How do you stand the rainy winter months?

Gorgeous Oregon, but kind of Mordor

It's not the rain it's the darkness. That's what I always tell folks who ask me about the hardest part of Oregon's winter. Even if we had a full day of sunshine, the shortest day of the year in Portland, Oregon, is a almost an hour and a quarter shorter than Charleston, South Carolina.

Having just returned from a week in the Lowcountry, I'm more cognizant of this than ever. Having an entire week of longer days at the darkest time of the year is one of the best parts of traveling east for the holidays.

I recently read an article from Garden and Gun magazine about an artist— Fireworks: Betsy Eby's blowtorched canvases evoke the rhythm and flow of nature. As I'm always looking for connections between The South and The Pacific Northwest, I was delighted to read that Eby hails from Oregon and now lives in Columbus, Georgia. She's quoted in the article as saying, "The difference in the light is so extreme from the Pacific Northwest…It's so abundant and warm here. There's more information in the light…Being in the South allows me to split those hairs of color."

I can't say that I wholly agree with her assessment about there being more information in the light, but I can agree to the extremes in differences. Both entice me to wonder at the nuances of nature and revel in the joys of color and form of the great outdoors.

Lowcountry winter light

Oregon in winter time is muted, brooding and mysterious. Some days it can feel as if time stands still. There's no apparent difference between eleven AM and four PM. It's easy to forget oneself in the muffled, indistinct light. Because the day only lasts about 8 hours in the winter, this light is precious and indoor lighting, colors and spaces perhaps have more detail and attention paid than in The South.


The scarcity of light and the vicissitudes of the sky make me more attuned to the light in Oregon. I love watching the weather patterns shift atop one of the highest hills in Oregon wine country, just outside Dundee. Recently in the winter months, I've emerged from a sea of fog and cloud to see a dazzling blue bird sky. I can later watch little tufts of cloud skirting across the tree line and hovering over the vineyards. The tasting room can be totally shrouded in a thin layer of cloud, only to have the blazing bright sun illuminate it from behind. It's as if an alien spaceship has set its sights on us. It feels as if we're about to be beamed into a wormhole to another dimension. I've never seen light like that.

I think I can appreciate the light in The South so much more now after living in the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps that's what Eby is trying to say. But she's a native Oregonian living in Georgia, and I grew up in Georgia and am living in Oregon.  It's not the rain; it's the light.

Southern Courtesy

You catch more fruit flies with honey.

It's fruit fly season in the Willamette Valley. We get so many visitors into the two winery tasting rooms (Domaine Serene and Amity Vineyards) from all over the state, country and world. I can always count on my Southern folks to be polite, courteous and convivial. I rarely feel as if I'm "serving" them; instead, I feel as if I'm welcoming friends into my own home and we're catching up on old times. That's not to say folks from other areas of the country or world aren't the same way; it's just to say I can depend on them to always be positive interactions.

I can count on them to say "please" and "thank you." I can count on them to treat me like a human being and not like a wine-pouring automaton. I can count on Southerners to gush about Oregon's beauty and what a spectacular trip they're having. Even when I know they didn't particularly like a wine, I count on Southerners to sing the praises of the wines they DO like. The worst I've heard is, "Oh, that one's not my favorite." Read Guy Martin's explanation on how to Mind Your Manners in the "Southern Handbook" from Garden and Gun Magazine.

I can also count on Southerners to tell (and listen) to good stories. They talk to me and include me in their conversations as I pour their Pinot Noir. Usually by the time they leave, they know a few of my choice yarns and I know some of theirs. Read Roy Blunt Jr.s account of how to tell a good story from the same Handbook

I salute you Southern courtesy and company!

Southern Appreciation

There are some wry moments only a Southerner can truly appreciate. Take, for instance, my recent job interview at a small winery and vineyard a little north of Salem, Oregon.

Following an interstate, a traffic-light-ridden highway, country roads, and a very bumpy gravel road, I made my way to Amity Vineyards. I spoke with the owner for a while about my experience and wine sales approach. She mentioned in passing that one of the winery/tasting room employees was from Georgia.

When we went back inside, I told said employee, Anna, that I grew up in Georgia too. She asked, where? I responded, Marietta. She asked, which high school? I said Walton. She said, me too! I asked which neighborhood she lived in? Turns out we lived off the same traffic-light-ridden highway in Marietta, Georgia. Of course, she graduated over a decade after I did and probably never had the chance to see country, gravel roads in Marietta the way I had. These little moments in life are exquisite, but that's not the moment I'm referring to when I speak of Southerners appreciating life's wry sense of humor.

Take a close look at the menu. 

No, I asked another employee, Andrea, if there were any especially good spots in Amity for some lunch. She suggested Uncle Jack's BBQ. I usually avoid BBQ out west, but I was going to take her up on this one. From the outside, it was exactly what I was looking for.

The inside was too. A few tables were populated with locals as I made my way to the counter to inspect the menu. As I was gazing over the fare, I was thrilled to bits to see the prices. We're not in Portland anymore, Dorthy! The waitress asked if I wanted it to go, and I said no, and she said, oh well have a seat and I'll bring you some water and a menu. Such hospitality.

So I sat and observed the other side of the menu. I'll be dammed. Sweet tea in Oregon. I think this was the first time that I've actually seen it listed. Of course it's not listed in the South. That's a given. There is nothing better to wash down a pulled pork sandwich than some sweet tea. As my eyes scanned further down I was overjoyed to see the beer and wine selection. There were the usual suspects, yes. Bud, Coors, etc. But a Deschutes Seasonal? And bless my stars, a wine list!?! At BBQ?! I'm throwing down the gauntlet to my southern people. If you can find a BBQ joint (where you can get a sandwich and SALAD—cole slaw will count for $5.95) and they also offer a Pinot Noir and Gewürztraminer by the glass, I will send you one of my Domaine Serene Evenstad Reserve Pinot Noir from 2008. Seriously.

The BBQ was good. Unsurprisingly, the salad was a bagged version of iceberg, dehydrated carrots and purple cabbage, but I did get an option of balsamic vinegar dressing. While the sauce lacked a vinegar component that I so enjoy in a delectable BBQ sandwich, I was easily able to compensate by pouring my salad dressing directly on top. Gourmet. I mean gour—met.

Just as I was shaking my head in disbelief Anna from the winery came in to pick up some sandwiches to take back to the tasting room. Just two gals from Marietta, Georgia, eating some BBQ and talking wine in Amity, Oregon. America, to thee I sing!

The menu at Uncle Jack's. See previous photo for drink list

Southeast in the...Midwest?

There's nothing about this post that has to do with The South or The Pacific Northwest. All references are purely tangential. If you're a purist, stop reading now. I will make every effort to point out the connections, however weak. Still, consider yourself warned.

This blog post is about Nebraska. Lincoln, Nebraska. We're going to meet in the middle.

This Southern gal met two lovely Nebraskinians (Is there a correct word?) in the Pacific Northwest. They decided to wed in the town in which they met. Interestingly, Lincoln was named for our 13th president in hopes of blocking a measure to make the town the state capitol. Most residents were Confederate leaning, and the movers and shakers of the time thought that naming the town after the recently assassinated president would keep the measure from passing. So. Didn't. Work—and look at all these connections I'm making!

I recently was accused of being "A Fly Over." In other words, I was a person who knew nothing about

That's some kind of flat. Silo skyscrapers

all those states flown over when going from coast to coast. It's true. I am. But I also love to explore new places with good people. I love my friends, and I'm going to love where they come from. I mean, I like corn. I like College Football. Go Huskers! Go Big Red! In fact, this past bowl season, The Huskers and Bulldogs commiserated on our mutual losses. We rooted for each other and we cried together. (Until we play each other. Then there will be blood.) That's pretty Southern. Something that the PNW doesn't really get.

Yes, a tractor greeted us at the airport. But I did not see one single cornfield during my stay. True story.  I'm a little disappointed to be honest. The airport was small and everyone was very friendly and polite—no hipsters in sight. Either in attitude or style. I rather like the eclectic style of the PNW, and I'm not sure what it was in Lincoln. It lacked some of the preppiness of the South. I think we determined it was more Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle. No Urban Outfitters or American Apparel.

I always do a little research before visiting a new location. Wikipedia was quite helpful, and I learned about the Lincoln naming business there as well as the fame of the state capitol, which is the second tallest in the country behind Louisiana. That would be on my list of things to do over the course of the weekend.

I had no idea how awesome it would be. "The Prick of the Prairie" is a marvel to see. The attention to detail, the art deco style, and the sheer "Americanness" of this structure astounded me. I took a gazillion pictures. I could have taken many more. Built over the course of the Roaring Twenties and completed during The Great Depression, this building has similar qualities to the Chrysler and Empire State Building, but specific to Southernness, it reminded me of some buildings in Asheville, NC.

Corn on the Knockers

Venetian American

Corn on the Ceiling

Sewing his wild kernels?

In general, I was really impressed by Lincoln's fantastic architecture. There was so much attention to detail in many of the buildings. Climbing up to the top of the capitol building, I saw the flat line of the horizon in every direction. I'm curious if Lincoln's urban planners and designers were more careful with their decisions because they were disrupting that unequivocal flatness. Just a thought.

While I didn't stray from the grid-like pattern of Lincoln's streets, I did get to visit Pioneer's Park a little west of the city. It was a gorgeous day, and lots of school kids were out exploring the park and anticipating summer and the last few days of school. North, south, east or west—we all love the carefree days of summer. 

I love living in the Pacific Northwest, but two things about the south I mess dreadfully: lightning bugs and thunderstorms. Lincoln provided me with the latter. From Thursday until Saturday night, the Portland folks basked in sunshine and prairie balmy breezes. Mother nature waited until after the wedding and dancing were done, but she gave us a show. I love the anticipation of a summer thunderstorm. You can feel the electricity in the air. I wonder how many times the Seed Sower gets struck by lightning? 

Here are just a few more photographs. Thanks Lincoln! Congrats Scott & Sara! 

What southerner doesn't like a little Bourbon?

From a distance

Traditional and Modern church architecture

Art Deco lines

Husker Art Museum

Oxford, Part II: "Faulkner Country"

A Just and Holy Cause?

Traveling to Oxford, Mississippi, with a handful of non-Southerners, I ruminated on the South's relationship with time and place. Upon entering the Square from the Memphis airport, one of my friends said, "Man, stuff happened here." And yet we know stuff happens everywhere. What's the difference?

I grew up stopping at almost every historical road sign on byways of the south. I weaned myself off of it a bit while living in Europe, because you'd never get where you were going because you'd always be reading about what happened before. But even the monuments in the south are monuments themselves. Take this obelisk dedicated to Confederate Soldiers, erected in the early 20th century.

I just read a book review in the Wall Street Journal by Barton Swain about Tracy Thompson's "The Mind of the New South," and several of the passages stuck with me. One particular section discussed Southerner's obsession with the past as well as the fatigue of, as the author of the article writes,

the sanctimonious browbeating and ridicule constantly issuing from the entertainment industry, academia and the national news media? Most Southerners are prepared to live with the incessant reminders that their history and culture were corrupt from the beginning. What they aren't prepared to do is go looking for more such reminders.

Oxford Cemetery

The Garden & Gun article mentioned in an earlier post about Oxford muses that Faulkner would be turning in his grave if he saw the state of his beloved "postage stamp of native soil." Part of the change has to do with tearing down the old and putting up the new. Certainly most American cities could take a page from Portland's city planning, but should we drape all our pasts behind ropes and monuments?

Perhaps it's due to my Southernness, perhaps I can contribute it to my English major nature, but I was the only visitor to make a Faulkner Haj. Other than watching a beloved friend get married, this was the top of my list of things to do in Oxford. Using a little pamphlet included in the wedding baskets, I went on a run through the square, past Faulkner's grandparents' house (the Falkners, the author added the "U" after returning from a stint in the Canadian military. Make of that what you will) and on down to Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner for over thirty years.

British and American Oxford notes

In his 1936 book Absalom! Absalom! Faulkner wrote, "Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Maybe happen is never once but like ripples  maybe on water after the pebble sings, the ripples moving on, spreading, the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to the next pool..."

This quote has stuck with me ever since I took an American Literature class with professor Jim Hans at Wake Forest University. I definitely think that Faulkner's writing would have remained obscure to me without his guidance through some of the more difficult passages. Granted, those are few of the shortest sentences Faulkner ever wrote, but still. Even in 2013, we're weighed down by history. It's almost paralyzing if we let it.

What I never needed help appreciating, was Faulkner's ability to describe what it felt like to be in the South. While I was in Oxford, I was reading Light in August, and I began to underline passages that struck me. Here are a few:

Beyond the open window the sound of insects has not ceased, not faltered.

...feeling the intermittent sun, the heat, smelling the savage and fecund odor of the earth, the woods, the loud silence.

He remembers it now, sitting in the dark window in the quiet study, waiting for twilight to cease, for night and the galloping hooves. The copper light has completely gone now; the world hangs in a green suspension in color and texture like light through colored glass.

Rowan Oak

  As if I'm accustomed to hearing galloping hooves.

Cedar lined driveway

So, I went solo to Rowan Oak, the actual physical place where Faulkner wrote those words. I walked through his gardens, tip toed around his back patio and peered through his kitchen window. I failed to bring $5, so I was not able to enter those hallowed halls. I was pained with nostalgia, watching students and professors read from books around the house. I wanted to eavesdrop and crash the course.

Faulkner walked here

Faulkner ate here

So the next day, before the wedding, I took a little trip to Square Books to peruse the Faulkner section. There must be one, right? Now I had heard quite a bit about this bookstore. It's the Powell's books of the south. First I walked into a small book store, and it was only children's books. Then I walked clockwise around the square until I found another square books. Ahh, this must be it. I ambled up and down the rows, but it still felt amiss. While there was a little homage to Garden & Gun magazine, I found no Faulkner section and not even a fiction section. I was confused. I asked for directions.

Clearly I wasn't from around here, because the lovely lady explained I was in the home and style section of the store. If I would just exit the front door and walk three doors down, I would find the main store and an ample Faulkner section. Just like my first trip down Hawthorne Boulevard in Portland, when I went into the wrong Powell's. The lady in Oxford was a little less condescending.

Faulkner Mecca

Boy, oh, boy did I find the gold mine. The holy grail. The pirate's booty of a true American literature devotee. A just and holy cause. After perusing several titles, I opted for a book entitled Faulkner and Love: The Women Who Shaped His Art. I'm barely half way through, but it's a good read for a historian and literary buff. I know that my old Professor would be scoffing at all the historical/revisionist/political bent to Faulkner's work, and I'm scoffing along with him in some parts. The pictures, dates and family trees are the most interesting to me so far.

As it turns out, Faulkner's mother was Maud Butler and she has the same birthday as me: November 27. I couldn't help but feel connected to her. I may just have to name my future daughter Maud in honor of our connection. Of course I haven't read that chapter. I could be both embarrassed to be a Butler as well as a Sagittarian.

As the weekend culminated in the actual wedding that brought the Pacific Northwest to the Southeast, I was illuminated by the father of the bride that the ceremony would take place on Faulkner Ridge. Apparently he participated in hunting parties here. Perhaps nothing ever happens and is finished.

The view from Faulkner Ridge

Now I'm back in Portland, and I've taken up reading several other books, one notably by Eckhart Tolle, the author of The Power of Now. Here in Portland you can't drive too far without reading a bumper sticker that touts his phrase, "All you have is now." Of course Eckhart lives in British Columbia—the Pacific Northwest. Wouldn't it be interesting to get Faulkner and Tolle in a room?