“Wow!” I think, walking to the back of the line, “I’m doing that again.” My sinuses are infused with rosemary and roasted red pepper. A flake of pastry lingers on my lips. I snag it with my tongue and savor the perfect blend of shortening and flour. The aftertaste eludes me. Is it garlic, nutmeg, cardamom perhaps?
Fingering my Pepper Fest fork, I scan the scene. A child clutches her mother’s hand, a butterfly painted on her cheek. They are walking towards a man blowing giant soap bubbles on the lawn. It’s a splendid fall day at Briar Chapel, a beautifully landscaped community between Pittsboro and Chapel Hill. I’m surrounded by familiar faces. I start waving at friends, many of them licking their fingers. It seems practically everyone I’ve ever met has come out for this event. After all, Abundance NC’s Pepper Fest only comes around once a year.
Months ago, when the peppers were still green, the folks at Abundance NC started pulling together lists of activities, sponsors, volunteers, restaurants and farms. They met with their friends at Briar Chapel and laid out a plan. Weeks later, the ripening peppers were hanging plump, and thirty-some chefs were dreaming of special ways to feature them. The orders went out to the farmers, peppers were harvested and delivered. All had come to fruition with a thousand people getting a taste of real local food imaginatively presented by the best chefs in the area.
Tami and Camille weathering Pepper Fest #2 – October 18, 2009
The very first Pepper Fest was no more than a variety tasting of Doug Jones’ hybrid peppers. Tami Schwerin, Abundance NC’s executive director asked her father to put up a tent and she invited some friends out to The Plant, Pittsboro’s Eco-Industrial park. Out-of-town guests from Seeds of Change were here to tour Piedmont Biofarm and see Doug Jones’ pepper breeding research. Tami saw an opportunity to welcome them, support the farm, and spread awareness about the often-overlooked sweet pepper. It seemed like a good excuse for a party. My immediate neighbors, a dozen friends who called ourselves Oilseed Community were having a potluck dinner that night so we brought our food and joined the fun.
Doug’s interns chopped peppers all afternoon and set out dozens of paper plates piled with bite-sized pieces on the tables under the tent. They came in colors; green, yellow, orange, red and chocolate. Tami and I had printed up score cards with qualities such as color, flavor, sweetness, and heat level. Each variety was assigned a number and we walked around the tables sampling peppers. The folks at Seeds of Change said a few words, and Doug spoke about the evolution of his cherished peppers. Farmer Doug had spent years developing varieties that grow well in North Carolina’s changing climate. Many of us were betting that Doug’s Sweet Jemison, the consummate yellow pepper, would merit a high score.
The next year Tami involved local chefs, booked a band, commissioned a poster, and printed tee shirts and tickets. She commissioned custom-made King and Queen crowns to honor the man and woman who sold the most tickets. The festival doubled in size every year, and by year four had outgrown the venue at The Plant and moved to Briar Chapel.
Pepper Fest has come to embody Abundance NC’s mission. They seek to “cultivate and celebrate community resilience,” a deceptively simple objective involving lofty goals. A fun, playful approach is Abundance’s secret ingredient for achieving this and Pepper Fest is the perfect recipe. It’s the consummate fall festival, designed to build awareness while supporting local economy. Pepper Fest, cleverly disguised as one glorious party, boldly asserts our independence from Big Ag while celebrating our interdependence on local community.
This week, Abundance NC and Briar Chapel are galloping down the home stretch towards Pepper Fest number nine, Sunday October 2nd. We’re looking forward to bluegrass by Front Country, and the magical transformation of eight hundred pounds of Chatham County farm-grown peppers into an unimaginable menu of chef creations. New this year, there will be a Food and Fiber Fashion Show, and as per usual, there will be the unveiling of this year’s original art crown creations and coronation of the Pepper King and Queen.
I’ve reached the counter where those incredible pastries are lined up. The band is playing a funky tune. The aroma from Chili John’s roasting drum at Angelina’s Kitchen is irresistible. I spot my husband and next door neighbors sampling the Anaheim Octoberfest at Yesteryear’s Brewery. Drooling, I choose my prize and dance on over. Another best day ever, thanks to Abundance NC.
More information and Pepper Fest tickets at: http://pepperfestnc.org/
Emily is getting married this afternoon I think, slowly shrugging off a night’s sleep. The train whistle sounds like church bells to me this morning. I’ve never heard them this way before.
We don’t hear the train so much from our place in North Carolina, but here in Colorado their calls surround us like jays. I’ve lived in a few places where the tracks are so close it feels like they will burst through the bedroom wall. Like the drone of a propeller plane, a receding train is melancholy. Both bathe me in nostalgia, a tinge of regret as if life is passing me by. I’m often stationary when I hear them, while they move on without me, above and beyond.
Bob and I are staying in an airy room over the bustle of Rob and Sharyl’s busy home. We’ve come to regard this space as ours, we’ve stayed here so often. It’s an hour after dawn, the kids are tumbling towards the exits, headed to school. Traffic streams outside.
Bob’s three daughters, Emily, Amy, and Molly were lovely in their dresses at the rehearsal dinner last night. As the evening progressed, they became inseparable. Fifty of us mingled on a spacious deck at Mariana Butte’s Golf Course overlooking a craggy outcropping referred to locally as Devil’s Backbone. Tyler’s parents were hosting a five-course meal with designer beer pairings. Family had flown in from everywhere, more coming today for Emily and Tyler’s wedding.
I marveled at the magnificent young people, all so well put together. I might have been walking through a glam magazine. Colorado ranks high on fitness rankings so everyone was beaming with health, tanned and toned in their summer outfits. Jewelry sparkled in the evening sun, and many balanced babies on their hips, miniature manifestations of the good life. Em and Tyler’s baby Nolan was passed around, the Where’s Waldo of the evening. The older folks were aglow. Everyone loves a wedding.
I gazed into the fading sun at the sandstone cresting a ripple of geologic time. Emily would have been six years old the last time I rode my horse along the Devil’s Backbone. Now she’s a grown woman, and the horse has been dead a year.
Molly, Amy, Emily, three angels and a Devil’s Backbone.
We arrived at Lone Hawk Farm before noon on Wedding Day and stayed until after sunset. There were little jobs for family to get involved in, nothing too demanding. We ran out of work hours before the wedding. I began to suspect Em’s good friend and wedding planner Jamie had contrived this languorous, pastoral day as opportunity for family bonding.
There was an enormous red barn, and a spacious cabin between barn and orchard where the bride and her maids were taking turns getting their hair and makeup done. A cooler of champagne slowly turned into empty bottles. We nibbled on dipped strawberries. The mood was contagiously frivolous and gay. Baby Nolan played on the carpet, attended by a bevy of love-struck maids. This room was the heart of the day.
I pick a bright, red apple and walk to the end of the driveway to prop a hand-painted sign against the rock wall at the entrance to the farm. It says, “Welcome to the wedding of Emily and Tyler.”
I hear the engine of a small plane, only this time it seems to be standing still as I stride towards the defining moment of the day. In an hour or so, everything will be a little different. This day will forever be “the day Em and Tyler got married,” and everything else either before or after. My mind begins to whirl with memories of the girls growing up, our summers abroad, painting their finger nails, teaching them to ride on Jesse the Wonder Horse.
I put the sign in place and wander back towards the rest of the family. I bite into the crispy fruit, savoring this point in time and my solitary thoughts.
Emily and Tyler tying the knot on a perfect Colorado day. September 2, 2016
Emergency Room #10 Central Carolina Hospital
Seven miles out I congratulated myself for keeping cool and making good time. My hastily scribbled Google Map notes said the hospital exit in Sanford was 12.7 miles south on Hwy 1. Which is where the ambulance was headed with Bob. The odometer said I was getting close. Under the circumstances, staying cool was a tall order. Not to mention the weather, which has been stupid hot. Driving without A/C is an exercise in sweat management.
It was when I saw New Hill (a.k.a “middle of nowhere”) up ahead that I realized I was traveling north. I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief, exited and turned around, trying not to think about the extra twenty minutes this blunder would cost. Bob was in good hands, I told myself. He’ll think I found one last thing to do at home, the dishes perhaps, rather than worry I’d gotten into a car wreck as frantic wives often do when chasing ambulances.
An hour earlier, Bob was drinking coffee at his desk when he noticed an odd sensation on the right side of his tongue. It felt like Novocaine. Moments later, the numbness spread to his right eye. He considered going out to get me.
I was speed-hanging laundry, wondering how I was going to process twenty-four pounds of pickles, bake a cake, and clean the house for Jason’s birthday potluck. Most of the time, pickles just sit. Until day fifteen when you slice the brined cucumbers, soak them in alum for six hours, then replace the liquid with heated vinegar. Today was pickle day.
Back inside, Bob swiveled towards me and announced, “Somethings not right.” He told me about the Novocaine. He felt dizzy. We had a short discussion. The expense was giving us pause. I phoned urgent care. They recommended I call 911, so I did.
Bob put on clean underwear like his mother taught him. While shaving he realized he’d lost the ability to puff out the left side of his face. His lips were leaking air. He positioned himself in the rosewood chair on the front porch and waited for sirens. We laughed to see the ambulance and fire truck pull into Evelyn and Jimmy’s across the street. I ran onto the lawn barefoot and waved until they saw me, got back into their vehicles and came over to our place.
Cracking jokes, a woman in navy blue EMT garb pulled out a razor and began carving a smiley face into Bob’s chest hair. The Emergency Medical Services team attached wires to Bob’s chest and asked him questions while the fire fighters looked on. They, took his blood pressure, saw it was 199 over 110 and wheeled out the gurney. “Wait!” Bob said and they paused so I could give him a kiss.
Three Musketeers to the rescue
The hospital staff was real kind, trying to procure meatless meals for Bob, and failing twice. I spent the rest of Saturday driving back and forth from home, bringing sandwiches to Sanford, and dealing with those pickles. I called upon the Three Musketeers, Buffy, Zoila, and Doug to help me get the pickles sliced and Haruka and Jason showed at 10pm to do the vinegar thing so I could spend the night on a fold-out chair by Bob’s side.
We canceled Jason’s birthday potluck. A disturbing trend, the last three birthdays were overshadowed by catastrophe. We learned of Zafer’s death on Haruka’s birthday, Chris died on mine, and we were crossing our fingers that Bob made it through Jason’s. Buffy’s promised to break the cycle with her birthday August 4th.
Towards dinner time the next day, Bob was released with a clean bill of health. He’d had a CAT scan, an MRI, ultrasounds, and blood tests. When the doctor announced that Bob had not had a stroke, our relief was audible. How lucky for us to have dodged that bullet! Even better, the doctor pronounced Bob’s heart and carotid artery fully-functional. The likelihood of stroke or heart attack was slim, he said and even allowed that Bob’s unresponsive eyelid and Dick Cheney smile could be Bell’s Palsy as Bob suspected. His blood pressure was back to normal. He’d had a shot of B-12, something to lower cholesterol and with the help of our neighbors, we’d saved the pickles.
“What’s a menu?” someone playfully asked after I mentioned our potato-heavy menu. Oh! I thought to myself, It is so, so many things – shopping list, anticipation catalyst, and money-saver. It’s our road map to an inexpensive local food diet. Nothing ever goes to waste,” I like to say prompting Bob to quip, “Only to our waists.”
We didn’t always have a menu. Like many, Bob and I used to get home hungry after an eight or nine hour day and start thinking about dinner. We’d look in the refrigerator, hoping to come up with something we could make in a hurry without having to run to the store. Or we’d order a pizza. Or open a can of soup and make some sandwiches.
But that was years ago. Now, we always know what we’re having for dinner, sometimes several days in advance, and we can have it ready to eat half an hour after we get home.
It started with a few favorites. We love Italian food so Friday night became Itey Nite, eagerly anticipated vanguard of the weekend. Mexican and Asian soon became standard weekly fare. For as long as I can remember, the Sunday night meal involved potatoes and some chicken-like “meat.” These days we celebrate Sunday night with KFT (Kentucky Fried Tofu).
Bob has always grown food and after all that work it would be a crying shame to waste any of it, so I developed a robust kitchen habit. Nothing makes dinner easier than rinsed lettuce, chopped onions, roasted garlic, pre-cooked beets, and so on. I’d make salads and bake bread, too. After we stopped eating animals, I started making vegan “meat”.
A few years ago I doubled efficiency when I found a magnetic dry erase calendar. I stuck it on the side of the refrigerator next to our prep counter. I plan the menu in black and the prep list in orange. I use an adjacent white board for a shopping list. It is ridiculously easy to stay on track.
Nothing is written in stone. That’s why we use a white board. Whatever comes in the door is what we eat. The menu lets us make the best use of perishable food, helps us meet our goals of eating local, sustainably-grown food, and gives us something to anticipate at the end of the day.
What’s a menu? It’s a guide to delicious, healthy food every night of the week!
I’ve lived with Bob long enough to value the importance of good questions. They can make or break any deal, they steer conversations off-course or into fertile waters. Yet, as long as I’ve watched Bob hit the target with artfully-posed questions, the right questions do not naturally compose themselves in my brain.
As the baby in the family, Bob learned to ask questions in the same way I, the oldest became good at making assertions. In order to lead the pack, I needed to speak in certainties. “Not always right, but never in doubt,” we joke. My questions sound like statements and Bob’s statements sound like questions. Bob is also never in doubt, but with a subtle twist. He usually knows the answer to the questions he’s posing, or at least his version of the answer. I’ll say, “That’s a boat-tailed grackle” as opposed to Bob’s “Is that a boat-tailed grackle?”
Gretchen Rubin, author of Better Than Before and The Happiness Project devised a neat quiz to help determine our behavioral tendencies:
Upholders – people who get up in the morning and ask themselves “What’s on my list for today?” They are motivated by internal and external expectations.
Questioners, who ask, “Is there anything I really have to do today?” They require good reasons for a particular course of action.
Rebels wonder “What do I want to do today?” They respond to internal expectations and are motivated by a sense of freedom.
Obligers ask “What must I do today?” They are motivated by accountability to others.
I’m an Upholder if you haven’t already guessed, and Bob is a questioner. Here’s a typical exchange: “What are you up to today?” “I’m doing this and that, and need to do such and such.” “Can’t you put that off until tomorrow?” “Yes, but…” I’ve set my mind on what all I need to do, and Bob tries to help me by talking me out of some of it.
Last year I decided to seek help for pain in my left foot that I first noticed in 2013. I suspected a stone bruise, but after weeks without respite I linked it to my growing collection of varicose veins. I had been spending six hours a day doing housework and preparing meals barefoot on concrete terrazzo in Africa. A cursory examination by a visiting medical student supported my theory.
Two years later, I worked up the courage to visit a vascular surgeon. In hindsight, I should have brought Bob with me. I filled out a questionnaire, and spoke with the examiner at length, beginning with the story about my foot. I told her that I began wearing compression stockings at that time and they alleviated the pain, supporting my suspicion that veins were the underlying problem.
“We can fix your veins,” was the prognosis. For a $5,000 co-pay. Bob and I decided to liquidate my IRA to pay for the procedure. I never asked anyone if closing the four exterior veins in my legs would address the pain in my foot. I assumed fixing my veins would do the trick, that the veins in my leg were letting pressure accumulate in my foot, and that the examiner had heard me when I described my problem. You know what they saw about assuming. “Never assume anything. It makes an ass out of u and me.”
It took months of healing before I stopped wearing the surgical stockings and a week later the pain in my foot reappeared. “What the…?!” I went back to wearing knee highs, unable to face the awful truth. Finally I mustered the courage to meet with the physician. He examined my foot and said, “This is not a vascular issue.” He read the notes on my chart from the initial consultation. There were my answers to the questionnaire with some notes from the consultation. No mention of my foot. He suggested I see a podiatrist.
The good news? My legs look great, right down to my ankles. And the dull ache in my foot is a constant reminder of the importance of asking the right question.
Heroin, disguised as pain pills.
Our generation doesn’t think to send their kids off to college with, “And stay away from heroin, it’s a killer!” But we need to because heroin is ubiquitous, cheap, easy, and deadly.
Last month I was blindsided by Zafer’s death. After recovering my balance, I started reading. I needed to know how a well-adjusted, talented college freshman had overdosed on heroin. What I learned was shocking.
The United States is experiencing an epidemic.
“Accidental drug overdose is currently the leading cause of injury-related death in the United States for people between the ages of 35-54 and the second leading cause of injury-related death for young people. Drug overdose deaths now exceed those attributable to firearms, homicides or HIV/AIDS.” – DrugPolicy.org
“Heroin-related deaths more than tripled between 2010 and 2014, with 10,574 heroin deaths in 2014.” – CDC.gov
“Use of the drug in the United States increased 79 percent between 2007 and 2012, according to federal data, triggering a wave of overdose deaths and an “urgent and growing public health crisis,” Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr.” – Washington Post
“Use it twice and you’re addicted” someone told me. Z died on his third try. But he wasn’t addicted, I protest. Zafer does not fit my image of a heroin addict. Times have changed.
Today’s heroin user is more likely to smoke it than inject it. It comes in pill form, is much cheaper than it was forty years ago, and you can even buy it online. “In the ’70s, a bag of heroin — enough to get a user high once — cost $30 and was about 28-percent pure. Today, it’s 80 percent to 90 percent pure, which makes it powerfully addictive, and it sells for $4 a bag.” from NPR’s Heroin in America series.
Riding the white horse has never been easier.
I try to put myself in his shoes. Like Zafer, I felt invincible at nineteen. My parents cautioned me against sex, drugs, and rock and roll to no avail. My life was mine to live and I wanted to taste everything it had to offer. Except heroin, of course.
I hung out with friends who were users. They called it horse, but as much as I love to ride I never rode this one because we all knew it rode you. No one wanted a monkey on their back nor wished that horror on others. I’d seen the writhing pain of withdrawal and wanted none of it. My friends never offered to share the drug and I never asked. It was different back then.
Heroin is now accepted as a recreational drug without regard for the risks and we have widespread pharmaceutical use and legalized marijuana to blame.
Blaming meds is easy. I disdain the pervasive fear of pain or discomfort that drives the pill culture and loathe the predatory pharmaceutical companies. A little pain never hurt anyone! My country has become a nation of addicted weenies.
I am less inclined to implicate marijuana. Facts are facts, though and when you take Mexico’s economy into consideration, the correlation makes perfect sense. The legalization of marijuana reduced the profitability of cannabis at the same time widespread use of pain meds opened up a lucrative market for heroin. Farmers began planting poppies in their pot fields and pain medication addicts soon had a cheaper alternative.
Utah, of all places, demonstrated the path forward with an aggressive education program. “The state’s overdose death rate climbed steadily during the early 2000s, driven by growing prescription opioid dependence. But Utah lawmakers took action early. In 2007, they established a two-year public health-based program to combat painkiller misuse.
Over the next three years, prescription opioid-related overdose deaths dropped more than 25%, but the success was short lived. After funding ran out in 2010, deaths began to climb again.
“We saw that when we weren’t educating the public and providers, awareness decreased and deaths increased,” said Angela Stander, prescription drug overdose prevention coordinator at the Utah department of public health.” [CDC.gov]
Bottom line, education will stop the spread of the overdose epidemic. Support legislation. Throw in with the folks at Shatterproof. Spread the word.
Overdose Death Rates
A deadly crisis: mapping the spread of America’s drug overdose epidemic
Office of National Drug Control Policy: The International Heroin Market
How Much Does Heroin Cost?
Why a bag of heroin costs less than a pack of cigarettes
How Your Teenage Son or Daughter May Be Buying Heroin Online
Colorado Opioid Symposium: Reducing the Impacts of Opioids in Colorado
Opioid-Antidote Drug Will Now Be Available to US High Schools for Free
An American flag strains against its moorings outside our second floor window facing the Atlantic. We made our way here down Ocean Boulevard past beach clubs landscaped in cypress and roses, silent miniature golf creatures, gaudy life-sized plastic Arabian horses, and cartoonish restaurant signs with names like Awful Arthur’s, Tortuga’s Lie, and Hurricane Mo’s, all bright against a grey sky. I bought blueberries and cherries at one of the farm stands, knowing full well they weren’t locally grown. Our vacation ends here at Cypress House in Kill Devil Hills, a pit stop before pressing inland to our little corner of the world.
Four hours of driving gave us time to replay the vignettes from our visit. The reunion had gone well, thirty of us representing four generations ranging in age from infant to ninety. We managed to get a photo of the nuclear family, all eight of us in one room for the first time in since the eighties. John set up his tripod to frame the shot while Joe went to fetch Dad from Mom’s room down the hall.
We were all crossing our fingers that he would come. Mom stressed the importance of everyone being in place when Dad arrived, to keep him from balking and/or bolting. It felt a lot like dealing with a wild animal or a skittish colt. We arranged ourselves and waited, hoping he’d forgotten he’d said he wasn’t coming to the reunion. Johnny stood behind the couch with Bob, and Mike, leaving a space for Joe. Jim sat next to Mom with a space for Dad. Brandon stood behind the camera.
In came the lone wolf with a bad case of bed head, his handler close behind and took his seat. I reached over and tried to smooth down his hair but it was stiff with natural oils. Dad gave his head an ineffective swipe. He likes to tell us he has a full head of hair because he only washes it once a week. Brandon snapped the shutter.
After a delicious potluck lunch we took turns sharing thoughts from our year. Joe invented the round robin a few years ago and it has become the highlight of our gathering, at least for me. Not everyone feels comfortable talking about themselves but that’s never been a problem for me and Bob. I read an excerpt from my mother’s memoirs and briefly explained that I looked older now because a) I am and b) I’ve been touched by death and makeup seems disingenuous. When it was Bob’s turn he told the story of how we were drawn to Pittsboro by Lyle and Tami, came to collaborate with them, about Zafer’s tragic death About how our community sprang into action to plan a monster service and build the Farewell Trail for a home burial in the woods. And that’s where we’ll be buried too.
There were many other wonderful moments from our short week away such as the discovery that Mom and I wear the same exact watch, Deb’s apple cobbler, Darla walking in with a three-pound tub of chocolate ice cream, standing behind the counter with Michael, packing dozens of ice cream cones. A casual meal at the hotel Friday night with John, Joe and Jim, riding shotgun with Bobby up highway 81, blowing up balloons with Penny, Jim and Lou in the church hall before a reception to honor Joe’s twenty-five years in the priesthood, and a nice chat with Maggie and Brian during the reception.
On Sunday Joe, Jim and I picked up Chinese food and drove to Charity’s. Levi invited us to see the bike trail he made and off we scampered, running through honeysuckle-scented woods, crossing streams over pallets and planks, steering clear of poison ivy. John and Darla arrived with Mom and she started giving rides to the smaller children on her walker. I got the feeling this is routine when Mom visits her great grands. Darla and I tackled the weeds in the front yard while John cleaned up. Joe and Jim played out back with the kids. Golden moments, all.
On Tuesday we found ourselves outside Washington DC at Ned’s, enjoying his inimitable banter. He and I took a long, wet walk to the Great Falls of the Potomac chewing on every aspect of our lives along the way. That evening we met Frankie and Jessica for an elaborate Thai dinner in the city, heard all about their year in France and test drove their latest creation, a super relaxing and fun card game.
It was smart of Bob to spend one night at the shore before diving back into our other tribe. We lay on the bed and laughed at a TV movie, the Lone Ranger with Johnny Depp as Tonto with a dead crow flopping on his head. I ate cherries until my stomach began to churn, flipping stems and pits into the waste basket. We slept, fitful but well enough.
After breakfast we walked across the street and down the beach. The sun had come out. Pelicans floated passed in groups of five, six or eight. I took off my shoes, shrieking when the cold, white foam shot up my legs. Then I cried. I was home!