AB1 Tour 2014 - Week 11 - Charlotte, SC and Tryon, NC

We watched the Hobo's fire.

Neil Patrick Harris as Hedwig at the Tony's

On Sunday, June 8, we raced on, this time from Atlanta to the RV park in Forest City, a distant suburb of Charlotte, NC, in order to set up camp on time and then tune in for Broadway’s version of the Academy Awards, “The Tony Awards.” The diminutive campground did not have a Tony Awards party as we had hoped; all we could find were four guys and a gal sitting around a garbage-can campfire seeing who could grow the longest cigarette ash. Hope your party was better than ours.
     

This week’s part of our seven-month odyssey was supposed to be mostly about Charlotte with a day-trip to Tryon, NC, a noted resort area a half-hour away, to visit with Rosemary Pleune, a first-cousin of Diedre’s mother Barty. We figured Rosemary would have a lot of her own stuff going on, so we only planned on a day. But as it turned out, this plucky, sharp-as-a-tack 93-year old was up for doing whatever we wanted to do and for as many days as we wanted. She was a riot. We ended up spending a great deal of our week in Tryon and loving it.
     The next day, we had a lovely lunch with Rosemary and Bob, her close friend and neighbor, at their retirement community. 
We then went off on our own to walk the town. This one was a bit smaller than most of the town-walking-tours we’re accustomed to, but we still enjoyed the sites. We strolled over to the oversized symbol of the town, the famous children’s toy, “The Tryon Horse.” Then, a short distance away was a small park dedicated to “The High Priestess of Soul,” Nina Simone. There is a wonderful, life-sized bronze sculpture of Nina sitting at a piano. 
     From there, we stopped by the town’s old movie house to take in a World War II flick we had figured was long gone out of theaters. “The Railroad Man” was just excellent, and the theatre even served beer, only you had to walk outside and use the separate entrance to the balcony (originally built during segregation when blacks could only sit upstairs) to get your beer from the projectionist in the projection room. A different approach to concessions, but what the heck, this place had it all.
     Tuesday was our day to go to Charlotte , a.k.a. “The Queen City,” which is the second largest financial center in the country. Who knew? We planned to walk around a bit and then catch a ball game. We did just that, only the order got switched.
     On the previous day, the interweb had informed us that the Charlotte Knights, a AAA affiliate of the Chicago White Sox, would be playing Tuesday NIGHT. But when I picked up a newspaper the next morning, the sports section had in print that today’s game would be a DAY game starting at noon. That put a bee in our bonnet. With Charlotte a good hour away, we raced through breakfast and then took off for the ballpark. Fortunately, we got there with time to spare.
     The Knights play in a marvelous, two-month old stadium in the heart of the city. Since this would NOT be a night game, we changed our usual ticketing choice. Instead of front row seats, we opted to buy something up a bit higher in the grandstand in order to be in the shade when the sun hit 90 that day. We got the fourth row from the top, but it was the last row of shade on that very sunny afternoon.
     As the game progressed, we slowly got closer to the field, not because we had somehow magically upgraded our seats, but more because of the dreaded “two-footed-seat-kickers.” First, two bored kids tried to combat their ennui by kicking the backs of our seats to the tune of “The William Tell Overture.”
     So, we moved down a row. The shade moved with us the next inning.
     Sure enough, as soon as we left those seats, a Little League coach with seven 10-year old boys moved into the vacant seats right behind us. They were in OUR seats! The kicking started again, this time in a more “new wave” beat than classical. Getting fed up, I mustered up the nerve to ask the coach to tell them to cut it out. He acquiesced, but as you might guess, that lasted two minutes, tops.
     So … we moved down yet another row. And of course, the instant we moved, the coach and his Little Leaguers up and left.
     Huh?!  

Our mobile ticket-seating stopped there, thankfully. We turned our attention back to the field where the Knights were being absolutely trounced by the Columbus Clippers. Note well: Clipper first-baseman Jesus Aguilar is a player to watch in the future. He clouted two monstrous three-run homers and reached base two other times to lead the Clips. Columbus as a whole was on fire. Eight of their nine starters each had at least two hits. The hapless Knights made it exciting for a moment during the second inning when they hit back-to-back home runs; unfortunately, the Baby White Sox only garnered one other base-hit the entire game while striking out eight times.
     Final score: Columbus-14, Charlotte-2.
     Being a bit worn out by the seat moving and the day’s intense heat, we abbreviated our walking tour of Charlotte, wanting to avoid the awful rush-hour traffic we would run into if we did the entire prescribed route. We did walk over to the city’s historic fourth ward to talk a gander at the “75 Grand Old Ladies.”

No, it wasn’t some kind of twisted AARP beauty contest. It was a series of colorfully painted, Victorian era mansions in the old “classy” part of town. One of the “ladies” actually had a bar as its lower level, so no dummies us, we stopped in for a frosty beverage, thus mercifully ending that day’s mini-tour.
     June 11 was “Asheville Wednesday” (not “Ash” Wednesday). The nearby (to Tryon) city was voted the “Eighth Most Beautiful Place in America” by ABC-TV’s “Good Morning America” show. Famous for its fresh mountain air, mild climate, and abundant mineral waters and hot springs, Asheville had been the hastily arranged substitute for yesterday’s brief walking tour.
     We secured a brochure for the city’s 1.7 mile “Urban Trail and Public Art Walking Tour.” It was very different and a lot of fun. Each stop had significant street art somehow attached to the historical perspective, all the way from metal sculptures located on working park benches to stone carvings depicting memorable events of the city’s history. Here were the day’s highlights:
1) a stop at the venerable Asheville Community Theatre where movie screen legend Charlton Heston once directed;
2) a chance for me to fill the size-13 footprints (literally) of Asheville native and great American writer Thomas Wolfe. As you’ll probably recall, Wolfe was most famous for his 1929 autobiographical novel, “Look Homeward Angel” that we all (except me) read in tenth-grade English class. Tragically, Wolfe only lived to the age of 38. He’s buried in nearby Riverside Cemetery not far from acclaimed American short story writer O. Henry (see April 6-12, Austin, TX, blog regarding O. Henry);
3) I was so taken with Wolfe’s story that I had to sit down in front of Wolfe’s mother’s boarding house and immediately put my deep thoughts down on paper. My “deep” thoughts turned out to be that day’s grocery list. Whatever ;
4) a photo op of some bronzed piglets on the actual “Buncombe Turnpike” rails. This throughway was originally a path used by Native Americans and then, since 1827, settlers. The sculpture represents the thousands of drovers from Tennessee who took their pigs, turkeys, and cows to southern markets for many years;
5) a bronzed top hat and cane on a park bench that so typified the art on this tour. This particular location was where the Grand Opera House once made this area the center of culture;
6) a gigantic iron particularly grabbed Diedre’s attention. It’s a replica of the ones used by local laundries and references the nearby “Flat Iron Building” built in 1926;
7) cat sculptures on a retaining wall (catwalk) that once held up a 70’ tall hill;
     

Needing a sustenance break, Diedre found our new best fallback restaurant in the south, “The Mellow Mushroom.” Not only does this place always have great pizza, but their décor is bright, colorful, and anything out of the ‘70s. I was particularly taken with a Mobil gas sign with its characteristic “flying red horse,” reminding me of the very fine “Flying Red Horse” softball team out of Eden Prairie, MN, with whom I played for five happy years.
     We then made a quick stop at “The Wicked Weed Brewery” in order for Diedre to feed her newly found compulsion: the purchase of a “Growler” of locally brewed beer. For those of you who, like me, haven’t a clue, a “growler” is a half-gallon sized glass container that breweries allow you to buy refills at bars or taverns for home consumption. Apparently, it’s much better than a six-pack of Bud Light, or at least, so I’m told.
   

 We had heard about how very scenic the Blue Ridge Parkway was, so we took a slight detour to see for ourselves on our way back to Tryon. We even had a chance to stop at the very scenic “Looking Glass Falls” right before the rains started.

One of the main rules of the intricate Kaye-Stuart relationship, besides the one about not wearing underwear more than two days in a row, is that we don’t go to AFTERNOON ball games, and we don’t go to theatre MATINEES. Soooo, on Thursday Rosemary, Diedre, and I took in a theatre matinee … yes, if you’re keeping track, that’s two of our main rules broken in the last three days. But this was worth it. 
The Flat Rock Playhouse, now in its 62nd season and reminiscent of Minneapolis’s fabled “Old Log Theatre,” put on that old warhorse, “My Fair Lady.” I was sure it was going to be painful. Thankfully, it was not. The 13 thespians making up the main cast were all members of “Actors’ Equity Association,” meaning we were going to get a professional show that day. And we did. I’d seen “My Fair Lady” before, but this was definitely the best effort I’d seen. And a packed, daytime audience agreed with me as the thunderous applause went on and on during the curtain call.
     Friday, June 13, was both Diedre’s Aunt Jane’s birthday (you blog-met Aunt Jane last year during our time in Charlevoix, MI) and her cousin Rosemary’s birthday. The amazing Rosemary turned 94 that day, although if you met and talked with her, you’d swear she couldn’t be older than 70. Our plans for her birthday included a driving tour of Tryon and its countryside and then an impromptu birthday bash at a palatial family manor.
     

The Tryon area is also big horse country. After seeing the “mini-urban” sites of where Rosemary lived for the past 25 years, we made it into the countryside to check out some competitive dressage horse arenas.
     From there, we drove up the oh-so scenic White Oak Mountain and made a stop at “Shunkawaken Falls,” one of the highest waterfalls in the Southeast. Yes, I did say “Shunkawaken” … c’mon, bloggers and blogettes, say it with me:     “SHUNK … A… WAKEN! SHUNKAWAKEN!”
     There. Wasn’t that fun? Now go get yourself a treat. I’ll wait.
     Also on White Oak Mountain at 3,000 feet is “Sunset Rock.” It overlooks Tryon, but if you really check out the view, you can see parts of three states: South Carolina, North Carolina, and Georgia.

   

To really celebrate Rosemary’s big number 94, we went out into the woods and the hills to an extremely nice area full of big homes on large lots. And there we came to the house of her son, Scott, and his wife, Gay. It was a beauty, tucked away in the hills on a very private lake. And it had everything. And Rosemary knew where everything was as well as every little detail about the exquisitely built house. And she should.
   She was the architect who designed it. Yes, in another life, Rosemary was an ace architect in a time that very few women held that position.
     Now that’s a pretty tricky proposition having your mother/mother-in-law design the place you’ll be living in for the next thirty years. This scenario is fraught with all possible problems. But they pulled it off without a hitch (pretty much).
   

 Scott and Gay were out of town at the time but had graciously extended the use of their lovely home for our little birthday soiree. We had stopped at a fine deli earlier in the day and had picked up the sumptuous fixings for a picnic dinner, complete with lovely cinnamon rolls which Diedre made into a birthday cake. Scott and Gay left us a very nice bottle of red wine. We had also purchased at the deli a giant bucket of perfectly ripe strawberries, so they went on the cake as well as in the makings of a strawberry margarita for me. It started to rain just after we arrived, so our wonderful picnic moved indoors, but that didn't matter. It turned out to be a great birthday celebration.
     When we got back to Rosemary’s that night, we went in to tell Bob all about our day. Diedre said that she had left her purse in the car and would I get it for her. I had left the car unlocked, so I hustled down the walkway to get the purse. In the distance, I spotted a senior lady walking from the parking lot and into her apartment. And then, horrors upon horrors, I could not find DK’s purse! It was not in the car!
     I went into immediate “Columbo” mode. I was all set to go medieval on the old gal, picturing how I’d bust into her apartment knocking over sundry Lladro figurines and framed photos of family members. “I may have to wrestle this 90-year old woman,” I thought, “but she asked for it.”
     Luckily for her and, as it turned out, for me, I had the superior judgement to check back with Diedre before my vigilante spider-sense took over. And of course, it turned out that Diedre hadn’t left her purse in the car after all. Rather, it was on the floor … of Rosemary’s living room … right next to where Diedre was sitting.
     ARRGHH!
   

 We ended the celebration of Rosemary’s birthday with Diedre and my tuneful rendition of that Minnesota classic, “The Casey Jones Birthday Song.” Ask almost any Minnesotan of a certain age. They’ll explain it to you.
 (Happy happy birthday

to every girl and boy.
Hope this very special day
brings you lots of joy.

Hope this birthday presents
you get from Mom and Dad
will make this very special day
the best you ever had!)

     Now for Saturday. You may want to note that this day is heavy on baseball, so some of you non-baseball types (if there really is such an animal) may want to go out into the lobby until this whole thing blows over.
     To whit (To what?), the morning of Saturday, June 14, broke early over little Tryon. The family (Diedre’s) celebrated older brother Doug’s 70th birthday. I dropped Diedre off at Rosemary’s so that she and Rosemary could do a little RV cooking to fill up our pantry. Diedre Kaye did most of the cooking while Rosemary acted like a relief pitcher (I told you this was going to be a lot of baseball gook today). She would get called in late to “save” the cooking whenever Diedre wasn’t able to figure out how to use one of Rosemary’s appliances. The mixer, era 1955, was the prime culprit.
   

   I had learned about and was now on a sacred quest to see the hometown and museum of one of baseball’s greatest and most mysteriously misunderstood ballplayers, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson. I set my sights on Greenville, SC, and off I went.

     Shoeless Joe (1888-1951) was born to a poor family, the oldest child of six boys and two girls. He was forced to go to work with the rest of the family at the age of six in the local textile mill. This was the main reason he hardly had any formal schooling and therefore never learned to read or write. This fact would become prominent during Joe’s involvement with the 1919 Black Sox scandal.
     Joe took to baseball right away, playing on the mill’s men’s team at the age of 13. His hitting was way above anyone else’s at that age and his fielding was so good, his glove became known as a place where “triples go to die.”
     As a rookie for Cleveland in 1908, he hit .411, the highest average ever for a rookie; his lifetime average was .356, the third highest in baseball history. Babe Ruth himself said he copied Joe’s style, that Joe was the greatest natural hitter he’d ever seen.
     “He’s the guy who made me a hitter,” Ruth said.
     Ty Cobb, the man generally known as the greatest hitter of all time as well as the one with the biggest ego, was quoted as saying, “Whenever I got the idea I was a good hitter, I’d stop and take a look at Joe. Then I knew I could stand some improvement.”
     Even “The Big Train,” Walter Johnson, one of the greatest pitchers of all time, said Joe was the best he ever faced, and Walter pitched in the American League when Cobb and Ruth were doing their damage.
     The infamous 1919 Chicago White Sox had eight players who were accused of taking bribes to throw the World Series. These “Black” Sox were so named not because of their being “dirty” and cheating in the World Series but more so because penurious White Sox owner Charles Comiskey was so cheap that he charged the players $.25 each to wash their uniforms. This was the last straw for the players; they revolted, refusing to pay “laundry dues,” and thus played in dirty uniforms. Hence the name “Black Sox” came to stay.
     It’s always been questioned whether or not Joe was one of the players who intentionally tried to lose games in the 1919 World Series. I think Joe played only to win. In the eight games, he hit .375, the best on either the Sox or the Cincinnati Reds. He hit the only home run in the Series and his 12 hits were the most by any player on either team. It was actually a World Series record at the time. He had six RBI’s and accounted for 11 of the White Sox 20 runs. But even more important to my point, he played errorless ball in the field and, get this, threw out five men at home plate. He even came all the way home from first on a single to score the winning run in one game. That just doesn’t sound like a man trying to lose on purpose.
     I think Joe’s only crime, most likely, was that he knew about the plot but didn’t come forward and tell anyone. Loyalty to teammates and all that. But going by that, the entire team should have been suspended as I’m sure they all knew which guys were on the take.
     And that’s what I think.
     Trivia question: Who is the greatest pitcher of all time? Walter Johnson? Sandy Koufax? Greg Maddux?
     Trivia answer: No, it’s none of these. The greatest pitcher of all time has to be Dickie Kerr.
     “Dickie Kerr?” you say. “Who’s Dickie Kerr?”
     Well, I’ll tell you. Dickie Kerr was a pitcher for the 1919 Black Sox. He’s the greatest pitcher of all time, because he won two games in the Series WHEN HIS TEAM WAS TRYING TO LOSE!
     Joe maintained his innocence for the rest of his life. He was still suspended even years after his death, even after a resolution by Congress and a 100,000-signature petition sought his reinstatement to baseball. Even the great, yet hard ass, Ted Williams was quoted as saying regarding Joe, “I want baseball to right an injustice.”
     OK, off my soapbox.
     

Joe’s house has now become his museum. They moved it several blocks so that it could be right across the street from the charming little new minor league stadium built for the Greenville Drive. When the team came into being, the owners and fans wanted to call the team “The Joes” because they loved him so. Major League Baseball said, “No,” so the team became “The “Drive.”
     I had to walk around Joe’s little town to get a feeling for where he came from. In the heart of the village was a wonderful double-waterfall that runs right through a most idyllic city park. I then visited “Shoeless Joe Jackson Memorial Park,” a ball field located right next to the old Brandon Mill where Joe worked as a six-year old floor sweeper.
     In the words of the great Amber Kirkeby, “IS THIS ALMOST OVER?”
     And in the words of the great TV detective, Columbo, “ONE MORE THING … “
     My final stop was to pay respects to Joe at his grave site at the Woodlawn Memorial Park in Greenville. There were several thousand graves there, so it took me awhile, but when I happened upon Joe’s, I had to smile. Surrounding his marker were about fifteen baseballs left there by ardent admirers. And one more thing lay atop his marker:
   

 a solitary baseball shoe.
     Rest in peace, Joe.
     Now, on to Durham, Chapel Hill, and the Outer Banks. See you there.
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Diedre here - just had to share the picture of the strawberries and margarita!  We so loved our time in Tryon with our dear sweet Rosemary and look forward to a return trip in three years to celebrate her 97th!