hometown

We woke up this morning, returned from a quick-as-lightning beach trip, to find a dusting of snow over everything, and sneaky flakes still falling from the sky. Sammy and I slid down the driveway to go for a walk in the early-morning light. We found the last of the zinnias, now just brown props for small caps of snow.

It was a quick walk. I slid over the ice to head up the road, but had to resort to my lack-of-snow-legs by walking in the ditch. Not fun. But we made it to the church, one of my favorite places in my neighborhood. I’ve never been in, but I want to.

We turned around and slip-slide back to the house. No one was around and everyone had their doors shut, window curtains drawn. There was just the wind. It pushed and prodded us back to the house. We climbed up the hill and up the stairs.

Snow clung to my shoes and jeans and I thought about making some tea or a pot of coffee. And the work ahead was easy this morning — fact-checking stories, scrounging around for some ideas, running errands. But Sammy! Always there’s Sammy, the dog on the hunt for a bone. Here, he’s using his doggy mind powers to get me to open the door and go to the treat box. It always works.

It was a happy beginning to a cold, snowy day. I hope yours is a good one, too.

“If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.” ~Milton Berle

Last night, Pat and I went to the Doors of Asheville fundraising event for Mountain Housing Opportunities. Pat works for the organization and a program that helps families build their own affordable housing. He’s working with five families now, and I thought about them at the auction, as people milled about, looking at all the donated artwork, much of it literally paintings on doors. We grabbed a plateful of barbecue and sat down to wait for the auction to begin.

Milton Berle’s quote was on a poster propped up on the edge of the stage, which sat on the same stage where David Earle and the Plowshares ended their performance with a version of “When the Saints Go Marching In” (On another note, I never get tired of watching the Muppet trombone player). It’s the same stage where the auctioneer encouraged and needled and cajoled bidders to up the ante to help fund the organization’s work to make sure people have a safe, affordable place to live in our community.

Some of the doors were amazing, and I wish now that I’d written down the artists’ names for you to go check out. I remember work by Joanna Gollberg Stirling and Jonas Gerard (huh, I wish I could write like he paints) and Ben Betsalel. These people were so generous of their talents to help, I think.

But, of course, they could use more. The fundraiser was a success, but it left me feeling that problems in the economy have dipped into area donors’ pockets pretty hard. To me, that makes affordable housing even more important. If you want to find good organizations supporting housing issues in your own communities, there are lots of places to go. The Directory of National Housing and Homeless Organizations and the National Low Income Housing Coalition can help. When the bidding was over and left the crowded room to go home, I left in love with this quote, the idea of making your own opportunity. It’s an entrepreneurial sprit, of course, one that takes courage and support and belief that it can happen.

We woke up this morning to big, cottony flakes of snow falling on trees that are still shades of red, orange and yellow. So we went to the WNC Farmers Market and bought more apples. Our favorites are Pink Ladies and Cameos (these are Utterlies, I think — as in it’s Utterly ridiculous it’s snowing before Halloween! Speaking of apple names…), which this really nice man and his wife sell in the open sheds behind the fancy stalls with walls and doors and refrigerated cases filled with goats cheese and Amish butter. Oh, Cameo. I know you are not like the old varieties my granddad grafted to the apple trees in their back yard, ones like Early Girl that slip over the tongue like apple syrup. But I love your slightly nubby skin, your crisp bite, your uncertain parentage. I think I would like most anything with those qualities, really.

The gentleman who runs the stall will whip out his pocketknife and cut you off a piece of apple or orange to taste, if you like. He buys them by the box from farmers in Hendersonville, he says. And he’ll keep on slicing the fruit and passing you the little slivers until you taste them all once, twice, three times, even. Then you’ll fill inevitably up your bag, hand him $5 and walk to your car, when he’ll call out, “God bless you.” And even I can’t help but to call back a happy, “You, too!”