Positive Aspects – Page 8

September Oaks Revisited

Posted on November 4, 2013June 9, 2022 by Neal Saye

Last Saturday I revisited September Oaks Vineyards— a small but incredibly beautiful boutique winery in Ridgeland, SC. On my first trip to SOV about a year ago, I fell in love with the place–as well as the fun and friendly folks who work there, especially Nikki Davis …

… a kindred spirit, who at the time of my first trip (and the above pic) worked part-time at September Oaks and taught high school English in Ridgeland. Thus, we hit it off as fellow English teachers right from the start. Nikki has since become a faithful blog follower and happiness promoter.

For this second visit, good friends Robert and Edward (such strong, classical names–who names their child “Neal”? And with an “a”?) accompanied me along lazy U.S. 17 on the forty-five minute trip from Savannah.

The entrance to September Oaks is as beautiful as the place itself.

So I motored down the old oak-lined entryway and parked Skedaddler. (My little car’s name. What? You don’t name your vehicles? Well, why not? And, what? You think “motored” sounds a little silly and pretentious? Well, I would too under normal circumstances, but those ancient oaks and the incredible fall weather made me want to talk British-fancy.)

A special event was going on that day: A Novel Wine Tasting & Literary Festival, featuring readings and book signings from over two dozen authors. Such fun! (More about that later … with a Princess Diana twist.)

So we sauntered (there I go again) into the tasting room, paused just inside the door because the place was booming with folks at the counter, and glanced around. But not for long–because suddenly I heard a hooting and hollering, and saw Nikki rushing toward me and giving me a big hug, as if I were, oh I don’t know, a World Famous Blogger or something! It was so cool to see her again.

We waited our turn for the tasting and then belly-ed up to the beautiful new counter …

… which is made from crushed wine bottles poured in layers to give the appearance of a flowing river amid vineyards. WHO thinks to do creative stuff like that?! When I think of crushed bottles, I always remember the time as a kid when I stepped on a broken Coke bottle and had to have a terribly painful and tear-producing tetanus shot. And let’s be honest, nobody wants to see THAT scene worked into a wine tasting counter!

Anyway, we met our pourer Annette (delightful), who led us through three whites and three reds, from dry to sweet. We were asked to score each wine on a scale of 1-5 points. And I probably don’t need to tell you, but wine has alcohol in it! Edward and Robert were SO much better at the taste scoring than I. Really. They swirled the wine around, smelled it deeply, commented on its color, and even had exaggerated expressions on their faces after each tasting which somehow seemed to register their definite approval or casual dismissal. They even made comments such as, “Oh yes, I would serve this one with fruit and chocolate” or “This white would pair perfectly with fresh, local seafood.” Me? What was I doing? Well, before I answer, look at the picture below. Although the photo is a bit dark, here I am with Edward and Robert.

My biggest concern during our tasting was not wine aroma or pairing possibilities … but that woman in the right edge of the picture. See her? You can’t tell from the pic, but she’s really close (too close in my opinion) to the two heavenly smelling featured dishes at the tasting–southern seafood gumbo, and shrimp and grits–and she’s actually somewhat blocking my path to the food. All through the tasting I kept glancing over my shoulder and worrying about how I could get past her.

Here’s a lighter picture of Robert and Edward. I took it mainly to get a better perspective on how to get past that lady.

I did it!

Here’s Nikki with Evie Woods, wife of September Oaks owner Grady Woods:

And here I am with Evie:

And here’s Evie between two wine bottles:

And here’s Evie eating gumbo:

And here’s Evie feeding me gumbo:

After the wine (and food) tasting, Annette asked if we would like a tour of their new barrel room. Well, who’s gonna turn that down?

On your visit (and of course you’re going to visit soon), look closely and you’ll see my shadowy spirit protectively overseeing the oak barrels.

Oh my gosh. Look what showed up next in the warehouse area:

A set of drums! So of course I had to play a while.

It would have been so much more enjoyable for myself and the others if I knew how to play drums. Oh well, we moved on to the big steel barrels.

Next, we ventured outside to the vineyard and the literary reading.

Here’s Jack and Robin Firestone, authors of Chasing Diana. The Firestones were in Paris on the night of Diana’s fatal car crash sixteen years ago … and were in the tunnel … and saw the wreck! Chasing Diana is their fascinating story. Here they are reading excerpts from the book.

And here I am harassing them.

Evie and Grady, SOV’s gracious owners and hosts.

What a joyful Saturday afternoon. I hereby declare September Oaks to be the Official Winery of NealEnJoy.com!

A special thanks to Robert Smith for taking most of the pictures in this post.

Read the blog post about my first visit here: SOV 1.

Five Friday Happy Bringers

Five Friday Happy Bringers (7/19/13)

Posted on July 19, 2013November 6, 2021 by Neal Saye

Here are five things I’m happy about this warm July Friday in South Georgia.

1. My newfound love of KALE–here sautéed with onions and garlic.

How else can you eat it? Anybody know?

2. Six-year-old Grandson Daniel pretending to be part of an Office Depot sales associates meeting yesterday. (He got bored when his mother and I were doing some shopping.) (And he has his grandfather’s sense of humor.) (I thought it was a lot funnier than the Office Depot folks did.)

Right after I took that picture, Daniel asked me if we could go look at speaker eggs. Huh? What? I’d never heard of such a thing.

How does a kid know about such devices?! When I asked him, he said that EVERYBODY knows about speaker eggs. I couldn’t decide if I was proud of him or wanted to spank him. A little while later, when he asked, “Abu, how old will you be when I’m twenty?” I knew I wanted to spank him.

3. Eating dinner in a balcony.

(At Sage. Historic District Savannah.)

4. Lying down in your bed at night, putting your head on your pillow, and going to sleep.

5. Savannah Clouds.

Look up at the clouds this weekend!

Delicious Joy

Pot Pie Smiles

Posted on July 10, 2013May 3, 2022 by Neal Saye

One of my earliest joyful memories as a kid finds me meandering off, on warm summer mornings, to the community playground near my house in Cochran Field, near Macon, Georgia. My best friend Billy and I would play until our mothers brought us chicken pot pies and sweet tea. Sitting at the weathered, wooden picnic tables, we would gobble down our pot pies in their little aluminum containers (which we repurposed as treasure collectors).

I have always loved the creamy texture, the flaky crusts, the green peas and carrots, and the homey, Mama-ish warmth of chicken pot pies (or turkey pot pies but NOT cheesy or veggie pot pies). Of course, they were FROZEN SOLID forty-five minutes before I had all those lovey feelings as a child. And back then, I didn’t realize that our mothers were watching The Price Is Right or Queen for a Day instead of preparing fresh, homemade lunches for us boys.

So after buying organic vegetables from the local farm-to-table community market (doesn’t that make me sound health-oriented and grounded yet hip and on-target?), I decided to make a homemade chicken pot pie. HOMEMADE

First of all, do you have ANY clue how long it takes to chop carrots, celery, peppers and potatoes? Boil the corn and then scrape it off the cob? Finely cut the rosemary? Roll out the dough? (Okay, okay, all I did was roll it out of the carton, but still.)

But, oh my goodness, what fun! I may become a famous TV chef or something!

Delicious!

Swanson’s may do it faster, but not better!

Five Friday Happy Bringers

Five Friday Happy Bringers (6/14/13)

Posted on June 14, 2013November 6, 2021 by Neal Saye

I’m Hot but Happy. 98 degrees yesterday here in Savannah (heat index way over 100); 95 today. Whew. But unless I’m having heat tremors, here’s what I’m happy about today.

1. Seeing Love listed as an ingredient on a product label.

But kale? KALE?? Seriously?

2. The surprising, intricate beauty of looking up in Savannah.

3. My good buddy Riboclavin …

… without a thermometer. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t seem to be enjoying his food 100%, but still, he’s sitting in the sun, getting a vitamin D boost.

4. As some of you know, my grandkids call me “Abu” (Cuban/Hispanic shortened version of grandfather) because I thought “grandfather,” etc sounded entirely too paternally old. Well, six-year-old Daniel and three-year-old Gabriel are WILD over Skylanders. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, DO NOT try to figure it out. It’s far too complicated. But the Skylander franchise is basically taking over the world, of kids. Anyway, I recently told D and G that a brand new, exciting Skylander figure had just come available on the market, AbuForce!

The three-year old bought it for minute until the six-year-old exclaimed, “No way, Abu. You’re joking again.”

“I am not,” I lied. (Why does that trait come so easily to me?)

“Prove it, then,” smart-mouth Daniel challenged.

“Okay I will,” I responded, having no clue how to do so, or even what I meant.

“When?” he asked, a little smart-mouthier.

“Tomorrow,” I easily answered.

Sometimes, angels come your way. I told my friend Robert about my dilemma. He laughed and said he might be able to help. It seems the U.S miltary has a program called Huggs-to-Go, providing dolls for children of service men and women deployed. The figures have a place at the face for pictures of dad or mom, etc. Since Robert is retired Army and currently works at Hunter Army Airfield, he somehow managed to get me two of the dolls.

I presented the AbuForce figures to Daniel and Gabriel the next day. Both, in shock that there really was an AbuForce, melted my heart with their excitement over my little joke.

And the following day, they brought unparalleled joy to my heart when they both told me that they slept with AbuForce.

5. Beautiful paths to walk down.

Look for some joy this weekend. You’ll find it.

The Joy and Wisdom of Children

The Babies Hair Salon

Posted on June 13, 2013December 23, 2021 by Neal Saye

So today I decided I really needed to do something about my limp, flyaway, graying hair.

I’m frustrated because, well, I’m beginning to look my age. And, you know, that just doesn’t seem natural. So I consulted the online Yellow Pages for area barbers and hair salons and read about an intriguing little place out near Skidaway Island (I’m in Savannah, by the way) called … The Babies Hair Salon.

I drove over, parked Skedaddler (my lil gray Scion) (gray seems to be a theme in my life lately) (just not fifty shades of it) (yet) and found myself being promptly greeted by, believe it or not, two surprised-looking BABIES! Ten-month-old twins Madison and Matthew …

When he saw my hair, I got the impression that Matthew had initial concerns about his and his sister’s ability to help me …

Perhaps Madison had the same concern, but she tried to mask her feelings with a blank stare.

Nevertheless, the duo led me into their salon’s inner sanctum.

“I’m beginning to see a color scheme here,” I thought perceptively and intelligently.

Matthew and Madison took a moment to look through their style books to see what they might be able to do for me.

“This is definitely going to be a challenge,” they seemed to be saying.

I felt my first tiny jolt of trepidation when I realized they were looking at books about cows and sheep.

With determination set clearly upon their young but professional countenances, the twins indicated for me to help them up into their work spaces.

“An odd request,” I thought. “They don’t do that at the Barber Pole downtown.” But, the completely compliant client, I obeyed.

And for about sixty seconds, everything seemed to be going well. Just typical stylist assessment techniques such as cranial observation and exploratory scalp manipulation.

Then, inexplicably, I got the distinct impression that Madison was somehow asking Matthew to consult with the monkeys on the wall about the next step.

But before I had time to investigate, they got to work.

“This might be fun,” I thought, kinda smiling.

Madison gently massaged in soothing hair cream.

Healthy hair.

Then they both started to get a little rough, I thought, for ten-month-olds.

Seemingly out of the blue, I sensed a frustrated Matthew yelling to Madison, “Enough of this, sissy! There’s no way to help this old man!”

“Bite him!” she might have said.

“What going on here?!” I thought in terror. “Are they baby vampires or something? Nick at Twilight?! Whatever. I’m outta here.”

As Skedaddler and I hightailed it back to Savannah’s historic district where I live across from Colonial Park Cemetery, I looked in my rearview mirror and thought, “You know, gray’s not such a bad color. It’s kinda in-between.”

(Thanks to Grandtwins Matthew and Madison for help with this post. And the iPhone’s reverse camera.)

Life Experiences

10 Reasons I Loved My Little Trip to Visit My Folks

Posted on June 7, 2013November 6, 2021 by Neal Saye

Early yesterday morning I drove up to my north-of-Atlanta hometown of Ball Ground for a short visit with my mom and dad.

My dad–Harold or Tub–is 89 (90 in November–come to the party!), and my mom–Geneva–turned 86 in May. I can’t even begin to tell you how much fun we have when I visit. They taught me (are still teaching me) to laugh, to enjoy life.

Here are Ten Reasons I loved my little visit.

1. The early dinner that awaited me upon my 11 am arrival. Okay, for some of you this will be a bit confusing, but in Ball Ground lunch is called dinner, and dinner is called supper. (Breakfast is called Hardees.)

My favorite meal in the whole wide world consists of 1.) my dad’s creamed yellow corn. 2.) My mom’s fried sweet potatoes. 3.) A tomato and an onion.

The corn is scraped, raw, from the cob and meticulously cooked stove top, stirring constantly to keep it from scorching. It has the taste of heaven.

These sweet potatoes look a little burnt, and they should. That gives them the carmelized flavor. Cooked in a large cast iron pan, there’s nothing better. One stick butter, one cup sugar, sliced sweet potatoes. Orange joy.

Oh. My. Goodness. Thank you, Jesus.

2. The bird clock in my parents’ bathroom.

I like it best when the batteries get old, and the hourly bird calls become eerily elongated.

3. Walking around my folks’ small house (which my dad built BY HAND 34 years ago), looking at the bushes and trees.

4. Eating supper at Cracker Barrel. During the meal a very overweight but jolly lady came over to our table and said to my mom, “Honey, can I give you a hug? You remind me so much of my little grandma.” “Why, of course!” Mama replied.

“”Our hugs come in twos,” my dad said with a laugh. And then was amply rewarded.

I thought about saying, “What about me? Three’s company.” But my mouth was full of turnip greens and chow chow.

5. My mother repeatedly getting her supper choice, “eggs in the basket,” confused with a meal she had about forty years ago at IHOP called “pigs in a blanket.”

“Now what do you call this again, Neal?”

From the Cracker Barrel menu: Eggs in the Basket–Two slices of Sourdough Bread grilled with an egg in the middle of each, cooked to order and served with smoked sausage patties, turkey sausage patties or thick-sliced bacon and your choice of Fried Apples or Hashbrown Casserole.

6. Still at Cracker Barrel, as my dad stood in line at the counter paying (he INSISTED), another lady just finishing with paying her bill, saying to my dad, “Here, sir, let me pay for part of your meal with the rest of my gift card. Happy early Father’s Day?” And my dad, a bit confused at first, trying to PAY her for the gift card, before she finally hugged him and said, “No, no, I want to do this for you for an early Father’s Day present!” (While I stood over to the side between the pulled taffy and the Brad Paisley cd, unsuccessfully holding back laughter.)

As we finally left Cracker Barrel, my mom said to my dad, “You sure are hugging a lot of women today. I gotta get you out of this place.”

7. After loading mom’s walker in the trunk, and getting us all in the car, my mom, saying, “Tub, you should have asked that lady what days she usually eats at Cracker Barrel,” sending the three of us into giggles for two red lights, when I said to them, “I wonder if she would like to adopt us as her other family,” (which really wasn’t all that funny, but still got us roaring all over again, in the way you sometimes do when laughter is in the air.) Pulling off the Ball Ground exit from I-575, my dad said, “Those hugs were a pretty good way to spend an afternoon.” Because, of course, it was only 5:00 and we had already finished supper.

8. The feeling, even at my age, of being HOME.

9. The difficult but important discussion we had on this trip about what my mother would do if my dad died first.

“I just hope to goodness I go before Tub.”

“Now Neever (his version of Geneva), we can’t control those things.”

“What I really wish is that we could just go at the same time,” my mom said with total sincerity.

“Well, that might be possible,” my dad said with a twinkle in his eye, “the way I’ve been driving lately.” And we all laughed, at something so unfunny.

10. Experiencing irony as I was leaving Ball Ground the next day, stopping by a convenience store for a Yoo Hoo and a lottery ticket. The long-time teller printing out my ticket, as she mouthed, “straight to hell,” the lyrics of a country song blaring from the radio, and then handing me my Power Ball and saying, “You have a blessed day, sir!”

A joyful, blessed trip.

The Joy and Wisdom of Children

Oh Possum! (Warning: A Bit Gross)

Posted on June 6, 2013February 9, 2022 by Neal Saye

So Tuesday I picked up grandson Daniel …

…at soccer camp and headed back to his house. Traversing up the driveway, discussing Skylander Giants, we both saw this at about the same time:

A small, dead, open-eyed possum in the neatly manicured front lawn. “Look, Abu! A big rat!” Daniel yelled, as he excitedly unbuckled his seat belt, careening toward the thing.

“I think it’s a possum, Daniel, and I also think he’s dead.” (WHY do I use verbs like “think” in times like this? The possum was dead as a doornail with bugs swarming around its head.)

“That means he’s not breathing,” Daniel explained to me.

“Why don’t you go in the house and cool off, while I get rid of our friend?”

“NO!” Daniel screamed. “We have to show it to Mommy!”

“Well, he can stay here for a few minutes.” (Like the possum was going somewhere.)

At about that time, Olivia and Larkin, the cute twins from next door, came running into the driveway, straight from a pool party. And of course, Daniel had to show them …

… explaining that the “rat, I mean possum, was dead and couldn’t move, so don’t touch it till Mommy comes home because we are going to show it to her.”

Her expression says it all.

(Touch it?!)

Life Experiences

Remembering Peter on this Teacher Appreciation Week

Posted on May 9, 2013February 9, 2022 by Neal Saye

It never fails. And I’m glad it doesn’t. Whenever I see yellow gladioli, I think of Peter. I saw some today.

Peter Christopher taught creative writing in the Department of Writing and Linguistics up at Georgia Southern University (where I taught for twenty-four years). He was a colleague and a friend and the fiction person on my dissertation committee when I got my doctorate.

And Peter died far too early in 2008 of liver cancer.

After his passing, I reminisced about Peter’s impact on my life. Here’s that remembrance:

*****************

Peter, “Something Blooming, Something Found” and the Glorious Gladioli

Somehow, yin-yangishly I suppose, Peter’s smile carries both playful humor and serious authority as he says to me, “Here’s what I want you to do, Neal.”

“Take all that,” Peter points at the pages and pages of text I have been rather proudly producing for weeks before asking/begging him to be the fiction person on my dissertation committee, “and put it aside–or throw it away.”

My dissertation is going to be an examination of how fiction can be used as a type of educational research, as a way of knowing. And as part of my work, I want to write a novella which illustrates, through the characters and plot, various educational stances I have studied and enjoyed. But I’m not a fiction writer, and I don’t really know how to get there. I want Peter to sort of help quickly guide me through the process, tell me I can do it, be a cheerleader of sorts.

“Uh, well, you mean I’m not going to be able to use this?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. But for now I want you to forget everything you’ve written and have planned so far. Here’s your homework.” Again the smile–the smile that is beginning to get on my nerves just a little. “For two weeks and for about an hour or so a day, I want you to freewrite.”

“You mean, just write about this novella idea I have?”

“No, Neal, freewrite about you. About your life, what’s going on, what’s been, what’s to come. About your inside life. Your outside life. Your family. Work. Friends. Faith. Anything that comes to mind. Don’t stop for an hour–just write.”

My thoughts at this moment: “Peter, are you CRAZY? I am teaching full time. I am on a deadline. I do not have the time or interest to play your little freewriting game. I just want to get this thing finished. So no, I CAN’T and I WON’T do that. And by the way, you’re supposed to just ENCOURAGE me, be my CHEERLEADER.”

My words at this moment: “Oh, okay.”

After the frustratingly productive freewriting, which ends up changing in wonderful ways the entire story I will tell, Peter and I begin three months of tortuous joy. I learn from a master. Our weekly schedule goes something like this:

1. Neal spends hours and hours and hours writing for a week. Usually trying to get one scene done.
2. Neal puts his folder of work (pretty good work in Neal’s mind) into Peter’s mailbox at the end of the day.
3. The next afternoon Neal gets up from his desk and walks halfway across the hall towards Peter’s office, changes his mind and walks back to his own office and sits down.
4. Neal feels silly at this childish behavior, gets up again and walks three-forths the way to Peter’s office, then returns to his own office once again.
5. Neal calls himself all sorts of shaming names and finally walks all the way into Peter’s office, often simply because Peter has seen him walking back and forth, and tells him to COME IN.
6. Peter smiles.
7. Peter speaks: “I can tell you put a lot of work into this, Neal. But….”
8. Neal revises. And revises. And revises.
9. Neal realizes Peter is gifted beyond measure.

When we approach the end of the novella work, and I am fretting over a title for it, Peter tells me with a laugh, “Don’t worry about that. I’m good with titles. I’ll come up with one. My gift.”

One of the young characters in my story, Kellie, LOVES flowers, grows them everywhere she can. Her favorite is the yellow gladiolus. (“It stands up in a garden. It’s not afraid to be seen.”) And since my tale shows a small group of high school students who come to realize that they have viable voices which are important and should/must be heard, Peter names my novella, “Something Blooming, Something Found.”

I am nervous as the dissertation defense begins. I have foolishly invited folks from across campus to attend and quite a few are here. Days before, when I asked Peter his advice about defending, he said that I should forget the negative concept of defense and just let my novella’s characters speak. So that’s what I do.

I look at all those gathered in the Dean’s Conference Room in the College of Ed, take a deep breath, and begin my defenseless defense. As I start, I see and sense Peter (“rock” in Greek) confer upon me three things: his trademark encouraging smile; a subtle and hidden to all but me “you-can-do-it!” thumbs up; and the realization, as my characters begin to breathe and speak, that something is blooming in me, and I am finding something, something I have not really grasped or undertsood until this moment in this room: I am a writer, not just a teacher of writing.

The next day, I walk into Peter’s office (without the ridiculous false starts) and present him with a bouquet of proud yellow gladioli. He hoots in delight. Hours later I hear a tap on my door, look up, and there he stands.

“Neal, I have been sitting at my desk looking at your flowers. Really looking at them. Seeing them. They’re lovely. They are so intricate, the way they turn and twist,” he says as he makes a circular gesture with one hand.

“And there’s really only one word to describe them: GLORIOUS. They are glorious. Thank You.”

We chat and laugh a while. Then Peter leaves.

But that’s okay. He’s just across the hall.

[I write this in present tense for two reasons: One, Peter has me write my novella in present tense. And two, in ways that are important, perhaps most important, transcendent, eternal, Peter is with us. Ever will be. His smile that you and I came to appreciate so so much. His always gentle spirit. His instruction he gave to so many. His embodiment of encouragement. His model of living. And His beautiful closing for each email and note he penned–“All thrive!”]

***********************************

Here we are after I defended my dissertation:

On a whim, right before I published this post a few moments ago, I typed “GSU + Peter Christopher” in a search engine. A Rate My Professor link from 2008 popped up. One student wrote:

PC was my mentor. I took every writing class he taught. Writing was only a minor when I went to GSU… I would have majored if I could have. He was a dear friend. He taught me more than just how to be a good writer, he taught me how to love life — to have a passion for life. He is gone from this earth, but never from my heart.

Rest peacefully, Peter. We remember you with appreciation and love.

Related Post: The Viewing & the Circle of Life

Savannah Joy

Farmers’ Marketing

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Neal Saye

Saturday morning I stumbled out of bed (you would think someone my age could deal with morning a bit better) and walked a few blocks to Savannah’s Forsyth Park to get some fresh vegetables. (It’s spring, so I’m on my Annual Quest to get in Stellar Shape for the maybe two times I go to Tybee Island and the beach during the summer. I haven’t seen abs in forty years, but I’m such an optimist I AM NOT GIVING UP. Do you hear me?! I intend to be on the cover of Men’s Fitness one day.)

The Forsyth Farmers’ Market is the coolest gathering of local vendors offering fresh–often organic–fruits and vegetables, along with coffees, breads, honey, jams, juices, pasta, fish, beef, poultry, herbs, flowers, etc. I LOVE their statement of purpose: “The mission of the Forsyth Farmers’ Market is to promote understanding and participation in a local food system that supports sustainable production and increases access to local products.”