Small Town America

Small Town America

This past summer, I decided to pull up stakes in Portland and move closer to my chosen field in the wine industry. I found a very affordable house within a mile of historic downtown McMinnville. It wasn't just the commute that was pulling me away from Portland. Somehow the Hipster Disneyland of the U.S. had lost its appeal, or maybe I just wasn't cool enough. I was frustrated by the quagmire of traffic, compounded by the bad manners of cyclists, but also by a slow disintegration of the city's soul. Having moved to Portland in 2008, I'm sure I was part of this slide; regardless, it felt like a good time to move.

I also found it interesting that a friend moved back south to Athens, Georgia, and another acquaintance moved back east, outside of Burlington, VT.  Two years prior, a friend moved to Telluride, Colorado. There was also a move to London and Lausanne, Switzerland, but those are outliers in this discussion. It seems to me there's a trend to move to small town America. The children of Suburban America, who grew up in strip malls and sprawl, we yearned for a sense of place, an ease of public transportation and food that was made with intention. But once we got there, we we missed the affordability of a home with a porch and with neighbors and friends close by. Where we didn't have to wait 2 hours for Sunday brunch or snarled in traffic to get to your friends' houses that lived on the outside of the other side of town. We wanted both. The answer is in small town America.

After retuning from the holidays in the South, where I visited Charleston, Atlanta and Athens, I found  a kinship between the large cities and small towns of the South and the Pacific Northwest. An argument could certainly be made for small towns outside of those two regions, but I have no authority to speak to those.

McMinnville, Oregon, naturally enough, was named for McMinnville, Tennessee (population 13,620)Linfield College. I am lucky enough to live close by and enjoy the lovely campus, which hosts our wine industry's annual International Pinot Noir Celebration (IPNC).

Linfield College's IPNC

by William T. Newby after his hometown in the South. He also later donated the land for the local institution of learning, McMinnville College, which was later named

McMinnville, Tennessee: McMinnville, like many smaller American cities and towns, has gone through a revitalization of its downtown area. "Main Street McMinnville" serves as the city's non-profit revitalization organization funded by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and Tennessee's own Main Street Program.^{[10] (Wikipedia)}

McMinnville, Oregon: In the days of strip malls and big box stores, there is a place within the heart of Oregon wine country where the 1800s meets the 21st Century. While in communities around Oregon historic downtowns are struggling, along East 3rd Street in McMinnville, the downtown isn’t just surviving, but flourishing. (Oregon.Com)

Community Plate's Lavender Latte

As I was driving to Athens, GA, from Atlanta, I was struck by the similarities of the drive from Portland to McMinnville. The miles of sprawl outside the city, the traffic signals becoming slightly farther apart until they disappear altogether. Then there's just farmland and forests and the feeling that life is slowing down and becoming somehow easier. Now Athens is a college town and McMinnville is more like a wine town, an infant Napa or Sonoma. But they both have great downtowns with good food, drinks, shopping and an ease of walkability. The brick architecture and the craftsman, bungalow style homes echo each other. I enjoy good craft beer, breakfast, coffee, cocktails, food in both places. Athens takes a point for best breakfast and McMinnville takes a point for best coffee and wine lists. The Pacific Northwest has outstanding breakfasts, but it just can't beat the South. No grits? No fluffy biscuit? No cigar. If we could just combine the power of The Community Plate's Lavender Latte in McMinnville and the allure of the biscuit and Bird's Nest of Big City Bread. 

BIRD’S NEST 4.00
FRIED EGG IN SLICE OF SOURDOUGH TOAST WITH FRESH HERBS & GRUYERE CHEESE 

Big City Bread's Bird's Nest

As I was looking for information on the McMinnville's, I came across this Parade Magazine contest for best Main Streets in America. The winner was in Tennessee, the runner up was McMinnville, Oregon. You can't make that up! Even Parade Magazine sees a correlation between small towns in the south and in the Pacific Northwest. Congratulations to winner Collierville, TN, located outside of Memphis and my new hometown Finalist, located 35 miles south of Portland. 

My next correlation comes from McMinnville's annual UFO festival. It's the second largest one, falling behind Roswell, NM. 

The festival began as a way to honor the famous 1950 Trent sighting in which two local citizens witnessed and photographed a UFO, said to be some of the most credible images of UFOs to date.

Here's the complete history of the UFO sighting, but basically a woman went out to feed the chickens and saw a flying saucer. She ran back to the house, yelling for her husband to get a camera. Now, we Southerners know about the stereotypical perception Yankees have about us with regards to aliens. Nothing supports this more than this absurdly hilarious Yahoo! questions comment:

Anyone notice the uneducated south are the only ones who see UFOs?
I was reading about yet another UFO sighting in the south. Us in the north LOVE these stories because it blatantly points out the education difference between the north and south. One guy was quoted as saying: "You hear about big bass or big buck in the area, but this is a different deal" That's HILARIOUS! All they know is huntin' an' fishin'. It's amazing how backwards and uneducated they are! Agree or disagree? 

I strongly urge you to go the link and see how and who agreed or disagreed. But my point has been made. I think I searched Google for "aliens South believe" and that link came up in the top 5. Folks out here in small town, rural Oregon are pretty darn into huntin' and fishin' and spotting them UFOs too. I can't wait for my first UFO days in McMinnville this summer! And I guess I'll fit right in.

Go Dawgs! Georgia fans in Oregon

We find each other everywhere! This note was found on my car in the Ikea parking lot during the 2015 Labor Day Weekend rush. Shortly after, I was immersed in the intense and frenetic world of the grape harvest in Dundee, Oregon. I was unable to listen to or watch the Georgia Football games. I was there in spirit and would check my Yahoo Sports app on a regular basis for updates. I was quite sad to hear about Nick Chub's injury and to see the Dawgs drop out of the top 25. Also sad about the fallout with Mark Richt. I thought he was a great coach.

I also received a random email about my blog post in watching Georgia football at the Brooklyn Park pub, but I was so busy that I don't think I ever responded. I'm glad that the word got out though! Go Dawgs!

Life's a...Coast?

Native Southern Idea of Beach

Recently I've come across quite a few quizzes on Facebook and such about "Which Beach Town Should You Move To?" These quizzes are a bit silly, but they also reveal something about our nation's preconceptions, simplifications and regional predilections. I, who live on the West Coast, took the quiz and my results said I should live in Wrightsville Beach, NC. My mom, who lives in Coastal South Carolina, and has always said that the beach was on the wrong side on the West Coast, got Carpentaria, California. I highly encourage you to Which Coast town should you live in? yourself and see if you agree with your results. 

I've just gotten back from a weekend camping at Beverly Beach State Park, and I'm also watching all the updates from my Southern friends playing at their respective beaches. Virtues about but they're mutually exclusive.

As a Southerner, I have to talk about this Beach vs. Coast terminology. And not just that, but the behavior that goes along with those terms. They are not exchangeable. The Pacific Northwest and the Southeastern interchange between land and ocean are so dramatically, drastically different. We cannot apply the same mores to each one. Indeed, we need to acknowledge them for the delightful and attractive attributes each can lay claim to. PNW it's the coast; SE it's the beach. 

Water Temperature

The Pacific is cold. One only gets in the water when one has on a wet suit. Little children, oblivious

Yeah, that's cold. It's August. 

to irrationally cold temperatures will delight in the tide pools. Their sweet mamas and papas will wrap them up in a warm blanket before too long. 

In the summer months, the Atlantic is bathtub warm. It's so darn hot, that that bathtub temperature alleviates the hotness of the air. It's wet, and one can dive beneath the surface or splash oneself on a float whilst drinking a cool libation. In a coozie. In fact, staying in the water from shortly after breakfast all the way until sundown is more or less the sign of a well tempered day. There may be a break for lunch, but not necessarily. 

Inland Ambient Coastal Temperature

My family lives on a tidal river in South Carolina. It's hot in the summer, and one can go down to the dock and just lay in a raft in the river all day. But when we really want to cool off, we take a trip to the beach. We plan week long stays at the beach. Growing up in Atlanta, going to school in Winston-Salem and Athens, living in Charlotte—what did we do in the summer when it was hot? Go to the beach. Where it was only slightly cooler. The first beach houses I remember staying at on Edisto Beach did not have air conditioning. We packed big window box fans in the car and put them in the windows at night. I can still remember the sound of rustling palm tree branches and the whirr of the fan. Somniferous. We were sunburnt and kicked the top sheet off, exhausted from the day's exertions we slept. 

Honestly, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to wrap my head around. It's just so contradictory for me. I drove from Carlton, Oregon, (in the confines of the Willamette Valley) to Lincoln City—about an hour and half a way. The temperature dropped by 40 degrees. No kidding. I was cold. I had to put on long pants and ... no, I had to put on almost all the clothing I packed with me. It was 55 degrees and I bought two bundles of firewood. I went out on the beach to watch the sunset, and I had to leave fairly quickly as the golden orb approached the horizon. I've worn the same manner of clothing in February at the beach as in August. Does not compute in my Southern brain. This is a COAST not a BEACH.

Coastal versus Beach Activities

That's some beauty (with sweaters in August)

Maybe it's my Southern superiority coming over me. I don't know. I want an Oregonian to explain this to me. Why, when it's 63 degrees and party cloudy, pretty much misty, are children, teenagers, grown adults wearing bikinis and bathing suits, playing frisbee, in general gallivanting as if it's warm and they're not uncomfortable? You don't need sunscreen! There's a layer of coastal fog hanging over the coast that's impenetrable. Bathing suits should be banned from the Oregon Coast. They don't belong. You can't get a tan and you're not bathing. Period. 

Beach combing is an activity that I condone for both coasts. In the South we find fossilized bones, shark's teeth and lovely shells. In the Pacific Northwest, we find gorgeous stones, drift wood and sedimentary fossils washed down from the cliffs. 

PNW has the unsurpassed awe inspiring beauty of the Pacific Ocean. The ability to build and enjoy a fire in humidity-free peace also endears me to the left coast. However, I will continue to have my feathers ruffled when folks out here say they're going to the beach. No. You're going to the coast. (Northerners can have their own opinions of The Shore—whatever that means). Maybe I'm just feeling a little homesick. I'd sure like to be sitting in a lounge chair, smelling of sunscreen, drinking a coldie and reading a good book. At any moment I'll rise up, stride to the surf, lounge back in the salt water and feel buoyed up by the salty embrace of the Atlantic Ocean. 

That's a salty, loving embrace at Edisto Beach, SC. My Grandparents are awesome! 

Southern AND Sustainable?!

I first heard of Dan Barber's book The Third Plate on NPR the other day. The fact that Southern food was singled out as the only truly sustainable American way of farming and eating was exciting. No, not the Foodtopia and epicenter of sustainable everything in the Pacific Northwest. Yes, The South. I have yet to see Hoppin' John on a menu west of the Mississippi.

In the American South, it was beans, collards and some ham. "In a dish, you had everything that supported that ecology," he says.

i

A view of Dan Barber's Stone Barns Center field and barns in Pocantico Hills, N.Y.

Nicole Franzen/Courtesy of Blue Hill Farm

But American tradition has fallen out of touch with the land. "There's no cuisine you can point to that has a 12-ounce center cut protein for dinner. ... That is an American phenomenon," Barber says

From an article in The Atlantic, I read Dan Barber's explanation of how farm-to-table practices in America aren't enough to be truly sustainable. The only place within the United States that has actually had a cuisine that fit the ecology of place was in the South.

That meat-centric plate is a great disservice to our soil, and to our ecology. It’s also a disservice to the rest of the world—because we’re exporting that model in a way that, in the truest sense of the word, is unsustainable. But we can find an alternative—what I came to call the Third Plate.

You find that in Southern cuisine, too. Hoppin’ John—a quintessential southern dish—is rice, but it’s also cowpeas. That leguminous crop was so important in the south, because it allowed the southerners to preserve their soil well enough to get them rice. Then, they mixed in collard greens, because collards helped desalinate the soil. (And some bacon, because pigs were also part of the agriculture.)

Last weekend I read a review of the book in the WSJ in Eugenia Bone's article "The Future of American Eating." Of course, it being a newspaper based in New York (damn Yankees), it doesn't mention this Southern connection. But what he does mention relates to my life in wine country. In the first of four sections in the book, "Soil"

Explores how some farming practices deplete the soil of nutrients by killing microbes and how others build healthy soil by feeding microbes. He compares industrial versus organic approaches to weed control and explains the role of grazing animals in soil health. 'How soil is managed,' writes Mr. Barber, 'and how a farmer negotiates weeds and pests, is the single best predictor of how food will taste.'

I've recently started a new job at Omero Cellar's in Carlton, Oregon, and I interviewed our new winemaker, Mr. Chad Stock about his winemaking philosophy in order to write a press release. What he said deeply related to what Mr. Barber is saying.

Stock explains that transparent winemaking, “allows wines to speak for themselves in a pure and true fashion. Pinot noir is all about nuance and it’s extremely adept at showing the subtleties of place.  Personal style preferences and winemaking additives blur the natural expression of the vineyard.“

Organic, and more importantly, biodynamic principles are important to Stock and the trajectory of Omero wines. He clarifies the joint importance of farming organically and implementing biodynamic principles in the vineyard and winery: “A vineyard is above and below the earth, so we want to farm the soil. We seek to show the significance in soil types and express the soil differences in the Willamette Valley. I’ll show you what your vineyard tastes like.”

By working without additives, using organic and biodynamic principles, Stock and Omero seek to create wines with distinctive character, authenticity and aromatic complexity.

While I am relatively new to the biodynamic farming and winemaking philosophy, I'm really eager to learn more. Like the John Muir quote that originally inspired Barber,  I find that everything is connected, from ideas to dirt:

When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.

Drinking Like Our Founding Fathers

I'm a little behind the times in documenting yet another cross over between my Southern roots and my Pacific Northwest presence in wine country. Turns out Southerners, including our Founding Fathers, liked vintages such as Sherry and Madeira.

At a recent blind wine tasting, Madeira was on the menu. I brought my trust copy of Garden & Gun from October-November 2013. This edition included the article, "Southern Vintage: Making the case for Madeira, Dixie's original drink" by Jonathan Miles. 

Just the introduction sucks a good Southerner in:

Not until distillers in Kentucky and Tennessee perfected the process did the link between the South and whiskey—especially bourbon—take hold. No, the South's original drink—the first beverage that pro to-Southerners embraced as their own, and the first to become associated with the region—was a wine (yeah, a wine) that you may never have tasted (but should, immediately): Madeira.

The qualifying parentheses and italics is spot on. I can just hear Southern family and friends clamoring the absurdity of claiming that a wine is a Southern drink.  Just another reason I love this magazine. It urges you to read on and be convinced or repulsed.

Unlike, say, red table wine, Madeira tastes refreshing in the tropical heat, and doesn't suffer from sweltering storage. Mitchell credits the wine's high levels of acidity and sugar for that refreshing quality, which might also explain its affinity to the Southern palate—acidity and sugar, of course being the defining characteristics of the later blockbuster Southern drink, cola.

But we all know Mr. Miles is referring to Coca-Cola. According to Bufford Calloway, that's Sweet Dixie Champagne.

Back in February at the wine tasting I attended, we tasted seven different Madeiras, including two of the three mentioned in the G&G article. Not surprisingly, we missed the $150 bottle suggested from 1971. Even with the wholesale price tag, that's too spendy for a weekly meeting. The Broadbent 10-Year Malmsey and Historic Series Savannah Verdelho were all around favorites, however. Good suggestions G&G! Not only that, but I may have upped your readership in the Pacific Northwest.

We snow how you feel, Atlanta

Day 5 of PDXsnowpocolypse

Snowpocolypse. Snowmageddeon. I typed those words into Google, resulting in mentions of Portland as well as Atlanta. You're not alone Atlanta. Elsewhere in the United States are places ill equipped to handle a winter blast. Both of us are ridiculous in the face of frigid temperatures and precipitation. I love the absurdity that results.

With plenty of friends still in Atlanta, I kept tabs on how snow went down. I absolutely loved the SNL skit with Buford Calloway

"flakes of devil's dandruff"  

"climbed into my white Escalade and headed to the safest place I could think of…the Interstate."

"sweet Dixie Champagne…I am referring to Coca-Cola"

"The skies parted and the fair Georgia lady shone her golden radiance down uptown the Yankee Slush! And I knew…in that moment…that the SUN WILL RISE AGAIN!" 

One of my favorite Yankee newscasters continued to needle Hotlanta later on the Daily Show.
and Jon Stewart's needling of Hotlanta.

I have been trapped by the "Connecticut Cocaine" here in Portland for the past few days. I haven't been able to go to work for the past 4 days. I actually drove to Government Camp to cross country ski on Thursday, barely making it back in my southern vehicle in time for things to get really nasty. I was sliding around on the ice and traffic was already sorely affected. Little did I know I'd be able to XC ski for the next few days right outside my door.

Portland has it's own issues: lots of people who know how to drive in the elements; lots of people who have cars that should be able to navigate but can't; lots of people who have cars that can't make it and who don't know how and still try. Yes, all those people on the roads make for nasty business. Of course Portland has all those irritatingly fit people who continue to run and bike in it. One of my friends just posted this interview on Facebook. I'd say Portland is just as ridiculous as Atlanta, just in a different world of silliness.

This winter precipitation has made watching the Winter Olympics in Sochi a bit more interesting.

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?