Climate Change

Talking about the weather is a small-talk staple, handy in almost any situation. But although mocked as a trite topic, weather is so much more than that. Rain, snow, sun, ice: weather forms an ever changing backdrop to our daily lives. The drama of a crippling blizzard or ice storm. The sensuous pleasure of  long, sunny days. The downright dreariness of a wet week. Our moods, outlook and health are affected by the weather. 

In New Hampshire's North Country, weather's impact goes even deeper. The tourism and wood industry based economies depend on the right weather to operate, whether concerning snowfall, leaf color or frozen ground to hold heavy equipment. We have such great dependence and so little control. 

Ah, a North Country winter. They start with spitting snow in October and end in April with frigid winds and a last snowfall or two. Spring is hard-earned, a sweet reward after an endurance test of below zero temps and towering snowbanks. Slippery roads and high heating bills. Inky, icy dark at four p.m. 

I spent twenty-four years in New Hampshire. I used to laugh at "snow-birds" and consider them wimps. I cross-country skied, snow-shoed, hiked and even camped (once!) in winter. The sight of pink alpine glow across the snow-topped mountains was one of my favorite sights. 

So what happened? I got tired. Tired of being cold for eight months each year. Tired of seeing fall come earlier and earlier. (like August 15th) Remember the dog days of summer--so hot the road tar was soft under your sneakers as you plodded to the lake? Despite reports of global warming, it seems like we're still getting long, cold winters but summers just aren't what they used to be. 

The weather was a big factor in our decision to move to Georgia. I'm a self-diagnosed sufferer of seasonal affective disorder. Endless gray days make me feel blah. Until you're out of it, you don't realize how stressful winter is, mentally and physically. And lately, economically. $4 a gallon heating oil drove me out. 

As I write this, on February 9, it is 72 degrees and sunny. There is a soft southerly breeze. I feel energized and optimistic. To me, a hot sunny day is like a Christmas present. And Christmas lasts nine months in the South.  

Adventures in Mexican Food

One of the most surprising things about our new city is that 33% of the population is Hispanic, compared to a statewide stat of  7.4%. We have a rich diversity of cultures, including an entire Hispanic section of town.  The main commercial district is along Atlanta Highway: car dealers, garages, services, retail shops and "supermercardos" - supermarkets. 

Sure, every big grocery store nowadays has "Mexican" food, mainly Americanized tortillas, refried beans and salsa. Down here, a mainstream store might have a few imported brands. At Publix, I bought some Cuban coffee that was kick-ass. 

In search of the authentic, we took a ride down the Atlanta Highway and found a small but charming supermercardo. On offer were fresh, dried and canned chili peppers, cactus paddles, cassava root, dried beans and rice and other mysterious fruits and vegetables I haven't yet identified. All the signs are in Spanish. (duh!) The meat counter is great. We bought chorizo sausage for $2 a pound. Fresh, whole fish cost just over $2 a pound, too. One section is devoted entirely to a chopped up barbecued pig, including a billowing pile of crispy pork rinds. 

We've been there twice, once to buy fixings for a burrito meal of tortillas, refrieds, hamburger, salsa and fresh chilies. The second time we bought a flat fish (mojarra) a cassava root and a pound of chorizo. 

I had a little trouble preparing the cassava. It's a long, thin brown-skinned tuber coated in wax. It's also as hard as those giant turnips you need a meat cleaver to chop. I managed to skin it in little flakes with a paring knife and then I nuked it for a minute to soften it enough to chop. Then I boiled and mashed. Note: remove the fibrous middle before cooking. It was reminiscent of the middle of a pineapple and about as much fun to eat. The fluffy part tasted great, though--kind of like mashed potato-turnip. 

The fish we fried in bread crumbs after cutting off the head. It was tasty but a bit bony. We'll probably stick to fillets next time. The chorizo will make several meals. Tomorrow morning I'm going to include it in a scrambled egg dish with raisins. 

I'm also going to buy a Spanish dictionary. 

Boiled Peanuts and Beer

Every region has its delicacies that may be considered odd by outsiders. In New England, we have moose meat. Fiddlehead ferns. Whoopie pies. 

In Georgia, one favorite is boiled peanuts. Yes, I mean peanuts in their shells bobbing in liquid. I'll bet you're thinking, "yuck." Convenience stores sell them next to the coffee and the steamed hot dogs.  Today I found a roadside stand in Rabbittown. The gentleman running the stand kindly posed for me before dispensing a sample.

The shells are soft, but the peanuts inside are firm and chewy, not crunchy. Tasty.  A little salty due to the ham hocks he throws into the water. He starts the twelve hour process inside on a range then brings them out to steep over a wood fire for the final three or four hours. 

According to www.whatscookingamerica.net, a great regional food site, green peanuts, i.e. not roasted, are used. They are only available from May through November, the peanut season. The first recorded instance of boiling peanuts was during the Civil War, when food supplies ran short. The soldiers found that peanuts boiled in salt lasted up to seven days and make a protein-rich ration. They even wrote a song, "Goober Peas."

In the winter, the boiled peanut man deep fries peanuts, too. Those should be interesting.

Now to another interesting topic, beer. Like the great state of New Hampshire, which makes money on alcohol sales while spending many resources on finding drunk drivers, Georgia has a convoluted relationship with booze. This state still has happy hour and from five to seven at night, you can get 1/2 price drinks. But only the 12 oz. draft beer is half price, not the 32 oz.   (32 oz.--it's almost too big to pick up)  New Hampshire does allows happy hour but until recently bars weren't allowed to advertise them. Very strange.

Last night, we went out to a great little place, A.J.s. You can build your own hot dog (they're huge) with a dozen condiments, and at happy hour, the wings are $.40 each. We arrived at quarter to five. Only about eight people were there. But at five on the dot, the start of happy hour, the place was swamped. For our $12 we had four-five beers (in all) and a serving of wings big enough for two. Not bad.

Georgia doesn't allow liquor, beer or wine sales on Sundays. But the bars are open. Over the past two years, the issue has been hotly debated in the Georgia House and Senate, with many opposing it on religious grounds. One senator questioned the sponsor's religious faith. You'd never see that particular argument in New Hampshire, I believe. Opponents feel passage would "encroach" on the Lord's day, while proponents point to lost tax revenues for the state, pointing to those who cross the Alabama line on Sundays for booze. Right now there is an online petition to garner support for the measure. It looks like a state-wide referendum may be used as a politically expedient way to settle the issue. 

Speaking of blue laws, some counties in Tennessee are "dry." This means no sales of alcohol at all, any time. Last year we visited the Jack Daniels distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. We like Jack Daniels and were fascinated by the fact that a thirteen-year-old started the business--after he learned the distilling technique from a preacher. In the museum, we saw exhibits explaining the multi-step process and naturally, after all that, we were longing to try a fresh shot. 

We wandered down to town, just a couple of blocks away, and scanned the square for a tavern or even a restaurant. Nope. Nothing but cafes and diner-type places, and not many of those. It was a hot and beautiful day--about 80 degrees--and there were dozens of motorcycles parked around the square. We asked one gentleman where we could get a cold beer and a shot of Jack and he replied, "Not here. This is a dry county. They make it down in the holler over yonder, but you can't buy it here." What a missed opportunity. How well would a Jack Daniels steakhouse do? And they'd sell it by the barrel in the gift shops. 

The county line was ten miles away so we headed out. But we still get a chuckle when we remember him saying, "dry county" in his deep Southern drawl. 

Living near Bunnyville...

We live near a quirky little hamlet, Rabbittown, in East Hall County. Although it's a blink and you'll miss it type of place, the large statue of a rabbit ensures that you don't. We've fondly dubbed it "Bunnyville." 

The one-block business area surprisingly has most of the amenities--gas stations, package store, southern-style cafe, pizza, library and a medical center. The package store says "buy beer, it's cheaper than gas." Although I did get almost five gallons for my $10 today. Wow. Maybe we'll actually drive somewhere.

Today was my first time voting in Georgia, and I was sent to the Bunnyville library for the privilege. Even in this small outpost, Georgia uses a surprisingly high tech system. No curtains and pencil-marked ballots here. 

When I walked in, thankfully during a slow period, I was greeted by a nice gentleman who directed me to two older ladies behind a table. They checked my license and had me fill out a form with name and address. They carefully compared the license and my form. (p.s. I have taken out my driver's license here more times in a week than I did in a year in New Hampshire)

Then I was handed off to Ruby, resplendent in 1920s hair waves and satin blouse, who checked my license and form against a computer screen.  It took Ruby a minute as she looked up my last name wrong. (A constant down here) Then I went on to the next dear soul, wearing her Sunday hat, who took my form and issued me a yellow key card. 

After a few minutes fiddling around and realizing the card stayed in the machine (no swiping), I quickly voted on the touch screen. Some progressive community development and land preservation warrants on the ballot, I was glad to see. Many of the county officials ran unopposed. Maybe they can't get anyone to run. I can understand that after my own brief and painful foray into town government. 

I handed in my yellow card, was given a peach sticker (sweet) and bid a kind farewell by all.

The whole thing was fast, under ten minutes, but a much more intensive process than Bethlehem, NH, where you check in, get your ballot, mark it and check out. 

My next goal is to find out where the name Rabbittown came from...coffee, catfish and hush puppies at the cafe, anyone?

All the houses in the world...and not a one to rent...

Last year, the MLS results for our Georgia city listed 1,000 houses for a population of 30,000. Wow. Many, many houses in our moderate price range. We wanted a 3 bedroom range with downstairs room or basement. Dan needs a large room to set up his musical equipment. 

We came down last spring and looked, hoping that my house would sell. Isn't that a normal thing to do? Sell your house and move? Not in 2007-2008! What a strange real estate market. Reminiscent of New England in 1990: Banks failing. Foreclosures. Dark, dark days.

In Georgia, as far as I can tell, there has been a lot of overbuilding. We're in the north, near Lake Lanier, so there is a second home market. They also thought people would move here and commute to Atlanta, about an hour away. You can get a spanking new, four bedroom house for $160,000-$170,000. (Come on down, ye cold and weary New Englanders!)

We decided to bite the bullet and move anyway, house sold or not. We refused to pay another winter's heating oil. Why not spend the thousands on rent in a warm climate instead?

So we packed up and made the move, optimistic that we would find something right away. Looking, looking looking. It was pretty discouraging. I hadn't had to look for a place for fifteen years. And in the small town where I lived, you had very limited choices. There were too many here.

50 houses later, we found a candidate. We hoped to do a lease purchase, but bagged that idea when the realtor asked for a $5,000 deposit. Ah, no. If we weren't cash poor, we'd be buying right now! 

We were staying with my sister and we wanted to get out of her hair as fast as possible. Have you stayed with family lately? Can strain the best of bonds. 

We shifted gears to look for a rental. After dozens of houses later, we stumbled across our cute little place in the woods by sheer accident. It is on the road where we wanted to buy. We happened to drive by after looking a rental we dubbed the "mold palace," and saw a "for rent" sign by the main road. We followed the signs one by one, like Hansel and Gretel.

There it was. A brand-new dollhouse. We called the number and were able to get in through the lock box. It was perfect, the only place I started imagining where I'd put the couch, etc. 

So here we are. Near town but down a quiet road. The mailman is the only traffic. We have five deer that graze on the grass we haven't mowed yet. Behind the horse are protected woods and a creek leading down to the lake, which you can glimpse from the deck. 

A great place to live..and write.

Just peachy...

One of the main reasons we moved to Georgia is the weather. And it's been just peachy. 80 degrees in September. 70 degrees in October. Lately, we've had a couple of 50 degree days, unusually cold, but then again, Gorham, NH, has 1/2 inch of snow today. 

Dan and I are both (almost) life-long New-Englanders. I had a brief stint in Albuquerque, NM in 1979, and I hated the flat brown landscape and lack of trees.  I was so homesick! A photo of a New Hampshire road with stone wall and autumn leaves almost brought me to tears. When I flew back East (over miles of endless lush green) and heard "Ba Haba airlines" on Logan's intercom, I knew I was home. 

During winter after winter of 20 below and snow up to our armpits (when we were lucky), I thought snowbirds were wimps.  I snowshoed, cross-country skied, even tried ice-climbing. Sunset's pink alpine glow on icy white peaks was one of my favorite sights. 

So what changed? I'm not sure. All I know is, two years ago, on August 15, it was 50 degrees with a 20-mile-per-hour wind. We were freezing in our long sleeves and fleece jackets. What happened to the dog days of summer from our youth? You know: hot, hazy and humid.  Global warming is a top issue but all I've seen in northern New Hampshire is cold and often wet summers and pretty dry winters. 2008 was decent, but we had three almost snow-less winters before that. Killed the skiing and snowmobiling, mainstays of the economy up there.

Anyway, Dan and I looked at each other on that fateful day and decided, we're out of here. We're tired of being cold. Tired of shoveling snow. Tired of dangerous driving on icy roads. And don't even get me started on the cost of heating oil.

It thrills me to think that pansies grow all winter here. There are two growing seasons (NH has one--three months). Spring comes with the calendar, not in June. To me, an 80 degree, sunny day is like a Christmas present. In Georgia, Christmas lasts five months. 

I'll take it.