A 2,500 mile adjustment
People sometimes wonder about adapting to a cross-country move late in life. Here's what we did to lighten the load and sand off the edges.
After living in Southern California for over six decades, leaving the Southland and traveling to our new home in North Carolina was emotionally and physically taxing. And that we accomplished the whole thing—retiring from work, selling our house, packing up, and driving cross-country—in about two months only heightens the whirlwind impact it had on our lives.
My wife, Vicki, took the brunt of our relocation. She left cherished friends, family memories, and myriad emotional ties to her home state. California was the only place Vicki had ever lived. Although on board with the move and its necessity, it was frightening and painful for her to leave.
I, too, left behind the comfortably familiar and a few friends and mentors I would miss. But it’s different for a woman. The effects of our move from West to East rippled through both our lives for the first couple of years, but Vicki was hardest hit by the sudden change. I’ve had to take ownership of making such an impactful move so quickly, one that caused my wife a lot of pain.
What do we miss most, besides the people we love? The Pacific Ocean. All day long, every day.
Yes sir, yes ma’am, and y’all
One of the charms of living in the Blue Ridge area is the slower, countrified Southern-style pace of life. And narrow roads that are inky black after the sun disappears behind the hills. Then there’s the elbow room—something we cherish to this day. Neighbors and homes are spread out on the rolling landscape, and borrowing the proverbial cup of sugar from the folks “next door” would require a hike.
Topography and pace are but two of the differences distinguishing our life in North Carolina. There are culinary distinctions, too. Some of which beg the question: “Where can I get a good taco around here?” And, oh, how we miss In-N-Out Burger! I’ve told friends back in California that if they brought their mother’s authentic Mexican recipes east of the Mississippi, they would be millionaires.
Then again, North Carolinians have it down on pulled pork and ribs. We’ve eaten at a couple of spots, in particular, that have fabulous meat-falls-off-the-bone ribs like you wouldn’t believe. Slather on one of their distinctive sauces and you’re in heaven. Then there’s grits. Everybody serves ‘em. Looks like wallpaper paste and tastes like Malt-o-meal and I just don’t get it. The secret for transplanted non-Gritonians? A little Texas Pete’s hot sauce.
Aside from the cuisine, cultural differences are distinct and noticeable. For example, social exchanges amongst strangers are regularly punctuated with a sincere “yes sir” or “yes ma’am.” Even from young folks! And we’ve gotten used to being referred to as “y’all.” Or, in the context of a group, “all y’all.” Exchanges like this were nonexistent in California, so we were pleasantly surprised while initially skeptical. I mean, who talks like this?
But we love it. Californians could learn a thing or two. Just sayin’.
Name that animal
We live in what Californians would consider semi-rural isolation. It’s five miles to the Ingles supermarket, 11 miles to the town of Hendersonville, and 35 miles to Asheville—our nearest “Big City.” By comparison, in California, our local Albertson’s supermarket was just a mile away. If we took Tustin Avenue, we hit about five traffic signals and a three-or-four of STOP signs. On a journey to Ingels—five times the distance—we encounter a single STOP sign and three traffic signals.
So, most of the driving in western North Carolina is stretched out. We noticed immediately that our miles-per-gallon rose significantly out here—in the cars we drove in California. And on those stretched-out, countrified drives, we see a lot of animals. Some are wild (bear, deer, raccoon, opossum, vole). But others are domesticated. Cows, horses, donkeys, and such.
Before we started meeting people and developing friendships in our new location, we took to naming the animals along our regular routes. Oddly, this exercise in frivolity drew us “closer” to these beasts. It’s like they became ours through the simple act of naming them. Their owners would think us very crazy ex-Californians, for sure.
Meet Oatmeal and Cinnamon
Just down the way, around the first bend in Macedonia Road, there’s a fenced-off corral inhabited by a massive steer we’ve named Cinnamon. Over a year ago, Cinnamon’s stable mate, Oatmeal, came up lame and had to be destroyed. With such a large beast, this was no simple undertaking. One day, we passed the corral and noticed the owner puttering around in a large backhoe. He smiled at us. We noted Oatmeal’s absence—and a big hump of dirt near one edge of the enclosure.
It was expedient to dig a large hole and “keep” Oatmeal close to home in the great hereafter. A practical option for a rancher with a backhoe. For his part, Cinnamon seems to enjoy his new solo status, although he is kept company from time to time by a shetland pony with a prodigious mane (we named her Farrah). I should have mentioned that Cinnamon and Oatmeal were named for the color of their sleek and shiny coats.
Snowflake, Gum Drop, and the Striped Cows
Half a mile beyond Cinnamon’s corral lies a large, fenced-in field at Macedonia and Highway 176. A contingent of cows rotate through the field according to the owner’s commercial pursuits. Sometimes, the cows are fancy striped imports from Scotland (Belted Galloways). Other times, they’re regular, run-of-the-mill brown cows with thick fur—important when Winter sets in.
Nothing is as exciting in the cow corral as the arrival of new calves. So far, we have named two adorable youngsters: Snowflake, whose little cow face was white in contrast to his brown fur, and Gumdrop, because he was small and playful. When passing the field, we loved to watch them prancing through the grass on warm summer days before curling up in the sun, near momma, for a nap.
And sometimes, Vicki will roll down the window and yell “MOO, MOO, MOO, MOO, MOO!” at the bewildered creatures.
Donkeyohtee
About a mile from our house is yet another pasture on the south side of Highway 176 before the cabin camp. It’s a beautifully sloped grassy field ideal for a grazer. And it was here that we noticed a proud-looking donkey roaming the field and munching grass continually. We named him Donkeyohtee (aren’t we clever?). Our donkey friend is handsome with a dark grey hide, white underbelly, and thick white “eyeliner” surrounding big, brown eyes.
We’ve since learned that donkeys are social animals. We think Donkeyohtee needs a girlfriend.
Little Pinãta
On my way home from Ingles the other day, I passed the upper cow field across from where Snowflake and Gumdrop roamed in their youth. Low—and behold—a new baby brown calf with an all-white face! He stood near momma, stiff-legged and so very tiny. Immediately his name popped into my head: Pinãta!
I was pleased with my on-the-fly naming-convention acumen and told Vicki so when I got home.
Oh, Deer!
We live on the border of the Green River Game Lands which bracket the Green River and abut much of Highway 176 as it cuts through from Flat Rock to Saluda. Hunting is permitted in season and with the proper licenses. We have observed that the many deer in the area seem to travel a circuit through the hills, visiting familiar watering holes and grazing areas along the route.
Our development has a 3-acre lake and a lot of tasty plants, flowers, and grasses, so we are definitely on the deer circuit. Although we haven’t named them yet, a couple of does and their yearlings have taken to drinking out of our plastic gardening pitchers. And eating our roses and lawn. We view this as quid pro quo for living in their forest. So, all good.
As you can see, we’ve made some lovely friends in the hills.
Ah yes, the pleasantries of country living. Made this jump from California decades ago. Seeing the transition from your fresh viewpoint reinforces all the reasons we are here and never going back.