The fun thing about moving to a new place is watching it unfold before your eyes. The first day you come, you learn a street (maybe two). By the end of the first week, you can find your grocery store and where you work/study. By the end of the first month, you also know some extra things, like “Where’s the nearest big-box store that I can buy hangers and stock up on cheap deodorant?” And after that, you start to add the fun details: good place to go for walk (Wilson Park!) good place to see a show (Lab! Theatre– last night 7 or 8 of my fellow Grad-Span colleagues and I went to see La Casa de Bernarda Alba-UNC’s first bilingual production!), etc.
A few weeks ago, I saw this sign. I was intrigued; who doesn’t want a craft fair and HOT DOGS. (Goes together like chocolate and dust bunnies-one is good, one is nastay!) R. and I explored Carrboro’s art festival earlier this month; it was only suitable to continue exploring today. So, K. and I made our way there.
We first met D.: the chatty potter. It was 45 degrees when we left the house and yet jolly D. was posted up with his pottery wheel and invited us to play! K. went first and then I had my hand. If I had time and money, I would take a pottery class. It’s got the messiness of cooking and the meditativeness of sewing. Excellent!
Then, we walked inside the civic club and it was a time warp! The first woman we met explained the story of the civic club-it was like the more homely version of that famous southern women’s club (what is it called?!). Apparently, when the mill left the town, these women took charge to beautify the area and planted all of Carrboro’s crepe myrtles.
The real hoot was Virginia. She sold little delicate earrings that she made and silk ball ornaments (like the kind your grandmother had on her Christmas tree). V. told us she moved to Carrboro two years ago, when she was 89. The best story was how she made her porcupine earrings (made from REAL porcupine needles). She said she’d gone to Alaska and they sold porcupine needles as fish hooks-something like 12 for $5. That was just too much for Miss V., so she took matters into her own hands. Literally. She found some “road kill” (her own words!) and got some leather gloves and started pluckin’ (Speaking of her friend: “It was beneath her to do it, but not me. I just put on my gloves and did it.”) And I’ll be darned if she didn’t soak those needles in Clorox and make earrings out of them.
To top off meeting V. and hearing the story of the civic club, a woman came around and offered us homemade pimento cheese on a Ritz cracker. They just don’t make ’em like this anymore!
K. and I continue our stroll to the farmer’s market. When I told the honey guy I had honey every morning, he said, “How?!” “On toast with PB.” “Oh. Who’s your beekeeper?” I loved that line. Just because I love honey, I should know my beekeeper. Have no fear, Charlie. My next jar will be from you!