. The year was 2004, and soon her husband would accept the Democratic Party’s vice presidential nomination following an unsuccessful bid for president.

Her speech was entitled “Listen to Your Own Song.” She said it was a message we would seldom hear. And to date, I have not heard it repeated.

It was not a speech outlined in expectations. No such missive. Conversely, Edwards instructed my classmates and I to ignore the infinite expectations of others and to make our own choices. She charged us not to concern ourselves with the imposed expectations of family, community, nation and world; instead, she charged us to hold tight to our own sense of what was right. And not let go of it. Being true to ourselves, to our ethical core, and to our individual dreams would be our refuge, she said.

That would be our song.

Over the years, I have often discovered Edwards’ charge a difficult one to follow.

Through failed attempts, I have discovered that upholding one’s song is perhaps the greatest test in this life.

Nothing fully prepares one for the moment, if one dares, to halt taking cues from others and instead charge forward for one’s self — thus cultivating one’s own song.

I’ve experienced both pleasure and, more often times disappointment, by pursuing my own song’s rhythm, always influenced by my choices. With each failure, I have learned the necessity of evaluating all choices, and often, to ensure they represent the sort of song worth singing.

The times in my life when I’ve felt “lost” were the times I wasn’t being true to myself, my ethical core, or my individual dreams.

During these times, I believed my song had permanently disappeared — yet was thrilled when the familiar melody eased its way back into the very spirit of my life.

In adverse times, and my own failings, I revisit Edwards’ message — specifically one line that has stuck with me since its delivery:

“Don’t ever be afraid to say that this is not the path I meant to take; I need to get it right; don’t ever be afraid to start over and get it right.”

Edwards’ message, delivered on the front lawn of my alma mater, was the dial of a compass pointing with clarity in one definite direction — within the very spirit of every young woman seated before her.

And as Edwards faces adversities, I hope she will remember the charge she imprinted on the lives of the Peace College class of 2004 —- that she will listen to her own song. Hers. And to not let go of it.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Listen to your own song Elizabeth

Pickled pigs' feet provide a culinary delight that's best avoided

Nearly two months ago, I received a Facebook message from my friend, Gillburg resident Gene Thompson. Having read my column on pickled eggs and beets, Gene posed a related pickling question — had I ever partaken of pickled pigs’ feet?

Now, most folks would have replied with a flat-out “no” to Gene’s inquiry, maintaining no desire to dine on the marinated hog hooves. And that’s because most folks possess some semblance of common sense.

Yet, my appetite for adventure affirmed for me what I must eat. And so, Friday night I drove the distance from Epsom to Gillburg for my first feast of pickled pigs’ feet.

Nervously, I knocked my knuckles on the Thompson’s front door, knowing I’d be gnawing on another set of knuckles in the near fated future. And under my arm, I carried a brown-bagged bottle of liquid courage.

Gene and his wife, Beverly, soon greeted me. And while Gene brandished his bottle of pickled pigs’ feet, his son, Matt, gave a disbelieving nod from a nearby couch.

“I can’t believe you’re crazy enough to eat that stuff,” Matt said, as I settled beside him for a pre-dinner discussion.

Admittedly, I had high hopes that I’d like those pickled pigs’ feet. While Gene and Beverly prepared my pork treat, I imagined myself consuming the old-timers’ cuisine — and later writing a column that would encourage Dispatch readers to abandon their misconceptions of the pickled “other white meat.”

Yet, all nonsensical fantasies must perish at some point.

As the bowlful of pickled pigs’ feet passed from Gene’s hands to mine, I captured my first sight of the hog-lover’s delight.

Suddenly, I grieved the lost lives of those dead hogs, whose fatty chunks of feet were swarming in a soup of vinegar — ready for me to eat.

“Lord, help me!” I prayed as my lips parted for my first sliver of swine. And as the slimy serving of cold skin touched my tongue, I quivered and gulped down those poor departed pigs’ feet.

“Thank God I’ve never been that hungry!” Beverly laughed as she poured me a post-souse soda.

Diet Coke never tasted so good.

Dinner followed, as did another dose of liquid courage. And while our party passed three hours with storytelling and laughter, a place mat companion taunted me with an occasional “oink.”

“I’m going to do it again,” I groaned, as I hoisted the bowl of hog parts before me once more.

“You don’t have to do that,” Gene assured, while Beverly insisted that I was a brave girl.

“This should help,” I said, gulping a stiff serving of liquid courage as I prepared myself for another piece of those pickled pigs’ feet.

But it did not.

“Get this ‘stuff’ away from me!” I winced, while Gene hurled the hog scraps into the trash. And at that moment, before both God and the Thompsons, I vowed to never again eat pickled pigs’ feet. Or any feet for that matter.

While I thank Gene Thompson for my trial taste of soused swine, I’m convinced there are certain parts of a pig that just aren’t meant to eat. And so I’ll steer clear of pickled pigs’ feet — and save snouts, ears and tails for another culinary adventure.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Pickled pigs’ feet provide a culinary delight that’s best avoided

Burned into my memory ... like Mama's biscuits

This year, Thanksgiving Day dinner is a big deal for the Eaves household. It’s the last time my sisters and I will gather together while still sharing the same last name. While I’m thankful for my future brother-in-law — and likewise the approaching destination wedding in tropical Tulum, Mexico — I’m a bit nostalgic as our final unwed days draw nigh. And so this Thursday, I’ll combat my Thanksgiving Day despondency with a dose of holiday humor.

Every Thanksgiving Day, there are two constant companions at the Eaves family dinner table — a “box-packaged” pumpkin pie and a basket full of Mama’s burnt biscuits.

“Dinner sure was good, Mama,” I moaned after last year’s feast. Glancing below, I gawked at my bulging belly, which drooped over a denim waistline that poorly concealed my post-giblet gravy jiggle.

“Thank you, darling,” Mama smiled as she sliced her Sara Lee pumpkin pie, adding dollops of Cool Whip to the after-dinner treat.

While Mama served up slices of the pie that “Nobody doesn’t like,” my oldest sister reached her hand into the still-bountiful bread basket and snagged one of Mama’s black-bottomed biscuits.

“Delicious!” she jabbed, joined by a series of sisterly snickers.

Mama stopped smiling.

And so did Daddy, who’d long ago learned to avoid such cackling conflicts. As Daddy’s nostrils flared a distress signal to my sisters and me, he polished his plate with his bare thumb, licking up every crumb – even the burnt ones.

Now, in addition to burnt bread and pre-prepared pumpkin pies, my family has another turkey day tradition — a sisterly squabble. Dating back to childhood, these spats typically spark after supper. And while the family feud is never resolved, it somehow subsides with the push of the power button on Daddy’s flat screen TV.

“Let’s watch a movie!” Audrey suggested after supper as she prepared hot chocolate for the family. And so, we sisters grabbed our marshmallow-topped mugs, a second slice of pumpkin pie, and piled onto Mama’s living room couch.

“Give me a pillow!” I fussed while Audrey laid claim to the cushioned headrest.

“I’m the oldest. I’m entitled!” Wendy said as she conquered the couch with outstretched legs, knocking both baby sister Audrey and me onto the floor, relegating us to lower status as she displayed her oldest sibling sovereignty.

“Don’t mess up my living room!” Mama scolded, while foretelling our fate if we spilled hot chocolate onto her carpeted floor or her hard-earned couch.

About that time, the back porch door opened and swiftly swung shut. And while Daddy settled onto the outside stoop, he lit a cigarette.

“What are we going to watch?” I asked the indoor, tempered trio.

“Well, I think one of these would be nice,” Mama said, as she grabbed two VHS tapes from our childhood movie collection.

And so, the seasonal scrap erupted over none other than Charlie Brown and his beagle best friend, Snoopy.

“I want to watch “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!” I said, grabbing the Charles Schulz Christmas classic from Mama’s hands and waving it to the jury.

“No,” Wendy bickered back. “It’s Thanksgiving! I want to watch ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.’ ”

Our opening arguments soon transitioned into a shouting match, leaving little room for arbitration. And although I defended the Charlie Brown Christmas special, it was Wendy’s closing statement that closed the case.

“Snoopy cooks Thanksgiving dinner in my movie,” Wendy said. “He cooks popcorn and toast.”

As last year’s customary quarrel concluded with laughter, my sisters and I snuggled together on Mama’s living room couch and watched Wendy’s case-winning “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.” And then, we traded VHS tapes for an encore presentation of “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!” My sisters and I soon said our “good nights.” And later that evening after I settled into bed, I thanked God for Thanksgiving Day, for Mama’s burnt biscuits, for Sara Lee’s pumpkin pies. And for Wendy and Audrey, who will remain my sisters despite a change in last names — or their preference in Peanuts movies.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Burned into my memory like Mama’s biscuits

There's no way to coop up 'ambition'

Last weekend, I bid both Mama and Daddy farewell for a few days away from Epsom. My beet-pickling pals, John and Bev Lazar, were Pennsylvania bound for the weekend and in need of a house-sitter — or rather, chicken-sitter. And so, I answered their call to the coop, where I braced myself for a battle with their backyard biddies.

To be fair, it wasn’t the female members of the flock that signaled the weekend warfare. Indeed, it was another cluck that caused me to curse and fuss that Saturday night, spearheading quite a moonlit cockfight. By battle’s end, I’d clasped the feathered fiend into my bare hands. And thrusting the rowdy rooster into his coop, I’d hollered out his newly appointed name — one that indicated his poultry parents were not married.

Nonetheless, my Saturday night squabble with the squawking savage evoked the memory of another beaked brute — my childhood pet rooster, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo.

I was 10 years old the day when Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo made his way to Epsom and into my Daddy’s chicken coop. While the young Rhode Island Red clucked and crowed his “Here I am!” to my family and our five hens, Daddy gathered feed for the feathered flock. Meanwhile, a disapproving Mama dried dishes by the kitchen sink and, peering from the kitchen sink window, mouthed a few choice words.

A conventional cluck, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo rendered his female roost-mates far beneath his pecking order. Likewise, his chauvinism extended beyond the poultry pen, attacking his female tenders, my sisters and me, with outstretched talons.

“You better put some pants on before you go out there,” Mama cautioned me one day as, clad in shorts, I embarked on an early morning egg gathering. “That rooster will claw your bare legs up one side and down the other!”

And so I traded my scrappy shorts for a pair of paint-stained jeans and headed for the backyard chicken coop.

“Bawk, bawk, bawk!” cried Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo, red feathers flapping as he flew towards me. Talons tearing into my Levis, the cranky rooster commenced to pecking at me until I dashed free from the fowl’s fury — forfeiting the day’s eggs.

As Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo matured into manhood, his chauvinistic taunts transitioned into totalitarian rooster rule. And when it came to the hens, well ... let’s say Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo had “ambition.”

“Mama! What’s Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo doing to Chicken Little!” I hollered one morning, while white feathers flapped from our most mature madam of the hen house.

As Mama explained “ambition” to me, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo laid claim to his second pick of the chicken clique, Bo Peep. Soon, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo had worn the hind feathers off of both of those hens.

“Those chickens don’t look so good,” Mama remarked one afternoon to my daddy, after another round of Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo’s ambition.

Daddy’s only answer was silence, save the nodding of his straw hat-clad head. And then he lit a cigarette.

Years passed — and likewise, so did those chickens. The hens first flew the coop to the hereafter. Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo followed the flock shortly thereafter, where I’m sure he faced a mighty foul judgment from his maker. And eventually, that old chicken coop was torn down and replaced by an outdoor utility building, destined to be Daddy’s workshop and hideaway from Mama and my sisters. That is, until I moved back home and converted it into a storage unit.

And so, our story ends with a lot of lost ambition and six dead chickens — and Daddy cooped in a house full of “hens,” still nodding his head in silence. And still smoking cigarettes.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - There’s no way to coop up ‘ambition’

Battle of the 'bands' pits man against bovine

“Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’
You’re stayin alive, stayin’ alive ...”

— “Stayin’ Alive,”
Saturday Night Fever,
The Bee Gees, 1977

I’m a product of the 80’s, when teased bangs and tight-rolled stonewashed jeans first flashed onto the fashion scene. Yet every now and then, another decade beckons me back to the days of silver sequins, platform shoes and disco dance moves.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” I sang along with the Bee Gees last Friday night, while my best friend Kris and I traveled a rural road we Epsom natives call Moonshine Alley.

We were mid-chorus, cackling and clapping to the 1970’s chart-topper, when an unsuspecting stranger sallied up beside of us – breaking our midnight musical bond with the Gibb brothers’ band.

“Whoa!” Kris shouted, as she slammed her Subaru to a screeching stop.

Initially, I was oblivious to our approaching roadside rascal. Such ignorance was a short-lived bliss shattered by the shining of a single headlight on our horned and hoofed spectator.

“Watch out for that cow!” I bellowed my belated warning as my best friend stared straight ahead at an ol’ black cow.

Now, it’s been said that animals travel in pairs – meaning where there’s one critter, or in this case “cow,” there’s another mate nearby. And sure enough, there was a converging of cattle that night, out on Moonshine Alley.

The ol’ black cow sounded a mournful “moo.” And in answer to his “call of the wild,” two dark drifters emerged from the neighboring pasture, crossing its broken fence line.

As the newly formed bovine band plodded alongside our Subaru for a Friday night stroll, the once tall and trim Barry Gibb continued to sing his “Saturday Night Fever” chart-topper.

“We’ve got to be careful,” Kris said as she tapped the gas pedal of the stationary Subaru, inadvertently alerting the herd of our homeward route.

“Moo,” moaned the crowd of cows, as they moved closer to our creeping car.

“Cows’ll chase cars just like dogs,” I cried to Kris, while the trio trotted alongside us.

“I know!” Kris replied, as the cattle congregation commenced to a gallop, mooing as it moved down Moonshine Alley.

Suddenly, “Stayin’ Alive” seemed more like a mission than a disco dance favorite.

Admittedly, this is the moment I abandoned my best friend. Shutting my eyes tight, I grabbed hold of the car’s seat cushion and cried out for divine intervention.

And sure enough, the Lord did provide.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” sang the Bee Gees, as if beckoning Kris to gun the gas pedal. And after we prayed a hurried, “Hallelujah, Amen!” our Subaru squealed away from the mad-cow caper.

Some consider divine intervention to be an outfit of winged angels, heaven-sent to help us in our times of trouble. And I’d have to agree. Yet, there are those exceptions. As was the case last Friday night, when another sort of band saved my best friend and me from a crowd of cows out on Moonshine Alley.

Even heroes have their foibles

Two weeks ago, networks worldwide broadcast the historic rescue of 33 Chilean miners, who for more than two months had been buried alive after part of the San Jose copper-gold mine collapsed. The miraculous extraction, meticulously maneuvered by collaborative international efforts, ended after the Fenix 2 rescue capsule completed its 39th journey up and down an engineered rescue shaft. While underground rescue workers waved a banner brandishing the message “Mission Accomplished Chile,” President Sebastian Pinera led Camp Hope, and the world, in “Cancion Nacional,” Chile’s national anthem. And for a moment, we were all Chilean.

Once unearthed from their two-month entombment, the 33 miners have discovered new captivity in fame’s spotlight. And as talks of TV and movie offers emerge, as well as a book deal detailing the miners’ survival one half mile below ground, something else so human has surfaced from the San Jose Mine.

Discord.

An alleged pact made by all 33 miners to never disclose details of the first 17 days they were trapped has now been broken. And despite a signed pledge to evenly split all proceeds from media attention, rescued miner Jorge Galleguillos told Reuters, “I have to think about myself,” when admitting he would speak of the miners’ experience for a fee.

“There are certain things which need to be told. I want the world to know the truth about what we went through down there,” rescued miner Mario Sepulveda told Britain’s Daily Mail, refuting rumors of cannibalism and male sex among the miners while trapped underground for 69 days. “We were swallowed into the bowels of hell, but we have been reborn, and now I feel it is my duty to tell what went on and the lessons to be learned.”

Yonni Barrios, the miner made famous by his exposed extra-marital affair with mistress Susana Valenzuela, is among those discussing the 10-week survival after the mine cave-in. Despite widespread public praise for shift foreman Luis Urzua’s leadership during the days, weeks and months that followed the mine’s collapse, Barrios has openly criticized Urzua, describing him as having “lost control” after the collapse, and stating that “in the most critical moments, he wasn’t with us.”

The miners’ survival stories continue to surface, shedding light on their time buried alive in a rock and rubble grave. And despite the developing discord among the men, I’m encouraged by the unity that defied death’s odds and led to their extraction from the San Jose mine.

Perhaps as Barrios claims, Luis Urzua wasn’t “with” his men in their most critical moments. Yet, nations worldwide were with these miners — from the moment of the cave-in on Aug. 5 to the first freedom cry on Oct. 12.

I am among the worldwide citizens who read daily news reports of the rescue efforts. I am among the masses who, hours before Operation San Lorenzo, prayed to my God for the safety and rescue of these trapped men. I am among the one billion viewers who anxiously awaited the ascent of these 33 miners as Fenix 2 descended into the San Jose mine. And I am among the multitudes who witnessed a miracle for both the Chilean miners and mankind on a campground appropriately called Camp Hope.

For but a moment, nations across the globe were united by one shared cause — the rescue of 33 Chilean miners. Pop-culture icons cast aside, our newfound heroes were wage workers donning hard hats — and yes, Oakley sunglasses. These “regular folk,” forced into a do-or-die survival strategy, inspired a cross-cultural coalition, and a “Camp Hope” for what our world can accomplish when working together and with our God. Miracles.

Lipstick and envy add color to my sister's bridal shower

Southern bridal showers are community convergences filled with finger-food buffet lines and pre-marriage gift-giveaways. These pre-nup parties are as customary as a Southern woman’s relationship with her lipstick.

I recall my earliest memories of Granny Virgie, slightly parting her thin lips for a tube of fuchsia lipstick. Once administering the coral color onto her made-up mouth, she’d pucker a pose for a palm-sized mirror.

Granny Virgie could apply her lipstick while driving a car, praying on a church pew, or chomping on hog jowls during dinner table discussion. And she still can.

So last Sunday, while Mama and I prepared for baby sister Audrey’s bridal shower, I wasn’t surprised by her Southern, motherly lecture.

“Where’s your lipstick?” she asked, as my knobby knees dangled over the beige-carpeted stage in the Liberty Christian Church fellowship hall in Epsom.

“I’m wearing it,” I groaned, bracing for the all-too-familiar approaching battle.

“Well, it’s not dark enough,” she complained. “You’re lips are too pale.”

“It’s the only lipstick I’ve got,” I grumbled, while Mama pulled forth a tube from her purse.

“Much better,” she sighed, as I slid the slick lipstick across my no-longer pale, pouting mouth. “Why, it looks better on you than it does on me,” she consoled as we waited for our kinfolk to arrive.

I’d never hosted a bridal shower before. And understandably. Until Audrey’s engagement, most neighbors assumed my parents had raised three spinster daughters, who’d wrinkle alone as time withered away. Yet, against all odds, I was throwing an engagement event with my 37-year-old spinster sister, Wendy.

Aware that Mama was distressed that her daughters were directing the big day, Wendy and I prepared our bridal shower “to do” list with paranoid precision, fearing the fallout of forgetting necessary nuances.

“I keep having nightmares that we’re going to run out of food!” Mama complained.

“Everyone on the guest list isn’t going to show up,” I argued with Mama, who was in a mad dash to the grocery store for more mints and bottles of ginger ale.

As 2 p.m. arrived, the tables were clothed in lace, tropical-colored corsages were pinned on the bridal party, silver ribbons were wrapped on outside posts, and guests began gathering with gifts.

“Justin, don’t open the presents so fast!” baby sister Audrey said to future brother-in-law, Justin, as gleaming, he ripped wrapping paper from each gift..

“Maybe I’ll get married just for the presents,” I told spinster sister Wendy, whose duty was to arrange the unwrapped gifts on a nearby display table.

While Wendy hustled to keep pace with “brotherhood’s” present-unwrapping, I commenced to my self-appointed duty of greeting (and entertaining) guests.

Yet, our “Mary and Martha” enactment came to a grinding halt when midway through the Eaves’ event, Daddy dazzled the soon-to-be newlyweds with a rather big box.

Justin beamed as he beheld the 37-inch flat screen engagement gift going home with him that afternoon.

Meanwhile, Wendy and I, soured by shock, disapprovingly shook our heads.

“She’s so the baby,” spinster sister Wendy said of engaged sister, Audrey.

“She’s so spoiled,” I replied, craving a chocolate ball and Pat McGhee’s pepper jelly on the nearby refreshment table.

Nabbing a napkin after my fourth feeding, I wiped my crumb-coated lips with the pastel party napkin — now stained by coral-colored lipstick streaks.

“Try this,” my spinster sister said, retrieving a tube of plum lip color from her purse.

“Why, it looks better on you than it does on me,” she said, while I checked my painted lips with her palm-sized mirror.

“Well, you better keep that lipstick handy,” I replied. And while Audrey and Justin smiled, standing by Daddy and their 37-inch flat screen TV, I resorted to the refreshment table for my fifth, but not final, feeding at perhaps the first, but not last, Eaves’ bridal shower at Liberty Christian Church.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Lipstick and envy add color to my sister’s bridal shower

Farm Aid's 25th installment: an experience of a lifetime

On Oct. 2, I experienced the musical highlight of my 30-year life.

“Let’s go!” I signaled to my best friend Kris, as we slammed shut the hatch to my Ford Escape early on the morning of Oct. 1.

Rummaging through the cloth travel sack I’d slung onto my lap, I made a final ticket check. And after securing two stubs from the bottom of the bag, I read their inscription to my traveling cohort — “Farm Aid 25: Growing Hope for America. Miller Park, Milwaukee, WI.”

When Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp and Neil Young organized the first Farm Aid concert back in the fall of 1985, Kris and I were five-year-old schoolmates, sporting Stride-Rite sneakers and making mud pies in my sand-paved driveway. We knew nothing of the family farm crisis facing our country.

Now, 25 years later, we’ve shed our child-sized Stride-Rite shoes for size 8 1/2 boots. And that morning, while my Honeysuckle Rose CD played its trademark track, “On the Road Again,” we scooted out of that same sand-paved driveway, northbound for Farm Aid’s silver anniversary concert.

With local farm land falling to residential developments these days, not only transforming Epsom’s landscape but that of other farming communities, the Farm Aid movement has become perhaps my most championed cause.

And yet, despite more than two decades of Farm Aid action, many are unaware of the organization’s work.

While this year’s quarter-century celebration corralled thousands of concertgoers into Milwaukee’s Miller Park stadium, its musicians and iconic red-bandana wearing president, Willie Nelson, are mere frontmen for the non-profit organization.

Farm Aid’s mission is to keep family farmers on their land. And since its inception, Farm Aid has raised more than $37 million to stop farm foreclosures, aid farm families in crisis, and address farm policy. Farm Aid protests factory farms and educates farmers and consumers on issues such as genetically modified food and growth hormones.

After arriving in Milwaukee, Kris and I joined other Farm Aid members for a pre-concert march in the downtown district. Overall-clad farmers and friends waved pro-family farmer banners and “Stop Factory Farm” signs, while a crew of two-legged dairy “cows” kept pace with the pack. The march culminated at Pabst Theater for a Farm Aid-eve concert.

The following day, a cool north wind woke the city of Milwaukee with a 20-degree drop in temperature. And so we Southern gals wrapped ourselves in sweatshirts, sweaters and toboggans for our first frigid Farm Aid concert. Once inside Miller Park’s gates, we combated the cold with hot apple cider, fried cheese curds and barbecue pork chop sandwiches – all sold at food stands throughout the stadium featuring locally grown food. After this noon-time snack, we returned for more local food stand treats — doughnuts, corn dogs, and sugar-powdered funnel cakes. And of course, more apple cider.

By snack stop number three, we were primed for the 7 p.m. Farm Aid board of directors line-up of Dave Matthews, John Mellencamp, Neil Young and Willie Nelson.

Nelson’s son, Lukas, joined this year’s concert, performing a Jimi Hendrix electric guitar piece with his teeth. And Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler made a surprise appearance, opening Nelson’s set with their previously recorded duet, “Once is Enough.”

“We’ve been so excited about this concert,” Wisconsin organic dairy farmers Brian and Katy Drews said, while standing beside me in a concession stand line. “This is our first overnight trip in 12 years.”

“12 years!” I cried to the young couple, who turned to one another and smiled.

“Somebody has to milk the cows,” they replied.

Willie Nelson says family farmers like the Drews are our nation’s unsung heroes. And at that moment, I realized that despite the day’s musical marvels, the Drews were the true show stoppers at Farm Aid 25.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Farm Aid’s 25th installment an experience of a lifetime

Making my peace with pickled eggs and beets

Last week, I pickled my first batch of eggs and beets.

My first encounter with this pickled pair occurred a decade ago, while on a date. I remember watching my former fella twist open the lid of a quart-sized glass jar, uncovering a plenty of purple eggs floating in sweet beet juice. And then, he reached his bare hand into the bobbing bounty, and in one swoosh, snagged and swallowed one of those slick eggs. A true glutton, he reveled in his repetitious “grab and gobble” until all that remained in the pickling jar was juice.

Aghast, I feared the fallout of his feast and was overcome by pickle-juice induced jitters. And sure enough, an “eggs”plosion occurred.

“Good grief!” I hollered out in the middle of Walmart, as I escaped down aisle seven, leaving my beau behind.

The evening ended soon thereafter.

And so began my aversion for pickled eggs and beets.

That is, until last week, when I faced my foe with friends John and Bev Lazar.

Pennsylvania born and bred, John and Bev were beckoned South several years back — John’s career the catalyst. Now retired, John spends his time tending to post-career projects, such as his backyard biddies and their newly constructed coup. While Bev leaves the feathered flock for John, she shares his pickling passion for eggs and beets, as was discussed during a recent visit at the Lazar homestead.

“I’ll teach you how to make ‘em,” John jabbed, following my tale of terror from 10 years back.

And so, a pickling date was set, with the promise that Bev would cook a pre-pickling dinner.

I arrived at the Lazars’ kitchen table with an unusually empty stomach that night. And after two servings of ham loaf, baked beans and macaroni casserole, Bev brought forth a golden-brown delight.

“I know you’re too full for this now,” she smiled, slicing a piece of homemade pumpkin pie. “We’ll wait until your food’s had time to settle.”

“No, I’m not!” I cried, evoking the spirit of my Granny Virgie as I unlaced the drawstring waistline of my brown bohemian dress.

And so I ate pumpkin pie, while John pulled the pickling ingredients from the refrigerator.

Bev unsnapped a Tupperware container bearing 18 boiled eggs, which emitted an odor that immediately transported me to my decade-ago date night on aisle seven at the Walmart.

Beets were soon boiled while sugar and spices were scooped atop them. While the stove top steamed with the pickling portion of the recipe, we stood around the kitchen counter and waited. And ate more pumpkin pie.

“Once the eggs pickle, they’ll turn purple down to the yolk,” Bev explained, while I spooned another piece of pumpkin pie into my mouth.

Time passed, and the sweet beet concoction soon cooled. And, after layering both eggs and beets in an enormous Vlasic pickle jar, we said our goodbyes. Those eggs had to set and soak.

And for five days, they did.

Admittedly, I’ve never been a fan of boiled eggs or beets. Yet, I pulled forth one of each for my first try of the pickled treat. And low and behold, I liked them. Hence, I had a second serving of those sweet eggs and beets. As did little Isabella Lazar, who helped herself to a handful that same night while seated at her grandparents’ kitchen table.

Now, I know what you’re wondering. And I readily report that while my beau from back yonder had a fallout from his feast, I suffered no such rupture from my batch of pickled eggs and beets.

Which leads me to wonder ... was he full of something else, other than pickled eggs and beets?

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

***********************

Pickled eggs and beets

Ingredients:

1 can sliced beets

1/4 cup sugar

1/3 cup vinegar

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp salt

4 - 5 boiled eggs, peeled

Combine beets (and juice), sugar, vinegar, cinnamon and salt in pot. Bring to a boil, then simmer for 5 minutes. Once cooled, layer beets and eggs in jar and refrigerate.

Eggs should set for a few days before served. Enjoy!

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Making my peace with pickled eggs and beets

On the road to somewhere out in the middle of nowhere

Note: This week’s column necessitates a disclaimer. As a church-reared child, I was warned against running off with another woman’s husband. The pastor preached this pew-squirming sermon during several Sunday morning worship services. Just so you know, I had his wife’s permission. With that said, here’s my tale of me and Merle.

I was “wheeling and dealing” the day I met Merle. In fact, I was in mid-sales pitch when Merle’s motorcycle pulled into the graveled parking space outside of my Dispatch cubicle window. Springing from my seat, I motioned to the motorcycle while mouthing to my newfound friend, “I want to ride that thing!” Minutes later, following a spontaneous “I’ll call you right back” to the caller on the other end of my phone line, I joined Merle and my co-worker, his wife, by Merle’s Harley.

“Go for a spin,” my co-worker laughed while I mounted Merle’s motorcycle for the first of many whirls around town. Helmet latched and eyes shut tight, I screamed as we scooted down Chestnut Street that autumn afternoon. Yet, somewhere along N.C. 39, my shrieking ceased. And while Merle’s motorcycle steered my work stress away, I had to agree with John Denver that “sunshine on my shoulders” made me happy, too.

Nearly two years later, and I assure you with his wife’s blessing, we embarked on a day-long motorcycle mountain trip. Me and Merle.

Merle mapped our trek into the Virginia mountains, deliberately dodging highways for rural roads — few marked with yellow-painted lines. And only hours into our journey, we’d crossed into rural territory that made Epsom seem city-like.

That’s when we wayfarers came to a stop sign, where some serious head scratching started.

“Do you see 639 anywhere on this map?” Merle asked, while he and I scanned his N.C. state road map for the lone road that stretched before us.

Nodding my noggin “no,” I stared straight ahead at the wooded wilderness, and then looked both “left” and “right” at our only onward options, save the unthinkable act of turning back.

Now, I’ve seen similar situations in movies — two stranded souls in search of an oasis, while desert sands stretch as far as the eye can see. That’s about how we felt that Friday. Me and Merle.

And akin to those motion pictures, a marvel manifested itself that morning.

From afar, I heard a buzz. And then a putter, putter, putter.

The buzz … putter, putter, putter persisted until, against all odds, a banana-yellow moped turned the bend of that remote road.

“We’re saved!” I cheered, while a map-waving Merle hustled towards the bumble bee bike that buzzed with a putter, putter, putter towards us.

I’m not sure which of us understood our unfortunate fate first. Perhaps it was me, standing spectator to Merle as he beckoned the elderly driver atop that yellow moped. Or maybe it was Merle, whose road-side assistance request was rejected as the old man “made tracks,” never stopping for us two baffled bikers.

Buzz … putter, putter, putter … crept the little yellow moped, as it disappeared down the trail we’d just traveled.

And with arms still suspended as distress signals, there we stood. Me and Merle.

All roads lead to somewhere, even if they’re out in the middle of nowhere. And so together, we found our route that day — from Alta Vista to Smith Mountain Lake — and from Smith Mountain Lake to Mabry Mill — and from Mabry Mill to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Me and Merle.

Motorcycle riding’s a risk, no doubt. But the experience it grants is a gift, indeed. And so I breathed in the crisp mountain wind that whipped my face, while on two wheels I rode 400 miles of Virginia countryside with my biker-bound comrade. As all adventures begin, they too must end. And as sunset hung its head over South Boston, we savored those last miles of serenity, found in the revving roar of that Harley’s engine.

Me and Merle.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - On the road to somewhere in the middle of nowhere

College debt delivered me back to my parents' doorstep

My name is Gina Eaves. I’m 30 years old. And I’m broke.

I didn’t deliberately succumb to my self-defined debt status. On the contrary, my post-high school path resembles that of many young adults. I pursued a higher-education route, in my case via two North Carolina colleges. Although I took a mid-college hiatus, forsaking text books and lectures for overseas travels “to discover myself” (or so I told my parents), I finally completed college. And while my job journey took a few twists and turns, I eventually acquired my current post at The Daily Dispatch.

Yet two years later, and similar to most 20- and 30—something-year-old professionals, I repeat: I am broke.

I earned a four- (well, technically five-) year degree. And by the grace of God and my supervisors, I’ve maintained my career. So why is that, despite these apparent achievements, I have no money?

Because like most college graduates, I’m in debt. Namely credit card and student loan debt.

A decade after leaving Epsom for college, this academic debt delivered me back to my parents’ doorstep. Admittedly, living at home with my middle-aged parents and 17-year-old senile cat, Sassy, isn’t where I expected to be at this point in my life. Yet, like most graduates in my post-college debt dilemma, there seems to be no end to the monthly reminder that education not only pays off, it requires payment.

Compared to most debt-ridden Americans, I suppose I’m a little-leaguer in the game of borrow and pay. Let’s face it – I have no mortgage. But only because I can’t afford a mortgage. Or rent for that matter. Not unless I’m willing to dig for dimes beneath couch cushions to buy such nutritional groceries as Vienna sausages and beans and franks.

So how does someone in my cash-strapped situation trade debt for financial freedom?

Enter my friend and Franklin County native Clarky Davis, The Debt Diva.

Davis is a debt management expert for CareOne Debt Relief Services. With more than 10 years of personal and professional experience, she offers financial fitness education and “real world” money-saving tips to help consumers trim their spending in just about every area of their lives.

After discussing my debt dilemma with Davis, I’m confident that a parent-free home is in my future. But like any achievement, there are steps to reaching that tin-roof house in the fields. Aware that most folks financially falter from time to time, I’ve included The Debt Diva’s money-management strategies. Although geared to my situation, the steps below can benefit anyone seeking a specific financial goal.

1) Get a plan. Know what you want to accomplish, set a date, and implement a strategy for that goal.

2) Get engaged with your current spending. Once you’ve paid your bills, where’s the rest of your money going? Are your spending habits helping you meet your goal?

3) Can you accomplish your goal with the budget you have? Ask yourself if accomplishing your goal is important enough to make a change. You can’t complain if you’re not willing to make a change. Sometimes you have to make uncomfortable changes to meet your goals. This could very well mean a second job. Remember, just because you need a second job now doesn’t mean you’ll need it forever. Understand your financial situation is going to change.

4) Consistency is key. Make all payments on time, each and every month. And monitor your ratio of credit to debt. Creditors monitor these two factors more than any other.

5) Save. Start moving money into a savings account! Build up your savings account before paying off the mortgage (or car) early. Both of these can be repossessed — but your savings account can’t!

6) Team up with someone who’s in the same cash-strapped situation. Share your experiences as you commit to living similar frugal lifestyles.

7) Stay focused on the positive! Check every month to watch your debt go down and your savings go up. Be your own cheerleader, and remember – you won’t be broke forever.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - College debt delivers me back to my parents’ doorstep

Cat Stevens versus Dr. Mike's atomic bread

While most folks flocked to the beach Labor Day weekend, my best friend Kris and I chose another, more winding route.

“This album’s appropriate,” I laughed, while my Cat Stevens’ CD blinked “Track 6” in our Ford F-150.

“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain,
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”

Bidding the flatlands farewell, we rolled down our Ford’s windows and breathed in the freedom known only to those 30-year-olds fleeing their parents for the weekend. And with radio roaring, we sang along with Cat Stevens.

“I creep through the valleys,
And I grope through the woods,
‘Cause I know when I find it my honey,
It’s gonna make me feel good.”

And as we belted the nature-loving lyrics of the popular 70’s musician, we indeed felt good.

Several album tracks later, we pulled onto a Statesville exit ramp to fuel up on gasoline and Starbuck’s coffee. Two cups of Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte’s later, the Blue Ridge mountains peaked above I-40’s horizon. Our truck twisted among the coiled western Carolina roadways and eventually parallel parked in historic downtown Saluda.

“Doctor Mike!” Kris and I cheered to our mountain friend, after bumping our way through the crowded Purple Onion, a Saluda favorite, popular for its organic menu and Friday evening entertainment.

The pluck and bow of an electric fiddle roused the locals while we chatted over our meal.

That’s when Dr. Mike mentioned his gift.

“I made you some bread,” he smiled, while I savored a rainbow medley of peppers that dangled over a forkful of orzo.

“Fantastic!” Kris and I cheered, clinking our glasses of Malbec wine in appreciation.

“Oh, and about the bread …” Dr. Mike hesitated as he handed over the heavy loaf. “Some folks say it’s atomic,” he cackled.

“What do you think Dr. Mike meant by atomic?” I asked Kris later that evening, as we drove to our weekend mountain house.

“I’m really not sure,” she replied, as the truck turned toward Etowah. “But I bet we’re going to find out!”

Pajama-clad and curious, Kris and I settled onto a sofa with two slices of Dr. Mike’s bread. And with a few chomps of the homemade loaf, we understood why the bread was defined atomic.

“This is pure fiber!” I cried, as Dr. Mike’s chuckles echoed in my mind.

And then we both shared an expletive, all too familiar with the ramifications that awaited us come digestion.

The next day, Kris and I journeyed the Blue Ridge Parkway for a morning hike up Mount Pisgah. After ascending its peak and beholding the majestic mountain view, we awarded ourselves two apples and a brief respite before our descent.

And then, it hit. Dr. Mike’s bread, that is.

“It’s time to get down this mountain!” I hollered, accompanied by Kris’ likewise atomic shock.

Our mountainous descent was a series of skids and falls, bypassing other hikers as we hurled ourselves in a fast and furious fashion downward. The never-ending stick and stone trail was a miserable reminder of Cat Stevens’ lyrics:

“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”

I’m not sure how we made it down Mount Pisgah that afternoon, or to the Pisgah National Forest’s public restrooms for that matter. But by the grace of God, we did. And although I was thankful for a mountain weekend “miles from nowhere,” Dr. Mike’s bread reminded me that sometimes it’s good to get back to modern conveniences as well.

Or at least indoor plumbing.

The printed page still holds its own charms

Digital dictionaries may soon replace their print predecessors — or so it seems after last week, when Oxford University Press announced a potential switch to an online-only version of the Oxford English Dictionary’s upcoming third edition, ending the 126-year-old print publication.

“The print dictionary market is just disappearing,” reported Nigel Portwood, chief executive of Oxford University Press, in The Sunday Times. “It is falling away by tens of percent a year.”

With news of the popular dictionary’s threatened press-life, I revisited the weathered pages of my own Webster’s New World Dictionary, seeking words that describe the book and its electronic replacement.

• An’-ti-quate’: (verb) to make old, out of date, or obsolete; (adjective) an’-ti-quat’-ed. Some would contend that today’s online dictionaries antiquate the hard-copy edition that still stands ready on my office cubicle shelf.

Likewise, today’s high school students would consider my high school homework sessions antiquated — flipping through the pages of my paperback dictionary while typing term papers on a blue-screened word processor.

These digital days, online dictionaries offer immediate gratification for those word-struggling students who, like me, wait only hours before a deadline to finish a report — or a column.

• Im-me-di-ate: (adjective) without delay; instant. Our growing tech-savvy population seeks the convenience of instant search engine results from free online sources, like www.dictionary.com. With a single click of “enter,” a list of definitions, word origins and history, and even famous quotations appear on a computer screen that only seconds earlier was blank, save a sundry of Internet advertisements. No time-consuming turning of pages to search for sought-after word meanings. And no aroma of ink.

• aroma: (noun) a pleasant odor; fragrance. Although I reference online sources while writing, I likewise thumb through my dictionary, sometimes dealing the pages as a poker hand just to get a whiff of the ink. As peculiar as this practice seems, I savor the smell of ink. Besides, a scratch-and-sniff session with my computer screen would appear more eccentric — and wouldn’t grant the same olfactory satisfaction derived from my book’s printed pages.

Despite this joy, some environmentalists would argue I consider Mother Earth over my ink-smell fixation. These conservationists, sometimes called tree huggers, would ask that I forsake my fondness for print dictionaries to save ... well, the trees.

• con-ser-va-tion: (noun) conserving; the official care or management of natural resources. I’ve been told the Internet can decrease the amount of paper used for books, manuals, charts and other work-related products. With computer software systems replacing “out-dated” corporate procedures, as well as human bodies, I have observed the efficiency of such idealism — most notably in the overflowing trash stash and recycling piles by office printers. But, let’s face it. We’re a work-force and world that’s increasingly dependent on digital.

• de-pend’-ent: (adjective) determined by something else; relying (on) for support, etc. A few days ago, I reached for a calculator to compute a work equation. Midway through entering the data, I stopped. “You don’t need a calculator!” I fussed at myself, as I mentally solved the mathematical equation.

Aside from minimal mathematical calculations, there are few work functions I perform without Internet and software programs. Production halts when power outages strike or our system server fails. At the mercy of power and IT companies, my colleagues and I wait ... and wait ... until the hums and beeps of technology jolt us back into production mode.

Due to such inevitable, albeit temporary, Internet glitches, I’ll hold onto my hard-copy dictionary. I’m certain some folks consider it antiquated, as they seek immediate results from its online counterpart. But I’ll gladly relinquish my dictionary.com dependency for my dog-eared high school dictionary.

If for no other reason, I like the way it smells.

Not enough Alf to go around at lunch time

Few childhood memories endure a lifetime. Most fade, as do the years, conceding to newer, arguably more noteworthy experiences. Yet occasionally, a childhood marvel maintains a permanent place in one’s memory — its immortal status achieved by a rare significance we define as “unforgettable.” For me, that memorable moment occurred during my first grade year at Epsom School, when I met Keisha.

The new kid at school, Keisha lived in the Franklin County community of Rocky Ford with her great-uncle Bill and Aunt Rose. Well into their retirement years, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose raised Keisha on old-time religion and age-old traditions.

Despite their advanced age and considerable generation gap, Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose showered Keisha with the trendiest toys and most modern accessories – all the envy of my first grade classmates. Oddly, it wasn’t Keisha’s collection of Nintendo games that I coveted most, nor was it her hot pink Trapper Keeper that unfastened with a Velcro rip. Instead, it was Keisha’s lunch box.

“Look what Uncle Bill got me!” Keisha bragged one day during lunch, while my schoolmates and I climbed onto our wooden chairs and slid the squeaking seats to our imaginary placemats.

“Alf!” we all screamed as Keisha unsnapped the top lid of her new, fire-engine red lunch box, brandishing a galactic backdrop and the popular, brown-furred alien from Melmac.

“Let me see it!” I begged, joined by the others who likewise wanted to examine the plastic lunch box advertising the 1980’s family sitcom. Keisha gloated and giggled as the envied lunch box was passed from one set of stubby fingers to the next.

Meanwhile, I sulked as I picked at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As lunch time gave way to class time, I silently strategized how to acquire my own Alf lunch box.

“Uncle Bill got Keisha an Alf lunch box!” I told Mama after school, as she prepared my daily afternoon snack.

“Eat your cookies over the kitchen table,” Mama instructed, ignoring my implication as she placed two Oreos onto a paper towel.

“Mama, I want an Alf lunch box,” I said, dunking one of the Oreos into a glass of milk.

“You already have a lunch box,” Mama answered, while I chomped the soggy cookie.

“But I want an Alf lunch box,” I frowned, as chocolate crumbs drifted onto my lap.

“You’re making a mess,” Mama fussed. “Eat your snack over the kitchen table.”

“Mama!” I cried, accidentally knocking my crumb-covered napkin off the kitchen table. “I want an Alf lunch box!”

“You ungrateful children are ruining my house!” Mama exploded as black specks scattered onto her kitchen floor. “You don’t need an Alf lunch box!” she hollered as I leapt from the kitchen table and fled from her fly swatter.

The next day at school, a strangely solemn Keisha raised her hand following the morning’s Pledge of Allegiance.

“Can I call Uncle Bill?” she asked the teacher, who then questioned Keisha’s need to call home.

“I forgot my lunch,” she cried, and then scurried to the office.

I assumed Keisha’s panic was contagious. Because suddenly, the teacher ceased her lecture on counting coins and commenced to clutching her own throat in a most peculiar manner. My schoolmates and I gawked at the teacher, who then released her scarlet-splotched throat and thrust her trembling hand towards an open classroom window.

Had I known the meaning of a “mirage” back then, I would have defined the spectacle as such. For there, slowly sliding from one side of the window sill to the other was a lunch box. A red lunch box. A fire-engine red Alf lunch box.

My classmates and I applauded as the Alf lunch box bobbed about the window sill in a jitterbug fashion.

Just as our teacher neared collapse, the peak of a brown hat ascended the window sill. Keisha cackled as Uncle Bill’s head popped up in a comical Jack-in-the-Box fashion, jolting our classroom, and even the green-faced teacher, into an uproar.

I’m not sure what ever happened to that Alf lunch box. Like the TV series, I’m sure it was replaced by a newer one, as is the norm with our ever-evolving pop-culture fads. Regardless, I often think back to that day at Epsom School, when Uncle Bill paid a visit to our first grade class … and by way of an open window, made sure Keisha got her lunch.

No oil can for this Tin Man

In this world, there are very few folks who enjoy the self-imposed torment my elderly kinfolk call “taking the exercise.” Admittedly, I’m among the mass majority that doesn’t experience euphoria while jogging (and huffing) up hills, gliding (and sliding) on the elliptical machine, and summiting (and suffering) imaginary peaks on the local gym’s Stairmaster. I undergo such physical agony for one lone reason: I’m cash-strapped and can’t afford to grow out of my current clothes.

Among the numerous exercise drills I deplore, squats top the list. Not only is this knee-bending, rear-raising routine aesthetically awkward, it’s darned difficult as well, and in my case – disastrous. So last weekend, when my sister’s fiancé, Justin, accompanied me to the gym for an hour-long training session that involved several sets of squats, I was not the happiest future sister-in-law.

Against my better judgement, I sacrificed my out-of-shape physique to Justin’s torture training session. Although the workout consisted of more than the up and down, leg trembling techniques I equate with hell on earth, it was the secession of squats that led to my near collapse.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I muttered, as Justin instructed me to lower my hindquarters closer to the floor. And then, after miraculously maneuvering myself in a miserable, seated upright position, it was over.

Or so I thought.

Minor muscle stiffness settled in the next day. Its gradual onset tricked my brain into believing that brotherhood’s brutality was but a mere, fading memory.

Yet, even the mind falls prey to deception. And by bedtime, as I lay among a pillar of pillows and my childhood stuffed cow, I awakened to a sore reality.

The next workday’s gait was a series of knee-buckling stilted shifts, similar to that of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Like the shiny, clanking Tin Man, I also squeaked. Yet such squeaks sounded more like yelps, and sometimes hollers, issuing forth from my contorted mouth – not from the rusted, hinged joints of my kindred spirit.

Clad in ruby spiked heels, I clumsily shuffled back and forth from my gray-paneled cubicle to the office water fountain, seeking a remedy to the scratchy throat I’d acquired from the aforementioned yelps. And as a result of frequent fountain trips, I later limped to the one-seater bathroom adjacent our newsroom. After securing the single latch lock to the chipped wooden door, I grimaced and grabbed both sides of the wobbling toilet seat as my trembling thighs collapsed with an echoed thud on the commode.

“This must be what the old folks feel like,” I grumbled later, while squirting pink commercial bathroom soap onto my hands and lathering them for the second time.

Bumping free from the bathroom door, I shuffled towards the Advertising Department again, tripping when a rebellious foot freed itself from my high heel shoe.

“Are you ok?” Mama asked that evening, as I slowly stumbled up the back steps barefoot, clutching my wretched red heels in one hand while leaning forward, reaching for the kitchen screen door with the other.

“I’m off to see the wizard,” I jokingly hummed as I hugged her good evening.

That night at dinner, I said little and ate a lot. And then I retired to my little upstairs nook, where I collapsed onto my bed.

As I lay beneath my rose patchwork quilt, I realized that despite the comforts of my cushioned mattress, I would suffer a sore slumber. Discomfort’s a sure source for insomnia, so I had ample time to contemplate the culprit in my current condition – my lack of common sense. And as my waking moments surrendered to sleep, I dreamed the line of a familiar Wizard of Oz melody…

“If I only had a brain …”

Bambi gets no love from these apple mavens

These days, there’s a battle going on between deer and man – or should I say woman – just down Route 1 in Epsom. It’s not fought with the firing blasts of rifles, since the four-legged foe both advances and retreats while we Eaves folk sleep. Instead, retaliation’s waged with afternoon apple-picking frenzies — Mama scooping up basketfuls of any untouched Granny Smith apples that remain after our brown-haired, white-tailed neighbors have munched on their midnight snack.

I remember the day that Daddy, donning his straw-brimmed hat, shoveled earthen pockets about our yard and planted the several sprigs that have now matured into fruit-bearing trees. Despite his knack for gardening, Daddy’s mini-apple orchard was endangered on numerous nature-imposed occasions. Mama’d signal the siren with, “It’s coming up a cloud!” As we kids scurried inside, she’d unplug all of the lamps and the television set in our old farm house. Hushed, we’d huddle together in the darkened living room until the “thunder cloud” passed. Meanwhile, Daddy would venture onto the front porch to watch Mother Nature’s wrath, a TRUE cigarette dangling from his lax lip. Occasionally it was the lightening, but more often the strong winds, that toppled the branches and sometimes tree trunks in Daddy’s budding orchard. Even as a child, I deemed the uplifted tree roots an unmerited mockery by Mother Nature herself.

Despite two decades of thunderstorms, ice storms and Hurricane Fran, some of those original apple trees remain. And as I write this week’s column, Mama is outside picking apples from them.

When Mama is finished picking those apples, she’ll begin peeling and cubing the batch. Depending on the picking’s yield, she’ll sprinkle cinnamon and sugar over the slices and slide them into the oven. Baked apples are one of our family’s favorite summertime treats. For those apples spared from tonight’s baking heat, they’ll be bagged in the freezer for later months, when Daddy’s apple trees lie dormant in the raw of a grey winter.

An older generation has some apple-baking treats as well.

“Old folks used to slice apples and place ‘em on a piece of tin outside until they dried,” Granny explained a few nights ago, as we dined on apple rolls and homemade apple sauce. “They’d bring ‘em back out during the winter months, soak ‘em in a stove pot until the apples plumped back up, and then fry ‘em into apple jacks,” she continued, as she approached the stove and grabbed for her pan of apple rolls. “The old folks would eat apple jacks with turnip salad.”

“How much sugar’s in these apples?” I laughed, as Granny giggled and served a second helping of our apple dessert.

“Back then, folks ate like this and never gained any weight. They worked it off in the fields,” Granny replied. “Honey, I’d go back to school after working the farm all summer, and I’d have lost weight!”

As Granny offered a third serving of apple rolls, I reminded myself that I don’t toil on a farm all day long. And so, with disappointment, I declined the sweet, flaking apple pastry that beckoned me from Granny’s baking pan.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’ll tell the next generation of Eaves offspring when they ask me what “the old folks” used to do.

Yet, I’m certain that as long as there are apple trees and made-from-scratch recipes, there’ll be stories to share about Mama’s apple-pickin’, Granny’s dessert-fixin’, and Daddy’s front-porch smokin’ in a little farm community called Epsom.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

* * * * * * * *

Apple Rolls

• Buttermilk

biscuit dough

• Cooked Apples

• Sugar

• Butter

Make buttermilk biscuit dough or buy dough already prepared. Roll out with rolling pin and cut into roll size pieces. Put 2 tablespoons cooked apples (not mashed) on top of dough and add sugar. Fold and seal around edges. Place in pan, brush each roll with butter and bake until brown.

Raw fruit can be placed inside dough. It will cook with dough. Substitute blackberries, blueberries or peaches.

Views on a 'Southern' slice of life

My first tomato sandwich debate dates back to 2006, during my two-year employment at Wake Forest’s Heritage Golf Club. It was then, as I cruised the drought-parched greens on my beverage cart – darting irrigation sprinklers and the dangerous drives of hopelessly aspiring golfers – that I daily ordered a tomato sandwich from the club’s restaurant. My instructions were specific: toasted whole wheat bread, a sparing portion of mayonnaise, a dusting of black pepper, and tomato slices so fine that they folded into a river of seeded juice. On occasion, I’d request the addition of bacon, as the restaurant didn’t cater to the fried fat back or hog jowls of my Epsom rearing.

“No, no, no,” sighed the club’s head golf pro one day, while I chomped a bite of my soupy sandwich. “That’s not the way you make a real tomato sandwich.” As he was one of the few native North Carolinians at The Heritage, I humored his tomato sandwich recipe.

“First of all, you use white bread and you don’t toast it,” he began. “And you’ve got to use Duke’s Mayonnaise,” he insisted. “None of those other brands.”

His description of suitable tomato slice size was certainly not the puree placed inside my two pieces of toasted whole wheat bread, as evidenced by the disapproving shake of his head.

Admittedly, I haven’t always been a fan of tomato sandwiches. From childhood to adult-childhood (aka my college years), I’d sustained an aversion for the plump red fruit that’s grown in almost every country garden. My first stand-off with the Southern sandwich occurred during a lunch time visit with my great-aunt Christine. Aware I couldn’t decline the meal she’d prepared for me, I bowed in surrender – and in prayer – to the lone tomato sandwich she’d placed onto my plate. Without breathing, I gulped the feast of thick, vine-ripened tomato slices that she’d piled between pieces of Merita bread.

And then, something occurred. Perhaps it was the Good Lord above, looking down from Heaven onto my pitiful predicament, who declared it heretical that a Southern girl not like tomato sandwiches. For soon after my self-forced consumption at my dear aunt’s kitchen table, I was struck with an immense desire for another tomato sandwich. And after slightly altering the Southern concoction, I devoured what I considered the perfect tomato sandwich.

I’ve learned that there’s one essential factor in preparing the ideal tomato sandwich, and that’s a homegrown tomato. When the edge of my fruit knife pierces the skin of a tomato, I want a burst of sweet sap to splash free from its membrane. A puddle of fruit juice should overflow when the first sliver of severed tomato drops to the cutting board. I’ve tried tomatoes from other sources, and there’s sadly no substitute for the garden-grown variety.

A few weeks ago, I conducted a poll at The Daily Dispatch on how to make the perfect tomato sandwich. Few fancied the slender slices I favor, stating their preference as hearty wedges. While most female employees preferred whole wheat toast, the majority of male employees favored untoasted white bread – that is, unless the “woman of the house” volunteered to toast the bread for them. Duke’s Mayonnaise was elected the mayonnaise of choice, and black pepper was unanimously voted a necessary component of tomato sandwiches, with the addition of salt close behind.

One employee preferred her tomato sandwiches “without the tomato.” I guess the Lord hasn’t struck this Southern girl with a taste-bud transformation yet.

Yet, thanks to a fixin’ of fresh tomato sandwiches, prepared years ago by my great-aunt Christine, the Good Lord struck me. And I’m now proud to claim my country roots with the Southern slice of life known as a tomato sandwich.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Views on a Southern ‘slice’ of life

Tippy the not-so-friendly ghost cat

It was just last week, as I yawned “good evening” to bedtime’s approach, that I crawled into the line-dried sheets that draped across my mattress. A nearby floor fan hummed a noisy lullaby as it wafted the smell of sunshine and summertime from the pale green sheets that had been baked stiff by July’s heat. I lay on my side as the fan cast its breeze onto my skin, evaporating the dewy condensation that glued my flesh to the sheets and pillow shams.

It was then, drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep, that I was roused by a revelation: I was not alone.

Mama’d encountered a similar scenario weeks before.

“I thought I heard a meow,” she explained that evening over a dinner of fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and green peas. Having never cared for green peas, I’d eliminated the pungent peas and doubled my portion of potatoes.

“What’s that?” I asked, as I flattened my crispy pork chop between two flaky layers of a buttered biscuit.

“Earlier today, I thought I heard a meow,” she repeated, while our 17-year-old cat, Sassy, chomped on her pork chop scraps.

“And then I felt something rub against my leg,” Mama continued, while I searched for another pork chop among the leftovers.

“Did you give Sassy the last pork chop?” I turned to Mama, while our somewhat senile cat licked her curved, white-mittened paws and then collapsed near her food bowl.

The telephone rang, and while Mama handled the habitual dinner-time telemarketer, I frowned and settled for the remaining green peas. Meanwhile, a satisfied Sassy purred as she dozed for a cat nap.

Several interruptions followed, and it wasn’t until the dinner table was cleared that Mama finished her meal time story.

“It wasn’t Sassy?” I asked, as Mama described the rubbing sensation on her leg, and likewise, the meow she’d heard while washing dishes earlier that day.

“Sassy was outside,” Mama replied. “But of course, it could have been my imagination.”

I’d heard of ghost cats before. But I’d never considered the possibility until now, after hearing Mama’s encounter. Although Mama dismissed her experience as an over-active imagination, I deemed it paranormal cat activity.

Following Mama’s ghost cat incident, I searched for the ghost of our dearly beloved, recently-deceased cat, Tippy. I beckoned it with cat treats and “Here kitty, kitty.” Yet, after a series of unsuccessful communications, I deemed any paranormal cat activity unlikely.

That is, until the night I succumbed to slumber as the fan’s breeze combated my sweat. It wasn’t a meow that startled me from my rest, nor was it a ghost cat’s rub that alerted me of a paranormal presence.

Instead, it was the sound of a cat relieving itself.

Contentious in her last days, Tippy frequently “did her business” in my bedroom. Although I’d positioned a litter box inches from my bedroom door, Tippy seldom found use for it. Instead, she squatted in carpeted corners and occasionally aimed for walls. I assumed it was Tippy’s rebellion against a series of Mama-mandated diets.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the deceased Tippy I initially blamed for stirring my sleep. It was Sassy, not yet gone to Jesus, with whom I found fault.

“Sassy,” I groaned, flipping the switch to my bedside lamp.

But no Sassy appeared.

And so, I began my hunt. I searched beside, behind and underneath my bed. Yet, I found no feline. I assumed an all-fours position and sniffed my bedroom’s beige carpeted floor. Likewise, there was no odor indicative of a cat’s trail.

It was at that moment, pajama clad and crawling with nose pressed to the floor, that I realized what had occurred.

I’d been visited by the ghost cat.

There are those disbelievers who quantify such findings as wishful thinking, delusions, daydreams or even psychosis. And perhaps those pragmatists are correct.

Yet, who’s to say our departed pets can’t return to their earthly homes, bearing messages for their earthly caregivers. Perhaps it’s these paranormal visits that bring closure to our furry friends, allowing them to frisk forward to “the light.”

If that’s the case, what was Tippy’s message to me, as her kitty spirit squatted on my bedroom floor and relieved herself?

Never mind. I’m sure I was just dreaming.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Tippy the not so friendly ghost cat

Storyteller stands as tall as the mountains

Some say the mountains tell a story. They claim the tales of earth’s evolution — likewise mankind’s metamorphosis — are ensconced in the rolling, oftentimes rigid terrain of Mother Nature. That the mountain’s memoirs are etched in trails that bend to its timbered peaks and slither past the weathered stones of forested creeks. Yet, these stories aren’t bound solely to the dirt and rock of ages past. Instead, they’re sometimes told by a passerby, as all folks are on this temporary stomping ground.

I met my storyteller last weekend, during a trip to our western Carolina mountains.

Pestered by a week of incessant cell phone and Internet activity, I turned off all forms of communicative technology as I settled into the hilled haven of Etowah. And while unpacking an overnight bag at my cousin Lucy’s, I grumbled at my self-induced stress and then medicated my sleep-deprivation with coffee grains and diet cola.

After a few hours of family storytelling, followed by a good night’s sleep, I was eager to conquer a small hike at Pearson’s Falls with cousin Lucy and Granny, who’d accompanied me for the weekend visit. Outstretched tree limbs masked the summer’s sunlight as we climbed the wooded trail to the waterfall’s plunge. Yet it was at dinner time, a few hours following our hike, when the Carolina mountains awakened me with a story told not by its geography, but by one of its inhabitants.

The storyteller wasn’t a native to these mountains. Instead, he’d settled there seeking reprieve from the flat land’s heat. For years, this mountaineer had waded through the rivers, lakes and streams of Henderson County as he cast his rod using the ancient method of fly fishing. A doctor by profession, he’d medically championed the cause for children. Yet this advocacy extended to nature’s clinic as well, where he both mentored and sponsored children in the sport of fly fishing and likewise golf, another of his extracurricular activities.

The storyteller, a good friend to my cousin Lucy, had invited us to dinner.

“I need a two-hander,” Dr. Mike said, as he heaved himself from a wooden chair that was seated at a modest kitchen table. With practiced precision, Dr. Mike hoisted the non-functioning left side of his body from his armed chair, and with the strength of his right side, dragged his dulled limbs to a nearby kitchen stove. Answering his cue, my cousin Lucy joined Dr. Mike, where the pair prepared our dinner plates.

Diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease three years ago, Dr. Mike’s fly fishing days and golf outings have ended. And after claiming the movement of his left limbs, the disease, known for its never-ceasing tremors, now threatens his vocal strength as well. Despite Dr. Mike’s physical handicap, he daily devotes himself to helping others, specifically those newly diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Whether its sharing informational materials, coordinating educational events, or visiting those affected by Parkinson’s, Dr. Mike is a steward for those with the same life-altering condition.

A supporter of local causes, Dr. Mike is known to frequent the town’s farmer’s market on Saturday mornings, bearing baked goods for its organic farmers and vendors. Likewise, he’s an advocate for the local arts. And following the four-course dinner Dr. Mike had prepared for our trio, we accompanied him to a local theater for “The Betty and Beau Wedding Show,” an interactive wedding play that ended with a dance, reception and wedding cake. As the audience danced to the swing jazz of the featured musicians, The Space Heaters, the bride bobbed from patron to patron, soliciting tips with a lavender satin purse.

“That man over there says he’ll tip the bride $20 if you’ll dance with the groom,” the theater director informed me as she pointed at Dr. Mike, who chuckled as he leaned on a nearby support railing.

A bashful, tuxedo-clad groom stood before me as I sputtered protestations. Yet, after my unsuccessful objections, I accepted the groom’s gracefully extended arms, lifted my sandaled front foot – and stepped onto his polished black shoes. Several times.

As the pained groom and I cavorted, I glanced at Dr. Mike, whose crimson face bellowed at my awkward routine.

It was then, as I glimpsed his spirited glimmer from across the theater’s dance floor, that I realized I’d found my mountain storyteller. Despite his medical adversity, this sage tells the story of selfless servanthood through his daily gifts. And while Dr. Mike’s deeds enrich those who are granted the fortune of entering his life, his own blessing is the joy known only to those who’ve placed the well-being of others before themselves. And that’s a metamorphosis, the mountains would say, few folk make in this lifetime.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Storyteller stands as tall as the mountains