TABLE OF CONTENTS
Issue 1
By Mark Stith
I might be forced to like pokeweed and its rowdy compadres. But not today. The thought is growing on me, however. As if I had a choice. The plants sure as hell are.
A very impressive, 12-foot-tall, multi-trunked pokeweed juts over the rocky edge of a severe (15 degree) slope in my back yard. All that�s missing is a flock of vultures (what DO you call a gathering of vultures? A gaggle? Pall bearers?).
Which leads me to the Yen and Yank of Gardening. Here�s a list of plants I yank, then a list of plants I yen. Plants with an asterisk on the Yank roster indicate a potential, conditional acceptance. Keep in mind the definition of a weed: a plant out of place. Roses, for example, just aren�t appropriate at the top of Mount Mitchell on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
By Virgil Adams
It took me 80 years to discover why I am a successful, happy gardener. I concentrated too long on what to plant, when to plant, where to plan, and how to plant. Those are the easy questions. The answers are as close as books, magazines, neighbors, and the local representative (county agent) of your state�s agricultural college.
But why garden? That�s the starting point, the bottom line, the nagging question. You don�t find that answer in any book. The reason why is buried deep within the soul. It is spiritual, and more than anything else distinguishes a real gardener � or a real anything � from somebody who just plays around.
So the first step is figuring out why you were downloaded in the first place. You must have been put here for a reason � perhaps several reasons. If one of those reasons for being here is to become a happy, successful gardener � and you know that � you are on your way to becoming a successful, happy gardener.
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ONE SIZZLING ADVENTURE-NOVICE COOK TACKLES A SOUTHERN CLASSIC
By Emily Battle
Fried chicken haunted me for a while.
Ever since I had moved to Fredericksburg, Virginia, where Bojangles is a little harder to find than in my childhood home of North Carolina, the urge to try my hand at this Southern classic had tugged at me.
The problem is, the thought of cooking fried chicken brings to mind a certain desire to groan and say, "Oh, to heck with it."
I can remember my mother-who makes great fried chicken-carefully lining her stovetop with aluminum foil, cutting up brown paper bags and closing all doors leading from the kitchen to the rest of the house (not to mention putting our cat out for the entire day) before attempting such a feat.
PUT A LITTLE MORAVIAN SPICE INTO YOUR HOLIDAY TABLE
By Emily Battle
Buttery crumbles of brown sugary goodness.
That's all I could think of as I stood there, leafing through a cookbook in my local public library, suddenly confronted with one of my all-time favorite holiday sweet things.
The book was Bill Neal's Southern Cooking, written by the late Chapel Hill chef and restaurateur, and the recipe was for Moravian sugar cake, a holiday staple and go-to gift for out-of-towners for my family and countless others in Winston-Salem, N.C., where I grew up.
As a brief history lesson, Winston and Salem were originally two towns. Winston was an industrial center named for a Revolutionary War hero, and the place where tobacco giant Richard Joshua Reynolds chose to build his empire. Salem was a small village and religious center settled by Moravians who had migrated down from Pennsylvania.
EMILY'S STORY. . . SO I'M PREGNANT. DO YOU MIND
By Emily Meade Strong
A wife, mother of two and daughter of aging parents suffering from Alzheimer�s disease, Emily Meade Strong unequally divides her time between taking care of everyone else and writing about her Southern life and Appalachian roots.
I�ve spent an hour getting ready before the babysitter arrived. Sixty minutes any mom of a newborn does not have to steal from her precious baby or the possibility of (gasp!) sleep. I feel the normal guilt for doing so, but I�m glad I took the time.�
As I look in the mirror, I see that my reflection resembles my mother�s. This is not a bad thing.� She always put me first, but never took care of herself.� I distinctly remember her mommy uniform- a red patchwork housedress she wore for about three years. I don�t want to wear the same sweatpants every day until my son is in preschool!�
Inside I�m screaming (can�t really scream or I�ll wake the baby) at my reflection, �I AM NOT MY MOTHER!�� Not today.�
By Mark Stith
Editor�s prologue: The following recollection took place during the summer of 1991, when I was a staff writer for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Dan Franklin, who passed away in 2004, was a friend of mine. Dan was a well-known landscape architect based in Atlanta. Dan was passionate about preserving and celebrating the South�s rich collection of historic public gardens through his membership in the Southern Garden History Society. Read more about this group in the attached box and how you can join.
�Mark, this is Dan Franklin,� the voice on the phone drawls out my name. �How the hell are you?� I instantly recognize his sharp tone, softened a bit with his southern accent, like a scotch and soda. Whenever Dan calls, the topic is going to be good. Or bad. Dan has opinions, and doesn�t call me to pass the time.� He�s up to something.
By Mark Stith
Finally, summer�s sweltering heat seems to be releasing its chokehold on the countryside. Which means I can go out in the garden for longer than a couple of minutes without feeling the immediate symptoms of heat exhaustion. Rains have been plentiful in my neck of the woods (did you know that October is typically the driest month of the year?). My, how things have grown.
I have a friend who doesn�t like morning glories at all. �Too messy for my garden,� he says, with a condescending sniff. I just don�t understand. To me, it�s like someone not liking puppies or babies.
They are more than welcome at my place. Yes, they crawl up almost anything and anywhere. Yes, some people consider them weeds. If these same people see morning glories late in the day, when the flowers have fizzled, I see their point.
By Mark Stith
Most people don�t appreciate the awesome beauty of early autumn. Yes, no contest, fall�s foliar fireworks outshines this late season display. It�s a hard public relations effort- like a little-known holiday before the fourth of July, or the sermon before Easter Sunday. Who�s going to get the family and the flags together and get in the car for THAT?
You should. Indian summer, early autumn - call it what you will - busts out with brilliant flowers, bright berries, and the first flickers of leaf color that signal the beginning of the end.
By Melissa Bigner
A contributing editor at Charleston and Charleston HOME magazines, Melissa Bigner covers the Lowcountry for several national magazines and travel guides. A former staffer at Time Inc. magazines, she has also published books with TLC and HGTV.
Charleston, with its 200-plus-year old churches, cobblestone streets, palmetto-besot waterfront, and scores of restored antebellum monoliths, is truly the jewel in South Carolina�s sweetgrass crown. But as with most rare gems, she comes with price tag that can get the best of any admirer. To sneak a peek without losing your shirt, here�s how to sample the steals and deals the city graciously offers to all fans in-the-know.
NOTE: For up-to-the-second prices, call or visit featured spots online.
THEROAD LESS TAKEN: THE CHEROHALA HIGHWAY
By Mark Stith
Take a road trip to this scenic two-lane curling through the NC/TN mountains.
The Cherohala Skyway might be the best drive-per-mile in the entire Appalachian mountain range between Tennessee and North Carolina. Yes, we�re including the Blue Ridge Parkway and all of the routes snaking through the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
