No’Ala November/December 2016

Our Annual Holiday Gift Guide | The Great American Rowe Trip | Recipes

NOVEMBER/DECEMBER $4.95

It’s beginning to look a lot like Look inside for the inside scoop on what it takes to be one of Santa’s special helpers! noalastudios.com

T hank You Let’s make Toy Share 2016 the best yet.

for five amazing Toy Share drives!

WE ARE NOW ACCEPTING DONATIONS OF NEW, UNWRAPPED TOYS AT ALL BANK INDEPENDENT LOCATIONS UNTIL DECEMBER 16.

Member FDIC | 877-865-5050 | bibank.com

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November/December

contents

57 OUR ANNUAL HOLIDAY GIFT GUIDE

BY TARA BULLINGTON » PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE

We’ve scoured the Shoals in search of gifts—from frivolous to practical, extravagant to economical, traditional to unexpected—to help you enjoy this holiday shopping season.

SEE PAGE 59 FOR WHERE TO BUY ITEMS PICTURED ON THIS PAGE.

© Abraham Rowe

ON THE COVER: You’re not seeing double, or even septuple. These Santa’s helpers dish about our favorite holiday and how they landed such a sugarplum job.

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contents 26 JOLLY GOOD FELLOWS INTRO BY ROY HALL » PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE » STYLING BY SUSAN ROWE

The inside scoop on the one-and-only Mr. Claus from seven of his official representatives.

42 GREAT AMERICAN ROWE TRIP PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE AND SUSAN ROWE » INTRO BY ROY HALL

42

Abraham and Susan Rowe took their cameras and kids on a month-long exploration of the people and places that make America beautiful.

82 POLAR OPPOSITES

BY SARAH GAEDE » PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE

UNA geography professor Mike Pretes shows us the awe-inspiring view from the top (and bottom) of the world.

90 FRIENDSGIVING PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE » INTRO BY ROY HALL » STYLING BY SUSAN ROWE AND KIMI SAMSON

A bevy of besties gather for this contemporary take on a traditional Thanksgiving meal.

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82

108 CAMP CANINE

BY MICHELLE RUPE EUBANKS » PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE

Part four-legged finishing school, part service dog academy, Shenandoah K9 makes man’s best friends even better.

114 EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN

BY SARAH GAEDE » PHOTOS BY ABRAHAM ROWE STYLING BY SUSAN ROWE

Our tried-and-true hors d’oeuvres/cocktail pairings from No’Ala’s food editor and Odette’s mixologists keep the holidays festive and simple.

90

16 CALENDAR

126 BLESS THEIR HEARTS

SELECTED EVENTS FOR NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2016

BY SARAH GAEDE

22 UNSWEET TEA

BY ROY HALL

104 OLD SCHOOL

BY CHRIS PAYSINGER

120 A FAVOR FOR ELEANOR

108

114

BY GUY MCCLURE, JR. ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROWAN FINNEGAN

134 PARTING SHOT

BY ABRAHAM ROWE

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editor’s letter « Roy Hall

As we prepare to go to print in this last week of September, still in the sweltering midst of what passes for fall these days, the presidential election seems eons away. But by the time this issue arrives, the mud will have been slung, the dust will have settled, and the 45th president of these mostly United States will have been elected. For the roughly one-half of us bitterly disappointed with the other half ’s choice, this Thanksgiving may offer a more appropriate opportunity than usual to cultivate that always helpful, sometimes illusive “attitude of gratitude.”

A

No’Ala Advisory Board Dr. Terrance Brown Dr. Tiffany Bostic-Brown Maggie Crisler Michelle Rupe Eubanks Guy McClure, Jr. Abraham Rowe Susan Rowe LuEllen Redding Andy Thigpen Mary-Marshall VanSant Carolyn Waterman

If you happen to be, say, a magazine editor who has to Google “how to boil an egg,” and who thought until last Thursday that poke salad was an appetizer, gratitude will come about as naturally as food styling and floral arranging to Susan Rowe and Kimi Samson. These two wizards can take a pair of clipping shears into a yard and 15 minutes later—ta-dah: a tabletop to make Martha Stewart’s mouth water.

Speaking of watering mouths, a special thank-you goes out to our gracious Friendsgiving host, Jeff Bibbee, and eight of his favorite dinner guests, who remained festive, even after our hot lights over cooked the savory food their mouths had been watering for all day.

When you come back again and again to ooh and aah over the chic, sophisticated shots in Marketplace, thank Tara Bullington, who storyboarded, sourced, and styled them all in just two weeks. Correction: make that two days. (And if you’re grateful “Correction” has the correct number of Rs, thank the bionic brain of our proofreader, Carole Maynard.) If a Christmas tree without flocking just won’t do anymore, thank Carl Casiday from Lola’s Gifts and Flowers for making Marketplace festive, and if your first-of-the-year renovation just won’t wait after seeing those gorgeous interiors, thank RiverWorks Design Studio.

If your Christmas party or New Year’s Eve bash is the one everybody remembers, thank Sarah Gaede, Bryan Lovejoy, and Andrew Davis. If the lost art of the written word puts the tinsel on your tree, thank Michelle Rupe Eubanks and Guy McClure. If memories of Christmases past add meaning to your Christmas present, thank Chris Paysinger. And if art makes the world a brighter place—not just at Christmas, but year-round—thank Abraham Rowe and David Sims.

Santa Claus doesn’t ask for thanks and neither do his official helpers. But it’s good for the soul, so we thank them all for representing the one and only Santa with all the laughter, joy, and goodwill you’d expect—all while wearing velvet in August, no less!

Finally, thank you, No’Ala readers, for another great year, and for remembering, as you head out on Black Friday, that Amazon doesn’t keep Court Street and North Main Street looking like postcards, Avalon or Woodward Avenues bustling, or Montgomery Avenue’s beautiful new lamplights lit. So shop ’til Yule drop, but be sure to do it locally!

And while you’re at it, don’t forget to have yourselves a merry little Christmas and a Happy New Year.

November/December 2016 VOLUME 9: ISSUE 6

Allen Tomlinson PUBLISHER

Roy Hall

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Matthew Liles PRESIDENT

David Sims

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Jamie Noles

ADVERTISING DIRECTOR

Rowan Finnegan GRAPHIC DESIGNER

Justin Hall

WEB DESIGNER

Carole Maynard PROOFREADER

Kathleen Bobo DISTRIBUTION

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Michelle Rupe Eubanks, Sarah Gaede, Roy Hall, Guy McClure, Jr., Chris Paysinger CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS & STYLISTS Tara Bullington, Chris Paysinger, Abraham Rowe, Susan Rowe, Kimi Samson CONTRIBUTING ILLUSTRATOR Rowan Finnegan No’Ala is published six times annually by No’Ala Studios PO Box 2530, Florence, AL 35630 Phone: (256) 766-4222 » (800) 779-4222 noalastudios.com Standard postage paid at Florence, AL. A one-year subscription is $19.95 for delivery in the United States. Signed articles reflect only the views of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors.

Advertisers are solely responsible for the content of their advertisements. © 2008-2016 No’Ala Studios, All rights reserved.

Send all correspondence to Roy Hall, Editor, at the postal address above, or by email to roy@noalastudios.com.

To advertise, contact us at (256) 766-4222 or sales@noalastudios.com.

The editor will provide writer’s guidelines upon request. Prospective authors should not submit unsolicited manuscripts; please query the editor first.

No’Ala is printed with vegetable-based inks. Please recycle.

Connect with us on Facebook: No’Ala Studios, Instagram: noalastudios, Pinterest: NoAlaStudios, and Twitter: @NoAla_Magazine

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calendar

Thursday, November 10 – Sunday, November, 13 Shoals Community Theatre presents All Shook Up It’s 1955, and into a square little town in a square little state rides a guitar-playing roustabout who changes everyone he meets.

This hip-swiveling, lip-curling musical fantasy will have you jumping out of your “blue suede shoes” with classics like “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Don’t Be Cruel.” Featuring the songs of Elvis Presley. Thurs-Sat 7:30pm and Sun 2:00pm; Admission charged; Shoals Community Theatre, 123 N Seminary St; (256) 764-1700; facebook.com/shoalscommunitytheatre Saturday, November 12 St. Francis Faire Cakes, casseroles, breads, smoked meats, pies, cookies, candies, crafts, and much more. The St. Francis Cooking School will serve breakfast, complete with cooking demonstrations and recipes by renowned cook Sarah Gaede. All proceeds benefit the St. Francis Project. 8:30am-until; $12 Adults, $3 Children; Trinity Episcopal Church, 410 N Pine St; (256) 764-6149 Friday, December 2 – Sunday, December 4 Sugarplum Marketplace Shoppers from across the Southeast will enjoy more than 90 merchants offering unique gifts and holiday trends from throughout the United States, in a festive, family-friendly atmosphere. Presented by Junior League of the Shoals. Times TBD; $5; Alabama State Fairgrounds, Muscle Shoals; jltheshoals.org Thursday, December 8 – Sunday, December, 11 The Gingerbread Players present A Christmas Story Nine-year-old Ralphie wants a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas, but his mother, teacher, and even the department store Santa warn him, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” This heartwarming slice of life from the 1940s Midwest has become a holiday favorite. Thurs-Sat 7:30pm and Sun 2:00pm; Admission charged; Shoals Community Theatre, 123 N Seminary St; (256) 764-1700; facebook.com/shoalscommunitytheatre Thursday, December 8 and Tuesday, December 13 Florence Camerata presents Christmas in the Shoals The Camerata’s annual Christmas concert features John Rutter’s joyous “Gloria” for choir and brass, along with traditional seasonal favorites, both vocal and instrumental. Special guests, The Principal Brass Tuba Quartet. Tues and Thurs 7:30pm; Admission charged; Good Shepherd Lutheran church, 2001 Cloyd Blvd; (256) 765-4515; theflorencecamerata.com Saturday, December 10 Dickens Christmas, Y’all A holiday festival reminiscent of the holiday classic A Christmas Carol, featuring carriage rides, music, arts and crafts, food vendors, even snow! 10:00am-5:00pm; Admission charged for some events; Downtown Tuscumbia; (256) 383-0783 Saturday, December 10 Christmas at Ivy Green Beautiful, live holiday decorations adorn the historic birthplace and home of America’s First Lady of Courage, Helen Keller. Sponsored by the Council of Local Garden Clubs. 8:30am-4:00pm; Admission charged; Ivy Green, 300 N Commons St W, Tuscumbia; (256) 383-4066 Sunday, December 11 Shoals Symphony at UNA presents Home for the Holidays Come “Home for the Holidays” with the Shoals Symphony at UNA as they celebrate the season. Filled with holiday classics and featuring the UNA Choruses, this annual tradition is guaranteed to put you in the holiday spirit! 3:00pm; Admission charged; Norton Auditorium, UNA; shoalssymphony.una.edu

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 17

DEADLINE: NOVEMBER 15, 2016

It’s Your Big Day

Tell your love story in your own special way No’Ala’s wedding issue is our most-anticipated, most-read, most-visited online issue of the year.

And starting with the January 2017 edition—for the first time ever— you can tell your unique love story your own way.

Introducing No’Ala Weddings Visit noalaweddings.com, through November 15, 2016.

1. Select the engagement or wedding package you love.

2. Upload your favorite high-resolution photos.

3. Tell us your love story.

Then, in January, join other happy couples from across North Alabama for the unveiling of No’Ala Weddings.

A keepsake. A bride-to-be inspiration board. And a beautiful way to introduce yourself and your new family to the world.

noalaweddings.com

Choose from these packages: Includes one feature photo, and text highlighting your favorite details from your upcoming wedding!

One-Page Wedding Feature

Two-Page Wedding Feature

Four-Page Wedding Feature

Includes 4 photos, the names of your wedding party, favorite vendors, and more!

Includes 9 photos and up to 250 words describing your beautiful wedding!

Includes 12 photos and up to 700 words describing your beautiful wedding!

$150

$450

$800

$1,450

Engagements

* Expanded features and cover selection will be chosen by the editors from all submitted weddings.

These are representative samples only.

Visit noalaweddings.com to view more details.

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 19

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scene

Anna, Emerson, and CJ Ryan Kirsten Ray, Mackensie Berry, Brantleigh Snipes, Daylan Jhin, and Victoria Schafer McKenzie Lockhart Tim Stevenson and Dennis Taylor

Tambra and Rodney Howard

Kalli Archer, Jennifer Anderson, and Melba Bailey

Johnny, Oliva, Sophie, and Suzanne Simpson

Above: Ronnie Riner Memorial Exhibition Opening

September 19, 2016 · Kennedy-Douglass Center for the Arts

Hanna, Doug, and Lisa Ruggles © Xx

Below: 2016 The Healing Place Charity Championship Pairings Party June 26, 2016 · Turtle Point Yacht and Country Club

Jason Grisby and Katherine Anderson Kay Parker, Karen Parker Grisham, and Carl Parker Stewart Cink Chad Parker

Carl and Kay Parker Laura Jane Self and Katherine Anderson * Names for photos are provided by the organization or business featured.

Melissa Bailey Stewart Cink, Patricia and Chris Burns © Xx

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 21

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unsweet tea » Roy Hall

In those days, seatbelts were mere curiosities. A helmeted Marine on a tricycle today would be met with less scorn than a seat-belted kid in a 1977 car.

GHOST OF CHRISTMASES PAST “You lied to me!”

The accusation jolted my mother away from the chicken she was frying and toward the one come home to roost in her kitchen doorway. With fists clenched and jaw set, I faced her down as tears of rage spilled down my cheeks. Mother stared back, speechless in the presence of the truth of her and my father’s chicanery. Christmas would never be the same again.

The incident in the kitchen doorway represented an inglorious end to what had been a promising 1977.

My first year of school had gone by almost without a glitch. I’d heroically carried the shame of not being able to count to 100 all the way to remedial math, where I spent a month before being released back into the general population. Late winter brought with it a reward in the form of a rare and respectable snowfall of six inches—during math class, no less. With summer came the Bicentennial, which Andalusia, Alabama, celebrated in the usual way: by gathering in the playground to watch elementary school kids do The Bump to disco hits. Bicycle riding, swimming, and glutinous television watching took up the rest of vacation.

Ah, the salad days of childhood, before the world sneaks in. That world, at least for an only child, is an insular one, the flow of information as tightly controlled as news behind the Brandenburg Gate. But the bricks in my information-wall had cracks, and those cracks had a name: Jackson. The Jacksons were close family friends, and their youngest, Bryan, was my age. Bryan and I had been best friends since kindergarten, united by a love of police shows, the Captain and Tennille, and a common weight—50 pounds—until heredity betrayed me the following year. We were inseparable, Bryan and I, and most days after school I was deposited at his house by my grandfather, in Baba’s dirt-brown Dodge Monaco.

Nicotine-choked Prohibition-era poker rooms were Alpine villages compared to the interior of fourpack-a-day Baba’s Dodge. I’d climb in and kneel on the bench seat beside Baba, my head positioned directly beneath the shattered remains of a plastic dome light crushed by my tender noggin on a previous ride. In those days, seatbelts were mere curiosities. A helmeted Marine on a tricycle today would be met with less scorn than a seat-belted kid in a 1977 car. Even so, the greater danger lay in wait at Bryan’s.

Bryan had two siblings: Kent, three years our senior, and an older sister, Shannon. Shannon wasn’t just older; she was ancient—12, maybe even 13—when Bryan and I were six. With age comes wisdom, and Shannon was privy to things, secret things she’d known so long she’d forgotten they were ever even secrets. Among Shannon’s arcana was the scandalous truth that Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was not the “baddest” man in the whole downtown, as Bryan and I innocently misheard, but the whole damn town; that “Back in the USSR” referred to a country to our east, beyond Dothan, that could, if the mood struck, press a button and turn us all to dust. And Shannon knew that the tale our parents had told us about the origins of Christmas presents was a big, fat, gift-wrapped wad of reindeer hooey. That

last one she let slip some time in late November 1977. I have no memory of the event itself, but the inquiry that followed my kitchen doorway accusation traced responsibility to the Jackson house, and to Shannon.

The consequences of what Shannon had wrought are tough to overstate. Until then, Christmas meant asking for what I wanted and getting it—no questions, no complications. It was a cause and effect scenario I felt really comfortable with.

If a Six Million Dollar Man action figure caught my eye, it was mine. If the Partridge Family’s greatest hits required the fidelity of a Mickey Mouse record player…Best wishes, Santa!

The New York Times Sunday Edition is the only source for full-page theatre ads? Here, have 52 of them!

(As the story went, the first Christmas morning I was able to deliver myself to the tree unassisted, I arrived to find a stack of gifts piled, in my mother’s words, “to the wainscoting.” I removed my thumb from my mouth just long enough to ask, “Is that all I got?” I won’t deny it’s a cute story, but I’ve always been dubious of Mother’s version of events, mostly because that house didn’t have wainscoting.

Not to mention, Mother was a notorious exaggerator—an unenviable trait that fortunately is not hereditary.)

With Shannon’s revelation came intrusive questions. Until that point, all I’d had to ask myself was, “What do I want?”

Now, I had to take into account the kinds of details that pollute the joy of gift-receiving. The kinds of questions that ruin the very spirit of Christmas. Questions like, “How much is too much?” And, “Is 300 square feet of toys selfish?” Answering these questions involved calculations of an order much more complex than the straightforward path to 100 that had shut my brain down the previous year. This Santa-less algebra proceeded along these lines: y = How much does this

cost Mom and Dad? divided by z = How much joy will it bring me, and for how long?

And all of it hinged on an unknown X-factor: Exactly how much money do my parents make?

There was no way to know for sure. I considered asking my father to divulge his net income, but they’d already been caught fibbing about wainscoting and Santa, so why bother? Still, clues were there if you knew where to look.

I’d heard on the radio that Barbara Walters and Johnny Carson each earned one million dollars per year. I wasn’t a fool; I knew my dad wasn’t famous. But he was an adult, like Barbara and Johnny, and, tellingly, when I reported the figures to my dad, he’d hardly flinched. He’d just nodded and replied, “Huh. Not bad, is it?” Telling! To be on the safe side, I accounted for my father’s lamentable lack of fame by dividing in half, and with that, it was settled. We were half-a-millionaires, a fact that consoled me for several years in the absence of Santa Claus.

Reality intervened a few years later, though, when the house my parents had been planning to build had to be put on hold.

The culprit was skyrocketing Young Roy Hall interest rates, and anyone who knows anything about money knows that half-a-millionaires don’t worry about that sort of thing. The fact that resources are finite plunged me back into uncertain waters. My equation had proven faulty. My brain wasn’t a computer, as any number of California Achievement tests had already confirmed. My solution was as simple as the problem was complex: I stopped asking for big ticket items. The stress simply wasn’t worth it. My Christmas lists (still infuriatingly referred to by my mother as “letters to Santa”) were thick with all the usual stocking stuffers: Connect Fours and Rubik’s Cubes. Sheena Easton cassingles and TV Guide subscriptions. Mary Tyler Moore Show videodiscs and Miami Vice blazers.

Continued page 24

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Continued from 23

But no bikes. No satellite dishes. No Betamaxes. Not that I didn’t crave those things, but the way I figured it, if my parents wanted to play Santa, fine; let ’em. I’d take it a step further, even, and require them to mind-read my big ticket wish list.

Who knows? Maybe they were more intuitive than I knew.

Maybe they understood my brain wasn’t a computer. Maybe it was spite. Whatever the motive, the result is tucked away, between the Challenger explosion and parachute pants, in a mental file folder labeled “The Commodore 64 Catastrophe of 1982.”

The earliest generation of personal computers was tan. “Tan” is really all you need to know about the appeal of anything.

Cruelly, the Commodore 64 waiting for me beneath the tree had a monitor, which looked like a television, but good luck tuning in Hart to Hart. Absurdly, in place of what we recognize as disc drives today, data was loaded via cassette players.

But just try popping in “Morning Train,” pressing play, and see what you get.

Naturally, I was devastated. But I called on the same resoluteness that saw me through remedial math to mask my disappointment while managing to locate its one redeeming feature. For three months, I aimed triangular warships against clumps of falling pixels in Commodore 64’s version of Space Invaders. If it had been my parents’ intention to introduce me to a future of employment opportunities via computing, I’d shown them, and learned a valuable lesson about the spirit of gift-giving in the process. As Leroy Brown might have said, “Always ask for what you want, down to the very last item, damn the cost.”

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introduction by roy hall Âť photos by abraham rowe

styling by susan rowe shot on location at the Robert Donnell House, Athens, alabama

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Santa Claus does not grant interviews. That’s one of the first things they teach you in journalism school. Mr. and Mrs. Claus have politely declined all invitations to go on the record, dating back to the invention of the printing press. But this strict policy hasn’t stopped journalists the world over from trying.

France’s Le Monde has submitted interview requests to the North Pole Communication Office (NPCO) every year since 1944, only to be told non 71 times. The Timbuctoo Gazetteer went so far as to dispatch a team of mercenary daguerreotype operators in 1839, hoping to capture Santa on film. A sardine farmer discovered the team, sound asleep, bows atop their heads, surrounded by reindeer prints, in an igloo on the outskirts of Helsinki. The cameras were never found.

The closest any publication has gotten is The New York Times, whose opinion desk, after confirming the existence of Santa to one skeptical young reader, Virginia, received a suspicious, long-distance telephone call. A voice—never before heard, but intimately familiar—chortled, then hung up. For precisely one minute afterward, snow fell inside 229 West 43rd Street, before vanishing without a trace.

Still, it never hurts to ask.

So, back in September, No’Ala reached out to the NPCO for a sit-down with Santa. On the same day we posted our request, a package with a North Pole return address appeared in our post office box. Inside the package—the names of the people whose photos and stories follow.

They are all “Verified and Official Representatives—Western Hemisphere Division, North America Substation, USA Field Office, North Alabama Desk—of the One and Only Santa Claus.”

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How long have you been an official representative of the one-and-only Santa Claus?

I have been officially representing the one-and-only Santa Claus for 20 years!

When you meet with Santa at the North Pole, do you fly commercial, or does he send his sled?

When I visit the North Pole in the summer, I fly commercial—the reindeer prefer not to fly during hot weather! During the cold months, Santa sends Rudolph and his sleigh to pick me up.

What are some of your most memorable experiences as Santa’s representative from Christmases past?

One of the most touching visits was from a five-year-old boy. He’d had his picture taken with me two years in a row, and the second year he asked for a telescope. Later on, his mom told me that the boy and his grandfather had been very close, and that his granddad had passed away earlier that year. The little boy wanted the telescope to look up to heaven, so he could see him.

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole or contact you directly?

Santa likes to keep his mailbox free for wish lists! You can contact me directly at softballsanta@aol.com.

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Have you ever met Santa? What’s he really like?

Santa is very busy all year long, so it’s hard to get even five minutes of one-on-one time with him. However, he and the elves are in constant contact with all of his helpers to get input on the wish lists we gather in the field.

If Rudolph retires, does he have red-nosed heirs to help Santa on foggy Christmas nights?

Santa has actually been working with some of the rocket scientists in Huntsville to begin testing a new, high intensity laser illumination system. The plan is that this new system can be placed between the two leads in case Rudolph is ever sick on Christmas Eve. Rudy has never actually missed a flight, and it’s unlikely he’ll ever retire, but Santa always likes to be prepared.

What are some of your most memorable experiences as Santa’s representative from Christmases past?

A young lady dressed in frills and lace and looking as pretty as a picture, asked for dynamite. I thought I’d heard her wrong, so I asked her to repeat it. She confirmed that she wanted dynamite for Christmas because she “liked to blow things up.”

She also told me that whatever she didn’t use, she could sell to the army people at Redstone Arsenal, since they blow things up all the time.

I have been the Santa for Merrimack Hall’s “Dance Your Dreams” program since its inception. This program is offered to children and young adults with Cerebral Palsy or Down Syndrome or other physical or learning disabilities. They come to the Hall each week and learn to dance. At Christmas, they have a holiday pageant, where they dress as snowmen, or gingerbread girls and boys, and such. They sing Christmas songs and dance, and it is the most heartwarming thing you will ever see.

Every few years a rumor emerges that Santa isn’t real.

What do you say to that?

Santa is very real! He is also very busy. That is why he has so many helpers like me. What many children and adults don’t know is that, from time to time, he is able to leave the North Pole and visit all the places where his helpers work. He does this primarily to check on how his helpers are doing. Do their “Ho Ho Hos” sound right? Are they jolly enough?

The most important part of Santa and his ability to create Christmas magic is that everyone who believes in him tries to be more like Santa themselves. Be kind to each other, give to others without thinking of yourself, forgive each other when we make mistakes, and remember that no one should stay on the naughty list forever. If we were all more like Santa, there would never be any doubt that he exists.

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole, or contact you directly?

I have a special Santa phone extension that can be reached at (256) 665-4303. Adults who would like more information about my Santa’s helper background, to see photos, or to check my Santa Schedule, can visit huntsvillesanta.net.

“The Heart of Christmas” In August 2011, I suffered a heart attack that should have killed me. I was very fortunate that HEMSI medical services got me to the ER in record time, where a stent was inserted into my 100 percent blocked artery. The doctors said in another few minutes I would have been dead.

After the surgery, I thought I was making a wonderful recovery. Indeed, life did go back to normal for me, until the following spring, when a full scan of my heart revealed blood clots in my lungs. Apparently, the heart attack damaged the left side of my heart so badly it was now pumping at only about 15 percent capacity, causing the right side to compensate by beating much too fast. Without a heart transplant, I was given six months to live.

Once I determined my insurance would cover the costs to have the operation and the prescriptions, I called UAB and agreed to be placed on the organ transplant waiting list. This was done on Mardi Gras Tuesday, 2012, at 5:30 p.m. At 9:30 that same night, UAB contacted me to say that a matching heart had been found. To this day, I think I am still the record holder for shortest wait time for a heart transplant at UAB. The operation was a success with zero instances of organ rejection. The doctors told me after the surgery that the heart was a 60 to 75 percent match to my system, a nearly unheard of statistic, I’m told.

There was a time during all the preparations and evaluations for the surgery when I was warned that I really should not be a professional Santa after the transplant. In order to prevent my body from rejecting my new heart, my immune system would forever be compromised, making me susceptible to colds and the flu. All those potentially germ-filled children climbing in and out of my lap was totally against all my doctors’ recommendations for a healthy, post-transplant life.

I told the doctors that if they could not find a way for me to keep being Santa, they should give my heart to the next person in line. I truly could not see a reason to keep living if I wouldn’t be able to provide a smile for small ones at Christmastime. Fortunately, the doctors agreed that if I were cautious, I should be able to do some Santa work.

I am happy to say that in the four years since the operation, I have continued all my normal Santa activities without catching so much as a sniffle. I have, however, caught dozens of smiles, hugs, and looks of joy and happiness.

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What inspired you to train under and represent Santa?

My brother asked me to play Santa at a Christmas party, over 20 years ago. It was the first time I’d ever put on a Santa suit. I remember it cost $19.99! The experience touched my heart, seeing the excitement of the kids and the smiles on their faces. I got the fever. I did not have any training until we went to ClausFest in 2012.

Mrs. Claus doesn’t get as much publicity as her more famous husband, but she’s a critical part of the team!

What’s she like?

Full of surprises! She can manage over 1,000 elves and run Santa’s house efficiently. There are always cookies and hot cocoa ready for Santa and his elves. She also keeps Santa on his toes and well organized.

What are some of your most memorable experiences as Santa’s representative from Christmases past?

A five-year-old boy asked for firewood. I asked him, “Why do you need firewood?” He replied, “So we can keep warm this winter.”

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole, or contact you directly?

Contact me directly at facebook.com/gordon.mahathey.

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If Rudolph retires does he have red-nosed heirs to help Santa on foggy Christmas nights?

Oh, yes, both boy and girl reindeer with the brightest and shiniest noses you ever saw.

How long have you been an official representative of the one-and-only Santa Claus?

I’ve been one of Santa’s official helpers for almost 20 years!

What inspired you to train under and represent Santa?

My brothers, sister, and I were raised up from meager beginnings, but our parents always managed to make Christmas very special for us. I suppose that’s what made me decide to help Santa. It gives me great pleasure to see the joy, excitement, and wonder on the little one’s faces.

What sort or training is required of an official representative of Santa?

Santa is a really great and good man, but he is also tough when it comes to folks representing him. He wants to make sure that we know how to talk to everyone, to be respectful of everyone, and make them smile. He also wants us to have fun and enjoy ourselves.

Have you ever met Santa? What’s he really like?

Well, as you know, Santa is a very busy man. He has a very large staff of elves to help him keep everything running. I’ve met him a couple of times and he is always very nice and smells like warm cookies right out of the oven.

Do you remember visiting Santa when you were a child?

Yes, I was terrified! You see, I wasn’t what you would call a perfectly well-behaved child, so I just assumed Santa wouldn’t bring me anything. But, I thought if I pleaded my case, he would understand. When I got to his chair, he put his arm around me and asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told him I hadn’t been all that good, but part of it was my sister’s fault, and I would try to do better. He looked at me and said, “Well, if you promise to do better and not fight with your brothers and sister, I’ll see what I can do. I am not making any promises, though. It will be all up to you to prove you can be good. Do we have a bargain?”

I told him yes and did my level best to be the most perfect kid my parents ever saw, until Christmas. Needless to say, Santa was true to his word and I got some really great presents for Christmas.

What are some of your most memorable experiences as Santa’s Representative from Christmases Past?

I am the official roving Santa at BridgeStreet Town Center in Huntsville and have been their Santa ever since it opened 10 years ago. I have a wonderful time strolling along and having the children—and grownups too—stop me to talk or take photographs. One year, a girl asked me to bring her daddy home safe from Afghanistan. He was in the Army and was stationed over there. He had been gone nine months. I told her that there were some things that even Santa could not control, but that I would pray for her daddy to return home safe. The next year I was walking along, and who should come running up to me but the little girl with her mother and dragging her dad along by the arm. She kissed me on the cheek and looked me directly in the eyes and said thanks for the prayers, and that she knew I could do it.

Every few years a rumor emerges that Santa isn’t real.

What do you say to that?

Well, it just isn’t true! The existence of Santa Claus is a fact.

As long as a child’s eyes light up on Christmas morning, there is a Santa. As long we love, honor, and respect each other, there is a Santa. As long as there is joy, happiness, and understanding, there is a Santa. And as long as there is even the slightest chance for peace on earth and good will toward all humanity, there is a Santa.

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole or contact you directly?

Santa is way too busy to be contacted about his representatives. Those folks who are interested in booking me can contact Wyndham Entertainment in Huntsville at (256) 489-8080.

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Have you ever met Santa? What’s he really like?

I feel like I have. I remember visiting Santa at Parkway City Mall in the 1970s. He was a short man with a red hat. He always had that twinkle in his eye. My two children always had their photos taken with him, and I still have those photos. He was known as Santa C, and he was my model for Santa Claus.

Do you remember visiting Santa when you were a child?

I sure do! I was so excited as a child that I couldn’t go to sleep at night. I had six brothers at home, and one of my brothers would get a catalogue or a magazine, and he’d take photos of what he wanted for Christmas. When I was nine or ten, I got my most cherished Christmas present, a BB gun. I also got some cap guns. I still have those presents.

That’s how much Christmas and Santa always meant to me.

On Christmas Day, I’d get up at 4 or 5 a.m. at my home in Gadsden. Santa had always come and gone by then.

What are some of your most memorable experiences as Santa’s representative from Christmases past?

Three weeks before Christmas, the Cancer Society in Huntsville invites me to a local restaurant for Breakfast with Santa. There, about 40-50 children, from infant to ages 10-12, come to see Santa. Afterward, we get together for a group photograph. Then, on a Sunday, the Huntsville Fire Department hosts a gathering for people with disabilities.

The fire department puts me on a fire truck, and I’m driven to the side of the Jaycees building, where the group is waiting on Santa Claus. Oh, the looks on their faces when Santa arrives! One by one, they gather to see Santa, and the line stretches about as far as you can see. To me, these stories are truly the essence of Christmas and are why I get so much gratification in being Santa.

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole, or contact you directly?

Contact me directly at (256) 603-4197.

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38 | noalastudios.com | November/December 2016

What’s the best part about being an official Santa representative?

Some may ask, “Why do you play the part?”

Of a bearded old man with such a giving heart In a few short words, I’ll try to share with you The joy and happiness a child can give you.

To see a child with hope and desire in their heart Would make just about anyone want to play the part The smile, the laughter, the joy on their faces The love and warmth in their sweet little embraces.

The things children say are both true and funny Some break your heart with words sweet as honey To be a part of such wonders of love I have truly been blessed with this gift from above.

To see them listen with such intent To the story of Jesus and just what it meant The first gift of Christmas and the only true reason Of why we celebrate the Christmas season.

Should those interested in booking you as an official representative of Santa Claus send a letter to the North Pole or contact you directly?

Sometimes the elves misplace my phone messages! Call me directly at (256) 436-5156 or email bmanley920@yahoo.com.

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The grandeur of the American landscape has inspired artists from Georgia O’Keefe to Ansel Adams, whose canvases and photographs briefly tame the vastness of the west’s sculptural panoramas and the pastoral beauty of the plains.

In July, Abraham and Susan Rowe set out on their own expedition, to acquaint themselves, and Malachi and Jackson Rowe, with the majesty of the American landscape and the diversity of the American people.

With as much intimacy as any we’ve ever seen, their photographs capture that wonder—from the mountains, to the prairies, to the ocean, and back again.

42 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | November/December 2016

photos by abraham rowe and susan rowe » introduction by roy hall

The Rowes, in Montana’s Kootenai Falls.

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Facing page: Jackson Rowe crosses Kootenai Falls’ Swinging Bridge, in Libby, Montana.

Right: The misty Oregon coast, near Ecola State Park.

Bottom: Arches National Park, Utah.

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Facing page, top: Columbia River, Oregon. “My mother was Nez Perce Indian, so that makes me a half-breed: 7/16th Nez Perce, 1/16th Umatilla, and 1/2 Caucasian. I’m from the Vietnam Era. Only three of my platoon’s squad made it back. I feel like I should have gone to the other side by now. It’s rough, you know. For me, I don’t go a day without having messed up dreams.

I’m not saying, ‘poor, pitiful me.’ There are hundreds of thousands of us.

Facing page, bottom: Missoula, Montana. “When my wife was in high school, her mom met a family who was doing this—touring the country in a school bus.

So Nani, my wife, has been wanting to do this forever. It took her about 10 years to convince me it was good idea, and then finally we bought the bus two years before the trip, and spent about a year building it out.

Like I say, it’s rough. And there are people who could really use help.”

Come to think of it, I think you’re the first people I’ve ever met from Alabama.”

We’ve been on the road for a year and 15 days. We’ve been to 40 of the lower 48 states, British Columbia, Yukon, and Alaska. We noticed that everybody’s just winging it. You know what I mean? They’re taking care of their families, doing the best they can with whatever perspectives they come from. I wonder every day, ‘Am I blowing it?’ (laughter) But it turns out, everyone is wondering that. You think there’s this magic, grown-up land out there. Turns out, there’s not!

Above: Malachi Rowe, in excellent company, at the South Dakota Welcome Center.

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 47

Above: A midsummer dip in Kootenai Falls.

Right: The glow of the campsite at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

48 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | November/December 2016

Left: Good morning, Wyoming: A view of Devil’s Tower from the interior of the Rowes’ tent.

Below: Mountain goats protect their small patch of July snow, in Glacier National Park, Montana.

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Facing page, top: Amish women take in the wonder of Badlands National Park in South Dakota.

Below: A refreshing dip in a Yaak Valley, Montana, lake.

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Facing page, bottom: Glacier National Park, Montana. “My mom’s from Norway, my dad’s from Birmingham (Alabama), and my grandad went to Auburn. But I grew up in Indianapolis. Two years ago, I moved to Canada for a job with the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra. Bigger cities, like New York or Chicago, have dedicated orchestras for their opera and ballet companies. But in Winnipeg, we get to play with everyone. So, sometimes we’re down in the pit; sometimes we’re on stage. It’s a full-time job. And we get the summers off to teach or tour. Then we come back in the summer for Canada Day in July.”

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Below: A Yoga teacher, wrapped in Old Glory, takes a break from her poses to admire the grandeur of Arches National Park.

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Ecola State Park, Oregon

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THE ANNUAL

HOLIDAY GIFT GUIDE

produced and styled by Tara bullington » photos by abraham rowe

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[A]

ON HER: SOMEDAYS LOVIN’ SWEATER ($110) GRL BOUTIQUE (256) 349-5672

[B] [C]

ELLIOT LAUREN WHITE CORDS ($164) BOOTIES ($43) THE VILLAGE SHOPPE (256) 383-1133

[D] [E]

MARC EDGE EARRINGS ($118) NECKLACES ($200) SIDE LINES JEWELRY (256) 767-0925

[F] [G] [H]

ON HIM: PATAGONIA SHIRT ($96) KHAKIS ($79) SOREL CHUKKAS ($170) ALABAMA OUTDOORS (256) 764-1809

[I]

TOM FORD GLASSES ($456) RENAISSANCE EYE CARE (256) 767-5000

[J] [K]

ON COOPER THE DOG: BARBOUR TARTAN BANDANA ($29) BARBOUR WAX/COTTON DOG BED ($59) PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061

TREE AND GARLAND

BY CARL CASIDAY, LOLA’S GIFTS AND FLOWERS (256) 383-2299

SHOT ON LOCATION AT RIVERWORKS DESIGN STUDIO (256) 314-2444

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FROM PAGE 10

LE’ ZA ME SOPHIA SMOCKED

BISHOP DRESS ($75)

RUFFLED SATIN BOW ($8)

THE BABY’S ROOM

(256) 766-5510

CHILD’S PEARL BRACELET ($30) SIDE LINES JEWELRY (256) 767-0925 November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 59

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[A]

5 PANEL CLASSIC TRUCKER HAT ($20) HEAVY COLOR SCREEN PRINTING & DESIGN STUDIO (256) 702-5471

[B] FILSON ORIGINAL DEER GLOVES ($95)

PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061 [C]

DANIEL WELLINGTON CLASSIC YORK WATCH ($259) PRINTERS & STATIONERS (256) 764-8061

[D]

BARBOUR CASHMERE TARTAN SCARF ($79) PRINTERS & STATIONERS (256) 764-8061

[E] FILSON BI-FOLD WALLET ($125)

PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061 [F]

DYLAN LEBLANC T-SHIRT ($20) HEAVY COLOR SCREEN PRINTING & DESIGN STUDIO (256) 702-5471

[G]

SMATHERS & BRANSON GOLF FLASK ($65) PRINTERS & STATIONERS (256) 764-8061

[H]

OPINEL KNIFE WITH BEECHWOOD HANDLE AND LOCKING CARBON STEEL BLADE ($11.95) DIXIE GARAGE (256) 627-6545

[I]

LEATHERBOUND COFFEE TABLE BOOKS AMERICAN BAR ($96) (SHOWN) GOLF COURSES ($88) FOOTBALL QUIZ ($85) PRINTERS & STATIONERS (256) 764-8061

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SHOT ON LOCATION AT RIVERWORKS DESIGN STUDIO (256) 314-2444

[A]

ON HER: NADENE MAIRESSE WASHED LINEN APRON ($78) IDYLLWILDE (256) 284-7408

[B] [C]

BABETTE TANK ($88) FS/NY FLATS ($198) MARIGAIL’S FASHION HOUSE (256) 764-9444

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[D] ELLIOT LAUREN WHITE CORDS ($164)

THE VILLAGE SHOPPE

(256) 383-1133

[E]

[F]

[G] [H] [I]

JUDE FRANCES 18K JEWELRY: DIAMOND AND TOPAZ MALTESE CROSS LAYERING CHAIN ($1900) LARIAT LABRADORITE AND DIAMOND NECKLACE ($1200) LABRADORITE RING ($2560) DIAMOND HOOPS ($4650) LABRADORITE AND DIAMOND EARRING CHARMS ($1480) PARKER BINGHAM JEWELERS (256) 764-2032

[J] [K]

ON HIM: PATAGONIA SHIRT ($79) KHAKIS ($79) ALABAMA OUTDOORS (256) 764-1809

[L] TOM FORD GLASSES ($456)

RENAISSANCE EYE CARE

(256) 767-5000

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[M] WOOLRICH VEST ($89)

PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061

[N] [O]

WINES: STAG’S LEAP ($61.99) CHATEAU ROC MEYNARD ($15.99) THE CREATIVE GRAPE (256) 668-6939

[P]

GREY ORGANIC COTTON AND HEMP KITCHEN TOWEL ($24) IDYLLWILDE (256) 284-7408

BELOW: COUNTERTOP DECORATIONS

BY CARL CASIDAY LOLA’S GIFTS AND FLOWERS (256) 383-2299

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C

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[A] CORKCICLE ARCTICAN ($20)

PRINTERS AND STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061 [B] STRIPED CREW SOCKS ($27)

ALABAMA CHANIN

(256) 760-1090 [C] CARRY ON COCKTAIL KIT ($24)

DIXIE GARAGE

(256) 627-6545 [D] HIGH COTTON HOLIDAY BOWTIE ($50)

PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061 [E]

JOHN PAUL WHITE BEULAH VINYL ($15) ALABAMA CHANIN (256) 760-1090

[F]

THE SOUTH BEND CHOCOLATE COMPANY BAGGED POPCORN ($12.95) VARIETY OF FLAVORS (P.B. CRUNCH, CHOCOLATE MAPLE PECAN CRUNCH, CHILI LIME CRUNCH, SEA SALT CRUNCH) MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS (256) 810-2768

[G] CORKCICLE WHISKEY WEDGE ($17.95)

PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061 [H] STEELISM 615TOFAME VINYL ($10)

ALABAMA CHANIN

(256) 760-1090

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ON HER: MYSTREE JACKET ($71) LEVEL 99 JEANS ($128) BOOTS ($137) AUDIE MESCAL (256) 314-6684

[D] TOM FORD SHADES ($495)

RENAISSANCE EYE CARE

(256) 767-5000 [E]

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LOUIS VUITTON PAPILLON BAG WITH POUCH ($600) CREATIVE JEWELERS (256) 766-7650

[F] BOA ($280)

ALABAMA CHANIN

(256) 760-1090

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[G]

ON HIM: BARBOUR WAXED JACKET ($279) PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061

[H] [I] [J]

FLO T-SHIRT ($28) PATAGONIA CORDS ($89) SOREL BOOTS ($170) ALABAMA OUTDOORS (256) 764-1809

[K] TOM FORD SHADES ($360)

RENAISSANCE EYE CARE

(256) 767-5000 [L]

[M]

WOOLRICH ROUGH RIDER SHERPA BLANKET ($120) FILSON LOG CARRIER ($95) PRINTERS & STATIONERS (256) 764-8061

VINTAGE SCOOTERS, COURTESY OF EERO WILSON AND MILES TUCKER

M I

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PERFECT SELFIE LIGHT!

A

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D

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[A]

FRASIER FIR AROMATIC CANDLE ($29.99) DAVID CHRISTOPHER’S (256) 383-2275

[B]

PRAYER POCKET WEARABLE ART BLACK ROSARY ($150) BEIGE ROSARY ($135) SHERYL PUTNAM DESIGNS SHERYLPUTNAMDESIGNS@MAC.COM

[C]

LED LIGHTED SMARTPHONE CASE FOR IPHONE 6 PLUS AND 6S PLUS ($32) AVAILABLE IN SEVERAL COLORS GRL BOUTIQUE (256) 349-9293

[D]

CORAL & TURQUOISE NECKLACE BY DELTA DESIGNS ($64) MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS (256) 810-2768

[E]

KRIS NATIONS ADJUSTABLE NECKLACES STERLING SILVER ARROW (NOT SHOWN), LOVE, STATE OUTLINE ($50) GOLD PLATED PEACE ($40) GOLD PLATED STATE EARRINGS ($35) SIDE LINES JEWELRY (256) 767-0925

[F]

TANYA HEATH PARIS ROSALIND BOOT IN VEAU NOIR/OBSIDIAN NAVY ($399) CREATIVE JEWELERS (256) 766-7650

[G]

SET OF ASSORTED PENCILS AND NOTE PAD ($12) ALABAMA CHANIN (256) 760-1090

[H]

MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL ORNAMENT ($4.99) THE SURPRISE STORE (256) 766-6810

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D

B

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[A]

ON HER: SOMEDAYS LOVIN’ KEYHOLE SWEATER ($102) GRL BOUTIQUE (256) 349-5672

[B] LEVEL 99 JEANS ($128)

AUDIE MESCAL

(256) 314-6684 [C] SOREL ‘JOAN OF ARTIC’ BOOTS ($250)

ALABAMA OUTDOORS

(256) 764-1809 [D]

HANDMADE “ORIGAMI” LEATHER BACKPACK ($250) TARA BULLINGTON TARABULLINGTON.COM

[E]

ON HIM: BARBOUR WAXED JACKET ($279) PRINTERS & STATIONERS

(256) 764-8061

[F] [G]

PATAGONIA KHAKIS ($89) SOREL BOOTS ($170) ALABAMA OUTDOORS (256) 764-1809

[H]

FENDER CUSTOM SHOP, HAND-BUILT AND AGED STRATOCASTER GUITAR, WITH CASE ($3250) SHOALS GUITAR BOUTIQUE (256) 320-7649

E

H

G

F

C

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C

D

F

G

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E

[A]

ASSORTMENT OF TURTLES & TRUFFLES ($3 EACH) DAVID CHRISTOPHER’S (256) 383-2274

[B]

FRASIER FIR TRIPLE-MILLED BAR SOAP ($9.99) DAVID CHRISTOPHER’S (256) 383-2275

[C]

3 CARAT DIAMOND ANNIVERSARY BAND ($33,585) JAMIE HOOD JEWELERS (256) 381-6889

[D]

AGATE STATEMENT PIECE

BY DELTA DESIGNS ($68) MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS (256) 810-2768

[E] DECORATIVE FOO DOG SET ($48)

MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS

(256) 810-2768 [F] GOLD METAL LANTERN ($38)

MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS

(256) 810-2768 [G]

BITTERSWEET PONYTAIL HOLDER BANGLE ($45) SIDE LINES JEWELRY (256) 767-0925

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 73

[A] [B] [C] [D]

BABETTE TOP ($188) BABETTE PANTS ($298) BABETTE COAT ($798) MADE IN THE DEEP SOUTH ESTATE NECKLACE ($248) MARIGAIL’S FASHION HOUSE (256) 764-9444

D C

A

B

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A

B

C

D

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A NEW HEEL EVERY DAY!

F

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G

[A]

NINA NGUYEN CRESCENT HOOPS OXIDIZED EARRINGS ($245) MEFFORD JEWELERS (256) 275-7030

[B] COWHIDE & LEATHER CLUTCH ($68)

CLOTH & STONE

(256) 767-0133 [C] POO~POURRI TOILET SPRAY ($10.95)

LINDA’S LOFT

(256) 381-6001 [D]

14KT YELLOW GOLD FRINGE PENDANT ($810) JAMIE HOOD JEWELERS (256) 381-6889

[E]

LOLLIA BUBBLE BATHS RELAX FOAMING BATH ($48) CALM BUBBLING BATH ($48) (NOT SHOWN) BREATHE BUBBLING BATH ($38) WANDER BUBBLING BATH ($38) (NOT SHOWN) WANDER BATH OIL ($22) (NOT SHOWN) MARIGAIL’S FASHION HOUSE (256) 764-9444

[F]

TANYA HEATH PARIS HELEN LEATHER PUMP IN NOIR ($320) TRANSFORMATIVE FOOTWEAR HEELS—A VARIETY OF HEIGHTS, COLORS, AND STYLES! CREATIVE JEWELERS (256) 766-7650

[G]

HYDRANGEA SOAP CO. HANDMADE BAR SOAPS ($7.00/EA) LINDA’S LOFT (256) 381-6001

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F

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A

B

C

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[A] [B] [C]

JOSEPH RIBKOFF GOLD TEE ($145) MAXI SWEATER ($193) BRIGHTON BANGLES ($84, $98) THE VILLAGE SHOPPE (256) 383-1133

[D] KUHL YOGA PANTS ($85)

ALABAMA OUTDOORS

(256) 764-1809 [E] [F]

FRENCH KANDE NECKLACE ($200) ALE CAROL EARRINGS ($68) SIDE LINES JEWELRY (256) 767-0925

[G]

1969 GIBSON J-50 ACOUSTIC GUITAR WITH CASE ($2175) SHOALS GUITAR BOUTIQUE

(256) 320-7649

SHOT ON LOCATION AT RIVERWORKS DESIGN STUDIO (256) 314-2444

BELOW/RIGHT: SWAG AND WREATH

BY CARL CASIDAY LOLA’S GIFTS AND FLOWERS (256) 383-2299

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A

B

C

D

F

G

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E

[A]

WOODWICK FRAGRANT CRACKLING CANDLES ASSORTED SCENTS AND SIZES ($9.98+) DAVID CHRISTOPHER’S (256) 383-2275

[B]

NINA NGUYEN MOON MEDIUM OXIDIZED NECKLACE ($495) MEFFORD JEWELERS (256) 275-7030

[C]

CIRCULAR DIAMOND PENDANT IN 14KT WHITE GOLD ($850) DIAMOND 2-TONE 14KT GOLD PENDANT ($1265) JAMIE HOOD JEWELERS (256) 381-6889

[D] 1.8 DIAMOND STUD EARRINGS ($5800)

JAMIE HOOD JEWELERS

(256)381-6889 [E]

BLUE LAPIS & CARNELIAN NECKLACE

BY DELTA DESIGNS ($68) MISS KITTY’S URBAN DESIGNS & GIFTS (256) 810-2768

[F]

UNICORN SNOT—GLITTER FACE, BODY & HAIR GEL ($10) GRL BOUTIQUE (256) 349-9293

[G] CHARCOAL STONE CLUTCH ($109)

FIRE FOX BOUTIQUE

(256) 710-0688

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by sarah gaede » photos by abraham rowe additional photos courtesy of michael pretes

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When I sat down to interview my friend Dr. Michael Pretes, University of North Alabama geography professor and world traveler, I had an agenda. I fully intended to focus on how the seasons—all dark all the time in winter, and all light all the time in summer—affect the culture of the countries in the Arctic Circle, specifically Finland, where Mike spent five years, from 1989 to 1994. We eventually worked our way around to that topic. But as Mike began to tell me about his adventures in Finland, the “memory floodgates,” as he called them, opened. And I heard a story that gave the theme of polar opposites a whole new depth of meaning.

Mike has been an adventurer and explorer for most of his adult life. After he received his bachelor’s degree at the University of California, Berkeley, and then his master’s degree from Northwestern University, he spent three years at the University of Calgary at its Arctic Institute of North America, where he became interested in learning more about polar lands. During this time, he conducted extensive fieldwork in Alaska and in Canada’s Yukon and Northwest Territories.

After leaving Canada, Mike obtained a post at the University of Cambridge, as a visiting scholar at the Scott Polar Research Institute, founded in 1920 as the national memorial to Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his companions, who died on their return journey from the South Pole in 1912. While at Cambridge, Mike heard about a conference in Finland that piqued his interest. There, Mike met with the directors of the brand-new Arctic Center at the University of Lapland, right on the Arctic Circle. They invited him to spend six months with them as an advisor.

He re-upped for another six months, and ended up staying five years. He held the position of Senior Scientist, or, in Finnish, Erikoistutkija, which can also translate as “special investigator.”

Finland is a neutral country, but it had a close relationship with the USSR, its neighbor to the east. Murmansk, a port city, was within a day’s driving distance. Mike traveled to Russia nine times while he was in Finland, spending about a month at a time there. “During that time,” Mike tells me, “the Soviet Union collapsed [on December 25, 1991]. It was an exciting time to be there.”

From Russia with Love Mike collaborated with Soviet scientists, doing research on environmental damage caused by Soviet industrial policies, and got to visit places that were normally off-limits to Westerners, thanks to his friend Anatoly, whom Mike met at yet another conference. (One of Mike’s greatest gifts is schmoozing—many of his adventures had their origins in his ability to make instant connections with colleagues, and his inquiring nature.)

Anatoly was a political attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Helsinki, but “everyone knew he was a KGB agent.” Mike was frequently wined and dined by his new friend, with, he recalls, “the finest food, wine, and aged cognac. Anatoly was always trying to recruit me, because he was convinced I was a spy. I always played clueless. A large part of the KGB budget was thrown in my direction on the recruiting dinners. Anatoly would say, ‘Michael, send me some of your research.’ I did—it was all about political development in Alaska and Canada, of no real use to Anatoly. Anatoly also told me, ‘If you want to see anything in Russia, I can make visa easy for you.’”

Mike told him he wanted to see the super-secret, forbidden-to-Westerners submarine base at Severomorsk, near Murmansk, the largest, most important naval base in the USSR. Anatoly produced the visa for a one-day visit, although, even for Mike, taking photographs was not allowed. Mike jokes of his friendship with Anatoly: “I’m sure there’s a file on me somewhere in Moscow.”

During his visits to Russia, Mike got to know some smalltime Russian gangsters, young guys selling black market goods like vodka, Soviet army and navy surplus, and Soviet-themed memorabilia. “Soviet Russia was the forbidden Other. There I was in the ‘Evil Empire,’ getting to know these super-nice, hospitable people, who invited me to their homes for meals.” He and the gangsters worked out an interesting exchange of cultural products: Soviet memorabilia for American T-shirts and jeans.

Mike observed of his experiences in Communist Russia: “Anyone who ever visited the Soviet Union would have no interest in communism. It was depressive and backwards.” But, he added, “the Soviet Union was a country that when you were there,

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you couldn’t wait to leave, but when you left, you couldn’t wait to go back. It was fascinating; the ultimate Other.”

In other words, a polar opposite from the West.

Mike recalls the scarcity of consumer products. There was one kind of toothpaste made in a government factory, one kind of saucepan, one kind of underwear. The prices, which never changed, were printed or stamped on the products.

And there was only one kind of toilet paper—the world’s thinnest—but it was in scarce supply, so one usually had to make do with newspaper cut into strips.

Mike was “pretty close to ground zero” at the collapse of communism. In fact, he tells a somewhat tongue-in-cheek story—you never know with Mike—of how he single-handedly brought down the Soviet Union.

Mike Saves the Free World!

Murmansk was a big mining area. On one of his visits, the mayor gave Mike an uncut garnet about the size of a chicken egg as a memento. Mike had it in his jacket pocket on the

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way from Murmansk to Arkhangelsk and set off the security device in the airport. The Murmansk security agents were filled with admiration for the magnificent specimen.

On the flight from Arkhangelsk to Leningrad (as St. Petersburg was known then), garnet still in jacket pocket, Mike set off the alarm again. “Their eyes popped out of their heads.

They thought I had the Hope Diamond or something,” Mike says. They put Mike under guard, and took his friend Alexei away to be questioned. Eventually the two were reunited and allowed on the plane. Alexei was laughing as he filled Mike in. Security had asked Alexei all sorts of questions about his Western friend. Finally, one of the security men asked in frustration: “Do you think he is endangering the sovereignty of the republic by taking this mineral out of the country?”

They concluded that Mike wasn’t a danger, but two months later, the Soviet Union collapsed. Coincidence? Mike doesn’t think so.

Cell Phones, Saunas, and Santa Claus Mike calls Finland, a parliamentary democracy, which has had universal suffrage since 1906, the most advanced country in the world. It is known internationally for Nokia phones, saunas, and now, thanks to vigorous marketing, as the true home of Santa Claus.

Because Finland is right on the Arctic Circle, the seasons are literally polar opposites. In December it is bleak and very dark, with only one hour of twilight a day. The Finns go into

their winter mode, virtual hibernation—“withdrawn, silent, grumpy, tired, and listless. And they crave carbs.” Women dye their hair red to add color to the environment. People burn lots of candles at homes and offices as a substitute for the sun—“the eyes crave that natural fire.” There are even lighted ski trails, should one care to emerge from the winter torpor. I asked Mike what he wore outside, visualizing an Eskimo ensemble. He actually dressed about the same way he did for Chicago winters, with higher boots.

Christmas parties draw the Finns out of hibernation, as long as alcohol is served. Every single social event involves a sauna and entertainment. Saunas are the social space, central to the Finnish culture. Although there are mixed saunas among close friends and family, most men and women take separate saunas—because of like conversational interests, not prudery. A typical sauna consists of three rooms: a changing room, a shower, and the actual sauna. The three-part cycle is repeated several times, with beer rehydration between sessions in the changing room. There is no rolling in the snow involved in a Finnish sauna. “That’s a Swedish thing, of which Finns speak disdainfully.”

Continued page 88

A chinstrap penguin poses before some Antarctic scenery. The palette of colors in Antarctica is limited to blues, whites, and browns.

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Last Christmas, Mike decided to visit his seventh and last continent, Antarctica, on a sea voyage with about 100 other people, many of them students from Virginia Tech and Ohio State University. Because of ecological concerns, only researchers are allowed to stay on the land masses, so ships are really the only way to visit, and tourist impact is strictly controlled. During his voyage, Mike saw lots of ice, glaciers, calving icebergs, and mountains; Gentoo, Chinstrap, and Adelie penguins; and seals and whales, including leopard seals and orcas, but no polar bears—they reside only in the Arctic. During his 12day stay, in the middle of the Antarctic summer, the temperatures ranged from the mid-20s to the mid-30s Fahrenheit, although it was much warmer in the sun. (It was colder in Florence when he returned on Jan. 1.) Mike enjoyed snowshoeing, hiking, lots of wildlife, and visits to the British and Argentinian research stations. The American stations are not enthusiastic about visitors, according to Mike. He even managed to procure some souvenirs—there is nowhere on earth without some sort of gift shop.

The highlight of Mike’s visit was camping on an island (“so no one would wander away”). Although he could have used a tent, he slept out in the open in a double sleeping bag. Thanks to the daylight, excitement, and spectacular views, he didn’t get much sleep. At the ends of the earth, as Mike learned in Finland, you don’t take the light, literal or figurative, for granted.

Top, left: Pretes’ campsite on a small island off the coast of the Antarctic Peninsula.

Clockwise from top, left: A “puukko” (the traditional, Finnish general purpose belt knife). This puukko features a hand-forged blade, a birch hilt, and a reindeer leather sheath.

Pretes in Antarctica, wearing the necessary gear for a summer trip in the southern hemisphere.

A drinking cup used by Laplands’ Saami people, the “guksi” or “kuksa” is made out of a single birch burl and symbolizes the link between humans and the natural world.

The M.V. Plancius enters a channel between the Antarctic Peninsula and outer islands. The converted cruise ship formerly served as an oceanographic research vessel in the Royal Netherlands Navy.

Santa Claus sits in state in his cabin on the Arctic Circle in Rovaniemi, in Lapland, Finland. He speaks many languages, including English.

An early morning Antarctic selfie.

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Pretes’ morning view from his Antarctic Peninsula campsite.

“ANYONE WHO EVER VISITED THE SOVIET UNION WOULD HAVE NO INTEREST IN COMMUNISM. IT WAS DEPRESSIVE AND BACKWARDS. [IT] WAS A COUNTRY THAT WHEN YOU WERE THERE, YOU COULDN’T WAIT TO LEAVE, BUT WHEN YOU LEFT, YOU COULDN’T WAIT TO GO BACK. IT WAS FASCINATING; THE ULTIMATE OTHER.” —MICHAEL PRETES

Rovaniemi, where Mike lived, is home to Santa Claus Village, with shops, reindeer, accommodation in Snowman World Igloo Hotel, and so much more. The Finns claim Santa Claus (Joulupukki—Yule Goat) as their own, although he has evolved from a pagan figure to a close likeness of the CocaCola Santa. According to Mike, the Finns have been adept at dismissing other countries’ claims to Santa. They argue that he cannot possibly live at the North Pole, because there is nothing for the reindeer to eat there, whereas the indigenous Lapps, or Saami, have been herding reindeer for thousands of years. (Mike went reindeer herding and to reindeer roundups with Saami people on several occasions—both in winter and summer.) Japanese and Chinese tourists are especially drawn to Santa Claus Village—they love all things Christmas.

During summer in Finland, the sun barely sets, and not at all around the summer solstice. The Finns emerge from their shells for three months and spend as much time as possible outside, in primitive country huts, drinking and partying.

Of course, Mike observes, living in an enlightened country they have lots of vacation time—weeks and weeks. “In sum-

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mer, the Finns are more lively, to the extent that Finns can be lively.” No one gets much sleep in the summer, but there are always the long nights of winter to catch up on your rest, and recharge for the return of the light.

Many of us live our lives in routine daily, monthly, and seasonal cycles, with a time change to balance light and dark between summer and winter. Many of us have lived in the same place all our lives. Our vast country may vary a bit by region, climate, and accent, but from the inception of our nation, we have always been united by a common language and national ethos. Until recently, we have rarely experienced true cognitive dissonance, where everything around us, from climate to culture, is completely different from what we understand as “the way things are.” This dissonance can make us uncomfortable, and even intolerant. People like Mike Pretes, explorer and student of humanity, can teach us that although others’ experiences may be polar opposites of ours in every way, in our humanity we are all the same at the core of our being.

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With the two biggest holidays of the year only six weeks apart, going home for both isn’t always an option.

One popular solution to that dilemma is something called Friendsgiving.

An informal alternative to traditional Thanksgiving gatherings, Friendsgiving offers folks separated from far-flung family members a chance to gather with some of their favorite people.

And for those with family nearby, a way to share all those leftovers!

We hosted our own Friendsgiving at the home of UNA professor Dr. Jeffrey Bibbee, with food and merriment provided by Jeff and nine of his giving-est friends (with a little help from some of our favorite restaurants).

It’s a terrific way to make new memories, and to rekindle old ones. photos by Abraham Rowe styled by Susan Rowe and Kimi Samson introduction by Roy Hall

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GET THIS RECIPE ON P.130

David Auston Johnson

Sarah Franklin and Ulrich Groetsch

Mary Beth Willis

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My immediate family is small, and we lived far away from our extended family.

My grandparents, who lived in another state, always joined us for Thanksgiving, though, and that made the holiday particularly special.

Graduate school took me away from home for the holiday for many years in a row. My first year of grad school, I faithfully recreated the Thanksgiving meal I’d grown up enjoying for my new friends. I cooked my traditional family favorites, like green bean casserole and sweet potatoes. The holiday really became even more special to me as I was reminded of the fun of Thanksgivings past and the excitement of having a new “family” with whom to share the occasion. Now that I am back closer to home, I still love being with friends at this time of year. Why wouldn’t we want to share such a special time with the people we care about?

Jeffrey Bibbee LaKetta Williams

Seth Armstrong

Bethany Green

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Friendsgiving is something we look forward to every year, but not necessarily something that comes easily to the Green household. Cooking a couple of dishes and hanging out with your friends sounds like it should be simple, but we seem to define that word a bit differently than everyone else.

Last year, in particular, we thought we had plenty of time to cook, get ready, and arrive in a timely fashion. And then Tucker sliced his thumb open while cutting up the fruit salad. Within seconds, Tucker had managed to track blood through our apartment in his search for the farthest possible sink. Our cat followed in Tucker’s path, leaving bloody paw prints all the way. A trip to the ER ensued, during which time, the cat spilled what remained of the fruit salad onto the floor.

Tucker refused stitches and instead treated his wound at home (I was on pass-out duty) with a giant gauzewrapped thumb. Somehow, despite all of that, we managed to finish cooking, make a new fruit salad, get ready, clean up the entire mess, pick up wine, and still arrive on time. We’ll never be able to pull that off again!

Tucker Green

Bethany and Tucker Green

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“Renmen” means “love” in Creole, and that’s exactly what I felt last Thanksgiving during my first trip to Haiti.

This time last year, I decided to take a leap of faith and travel with a group of then-strangers to help the small community of Desab. I had to quickly get comfortable being uncomfortable, because that week I was miles away from my normal, but surrounded by unconditional love. God has given me privileges and opportunities so that I can be an example and blessing to others. But I didn’t go to Desab for a pat on the back, or an “I’m so proud of you.” I went because there is service to be done, love in my heart, and seeing those precious children makes me more excited than you could ever imagine.

I went into my Haiti trip completely apprehensive, but I can’t express how happy I am that I didn’t let myself get in the way of something so extraordinary.

LaKetta Williams

Special Thanksgiving: Apple Pies ($14.99) The Wild Lilly (256) 314-4447 Sweet Potato Casserole ($25) Sweet Basil Café (256) 764-5991 Bangkok Duck with sweet, savory chili glaze, stir-fried asparagus, bell pepper, onion, and jasmine rice ($29) Yumm Thai Sushi and Beyond (256) 349-2074 Ciabatta Bread ($6) The Factory at Alabama Chanin (256) 760-1090

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GET THIS RECIPE ON P.130

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As odd as it may sound, the happiest Thanksgiving I can remember is the year Black Friday sales moved forward 24 hours to Thanksgiving night.

Every Thanksgiving before that, we ate and then went our separate ways. But that year we stayed together to plot our plan of attack for the sales that evening. Now it’s turned into a yearly tradition! We plan our wish lists and divide up our assignments.

I wouldn’t trade that time or the people I’m with for anything.

Seth Armstrong

About ten years ago, we had a near-disastrous Thanksgiving morn, when I walked into the kitchen to find my sister, Susan, preparing an abomination: homemade cranberry sauce. The homemade version—with its texture—was just awful. Yet neither she nor my mother would admit it. “It’s natural,” they both insisted. “And healthy.

And so good!”

But all I wanted was a can of cranberry sauce: no texture, no actual cranberries, just smooth, gelatinous goodness. My brother-in-law was the only other family member to see reason. Together, he and I found a can in the back of the pantry and opened it, removing the cranberry goodness intact, and slicing it along the lines formed by the can, with all the ceremony usually associated with a turkey carving. Disaster averted, never to be repeated again.

Sarah Franklin

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Jeffrey Bibbee

While I was in Haiti for Thanksgiving last year, the community decided to cook a huge meal to share with the whole village. I was struck by how the day felt so much like my family’s Thanksgiving. Some were preparing food by cutting vegetables and grating coconut for cooking oil, while everyone else sat around playing card games, talking, and laughing. At one table, a villager taught us how to sing Christmas carols in Creole. It was like one big family since we had all become so close on the trip and now had a relationship with this community.

During the meal, we explained our American tradition of saying what we are thankful for before eating. The Haitians joined in, and it was such a great moment to share that custom.

We had a feast: fried chicken, rice and beans, Haitian slaw, and fried plantains. In that little community that often struggles just to survive, people were thankful on a level I will probably never understand. The joy that night was palpable.

Mary Beth Willis

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old school » Text and Photos by Chris Paysinger

For the Love of Biscuits

I

think, deep down, my wife really does look forward to holiday gatherings with my family. And though I say that I don’t—that some deep well of dread overcomes me as the season approaches—maybe I do too.

Every family has that uncle. But my family is heavily populated with the eccentric, the weird, and the outlaws. They aren’t necessarily bad people. (Well, one is.) They just operate a little differently. During the holidays, the time of the year I am most likely to see them, I assume they have taken too much of their “medicine” before coming for Christmas. Or, maybe that year, they didn’t take enough.

Both sides of my wife’s family are exceedingly normal. When we see them, they actually appear to enjoy one another, say pleasant things, and nobody shows up in what might be a stolen car. It’s boring as hell.

In the middle of the chaos are my grandmothers, saints sent from Heaven to cajole the unruly, chastise the wayward, and generally ignore the mess while they fuss over a hot stove laden with heaping dishes of food.

MeMe and Grandmother are both children of the Depression, and though they are well into their 80s, they can still work me under the table. Even today, the experience of having grown up poor in the South defines who they are. They are imbued with the same basic sensibilities: respect for the virtue of hard work, disdain for outside politics (I have heard Grandmother curse exactly once in my life, in reference to that “damned Herbert Hoover”), and long memories.

They both grew up on competing sides of the Elk River. Grandmother was raised in the big bend on the Tennessee side of the water, her father a miller, grinding corn for the community and, she says, perpetually covered in a fine white dust. MeMe’s family lived down a long valley stretching south from the Elk, cut up by hills and ravines. Her dad was the local barber and farmed cotton. Regardless of the fact that both spent their earliest years near one another, their greatest difference—how they cook—is worlds apart.

Growing up, stuck in the time warp that was Elkmont, Alabama, in the 1980s, I realized early on that I was a fatalist. Though my experiences were pretty narrow, I knew that the moment was fleeting. The world in which I orbited, with grandparents who lived differently, was fragile. For too many years I held that world at arm’s length, afraid to wholly embrace something I saw as maybe a bit backward from the rest of the world. My friends were heading to the beach, vacationing at Disney, and they had trampolines. My family did none of those things. We sat in the cool of the evening on MeMe’s porch and talked.

Mainly stories about the past were told and retold, eliciting surprise and laughter as if they were being heard for the first time. That is great storytelling. In the dark, voices grew and shrank in timbre, punctuated by the soft drum of peas falling into an aluminum pan, with the red tips of cigarettes moving like tracers in the night.

Both sides of my wife’s family are exceedingly normal.

When we see them, they actually appear to enjoy one another, say pleasant things, and nobody shows up in what might be a stolen car. It’s boring as hell.

I never romanticized the past, or idealized it, or hoped it would stay static. But even amid the craziness of family, at a young age, I already realized there was something good in the experience, and that I was watching it slip away.

But during the holiday season, I can overlook those cousins, ignore the chaos, and put up with a little secondhand smoke, all in order to partake in MeMe’s and Grandmother’s cooking.

Aside from their many similarities, MeMe and Grandmother are nothing alike in the kitchen. Grandmother is a fantastic cook. Her food is what might be considered “country.” I dream about her fried chicken. She cooks it in a large cast-iron Lodge skillet. It manages to come to the table crispy and hot. It is flecked with a hint of salt, but just enough to make you wonder what was in the batter. She is easy in the kitchen, working in the small space, cleaning as she goes, and without a dishwasher, a concession to modernity she has avoided thus far.

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Old School: For the Love of Biscuits Old School: Channeling Ghosts

Her cakes are a wonder. My favorite is the coconut. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, for as long as I can remember, as soon as I finish my meal, she gives me a nod. We make our way to her “utility room,” which is shut off from the rest of the house and as cold as an icebox. She hands out the coconut, and she brings in the chocolate (my cousins’ favorite).

The size of the cake belies its heft. It is packed with butter and sugar and enough coconut milk, firmed up by the cool of the room, that I am sure it would stop a small caliber bullet. She fusses over cutting, weighing the size of the pieces, though they are always too big. Even so, sometimes, I eat two. And then I have a piece for breakfast the next morning with my coffee.

Grandmother will prepare for these events months in advance. She plans doctors’ appointments around grocery store trips leading up to the date we all gather. Just this year she called to tell me we would assemble on December 17 for Christmas. She wanted to be sure we all knew, so we could plan to be there. She called me on September 17. This stuff is serious business for her.

MeMe on the other hand MIGHT call me the day before she wants us there for a holiday event. And even then, she is noncommittal about the time and who might be coming, or who is currently incarcerated.

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MeMe is a soul food cook, in part because she is frugal beyond measure. She still keeps a large garden full of butter beans, crookneck squash, and crowder peas. During the hottest days of summer, she slips on a long-sleeved shirt that belonged to my grandfather and heads for the okra with a paring knife to clip the tender green shoots. She shucks mountains of sweet corn, with names like Peaches and Cream and Trucker’s Favorite, and throws the wormy ends over the fence for my brother’s cows to munch. In my memories, she always cooked neckbone from pigs on the farm, collards doused with homemade pepper sauce to tame their tartness, and cornbread every meal. Anathema to many Southerners, she unapologetically adds sugar to her pone, because growing up, that hint of sweetness was a luxury, and she is determined to enjoy it now. She is not one to be philosophical about food.

One day, many years from the present, I will still miss her biscuits. In describing them, my prose will fall short. My frail adjectives will not adequately describe their goodness.

MeMe’s biscuits are unlike what most Southerners gobble at the local Hardee’s. They are sweet and cakelike, complementing the tartness of her homemade plum jelly. The texture is just right to hold a pat of butter like bread is supposed to. And they are as good cold as hot. I remember her

Aves and MeMe

I’ve fantasized about sending my daughter to culinary summer camp at MeMe’s, to learn how she coaxes those biscuits from a little flour. My hope is that Aves’ mind is young and malleable enough to absorb the movements of MeMe’s hands, the pinches and the pulls that result in dough, in the absence of a recipe. mother’s biscuits, leftover from morning breakfasts when we visited, and they are the same.

Aves to knead dough. And she is not one to think her recipe is worth remembering.

I have hoped my wife would learn to make them, but she’s a dietitian and convinced that what tastes good will kill you.

Besides, there is no time and no recipe that MeMe follows from which she can learn the art. I’ve fantasized about sending my daughter, Aves, to culinary summer camp at MeMe’s, to learn how she coaxes those biscuits from a little flour, a quick pour of buttermilk, and very little shortening. My hope is that Aves’ mind is young and malleable enough to absorb the movements of MeMe’s hands, the pinches and the pulls that result in dough, in the absence of a recipe.

I take some solace in the knowledge that today many of the South’s best new chefs are riffing on my grandmothers’ old favorites. I like to drive over to Odette and see what Josh Quick is whipping up, or, if I’m trapped at work, troll Instagram, to see what’s on the lunch menu. The choices are soulful classics, but with a twist that reflects new ways to charm deeper flavors from old standards, like meatloaf and crispy okra. Of course, I can get a great cocktail there, too.

That helps.

But it’s all a pipedream. In part, because MeMe is not a natural in the kitchen. When she moves around her long galleystyle kitchen, it looks like hard work. Her long slender arms were built for the demands of a cotton field, not for teaching

We’ll gather again this year, as always. And I’ll have second helpings, like always. But maybe I’ll break free of the cousins, ignore the football game in the front yard, and make my way to the kitchen, and watch.

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CAMP CANINE Retreat for Some of Man’s (and Woman’s) Best Friends by michelle rupe eubanks » photos by abraham rowe

Dascha and Dana McGuire work on one of the training obstacles at Shenandoah K9.

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Abbey Staffnik’s Jeep Wrangler kicks up clouds of dust as she rounds the corner of a gravel driveway on Colbert County’s Hawk Pride Mountain. She’s come here, way off the beaten path, to Shenandoah K9, to meet a big, black ball of energy named Roman.

“I’m on my own for the first time, you know?” Abbey explains. “I’ve known Dana (co-owner of Shenandoah K9) for a while. I knew he’d have just the right dog for me, a dog who would be a friend and companion in my new home.”

If their personalities match, Roman could turn out to be the friend and companion Abbey longs for.

Dana McGuire and his business partner, Tess Purvis, operate Shenandoah K9, a training facility for a variety of service dogs, as well as full-service boarding at Camp Canine. Dana discovered the site on Hawk Pride Mountain after looking at online photos of the property and the house situated at just the right angle to perfectly capture the surrounding beauty.

The idea of moving to the Shoals came in 2012, when Dana delivered a service dog to a Muscle Shoals family. Fast forward three years to January 2015, when Dana arrived just in time to see the sun come up, highlighting the spectacular mountaintop view and tree line. “I moved to Colbert County with the idea of putting down roots,” he says. “When I came around the corner in the driveway and saw the view, I knew this place would be perfect.”

The site had to allow for energetic and working dogs, training equipment, and lots of activity. Initially, Dana says, the landlord wasn’t keen on having dogs in the house. But after hearing that the dogs were being trained to help others, he, too, saw the importance of the work taking place.

Not long after settling in, Tess joined Dana on Hawk Pride Mountain, and the pair quickly established themselves as the place to go for service dog training and top-notch boarding.

Tess brings her 20-year teaching career to the mix, while Dana’s time as an Emergency Medical Technician and work with search-and-rescue teams has given him the skills he needs to determine the animals that are right for their roles as working dogs, as well as those, like Roman, who might be best suited for domestic life.

“There are schools where you can go to learn how to train dogs,” Dana, who is originally from southern Illinois, says.

“But it’s the working with the dogs and learning the skills by doing that really helps.”

“You know, I always say that there are no dogs that can’t be trained,” Tess says. “But there are plenty of people who can’t be. Training the human is just as important, if you’re going to have success with a service dog or just a well-behaved dog in the home.”

Through a series of commands, Tess has trained dogs to be obedient and good family pets. Working constantly with rewards and gestures, she ensures that dogs know to ask before taking liberties in the home, such as entering a room or even jumping on the couch to enjoy movie night with the family.

“One of the things I do is say ‘company’,” Tess says. “I sort of sing it out, and all of the dogs know to go get on their beds. That way, people can enter the home without being bombarded with all of these dogs. It really is the little things.

What we’re doing is training the dog to be a family member.

I expect them to obey the command, to sit, and to take the treat graciously.”

The worlds of service training and boarding blend readily and often.

When dogs arrive for boarding at Camp Canine, where there are bunks and cots, and sleeping bags, the dogs are expected to follow the rules of the house. Many of the four-legged and furry guests are obedience school graduates, and Tess says being at the camp reinforces the behaviors they learned while in class.

“It’s a refresher course for the dog, and, when the family comes back from vacation or from wherever, they, too, get a bit of a refresh,” she says. “And no one leaves without having a bath and their nails done.”

Why a bath and a trimming of the nails?

Tess says that these two tasks are often the hardest for dog owners; dogs shy away from the noise of the nail file, or they don’t like to have their paws held. Baths can pose other challenges as not all dogs enjoy a dip in water. She says it’s all about working with the animal and being consistent in order to achieve the best results.

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“With service dog training, there’s even more training for the person. The role of the highly intelligent dog is to keep the person humble.” TESS PURVIS

The same can be said of service dog training.

“For just obedience, the family can be here for an hour, and we can run through it. Dogs know they have done X behavior all the time, like being on the sofa when they’re not supposed to be, so we give people the toolkit they need, and it’s their job to use it,” Tess says. “With service dog training, there’s even more training for the person. The role of the highly intelligent dog is to keep the person humble.”

At Shenandoah K9, dogs are constantly in training, and many of them are bound for lives as service animals for individuals with medical conditions, such as severe or brittle

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diabetes, seizures, or Multiple Sclerosis. Others will take on roles as assistance dogs for those struggling with psychological issues, including PTSD or some forms of autism.

How do dogs know these attacks are imminent?

With diabetes and PTSD, humans release a chemical that, to the dog, translates as “You smell funny.” The dog learns that this smell could indicate trouble, and he must come to the rescue in order to help his owner.

“They provide that element of security,” Dale says. “(The dog) can function for the owner the same way a partner does

Dana McGuire and Tess Purvis are always surrounded by their pack. Here, from left, are Persephone (Tess’ dog and a sort of mother hen to some of the dogs in the boarding facility), Captain, Winston, Argus, and Dascha.

for someone in the military, the ‘I got your six’ mentality in that the dog can help you cope or get your medicines, open doors, or even clear rooms to make sure it’s safe.”

The term “I got your six” refers to partners who provide safety and security for one another by standing at each other’s backs, like hands on a clock—one facing 12, the other six.

Tess recalled seeing this in action for the Kansas State student who received her service dog earlier this year. She visited the student to check on the training process and to make sure the pair were bonding.

“I’ll never forget being on the sideline and watching the dog just lying there while the student was with the band, practicing on the field,” Tess says. “All of a sudden, the dog gets us and goes to the student and starts to tug on her arm. The student tried to shake the dog off, but there was no getting rid of the dog. She sensed the change in her owner and was going to get her off the field. Not two minutes after getting to safety, she had an attack.”

This is called intelligent disobedience, Tess says, and it’s something they look for in animals they want to train for service and assistance work.

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Dana McGuire and Captain enjoy a few minutes of rest on the deck overlooking Hawk Pride Mountain.

Still, training is just one component. The dog and owner must be compatible if the training is going to be successful.

“But there’s also the element of personalities,” Dana says. “We want the pair to be complementary. This dog will go everywhere with this person, often sleep at the bedside and be a constant companion.

The relationship has to be solid.”

In order to prepare an animal for the task, there’s training at the site in Colbert County, but there are final exams that must be passed in order to be a service dog. Those exams include field trips to local businesses and restaurants because, Dana says, “The dog is going to have to function in these environments, and he has to be prepared.”

This often includes a big-box retail experience, and Lowe’s and Home Depot are often sites for those trips. Momma Goldberg’s, Oh! Bryan’s, and Rick’s Produce help with other experiences.

“I moved to Colbert County with the idea of putting down roots,” he says. “When I came around the corner in the driveway and saw the view, I knew this place would be perfect.” DANA MCGUIRE

“And not every dog has it,” she says. “Some are too playful and energetic, and others are a perfect fit. We love mutts because they love to work and have a purpose.”

Larger dogs, German Shepherds, Malinoris, and Austrian Shepherds, find this kind of role rewarding, and, according to Tess and Dana, they often take to the training readily.

Both have learned to spot the traits in dog lineages they believe will best suit these purposes and work with responsible breeders to fulfill these needs.

“We do prefer to get them as puppies, but some are rescues from the Heart of Alabama Rescue,” Tess says.

Good training from an early age is critical.

“I can’t overstate the purpose of training enough because the service dog is making the person’s life complete, giving them accessibility,” Dana says. “It’s freedom. It’s independence.”

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“It’s not unusual for us to get to this third stage and to find that a dog we thought was ready to graduate isn’t quite ready after all,” Dana says. “Some dogs have trouble with wheelchairs and noises, and we don’t know that until they get into the environment.”

Not to worry. Even if the dog doesn’t find his career in comforting children with autism, they have a home on Hawk Pride Mountain. There are those who become part of the pack, and there are those, like Roman, who find their home with people like Abbey.

Still, after all this time, both Dana and Tess say they have a hard time letting go of the dogs they’ve trained and nurtured.

“Sometimes, we have as many as 32 dogs here, and during the holidays, for boarding purposes, we’ll have more,” Tess says. “But they’re each special to us, each has a place in our hearts because we get to know them.”

Back at Camp Canine, Persephone, Tess’ Mastiff, keeps order, often corralling the newbies to camp. Like Tess, she nurtures and cajoles when needed.

“If we have a dog who’s having a tough time, I’ve been known to sleep in the cots with them,” she says. “If they eat at 9 p.m. as part of a special diet, I’ll get up with them to take them out at midnight. It’s that important.”

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everything old is new again by sarah gaede » photos by abraham rowe» styled by susan rowe cocktails by brian lovejoy and andrew Davis, ODETTE

Camembert with Pistachio Crust

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Raise your hand if you’ve ever eaten some kind of melted Brie or Camembert, en croûte or not, and dripped on your cocktail attire or the linen tablecloth.

This Christmas-y hued recipe from chef Jacques Pépin, one of my secret boyfriends, requires nothing more complicated than remembering to take the cheese out of the refrigerator far enough in advance to soften. You can keep the ingredients on hand throughout the holiday season for spur-of-themoment gatherings.

The holidays are a good time to heed Thoreau’s advice to simplify, simplify, simplify. Not every get-together has to be an all-out effort. A quiet cocktail hour with a few friends, just to catch up and catch your breath, can be restorative for guest and host.

Of course a bottle of good wine, and a bowl of nuts or a hunk of cheese will do the trick, but with just a tiny bit of advance preparation, you can make even a low-key event something special. It’s even smarter if you schedule your gathering before an event, so people will have to leave before you get tired of each other.

In the food world, I am firmly convinced with the wisdom of age, just because something is new and trendy doesn’t mean it’s better.

Long before exotic, fiddly, time-consuming hors d’oeuvres were a thing (thank you, Martha Stewart), people were enjoying simple, tasty bites with their cocktails, like the tried and true Lipton’s soup onion dip, which I still love—even more than the updated madefrom-scratch version. And don’t even get me started on a bubbling bowl of Velveeta and Rotel dip, or I will stuff myself silly. These old standbys were easy to throw together, and were comfortingly uncomplicated. They also did a good job of lining your stomach, which, let’s face it, is a key function of nibbles with drinks.

All of the recipes can be prepared in advance. See page 130.

Fall Champagne Cocktail

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A bit more sophisticated and pricey, but no more difficult to make, than onion dip.

I got this recipe from good cook Marilyn Highfield.

The optional caviar adds a festive holiday touch. You can certainly serve this dip with sturdy potato chips instead of pita chips if you prefer. It doubles easily.

Dirty Old Town

Smoked Salmon Spread

Jack Rose

I first experienced these at a spendthe-night birthday party at Carol Jean McJilton’s house in 1964. I don’t know what moved her mother to make these for us, but I fell in immediate and undying love with these tasty little spheres. When I make them for parties, people swoon in a Proustian ecstacy of delight and remembrance.

Hot Olive Cheese Puffs

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Bourbon Punch

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Sausage Pinwheels

I’ve been making these forever—or at least since the early 1980s. They are so simple, and in the words of many a vintage Junior League cookbook, men love them.

You can make and freeze them weeks in advance, bake them an hour or two in advance, and keep them warm in a low oven. Make sure you line your rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper, which helps channel the grease away from the pinwheels.

Otherwise you might set your oven on fire.

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In the grand tradition of The Pickwick Papers and Tales of the City, each issue, No’Ala reveals a new chapter in the unfolding saga of the citizens of River City, and Eleanor, the libertine murderess at the center of their small town web.

Here, Guy McClure tells the tale of threadbare runaway Lillian (“Big Lily”) Godsend Herbert, whom Providence places in the path of one of River City’s most reviled residents.

If you haven’t had the pleasure of making Eleanor’s sordid acquaintance, of if you’ve missed a few chapters along the way, we invite you to catch up anytime at noalastudios.com. The series began in our July/August 2015 issue.

a Favor for Eleano Chapter Nine: Big Lily

by guy mcclure, Jr. » illustrations by rowan finnegan

The information that follows is privileged. Only three people know this, and two of them are dead.

If Lily Herbert Peach was a true southern princess, as more than a few residents of River City had dubbed her, her mother, Lillian Godsend Herbert (or Big Lily), was queen. Tennessee Williams, if given 30 more years of life, could not have developed a more imposing character. It wasn’t just that Big Lily was mean, though she was; it was that she had more money than God and that she leveraged her wealth to her favor.

Big Lily was born Daisy Fay Duggar, somewhere out in the county, to a moonshiner and his common-law wife. She and her 18 brothers and sisters had to raise themselves, and at the age of six, Daisy realized that life in the boonies simply would not do. Two years passed before her epiphany led to action, and she seized her opportunity for escape.

Daisy Fay wouldn’t be missed, and she knew it. She was an invisible child, one of a gaggle of children in a secretive moonshining family; no one knew she existed. The dirt-floor shack she called home for the first eight years of her life had no electricity, not even an address. All she knew about the outside world was the cars from town that pulled up to buy corn mash from her father. Those cars, shiny and black, driven by tie-wearing men with laughing women in their passenger seats, seemed like sweet chariots. On what she imagined to be her eighth birthday, one of those sweet chariots swung low enough for Daisy Fay to climb into its unlocked trunk, before it sped away in a cloud of red-dirt dust.

In the darkness, she felt the slams and vibrations of the rutted dirt paths diminish as her chariot progressed to the paved roads closer to town. Just feeling the smoothness of the asphalt beneath her made Daisy realize that her decision to leave was the right one. She could hear the passengers in the car using big words and laughing. She smelled their cologne and cigarette smoke.

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A Favor for Eleanor Chapter Nine: Big Lily

“Yep, I done good,” she whispered to herself.

After she felt the car stop and heard the passengers exit, she waited for the exact moment to leave her sweet chariot behind. Outside, she could hear people talking, traffic noises, music, car horns. Never in her life had she heard so many sounds at once. Her senses were heightened, but she was apprehensive to abandon the dark safety of the trunk. She waited as long as she could, even though she was hungry and had to pee, before emerging to find herself on a bustling downtown street. It was nighttime, but there were electric lights everywhere. The windows of the shops glowed.

This new experience took her breath away, and stopped her dead in her tracks. Mignon Godsend’s Lincoln, unfortunately, did not. A screeching of tires later, and Daisy Fay lay flat on the street, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. When Mignon emerged from her car to assess the situation, the onlookers instinctively dispersed as if they had seen nothing.

“Oh, this is just great,” said Mignon as she stooped over the little injured bird. “The stores are closing in just a few minutes, and now I have to deal with this fresh hell? I need nylons and now I’ll miss my chance.”

Daisy Fay escaped the Duggar place with only what she had on, which wasn’t much: a dirty tank shirt, a pair of her brother’s hand-me-down jeans. Her hair had never been cut; it had rarely been combed. She’d never owned a pair of shoes in her life. Daisy looked like the Artful Dodger and didn’t smell much better.

Mignon picked up her scent after just a few seconds and rolled her eyes and then looked at her watch.

“Wake up, you filthy child,” Mignon shouted while nudging her with her spectator pump. “You have to get out of the way, or at least wake up so you can sit on the curb or something.

I need this parking place. This is all your fault, you know.”

After no response, Mignon slapped the child with her gloved hand, and Daisy Fay came to, albeit groggily. Hovering above Daisy, backlit by the afternoon sun, Mignon looked like the Virgin Mary—clean, lovely, glowing—like the Blessed Mother’s depiction in The Illustrated Bible shoved beneath the uneven leg on the Duggar’s kitchen table.

With Daisy Fay upright and Mignon assured, for legal purposes, that Daisy Fay was uninjured, Mignon reached into her purse and gave Daisy Fay a quarter and a stick of Juicy Fruit.

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“Here, this will make it all better,” Mignon said in a sing-song voice as she turned to enter the brightly lit department store.

“Oh, and there is not more where that came from, in case you’ve got any bright ideas about milking this unfortunate situation,” she said in a decidedly non-sing-song manner.

Daisy Fay was dizzy. The lump on the back of her head was hot and throbbing. She didn’t remember much about what happened, but she did know she had seen the Virgin Mary, and she didn’t want her to get away. The dark green Lincoln’s windows were down, so Daisy Fay climbed inside. She was tired; she was hungry; she was hurt. She fell asleep.

The drive home for Mignon was worrisome. She got her nylons with enough time to spare to purchase a new hat as well. Still, she couldn’t shake the thought of that hurt child and how ugly she had acted to her. It was as if she could still smell that vile little thing on her glove even after she left the scene. She even checked the bottom of her spectator pumps to make sure she hadn’t stepped in dog. She made a mental note to repent for her actions Sunday and instantly felt better.

Mignon was married to the richest man in town, Ulysses Godsend. The Godsend family fortune was made in cotton, land, and lucky bets on fast horses. They lived in the biggest house on Walnut Street, with a grand porch and a staff of four. It was on that grand porch the next morning that Speake, the kindly gardener, found the stowaway, curled up like a cat on the wicker swing, asleep.

“Mrs. Godsend, I do believe we have a guest,” Speake spoke through the screened door. “But I bet she’s not going to like it,” he whispered to himself.

Mignon came to the door in a white satin dressing gown with a pale blue turban covering her wet hair. She had an excited smile on her face just in case it was someone worthy of it. The smile left quickly. “Her!” she exclaimed as she recognized the curled up child. This awoke Daisy Fay and, startled, she dropped to her knees and said with amazement, “Mary, is that really you?”

Mignon’s fear of litigation and Speake’s kind intervention earned Daisy Fay a good meal on the back steps. But not before Speake hosed the wraith down, and wrapped her in an old beach blanket still flecked with sand from last summer’s Pensacola vacation. Daisy Fay had not experienced the grittiness of sand before—she rather liked it.

Speake questioned her about where she lived, and who her parents were. On the spot, Daisy Fay concocted a heartwrenching story about being orphaned, abused, and sent away from her foster home, told never to return. The story left Speake in tears, which wasn’t unusual as he was the only one with a heart in the biggest house on Walnut Street.

If Mignon Godsend lacked a heart, she had everything else.

She was beautiful, rich, and feared, which Mignon misinterpreted as respect. She had lots of silver, lots of servants, and lots of jealousy. What she didn’t have were eggs. Her ovaries were dry as a bone, which everyone thought was surely a blessing from above. All the other wives on Walnut Street had beautiful towheaded children to dress up and fuss after, but not Mignon. To appease his wife’s rage, Ulysses had offered unselfishly to hire a surrogate; it was not a conversation that went well.

Speake told Mignon about the girl’s circumstances and as she looked at Daisy Fay through the lace sheers, an idea entered her mind. With the exception of the knot on the back of her head, the girl had good bone structure, and in the right light, she was almost blonde.

“Come here, thing,” Mignon called to Daisy Fay. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t really have one,” Daisy Fay fibbed. “I had one once, but I forgot it—probably because you ran over me.”

Mignon winced. She told Daisy Fay she could stay for a while, until she figured something out, but there were ground rules and they were not negotiable. Daisy Fay must confine herself to the porch, and all her meals must be taken with the servants. Daisy Fay was in heaven and vowed to never leave this new, better life.

Ten years later, Daisy Fay, legally adopted by the Godsends, was now Lillian Anastasia. Mignon created an epic story for the neighbors about how she and Ulysses had taken in Little Lily, the orphaned daughter of her Newport, Rhode Island, cousins, after they perished in a freak polo accident.

Mother and daughter were inseparable. Mignon nurtured Lily in the art of control and manipulation. At the age of 18, Mignon selected the strapping Conrad Gilmore, from the second richest family in town, to marry her “little godsend, Lily.” Conrad was presentable and, more importantly, his family was one notch below the Godsends on the social ladder and, therefore, easily trumped in her game of life.

Mignon may have envisioned Conrad Gilmore as her future son-in-law, but an unfortunate occurrence late one night on the eighteenth hole of the Country Club during the Cotillion Dance wrecked all that. At around one in the morning, long after the band had stopped playing, Lily entered the Terrapin Room with grass stains on her white dress, besot, and, unknown to her at the time, quite pregnant. The object of her affection and fertility was not Mr. Gilmore, but Shep Herbert. Shep had all the qualities Mignon despised and none of the ones she admired. He was sheepish, unattractive, and, most disturbingly, penniless. He was of no use to Mignon.

“I should have never taken you in, you ungrateful strumpet,” Mignon sighed, as she removed her earrings in the reflection of the foyer’s pier mirror, following an uncomfortably

“Daisy Fay was dizzy. The lump on the back of her head was hot and throbbing. She didn’t remember much about what happened, but she did know she had seen the Virgin Mary, and she didn’t want her to get away.”

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A Favor for Eleanor Chapter Nine: Big Lily

“Daisy Fay escaped the Duggar place with only what she had on, which wasn’t much: a dirty tank shirt, a pair of her brother’s hand-me-down jeans.

She’d never owned a pair of shoes in her life. Daisy looked like the Artful Dodger and didn’t smell much better.”

quiet ride home. “I have given you the world, taught you everything I know, and acted like the mother you never had,” Mignon said, her voice growing louder as Lily’s grass-stained posterior ascended the staircase.

Mignon screamed after her, “You certainly put the pig in Pygmalion! Leave here with only what you came here with, missy. Nothing.”

Dropping her gloves on the floor, and with defeated, slumped shoulders, Mignon headed for the dining room and the Waterford decanters, which held what she needed more than anything in the world at that point. The room was dark, but she felt a presence approaching.

“It’s you who ruined all of our lives,” Ulysses Godsend declared just before he pulled the trigger of the small silver revolver in his hand. Mignon’s body fell to the floor, eyes wide open, a bullet hole perfectly placed between her manicured brows. Ulysses sat down in one of the 12 Chippendale chairs and ruminated before putting the revolver to his temple and pulling the trigger. In an instant, Lily was an orphan.

Still in her debut gown, Lily was lying face down on the chenille spread that covered her French provincial canopy bed when she heard the first shot. She heard the second one from the top of the stairs. A rivulet of blood trickled from the dining room into the foyer, staining her mother’s discarded gloves.

A grand wedding a mere month after the murder-suicide that shocked her small town would be gauche, Lily determined, opting instead for a modest ceremony in her living

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room, with only a judge and a few close friends. After the last guest departed the brief ceremony at the biggest house on Walnut Street, Lily, now Mrs. Shepard Herbert, realized that her life had begun anew for the third time. Like the previous new beginning, this one brought with it a new name: Lily Godsend Herbert, lady of the manor. She had not only inherited the biggest house on Walnut Street, but she had inherited a boatload of money from her recently departed parents.

Eight months later, a healthy nine-pound “premature” baby came to reside in the biggest house on Walnut Street. Lillian Mignon Herbert was beautiful, the apple of her mother’s eye. Big Lily, as her mother came to be known, made sure she would be the third. The small family was happy enough, Big Lily supposed. Like her parents, Shep took a backseat to just about everything in their world. Big Lily ruled him like Mignon ruled Ulysses, and that worked for both of them.

Five years later, a new family moved into the neighborhood. Their house was less imposing than the Godsend-Herbert home, but the family seemed nice, and best of all, they had a little girl the same age as Little Lily.

“What’s your name?” Little Lily asked her plump new neighbor when they first crossed paths on the Walnut Street sidewalk.

“Eleanor,” said the new neighbor. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lily Herbert.”

“Lily? Like the flower? I love flowers,” Eleanor replied.

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bless their hearts » Sarah Gaede

I was wheeled off to the radiology department, where my high school French proved sufficient to follow the tech’s directions. I understood “ne bouge pas” (don’t move), which was enough.

MON AVENTURE FRANÇAISE

(OR WHY I STILL HEART FRANCE)

If you are going to injure yourself on vacation, France is the place to do it. Their health care is consistently rated the best in the world, and it is accessible to everyone, citizen or not.

It could have been so much worse. It could have been at the beginning of our tour of the Normandy beaches, St. Malo, and the Loire Valley. It could have been at the top of Mont Saint-Michel, where the only way down would have been by helicopter.

As it was, I made a misstep at a rest stop on the autoroute and blew out my ACL—which of course I didn’t know at the time. I just knew something was really not right, because when I attempted to stand, I couldn’t put any weight on my left leg. There was no way I could walk back to the bus, so the bus was brought to me. Between my husband, Henry; Frank, the tour guide; and Adrien, the bus driver, I was hoisted back on the bus and settled in.

Frank ran back to the restaurant and procured ice, which he insisted I keep on my knee until we reached our destination for the night, Amboise, a small market town near the Chateau of Chenonceux, the next day’s tour highlight.

Upon arrival at the hotel, the three-man team helped me off the bus. I hopped to our room with assistance and settled myself while Frank, a perpetual worrywart and typically French hypochondriac, went to see about emergency treatment. Parisian that he was, he was convinced there could not possibly be a hospital in this backwater. Of course there was, because France and healthcare. Frank went off to settle our fellow travelers at dinner, and Henry fetched me something to eat. While Henry was gone, I diagnosed myself via Google—torn ACL. Since the hotel didn’t have any kind of chair on wheels, Henry and Frank half-carried me to the taxi which had been summoned for the short trip to the emergency room. The solicitous (young, good-looking) driver shoved the front seat back for my comfort, and quickly delivered us to Urgences. He jumped out, hastened in to get a wheelchair, carefully installed me in it, and pushed me to the admissions desk.

Then he provided Frank with his phone number, so he could retrieve us later.

*Editor’s fictional representation of Dr. Audoli

The hospital was quiet and dimly lit. All the staff were dressed in white coats or uniforms. There were no TVs or music, and the air wasn’t set at an arctic temperature. Soon after signing in, which took but a moment, I was shown into an examining room, along with my posse of husband and tour guide/ interpreter. A kind young aide got me set up with a blanket, call button, and pillow. (The French believe in comfort.) The thing that surprised me most was that she didn’t take my blood pressure. In Florence, even the dental hygienist checks my blood pressure. But as Henry pointed out, my knee was the problem, not my blood pressure. French logic, I guess.

We sat around for a while and looked at videos of Frank’s precious 18-month-old daughter. He also described in shuddering detail his own traumatic back injury. Eventually Dr. Audoli arrived, and he and Frank discussed my injury, with my input, which mostly consisted of “It doesn’t hurt, I just can’t stand on it.” I was wheeled off to the radiology department, where my high school French proved sufficient to follow the tech’s directions. I understood “ne bouge pas” (don’t move), which was enough. The tech was extremely solicitous (this seems to be a national characteristic), making sure to lay a sheet down before he slid me on the table, and of course a pillow. He rushed over every time I changed positions to make sure I didn’t strain myself.

I was wheeled back to the examining room, and Dr. Audoli returned soon after. He told me my x-rays revealed no break, which I could have told him, because I wasn’t in any pain. He poked around and wiggled my knee-cap, and said I had a torn ACL, affirming my Google diagnosis. He also told me that at my advanced age, I probably would not be a candidate for surgery. At the mention of surgery, Frank almost fainted, and started muttering “no surgery, no surgery.” He recovered enough to call the taxi, and we went out to settle the bill. It was apparently too late in the evening to process payment, so the desk clerk told Henry to come back and pay the next day, which he did. The entire paperwork took less than five minutes.

I stayed in our room the next morning while Henry toured Chenonceux, took Frank to lunch for his kindness, and went to the pharmacy to get crutches, a brace, and two prescriptions—one for extra-strength (no codeine) paracetamol (Tylenol), and one for an NSAID topical gel (which my doctor

in Florence said is very expensive in the US, but of course wasn’t in France).

Our total bill, for ER exam, three x-rays, brace, two crutches, and the prescriptions, was less than $200. I had indicated via Frank to the doctor that since I wasn’t in pain, I just wanted to be stabilized so I could get home. I have no doubt that if I had asked, they would have admitted me for an MRI, or whatever else the French do in these cases. One of my friends remarked when I got home, “I wonder how a French person would have been treated in an American hospital.” I may have snorted in reply.

The next day we headed back to the Marriott Rive Gauche in Paris, where the tour ended. Henry and I had tickets on the high-speed train to Lyon for three days of gourmet dining, but that wasn’t going to happen. So I emailed our Airbnb host, phoned Delta to reschedule our flight home, and called an orthopedist. Then we hung around the hotel, where I was coddled by the young, good-looking, solicitous waiters and concierge.

Again, it could have been worse. We didn’t have to pay for the flight change because it was a medical emergency. It took a while to hunt down the wheelchair we had been promised at the Paris airport, but it finally arrived, with solicitous attendant, in plenty of time for pre-boarding. We were in Economy, although the phone agent had promised Economy Plus, but I had enough leg room, my seat was on the aisle, and the armrest was moveable, so I was able to get in and out without too much difficulty. They even had a handicapped accessible toilet, which makes a huge difference on a plane.

And the wine was free.

The best part of the whole experience was the Atlanta airport—a statement you will probably never read again. Waiting at the door was a strong, confidence-inspiring woman in uniform, who announced, “I’m Ashley. I’m going to get you through customs and baggage, and I will not leave you until I have delivered you to the gate for Huntsville.” Thus proceeded a trip through the airport reminiscent of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. With Henry bringing up the rear, Ashley pushed me to the head of every line. She knew everyone in international arrivals, from the customs agent to the baggage handlers.

She even helped Henry with the passport scanning process.

Continued page 128

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Continued from 127

We would never have made our connection without her. I learned that she had started working at ATL as a plane fueler.

One day, she didn’t quite get the nozzle fitted exactly and it flew out, resulting in a shower of kerosene and a separated shoulder. She took this as a sign from God to change jobs.

She likes pushing international travelers much better.

As I write this, I am awaiting an ACL reconstruction, even at my advanced age, which my doctor here also mentioned more than once as a deciding factor. After the MRI indicated that my ACL was not just torn, but gone, there is really no alternative. I think my activity level, my yoga practice, and the fact that my father is 91 and only uses a cane when his knees are bothering him worked in my favor.

One of the things I’ve learned at my advanced age is that life keeps providing lessons for us to grow, whether we think we need them or not. Thanks to this injury, I am now even more aware of the need for handicapped accessibility. When you can’t bend your knee, a handicap bathroom is a necessity, not a luxury. Also, most people pushing carts in Publix are moving as fast as they can. (This does not go for pokey drivers.)

In the midst of this on-going lesson, I believe even more in the kindness of strangers. I also believe more in karma: all those years I have been patient, kind, and affirming to servers, all those times I have rushed to open doors for parents wrestling strollers, all those little acts of kindness, have paid off a thousand-fold.

Lest you think I’m close to qualifying for sainthood, I’ll leave you with this confession. The other day, armed with my handicapped parking pass, I braved the Cloverdale Walmart.

As I was hoisting myself out of the car, I noticed an elderly woman across the way, who weighed about 80 pounds, lighting up a cigarette, which she paused outside the store to finish. I thought to myself, “If she hadn’t smoked all her life, she probably wouldn’t have to park in a handicapped space.” I made it to the cart alcove before she did, even with my brace, and began the cart separation struggle. Danged if she didn’t come over and wrestle one out for me. I was properly repentant. Although I have my doubts, maybe I’ll finally learn my lesson about judging other people, even at my advanced age.

Better late than never.

128 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | November/December 2016

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RECIPES Friendsgiving (from page 90)

Hermine’s Potato Salad (Ulrich Groetsch)

Serves Eight • 2 pounds Yukon Gold or yellow potatoes, unpeeled • 2 tablespoons olive oil • 3 tablespoons whole-grain mustard • 6 tablespoons cider vinegar • 1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste • 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper • 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley Place potatoes in a large pot of water and bring to a boil. Cook until just tender, about 15 to 20 minutes. Drain and cool slightly, then peel and slice into rounds or chunks. Mix oil, mustard, vinegar, salt, and pepper, and then toss gently with potatoes. Garnish with parsley and serve warm or at room temperature. (Hint: The salad is best if prepared one to two hours before serving.)

Orange-Cranberry Cake with Champagne Glaze

(David Auston Johnson) For the cake: • 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter • 5 large eggs • 1 1/4 cups milk • 3 cups (420 g) all-purpose flour, sifted • 1 teaspoon baking powder • Pinch salt • 1/2 cup shortening • 2 1/2 cups (570 g) granulated sugar • 1 teaspoon almond extract • 1 1/2 tablespoon orange zest • 6 ounces white chocolate chips, melted • 2 cups sweetened dried cranberries • Additional shortening and flour for greasing and dusting pan For the glaze: • 1/2 cup unsalted butter • 1 cup (190 g) granulated sugar • 1/4 cup water • 2/3 cup champagne • Additional powdered sugar (optional) For the icing: • 3 tablespoons butter, melted • 2 1⁄4 cups confectioners’ sugar • 3 tablespoons water • 1 1⁄2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract • 1 teaspoon orange zest For the candied orange slices: • 3 cups water • 1 cup granulated sugar • 2 naval oranges, cut into 1/4 inch slices Allow butter, eggs, and milk to come to room temperature for 30 minutes. In a medium bowl combine sifted flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside. Move oven rack to the lower third of oven.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Grease and flour a large Bundt pan.

In a stand mixer, combine butter, shortening, and sugar. Beat on medium speed for 5 minutes. Stop the mixer and scrape down the bowl before continuing. Turn mixer to low speed. Add eggs, one at a time. Be sure that each egg is well mixed before adding the next. Turn off mixer and scrape down sides of the bowl. Once all eggs have been incorporated, add almond extract, orange zest, and melted white chocolate. Beat until well mixed. Turn off mixer and scrape down sides of the bowl. Turn mixer down to low speed. Add half of the flour mixture followed by half of the milk. Mix just until incorporated. Add remaining flour mixture followed by remaining milk and beat just until mixed. Reserve 1/2 cup of dried cranberries.

Add the remaining cranberries into the batter, beat until mixed.

Turn off mixer, use a spatula to turn the batter over from the bottom to the top to be sure all the ingredients are incorporated. Stir

130 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | November/December 2016

several times. Pour batter evenly in the prepared pan and smooth the top with a spatula. Sprinkle remaining cranberries on top. Bake for 75 to 80 minutes. After 30 minutes, open the oven and cover your pan with foil. Remove foil the last 10 minutes of baking. If your cake is browning too much, keep covered with foil. During the last 15 minutes of baking, check the cake every 5 minutes. Test the center of the cake with a knife to see if the cake is baked through.

Meanwhile, prepare the glaze and icing (see below). Let the cake cool in the pan for 20 minutes. Use a knife or a wooden pick to poke holes in the bottom of the cake. Pour 1 cup of the glaze over the bottom of the cake. Allow to soak into the cake for 30 minutes. Turn the cake out of the pan onto a wire rack set over a large sheet pan.

Pour the remaining glaze over the cake. Let cool completely. Pour the icing over the cake. Transfer cake to a serving plate. Garnish with candied orange slices.

For the glaze: In a medium saucepan combine the 1/2 cup butter, 1 cup granulated sugar, and water. Cook and stir over medium heat until sugar is dissolved and butter is melted. Pour in champagne (mixture will become foamy).

For the icing: In a medium saucepan melt the butter and add the remaining ingredients. Remove from heat and whisk until icing is smooth. Allow to cool before coating the cake.

For the candied orange slices: In large saucepan, combine sugar and water and bring to a boil. Add orange slices and reduce heat to a low steady boil. Cook 30 minutes, turning slices after 15 minutes.

Reduce to a low simmer and cook for an additional 10 minutes.

Allow slices to cool on a wire rack.

Everything Old Is New Again (from page 114)

Hot Olive Cheese Puffs (Sarah Gaede) • • • • • •

4 ounces yellow extra sharp cheddar cheese, grated 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened 1/2 cup all-purpose flour 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon paprika 48 medium stuffed green Manzanilla olives (most of a 5.75 oz. jar), drained and dried on paper towels (don’t be seduced by the Queens—they are too big)

Put everything but the olives in a food processor and pulse until combined. Pinch off a small amount of dough, flatten, wrap around olive, and roll to smooth out. Make sure there are no cracks.

Continue until dough is used up. Place on a wax paper-lined rimmed baking sheet and freeze. Store in a plastic freezer bag. Bake frozen, as needed, in a preheated 375° oven for 15 to 20 minutes, or until browned on the bottom. Allow to cool briefly before serving.

Sausage Pinwheels (Sarah Gaede)

• 1 package Pepperidge Farm puff pastry sheets • 1 pound hot bulk pork sausage (lower fat works fine) at room temperature

Thaw puff pastry according to package directions. One sheet at a time, unfold and lay on wax paper on the counter with long sides facing you. Press any cracks together if necessary. Divide sausage in half. Using your hands, press half the sausage over each pastry sheet, leaving a one-inch border at the top. Moisten border with water, roll up from the bottom, and press to seal. Place on waxpaper lined baking sheet and place in freezer for 1 hour only. (Set your timer if you have a tendency to wander off.) With a serrated knife, slice about 1/4-inch think. You should get 25 slices from each roll. Place in layers on wax paper-lined baking sheets, separating layers with wax paper. Freeze until hard. Store in plastic freezer bag.

Bake frozen in a preheated 375° oven on parchment-lined baking sheets until brown, about 25 minutes. To prepare ahead, bake, remove from grease-laden sheet, place in another baking pan, cover loosely with foil, and keep warm in a 200 degree oven. Makes 50.

Smoked Salmon Spread (Sarah Gaede) • • • • • • • • • •

1/4 cup mayonnaise 4 ounces cream cheese, softened 1 tablespoon capers, rinsed and drained 1 tablespoon red onion, diced 1 to 2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice 1 teaspoon prepared horseradish 4 ounces smoked salmon, divided and coarsely chopped 1 tablespoon chopped fresh Italian parsley 1 jar salmon caviar, optional but festive Pita chips

In a food processor, combine mayonnaise, cream cheese, capers, red onion, lemon juice, horseradish, and half the smoked salmon.

Process until smooth, about 20 seconds. Transfer to a bowl and stir in remaining salmon. Right before serving, top with fresh parsley and optional caviar, and serve with pita chips. Tastes even better if made a few hours ahead.

Camembert with Pistachio Crust (Sarah Gaede) • •

• • •

1/2 cup shelled pistachios—salted are fine 1 small Camembert (or Brie, if you prefer) cheese round (8 to 9 ounces), preferably French 1 tablespoon honey 1/2 cup dried cranberries Water crackers for serving

About two hours before serving, chop the nuts in a mini-prep or food processor until fine but not powdery—small pieces of nuts should still be visible. Unwrap the cheese (duh). Brush the top and sides liberally with honey. Make sure you don’t miss a spot.

Sprinkle a layer of nuts on the top, then, holding the cheese in one hand, pat more nuts around the sides with the other, pressing lightly so they will stick. Place the cheese on a serving platter and sprinkle cranberries around in an artistic fashion. Serve at room temperature with crackers.

Fall Champagne Cocktail

(Brian Lovejoy and Andrew Davis, Odette) • 1 ounce Cocchi di Torino sweet vermouth • Dash angostura bitters • Prosecco/Champagne • Lemon twist

Dirty Old Town (Brian Lovejoy and Andrew Davis, Odette) • • • •

1 1/2 ounces bourbon 1 ounce Cocchi Americano or Lillet Blanc 1/2 ounce St. Germaine 1/4 ounce Luxardo maraschino liqueur

Stir. Garnish with grapefruit peel.

Jack Rose (Brian Lovejoy and Andrew Davis, Odette) • • • •

2 ounces applejack 1 ounce lemon juice 1/2 ounce grenadine Garnish with a cherry or other berry and an apple slice

Shake. Serve in a martini or cordial glass.

Bourbon Punch (Brian Lovejoy and Andrew Davis, Odette) • • • •

1 ounce Old Forester 1/2 ounce Frangelico 1 1/2 ounces fresh orange juice 1/2 ounce fresh pineapple juice

Shake. Serve in a coupe glass.

November/December 2016 | NOALASTUDIOS.COM | 131

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