Quo Vado?

I ventured to the Blue Ridge Mountains this weekend to spend some time away from the furor that is the office and the malaise that is the house. I had a great driving trip; Vodka (the new car's name) performed well. The most striking part of the trip though was the two dinners I enjoyed. I made it a point of not stopping at a chain for anything more than tea or Diet Coke, so dinner I played by ear.

I arrived in Waynesville on Friday later than I'd planned and went for a 'scenic tour' just to see what was around. Don't ask me how I got to Clyde's - all I know is that Vodka had the only out of state plates in parking lot. It was a diner, in the best sense of the term. From the guy telling people to take a seat where they can find one as they came in to the daily special. I had the Friday Night Fried Chicken Special (they offered a fish too). Oh, my, it's a good thing momma never cooked like that or I'd be 300 pounds instead of 200 pounds. I even licked my fingers. Better than the chicken and the yeast rolls however, was the lemon icebox pie. To die for. Tart and sweet and all around good. I even learned from the ketchup bottle that the foul condiment was "a natural source of the antioxidant Lycopene." [Lesson Learned: Don't take the seat right near the door unless you can handle having strangers watch you eat fried chicken.]

Saturday, I drove around with a purpose never achieved (aiming to go to the Blacksmith Festival in Spruce Pine, somehow ended up in Bat Cave - go figure) and was grateful I'd made reservations at the Old Stone Inn for dinner. As the only solo diner in the room, I did feel a bit lonely as everyone else enjoyed their companions. The food was most excellent. I started the meal out with the New Orleans Style Shrimp. It was just the right amount of spicy to be interesting and not overwhelming. I probably broke a southern dining law or two by eating straight out of serving dish; but, eh, I'm from Indiana. Nerves struck shortly after I ordered the Rack of Lamb - I'm not used to dropping that much on a food I'd never tried before (the agony of eating Bambi and frugalness combined, I'm sure). The lamb was delicious, definitely something I'd order again in the right establishment. Desert provided the icing for a wonderful meal. The White Chocolate Bread Pudding was a bit heavy after such a rich meal; but, I loved every bite. Sadly, for my Mother anyway, I couldn't bring myself to try the zucchini - there are some ruined foods that may never recover from the tortures of my childhood.

So, there were two meals. One upscale the other mainline and I enjoyed them both. That's what I call progress.

I’ll admit to being kind of clueless about many things. I’ll even admit that my practical + lazy attitudes sometimes equate to not understanding why others put in the effort. What I don’t get is why some people living in the Katrina disaster zone feel the need to urge others back to the area.

NPR recently ran a story on Alden McDonald Jr. and how his choice to trust the account holders in the aftermath of the hurricane has helped to fund the rebuilding of the city and those who landed in far flung places. The end of the story reveals McDonald’s future plans.

“McDonald has a plan to contact every single resident on a street, find out what they need to come home, then tap a risk pool and get them the money to rebuild.”

Why does he assume that these people want to come back? How does the horror of the flooding not rip the label of home from the land? The houses in question can be rebuilt; but, after five years nothing in them is salvagable. In modern urban locations our ties to the land are limited by our lack of contact with it. We don’t build our own homes. We don’t grow our own crops.

If it was me, and it was five years after the disaster and I’d not yet chosen to return to the site of my home, I don’t know that I’d ever go back to do much more than visit. It’s a place of memories the present can never come close to matching. I would have worked hard to make a new home. I doubt I could bring myself to move back to a place where the threat of a repeat disaster looms so solidly in the future.