my nativity story

I began reading my daily intake of blogs and came across Nicki's Story. 

I first met Nicki Salcedo many years ago at a Georgia Romance Writers' meeting in Norcross. We were very much the same in that we loved words and writing and dreamed of being published, pages overflowing with magic and romance. Soon, we found ourselves in a writing class taught by Nancy Knight (amazing lady, I must add) at the Art Station in Stone Mountain. Reading aloud our weekly assignments, it didn't take me long to realize that Nicki's gift was special and that it was only a matter of time. No question about it. Her first novel will be published in 2013. Blessings.

And that brings me back to her blog and my inspiration . . .

Everyone has a nativity story, a story of birth, of life. For me, there was truly no room in the Inn.

My mother had gone through this before, and it had ended tragically. The next time, she imagined, would be different - circumstances that would center around marriage and a home, an ending that would include life.

She was a few years older yet only one year past her teens. In between days working at the broom factory, she day-dreamed of escaping the tiny north Georgia town for a more romantic world. It was the 1958 Christmas season that introduced her to Dave, a Navy man, and it was as if he flipped a switch. The New Year's Eve party rivaled any tales coming from the big city. The Commercial Hotel, Cornelia's Waldorf, overflowed with beautiful women, elegant men and endless champagne. The songs, the dancing, the dawn of morning. Don't ever let this end, she must have pleaded. Precious time faded, and the good-byes morphed into heart-felt promises, to rest in each others arms until it was his time to ship out. He would return.

These memories held her within that moment, and dreams of their reunion gave her stock in a tomorrow. She waited, and as she did, changes began to happen. She was a little more moody, a little more uneasy, and the signs told a story that would unfold over the next few months. Still, no word from Dave. The two short weeks together were now her catalyst for breathing and the subject of her prayers each night. Although there had been others, he was her first.

Days turned into weeks, turned into months. The baby was coming, but Dave was not.

There was a broom factory worker who knew of an older couple who dreamed of a child. And with pressure from her mother to give away the disgrace, she agreed to a meeting and a beginning to the end. The transaction was simple, the legal documents were few, and in October, a baby was born. The baby traveled to the opposite end of the county, and the birth mother went home to her mother and routine days at the broom factory.

I'm not sure this is how it unfolded, but for the most part, spot on. The older couple are my parents, now long gone, but forever the ones who made room for me.

We all have moments that define us. A chance meeting. A heavenly message. A baby's touch. Those that transform and transfer us to a more befitting place. As with most things in life, they rarely happen as we think they should. There are disappointments, sharp turns.  People come, and they go. Rarely is anything black and white. But then, suddenly, as the angels proclaimed, the colors fade into one another, and in the clearing, there's wise men, angels, a heavenly host, and best of all, a star. 

The only thing I have that belonged to my birth mother - a jewelry box given to her by Dave, a few meaningless trinkets, and my birth bracelet - the only thing she had that once belonged to me.  

we're all different

It was errand Wednesday and grocery store time.

I was killing time during my pharmacy wait, so I went down every aisle. I'm one of those women you hate - one who likes to meander around, look for the unusual and read labels. Looking for something besides the same-ole, same-ole. I moved down the condiment row and ahead of me was a woman with two small children. One at her legs, babbling about something and blowing on the pinwheel his mother had handed him, simply for entertainment, not to take home. As they passed, I noticed her seven or eight year old boy lingering behind, looking and touching the salad dressing bottles. When he saw me watching, he quickly scooted by me joining his mother. I looked to the left where he had been, and I noticed his fascination. He had turned every bottle - three rows deep, 10 bottles wide - backwards. I smiled. I'm sure the Publix folks would not.

Then I thought of the Connecticut children and parents. The moments parents will miss . . .

saying a million times No to the cereal with tons of sugar . . .
popping small hands that must touch every box on the shelf . . .
ignoring the fits of the tiniest who don't understand you just can't have everything you want . . .

or
the contagious smile of a child just handed a warm cookie . . .
the entertaining games with the one sitting in the cart seat . . .
the company of a child who makes the most mundane of errands fun.

So much left undone.

I thought of the teachers, too.

It's not a far stretch, really, for teachers to refer to their students as their kids. I did it for twenty years. They belonged to me as much as they belonged to their parents. I spent countless days with them, loving them, molding them, encouraging them, and changing them. Of course, they were mine.

I'm sure every teacher in America has put themselves in those Sandy Hook classrooms.

I remember the drills, walk quickly to the door, look out, assess the situation, close the door, lock the door, turn off the lights, get the kids to a corner, wait and pray. Each time, most of my heart and mind felt it would never happen, but there was a tiny spec that wondered when and could I do this. Thank God, I never had to do that with fear on the other side.

I can assure you, those teachers were ready. They were terrified, but they were ready. They held their children tightly, waited and prayed.

I am thankful for a life with my children and my students. I am a different woman because of those times. We are all different people because of Sandy Hook.

Matthew 11:25-30
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

my affair is over

My love affair is over. There, I said it, and saying the word makes it a bona fide fact. I have fought it for the last year, tried to gloss over this possibility, willing passion to embrace me and turn my thoughts away from inevitability. Although common sense tells me it's time to let go, my human frailty gives in to socialistic norms and I find myself salivating again. Opening the door again, ogling the object of my affection, and then . . . squeeze! It's hurts too much.

I am leaving you, my love. Those pumps with pointy toes balancing on three inch spikes (short by today's standards), those chunky wider flavors that catapulted me into mid-air, those mules with no back that never really made sense, those heavenly stilettos that transformed my stumpy legs into seven-foot Victoria Secret limbs, those heels that I could slip on and slip right onto a Sex and the City set. My diva days have come to an end - a sad, but necessary end.

It's time to move past those stately twigs right toward versatile flat shoes with cushioned beds (I refuse to say orthopedic), sandals offering control and balance, possibly a saddle oxford in a trend-setting color or a casual boot with a quickie tie. Maybe, if a little vamp is required, a kitten heel or a peep toe. I can push the envelope if persuaded. No more, come do me shoes. Now, it's come never mind me shoes.

My feet and my knees are screaming, and I must heed. I give up. In 2013, I will turn over a new leaf and another shoe box.

However, I still believe in the compelling words of Manolo Blahnik, "You put high heels on and you change." In the desperate words of SATC's Carrie, "I needed those!" And from anonymous (how ironic), the most inspiring of all: "A pair of shoes can change your life. Just ask Cinderella." I rest my case.

So, if you're a size 9 and want to increase your shoe wardrobe, drop me a line. Force me to let go. My love affair may be over, but no one says yours has to be.

a quilt's power

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”   
~ L.M. Montgomery, The Story Girl

                On the back of my desk chair hangs my mama's unfinished quilt. I have always called it Smiley. Each hand sewn stitch, each faded color was touched by her fingers, arranged by her heart. At the end of the day, she traded farm work for therapy time, picking up the patchwork she kept in a basket that sat at her feet. She would stitch until her eyes would tire, and then she would place it lovingly in the basket and return to it the next evening. And when she finished one, she'd begin another with the help of her prayer group who just happened to love quilting as much as she did.

                She worked on it this one right up until the day she died. The squares were arranged and bound, but the bunting assuring bulk and warmth was never attached.

                The kaleidoscope of 2" x 2" squares paints pictures and whispers stories of the dresses she and I wore. I remember this magnificently cool orange white polka-dotted dress, perfect for a shy thirteen-year-old who was dying to be noticed. It wasn't so much the dress but the smiley face  J zipper pull that lay on my chest. It went way past the ordinary and bordered on fashion, quite an achievement for a girl with a closet full of homemade dresses. I rushed mama to finish it for my youth choir concert at church that summer, and in my mind, I was as lovely as I had ever been, me and my long straight hair and my smiley-face pull. And, I was noticed which made mama’s efforts even more grand.

                It’s hard to imagine that quilting today, although still quite primitive in concept, is married to technology just as conversation, canning or bread making. There’s a machine for a particular stitch, one to fashion big quilts, small quilts and all those in-between. And I suspect that the thimble – which mama never quilted without – is not necessary anymore. Now the machine does the tedious work where one’s eyes and fingers once struggled each stitch of the way. And this rotary cutter contraption – taking the place of scissors? This would have saved many fights between mama and me.

                After meeting many twenty-first century quilters, I realized that although the process has evolved, the reasoning behind the craft has not. It’s about memories, of stories, of conservation, of using every scrap, of not throwing anything away, of passing down this tradition to future generations. Quilting becomes a story of ingenuity, creativity and resourcefulness, one that must live on.

                Today, in my very simple country home, I drape quilts of varied designs over my sofa and chairs. I reach for them to chase the chill, but more often, to revisit the past. I can trace the stitches that mama pulled and tugged, wear those dresses again (although I dare question why) or snuggle and get lost in a memory.  I keep Smiley near me not because it keeps me warmer but because it keeps mama closer. Some squares have pulled away from its neighbor and snags have been the result of time. It's never seen the inside of a washing machine or felt cool waters. It smells and feels the same way it did the last time she worked on it. That comforts me.

                I suspect one day I’ll finish Smiley. I’ll take out my needle and thimble and finish what my mama started. I'll give it to my children in hopes that they will realize they hold in their hands the story of two generations.

                As the days get cooler and they require more cover, reach for a memory, snuggle and prepare the soul for a new year, a new beginning. Remember what the past has taught and allow it to light the way.   

The Editor's Pen, Winter 2012. Printed in the winter issue of Georgia Connector Magazine. Read the entire issue at www.georgiaconnector.com. 

a slice of cake

There were only three of us for the holidays - me, mama and daddy. In fact, it was always just the three of us. And that was just fine by me. 

As each year came to a close and the north Georgia mountains took on its icy glaze, I was certain of a few things. 

First, it was time to kill the hog, and that meant, all the fresh sausage I could hold. Biscuits and thick, bubbly sausage gravy with tidbits of meat weighing it down as only mama could make. Daddy preferred the red-eye gravy, and mama would make it for him. I would turn up my nose and reach for the creamy goo instead. 

Then, there were fried pies. In the fall, mama would dry the apples on tattered, discarded front door screens. After a few days, she would gather, then freeze them in the little quart boxes for a winter treat. I couldn't stand it. Inevitably, within a couple of weeks of stacking the boxes neatly in calculated rows in the freezer, I would drag out a box and beg for fried pies. She'd roll out a dough, cut it hap-haphazardly, stuff it with cooked apples, and with bubbling oil in the iron skillet, she'd drop them in. I'd hold my breath until I finally saw the edges turning brown. She would scoop each ready one onto a towel and simultaneously give me the evil eye. I had to wait. Not long, but I still had to wait. Finally, she'd nod and I'd grab. The taste of that first bite would hold me all winter.

Finally, her orange slice cake. We hated fruit cakes, but there was something about this cake - even though it had most of the same ingredients - that had the perfect crunch, the perfect flavor. I honestly can't remember taking part in the baking, but I do remember the moment she took it out of the oven. She'd pour the glaze onto the steaming cake, and it inhaled the orange juice mixture. I'd watch puddles form on the plate, and it took all the strength in me not to run my finger around the plate's edge. Again, it was the evil eye. 

For those fruit cake haters, here's a variation that just might turn into a tradition. A couple of things to keep in mind: it takes forever to cook and it weighs a ton. As for the evil eye, you will have to work on that one yourself. 

Juette's Orange Slice Cake

For the cake: 

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup buttermilk
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 (12-ounce) box dried dates, chopped
1 pound orange slice candies, chopped
2 cups pecans, chopped
1/2 cup flour for dredging
2 cups sweetened coconut flakes

For the glaze:

2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup orange juice

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Grease and flour a tube pan.

For the cake: In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar together until fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. In a separate bowl, dissolve baking soda in buttermilk. Add flour to butter mixture alternating with the buttermilk mixture, beginning and ending with flour. In another bowl, toss dates, nuts and chopped orange slices in 1/2 cup flour until coated. Stir in coconut until well-combined. Add to batter and mix until well combined.
Bake in a prepared pan for about 2 hours or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.

For the glaze: Meanwhile, combine powdered sugar and orange juice in a small bowl until smooth. Remove cake from pan and cool cake completely. Drizzle glaze over cake. Or, when cake comes out of the oven, use a toothpick to poke holes and pour glaze on cake. Let cake stand in tube pan overnight before inverting. 

traveling full circle

Gone November 16, 2012

Can it be? No more Twinkies? No more Ho Ho's? Why do all the things that we love - and cake and goo are at the top of love list - disappear and fade away? Albeit greed, in my opinion, that erased this icon from the grocery store shelves, it seems to be following the lead of most everything in life.

My daughter's new do.

What became of the classics? The Huckleberry Finns and the Tom Sawyers replaced with vampires and werewolves? The Louis Vuitton Speedy or a string of glass pearls fall behind Juicy or Vera Wang? The classic and sleek bob has been replaced by mountains of gel and long locks trimmed in green (I know the picture is side-ways. It doesn't look any better the other way.). My grip of reality is slowing slipping.

It's those things that are steadfast, consistent, resilient, that we come to appreciate most of all. We know that in the morning we'll wake up and there will be coffee brewing in the kitchen, the cat will be cuddled on my legs, and my slippers will be just a leg drop away. This assurance, I suppose, is something we all take for granted until the world turns on its axis rather unexpectedly. I don't like it when this happens. I like to know that if I eat my black-eyed peas on New Years, I will definitely accumulate thousands of pennies during the coming year. This is so. I have a waist deep plastic cola-cola shaped container that holds mountains of concrete proof from 2012. See, I ate my peas and I have pennies.

I guess everything comes full circle. Things begin with contagious hope, run their course, and then in the whirl-wind of life, they lose a bit of steam after they have given it all they've got, they slow down and bow out with a graceful good-bye. With lots of successes, lots of memories and lots of stories.

Those stories - of a life cycle well traveled - are those I want to tell and record. There are people and places and things that must not be forgotten. Like, the normalcy I felt when mama opted for my first store-bought dress instead of a hand-made one. The teenage tears that poured upon cutting my waist long hair up to my shoulders. Touching my children for the first time. Holding my breath as the gavel fell.

Tell me your story, so I can tell your story. I am looking for those who have lived a long life, those that have wisdom and advice that should not fade away. Stories of hardship and triumph, war heroes who went to war and those who waited at home, lovers, dreamers, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. I want to find you. Help me find you.

My full circle journey begins now, and I'm proud you're going with me. The website will be launched the first of the year and you'll get to meet some great people that will change your life. In the meantime, please help me find the stories before they fade.

Contact me at seeingsouthern@gmail.com. 

from farmington to sydney

"Oh, no mama. That's awful. You have a million just like that in your closet."

I couldn't decide what was worse, that I had a million in my closet or that it was awful.

I peered at my avant-garde daughter, raised my eyebrows and contemplated her signature move of rolling my eyes.

She continued on her persuasive course.

"Mom, you have to think outside the box," she pressured. Her fingers tripped through the endless TJMaxx shirt selection, and stopped at a red fixation. "See, like this." I looked at the tiered, paper-thin drape sequined excuse for a shirt she held in her hands and then, as if touching it would convince me, she pressed it to my chest. "Nice," she said.

"Are you kidding?" I replied. I took a second look at the classic white v-neck long sleeve t-shirt I held in my left hand and stared into her big baby browns. "Sold." I'm a Diane Keaton-Annie Hall wannabe, and that will always trump what lives outside the box.

I miss deal-discovery at discount stores. No matter how wrong you are about my style, my heart dances each time you try to convince me that somewhere inside me lives a twenty-something. I miss large frappuccinos and tall caramel macchiatos. I think we're more like friends than mother and daughter, and I know that is what sucks the most about distance. I miss road rage in the green bean. All mothers understand that somewhere down the line, your baby will break free and find other characters that will take center stage. There will be other acts and other performances, most that will not include me in the cast. 

But as far as friends go, I want those forever. I shouldn't have to say goodbye to anyone, child or otherwise, that ever called herself a friend. Time. Geography. Craziness. I've had many sidekicks that have involuntarily said good-bye simply because that's the direction life took them. It made sense on the outside, but never on the inside. Their absence was like one of those paper cuts that you never knew existed until you accidentally spritzed the spot with perfume.

It's my best friend that has ducked away now and that is who I miss the most. There's not even a phone that can satisfy the void. You had to go to the other side of the world where civilization is questionable at best and phone plans set you back the cost of a kidney. Whoever invented Skype is my hero, right along side the man who invented post-its. There's genius in simplicity and economy.

Daughters can be best friends. I had no clue that would be the scenario when I first wrapped you in grandma's crocheted blanket. You were just a tiding of great joy, one that I would learn would stretch my patience and my love to infinite boundaries.

So, go, dip into the aborigines society or whatever that Aussie world calls itself. Just don't turn into one.

Remember these updates from your best friend: you are Southern to the core - ain't no such word as mum; no matter what color you choose to put on your hair, you are and will always be blonde; Silas runs circles around Cody, and then Cody runs circles around Silas; I make a mean Brioche French Bread Pudding now; Len jets to work in the green bean and is living his second childhood; Logan misses you more than he can put into words; Ty needs a push into flying; Colquitt is as dangerous as ever; Bear lifts his head when he hears you on Skype; photography and writing rock; and there's never a sunrise on Mayne when I don't think of you.

So until it's time to come home or until the VISA runs out, whichever rolls around first, take care of yourself and follow your dreams.

The mama in me says "use your common sense"; the friend in me roars "kick ass!"

53 from the heart

October, 2012, signals my 53rd year. Humbling, I know. I have learned many truths during this sprint. My thankful list is long overdue.

1. I get to work at home, at my desk - surrounded by the things I love most - every single day.
2. He's the last sight at night, and my first sight each morning - the glory of second chances.
3. My children are living their dreams, not mine.
4. I can walk on two feet again.
5. My husband pushes me to follow my dreams.
6. Bear keeps me company while I sit at my desk. He never complains when I get to sip tea and he doesn't.
7.I have learned to make the perfect meatball.
8.When I'm thrust back into my past for a brief second, I'm so thankful I'm not living there.
9. I can make as many pots of coffee a day as I like, and every cup is mine.
10. God never left me.
11. Ty has figured out that the truly important things might take a wee bit longer to accomplish.
12. I had the best mama and daddy ever.
13. My mama taught me how to make homemade applesauce, sauerkraut and cat-head biscuits.
14. I finally get that doing the right thing is the only option.
15. God saw something in me worth saving.
16. My husband can do all those things that you normally have to pay repairman a ton to fix.
17. I made several steps toward squashing fear this year - small steps, but they're a start.
18. I have put most of the events in my life in perspective and left most of them in their proper place.
19. My ipod and all the Barry Manilow and Blake Shelton I can stand.
20. I can finally say I'm half-Italian.
21. My daughter actually likes to hang out with me - that is when she's in the same zip code.
22. Logan still hugs me - always.
23. I can laugh about the really sad things.
24. I have three sisters.
25. Thoreau got it right: simplicity.
26. I get to meet amazing people and become their storyteller.
27. I have a really cool boss who lets me vent and rant and write.
28. I have a horse (JACK) with a sense of humor.
29. My children transcended what fate threw at them and knocked it out of the park.
30. Sorry Thomas, but you can go home again - and I will.
31. I have a few good friends that have stood the test of time - and really, that's all you need.
32. I started life all over again - on my terms.
33. Dreams are freakin' amazing, and I will never stop - so there.
34. Starbucks still makes me think of New York City - and I close my eyes and travel there.
35. Mama's words teach me just as daddy's image on the sofa comforts me.
36. I'm not superficial.
37. I can still hold books and magazines in my hands.
38. As hard as it was, forgiveness allowed me to get on with living.
39. At long last, I don't really care what others think of me.
40. Not only can I make a fine meatball, but I make a killer homemade pizza. See, half-Italian.
41. I enjoy TV, my husband and quiet evenings. Not always in that order.
42. I grew up in Clarkesville, Georgia, a truly authentic Southern town.
43. I get to travel the world over and still ohh and ahh.
44. I went through the adoption process, opened records and finally understood.
45. I let go.
46. Sweetwater Brewery makes tasty liquids.
47.  My children still want to come home.
48. They do make cute shoes for old women - you just have to dig.
49. My daughter's unending advice: outside the box, mom. It's soooo hard.
50. I got to traipse through many cornfields with my daddy and go into the woods shopping for Christmas trees. How many kids can say that.
51. I have a front porch with rockers and that's where I go to do my best thinking.
52. I fell in love for the last time.
53. I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

you gotta have friends

It's like a cool drink on a scorching summer day. The refreshment, the rejuvenation, the joy. Squeezing the stuffing out of an old friend erases time and distance, and it is just like it was yesterday. We tooled around Habersham County in a bright red Pinto daring the world to interrupt. It never did. It knew better.

That was me and my bestest friend, Susan.

It has been 15 years since last eye contact. Almost 25 years since we were freshman roommates at Truett - both purchasing the same sheets for our dorm room beds and not knowing until we made them up. More since the day bat-welding Bianca  - aka Shittenbarger - chased me through the campus street threatening bodily harm. More since those afternoons after school on the pinnacle of the golf course with Rowena, Susan's mom. More since the days of hearing Hubert's, Susan's dad, silly giggles. More since the days of Acteens and "steps" and a 16th birthday party in my daddy's '48 Chevy and sneaking alongside the gray bomb to get in the Cornelia drive-in - free. Even more since the days of Brenda's pea green Mustang called Henry and rolling yards and Brenda's wearing of cotton underwear on her head to keep her hair manageable during sleep. And the pepper in the pillowcase at Rock Eagle. Oh my, the pepper in the pillowcase. I plead the 5th!

These memories keep me alive and moving forward, simply in the hopes that, when I least expect it,  I'll be able to relive them again in a small bistro in Asheville. As I get older, true friends are harder to come by. The daily walk of life leads relationships in different directions and life sets the new priorities, a fact that I detest, but one I must accept. I give thanks for these moments and realize I was, and continue to be, one very lucky girl.

my state of euphoria

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step - or should a say, the first mile begins in a little green jeep heading north on I-85 toward Greenville.

A night at The Bohemian with jazz trumpeter Mark Rapp.

Euphoria 2012. The name says it all. You know the moment your mind and mouth fuse with that first bite of chocolate, how your eyes close and the world slows down to a crawl, and an "ah" escapes. I have experienced a four-day continuous "ah".

Euphoria Greenville is the brainchild of Edwin McCain, singer, songwriter and hometown boy. In its 7th year, its gets better and better, adding more and more events to drive some four-or-five thousand visitors to the city. Trust me, there's no persuasion needed to encourage attendance. Calendars are marked a year in advance, and by the last event of the weekend, somber faces replace the electric smiles simply because the love fest is over and the wait begins for next year.

Edwin McCain lights up the stage on Friday night

Everyone involved, from the chefs to the mixologists to the attendees, are in the middle of a red-hot love affair with Greenville. For a moment, forget the event; it's the allure of Main Street showcasing over 100 exclusive restaurants plus a variety of stops including a cupcake heaven, a beer distillery and the local favorite pine-floored Mast General Store. There's the Liberty Bridge, the Andrew Wyeth collection at the Greenville County Museum of Art, Falls Park and a few miles up the road, Perdue's Fruit Farm where the varieties of fresh fruits and homemade creations are only limited by your imagination.

My favorite moments and tastes? Soby's Crab Cakes at the Jazz Sunday Brunch. Row Eleven's Stratton Lummis "The Riddler" Lot 2 at the Saturday Breakwater hosted dinner. Virginia ham carved by Restaurant Eugene (Atlanta) executive chef Linton Hopkins (named best chef in the Southeast 2012). Experiencing jazz trumpeter Mark Rapp, live! The soulful sounds of Edwin McCain and tearing up to "Walk with me." Meeting the real Ale Sharpton! Evan Williams bourbon. Endless Sweetwater. Goat Cheese Panna Cotta by Chef David Guas of Bayou Bakery in Arlington, Va. My "ahs" continue four days later...

Taste of the South at the Wyche Pavilion in downtown along the Reedy River.

Enjoy these photos and mark your calender for next year's event: September 26-29. It's so close, I can taste it . . . :)

Young Tiller takes the stage with daddy.

Atlanta's Ale Sharpton leads the beer panel at the Jazz Brunch.

Sunday Supper at the Wyche Pavilion

Decor by Epting Events, Athens, Ga.

A honey tasting at the Jazz Brunch.

Mark Rapp and Didgeridoo at The Bohemian Cafe.

Edwin McCain at The Peace Center.

A stroll down Main Street, Greenville.

Mark Rapp high-fives his youngest groupie.

Judges jump in at the Culinary Cook-Off.

Nose Dive chef Joey Pearson.

The finale at Sunday Supper.