It’s Always Necessary

I know I’ve said this many times already, but there’s an incredibly lovely and supportive energy in these Appalachian mountains that seems to magically stitch together the seemingly unrelated and disparate parts of my peripatetic life into a quilt of emotions and experiences that somehow makes sense and feels, after all these years, so right.

And, in true Appalachian form, it always seems to happen when and where I least expect it.

Last weekend, Tom and I headed down to the riverside to check in at dawn as vendors at the Asheville “Flea For Y’All” – a new experience for both of us.

dawn check-in

In the Asheville way, it turned out we knew several of our neighbor vendors — a friend of a friend, that very nice woman who works at the animal hospital, a friend from (Tom’s) rugby days….


After a few shouted greetings, there was the great rush and nervous excitement of setting up and staging the treasures in time for the gates to open to the public, with lots of chatter from tent to tent to tent.

Sixteen years after her death, I was finally able to part with some of my sister’s things. And I knew I would have had her blessing to do this.

“Time for someone else to have a turn with them,” she used to say with a smile.


Tom unloaded while I set about arranging the space ~ my treasures mingling with my sister’s.

When we were finished, Tom went off to explore the other booths and I sat back to enjoy (and, of course, photograph)


the constant parade of characters,




every bit as interesting 


as the uniquities for sale all around us.


It was late in the afternoon when a young girl, perhaps in her twenties, wandered by our tent.

She asked me about something I was selling.

I asked her about the words inked into the skin on her arm.

Oh that, she said.

It’s a quote from the book “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close” by Jonathan Safran Foer.

What does it mean? I asked, having not (yet) read the book.

“It was late and we were tired,” she began, and then told me the story of the words she wore.

It was about loving a sister.

After I got home, I looked up the rest of the quote:

“It was late, and we were tired.
We assumed there would be other nights.
Anna’s breathing started to slow, but I still wanted to talk.
She rolled onto her side.
I said, I want to tell you something.
She said, You can tell me tomorrow.
I had never told her how much I loved her.
She was my sister.
We slept in the same bed.
There was never a right time to say it.
It was always unnecessary.
The books in my father’s shed were sighing.
The sheets were rising and falling around me with Anna’s breathing.
I thought about waking her.
But it was unnecessary.
There would be other nights.
And how can you say I love you to someone you love?
I rolled on my side and fell asleep next to her.
Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you ~
It’s always necessary.”

“It was late, and we were tired. We assumed there would be other nights. Anna’s breathing started to slow, but I still wanted to talk. She rolled onto her side. I said, I want to tell you something. She said, You can tell me tomorrow. I had never told her how much I loved her. She was my sister. We slept in the same bed. There was never a right time to say it. It was always unnecessary. The books in my father’s shed were sighing. The sheets were rising and falling around me with Anna’s breathing. I thought about waking her. But it was unnecessary. There would be other nights. And how can you said I love you to someone you love? I rolled on my side and fell asleep next to her. Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you, Oskar. It’s always necessary.” ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close


for Karen

The Serendipitous Tale of “Why Asheville?” continues…

Many years ago, my back-then-husband sweetly pointed out to me that I could be rather bossy, almost always wanting to call the shots. Even though we were on the separation track, his words stayed with me longer than he did, haunting and taunting me with their accuracy.

And so, one Saturday morning, I decided to change.

The kids and I were heading out (as we often did Saturday mornings) to see what we could find at yard sales. (Being incredibly impoverished at the time, we got many of our clothes and household necessities on these weekend scavenger hunts.)

As we set off, I informed Zoë  (who was only six or seven at the time) –


that she was in charge of the day.

Delighted, she sat up tall in the front seat of the car as we drove and immediately came up with a plan.

“Ok, mama”, she said. “You follow your nose to the left and I’ll follow my nose to the right!”

(Hearing her words put a smile on my face and made the ceding of my dictatorial powers completely worth it.)

It didn’t take long for Zoë to zero in on a neighborhood yard sale a few miles away from our home. Looking up and down the street made up of sad older houses yet to be rescued by visionary hipsters, I was ready to get back into the car and leave.

Zoë, however, saw nothing but potential magic around us. “This one first!” she said pointing to what was quite possibly the worst of them all.

I started to object, but Zoë quickly reminded me who was the boss of the morning and dashed off to explore.


Waiting for her to reappear, I glanced somewhat disparagingly through the dismal mounds of old linens, flower pots, crock pots and yogurt makers.

And then something caught my eye —

the one from the yard sale— a beautiful, little turn-of-the-century, Royal Doulton Arts & Crafts style vase.

My older sister, Karen, had carefully amassed a beautiful collection of early 1900s Royal Doulton during the years she lived and worked in England. She’d taken me to a few auctions and antique shows and taught me how to spot the glazings and markings she was interested in. It was a little unusual to find in the US, but there it was, this beautiful little vase, its royalty shining through from the jumble of its humble surroundings.

With shaking fingers, I picked it up to further examine it. The glazing and markings were correct. And surprisingly, it was in pristine condition. It was also the only thing in the pile that didn’t have a price on it. My guess was that it might be worth a couple hundred dollars.

I beckoned to a young woman who seemed to belong to the house and asked her what she wanted for it.

“Oh, that old thing?” she said, laughing. “How about fifty cents?”

I nearly dropped it.

Zoë reappeared at that moment, happily clutching a box of colorful glass beads from Germany that she’d found.

by an artist at the kress building in downtown asheville

“Can I get this?” she asked. It was priced a few dollars more than the vase.

Still in shock, I nodded, and gave the woman five dollars for both.

All the way back to the car, I was sure the vase would slip from my fingers as karmic punishment for not revealing its worth to the seller. But I also couldn’t wait to tell my sister about my find.

As I was driving home, it occurred to me how absolutely weird it was to have been so quickly rewarded (so it seemed to me) for having given control of the day’s decision-making over to someone else – in this case, the excited child happily playing with her new bead collection in the back seat of the car.

Which brings me back to the story of that first weekend in Asheville and the serendipity that seemed to be following us around as my mother and I adventured through the little mountain town that my sister had wanted to move to.

I had originally intended to visit Asheville a few months earlier after dropping off the now 18-year-old Zoë for her university orientation in Wilmington, North Carolina.

But the owner of the bed & breakfast where we stayed in Wilmington (on the other side of the state, six hours away from Asheville) told me the roads to Asheville were closed due to flood waters from Hurricane Frances. Her husband, as it happened, was actually headed there to help out with the emergency clean-up. (Yet another connection in the come-to-Asheville vortex, I found myself thinking.)  Once the roads were opened back up and I was able to get in, she suggested I stay at the 1900 Inn on Montford Avenue, a bed & breakfast owned by friends of theirs.


Having no other plan – and still mindful of the potential magic of the suggestions of others as a result of that many-years-ago yard sale experience – I took her suggestion and booked a room for a weekend with my mother later that fall.

The b&b was located in historic Montford, a mostly residential neighborhood on the north side of Asheville filled with interesting homes built between 1890 and 1920 by the town’s businessmen, lawyers, doctors and architects – several of whom continue to live on in the pages of Thomas Wolfe’s autobiographical, Look Homeward, Angel. Montford’s jumble of architectural styles includes Victorian, Queen Anne, Arts & Crafts, Neoclassical, Colonial Revival –


with a few small castles thrown into the mix.

It’s a neighborhood rich with history, characters, and haunting stories (F Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, burned to death in Montford.)

Walking through the living rooms of the 1900 Inn, Mom and I were both struck by how very English it felt, which surprised us, given its location in the Southern Highlands of Appalachia….

As luck would have it, we had checked in just in time to enjoy a glass of wine and music by a local musician on the Inn’s spacious and lovely front porch. Delighted, we took seats at opposite ends of the porch and mingled with the other guests.


After some moments of polite stranger chat, I heard a small shriek from my mother’s end of the porch.

After only one glass of wine? I thought as I made my way over to her.

“You won’t believe this!” she exclaimed.

It turned out the reason for the English feel to the b&b came from the years innkeepers Ron and Lynn had lived In England back in the 60s and 70s – years that coincidentally overlapped some of the years we had lived there. Two of my parents’ long time friends were also friends of theirs.

I mean, really – what were the odds of this happening in a small mountain town in western North Carolina? 

Equally amazed by the small worldliness of it all, Ron and Lynn suggested we continue talking over dinner at “Pyper’s Place,” a funky & delightful cafe and music venue just down the street co-owned by Peggy Seeger, folksinger and sister of the more famous Pete.

nine mile

Somewhere in the future, it would become a Caribbean inspired restaurant, “Nine Mile.” But that night it was still Pyper’s and we had a delightful time there swapping tales and memories of mutual friends.

The roadblocks and detours over the previous months had actually put us on a path that brought us to an unexpected and special evening that could so easily not have happened at all. And yet somehow it all came together. Pyper’s Place closed their doors the following day, making me wonder if it had even existed at all, or had I just imagined it.

Whatever, as Zoë might say –

hello i love you

Asheville felt like home before we even moved there.

Why Asheville?

I first heard about Asheville when my good friend Stephen suggested I move there. At the time, I was in the midst of plotting my escape from big city life.

“What’s Asheville?” I recall asking him.

“It’s a small town – artsy and progressive, and in the mountains,” he responded simply.


He knew my hot buttons. Those words had instant, visceral appeal. Something emotional clicked deep within me, but at the time I didn’t dwell upon it.

Instead, I took immediate action, ringing up my mum to suggest an adventurous long weekend in the mountains. Being my mum, she immediately agreed, and a few weeks later, we packed up the car for a roadtrip to Western North Carolina.

We were about an hour away when she commented, “You know, your sister wanted to move to Asheville.”

No, I didn’t know that.   

My older (and only) sister, Karen, had died five years earlier. We had chosen this particular weekend for our trip to acknowledge what would have been her birthday, October 28th.

the view from pisgah inn

The Blue Ridge Mountains would be a lovely place to spend time with our memories of her, we thought.

“Yes, that was her plan,” my mother said. And left it at that, leaving me deep in thought as I continued driving west.

Although her name was Karen, the family called my sister”Skoo,” almost from birth. (Nobody’s quite sure how that happened; it didn’t really mean anything or have any particular significance – although when she was a teenager, she did find out at a party in Copenhagen that it’s a mild swear word in Danish.)

Skoo was my big sister. She was my counselor, my mentor, my friend, and my best critic. At times, she was my other self – the older, wiser, more confident, more artistic me I dreamed of being. We were ten years apart, but crafted from the same genetic pool and bound together through the shared cultural experiences of a common, and uncommon, upbringing.

It was a mutually satisfying relationship. I looked up to her and she looked out for me.

All my life, she had been my teacher. She was always there before me, guiding me, giving advice, suggestions, ideas – all of which were cleverly hidden in the guise of telling me what to do. From boyfriends, to clothes, to makeup, hairstyles, potential husbands, and, of course, anything to do with how I set up my home, she always had an opinion. In fact, I can’t really remember anything she didn’t have an opinion about.

Ours was a joyous rivalry. Our constant taunts to each other – the competition in differing fields of creative endeavors, but always – despite the ten years and the peripatetic ways of our family lifestyle – we always found batches of time to spend together.

In 1964, our family moved from a fifty-acre tree farm in rural New Jersey to the heart of London. And London in the 60s was magic –

a zoë collage. 1

Mary Quant & miniskirts, Carnaby Street, the mods & rockers, the Beatles & the Rolling Stones – and my sister took full advantage of it.

Once, when I was just eight or nine years old, she and I were walking along a street in Chelsea when a car full of young guys drove by. They leaned out of the window, whistling their appreciation.

Honeybunch, she said to me, laughing, they’re looking at you!

For a hopeful minute, I was excited. Me?!

And then, as the car passed by, I realized that of course they were admiring my sister. I think that’s when I first realized how beautiful she was.


Skoo left London (and me) to go to Pratt Institute in New York City to pursue her interest and talent in design. Before leaving, and perhaps as consolation to a sad little sister, she came up with the idea that we would exchange letters using fake names.

We chose Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, our favorite comedians at the time. Not only but also. I was genuinely surprised when the first airletter arrived from New York addressed to Ms Dudley Fellows, and my mother without hesitation gave it to me. “Pete” was a better correspondent than I, writing to me often about art school, fashion, and boys.

central park, new york city

In the late 60s, while she was still living in New York, Skoo invited me to spend a week with her. She took me to Greenwich Village to see the artists, and to Central Park. We shopped at her neighborhood grocery stands and she took me out to restaurants. Being a very practical older sister, she also taught me to clean her “loo” (her idea of rent for the visit.)

In between my high school years, we lived together one summer at mom’s beach house on Long Beach Island. Skoo took her responsibilities (me) very seriously and monitored any possibility I had of a social life quite fiercely. She taught me how to make macaroni & cheese (from a box) and we started what would become a decades-long ritual – hand-me-down fashion shows, both of us collapsing in laughter at how I could so easily make everything that looked so stylish on her, look so awful on me.

(I kept the frog t-shirt, though.)

After I graduated from college, she visited me during the years I worked in Georgetown, Washington DC. We watched the latest French foreign films and decided to dress like Catherine Deneuve in “The Last Metro.” I remember her excitement in a vintage clothing store as she tried on a black cocktail dress from the 40s that seemed tailor made for her curves.

I really missed my time, she said. I look great in these clothes! 

Skoo was capable of spontaneous and overwhelming generosity, despite her somewhat unpredictable artist’s income.

Some time after my marriage ended, and I was living by myself with my two young kids in Alexandria, she came to visit. We spent an afternoon at the Torpedo Factory – a collection of artists’ studios in an old munitions factory – and both fell in love with the same painting.

You got it just right! she told artist Connie Slack, who clearly didn’t appreciate the significance of just who was bestowing this compliment upon her.

The price tag? $3,000. We sat in two chairs for some time, gazing at the canvas. You really like it? she asked me. Two hours later, it was hanging in my living room, a riot of colorful flowers lighting up my little house.


Why don’t you take care of it for me, she said. I don’t really have the space.

When she was diagnosed with cancer, we increased the frequency of our visits, but our patterns had changed. Gone were the big adventures. Instead, we talked and walked her dog, Cloudy Day. We watched Frazier and HGTV, talked some more, and admired Cloudy. We played cards and played with Cloudy.

She showed me a design project of hers that she had kept from the Pratt years. Can you believe I still have this? she asked, surprised – she who kept almost nothing. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought, admiring her design boards – four elegant interior elevations of a New York City brownstone.

“Wait a minute,” I said, looking closely at the neatly rendered drawings. “You’ve got tons of bookshelves, but where are the toilets? None of the bathrooms have toilets!”

She examined the boards one by one, searching. Yeah, you’re right, she finally admitted. They must not have looked too good, maybe that’s why I didn’t put them in! We had a good laugh over that. Just think! she said happily, those people would have paid all that money for this brownstone and would have had to go next door to pee!

Things like that delighted her.

Art was her gift and she was always eager to share it. In her final months, she taught my son, Leif, to paint and fire clay. And just weeks before she died, she and Zoë spent time painting shells they had found on the beach with watercolors.

skoo, zoë & leif, in her studio

Her cancer was capricious, at times giving us false hope. But when she told me it was no longer in remission, all I could do was promise to visit her every month, despite the distance between us, even if I had to borrow money to do it. With tears in her eyes, she told me that would be the best present I could ever give her.

We stayed faithful to this schedule, and it was during those last six months of her life that I finally got to know her, not just as Skoo, but as “Karen.” Up until then, I had seen her through the eyes of a younger sister. But watching her handle her last months took me by surprise many times.

Five months before she died, she moved from Tampa to a little apartment in Sarasota. I told her it had the faded aura of Hollywood in the 40s, but she didn’t go for the sentimentality. She knew it was a bit of a dump and fussed about its appearance, but was by then too ill to do much about it. I, who had always thought design was what was most important to her, realized there was a priority in her life which went beyond design, beyond an artist’s desire to create. She had chosen the sad little apartment so she could keep her dog with her and be near the water. But she had also chosen to return to Sarasota to be near her friends and our mum. And fuss as she might about its appearance – and she did – what came first was to be closer to her special people.

During my last visit with her, I kept watch over her at night as she struggled for breath, torn between wishing her peace and my own ragingly selfish desire to keep her with me. I wanted to continue our visits, there was still so much to do. We had talked about visiting the art museums in New York City together and photographing the tiles and mosaics in Ravenna and Turkey, places I had seen while working on a film and now wanted to show her.

I had always had it in the back of my mind that there would come a day when, together as old ladies, we’d be sitting in our rockers on the front porch of a purple house, drinking Jack Daniels or Campari – a vision I stubbornly clung to.


But it wasn’t to be.

And so here I was on the highway, moments away from the town where she had apparently wanted to live, without her.

Mom’s comment turned out to be just the first of a number of strange and surprisingly serendipitous happenings that were waiting for us in Asheville that weekend.

It was almost as if someone had planned them…

[vintage color photo of me & Skoo courtesy of Bob Lundegaard]

A Surprise Discovery in the Smokies ~ Trolls!

The day did not begin with a search for trolls. Nothing, in fact, could have been further from my mind.

Tom and I were on our way out for a day-hike with friends in the Smokies. As I drove, Tom read aloud from a book about the wildflowers that might be in bloom this time of year.

And then somewhere near Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I happened to see the word “troll” on the side of an old building.


“Troll!?” I cried out in disbelief, interrupting Tom. “Trolls are Scandinavian, what on earth would they be doing in Tennessee?”

I’m Danish-American. The thought of finding trolls in the Smokies made me even happier than finding wildflowers.

Like elves, fairies and gnomes, trolls like to hide themselves away in ancient mountains, rocks and caves. According to Norse mythology, they turn to stone if caught above ground during daylight hours. On second thought, perhaps the Great Smoky Mountains are just the right kind of habitat for them!

Intrigued by the possibility, we kept a sharp eye out for them during our hike.


But the sun was shining, and so of course they stayed well hidden.

Later in the day, we passed back by the sign we’d seen – and this time, stopped the car and got out for a closer look. A jumble of antiques & collectibles spilled out onto the front porch, leading the way to what looked like a hoarder’s dream castle of stuff in the inner recesses.


Tom explored around the outside of the building–


while I wandered through a vast collection of Americana kitsch inside.


It wasn’t until I wandered out onto a back porch that I found them….


Big trolls and little trolls.

Trolls from the floor to the rafters.

Trolls on logs, trolls on shelves, trolls hanging from shelves.

Trolls tucked between ferns and hiding behind pinecones.


Still curious as to how trolls came to be in Tennessee, I sought out the shop owner and asked, “Who is making trolls in the Smokies?”

“We are!” Erik Arensbak said with a smile.

“But trolls are Danish,” I said.

“And so are we!” he said, further surprising me by speaking in Danish.

His father, he told me, was an artist and Danish resistance fighter who emigrated to North America with his bride in 1949. Although they initially landed in Canada, they gradually moved further and further south, eventually purchasing land adjacent to Great Smokey Mountain National Park in 1969.

Known to some as “the hippies on the hill,” they began a business handcrafting trolls when the woodland creatures Ken Arensbak made to illustrate the Scandinavian tales he told his own three children so delighted friends and neighbors, they requested their own.

I had to have one, too.


In the end, being hikers, we thought it might be in our best interests to bring home “trail guide troll.”

“Well of course, I can’t sell a troll to you,” Erik said, when I handed him my choice. “But there is a small adoption fee of $21.98.”

I gave him the cash and he wrapped the troll in tissue and put it into a large paper bag. Then he picked up a pen and began fiercely jabbing the bag.

For a brief, scary moment, I thought he was trying to kill my troll.


And then I caught on …

“Air holes?” I asked.

“But of course,” he said with a smile, peering over his glasses at me.


If you are considering adopting a troll, you can visit 5 Arts Studio or find them @


The little Ashevillage has funny and surprising ways of taking care of you when you need it most, but rarely when or where you expect it. Instead, it sneaks up on you.

Doing a little garden therapy on this warm and sunny second full day of spring, I decided to make my ritual first visit of the new season to my favorite garden center.


I was not the only one with that idea.

Determined to limit myself to just one plant (instead of the usual wagon load of abundance), I picked out a pot of Dragon’s Blood and headed out to pay, trying to ignore the rows and rows of colorful possibilities.


“I can take you over here,” a voice called out.

A woman, perhaps in her 60s and wearing a deep pink sweatshirt, blue jeans and blue dangly earrings, was beckoning to me.  A thin blonde braid trailed out from underneath her wide brimmed hat, like a tendril of golden ivy seeking the sun. Her aqua mirror shades covered up her eyes, offering me twin reflections of my Saturday morning self.


I had never seen her there before, despite being a regular visitor.

As she rang me up, we got to talking. I was surprised to discover she had been living in my neighborhood – around the corner and down the street, just steps away from Casa Mia. Somehow, I had never seen her until today.

“My name’s Jill,” she responded when I asked her name. “My email’s Jill-no-Jack, ’cause I got tired of people asking me…. They don’t ask Jacks, ‘where’s your Jill,’ do they?!  That’s sexist.”

She told me of the mountainside garden she left behind in my neighborhood when she split from her boyfriend, and of the many plants she had created there.

“I told him, I’m coming back to get those!”

There was no doubt in my mind that she would.

“I thought I’d be living with him the rest of my life,” she continued, taking my credit card, “but that isn’t how it worked out.

And now,’ she paused for effect, “a whole new life has opened up before me. New people, new adventures. I’m gonna be just fine.”

I had told her nothing of me or my life, apart from where I lived.

“Bloom where you’re planted,” she continued, pushing the receipt over for me to sign and fixing her aqua gaze on me. “You’ve heard that a thousand times, haven’t you?”

I nodded. At least a thousand, I thought to myself, also thinking how happy I was to have planted myself in Appalachia.


“Here’s another one for ya,” Jill-no-Jack said from behind the blue reflections of myself.

“Don’t seek love in a barren field.”

“What?” I asked, not quite sure if I’d heard her correctly.

She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled it down for me.

I’m working on a little book of wisdom,” she confided, leaning in toward me and whispering behind the back of her hand. “It’s gonna be small enough to fit in your backpocket so you can still read it when your head’s up your ass.”

I look forward to reading that, I smiled politely, wondering if I was meant to take that personally.

As I turned to walk away, she called after me, “Hold onto your light, girl – and stay away from the pits of darkness!”

Hugging my new little plant – and my light – I waved goodbye and headed back home, her scrap of paper tucked in the back pocket of my jeans.

It’s not like you can purposely seek out the whimsical wisdom of the Ashevillage, but somehow – like spring –


it appears at just the right time.

An Encounter with Hostile Natives

If you move here, expect to upset some of the natives.

Six months after my arrival in Appalachia, I was having a mobile office morning at my local coffeehouse –

DSC05409which at the time went by the name of Port City Java (even though the Ashevillage is at least five hours away from an actual port city.)

Despite the “do not disturb” aura I was hoping to project, a stocky, middle-aged bald man with dark circles under his eyes approached my table. He was dressed in blue jeans, black loafers and a blue sweatshirt.

“Excuse me,” he said, politely.

Reluctantly, I looked up.

He gestured toward his companion – a heavyset brunette at a nearby table wearing a lime green sweater with matching socks, and brown pants. By her side was a handbag that looked like it was made from fabric rescued from a vintage 1960s sofa, the kind you often see around here abandoned on a sidewalk or stuck out on a front porch when it no longer matters if it gets rained upon.

“My friend and I are taking a survey,” the stocky man said, by way of an introduction. “How long have you lived in the Ashevillage?”

“Since June 30th,” I responded politely. He shook his head and turned away.

Surprised, I called after him, “Why do you ask?”

“My friend doubts there’s nobody in this coffee shop who’s lived in the Ashevillage more than five years,” he replied over his shoulder.

Less than six months! I heard him whisper to his lady friend in a tsk-tsk tone as he lowered himself back into his chair with a small grunt. I took note that, for some reason, out of the two dozen or so around us, the ‘survey’ had so far only included me.


Hardly a scientific method.

Piqued, and determined to correct the record, I called out –

“The first person I met in this coffee shop moved here in 1966!” deftly asserting the fact that I was actually friends with a bona fide local, my friend Moni.

“Well,” his brown-and-lime-green clad companion said with a withering, smug look, “we were both born here.”

Irritated, and unable to let it go, I racked my brains for something to establish my localism, hoping to stave off any further hostile vibes from the natives.

“I live in a 50-year-old house!” I offered up.


It was, I realize, a pathetic and transparently ingratiating attempt to demonstrate that I was not to be categorized with the clear-the-trees-from-the-mountainsides-so-we-can build-a-starter-mansion transplants the locals (with good reason) so love to loathe.

“Well,” sofa-handbag woman sniffed, “that helps a little.”

But it was too late.

Too riled to continue working, I packed up my laptop moments later and crept back up to my 50-year-old sanctuary on the mountainside.


It was not the first time I’d encountered this attitude – and, of course, it wouldn’t be the last.

The first book I’d purchased after moving here was a guide book to finding your way in the Ashevillage, written by a local worm farmer who would soon become a city councilman.  (True story – Because Asheville)

It’s a meandering, heartfelt and quirky read, extolling all the whimsical virtues of the Ashevilleage.

And it’s possibly the only guide book that begins and ends with the words,

“Please, please don’t move here.”

A Moment of Mountain Humor

One December afternoon, several years ago, I made it down the wintry roads and into the local UPS store to ship off a number of packages.

The woman behind the counter was very pleasant and while she typed up labels for me, we got to talking about the morning’s ice storm that had shut down schools for those of us in the higher elevations.

Which, naturally,


 led to a discussion about our kids.

Reading the address on one of my boxes, she remarked, “Oh, my older daughter’s name is Savannah!”

“People often ask me if she was conceived in Savannah,” she continued conversationally, “and that’s why we named her that.”


“Was she?” I asked, tentatively.

“No!” she replied with a laugh.


“But it would have sounded pretty odd to call her Woodfin.”

A Chance Encounter in Appalachia

A new stitch in the tapestry of life that is Appalachia was added one morning when I got a surprise phone call from a doctor in Boston.

“Did you get my email?” he asked.  There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

His name was completely unfamiliar to me.  After a few moments, however, I found his message tucked inside in my spam folder.

 Dr Sohur had written to me in a desperate effort to find Moni Taylor –


the “Woman Named Hello.”

Dr Sohur, a neuroscientist now living in Boston, hails from Mauritius – an island nation in the Indian Ocean about 400 miles east of Madagascar.  Ten years ago, he told me, his family held a reunion in – of all places – the Ashevillage.  His parents, who lived in Mauritius, traveled all the way to western North Carolina to partake in the celebration.

And, in the small world way of things, someone in the family hired Moni to photograph the event.

“I am appealing to your kindness,” Dr Sohur said. “I would be appreciative if you would be so kind to connect me to Ms Moni Taylor, for her approval for us to use a picture she took in 2004 of my parents.”

In his search to find her, Dr Sohur had come across Moni’s name on my site.

His father had just died, he explained when we spoke.

And to honor him, Dr Sohur had written a whimsical and moving obituary, which he wanted to illustrate with a photograph of both his father and his mother, who had died a few years earlier – a photograph taken by Moni.

Sohurs By Taylor June 2004

“This is the best couple image we have of them,” he said.

“And I am hoping that this picture would accompany a lyrical prose piece I am writing for the leading English weekly in the island of Mauritius where my parents lived.  In the same vein, I plan to do some pro bono work to decrease diabetes on the island and would like to use this picture as my motivation of what I am doing. Thanks much for any help connecting with Ms. Taylor.”

I hadn’t been in touch with Moni for quite some time, but as the piece was due to be published within days, I sent a message to her as soon as I got off the phone. She responded almost immediately, giving Dr Sohur permission to use her photograph of his parents.

The following week, I received a copy of the printed memorial –

Screen Shot 2015-02-02 at 11.30.53 AM

and marveled at the wonder and magic of feeling connected to total strangers from vastly different cultures, ever so briefly, due to a chance encounter in a little town in Appalachia more than ten years ago.

Lucky indeed.

What Lies Beneath…

One morning, a few months after we moved into the Ashevillage (back when we lived in the house we lived in before moving into Casa Mia), I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and staring out the window…


when I saw a car pull into the top of my long driveway.

That wasn’t unusual and so I waited to see if it would drive on down to the house or just turn around – as cars pulling into my driveway often did.

But neither happened.

Instead, I watched as the car door opened and someone got out.  Then whoever that person was walked around to the trunk of the car and pulled out a shovel.

That’s a bit odd, I thought, continuing to soap the dishes and stare out the window.

The stranger closed the trunk and then, shovel in hand, walked down the road along the top of my garden.


About half way down the the property line, there looms a rather large metal power pole.  It’s not very attractive, but the forsythia has always been so voracious on the hillside


I figured at some point it would win the battle for control of the landscape and cover up the tower.

The person (I still couldn’t tell if it was a male or female) stopped at the large metal power pole, looked around, and then started digging around the base of it.  In my garden.


Eyes still glued to the scene unfolding on the hillside, I dried my hands.

My rational self quickly tried to take control of the situation – perhaps it was someone from the city utilities department?  But the not-so-rational voice inside my head didn’t for one moment believe it.  Weird stuff was going on up there, for sure.

The stranger continued digging away feverishly around the base of the power tower.  The dirt flew for a few more moments and then stopped.

The stranger knelt down, pulled something from the pocket of his or her coat, and put it in the ground.

What the heck?!  I wondered.

(Actually, my thought cloud contained a different word, but for the sake of the general readership, I won’t use it here.)

A moment later, the shovel was back at work, covering up the evidence.

Fascinated, I continued to watch.


A few moments later,  the stranger got up, swept off the dirt from his or her coat, and walked back to the car at the top of my driveway and got in.  The car reversed out of the driveway and drove away.

In case you’re wondering why didn’t I just go out there and ask what was going on –


well, this is Appalachia and many people in these mountains have guns and I’d heard that on occasion they do actually use them.

And a homeowner interfering with the burying of evidence in her garden just might be such an occasion, I thought….

So in the end, I did nothing until after the stranger had vanished.


Then I climbed up the hill to check out the area around the base of the tower, but apart from some disturbed dirt, nothing else seemed amiss.

Several days later, the phone rang.

It was Laurel, the lovely woman from whom I’d bought the house.  She had purchased it to renovate and re-sell, but had not actually lived in it herself.

We chatted for awhile and then I mentioned the stranger with the shovel.

Oh, that was me!  she laughed.

That was you?  I asked, incredulous.  What on earth were you doing?

Burying crystals, she explained.  It was something I meant to do before you moved in to the house, to protect you.


Concerned about potential negative energies emanating from the large metal power pole, Laurel had handcrafted pieces of orgonite – a mixture of catalyzed fiberglass resin with metal shavings, particles and powders – and buried them around the base.

After a little research, I had a better understanding of her gift.  Orgonite is believed to have positive energy and helps create an electromagnetic-free zone.  Crystals buried pointing away from your own home are thought to help deflect negative energy or transform it into positive energy.


What an incredibly wonderful introduction to life in the Ashevillage.

Ten years later, I am sure it is still there, buried somewhere under all that forsythia and sending out good vibes to the new inhabitants of the house on the hillside.

How an Absurdist Gypsy Folk Funk Punk band and a dog named Cupcake saved the day

As the door opened, I heard a woman’s voice say, “No!  Don’t let the dogs out!”

Strolling in my neighborhood with my own dogs, I turned my head just in time to see two snarling beasts hurling themselves at us from over a stone wall.  And then they were upon us, growling, gnashing, biting.


My Golden Doodle tried to hide all 95 pounds of her frantic self between my legs, but my little guy – a Schnoodle named Bandit – was at jaw level and took the brunt of this unexpected attack. Someone later told me he could hear Bandit’s scream a block away.

A few minutes-that-seemed-like-hours later, the owner was able to get her vicious beasts under control. Shaken, but mostly okay (so I thought), we straggled back home to assess the damages.


Klejne, the Golden Doodle, seemed to have escaped harm but there was  a bloody gash in the grey fur on Bandit’s backside – scary, but hopefully not enough to warrant the expense of a weekend vet visit.

He crept into a dark corner and refused to come out the rest of the day. Not even for meals.


Even in Asheville, bad things can and do happen. What happens in the wake of bad experiences, however, can be interesting.

The first stitch toward mending the upsetting rent in the fabric of the day came, unexpectedly, in the form of another dog –

IMG_6936– a 165 lb Mastiff named Cupcake who was snoozing peacefully in the sun when I happened to pass her by later that afternoon walking down to the market. There were tiny blue ribbons on her ears.

Surprised by the ribbons, I leaned over the fence to ask Cupcake’s owner, Meg – a neighbor I barely knew, for permission to take a few photographs.

Cupcake just got back from the groomer, Meg said, explaining the ribbons. And so began an entirely pleasant conversation that ended with an invitation to stop back by that evening for a house party. Sirius.B, a  popular local band who describe their genre as Absurdist Gypsy Folk Funk Punk, would be there playing a house concert.


Curious to know what Absurdist Gypsy Folk Funk Punk sounded like, I returned later, along with a number of other neighbors.


The day had already improved immeasurably, but concerns over my little Bandit still hovered in my mind. Unsure whether or not his wound needed professional attention, I sought out advice from other dog-owning neighbors between songs.

Meanwhile, the strains of Absurdist Gypsy Folk Funk Punk – like musical incense – floated out beyond Meg’s house, up the block and over to another street, reaching into the ears of a young nurse sitting on her front porch six or seven houses away – a nurse who just happened to be a big fan of the band.


Hearing what she knew right away was the music of Sirius.B, she wandered over to join the little throng enjoying the music inside and outside the house of Cupcake.


When I discovered she was an emergency room nurse, I told her about Bandit’s misfortune. Should I take him to the weekend vet clinic? I asked. By then it was quite late in the evening.

“Let me take a look,” she offered.

Two other neighbors, having heard the story, tagged along on our short walk back to my place, stopping along the way at the nurse’s house for emergency medical supplies.


And that is how, a short while later, the four of us came to be performing a spontaneous Schnoodle triage on my sofa by the light of a handheld iPhone.

This compassionate care by three people who only hours earlier had been complete strangers to me, resulted in a happy and mended little Bandit.

After they left, I watched him snoozing peacefully, thinking of the day’s unexpected kindnesses – the invitation to a house party with great music, meeting new friends and neighbors, the midnight nursing to fix him up –


none of which would have happened but for the luck of encountering a giant Cupcake with little blue ribbons on her ears.

%d bloggers like this: