In a rut

I've always heard that couples occasionally go through rough periods, small ruts. Well, I fear that the South and I are in a rut.

In case you haven't noticed, my posts have become few and far between. It's not that I don't love entertaining you with my southern wit and sarcasm (that's a joke), but lately I haven't had anything southern-relevant happen.

I think part of the issue is that I'm in Savannah. I know that this city is supposed to be steeped in tradition and history, home to many famous monuments and Civil War fortifications, but quite honestly I walk through the tradition every day without feeling its weight.

At home in the hills of North Carolina, our southern heritage is everywhere. It's in the stories told by a hillbilly at the gas station. It's in the abundance of broken down automobiles in the neighbor's front yard. It's in the redneck parade that kicks off every high school year.

Yep. That's three different kinds of Sweet Potatoes. Both tradition and heritage at its finest.

But mostly, it's in the goodness of the people - the ones who remind me of the truth in the phrase "southern hospitality." All the monuments and fortifications in the world can't replace the southern feeling I get when I'm around my kinfolk (that's southern for "family").

So tonight, I apologize. I've neglected you my fair readers, but I refuse to give you less than the best. So bear with me while I navigate my way through this strange southern terrain... but feel free to bless some hearts in the meantime, you should all be experts by now.

I'm from the mountains

So apparently there is a hurricane headed toward Savannah. Awesome.

It's looking like winds anywhere from 90-115mph and a category 2-3 hurricane by the time it graces the coastal empire with its presence. Awesome.

Clearly this hurricane does not read my blog, because if it did then it would know that I'm from the mountains, far away from oceans and hurricanes. Snow I can handle. Hurricanes are not my scene.

We've had one hurricane in recent memory - Hurricane Hugo back in the 80s. We're practically born again hurricane virgins. So don't do it Hurricane Irene, just take a moment to collect yourself and calm down.

Some news sources are comparing the impending storm to Hurricane Hugo. That is not a good sign. So I am spending my evening learning the ins and outs of hurricane etiquette.

Also, I have an obsession with furniture, so I will admit that I am most worried about damage to my beloved furniture and my car, which is my other pride and joy. I know it's selfish and materialistic, but I can't help it. I love my furniture and my car.

Bless the hearts of anyone in the path of this hurricane, I hope you're more well-versed in hurricane procedures than I am!

Hoarding: Buried Alive

Last night, I was livid and highly offended, as was my roommate. Per usual, we were watching our DVR'd episodes of Hoarding: Buried Alive, the greatest show ever if your stomach is strong enough.

On this particular episode a man named Floyd was living in absolute filth and large amounts of mold in northern California. That's fine, do what you will with your life. But then it was revealed that Floyd's 2-year-old son, Charlie, lived with him. Every time this child was shown on the screen he had a deep cough, presumably from the mold infested house.

Outside of the house. Yes, that's a spare trailer on the right side of the photo.
Who doesn't need one of those?

To get a better feel for this episode, feel free to watch this quick clip.

Every morning Charlie and Floyd would wake up, brush their teeth and eat breakfast like any normal father and son. Except that in this household there was really nowhere to sit, there were loaded firearms haphazardly secured to the ceiling with zip ties and there was broken glass scattered about. 

Then came the kicker.

Floyd explained very calmly that this was just the country way of life, that in the country things didn't have to be spic and span, that a little dirt never hurt a child.

You're right Floyd, dirt doesn't hurt children, but loaded firearms and mold do.

Living in a hoard does not constitute the country way of life, but I certainly appreciate that Floyd is  furthering the rest of the country's perception of country life. Awesome.

Sure, where I'm from there is no shortage of broken down cars, electronics and large-scale appliances sitting on front lawns. But there are equal amounts of well cared for homes and farms.

Last time I checked, country folk were some of the most prideful in the world and that includes taking pride in their land and their homes.

The only heart to bless in this post is California CPS. Although just to give an update, they did return his children (there was also a 1-year-old) after he cleaned it all up. Awesome.

A Mountain Kind of Feeling

At work today I was researching various gated communities, so naturally I ventured to the North Carolina staples - Hound Ears, Eseeola, Linville Ridge, etc. - even thought I work in Georgia.

When I clicked on Linville Ridge's website, the photo that unfolded before me literally made my heart hurt. I thought I was going to cry. It was the most gorgeous mountain view.

I thought I was assimilating to the low country culture. Apparently not. I believe I might just be avoiding all mountain thoughts and mountain related subjects.

How can you not love this view?
(View from the Blue Ridge Parkway near Boone, NC)

There is just something about fresh mountain air, quirky mountain folk and delectable mountain eatin' that when combined creates the most peaceful experience.

I will never understand people that don't enjoy the mountains. What is there not to like? Bless their hearts, they must not be going to the right places.

6th Annual Tater Hill Open

Apparently there are 48,000 registered pilots in France. And by pilots, I mean pilots of hang gliders and paragliders. There are only 4,000 registered pilots in the United States.

It's like the soccer debacle all over again. The United States always seems to miss out on the really good sports.  I digress.

On Saturday I went with my dad (a retired hang glider) to the 6th Annual Tater Hill Open. This event is absolutely incredible.

Take off site on top of Tater Hill.

Pilots from all over the country and the world (Peru, Germany, Brazil and England to name a few) come to Tater Hill, one of the best flying spots in North Carolina, to spend a week jumping off a mountain.

Perfect.

This is what the pilot sees.

Although the weather conditions were not ideal when my father and I went, we were still able to see 3 paragliders fly and 1 incredible landing.

Bless the heart of Lynne Townsend. Lynne, a photographer, flew tandem with an experienced pilot to captured some incredible shots of other flyers.

I will leave you with my two favorite anecdotes from the trip.

My Dad: "They use all kinds of fancy equipment these days - GPS, communication devices, barometers."
Me: What do they use the communicators for?
Dad: So pilots can tell each other when they are near each other.
Me: What did you do back when you flew?
Dad: We just yelled, "Hey! I'm underneath you!"

Random Wife of a Pilot: I'm an ER nurse and I hate it when those meth addicts come into the ER.
Dad: Meth addicts?
Random Wife: Oh hell yeah. Those people will fight you for an hour just to get $0.75. Nothing makes me stick someone with a big needle faster than a mouthy meth addict.