Issue SIX the winter ISSUE “So now we exchange our flora for the warming glow of light against the heavy wet-cold. Flickering flames cast dancing shadows that erase the borders and block out the nipping frost, persuading us to forget the outward and focus inwardly on the things we call home. The air turns bitter, and quiet, and still on winter’s moody eve, as darkness settles in for a spell. Nightjar melodies slip through the cracks in the windowpanes, reminding us of the hard-won harvest in our cellars. We are the crackling in the hearth. With woolen blankets and steamy mugs, we gather round for tales full of bravery, for songs full of laughter, for nights full of burning life like wildfire.”
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CREATED BY ELEANOR HILLEY & HEATH VESTER
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CONTENTS ISSUE six: THE winter ISSUE IN YOUR STATE
IN YOUR TOWN
IN YOUR HOME
8-9 Winter Wren Jane Jones
38-39 Intro To Birmingham Chandler Jones
58-59 The Seeker Eleanor Hilley
10-11 Love Builds Heath Vester
40-41 The Pond is Freezing Hunter Sandlin
60-61 DIY Beard Oil Tyler Crane
12-17 Winter Berries Eleanor Hilley & Heath Vester
42-47 Revelator Coffee Christian Hilley
62-65 Two Chairs Kristen Bledsoe
18-21 Pink Arctic Thyme Rachel Fowler
48-49 Bangor Cave Rachel Fowler
66-67 Homemade Cornbread Kate McKenzie
22-25 Winter Beach April Loyle
50-51 Great Bear Wax Zach Lazzari & Christian Hilley
68-67 The Taper Jane Jones
26-27 Winter Road Audrey Birkhimer
52-53 The Song of the Whippoorwill Christian Mott
70-71 Cream Cheese Chicken Chili Christy Hicks
28-31 The Fabled Brew Christian Mott, Trey Taulbee, & Michelle Taulbee
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70-71 Christmas Cookies Audrey Birkhimer
32-33 Winter Style Aubrie Ribolla & Heath Vester
Evalyn and the Bookshelf Hunter Sandlin
74-75 To Put it Simply Kristen Bledsoe 78-79 My Old Friend Christan Mott
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OUR
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FA M I L Y
ELEANOR HILLEY
HEATH VESTER
Co-Founder, Senior Editor
Co-Founder, Senior Designer
Satsuma, AL
Saraland, AL
MALLORY DAWSON
april loyle
Story Telling
Photography
Fairhope, AL
Mobile, AL
Christy Hicks
Michelle Taulbee
Recipes
Photography
Franklin AL
Fairhope, AL
Jaron Wohlwend
Trey Taulbee
Style Model
Photography
San Diego, CA
Fairhope, AL
Katie McKenzie
Chandler Jones
Recipes
Story Telling
Franklin, AL
Birmingham, AL
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CHRISTIAN HILLEY
CHRISTIAN MOTT
Director of Photography
Co-Editor
Montgomery, AL
Mobile, AL
Aubrie Ribolla
AUDREY BIRKHIMER
Advertising & Public Relations Manager
Story Telling/ Public Relations Intern
Fairhope, AL
Chambersburg, PA
Tyler Crane
RACHEL FOWLER
Story Telling
Story Telling
Mobile, AL
Mobile, AL
Kristen Bledsoe
MARGARET SMITH
Story Telling
Style Model
Mobile, AL
Mobile, AL
Hunter Sandlin
Zach Lazzari
Story Telling
Story Telling
Birmingham, AL
Portland, OR
Megan Cary
Jane JOnes
Photography
Story Telling
Mobile, AL
Mobile, AL
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IN YOUR STATE
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winter Wren Words by Jane jones
Winter came in through my window like a welcomed wren and landed just so on the corner of my bookshelf. He pruned his little wings and set my teeth to chattering. With stony eyes he looked at me and the song that he began to sing sounded of firesides and stormy skies, icy roads and bony trees, rosy cheeks and chilling wind, windows frozen and ice-trimmed. I lit a taper, listening still to his high and brittle trill much like the weather-worn leaves long collected below the windowsill. And as he lulled me with his tune my thoughts did dance about the room and soon I came to realize that winter had gone, and yet lingered on and from my mouth his song rang out and resounded long into the moonlit night.
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Love Builds Words by Heath VEster
I’m always fascinated when I hear about people who use their creative talents to do great things like give back to the community—people like Steven Kelley, who has been officially woodworking for two years now. Steven has already worked with local businesses like Moka’s Coffee House in Saraland and Mars Hill Cafe in Mobile, and his latest project is starting up his own business called Love Builds. For every piece sold by Love Builds, part of the purchase will go to providing food for those in need—but that detail isn’t by coincidence. His first project was a farm-style table for his family’s dinning room, and family is where it all began for him. When he was young he spent time with his dad in his workshop, amazed and watching him take stacks of wood and turn them into works of art. There the love of building was instilled in him, and the patience and attention to detail that woodworking requires was passed down from father to son. He thinks very highly of the farm table and the idea of sharing a meal with the ones you love. With his own family it has brought laughter and joy with every family gathering, and special bonding experiences with his own young boys. Although that first table is his most cherished one, he said he’s still learning more about his craft everyday. “The name is simple. I believe we are here on this earth to love God and love people, and what better way to do that than by meeting an immediate need in their lives—a need that most of us take for granted each and every day when we sit down for a meal.” Learn more at: www.love-builds.com
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Winter Berries Styled by Eleanor hilley Photos by Heath Vester
As winter comes, we look to the pines, the earth and the gifts if gives. The sweet berries that come with the change in season are a yearly tradition. As we indulge in the cooler weather we look forward to the sweet taste of huckleberries and winterberries.
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Pink Arctic Thyme Words By Rachael Fowler
“Sofðu, Unga Ástin Mín,” the thin, blonde woman says, “is the most beautiful Icelandic lullaby.” She stands at the front of the bus, clutches a grey microphone with one hand and a teal patterned seat with the other. Her hoodie is light blue and matches her eyes. To us, her name is “Ama.” She is from Reykjavik, the biggest city center, and her Icelandic name, she says, is unpronounceable for the English tongue. When she speaks, she inhales between each sentence with dedication. Words, period, breath. Words, period, breath.“My mama sang this song to me when I was young,” she says, “and I will sing it for you now. In English, it means ‘Sleep, My Young Love.’ ”
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I peer at Ama from the very back of the bus. I’m sprawled out across four seats, propped up on one elbow. Iceland is my last stop after two months of traveling this summer. I’m exhausted. I learned early on that the hum of a motor calms me and any horizontal surface equals a bed. I try to rest. My friend Karie pulls her faded crimson Bama hat over her face and snores across the aisle. The tour started this morning at 8:00 am, and she has been napping between each stop. Þingvellir National Park, sleep. Gulfoss Waterfall, sleep. Haukadalur Geysir, sleep. She misses the landscape outside, the ground made of lava that’s covered in moss, the mountains of snow, and Vatnajökull, the largest glacier in Europe. There are no trees. The Icelanders say you cannot get lost in a forest here. If you do, just stand up. I poke Karie when I want to, but she never wakes. I never fall asleep. Instead, I listen to Ama and think maybe a lullaby will soothe me. Her mouth is too close to the microphone, and her voice crowds the speakers.“Sofðu, unga ástin mín, úti regnið grætur.” Sleep, my young love, outside the rain cries. Rain is a common topic in Iceland as the weather is particularly moody. When Karie and I biked out of the city a few days ago, the rain was cruel. One minute, it was sunny and too hot for our long sleeves and wool ear warmers. Three minutes later, the wind carried twenty degrees away from us and we shivered. The rain shot at us diagonally. Biking, I pulled my hood over my wool headband. “You look like a bandit like that,” Karie said, pulling her black gloves over her fingers. We peddled through construction, peddled under a bridge, peddled by an ivory Icelandic horse. Google maps got us lost. . But we ended up at our destination, Mount Esjan, eventually. The Icelanders have a saying: If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. When we reached the mountain, the saying made sense. The sun came out. The rain was over The rain in Iceland is different than the rain in Alabama. It doesn’t smell slightly salty, and it doesn’t steam off the asphalt like in July. While Ama sings, I miss the rain in Mobile. I miss copper roofs and the tap, tap, pour of
summer thunderstorms that land on them. I miss the broken gutter at my house, the black mildew that lives on it, and the way rain water cascades off the side. I miss the clap of thunder, the burst of lightning. Mostly, I miss how nothing is thirsty, no scratchy brown pine, no blade of grass, no emerald elephant ear plant. Azaleas like rain and so do alligators. And I miss it. And I miss them too. But it’s nice that Iceland accepts rain as a part of life. I’m comfortable with that acceptance. Ama continues. Her voice is not raspy. It’s smooth and it’s deep. She carries the melody well, and I can tell her mama sang to her. “Oft ég svarta sandinn leit svíða grænan engireit,” she sings. Often I gazed at black sands, burning green meadows. Sand is not a common topic here. There’s not much sand for the Nordic people. Coastlines are rocky and waters are frigid. Orange Beachis the Caribbean compared to this place. White powder sand. Oddly warm water. Seagulls. Stingrays. Sunburns. The sun and the horizon have a strange relationship in Iceland. It’s a long-distance sort of arrangement. In the summer, the sun is always up, dips down slightly for a few hours, never truly crosses the horizon. I wonder if there’s sand beneath Reykjavik’s Faxaflói Bay. When Karie and I hiked up Mt. Esjan, we saw the little wisps of white cotton grass float around us in concentric circles, zoom down the bumpy mountain, and whip across the black bay water above the Minke whales and the Humpbacks. In Alabama there is no cotton grass. There’s just cotton and just grass. And our cotton isn’t part of a fairy tale. Our cotton doesn’t float. But I remember the January it snowed in Mobile. I remember the three inches of white sleet that sunk from the sky, drifted over Mobile bay, and melted above the mullet and the catfish. And I know there’s sand beneath our bay because I’ve scrunched my toes into it for years. And somehow I picture sand in Faxaflói too, because suddenly the two bays don’t seem so dissimilar. Ama told us that the bay here is special because of whales, because of fish, because of fjords, and because of people. And I trust her. And after she pulls in one more breath, she sings the end of the lullaby. “Mæðan kenna mun þér fljótt, meðan hallar degi skjótt, að mennirnir elska, missa, gráta og sakna.” Mother will teach you, ’til the sun reaches the horizon, that men love, lose, cry and pine.
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In the winter, the sun is mostly gone, the horizon forever lonely. The two only meet for small amounts of time. It feels tense to me. Right now, there is no sunset. The sun doesn’t even go down. I haven’t seen a sunset like those in southern Alabama since I left Mobile two months ago. Croatia came close with yellows and blues. But Mobile skies are orange, pink, and purple. They are layer upon layer of color and clouds, a beauty smudge on top of the horizon. When our airplane first flew into Iceland’s horizon, I started thinking about narwhals. Apparently they live up here. I know they exist, but I don’t believe in them. Not really. A water unicorn is too wondrous to believe. And I’ve never seen one in the wild. But now I think that Mobile sunsets are narwhals, narwhals of the sky. We all know they happen, but can’t really believe in them until we see one in the wild. I saw La Rambla, St. Peter’s, the Sacre Couer, and the red light district. I saw legal mushrooms and the cafe where Harry Potter was written. I’ve been through ten countries before Iceland, and yet I feel more worldly because I know the Mobile sunset. I know the narwhals of the sky. And that feels like an accomplishment. Iceland is my favorite place outside of home. I like how there’s water, and mountains, and highlands. I like that there are elves, that truly they exist. I like that I am here, and that I’m here with my friend. Because even though Karie sleeps when I cannot, we both search for the same things. We both like overpriced cheese pizza and European gummies shaped like eggs. We both tend to stare at red-bearded Icelanders who are two feet taller than we are, who, we are sure, are descendants of Vikings. We both like Lebowski Bar, a not-so-secret tourist hub in downtown Reykjavik which serves expensive white russians and delicious cheeseburgers. We both spend too much money on sushi. We both like rum-filled chocolate balls. We both like chai lattes. We both like a lot. But more importantly, we both like home. We miss grilling our own burgers and drinking pre-bottled margaritas. We miss swimming in warm water and sprinkling Tony’s on everything. We miss shrimp and crawfish and fried fish sandwiches. We miss English. We miss our boyfriends. We miss our beds.
Iceland is a Christmas land to us. There are glaciers, snow storms, cotton grass patches, elves, trolls, and reindeer. There are actual Vikings and actual narwhals. Our winter feels like spring to them. And in all honestly, we may never get back here. “Iceland is beautiful in the winter,” Ama says. “Come back to see us then. And I’ll sing you another lullaby.” “Another one?” Karie asks, forcing herself to sit up. “She sings loud.” “Yeah she does,” I say. “Are we almost back to town?” “I think so.” “Good,” she says, folding herself back down on the seats. “I’m hungry.” “So am I.” I view lullabies as stories and histories. They are words and sounds deeply rooted in culture. Some are lovely. Some are dark. Most are lessons. Some are horrific. “Sofðu, Unga Ástin Mín” is about an outlaw who threw her baby into a waterfall so she could leave with her husband as he ran from the authorities. It’s horrific. It’s dark. But it’s also beautiful. And it’s a part of Icelandic culture. It’s a story and a history. “Sleep, My Young Love” is Icelandic. It’s specifically, spectacularly Icelandic. I lean against the window, press my forehead against the glass. The mountains blur into one long jagged blob of white and grey. Every now and then there’s a cliff covered in moss. That’s where the elves live, I think. Right under those stones. And that’s where the lambs graze. And according to Ama, Icelandic lamb is the best on the planet. They’re all born in Iceland, to Icelandic farmers. They all shuffle across the lava land and traipse up the furry green hills. There’s a specific type of herb that grows only here: pink Arctic thyme. The lambs eat it by the bundles when they roam. When you slice into their meat, the color is perfectly pink. The lambs have essentially marinated themselves with herbs. No lamb on the planet is better than one from here. I wonder about home, about the South, about Mobile. What is our pink Arctic thyme? What do we marinate ourselves in? What makes us us? What makes us specifically spectacular? If I ever make it back to this Christmas land, I want to know the answer.
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winter beach Photos by April LoyLE
Living on the coast, winter looks a little different to us. Despite the cooling weather, our souls remain tied to the Gulf. We retreat to the water, celebrating in presumptuous irony, seeking warmth in our own way. We warm our hands over small fires in the sand, and breathe the smoke of camaraderie and tobacco, like driftwood in our pipes.
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A winter road words by Audrey birkhimer
Gazing outside, I prepare for the road. It will all be worth it in the end. The light from the fire offsets the ubiquitous gray. Though Mother might want us to share the gloom outside, We know better. Indoors isn’t so bad with sights, sounds, smells Demanding our wonder and attention. The laughter is heartier, the cider warmer. There is a meal welcoming, a fire crackling, a kettle whistling, a cat purring. Inhale dulce and balsam, a contrast only winter can concoct. Pulling my coat over my shoulders, I prepare for the road. It will all be worth it in the end.
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fabled brew words by christian mott Photos by Trey & Michelle Taulbee
“We’ve been together seven years, and we’ve always talked about a coffee and tea shop from day one.”
it’s the story behind it, and the people who sat down with me to tell it.
Darryl and Jennifer sit across the table from me in what is now a dream come to life, their coffee shop Fabled Brew. Darryl has already made me a cortado with macadamia nut milk, and now we lounge in the dining room, sipping coffee in their favored antique Scottish chairs. Two wooden columns with half-walls separate us from the espresso bar and kitchen area; a bookshelf fits snug against the inside wall, an electric fireplace opposite, and in the corners are two living-room sets—a couch and two chairs around a coffee table, complete with side table and lamp.
“We started talking about not so much what we wanted to do with the shop, but what we wanted to do with our lives,” Jennifer said. “I didn’t want to just open a business. I went into teaching for very idealistic reasons. I now know that’s the wrong reason to ever go into anything. Nonetheless, I wanted to bring a little bit of that spark to a new venture. I thought, you know, I’m all about peace and love, and that’s how I teach. I’m always trying to broaden people’s minds. It’s a big world we live in, and there are a lot of different people, a lot of different cultures, and a lot of different stories, and that’s what I love. I really wanted it to be the story of coffee. I want it to be an understanding of the contribution that Africans made, that Arabic people made, from beginning to end. So that’s what I got to first, the story of coffee. From that idea I got to the name Fabled Brew.”
A man walks by and nudges me. He says, “This is a great place.” I’d driven further out into the country from Fairhope than I’d been before (although admittedly, that isn’t saying much). I was torn between checking my map and taking in the Southern Gothic sights as I passed them by, the bony orchards, the sprawling oaks, fields of grazing black cattle and other winsome landscapes. There amidst such rural grandeur I found what I was looking for. But what’s so subtly special about Fabled Brew isn’t so much the shop itself, or its distinct location—
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Jennifer has been in education for about twenty years. She’s a Fulbright Scholar, a published author. She’s taught both English and History; taught third grade, all levels of high school, and at both the community college and university levels; taught in the U.S. and overseas; taught kids who couldn’t read above a kindergarten level, and those who have gone on to Ivy League schools. Although she says it’s been her calling to be a historian and a teacher, and she will always love it, it’s time to move forward. “In my mind, there’s nothing new that I can get out of the teaching experience, so it’s time to do something else.”
She tells me about being a single mother during the years before Darryl, about raising her daughter and taking risks most people aren’t willing to take. She tells me how our culture says, you get your degree, you stay in that field, you retire—it says doing the same thing for forty years makes you a success. “It puts a lot of pressure on people to think that’s what they have to do. But when you think, okay, maybe changing careers actually makes you happier in the long run, I think that gives you some freedom to play a little bit in life . . . There is an experience that you haven’t had yet that is going to open your eyes to a path. And until you have that experience, you can’t know that path.” Jennifer leaves us at the table to help a regular who’s just walked in the door. Their voices carry on in the background as Darryl picks up where she left off. Darryl grew up in Louisiana around a table with family and friends, drinking coffee at all hours of the day and night. His family has owned a restaurant, but he chose the path of oil. He says “it’s always been there” to work with food, despite his best efforts to put it off as long as he could. The ritual of making coffee is in his blood; it’s his home, his roots. He’s even developed his own unique espresso blend. “I’ve always had that desire, that want to open up a coffee shop, like everybody does at some point in their life.” Yet not everybody does, and not everybody has a vision. When they had decided to get into the coffee business, Darryl said, they knew exactly what the core of it would be—organic syrup, if possible, and organic milk, which they get from a farm in Milton, FL. They ended up finding an organic syrup manufacturer out in Oregon at a trade show. He was a struggling chemist who had been in coffee for a long time, but when he got into syrup, he couldn’t sell. “So we worked on a deal together: we’ll label it Fabled Brew, and we’ll be his marketing part.” Their non-dairy milk alternative, in an attempt to be unique from almond or soy, is a macadamia nut milk they get from an Australian supplier who has only been in the country a little over a year. Fabled Brew is one of the only few places east of the Mississippi who use their milk. Darryl considers himself the marketing and business side of things, and says Jennifer handles ‘the core.’ He’s seen her teaching methods, he says, and because of the amount of detail she puts into everything, she would rule the world in business. “I knew if I could get her into business, we would succeed.”
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Two employees arrive on shift, and Jennifer returns to the table. “Darryl said to me, before this started, ‘You’re so smart, so hardworking, so talented. I don’t understand why somebody like you wouldn’t believe you could be successful in anything that you do.’ And those are not words I would use to describe myself, but every time I get stressed and overwhelmed, that has played like a tape on a loop in my head.” Jennifer’s love of coffee stems from the earliest days of her childhood in Michigan, when her parents would drop her off at her grandparent’s body shop for the day. She would sit on the floor in the middle of the shop where everybody could keep an eye on her. The workers would pass her all day long, heading to and from the coffee pot, and bring her cups of coffee-milk. “What it boils down to is I love coffee. Coffee fills all sorts of psychological and emotional needs for me . . . You put me at a table or in a chair with a book and a cup of coffee, and I’m happy, pure, no matter what else is going on. If this is where I’d have to be fourteen hours a day, a coffee shop sounds like the right place. I love coffee. Coffee makes me happy. That’s as complicated as it gets.” Fabled Brew’s tag line is A Story in Every Cup. To tell the story of coffee, Jennifer came up with five signature drinks. “I wanted them to reflect a big part of the story of coffee, so that through the drinks you could get the whole background.” Five frames hang on the wall, displaying these drinks and what aspects of coffee’s history they symbolize: Devil’s Brew (which was almost the name for the shop), Arabian Wine, Seven Seas, New World Cup, and Petticoat Punch. They also have a Black Door Menu for hush-hush menu items, but we don’t talk about those, although I hear tell one has a deliciously secret ingredient few can guess. “It couldn’t be Fabled Brew without history, because that’s what makes it Fabled Brew,” Jennifer said. “And that’s what makes me who I am.” She has merged her passions to ensure that every cup has a story, every recipe is deliberate, and every thought is intentional. “I don’t want to just play it safe until I retire. I got tired of not waking up being thrilled about my day. So that’s a big part of what brought me here, but I do still love the history.” She says she has great faith in the shop. In less than a year, it’s already well-loved by its regular customers, and she sees that as a responsibility. “We’ve created a place for these folks, and we need to make sure it continues to be here for them. From the way it’s been embraced by some really, really lovely people,
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I just think, this is a good thing. This is a good place. This will take care of me, and we will take care of each other.” Presently, the shop is now too busy for the employees to handle on their own, and this time Darryl leaves us to assist them. I take the opportunity to see the place, take a couple pictures, and return to the table to find Jennifer in near-utter bliss. She grins at the bustle. “It’s been fun to be totally outside of our comfort zone.” Quietly, she tells me about her love of teaching, about the joy she used to feel at walking into a classroom, picking up a piece of chalk, and beginning a lesson. Even as harrowing as the first day of school may be, much like the first day opening a brand new coffee shop, she didn’t think she would ever feel that way again—but with Fabled Brew, she does. “To come in here on a quiet morning and feel that way, I just wouldn’t want to do without it. When I get tired, and I get worn down, and a little overwhelmed, I always know I wouldn’t want to go back to life before Fabled Brew . . . It’s just that easy.” The crowd is soon appeased, and Darryl leaves his employees to work, a little reluctant to pull himself away from the bar. “A lot of people say, ‘You picked a bad location . . .’, but I’m glad we’re not downtown.” What some people call “out of the way,” Darryl and Jennifer call the perfect location—and I tend to agree with them. Your third place shouldn’t be set conveniently in the center of your life, easily accessible on your way from first to second or back again. No, in fact, it should be “out of the way,” an escape reached only by travel, existing for no other purpose than to clear your mind, watch over you for the duration of your stay, and give you the strength to carry on. That is the spirit Fabled Brew embodies—mythical in its own way, legendary in its own right—and that’s what it has become for many, including Darryl and Jennifer, and including myself. Fabled Brew inspires us to take the drive out a little further than we might normally go, to take risks, to put down our map and look at the scenery before it passes us by—for we might just find something we didn’t know we were looking for. After all, it’s always been those brave few who live outside the norm, who think outside the box and take the roads less traveled by, always those wild minds who chase dreams and passions and stories, who end up making history.
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Winter Style Styled by Aubrie Ribolla Photos by heath vester
Winter We allow our hands to pass up straps and swimsuits and reach for thick knit sweaters, warm hats, and wool socks to protect us from the harsh winter winds. Our skin gets lighter as the last reminders of summer pass. Our hair grows dark and we begin to bundle up and hold those we love close.
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IN YOUR TOWN
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town intro to birmingham Words by Chandler Jones
We don’t have a river of water—it’s made of steel. Our trains are like barges; our pigeons, like herons. The banks rise thirty floors high, and the mines lie still except for the whispers of ghosts with ashy faces and dried hands. It snakes through the valley, giving life to those who need it. We swim upstream, against the current, to find a place we’ve never seen but know exists. Our history is like an old tattoo—faded, but still deep in the skin. It reminds us of how far we’ve come, and yet how far we’ve left to go. But if you listen, you can still hear the sounds of the past—Duke Ellington’s piano; the Marx Brother’s standing ovations . . . It’s a city with the pulse of jazz and a spirit of renewal, where colors are blended together to repaint what is old and forgotten. It’s where a new generation has something to say, and isn’t afraid to speak loud enough to be heard. So as you walk along our river of steel, and you see your reflection, know that it’s not Magic . . . It’s Birmingham.
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The Pond is Freezing words by Hunter Sandlin
The pond is freezing From edge to center The ice is creeping Overcoming every drop “Thou shall not move,” the ice demands As the water’s temperature drops Each drop teetering on the edge of 32 35, 34, 33… Painfully sitting on edge 35, 34, 33… What it is fighting, it is becoming But in the distance stands a crane Huddled, burrowed in his chest Feet firmly planted in the marsh turned icy slush In the midst of the warfare 35, 34, 33… His stand remains firm 35, 34, 33… This is his war, his pond, and he shan’t be overcome For the fire in his veins need not fear 32
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Coffee Culture: revelator coffee Words and Photos by ChriStian Hilley
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Some thirty yards from the Alabama Theater, Revelator Coffee fits comfortably in one of the most central parts of downtown Birmingham, the corner of 3rd and 19th Ave. Though BB King, Merle Haggard, Wilco, and Hall and Oates have performed on the same block as this small coffee shop and roastery, the newcomer to the historic section of Birmingham truly holds its own in terms of quality and attraction. When the company from New Orleans opened a location in Birmingham in the summer of 2014, its huge success drew them to move their roastery and headquarters to the new location this year. Revelator has since planted Chattanooga, Atlanta, and most recently, Nashville storefronts. Birmingham provides a central location for travel in the South, which gives the company a means to ship fresher coffee sooner to all its locations. It’s no wonder the shop had great success in such a short amount of time. It was the perfect storm for Revelator: lifeless downtown had been recently revitalized; the coffee culture had already been cultivated by shops like Seeds Coffee and Atlanta-based Octane; and simply, Revelator’s incredibly high coffee standards created a great product. The Birmingham location is the only shop in Alabama boasting Slayer espresso offerings. Shots pulled on their truly fully manual dual-group machine have the option for pre-infusion. This process allows the ground espresso to be first saturated with water coming in at a much lower pressure than the typical 9 bars, which ensures that once full-pressure is applied, the espresso is pulled evenly with no dry pockets or channeling. The result is not only incredibly complex and flavorful espresso, but a noticeably beautiful and colorful drip from the open portafilter. The slow bar offers a variety of pour-overs via Chemex, and tea brewed in a device called the Steampunk, which operates similarly to a siphon. The Steampunk units are installed permanently as a part of the bar itself, simplifying the bar space and contributing to the minimalist environment the whole shop epitomizes. The wash of grey walls and the simple, stripped menu (featuring “Espresso + Milk” in 4 oz, 6 oz, and 8 oz options) offer visitors an escape from the buzz of everyday hustle and decision-making. During our visit, we were able to sit outside the shop and chat briefly with our friend Blake, a Revelator veteran who had just left shift. The next artist coming to the Alabama Theater was Sufjan Stevens, another of the many living legends to perform there, and Blake had tickets to the show. Incredible talents still constantly appear a mere hop across the street from where he works, and with all the exquisite wonder the shop brings to the small block downtown, it’s no surprise Revelator fits right in with the magic.
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The wash of grey walls and the simple, stripped menu offer visitors an escape from the buzz of everyday hustle and decision-making.
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bangor cave: The great southern Speakeasy
Words by Rachael Fowler
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Blount Springs is an area about 30 miles north of Birmingham. Many travelers speed right through it, never even glance at the unassuming town, and certainly don’t consider stopping. There are better cities, they say. Huntsville, Mobile, Montgomery. But Blount Springs protects a secret. It’s not the infamous Top Hat Barbecue, which seeps paprika and garlic into the air and promises hushpuppies, fried pickle spears, and jalapeño poppers. It’s not the Blount Springs Chapel on Main Street with the four white columns and polished pine doors. Everyone knows the wealthy Antebellum South used the town as a resort, and that Nathan Bedford Forrest fought a battle on Blount Springs land. Iron ore once ruled the economy, and there are blind cave fish in small pools throughout Rickwood Caverns. Just off BeeLine Highway there are sulphur springs, a cemetery, and a Baptist church. All of this is common knowledge. But enchanting tales don’t live in city centers. The secrets of this area hide deep in the woods—the history sleeps in a cave. Bangor Cave is carved into Alabama just outside of Blount Springs in the locality known as Bangor. The cave was there when the wealthy resort-goers visited, and when the Civil War ended. In the 1850s, a mill owner bought and developed the property into the “Great Southern Cave,” which consisted of five separate rooms. But then there was a fire, and then there was the Great Depression. If Gatsby is your type of thing, then 1930s Bangor Cave would’ve been for you. It wasn’t quite the roaring twenties (as it wasn’t the twenties at all), but it dazzled nonetheless; a bar chiseled out of natural stone, stocked with Jameson and moonshine; a bandstand flush to the cave itself, stacked with horns and drums and microphones; a dance floor, card tables, roulette. The wealthiest people danced, drank, and gambled in secrecy. Bangor Cave was a brightly lit underground speakeasy in the heart of the South. Though Prohibition was doomed from the start, that didn’t stop authorities from busting into the cave to inflict the law on the parties. The nightclub closed in 1939, and then the cave burned black. It’s much different now. There are no people, no lights.
The bar and bandstand remain, but littered, graffitied. The cave has lost its sparkle. The party has moved on. If you want to see the ruins, there are ways. However, know the cave is privately owned. Know that you exit I-65 and still have a ways to drive. Know that you park on the side of the road and still have a ways to hike. There are few signs, the trail is faint, the trees are strong, and if you stumble up to the cave entrance, you have a decision to make. Why are you there to begin with? If you spelunk, then move along—there are better caves to explore. If you want pictures, move along—there’s nothing left to capture. If you want history, consider a book—the cave is dark and deep. What do you expect from ruins? The glamour of forbidden fun no longer echoes through the cave. No bartender will slide you a sidecar. No brass will blair Billie Holiday. There will be no swinging across a dance floor, no hush-hush. No, “Quiet, they’re coming.” It’s just a cave with trash and vandalism for company. The cave is just a cave. If you’re me, you don’t go in. You drive all the way to the exit, you park on the side of the road, you hike. But before you enter the cave, you stop. You think about how great you actually want the cave to be. You think about the Gatsby image you have in your mind, and you don’t want the image to change. So you don’t risk losing the sparkle, the music, the history you admire. You pick up a few Natty Light cans, twirl your car keys in your hand, and turn around. As your feet brush through crunchy leaves, you realize the cave is dynamic. For truly it’s both the same and different. It was there for the parties, was there to burn black. People still drink there, still cruise up with cases of beer and bags of Cheetos and flashlights. People still party there illegally. Bangor Cave is still the party cave. It’s just not as shiny now, just a bit duller. But the cave is still the cave. We are the ones who have lost our sparkle. It’s our veneer that’s peeled off. Ours is the party that’s moved on.
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great bear Words by zack lazzari Photos by Christian Hilley I went for a run the other day and stopped when the smell of warm, wet grass crashed into my nose, arrested my thoughts, and sent me time-travelling to high school football practice and the powdered Gatorade we mixed. I’m sure you have your fair share of nostalgic scents, the kind that act like a flare on your memory, tracing through the events of your life only to spit you out at the exact moment you first (or most strongly) smelled, well, whatever it is you are smelling. I hope you experience the kind of rush I describe, and I hope even more that it will bring good memories with good scents. I think this is what Great Bear Wax Co. strives to embody. Jake Carnley wanted to make candles, that much is obvious. But he also wanted to form memories, candle-lit dinners, gifts, and soft glows to lift spirits when needed. I remember the Tobacco Bay candle as friends gathered, singing songs in a house in Auburn. When I light my Campfire candle, I think of many campfires I’ve had throughout my life: the dangerous, fickle fires of my childhood, the bonding fires of my college years, the warming fires of my travels. Each time I strike a match and extend the flame to the wick, it ignites a neurological mass of feelings and images. I remember sitting in Jake’s backyard around a fire and discussing a wild idea to make candles. Most importantly, I remember the people who shared those times with me. I remember details long forgotten because scents bind so strongly to life events that would otherwise seem mundane: the smell of a friend’s home, or the fragrance of a street or classroom from your childhood, lying dormant for many years in the cobwebbed corners of your mind. Candles shine their light on these, brush them off, and make them vital again. There are all of these personal and visceral reactions we have when scents connect to our innermost being, but there are also the more universal scents: the pumpkins and spices of fall, the evergreens and cinnamon of winter, the crisp floral reminder that spring returns each year. Great Bear Wax Co. offers its memory-shaping candles to each of us. It captures moments for us that we may not remember without them, allowing us to return in our minds to earlier days when the wicks were longer.
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The Song of the Whippoorwill Words by Christian Mott
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It won’t be long before the whippoorwill sings the song of shadows in moonlit trees. Won’t be long ‘fore he calls me home, intoning haunting melodies. It won’t be long before the whippoorwill sings, my lure into silent night, and shuts out the day with a shutter, to close it all in dwindling, waning candlelight.
It won’t be long before the whippoorwill sings the ballad of moss in whisper-oak. Won’t be long ‘fore he guides the way— in pluming, tapered chimney smoke. It won’t be long before the whippoorwill sings, my shepherd through mournful dark, as I slumber under his melancholy trill, to make me drink the night from his mason jars.
It won’t be long, now, before the whippoorwill sings the hymn of bone in dead leaves. Won’t be long ‘fore he reveals his name, and takes me, waking, ‘neath his wings. It won’t be long, now, before the whippoorwill sings, his plumage soaked in frosty dew, coaxing my heavy eyelids open, to glowing misty dawn of morn anew.
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Evalyn and the Bookshelf Hunter Sandlin
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Snowy days with brisk wind led little Evalyn’s mom to close the windows. The warmth of her mom’s heart needed to stay indoors, so as to keep her little girl from the world’s chill. She knew Evalyn would have to step out one day, but not today—and not tomorrow for that matter. *** Confined to her small, cozy apartment on Oak Street, Evalyn said to herself, “If I have no business being outside, I’ll just build a world of my own.”
Her mom, in the next room making sure Dad had socks for tomorrow, was unaware of just how magnificent Evalyn’s kingdom was becoming and also just how extreme the measures Evalyn was having to take to finish it. Surely she could have offered some advice had she known. Perhaps she could have mentioned that stacking a chair on top of a coffee table is generally more stable than stacking a coffee table on top of a chair, but the land of “could-haves” is hardly ever a good place to dwell.
Evalyn reached the top of the table, and carefully balSo she began to build—castles and cabins, mountains anced one foot on the edge while using the other leg and molehills, monsters and men. What amazing to swing in the air to help her stay upright. She leaned things she could build with her mind and a few blocks! forward to place the flag in its position. “Closer . . .” she said, leaning forward. “Closer . . . Closer . . .” As Evalyn finished the eastern portion of her kingdom, she heard a voice from somewhere in her room. Then, just as the flag was settling into its holder, the “Psst, psst, Evalyn!” the voice whispered. same mysterious voice called to her; this time, not with a whisper, but with a thunderous blast that shook Curiosity trumping nervousness, Evalyn replied, the walls as it roared, “EVALYN!” Evalyn jumped in “Yes?”But the voice only persisted, “Psst, psst, Evalyn!” terror, her foot slipped off the table, and she plummeted towards the tower. Looking around for who could be making the sound, she began questioning her dolls and teddy bears. “Mr. “No!” she screamed as she tried to brace herself with Hank, is that you speaking to me?” It had been a long the tower. Though built to withstand monsters and day on the farm, and Mr. Hank was just too tired for barbarians, it was still no match for the plump cankles conversation. “Miss Pixie, did you say something?” of its creator. As it collapsed, Evalyn rolled through Miss Pixie just stared off in the distance. She was obvi- her kingdom. ously too consumed with herself to answer anyone. The market was crushed, the stables fell, and the Unable to find the voice, she continued with her build- cabins were brought to nothing. Everything she had ing. Evalyn had just one more thing to complete before worked for had come undone; from blocks her kingher castle was to her liking: the tower needed a flag. dom was built, and to blocks it did return. There was just one problem: Evalyn was too short to reach the top. She would need help if she was to finish. Sitting in the middle of her kingdom of rubble, she cried, “Who are you! Why would you ruin my king“I’ll use Dad’s shoulders to get me to the top of the dom?” tower,” she reasoned. Unfortunately, his shoulders had gone to work with him that morning and would The voice responded, “I am the one who builds kingnot be able to assist her. She would have to find some doms, not with a hand but a word. I have built worlds other way to scale the great height. A coffee table here, you have yet to see, depths you have yet to swim, trails a chair there, and a couple of pillows scattered on the you have yet to take. Come and see, Evalyn. Come and floor seemed promising. see.” She reasoned that she could stack the table and chair on top of each other and then strap a couple pillows around herself for safety; she set about building her scaffolding.
Looking in the direction from where the voice was coming, she could distinctly place it. She dried her tears and began crawling towards the bookshelf.
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IN YOUR HOME
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The Seeker Words by eleanor Hilley
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He spent his youth searching. He crouched behind bushes, pulled their arms back to look inside. He wandered high and low, climbed to the tree’s tallest branches —and the hole where it had been uprooted, he slithered down into. He chased passing shadows to sight where they might end, to no avail. He peered behind doors, between couch cushions, underneath his bed; searched every crevice, peeked through every peep. He traveled into storybooks, where he lost himself a while, then began to read the blank pages. It wasn’t until he found her that he finally discovered what he had spent so many years in search of —himself.
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Homemade Beard Oil recipe by Tyler Crane
One tablespoon of coconut oil Two drops of tea tree oil Two drops of cedar wood oil Add either peppermint or lavender oil depending on the season. Adding a little olive oil to the already melted coconut oil lowers the melting point of the oil keeping it a liquid longer. This helps with storing purposes. Shake well before each use and apply for a great well groomed look.
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Two Chairs Words by Kristen Bledsoe
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The snow drove into her eyes so she couldn’t see and been loosed from its braids. Looking down, she saw that bit her face with what seemed like personal malice. Still she’d been changed into a flannel shirt much too large for she kept on, for there was nothing else she could do. her. She was quite certainly lost. These woods were as familiar to her as her own bedroom in the little house she’d shared with her mother for all her ten years, but everything looked different when it was heaped with interminable white. When she had first seen the deer, the sky was a pale, breathable blue that glittered off the surface of the snow nearly blinding her. In half an hour the storm had begun. The deer had disappeared long before, and its tracks were now erased, smothered.
She wondered exactly how long she’d have to wait before someone appeared, then swung her legs out of bed onto the rough floor. She’d better leave; she was sure it was late, and she should be getting home.
She had one boot on, pulling on the other, when the door opened. A burst of chilly air and a swirl of powder carried in a bundle of cloth shaped vaguely like a person with a stack of wood under one arm. This figure stopped when it saw her seated on the floor. They observed one another. She stumbled forward; her small legs were sunk in the Finally, the figure set down the wood and strode across the snow which made it impossible to walk. She stubbornly room. willed back the tears after a couple froze on her face. There was no way to tell how long she’d been walking, “And where do you think you’re going?” rumbled a gruff not with the sun gone from the sky, chased away by voice. He took off his cap and laid it on the bed. the lethargic menace of steel-colored clouds. She didn’t suppose there’d be anyone looking for her. “H—” she tried, then cleared her throat. “Home.” She wanted to lie down. She was so tired. Maybe if she “I’m not too sure about that, missy. Not in this storm.” He could for a moment she’d feel better, and then she could looked like the portrait of her grandfather on the parlor keep going. She looked about her for a fallen tree to wall at home. “Nope, you’ll have to stay a while.” crawl under, squinting. “But I don’t want to. I want to go home!” In the distance loomed a large black object, barely discernible. She struggled a few steps more. Then He calmly hung his coat on a hook affixed to the wall as there was light and the tree line broke, and she found though she hadn’t said a thing. “Shouting won’t make the strength in her limbs again—it was a cabin. Her adren- snow stop.” aline carried her, and she gave the wooden door two solid booms, hoping more than she’d ever hoped for She began to cry. Unperturbed, the man moved to the stove anything. She sunk onto the steps and knew no more. and removed the lid of a pot to peer inside it. She watched *** him keenly through her tears, and when her tantrum didn’t Her senses returned one by one. First the crackle of bother him, she promptly stopped. a large fire. Then the warm weight of many blankets on her body, and the smell of furs and cooking food. “Have a seat.” He set two bowls upon the table, and steam Finally, she opened her eyes. rose from them to the ceiling. She lied on a bed built for someone much bigger than her, in a corner bounded by two log walls. Across the room was the fireplace, by which her black dress and boots were drying (a plain dress for a plain girl, she’d heard the seamstress say to her assistant); a stately, polished stove; and a small table with a single chair. A curtain portioned off another corner, and behind it she caught a glimpse of a tin bathtub. The room was sparse but clean. She hesitantly wiggled her fingers and toes. They burned a bit, but they weren’t numb, which was good. She sat up. Her lungs protested the sudden change in position, and she coughed for a moment. Her long, thick black hair had
Cautiously, she rose from the floor and sat at the only available chair. He’d set a spoon there for her, too. She was ravenous, and descended upon the meal without preamble. He picked up his bowl and, standing, began to eat. In silence, they ate together. Finally, there were only scrapings left in her bowl. She set it down and took the opportunity to study him. He was old but not like the preacher at church was old—the preacher was small with hands that reminded her of the paper birds her mother once taught her to make, back when Mother was still fun. No, this man was old like the oak tree over the brook by her house, weathered and knotted. She couldn’t imagine him as a little boy; he must have been born old. He moved in a very solid sort of way, and she thought he must have worked a lot.
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He finished his bowl and picked hers up, carrying them over to a small tub of water. With his back to her, he submerged them in the tub and washed them. “What’s your name?” “None of your business.” She was mollified by the food but not enough to forget being forbidden to go home. “What’s yours?” “That would hardly be fair, don’t you think?” She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. “Now, what were you doing in the woods?” She bristled at his question but was already bored with the novelty of refusing to answer. “I was following a deer.” “And is this deer a particular friend of yours?” He’d finished scrubbing the dishes and was now drying them.
“It just happened that way. Some things do.” “Oh.” For a few minutes there were only the crackles of the fire and the soft scraping of metal against wood. She was a bit entranced by the shavings falling to the floor with a soft pat, the way the snow sometimes fell as she awoke on early mornings, and by the way he always seemed just about to cut himself with the knife but never quite did. At last he broke the silence. “What about you?” “Hm?” she said as if she’d just woken up. “Who’s going to come looking for you?” There was no way around it. “Nobody.” “Really?”
“Of course not. He came to my window and asked me to come with him.”
“Father died when I was little. Mother doesn’t do anything.”
The bowls were placed on a shelf above the stove. “How’d he do that? Can’t say I’ve ever met a deer that talked to me.”
“Well, that’s a shame. Aren’t there any other children for you to be friends with?”
“Well, maybe all the deer you’ve met didn’t want to talk to you.” She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but his sudden, full-throated laugh was not it. “What’s so funny?” He only continued to laugh, and her ire grew. “I said, what’s so funny?” The old man slowly stopped and returned to his former inscrutability. “It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed like that. Thank you.” “The deer didn’t say anything. It just looked at me. Anyone would know that. But you’re welcome, I guess.” She shrugged and another thought occurred to her. “Isn’t there anyone else?” “What do you mean?” He sat upon the bed, and pulled a pocketknife and a small chunk of wood from his pocket. Slowly, the chunk became something else. “I mean, don’t you have a wife or a child or something?” He did not look at her. “No.”
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“No. Our house is too far away from school for me to go. Do you have any friends?” “No.” He held up his chunk of wood to the light of the fire, turning it to see it from every angle. It was now a small bird. “Do you like it?” She nodded. “You can have it, if you like.” He stood and handed it to her. “It should be just the right size to fit in your hand.” He was right. The little thing seemed nestled in her palm as if her hands were its home. It was a wren. She’d seen them about her house in the spring and summer. It was still rough, but at once she realized it was the first time anyone had given her anything in a long time. She pocketed it. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” He walked over to the window, and she looked out of it, too. The snow had stopped, and the world was quiet in the soft welcoming glow of morning. *** The birds sang love songs to one another, delighted by the first few peeking buds of the spring. The sun painted the forest in healthy shades of green and brown, and at the table in the little cabin in the woods, there were two chairs.
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Home-style Cornbread a recipe by Katie McKenzie
3 cups cornbread mix 2 ½ cups sweet milk ½ cup salad oil 3 eggs, beaten 3 tablespoons sugar 1 onion, grated 1 8.5-ounce can creamed corn 1 ½ cup grated cheese Mix together ingredients in the order listed. Bake in greased and floured cast-iron skillet at 425° for 20-25 minutes. Serve and enjoy. For jalapeño cornbread, add 3 cups finely chopped jalapeño peppers before adding cheese.
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The taper Words by Jane Jones Photos by Christian Mott
We’ve stumbled into the time of the year when a flame is your greatest friend, No matter how great, no matter how small, When he stands ablaze, casting shadows on the wall, And he colors a corner of the windowsill with the warmest amber hues, Flickering golden across the wooden grain. His glow is a beacon, calling the weathered wanderers to linger within. He waits like poetry against the pane, Watching restlessly the clouds and icy, biting rain. In the night he sees the dew that gathers, soon to freeze, Only to fall like tears in the light of the rising sun.
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dutch oven: Cream cheese chicken chili Recipe by Christy Hicks
2 boneless chicken breasts 1 can black beans 1 can corn, undrained 3 medium-sized tomatoes, diced 2 green chili peppers, diced ½ cup water ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon cumin 1 teaspoon chili powder 1 teaspoon onion powder 1 package ranch dressing mix 1 8-oz light cream cheese 1 can Great Northern beans Drain and rinse black beans. Place chicken at bottom of Dutch oven pot, then pour in whole can of corn (undrained), tomatoes, chili peppers, water, salt, and black beans. Top with seasonings and ranch mix. Stir together. Place cream cheese on top. Cover with lid and cook in oven at 325° for 2 hours. Add Great Northern beans during the last 10-15 minutes of cooking. Stir cream cheese into chili. When finished cooking, use two forks to shred chicken. Stir together and serve. To adjust recipe for a Crockpot, cook on low for 6-8 hours. Add Great Northern beans during last 15-30 minutes of cooking.
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Christmas Lacey Oatmeal Cookies Recipe by Audrey Birkhimer
1/4 cup flour 1 cup quick cooking oats 1/2 teaspoon backing powder 1/4 teaspoon salt 1 stick butter, softened to room temperature 1 cup sugar 1 large egg 1 teaspoon vanilla Preheat oven to 325, line cookie sheets with foil and spray lightly with non-stick vegetable spray. Combine flour, oats, baking powder, and salt; set aside. In septate bowl, use mixer on medium speed to cream butter and sugar. Add egg and vanilla; beat on medium speed until mixture is smooth. Add flour mixture and blend just until the dough is combined. Drop a small amount (about 3/4 of an inch in diameter) 2 1/2 inches apart onto lined cookie sheets. Bake for 7-8 minutes or until edges start to lightly brown. Cool completely on cookie sheets. Then gently peel cookies off with your fingers. (Use caution when peeling these cookies.)
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to put it simply Words by kristen bledsoe
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imagine: one day you awaken, enclosed in the mystery of morning and swaddled in the pale weak sunlight that is streaming through an obfuscated window, glass unintelligible as lunatic speech. blanket-burdened. nothing can touch you here. when you arise, the greeting smile of someone you love, and you are glad to receive it, as a gift. there is a mug of something hot for you, warming your hands that seem like brittle twigs, the steam rising, rising, to meet your face with a slow kiss. there is safety here, in this house. perhaps you wonder if this is how the rabbits feel in their burrows, the bears in their caves and the squirrels in their dens as they huddle together in lovely heaps and dream of who-knows-what: intoxicated on the thousand sweetnesses of your life, the sharp aching contrast that comes with the cold between light and dark, between warmth and freeze. the witching hour descends and softens the edges. the timid sun lies himself down early tonight, tired from his long year of keeping everyone alive. you lie down too. it is time to rest.
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My Old Friend Christian Mott
Winter had come too early, harsh, and cold, too eager to turn the wood of bright fires into dying grey embers, and bones to mere shards of layered ice beneath our skin. Regular nights were spent feeding logs into the fireplaces of the rooms in our cottage, with little to no sleep, and Papa struggled to keep his pipe lit—something he’d never had trouble with before. Little brother and I kept up with the pace. Only our sister didn’t work, she too young, too fragile for labor. She played by day and amused our bruised hearts with her unabashed laughter. By night she slumbered in the back room while the rest of us four endeavored to keep the house warm, to keep each other company, motivated, and not so aware of our own hunger. Yet bread comes in many forms. Too does starvation. There had already been too few songs that season, and the ones Mama did utter were more crooned than sung, yet more moaned than hummed. They were mostly groanings from deep within, audible pinings for milder, happier times. We had all come down with something the week of the winterberry harvest, and Mama sadly forwent her trip to town for the market. She brought home no mulled wine to encourage merriment, nothing to dilute for us to inspire warmth into our small toes. No juice of tart huckleberries spilled sweet down our throats, no red-berried holly leaves lined the mantel to prick our curious fingers, no little white flowers gladdened the dark windowsills. Neither was our cellar full, but the road had became too dangerous once we were all well enough to travel it. The only one of us who could’ve suffered it safely was Papa, but even then Mama wouldn’t let him—we needed him at our cedarn table more than delicacies, she’d said.
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There had been even fewer stories, still. Papa only sat down to spin a thread when he could sit down, when the cold wasn’t so greedy, when we could cozy up around the hearth, and he could sip his whiskey and light his pipe. Only after he took a few draws would he get that twinkle in his eye, that curl in the corner of his mouth, and ask if we’d ever heard the one about the lost girl, the deer who spoke, and the whittling old man in the cabin with “a laugh like a bellow”. No, we’d had no such grand stories that season. I didn’t see Papa sit down for three weeks, I reckon, and if he’d fought the winter hard enough to win a moment to light his pipe, the pipe itself wasn’t so easily won. Brother and I threw no snowballs, and our sled had rotted in the muddy wet underbelly. I stuck no icicles in my hair, and no one called me Her Majesty. Our home was no place to live, but only our sister knew it. The longest night that year had come too unexpected, too harsh, too cold for any of us to bear. Winter stole the fire from our sister’s room on that frigid eve, and closed the latch to the flue. The billowing hands of black smoke had nowhere to go, so they gripped open the window and escaped into the night, exchanging themselves with frosty winds. Chill took my sister’s breath, and in the morning, she didn’t wake. The entire room was coated in black soot, like a chimney-sweep’s nightmare, and they said her bones had turned to ice. After she was laid to rest, Papa shut her door, and we never relit her fire—that room didn’t exist anymore. Out of sight and mind, it remained black and cold, but not altogether empty.
Papa couldn’t get his pipe lighted that week. Every match he set to the brim of the bowl, when he drew on the stem, the flame was sucked down into the chamber. He’d try a few sticks here and there, but would give up, unwilling to waste them all before spring. He called it a bad sign, but wouldn’t tell me what he meant. I only know the nights got exceedingly worse each night for six nights, until we had burned through the last of our stock of firewood. Father and I went out one rimy morning to bust up the dining table with his ax, and we discovered nobody had closed her window. It was still open, and I was left alone to finish chopping.
exploded forth from the bowl into a magnificent torch of red and orange and singed bits of tobacco. His beard caught part of the flame, and was left black and bare in patches. The tip of his nose and skin of his cheeks were red and shiny. He left his chair to trim his beard down and wash his face, clearing away the smell of burnt hair, as he said it made him sick. He coaxed Mama and brother back to bed while I fed the fire, awaiting his return. When he sat down again, he immediately refilled his bowl, and relighted his pipe, determined to reestablish his authority and reclaim his mastery over it.
Winter subdued its roar that nightfall. The air grew quiet, This time the pipe lit without trouble, and he took a few still, and so bitterly stale I could taste it like paper on my draws without losing the cherry. The only twinkle in his tongue. eye was a tear, the only curl in his mouth a subtle quiver. With smoke wreathed around his head, Mama and I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. Mama coddled brother in bed, our sister buried dead, I sat crosslegged brother in her bed, both asleep, and Papa sat brooding next the fireplace on the hearthrug before him. Fire in his chair with his dry pipe hanging out of his mouth, dancing in the hollows of his eyes, it was the first story its bowl as dark as his eyes, as empty as his stare. He held he’d told that season. “Darkness found me when I was a careless match in his fingers, watching the glow of our young . . .” family table burn in the fireplace. He told me a story I’d never heard before, a story of I crept back to our sister’s old room, and prayed the door boyhood, of sorrow and solitude. It was a story of never wouldn’t creak. It smelled like moist darkness and ash, being good enough, never as smart as the others, nor as like an old cabin that had burnt black, with a tinge of handsome; never quite as clever, nor as eager for adsweet, crisp wet-rot. The fireplace remained gloomy, the venture, danger, and reckless abandon. An unsafe story only light a soft blue fading in through the open window. of never being wanted, nor worth it, and keeping a safe Tufts of icy sludge had frozen down the wall to a glacial distance while thinking too much. Of sticking to books mound on the floor. without enjoying reading them, of isolation to the point of never speaking without difficulty. Of anxiety, of loneliI closed the pane, shutting out the winter, and all fell ness and being alone. silent—until the inhale, exhale behind me. None of my family stood in the doorway, no one to inquire as to what Alone, this is, until Darkness came. Papa had only ever I was doing. A thrill came over me, and I made for the heard stories of him, of this Dark man the old ones called door, making sure not to glance in either direction. I Grippe, so he never believed he was real. turned to pull the door shut, and a figure stood next my sister’s bed, not an obvious silhouette, not the form of a When this Grippe did come, he told Papa his name was human—just a shadow much darker than the rest of the Friend. Papa attached himself to Darkness, who taught room. him to feel strong when he wasn’t, to be arrogant and Papa’s watery red eyes met mine as I returned. feel angry despite himself. Darkness taught him to mask “I know what you saw.” his emptiness in order to fool others so well he would He struck the match. eventually fool himself, to resent others so much it was “What did I see?” difficult to forgive them for even the simplest of mistakes. He set the flame to the brim of his pipe bowl, and drew on the stem. The flame slipped down deep into the chamber to where all the other flames from that week had hid and collected into each other, ever growing and strengthening, and waiting until they couldn’t hold back any longer. Now that the window was shut, the heat of the flames released all at once. With a sound like Papa’s shotgun, the flames expanded each of their lights and heats, and
It wasn’t until he met Mama that he realized how empty and weak he’d become, when he tried to be full and strong for her, but couldn’t. “If Grippe was my winter, your Mama was my spring. She was a flower of the perfect hue, but when I’d asked him for help, he only tried to stop me from admiring her.
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‘Her petals are too delicate,’ he said, ‘you’ll only break her.’ But when I saw how strong she was, I knew then I’d been deceived, betrayed by this Dark beast with whom I’d shared all of my most wondrous desires. When I told him to leave, he said he would return. He would wait, he said, until the day I thought I had everything I could ever want, until I thought I couldn’t be happier. ‘When all of this fails you,’ he said, ‘we’ll be friends again.’ “So I’ve been expecting him, and I know that time has now come. And I know you saw him in your sister’s room, but for some reason I can’t explain, I know he hasn’t come for me . . . My dear, he’s come for you.” In the back room, my sister’s bed scraped across the wood floor and crashed against the old dark fireplace that had failed her. The sound woke my Mama and brother again, but Papa rose to comfort them and beseech them return to their sleeping. When all had calmed, he stood before the door to my sister’s bedroom. “My old friend . . .” Footfalls thudded to and fro from the other side, pacing, waiting for him to step inside—and the door closed behind him. I tossed in a few more table pieces, bundled up tight in Papa’s chair that smelled of leather and whiskey, and tried my best to fall asleep before the fire’s light went out. When I awoke, Papa had gone. His traveling cloak was missing from the rack. In the bravery of sober morning I stuck the stem of Papa’s smokey, sweet pipe in my mouth, and faced the door like he had. Where sunlight should’ve glistered beneath it, a prominent darkness held its place like the taut line of a pursed mouth. I reached for the knob, but when it twisted slightly, I felt unwell and afraid. When night fell, and Mama and brother went to sleep again, it became clear to me that Papa had abandoned us. He’d crumbled under the weight of Darkness and left us to defend ourselves against it—and defend myself, I would. I stood before the door, a tingle of excitement at what was behind it. Your Papa said you and I can’t be friends, a voice said from within the room. But we don’t have to listen to him, because he isn’t here anymore, is he? No, come inside. Your Mother loves your brother, and you have no one. But if you come inside, my dear, I’ll be your Friend I swallowed my fear and tried to accept that after that night I would never again be the same—but then the front door bursted open.
Papa blew inside in a flurry with a large burlap sack thrown over his shoulder. He plucked me from the doorknob, woke Mama and brother, and gathered us all together, paying no attention to the angry scratching at the back room’s door. With his blue and windburned hands he first took from the burlap a few bottles of mulled wine. He poured us each a mug and drank a number himself while handing out cases of huckleberries and soft winterberry holly that wouldn’t prick our fingers. He gave us storybooks full of woodcuts, and read the first couple lines in funny voices to make us laugh. He put a wreath on my head and called me Her Majesty. He tied a string of white flowers around Mama’s neck, and pulled her close and kissed her. He let her go, his eyes glistening, and wildly continued to dig for more things from the bag. He gave brother a new sled, pulled out loaves of sweet breads and meat pies to fill our stomachs, as well as numerous other delicacies, including a new case of matchbooks with a satchel of fresh tobacco. But the last thing he removed was a mandolin—it was used and rusted and worn, but it was perfect in my eyes. Although its cords were in tune, Papa had long been out, yet his fingers plucked mightily away. With tears wetting his ruby cheeks, his straining voice rang out, deep and reverberating throughout the cottage, as he sang of our sister’s laughter, loud and triumphant. We followed him around, marching merrily and singing boisterous songs with him, until our voices nearly gave out. He smoked his pipe as we told stories around the hearth, including the one about the deer leading the lost girl to find the whittling old man, all the while ignoring the sounds of distant unrest in the back room growing ever-fiercer. We told jokes late into the night and laughed together until the window in the back room shattered, and Darkness left us. Sleep came easy as we forgot about the harsh winter outside the cottage walls, as we neglected to feed the cold and every sort of shadow. We found a different kind of firewood we never knew we had, and once again become a family, the crackling in the hearth we’d needed all along. We were together, no longer starved, and our toes were warm. We were home, and it was ours.
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Ant Farm A new generation of Mobile creatives is rising. These artists, musicians, visionaries and makers are propelling our community into a new era. We at Ant Farm believe that a generation’s art, traditions, and what they leave behind have the power to communicate to future generations what they valued as important. We aim to peel away the stereotypes of southern living, and showcase truly what makes us known nationally as the warmer half of America. By spotlighting the little things around us, we hope to encourage notice of traditions in our homes and in our communities, and celebrate the local normality that makes us so unique.
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Work with us Writing & Editing Eleanor Mason | itscourtneymason@gmail.com Photography Christian Hilley | christianhilley@gmail.com Advertising Aubrie Ribolla | antfarmads@gmail.com Distribution Christian Mott | antfarmads@gmail.com
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Special Thanks RevElator Coffee | Birmingham Great Bear Wax Co, | Birmingham Fabeled Brew Coffee | Fairhope Love Builds | Mobile
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Ant Farm Mobile 1204 Shelton Beach Rd. Suite 3 PO Box 337, Saraland, AL 36571
www.antfarmmobile.com
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