SYMPHONY FOR THE TASTE BUDS

By Greg Evans

Call me Furst!
For those with a sweet tooth and those who pretend not to have one, no confectionary creation is as penetrating to the palate, satisfying and down right erotic as Paul Furst's 1890 concoction when it first hit the shelves of his store at 13 Brodgasse in Salzburg. It was a hit then and soon found it's way to the great city of Paris in 1905 where it was awarded a prestigious gold medal. Yes! I have personally tasted the "original" recipe of nougat, pistachio marzipan, and dark chocolate at the little shop with the blue awning and silver lettering located on a tight corner on the Getreidegasse at the base of the Festungsberg Mountain a ninety degree sheer cliffside streaking up into the clouds. It was an exceptional confectionary wonderment. It had a smoothness and richness, creating a euphoria that reminded me of Christmas and it is the kind of treat you nibble on and then allow to melt on your tongue as the flavors engulf your palate. The original Mozartkugel recipe is still made by hand and over a million are made annually "by hand using the original technique." The best analogy I can use to describe the perfection of the taste of the Mozartkugel would be the equivalence of capturing the Golden Snitch.

It is the little things in life that make it special, isn't that an age old adage? Nibbling on a 100-year-old chocolate recipe that was served to you by a lovely girl in a blue Dirndl, while a group of people stand around singing and a small coterie of musicians strum their lutes. What would Shakespeare have said to describe such a moment? Something far more poetic, far more introspective and possibly racy! Ho, ho! Around the corner another young woman stands beneath a tent selling her homemade loaves of bread that I would enjoy every night accompanied by a variety of cheese and wine. The amenity of the confectionary had a likeness to Mozart's piano sonata number 23 2nd movement. It could be a morning stroll along the Salzach to the sounds of chirping birds and kids on their way to school. It is the gentle snow falling over a serene cemetery adorned with fresh flowers and silence. It the sounds and smells of an old mother cooking before a stove she could move around without sight so familiar is she that it has become an art as the chisel in Michelangelo's hand. "If only people knew how hard I worked to master my art, they wouldn't look upon it with such fascination," he had said. That is not a direct quote. I can find assurance in the fact that Mozart grappled with the perfect combination of musical notes and Paul Furst tussled with the perfect combination of flavors and sweetness. Should it be absurd to recommend a few thousand miles of travel for the sole purpose of eating a delectable piece of chocolate? Leave common sense to the accountants, and lucky for you Salzburg has much to offer, but shouldn't be left without devouring at least one Mozartkugel though I don't presume you can only eat one.

THE POLAR BEAR EXPRESS

 By Greg Evans

I heard an interesting yet disturbing story that took place not so long ago in the northern reaches of Alaska. It was told to me by an automation engineer for one of the smaller oil companies near the arctic circle. For those who live and work at these oil fields there are many protocol that must be followed without fail ranging from smoking a cigarette to taking a stroll. As one would imagine Alaska is a feral uninhibited land of wild beasts, extreme elements, nomadic eskimos, outlaws, and life can be rough and brutal. One of the rules that oil workers must adhere to when exiting the grounds of the base camp is that they enter a fenced in area outside the main doors and must look around vigilantly for any sign of danger. The danger being, polar bears, moose, wolves and any other hostile creature. So one early evening a worker left the secure area and before he knew what was happening he was attacked by a large furious polar bear unprovoked. As the worker was being mauled to death he somehow was able to get his gun positioned and shot and killed the polar bear. Not long after the incident, the worker was located, identified as being the shooter of the polar bear, arrested, put on trial and subsequently convicted and is now serving a prison sentence. The prosecution's argument was that the worker didn't follow the proper protocol when being confronted by a polar bear. The correct action is first to yell in the direction of the hostile bear in an attempt to frighten them away. If that doesn't work you must load a noise cartridge and fire it in the hopes that it too may scare away the bear. If all fails only then are you allowed to shoot to kill. So even though you are being mauled, you can't defend yourself without first attempting to scare it. The whole thing is asinine and in my opinion is analogous with the changing of the times. Nowadays everywhere you turn are restrictions. They are suffocating and in my opinion 85% of them are terribly pointless and defending yourself against a wild animal attacking you should be the first priority. Where does the forcing restrictions down the throats of the populous end? Does it end or does it continue at the raging pace until finally everything implodes?

ALL'S WELL THAT DOESN'T KILL US

By Greg Evans

When I grow up I want to sit behind a desk or counter doing work I don't really like for a boss I despise, walking into work Monday morning thinking how darn short the weekend was and how far away Friday afternoon is which seems like a light-year. I do my time collecting a lousy or decent pay check that may be enough to allow me to save up for retirement at age 75 and then I will sit around watching reality television and eating chicken fingers until my children can't take it anymore and put me into an old person's facility where I can rot away or God willing before being shipped off to such a place a massive heart attack takes me." How many children have you heard say such things when they are asked what they want to be when they grow up?

T.S. Eliot once said, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper." I don't know if it had anything to do with the spider bite, the exceptional physical reaction or the fear of the unknown having never been speared by such a poisonous creature before, but I have found myself thinking much more about mortality than I ever had in the past. That moment when the bells toll. I sat down a few days after the attack, my wrist at the time still aching and slightly itchy, the flesh still being devoured by the hellacious venom and I rudimentarily pondered mortality. What is the meaning of life? Of everything or anything? Most people don't want to think about it. It is a scary thought when you start to get down to the nitty gritty. We are born, live fairly normal routine lives and then we pass on. But in those short years that we are living and learning and seeing and loving and hurting and thinking and planning and working and saving and spending and healing and soaring, at that moment when you gasp that last breath will you think to yourself, "I wouldn't have done anything different," or would you say, "thank heavens this execrable life is finally over!"

One thing I came to realize is that too many people lose their ability to believe in their dreams. The hard scrabble life, irking out a meager living, trying to guide contemptible children in the right direction in a world so seemingly filled with attractive and lurid vices. Go after those dreams, doesn't matter whether you are 16 or 69. I heard a story one day about a man in his sixties who was nearing retirement decided that he was going to quit his job and begin a new career. He was going to pursue the dream of his youth and become a practicing attorney. So this man enrolled into a law program and found going back to school was harder than he had thought it would be but he refused to quit. He studied with students most of whom were 45+ years younger than him. Three years later he earned himself a JD. The next step on his journey was the state bar exam. This man took the exam and failed. He took it a second time and failed. He took it a third time and failed. It wasn't until his sixth try that he finally passed the exam and became a licensed attorney and went on to have a successful law practice that spanned twenty years. He finally retired in his mid-eighties. His story is one I think about sometimes when I think life has hit a lull or I feel as if I am in my early nineties instead of my early thirties. The point of the story is to go after it because tomorrow you could take a step and a bolt of lighting may come out of the blue sky and have your number. The beauty of life is that we are given a freewill to go out and make this life what we want to make it. I see it all the time, people who speak of and see themselves as being trapped. The reality is that you are never truly trapped, you just aren't taking the correct angle. There is no point in looking at another's life and wishing that you had their life because how can life have any meaning if you aren't the one to carve it out, to recognize your talents, dreams and go after them with your whole heart and soul. Each and every one of you who wakes up tomorrow and decides that it is the day you are going to begin transforming yourself into that curious dreamer you were when you were five. You can bet there will be plenty of people putting you down, telling you to get your head on straight, telling you that you are down right nuts. Artist Jackson Pollock was the worst drawer in his class. His own brother was a more talented artist then he was but Jackson's paintings today sell in the Hundreds of millions. Walt Disney worked for a newspaper but was fired and told by his editor that he didn't have any creativity. These people who are everywhere spreading their poison trying to make you feel small. The same people who cut you off in traffic and don't pick up their dog's business in your front yard, they talk on cell phones in nice restaurants and steal your morning newspaper.

Let me tell you another quick story about a Chinese playwright named Gao Xingjian who in 1983 was diagnosed with incurable lung cancer. There was nothing he could do but wait to die. A few weeks later a second examination revealed that the cancer had gone away. Gao was given a second chance at life. Due to his inflammatory writing he was on the verge of being sent away to a prison farm because of the repressive government and he packed up a few belongings and took off on a soul searching journey. He traveled to ancient fortresses and climbed enchanting mountains. For five months he journeyed and took notes and upon returning to his home he wrote a novel called Soul Mountain that is a study as well as ponders the human soul. Gao went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. IT just goes to show you that sometimes taking a risk and wandering out to the edge uncovers things about you that you may not have realized or if nothing else creates satisfaction. Gao went in search of the meaning of life. I don't know whether or not he found it, but he "lived" and as far as I am concerned that there is the meaning of life. Get up tomorrow and really live.

STOWAWAY TO SALZBURG

By Greg Evans

Nearly a month has passed since we sat in an astral medieval music room in the 900 year-old Hohensalzburg Castle and listened to an ensemble performing the enduring compositions of Mozart, Hayden and Dvorak as the sun set over the most beautiful and romantic city in Europe, Salzburg. An enchanting Baroque city on the banks of the Salzach river and the northern boundary of the Alps, it remains an absolute gem to those lucky enough to wander the ancient cobbled streets and speak with the kind and curious locals.

Almost every night I find myself dreaming of having coffee with Mom and Mary at the Cafe Tomaselli and eating fried fish and chocolates on the Getreidegasse stopping into small shops to chat with the pretty Salzburg girls working behind the counters. I strolled with the ghosts of Leopold and Wolfgang, shared communion with St. Rupert and scribbled lines of poetry in Mirabell garden while the sound of Mozart's piano concerto no. 21 floated through the warm balmy air. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers, that I longed to pick and place on the hotel window sill, carried in the breeze. Along the river we rode on a square barge against the racing green water flowing down from Bavaria, as the city, stoic and alert passed by eyeing us suspiciously. The ash gray stones of the old cathedrals, worn and tired, history written in the dust collected on the rafters and the echoes of the haunting organ. We sipped Austrian wine and dined on bread and soft sweet cheeses thinking slowly and speaking of music and Mozart, admiring the view from the Straatsbrucke, the padlocks placed for posterity clinging for dear life above the raging water. On the 26th exchange downstream is where ours is located, there forever. There for some great, curious mind to stumble upon one day and stare at it and wonder of the lives that were once lived, tired hands that placed that rusty lock there so many years before.

I have never in my life stumbled upon such an endearing place as Salzburg. Never have I left a city I only just met and experienced such terrible nostalgia. Never have I gazed into the eyes of a local population and felt as if I had known them somewhere before. The angle at which the fading light strikes the city and the eye, the manner in which the aromas catch the breezes and how the music of the people and the past ricochet off the stone walls and steep cliff sides, tales told by candle light and every day a new experience, a new emotion and a new memory. It is the last pure place on the planet and forever etched in my mind that first moment I stepped foot into the old town and for a minute I wondered if I was flying. Soaring over the rooftops like a sparrow, exploring the new town with the wistfulness of a young child, grasping a hold of every scent and sight, sound and sensation of touch and timeless dreaming. Humming The Sound of Music and dancing in the moonlight with a beautiful girl in a green Dirndl with green eyes and braided blond hair, soft hands and a gentle smile. A silver brooch glimmers in the lantern light, and the scent of a freshly lit cigar lingers.

BROWN RECLUSE SPIDER ATTACK

By Greg Evans

I was lying on the floor playing with my daughter when I felt a strange initially mild sting on my right wrist that quickly increased in intensity. Then a fairly intense burning sensation could be felt around the spot of the wound. I thought at first it was a wasp sting but the burning then began racing up my arm and into my chest area and back down my arm and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. My arm then felt extremely heavy and I looked at the wound and watch it morphing into different shapes and colors. It looked like a rotten fried egg, similar to a mosquito bite surrounded by a redness and I knew then that it wasn't a wasp sting but some kind of spider. I could see venom drainage being discharged by the wound and I washed it away with cool water. At first I feared angina pectoris and I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me back in fifteen minutes and if I don't respond than I would probably be dead and to come pick up the kid. I searched the area of the attack for the culprit but I couldn't locate the wretched arachnid. For hours a mild burning and itchy feeling continued and the wound swelled considerably and then the venom began eating away my flesh at a rapid pace. Over the next three days the venom continued to feast on my wound and began eating into my wrist. Finally feeling frightened after a night of nausea and dizziness I went to the doctor and was prescribed a strong ointment. I have been using the cream now for multiple weeks and the wound is doing much better. I think one day it will heal completely but there will be at least a 1/2 inch scar in its place.

For those who think they may have been mauled by a similar demon the first thing to do is get ice directly on the wound but don't leave it on too long. You also want to try and remain calm because the anxiety will help the venom to travel faster through your system. Then get to a doctor as soon as possible. I should have also and because I didn't I will have a noticeable scar. The one thing I am thankful for is that I was gorged by the monster and not my daughter. After doing research on the creatures I learned that there are around four species of the spider and not all the attacks result in the horror stories their reputations carry. Most recluse attacks are mild and must be cared for as any poisonous spider attack but it is rare for it to be fatal in healthy adults unless you have some pre-existing condition. They live in dark undisturbed areas like closets, in unused beds, log piles, crawl spaces, etc. Stay vigilant my friends!

MONTICELLO

By Greg Evans

My young daughter and I were traveling south on the interstate 81 when we decided to take a detour and visit the famous homestead of Thomas Jefferson. We were on our way back to our cabin high in the Great Smoky Mountains, when the urge to deviate from the trip sent me off the exit and nearly off the road into a dense thicket. Oddly enough, while traveling along, I believe route 64 east, there are no signs for the great Monticello. I wasn’t that surprised, nothing in the south surprises me all that much. Very little makes any sense and the more I try to rationalize it all the harder it is for me to find more than three hours of sleep on any given night. After nearly thirty-three minutes of winding mountain roads and out-of-control big rigs, we took an exit for Charlottesville, Virginia, because I knew from looking on a map that Monticello was near the city. City, it was no bigger than a small town. We drove up a hill, bore right and found ourselves practically on the quad at the University of Virginia. It was a beautiful campus but I had no desire to hang around. I have two degrees from two great universities and I wasn’t looking to participate in another, at least not yet. I sped off the campus nearly dissolving the lives of a couple hippy kids, turned right and headed up the narrow road into the heart of Charlottesville which I found to be an ugly little place, except for about forty feet downtown by the statue.

          With the greatest of difficulty we finally found our way onto the spiraling road leading up the mountain to where the immortal house stands. We parked, exited the car into a blanket of humidity and nearly 95 degree heat, purchased two family tour tickets and waited for the shuttle to take us up to the house. Mary was intrigued by the life-size statue of our third president and I took a great picture of her beside him. We reached the grounds with about five minutes to spare before our tour began. We met our guide and a few other families with young kids and the lady began giving us the history of Monticello which I found fascinating. Mary found the large front lawn much more interesting and ran around in circles howling like an Injun. Numerous groups were obviously disturbed and staring at the commotion. Mary then collapsed and lay sprawled out in the lawn, sweating profusely, gasping for breath and singing Beauty and the Beast songs. I was sure we were about to be thrown off the grounds. Instead they ignored my young hyperactive daughter and we entered the house. It was beautiful inside, and the most incredible house I have ever been too. To the left was a collection of Indian artifacts and weapons Lewis and Clark brought back from the Pacific Northwest and presented to Thomas Jefferson as a gift. There walls were covered in maps and beautiful oil paintings of Thomas Jefferson’s famous friends. He had numerous gadgets and instruments, thousands of volumes of literature, antlers, beautiful furniture and secret mechanisms in the house which astounded us. He designed the entire house. They could bring bottles of wine to the dining room from the wine cellar by way of an ingenious pulley system and communicate by an elaborate bell system. The whole house and property intrigued us and at one point Mary wanted me to put her down. I turned my back for a second and glanced over my shoulder in horror as she was rapidly scaling the wall via a 200 plus year-old window. I snatched her from the window like a lizard and hung on to her as she clawed desperately to be released. We entered the library where there was a chair that only Vice Presidents were allowed to sit in and Mary made a beeline for the chair as the room filled with gasps. The tour guide nearly took down a book case trying to cut her off but I was able to sweep her up flailing like a hunted quail and didn't let her down until we were out of the house and back in the yard. The garden was exceptional and I can only imagine what it looked like during Jefferson's lifetime. It was a great side trip and I look forward to returning once Mary gets a little older.

AL PETTEWAY AND AMY WHITE

By Greg Evans

I have to say the weather has been pretty freaky lately and I do know, because of science, that the planet is undergoing a geomagnetic polar shift which is why Appalachia is now experiencing tornados and heavy daily showers like a Guatemalan rainforest. Some say that eventually the Appalachian mountains will be sub-tropical. Fine with me. I wouldn't care if I never saw snow again for the rest of my days. Summertime in Appalachia is beautiful. The clear, fresh, warm mountain air and lush green forests. Birds and butterflies are everywhere, the sweet smell of fresh moss and trickling streams. I drift off with the wind to times past, when the world was smaller and the forests bigger, when the oceans were blue and green instead of brown. I walk through endless golden fields of wheat and meadows of crocuses.

I lived in cities for years, New York, Los Angeles, just outside Nashville and who knows where else? I'll tell you what, the skies were never as blue as they are here at the top of the world, high up in the clouds of the Appalachian Mountains. The bluest blue you could ever imagine, bluer than a Van Gogh painting, a blue that is so pure and vibrant you get a strange warm tingling feeling like you are flying, or that sensation of laying in a field far from any humanity without any shoes on, your eyes closed and the soft mountain breeze tickling the soles of your feet in the shade of a green apple tree on a warm summer's day. You can't put stuff like that into words, you have to experience it. A world full of little yellow inch worms.

Saw a show the other night, drove down, out of the mountains and along winding, narrow roads with hairpins turns and speeding trucks like being in Peru, and watched guitarist and banjoist Al Petteway and singer, harpist, guitarist, mandolinist and doboist Amy White, perform. It was an extraordinary show and the purity of the music was Appalachia. This couple comes from the east near the Flattop mountain in the Carolinas and showcased their mountain music with the precision, fluency and passion of Apelles painting a line. So in a small concert hall, a couple thousand people, dimmed lights, the clanging of flasks of peach moonshine and the scent of nearby peppermint chew wafting through the quiet crowd the music took us away, floating through the ancient hills and howling of raiding injuns, whispering waterfalls and swaying of Revolutionary War oaks tree branches we soared and swam through our own thoughts and memories, accompanied were we by incredible photographs of nature and mountain top views, photographs taken by Al and Amy. I was moved by the performance and I'm not moved by much. Another day high in the mountains of Appalachia.