Places You Must See: The Crystal Coast, NC

If you love the Outer Banks, then you've just touched the tip of the iceberg as far as beautiful costal destinations are concerned.  Travel two hours south, or, better yet, go inland, travel an hour south and go back out to the coast (traffic is soo much better that way) and you'll find yourself in an oasis known as The Crystal Coast.  Some people still remember when the Outer Banks was just a sandbar with a few small cottages, a place for 'beach people.'  It has since become a haven for all sorts of people, business crowding out the beach spaces, condos taking the place of family cottages.  For us 'beach people,' the remedy to the urbanization of our tropical oasis can be found on The Crystal Coast; my favorite, Emerald Isle.  

The Emerald Isle

 is where people go because they want to sit on the beach and let the sun bake, the surf buffet, and the water soak their cares

 away.  It's a place where the beach is the main attraction.  And, you know that it's a place for real 'beach people' because the number of cottages for rent is vastly outnumbered by the number of cottages that are owned by locals.  This is a place where people go to live; I can't think of a better dream.  At the Emerald Isle, you won't find amusement parks, outlet malls, and all of the other balderdash that the more prominent places seem to attract.  You'll find sand, surf, calm, and serenity.  

There's still shells here, whole beautiful fossils of life that still teams off the coast.  If you look har

d enough, you'll even see some of what you thought were shells, burrow into the sand - clams; and dolphins, and schools

 of fish, and all of the things that nature would have you see if you're calm enough to wait.  Go, wait, breathe, you'll be glad you did.

And, when you've beached for days (or burned for hours) there's one more thing to recommend you to The Crystal Coast that might get you off the beach for a while.  If you drive to the southern tip of Emerald Isle, and then a little further, you can cross the bridge into Beaufort (Bow-fort), an exquisite and historic town, one of North Carolina's oldest.  

Take 

the second right after the bridge (you'll see the sign) and drive to the shore.  Don't miss the visitor's center on your left, a small, unassuming storefront, but the place where you can pick up a nice walking tour of the town.  Park your car, get out, stretch your legs, suck in that ocean air, and check things out.  Stop and watch the men build real wooden boats.  Visit North Carolina's maritime museum.  Take a ferry over to the Rachel C

arson Nature Reserve, and make the walk down to Hammock House, where Blackbeard stayed on shore-leave.  It's a surprising place, but the walk is lovely.  Walk back along Ann Street, in the shade, and enjoy the historic homes.  Turn back to the shore on Queen and stop at the Front Shops.  Have yourself a lovely (and reasonably priced) lunch at The Boardwalk Cafe.  Although they have plenty of ite

ms to recommend, I always have a shrimp burger and am never disappointed.  The food is plentiful and tasty.  You can seat yourself, so make sure you sit by the windows because you'll be close enough to look across Taylor's Creek for the wild horses on the reserve.  Beaufort is t

he place to do your souvenir shopping, should the mood hit you - its also the place to buy fudge, trust me.  

And, if there's still more you want to see and do, The Crystal Coast, like all destination vacations, is internet ready.  The following websites should help:

The Crystal Coast

Tour Beaufort

Vacation Rentals

Story Starter

So, I write for fun.  I guess you knew that, because that's what blogging is, right?  Actually, though, I do more than just blog.  I've written my entire life:  story snippets, creative responses, poetry (I hate poetry, but sometimes I write it anyway) and yes, books.  I was going through some of my old journals and I thought I'd share a snippet with you.  Enjoy!

Everything that can be imagined is reality somewhere.

      I have never had a real name, but the few who have imagined me have later spoken of having dreamed of a nymph.  I am not as storybooks describe tree nymphs or sea nymphs, nor am I 'a' anything; I am the only one like me.  Still, a nymph I have been called and a Nymph I call myself.  Many years of people I have observed.  I can consider myself neither omniscient, nor omnipresent for I only see what God asks me to see.  At times desires are granted through me, but I never know which wish or whose until the granting is upon me.  Mine is only to watch and remember.

      My story would take more volumes than could be read by all the people in the world.  This is not my story; it is only mine to tell.

      The rain hit the ground that day like so many meteors falling to earth.  Cold, wintery winds wrapped cloaks around peoples' legs as they splashed through puddles on their way to whatever business had brought them out on such a day.  As had others on similar days, the occasional sufferer stopped just long enough to stare up at the sky, blanketed in grey, and wonder what it would be like if the sun never shown again.  Indeed, this was a common muse in these, the winter months, when the western world went for immeasurable periods of time wrapped in gloom.  A simple breeze would burn the eyeballs and a person caught standing still for too many seconds could quickly find themselves returning home to leave even the most important errand for another day.

      On this day, I watched, as I had so many times before, and watched as in slow motion the pregnant mirroring drops collided with the cobblestone and rebounded in a glimmer of colors - instantly becoming part of whatever it came in contact with.  My eyes wandered along the ground, catching glimpses of delicate heels peaking out from under sodden folds of calico.  Leather boots, polished and scuffed alike, strode along on their errands.  All hurried along on some errand of extreme importance.  

      But what my eyes finally saw was what I had been sent here to see.  These tiny feet, red almost purple with chill, stood still on the wet cobblestones, naked in the street, attached to equally purple legs that shook almost in unison with the cold breeze.  Stained grey tatters hung around her calves from a dress that had obviously been made for someone else.  Strips hung off her shoulders as if the sleeves had been torn off in the summer with no thought of the winter to come.  Her shawl had obviously been taken from the trash for the debris remained and it didn't cover even a bit of her after she had wrapped it around the pale bundle that her pale, thin arms now clenched to her chest.  The raindrops ran rivers through her matted brown hair down her face to the already saturated dress where it dripped off the hem.

      The girl had all but blended into the greyness of time that surrounded her.  For a moment it seemed that she could be a miniature, or painting of one of the real-life giants that passed her.  Except that not one of them offered her even a glance.  They hurried past, as if she really did fade into the background, snuggling even deeper into their thick coats and silently cursing the cold.  And it would have seemed sad to me except that the young girl ignored them right back.  She paid no attention to the passersby who ignored her, not the rain that threatened to drown her, not the cold that threatened to take her life.  

      And for what may have been eons I was stuck on the yellowing teeth fixed into a smile that threatened to call out the long absent sun.  She smiled, and she bounced, and she rocked shushing and whispering and pulling close to her the tiny bundle that was wrapped in her shawl.

      I had seen her before.  Mary's smile had always rivaled the sun, but it had not always come before a body in such despair.  

      John Archer was a trader and his little, blue-eye princess got every material thing she had ever wanted.  Rose oils perfumed her daily bath, goose down padded her sleep, and only delicacies ever passed over her perfect lips.  Mary Archer had a charmed life.  

      What would have made most girls of her station soft and spoiled, made Mary bored.  Having lost his wife during Mary's birth, John Archer chose to burry himself in his work rather that answer the painful questions his daughter posed to him.  With her father at work most of the time, Mary was left with the housewoman who was under strict orders to raise her as a proper noble woman.  The housewoman, having definite prejudices against noble women, instead taught Mary to read and left her with books that portrayed a bohemian lifestyle that she admired very much.

I don't know if I'll ever continue this one, but I like the imagery, so I thought I'd share it with you. 

Survey Worth Sharing

A friend of mine, one of my kids actually, but a friend all the same, posted her answers to this survey on MySpace and it seemed interesting enough to carry on, so here you go.  I'm only leaving the interesting quesitons:

1.  Are you ready for some questions that you barely find in other surveys?
Interesting, absolutely.  .  .
2.  Has the last person you texted ever been mad at you before?
Absolutely!  He hides it really well, though.
3.  When will be the next time you text someone?
I can't make any promises, but probably sometime today.  I'd rather text than talk on the phone - he knows that.

6.  What will you be doing tomorrow?
Finishing packing and leaving for the first leg of our trip to Emerald Isle - stopping at a motel about halfway
7.  Biggest annoyance in your life right now?
Hmmm .  .  . I could definitely pick more than one, but I'd have to say this pinched nerve in my shoulder.  
8.  The last person you kissed on the lips said that you were the only one they wanted, would you believe them?
No.
9.  Are you happy right now?
Mom asks me this question every time I talk to her - which is probably one of the reasons I don't call her as much as I should.  I always want to be able to answer, "yes."  I can do that today.
10.  Were you happy when you woke up this morning?
Yeah, I was.
11.  What are you currently hearing?
Birds and Traffic
12.  Is there anyone you want to come see you?
Not today.
13.  Would you rather take a relationship really slow or really fast?
I'm really trying my hardest not to ask myself questions like this.  If I'm being honest, though, the answer is fast, whirlwind - sweep me up so that I can't ever look back.

17.  This time last year, were you single?
No, not for eleven years.  God, that's a long time.
18.  How are you feeling right now?
Well, the last question was kind of depressing, right?
19.  Do you think someone is thinking about you right now?
It's possible.  Does Doyle count?
20.  What's your relationship status?
OMW (Old Married Woman)
21.  Where did you get what you wore to bed last night?
Vickie's Secrets - I was too tired to worry about PJs

25.  Were you smiling in the last picture taken of you?
Yeah, it was group pic so I had to.  I hate having my picture taken.  It always looks like someone else.
26.  Are you multitasking right now?
Usually am, but surprisingly no.  
27.  Can you recall the last time you liked someone a lot?
Yeah.

29.  Are you comfortable with your height?
It depends on who I'm with.  It would be nice not to feel like the big awkward oaf for once, but I guess that's never going to happen.
30.  Is your room ever clean?
Could we have a judge's ruling on the definition of "clean," please?  It's always straightened and clutter free - dusted?  No, hardly ever.

34.  Do you have a friend of the opposite sex you can talk to?
No, I don't believe I do.
35.  Is there someone you will never forget?
Absolutely, many someones
36.  Is there someone you wish you were still close with?
If wishes were horses.  .  .

40.  What's on your mind?
so much more now that I've been doing this survey

45.  Do you own anything tie dyed?
Yes.
46.  What were you doing right before you started this survey?
Reading, catching a theme yet?

53.  Have you ever had your eyes dilated?
Everyone who's ever had a light shined in their eyes has, Silly.  That's an autonomic reaction!
54.  Does it bother you when you text somebody and they take forever to text back?
Definitely!
55.  What do you think of girls sixteen and younger going on birth control?
I was one.  Birth control isn't only for people having sex, you know.

57.  Is there someone who continuously lets you down?
Yeah, there is.
58.  Where is your best friend right now?
I don't know; work, maybe.  She does that way too much.

62.  Has anyone told you they loved you in the last week?
Yeah, I'm lucky like that.

I hope you enjoyed this unusual survey as much as I did.  Although, maybe "enjoy" is the wrong word.  .  .

What we learn from the past?

Mom floored me on her last visit. "I know you're unhappy," she said, "because you always turn to your books when you're unhappy and tune everyone else out." Happiness is key with my mother, constantly asking me if I'm 'happy,' and never really seeming satisfied with the answer. Of course, I'd always told her "yes" and changing to more truthful tactics this time didn't appease her any more. . .not that I'd expected it to, but I keep harboring this hope that I'll find someone to talk to who will understand. Mom just went to pieces, like she always does; it wasn't helpful.

I know that Mom constantly misses Grandma. Is it wrong to say that this was the first time that I truly felt that way too? Grandma was different. She could listen and, for some reason, I achingly think that she'd have the right thing to say.

Before Grandpa died, I'd seen Grandma as the perfect farm wife, calm, quiet, industrious, loving. . .almost a sidenote. When Grandpa left us too early, I commented to a friend on how impressed I was that she pulled through as well as she had, became her own person, so self assured. My friend turned to me in all sincerity and said, "Maybe she's happy to be out of your Grandfather's shadow." It was the closest I ever came to physical violence against someone. I knew Grandma and Grandpa had that kind of enduring love and for someone to suggest otherwise seemed like sacriledge. Of course, I was young and hopelessly romantic.

Of course, I still feel young and I know it's the hopeless romantic in me that finds me seeking release in books. But, I find myself considering my former friend's words in another light because I feel myself being pulled into a similar trap. I can see myself in her so much more than I ever can in my mother.

He wants a wife, the whole loving stereotype: cooking dinner, keeping the house clean, being at home waiting for him, demure, sensible. When he married me, I thought it was because he liked what he saw in me better than what he'd wanted. Mom always told me that you can't marry someone planning on changing them. Turns out, his mother never told him that; mine never told me that people were going to change in other ways.

So here I find myself, locked in, wanting to be so much more and just not seeing an out. I do love him. He hasn't done anything wrong; he probably won't ever do anything wrong, and its eating away at me. And now, I've brought him all the way out here, away from the comfort of his family and it still hasn't made us happy. I think of all the things I wanted to do - the differences I wanted to make and I shudder. He talks about kids and it makes me shudder. And yet, what will happen to him if I leave to seek my own selfish happiness? What does that make me? What if it doesn't make a difference?

That's when I think about Grandma. I remember the 'After Grandpa,' vague images of the woman he must have married who was so much like me it hurts. No more three squares, no more frantic cleaning, no more happy housewife - just a woman with purpose who helped people and acted on the things that move her. And with an aching that most days won't go away, I wish I could talk to her, ask her if it was enough that Grandpa loved her to distraction, if it was enough for her to change so much for so many years. Desparately, I want to ask her if she ever had regrets. . .

Teenage Drama and Another Busy Month

Has it really been almost a month since I wrote anything? Well, OK, let's be honest. . .not since I wrote anything, there's always the novel (that's right, I'm the queen of the tools, I've got a novel in the works), but it has been a very long time since I shared something new with the world wide web. Of course, no one reads this except me. I know, because I haven't told anyone about it. Somehow, it's easier to be honest that way, like a diary.

It has been a busy month, though. Somehow, the PTB decided that it would be best for us to work from MLK day until Easter without a single day off. So, February has been an entire month of five day weeks. In my profession, that's not a good thing; tempers flare, wits end, and composure frays with no day of rest to recover.

To top it off, in my infinate wisdom (insert sarcastic comment here), I scheduled a show for last night preceeded by a week of dance practice. Needless to say, I will rethink my plans next year, if there is a next year for me. It turns out that, being the age and gender I am, I am not immune to teenage drama reguarless of what high school reunion number is coming up. How is it possible that a show comprised entirely of teenage boys can be so rift with catty drama, you ask? Honestly, I have no idea, but I have to think that there might be two people better suited to lead this band of rabble than two women who seem to be young enough for the girls to draw them into this petty crap. My cohort in this adventure, is even closer to her high school days than I. And still, considering what we had to work with, I believe that our age was benefit in putting together a fairly brilliant show; boys in daisy dukes, spandy pants in vibrant colors, and onstage mosh pit. You should have been there.

Thank You, Ms. Armstrong

So, I stopped by the public library(1) the other day and picked up a few books, hoping to kick my teenage science fiction problem with some new and interesting adult science fiction or fantasy. It took me the best part of an hour to find the three books I ended up with – as it turns out, our library is poorly stocked – and I only ended up with one new author, the other two being Koontz books that I had yet to read.

As I’m sure many of us do, I went home, saw to the animals (I have quite a few), went through the mail, turned off my phone (much to my husband’s dismay) and sat down with the first Koontz book, ready to be coerced into skipping dinner. After the third chapter, I stopped reading. I’m not going to tell you what book it was, because it was actually a good book. True to the Koontz style, it was graphic and well-written and everything I’ve come to expect from a Dean Koontz novel. It seems that I just don’t have the stomach for it anymore; especially when the book starts from the perspective of the psychopathic killer and I know it’s going to be downhill from there.

So, to coin a beloved phrase, “there I was” deflated and worried that my addiction to teenage science fiction had totally ruined me for the world of literature that I had loved. I would have to hand in my David Eddings, apologize profusely to my college Science Fiction professor, and slink off to the anonymous literature section often stereotyped for those in my profession. My love affair with literature was over. I was smitten with the sappy teenage love story centered around magic and mysticism and, since I am neither magic, nor teenaged, I was destined to continually be disappointed in my own life by comparison.

The second Koontz book went straight to the return pile – no sense in beating a dead horse. The third book, something completely new, sat waiting, but it was a day before I even dare approach. The main character was in her early forties, popular, self assured and sexy. In fact, they were all adults, people who knew who what they were about. The story was intriguing, harsh, real, alluring, and, in stark contrast to my choices of late, X-rated. OK, let’s not get our panties in a bunch, the X-rating was not the best part; it was only a small part of what made this a really fantastic book. It was so much more real than anything I’d been reading lately, that it reminds me of the advantages of reading stories for adults over stories written for children. Whereas, at the end of my stint enraptured by the Twilight series, I was left with a warm heart and a soft sight, No Humans Involved has me so amped that I’m here, having to get my thoughts down on paper at two thirty in the morning.

Thank you, Ms. Armstrong, for restoring my faith in stories. . .

1Being in the profession that I am, it occurs to me that many of the individuals with which blogging is popular might not be familiar with the concept of a “public library.” If you find yourself in this category, allow me to elaborate. A “public library” is a place in your community where books are available for people to read and share - that's right, they aren't only in schools. You can go there and sample the selection of books without actually having to buy any. Save your money and don't forget to thank your librarian!

Lovely "German" Roulade

OK, "German" is in quotes because, although I am of German heritage, I am American and, as my actually German friend likes to remind me, Americans put their own spin on everything. I've been trying a lot of new German recipes lately and this one went so well, I thought I'd share it. No infringement here, because I can never follow a recipe exactly. . .

You'll need:
1 large steak cut as thin as possible
German Mustard (the more horseradish, the better)
Dill Pickle Slices
Bacon (maple flavor makes this very nice as well)
Tooth Picks
Oil
Water
Lipton's Beef and Onion Soup Mix
2 Tablespoons Flour

Steps:
1: Cut the steak into strips that are about 3 inches thick.
2: Slather mustard on one side of each strip.
3: Place one pickle slice and one strip of bacon on each piece of steak.
4: Roll each piece length-wise and secure with a toothpick.
5: Brown each piece lightly in oil in a deep skillet.
6: Cover the meat with water and mix in the soup mix.
7: Simmer for 1 hour, covered.
8: Mix flour with a small amount of water to make watery paste.
9: Remove meat from skillet.
10: Add paste to skillet and mix until gravy thickens.

This roulade was lovely with mashed potatoes and peas. Enjoy!

The Darkest Evening of the Year. . .Koontz is Reaching

Stephen King, M. Night Shyamalan, Ted Bundy and Dean Koontz; I'll take, "People that I would not want to live beside" for 100, Alex. The difference is, I have no interest in the works of King, Shyamalan, or Bundy. As I'm sure you can tell by my book list, I'm a serious fan of the writings of Dean Koontz.

So, of course, when this new book came out, The Darkest Evening of the Year, I was quick to snatch it off the shelf. It only took me four hours to be disappointed.

This story was, to say the least, a reach. I understand that the plight of the Golden Retreiver is an important issue in Koontz's life. As a dog lover, I certainly sympathize. He should, then have written a non-fiction book about Golden Retriever rescue in Southern California. In his attempt to integrate this social issue into his latest book, he tore the storyline to pieces. The flow of this tale was so stilted by Koontz's issues that it was impossible, as the reader, to totally immerse myself in the story.

Best seller (based, I'm certain on Koontz's enormous fan base), or not, I wish Koontz had spend more time developing this story. The plot had the potential to be everything his other books were, but the finished product was lacking.