Julie Barnett
Leigh Barnett
REALTOR速
REALTOR速
Cell 404-697-3860
Cell 404-931-3636
141 S. Main St. Clayton, GA
706-212-0228
www.lakeburtonhome.com for VIRTUAL TOURS FEATURED HOMES
Nestled In on Lake Burton $4,695,000
Narnia on Lake Burton $4,599,000
Romancing the Stone on Lake Rabun $4,500,000
Windrush on Lake Burton $4,300,000
Lake Burton Farmhouse $2,895,000
Four Bear Lodge on Lake Burton $2,775,000
Memory Maker on Lake Burton $2,725,000
Nature's Serenade on Lake Burton $2,595,000
Somerset Cove on Lake Burton $2,495,000
The Boathouse on Lake Burton $2,495,000
Bobcat Lodge on Lake Rabun $2,900,000
Lake Burton Lodge, Level Lot $1,990,000
Lake Burton Adirondack Lodge $1,995,000
Summerside on Lake Burton $2,250,000
2+ Ac. with Log Cabin on Lake Burton $1,650,000
The Treehouse on Lake Burton $1,750,000
Sunstone Cottage on Lake Burton $1,575,000
Sunset Skies on Lake Burton $1,375,000
The Lake Burton Magic $1,499,950
The High Life on Lake Burton $1,500,000
Over the Water on Lake Burton $1,195,000
Ideal Building Lot on Lake Burton $1,269,000
Back to Basics on Lake Burton $1,295,000
Timber Frame Lodge with Views $489,900
The Hawk's Nest over Lake Burton $895,000
Vintage Summer Cottage on Lake Burton $1,095,000
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for a complete listing of properties and VIRTUAL TOURS Office - 706-212-0228 • Julie - 404-697-3860 • Leigh - 404-931-3636
141 S. Main St. • Clayton, GA
Finding Art
DOWNTOWN
Notes de Vin
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Wheels
Steve Loudermilk’s 1970 Oldsmobile W25-442 Convertible Dreaming of summertime with the top down…
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mack in the middle of the 2014 Christmas season, we bring you a little piece of summer and this beautifully restored 1970 Oldsmobile 442 Convertible. Imagine this under your Christmas tree! On a day, which was not quite summer and not quite fall, we drove down a peaceful country lane. Passing vintage farm buildings and not-so-vintage tractors, the valley opened up to reveal rolling green hills and Steve and Caryl Loudermilk’s lovely home, built on land, which has been in Steve’s family since the 1840s. Awaiting us under a massive oak was this perfectly restored muscle car from the early ‘70s. Steve shared with us that he bought it just out of high school in 1981 and drove it
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until 1985. It was then garaged where it would await the start of its frame-off restoration in 1997, with completion
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in 2009. Steve and his father Charles Loudermilk did all the work with the exception of the upholstery, which
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horsepower. It has a factory fourspeed transmission and 3.42 antispin differential. When Steve is not working as a foreman for Townsend Tree Service or taking care of his herd of black angus cattle and managing the family farm, he enjoys watching his son Steven play football and baseball at Habersham Central High School and taking the 442 to car shows. In 6 years of shows, it has won too many awards to list here, but it wins big, with a couple of best of show trophies and many more in the best GM and best muscle categories. By the way, Steve and his son continue the family tradition with another restoration underway‌this one, a 1972 Chevrolet Chevelle. was done by Brady Upholstery in Mt. Airy and the rebuilding, balancing and blueprinting of the engine, which was done by Jasper Engines in Jasper, Indiana.
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Steve’s 1970 Oldsmobile W25-442 convertible is one of only 560 made. It is powered by a 455 cubic-inch engine with Ram air, producing 450
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Steve and Caryl live in Mt. Airy and have two children Kelli and Steven. They attend Good News Baptist Church in Cornelia, Georgia.
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The Storyteller A Final Farewell
When I woke up on Christmas morning, a blanket of snow had covered Tiger mountain and the surrounding area. I truly had a white Christmas! GML: As a writer, who is your favorite contemporary writer? JP: I have two. Celestine Sibley and Lewis Grizzard. I would like to write as a combination of both of them, writing about the good old days from ordinary people in ordinary happenings. GML: and Me”. It was a true account of a happening at the base of Tiger mountain. When I went for my mail I found an alligator that had escaped from the Tiger zoo! GML: mother Clyde Ellen Arrendale Pleasants English. And like most mothers she was the greatest. I have a poem that brings her to mind. It’s called Mother and Child and I cherish it.
Georgia Mountain Laurel magazine were graced with the writings of Janie Pleasants Taylor. Locally known as Janie P, her “Storyteller” narratives were rich with history that echoes the deep traditions and values of the hearty and selfsustaining people of the southern Appalachia region. Janie P. served as both teacher and principal of the Rabun County school system and as a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother she exhibited the robust character of her deep Scotch-Irish heritage and upbringing. Janie P. Taylor valiantly battled cancer and when the time came to end that battle she did so on her terms, just as she lived her life. She was one of our most favored writers, a true friend and mentor to many of us. We asked her family in July if we could ease into the end of this column by sharing our favorite columns which we have done. This interview with Janie P. ran in our magazine not long after her cancer diagnosis in 2011 and gave great insight into her life and her character. With the closing of 2014 we sadly announce that The Storyteller column will be retired, there simply is no replacement for Janie P. Taylor.
GML: As a writer, what one piece of advice would you give to a developing writer? JP: Have a good proof reader! Period. GML: As a retired educator, what would you say is the most important thing that school children should learn? JP: They should learn self-discipline and responsibility. Become a worthwhile citizen and remember to make glad choices instead of sad choices. GML: In your lifetime, what do you consider your greatest achievement? JP: My four children. Each is an outstanding individual. Each has a family, each is involved in the community, each has a church alliance and they set really good examples. GML: If you had the chance to have another career, what would it be? JP: I’d be a meteorologist! I would enjoy sharing information about the weather – conditions such as rain, wind, cold, heat and types of storms. Always remembering that there is a divine force greater than we humans!
She called me one day after a doctor visit and told me, “The doctor says I am one in a million.” Of course she was referring to her medical condition but I knew his statement was far reaching and threaded throughout her life. We were richer for having known her and she is missed.
GML: If you could have a conversation with anyone living or dead, who would it be? JP: I’d like to talk to my late husband Melvin Taylor. I would tell him that I miss him so much and I would have to confess that I’ve forgotten how to make a tasty pone of crackling cornbread!
GEORGIA MOUNTAIN LAUREL: Coming into the Christmas season, think back and tell us, what is your favorite Christmas memory? JANIE P: As a freshman in college, I came home for the Christmas break. Like everyone else I was humming and singing the song “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”
GML: What has been the most challenging time of your life? JP: I would have to say my recent diagnosis of cancer is the most challenging of my life. It’s hard but you have to have a positive attitude. You have to have strong faith. You have to believe in prayer and you have to accept that God’s will be done.
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Echoes from the Hills
“When a barn was a work place in winter”
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Bob N. Justus
n winter months, starting in November through December and into February, back when complete farming went on in our valley work focused on the barn, stables and corn crib. As a rule the loft would be crammed with hay, corn tops and blades. In a good year grown. On a cold Saturday or Sunday afternoon the loft was a fun place to slide down a mound of hay or tunnel into it and get warm, or take a nap. The barn had a wide front door opening to a large work room that covered as much space as the loft above. Spider webs dangled in rows through overhead cracks in the ceiling. On three sides were stables for horses and cows. A variety of ongoing work centered on this room, starting when crops of hay, vegetables, peanuts, Irish and sweet potatoes, and fruit were being gathered and processed in late summer and fall and on through cold weather. For example, if potatoes were a cash crop the potatoes were cleaned and sorted and packed in crates for taking to the market. An important task was picking out the best potatoes or corn to be used for seed the coming spring. In part of this central room harness items – tack – were hung. At the end of a working season leather straps or buckles might be broken or worn to the point of needing to be replaced. Parts of the wagon might need mending. A small metal forge was available to heat shoes for example.
On one wall were shelves containing medicines, oil, pills and other needs pertaining to livestock, chickens or the farm dogs and hunting dogs. Cans of grease were kept for greasing wagon wheels and sometimes a dog with mange. A kit on the shelf contained cat gut, needles and a scalpel. Papa Jesse was our animal doctor, although Dad was also good. early winter and corn shuckings by both adults and boys were held on Saturdays. We shucked corn by hand, using a piece of carved wood with a strap around our hand, to relieve any pain from long hours of ripping the shucks of the ears of corn. Dad or Papa Jesse would normally select the best white corn for grinding into meal at Ike Justus’s rickety old water mill. I enjoyed going with Papa Jesse as he would let me drive the team. At the mill I would sit and listen to the men talk while waiting for their corn to be ground. Some would chew and spit, while others rolled a smoke, after dribbling tobacco from a Prince Albert can into a little white piece of paper. If a man rolled a cigarette with a hump in the middle, someone would laugh and say, “He is smoking a self made Camel cigarette!” It was amazing how warm a barn full of hay with cows and horses in the stalls could be. One animal in a stall will radiate heat and some heat probably comes from the manure that gathers in the stable during the winter. When hearing the story of Jesus being born in a stable and being placed in a manger we readily believed it. Someone long ago said that the inns in those days Farming has changed dramatically in most places. Yet there are a few farms where one can go and smell the odors and see animals in their stalls. From rural areas all across America, including farms and ranches, there are barns where livestock stomp in the stalls and a horse might whicker on hearing his owner coming near. But I recall when men and boys – and sometimes ladies too – gathered in the work room to process harvested crops and how they passed the time talking and sometimes those early years growing up on a farm.
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Foxfire adapted by Lee Carpenter
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ur land [in West Virginia] lay something like this here in Northern Georgia. Back in the mountains we had a wagon road from the little town of Williamsburg over to Richwood, which was ten or twelve miles away. Off of that road, right on top of Cole Knob, there’s a path that went out, and six miles out that path, during Prohibition times, a man came in there. of the mountain—beautiful land, plenty of cold springs—so he grew his corn and was making moonshine. girl in as his wife, and he kept her back in there, and over a few years, four sons were born. One day in the fall, about ten years later, while her husband was gone, the lady of the family decided she’d had it. She marched out of there with a little pack on her back and left those four kids. The youngest one was about six and the oldest was ten. Well, when the man came back and seen that she was gone, he gathered his stuff and left, too. Left them four kids back there by themselves. Very few people went back in there, but later on a few of his old drinking buddies went back to his moonshine still and found the kids back in there, still living in that tarpaper shack. They weren’t starved to death—they had some chickens and so they’d had a few eggs, and they had some potatoes, and the oldest boy could milk the cow—but they were pretty well distressed. Their clothes weren’t much good, they were getting ragged, and it was almost Christmas. They brought them four boys out. They had never went to school, and they had seen very few people before. And this Christmas the community knew about those boys and they made that these boys had ever known anything about. All of us chipped in and got them some clothes and different things. They had never tasted an orange or a banana or candy or anything like
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Around the time of this interview, Lyndall “Granny” Toothman was seventy-eight years old and still living in a small van as she traveled, teaching weaving and spinning at craft festivals all over the country. memories with the classroom. that, and they’d never seen Santa Claus—it was all way beyond these boys’ imaginations. The little one got scared and cried when Santa Claus came out because he didn’t know there was such a thing! And they just couldn’t imagine all those people!
When spring came, the oldest boy run off and disappeared, but the three other boys stayed, and the next fall they got them in school and they stayed there in the community for years.
maybe a hundred in the church for this special program, and during the program when they was bringing in the live donkey into the manger they had set up in there, the ten-year-old boy jumped up in the church and yelled, “My God, I didn’t know that there was this many people in the whole world!”
This is just one of many touching, funny, or colorful remembrances in , which began as a 64-page Christmas “card” for
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publisher, Doubleday, in 1985. The material was later expanded to book form in 1989. Containing chapters on traditional Appalachian decora-
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is a treasure chest of Southern Appalachian holiday tales, traditions, recipes, and more—a snapshot of times gone by, traditions that are fading away, and the people who made these mountains “home.” tions (mostly home-made), serenading (not what you’re imagining), gifts (simple, meaningful), food (recipes and more), traditions and stories of the holidays, shares the spirit of the holiday season and the love of family and friends that is ingrained in the people of Appalachia. To share the region’s heritage this holiday crafts, traditional toys, folk pottery, home-made soaps, and more—made right here in Southern Appalachia. To reach the Museum, take Black Rock Mountain Parkway in Mountain City and, about one mile up, follow the brown signs to Museum and gift shop are open Monday through Saturday, 8:30 AM — 4:30 PM. If you have ques-
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The Yuletide Trends in Home Decor by Tracy McCoy
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t is time to drag out the boxes from the attic and decorate for the holidays. Growing up we had ornaments of all kinds, our tree could never be mistaken for themed it was a hodgepodge of Christmas memories. What’s old is new they say, recently I spent some time with my interior decorator friend Lisa Taylor and we talked about what’s in, what’s changing and where holiday decorating is headed. When working with a client, Lisa says she likes to go in and see their living space, talk with them, pick their brain and get a feel for what they like. Then many times using what they already have she can “re-decorate” their space. It is incredible to think that just a different spin on or adding a few new elements to the norm can spruce things up in ways you never imagined. Lisa has been working in her clients’ homes over the past couple weeks to get trees and lights in place. on a job she has been working on at a lodge in Alpine Helen. But what are the Yuletide trends? Exactly what I wanted to know. Lisa says metallics and textures are very popular in comeback in fashion and in the home. Neutral pallets are “in” but that doesn’t just mean beige; it means not to warm, not too cool in any shade. Lisa said splashes of bold color or metallics really pop against the more muted tones. She suggested when purchasing big ticket trals and then splash color, patterns and textures with throw rugs, pillows and draperies. These décor items are inexpensive and easy to change with each season or trend affording you a new look more often than otherwise possible.
that surrounding yourself with the things and people you love in a setting where you feel safe and comfortable is key to your well-being. She said she gets texts, e-mails and phone calls from clients who just want to let her know how much they love their homes after she has worked with them. My wheels are spinning, who doesn’t want an inviting place to call home? Lisa and I talked about the Mason jar and burlap craze and she says it is headed for a change. It may still be included but she talked of painted burlaps mixed with metallics and other textures. Burlap she says truly helped usher in the texture movement. She does believe we will see less of it around in the near future. Remember what’s old is new again... always. Christmas decorating brings a warm feeling to your home and makes it welcoming for your family and friends while entertaining through the holidays. We agreed that when the New Year’s kisses are over we are ready to take it all down and start readying our homes and ourselves for 2015. Lisa says she cannot go into a home without imagining everything moved around. Maybe it’d be a good idea to invite Lisa over for some coffee or a Christmas cookie, but be prepared for her wheels to start turning and ideas ____________________________ Lisa Taylor is a dynamo; she can not only decorate, she can build your home or oversee that process. She can do almost anything and has an infectious creativity. She is professional, bold and brilliant! To reach Lisa to talk about your project call 706.490.0361.
When beginning a decorating project Lisa shops with the homeowner and watches what they are drawn to and gains insight into their style. If they see something they like she encourages them to get it even present in our spaces are laced with memories and threads of our years and that lends itself to creating a cozy home where you are happy. Sometimes things just aren’t where they would work best and that’s where a decorator like Lisa is valuable. Lisa and I have been eye”; she is dedicated to making each home a masterpiece no matter the style or look. The same holds true when decorating a tree or the home’s mantle. We talked about Pinterest and Lisa enthusiastically agreed that it has unlocked creativity and made people take an interest in their living space again. It is proven
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Services The secret of joy in work is contained in one word - excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it. Pearl Buck
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A Christmas Tradition
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by Melissa Williams-Thomas
hristmas is a special time of year. It is time for family, friends, and rejoicing our Savior’s birth. Many of us decorate for the holidays with a Christmas wreath on our front door, but most do not know the origin of this tradition. The wreath dates back to the Persian Empire and were called diadems, which means to bind around, much like a headband. Kings and other royalty wore these as a symbol of their authority. Traditionally, they were a piece of fabric, like a ribbon, worn around the forehead. Other cultures became intrigued with these fashion statements and assimilated them into their own society. Probably the most famous example of this is the Ancient Greeks. The Greeks used wreaths made out of different materials to symbolize a person’s rank or occupation. A wreath made from an oak tree symbolized wisdom and when made from a laurel tree it symbolized achievement or victory. They crowned the winners of the original Olympic Games with laurel wreaths. Military and political leaders in Rome, like Julius Caesar commonly wore a wreath as a crown. Soon the trend spread to the rest of the world. The upper class everywhere began adoring their own diadems with precious jewels and metals. The athletes of the Olympics began the tradition of displaying their laurel wreath headdresses on the wall or door of their home as a souvenir of achievement and victory during the games. This became a popular decoration among the people. In 1839, Johann Hinrich Wichern came up with the advent wreath to teach the children the meaning and the purpose of Christmas. The wreaths circular shape symbolizes God, having no beginning or ending.
The evergreens used for the greenery came from the Egyptian and Hebrew cultures’ belief that its branches represent everlasting or eternal life. Later, people added red items, such as candles or berries, on the wreath symbolizing the blood of Jesus. Today, wreaths commonly adorn our front doors as a welcome to our friends and family at the start of the Christmas season. The materials used range from the traditional the South, decorating with burlap is trending. I am going to take you through a new twist on an old favorite, the burlap wreath.
The Burlap Bubble Wreath Materials: 1 Yards of Burlap 1 Foam Wreath Ring 100 Straight Pins Several Glue Sticks lap into 4” X 4” squares. You will need approximately 100 squares for the bubbles on your wreath. Wrap the foam ring with strips of the remaining burlap and secure it with straight pins. Do this in order keep the white foam from peaking Next, take your 4” x 4” squares and hot glue the opposite/diagonal corners and then glue the remaining corners forming a ball-like shape. Repeat this 100 times. This
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Step 1
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Step 3
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is the most time consuming portion of the project. Finally, you are ready to start pinning the bubbles. Place a straight pin through the glued portion of the balls and pin it on your foam ring; you can secure with hot glue if you would like. I started pinning the bubbles staggering from the outside to the inside. Overlap each of the balls as to hide the pin. Add bald spots. The burlap bubble wreath is beautiful on its own for everyday use. Simple accents can be used to personalize this wreath yearround for special occasions. Attach a poinsettia for Christmas and shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day. You no longer have to be a member of high society to decorate like one.
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Step 5
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Leota Weston – A Life Deserving of a Standing Ovation by Tracy McCoy
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n 1914, on a farm near the village of Winterset, Ohio a little girl was born and she would prove to be a natural phenomenon. Named Leota by her parents, a German name meaning “of the people”. Leota loves people; I would venture to guess that she has met very few strangers and if you didn’t do the math, she is a centenarian. I scheduled to talk to Leota because she had recently turned 100 years old, sure she had great stories to tell and I was spot on! I met her at the Rabun County Library, a key part of her social life. Reading is one of her favorite things to do and if they don’t have the book she wants to read (she has a list), the staff gets the book from another location within the North Georgia Regional Library System. Leota is well known at the library. I walked past her in search of my 100 year old interviewee because she didn’t look the part. Her natural soft brown hair has less gray than mine and her smile and the twinkle in her eye make guessing her age impossible. Just that morning Leota had driven 20 miles into Clayton, washed and fueled her car, had lunch and met me at the library. We took our seats to begin our visit and I noticed the colorful cane loosely hanging off the side of her chair, as if she might not really need it.
Leota grew up on a farm, laughing when she shared they were organic without even trying. “My dad didn’t use any chemicals on his vegetables, and the animals ate the grains without chemicals, he was a hard working man. During the depression her father would leave the home for work in Akron, Ohio and while he was away at only 13 years old, Leota was the family chauffeur.” Leota laughed at the memory. “My mother tried her best to make ladies out of her daughters, it worked with the youngest and the oldest but not this middle one, I was more of a challenge.” Perhaps her playful spirit is part of why she has made it this far. She learned to drive on a 1924 Model T Ford, 4-door Touring. What color? She quoted Henry Ford “You can have any color you want as long as it’s black”, and black it was. “I’ve been driving 88 years now,” she smiled. I asked if she had pumped her own gas and she looked at me like I was crazy, “Of course”, she said. James (Jimmy) Weston won Leota’s heart while on a double date with another young woman. Leota was on that same date with a friend of Jimmy’s. Everyone involved knew that a switch should be made but suf-
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fered through the date; it was the next week when a letter came stating - “They say all is fair in love and war, how about a date?” The answer was easy and they began dating and eventually married. He later admitted he had seen her around town and proclaimed, “that’s the one for me.” They wed in 1932 and remained married for 70 years! Leota boasts she was born, reared, schooled and raised her family in Ohio, but in 1954 she and her family moved to Estero, Florida to take over the Orange Grove Court. A postcard found for sale online included the following words, most likely included on every card:
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ORANGE GROVE COURT ”Sleep in an Orange Grove” on Tropical Estero River, Tamiami Trail, U.S. 41. 15 Miles South of Fort Myers. Overnight Rooms and Apartments. Day, Month and Seasonal rates. Both Salt and Fresh Water Fishing. Boats available. Fully equipped kitchens. Good Restaurants nearby. Pick and eat all the free citrus fruit you want. Jim & Leota Weston We talked of the wonderful people who came to stay at the Orange Grove Court and the years of hard work she and Jim put in there, raising their children Linda Rose and Ron-
the bottom of the river. He gave it a little tug and pulled back and buried the hook in Leota’s nose, right between her eyes, the bobber dangling on the tip of her nose and a second hook inside her nostril. “I mean the hook was buried all the way in!” Quite startled Jim gathered his wife up and made a speedy trip to the emergency room where the medical personnel worked an hour and a half to back the hook back out of her nose. Finally, Leota told them, “If I were eighteen and beautiful, it’d be different, take it out. Once she had healed up nicely he told the story again the most wonderful man, a good provider, husband and father.” she recalled with a tear at the surface. Her face softened as she said, “ I miss him so badly.” Leota shared with us her favorite Christmas memory which spoke of her husband’s determination and love for
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his family. It was 1939 and the depression was still making job. When he came home and told his wife she was very concerned. “What will be do?” she asked, “how will we buy Christmas for the children, pay our rent ($6 a month), buy coal for the burner and food?” Jim had a plan, “I am going to trap animals and sell their hides,” to which his wife asked, “Do you know how to do that?” and he replied “Yes, I think I do.” Leota told us how Jim just knew how to do most anything. He had a real connection with nature and animals. So, he borrowed some traps, a leaky boat and set the traps. The weather was cold and sometimes he would have to chop ice to get to the traps to check them, but that didn’t stop him. He made forms from plywood to stretch the muskrat and mink hides to dry them. He borrowed a book used to value the hides and soon had enough to send to Pennsylvania. Jim borrowed Leota’s father’s car to drive to Dennison to put the gunny sack full of hides with a simple note “I’ve valued these hides at $80” and sent them by train to a fur house in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. With no guarantees they’d make it. With US mail the only mode of communication, he waited to hear back. A letter
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your hides?” Jim sent a note back saying “No, send my hides back.” Expecting the hides, he was surprised to get the $80 he had asked for. “We paid the rent, the coal and bought Christmas presents for the children with some of the money and agreed to put the rest back in case another job didn’t come. We would not buy for each other that year.” she remembered. Her face softened and with a twinkle in her eye she told me she could not let Christmas go by without buying her husband a and she paid 98 cents for it and had hung it on the Christmas tree. Jim saw it and said, “I thought we weren’t buying anything for each other.” She explained how she couldn’t let him go without a gift. He motioned towards the back of the tree to a sadly wrapped gift with Leota’s name lain teapot in cobalt blue with gold trim. It cost $1.98 but today goes for around $100. Leota stood and her husband took her in his arms and whispered, “Merry Christmas”. With hands clasped and a smile from ear to ear she told me, “It was the best Christmas ever.” The Weston family had a good life Jimmy had a massive stroke leaving him paralyzed on the right side and unable to speak. It was devastating to both he and his wife. Years of physical therapy and speech therapy yielded limited results. There were few things Jim could say but he could still tell his wife he loved her and that was more than enough for her. She cared for him and encouraged him for the next 31 years until he passed away at the age of 93. “He knew what he wanted to say and would get so frustrated, sometimes he would just cry. I would cry with him.” Jim was a wonderful painter but was right-handed. In later years he was asked to do a painting and he refused but then began trying with his left hand and created a masterpiece depicting a log cabin in fall. He was just unstoppable. Leota is a poet, writing poetry most of her life. “The poems just come to me and I write them down. Sometimes at midnight or in the wee hours of the morning. One night I was pondering the greatness of God and the vastness of eternity and this poem was written.” she said, head tilted back she recited the following:
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Dear Lord, stretch forth thy hand to me so small and weak and lift me with thy wondrous love that I in turn may seek
During some especially depressing times while caring for Jimmy, Leota cried out to God and she was given this prayer: I’m sad inside and try to hide the fact I am depressed how tears are shed at night in bed that so long have been suppressed God I pray please take away the sadness that I’m feeling and lift me up
Leota once entered a contest with one of her poems and while they sent no money they sent a book with her poem printed in it. She has no record of all of her poems they are hidden in her mind with ease. Today, Leota lives in a remote mountain community very near her son Ron and his wife Babs. “My son is 81 years old and still works. He restores, renovates and remodels homes in Rabun
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and Highlands. He loves what he does, the money is good and he says he’ll just keep going,” Leota said speaking of herself and her son, “Ya know if you rest, you rust!” Her daughter, Linda Rose lives with her family on the east coast of the US. Linda Rose is three years younger than her brother (you never tell a woman’s age unless they are 100.) Between the two children Leota has eight grandfour great-great grandchildren.
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Leota’s sister is 98 and the two are very close. They talk often and have pondered why they’ve living so long and done so well, after much speculation they arrived on the “organic” upbringing they had, Leota ly, “we just don’t die!” When her children asked her what she wanted to do for her birthday, she told them she wanted to go back to Fort Meyers to worship with her church family once again. A 100 year birthday celebration was planned and that morning over 600 worshippers attended church services and 300 stayed for the birthday luncheon in Leota’s honor. Leota’s siscelebration. It was a grand event with Leota heading up the hugger’s line as she had done in that church so many times before. Leota shared a poem at the event receiving a standing ovation. It was not a poem she had written but one she had found and enjoyed. It was about a centenarian like herself and it goes like this...
A century is a long time to live A century is 100 years That’s 5200 weeks and 36,500 days, indeed a century is a long time to live. It could be tiresome because living is just minute by minute and the clock keeps ticking on and on and on A century is a long time to live, but it isn’t lonely just think of all the time you have for friends and family and there are generations of friends and generations of family and all that time and all those friends and all that family and all that love. A century is a long time but the spirit is not measured by time the spirit is love – A century is a long time but a century of love is no time at all. Leota attends the Rabun County Church of Christ in Tiger, Georgia, she loves her little country church and boasts on the new, young, smart pastor McKinley Pate. She writes her senators and congressmen and even got a birthday card from Mike Huckabee. Leota has walked all her life and completed the 5K in Highlands the past two years, this year she challenged her son to walk with her, but the event didn’t take place. When I asked Leota what she wanted to leave with our readers, what they really needed to know she said just the principal on which she has lived 100 years, complete faith in God and keep a great sense of humor. Leota Weston is a humble, sweet soul. She is a deserves a standing ovation!
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Lovin’ the Journey Hittin’ the Road... A Few Good Beaches by Mark Holloway
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f you’ve read my Lovin’ the Journey columns, you know I walk on the sunny and crazy side of the street. Welcome to my inaugural travel column. Tracy, you know, the woman who owns this whole operation, asked me to write a travel column. (We all know she’s a slavedriver, wink, so I had to submit.) While living in the mountains nearing a decade, we’ve learned how enamored many of our local friends are with the beach. Some of our mountain buds even own beach homes. If I were to stand on Rabun Bald or Black Rock Mountain and holler, “Who wants to go to the beach?” the passenger
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line would stretch all the way down to Tallulah Gorge. Carol and I recently visited three distinctly different beaches. The winter solstice is upon us. So what a perfect time for me to possibly lure you to three beach destinations. Just weeks ago I experienced an unforgettable moment in my life. We arrived a few days early for a wedding. Some close friends of ours graciously offered their Ponce Inlet beachside condo to us. Our Atlanta daughter Victoria joined ing a walk along the beach ten minutes south of Daytona. I noticed a large object in the surf.
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I instinctively took off running and my daughter chased after me recording the event on video. It was a dolphin still moving and breathing. I reached my arms around the desperate mammal. He was heavy. I struggled to move it out into deeper water. The dolphin began to swim away. Victoria and I were cautiously relieved. We hope our sea friend survived. We have actually been here in the summer and fall. Ponce Inlet has a private feel yet it’s close enough to Daytona Beach to offer a little bit of everything for everyone. If you are a biker and want a tattoo, I promise you there are options. Maybe you’re not a biker and want a tattoo or a new tattoo, again there are plenty of options. Maybe your deal is fresh seafood. Again, lots of options. My father instilled in me a deep appreciation for history. There is a lighthouse on the south end of Ponce Inlet offering a leap into the past. The lighthouse transcends multiple generations as Florida’s tallest. From its construction in the late 1800s to its U Boat-evading muted light during World War II, this towering relic invites you in!! Further south and across palms and glades is Captiva Island, gracing the
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Gulf with charm and solace. This remote paradise west of Ft. Myers tempts you to visit too. Resorts like ‘Tween Waters and South Seas Plantation offer you mangrove kayak tunnels, ocean sailing and beaches with more shells than saltwater it seems. Carol and I treated our nieces Kelsey and Melisa to a day on a Hobie Cat, sailing the surf and sun. The sun setting over our hallowed mountains or melting into the sea is equally breathtaking and begs our praise to God! Our third ocean getaway worthy of your fantasy escape is Charleston, South Carolina! Carol and I recently celebrated our anniversary in this history-rich seaside community. Her cobblestone streets, quaint shops, fresh seafood, and pristine 1800’s homes beg a romantic long weekend away from the mountains. which doesn’t offer great running routes... whether along The Battery in Charleston, or shadowed by the gently swaying palms of Captiva Island’s South Seas Plantation. Perhaps the best part of our beach trips is while packing up, Carol and I, almost giddy, often say to each other, “Now we get to go home to the mountains.” Life is indeed good. See you on the trail.
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Turned Funny
Nothing Ruins Christmas Like a Fruitcake By John Shivers
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y precious little mama couldn’t make a homemade biscuit that it didn’t feel, weigh, and taste just like a hockey puck. Try as she might, she just couldn’t make those golden orbs of dough that taste so good hot, with a little butter and honey. But what she could make were cakes and pies totally deserving of the “nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven” award. Growing up, there was always “something for good” in our house. But even that had its limits. Mama didn’t bake fruitcakes. Southern, to say the least. But mama and fruitcakes simply didn’t gee-haw, and I never really knew why. Whatever her reason, we never saw the combination of candied fruits and molasses and brown sugar and whatever else went into those concoctions, that weighed heavier than hard-set concrete. Daddy couldn’t stand fruitcakes. But her reluctance to bake the colorful cakes went deeper than that. I don’t know if she’d had a bad experience with a fruitcake in the past. Perhaps her mother had been frightened by a fruitcake while she was carrying mama? Or, perhaps, mama just didn’t care for the taste. I have more curiosity than the law ought to allow, and evidently at least as many lives as the average cat, because when I’m denied something that everyone else in the human world takes for granted or enjoys, I usually want to know why. And so it was with fruitcakes. My father was a rural mail carrier and at Christmas time, many on his route would leave gifts for him in their
box. It would have been a most unusual Christmas season had not at least one boxed fruitcake been included among the booty. Usually the offending cake would be a small, square loaf about ten inches long made by the famous Claxon bakery in that little town somewhere below the gnat line in south Georgia. But it wouldn’t have mattered how illustrious a heritage that little fruitcake boasted, its disposition would have been the same. Daddy would walk in the door, red and white striped packaged cake in hand, and say, “Well, we got another one.” And into the kitchen trash it would go, without even being opened. It was almost like if we violated the wrapping, gremlins of some sort would escape and wreak havoc in our lives. But remember my aforementioned over-abundance of curiosity? When I was about eleven, I rebelled. I dug that cake out of the trash and secreted it back to my bedroom, where I quickly ripped open the package, never mind the conseapproached that watershed moment in much the same fashion as a kid who has sneaked out behind the barn to smoke I wouldn’t like it… that I’d get caught… that if I opened this door, what might my future hold? Would people be able to tell just by looking that I’d partaken of forbidden fruit? Would it stunt my growth? Oh, wait, that’s smoking, isn’t it? I told you I was nervous. Finally, however, anticipation overtook me, and I bit into the loaf. The texture and the taste were new and difBut I managed. Then I took a second bite, and a third. By which point I was hooked. It was different, but it was also very good, and suddenly, I simply couldn’t get enough. By left. I’d eaten all the evidence. Or so I thought. By supper that same evening, oh was I ever sick. And afraid to admit what I’d done that caused the problem. Instead, I had to suck it up and stick it out and suffer in secret. Talk about miserable. Mama and daddy didn’t eat fruitcake. Didn’t matter if it was Christmas. Guess what? I don’t eat fruitcake, either. Don’t eat’em and I sure don’t bake’em. I’m with mama on that!
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Clubhouse
Through All the Confusion, “Merry Christmas!” By John Shivers
Illustration by Terry Sells
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t would all have gone beautifully, had the hedgehog shepherd not been trampled – just ever so slightly – by the threehundred pound wild hog, who was a camel carrying one of the three Wise Men. That it was truly an accident was without question. When it was all over, the rodent was crying in pain, and the big, old, rough-looking boar was sobbing crocodile tears of regret. Not exactly the lasting image a nativity scene is supposed to impart. If it hadn’t been for that one little incident, Rabun Racky
would have been talking about how beautiful it was. How it portrayed the true meaning of Christmas. How smart Racky
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and Dil were to have pulled it all together. Rabun Gap, Georgia raccoons had created, while staging a live community nativity. Latest reports from the grapevine said the video posted anonymously on YouTube already had over half a million hits. There was even talk that to further broadcast the boys’ humiliation. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The genesis for their Christmas production was a postThanksgiving dinner tryptophan-induced lethargy, where dreams were bigger than a house, and reality only a hazy recollection in the minds of those who had chowed down
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on too much too quickly. It was the impetus needed to convince mere mortals that they could leap tall buildings in a single bounce! “You know,” Racky had said to his brother, Dil, as the two lay in the swings on the porch of the Rabun Woods Bed & Breakfast, where they lived with their family, “We ought to do something special for Christmas.” “I’m planning to,” Dil assured him. “I’ve asked Santa for an all-terrain vehicle, and I’m going to spend the rest of Christmas vacation zooming all over these hills.” He sighed contentedly and subconsciously rubbed his stomach. “No more walking for this boy.” “What makes you think Santa’s going to bring you that ATV? I haven’t exactly seen angel wings and a halo on you lately.” you’re doubly-bad.” “I’m not arguing that point,” Racky confessed. “But I haven’t asked for such an expensive gift, either.” He pulled himself up from the swing and walked to the porch rail, where he stood with his back to his brother, looking out over the expansive lawn. “I think we ought to redeem ourselves before Christmas.” “Redeem ourselves?” “Yeah, you know.” Racky turned to look at his brother. “You know, something big that will make us look good in the community, and perhaps repair our reputations so that you stand a chance to get that ATV.” He grinned. “An ATV that I can ride in as well.” Dil ignored Racky’s attempt to catch a free ride. Instead, he asked, “What do you have in mind?” “A live nativity scene.” He pointed over the porch rail. “Right out there on the lawn, where the community can drive by and see the shepherds and the Wise Men coming to see the baby Jesus.” “And who will play all these people?” “We’ll audition from all over these hills. Piece of cake.” For the next three weeks, the boys spent every spare formance drama opened without a hitch. The community turned out in enthusiastic full force. Which is why on the boar camel got their choreography confused and zigged when they should have zagged, total mayhem resulted. When the dust settled, the stable looked like a tornado had touched down. Area emergency rooms had lines of injured cast and audience members waiting for treatment, and the community gossip line was working on overload. Racky held his head in hands, “We meant to proclaim peace on earth….” He looked up, and smiled, “So all I can say, instead, is Merry Christmas. And watch out for the wild boar!”
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Photo by Terry Barnes - tbarnesphotography.photoshelter.com
from everyone at the Georgia Mountain Laurel
Merry Christmas