Sunnybank

Albert Payson Terhune and Sunnybank Collies 

Photo from Sunnybank Collies Website

To Lad the real world was bounded by The Place. Outside, there were a certain number of miles of land and there were an uncertain number of people. But the miles were uninspiring, except for a cross-country tramp with the Master. And the people were foolish and strange folk who either stared at him which always annoyed Lad—or else tried to pat him; which he hated. But The Place was—The Place. 

Always, he had lived on The Place. He felt he owned it. It was assuredly his to enjoy, to guard, to patrol from high road to lake. It was his world.

The denizens of every world must have at least one deity to worship. Lad had one: the Master. Indeed, he had two: the Master and the Mistress. And because the dog was strong of soul and chivalric, withal, and because the Mistress was altogether lovable, Lad placed her altar even above the Master’s. Which was wholly as it should have been.
There were other people at The Place people to whom a dog must be courteous, as becomes a thoroughbred, and whose caresses he must accept. Very often, there were guests, too. And from puppyhood, Lad had been taught the sacredness of the Guest Law. Civilly, he would endure the pettings of these visiting outlanders. Gravely, he would shake hands with them, on request. He would even permit them to paw him or haul him about, if they were of the obnoxious, dog-mauling breed. But the moment politeness would permit, he always withdrew, very quietly, from their reach and, if possible, from their sight as well.

 -- Albert Payson Terhune, Lad: A Dog, 1919

When I was a child my favorite place was my grandmother's 100+ year-old cabin. Nestled in a hollow in the mountains a few miles from Asheville, North Carolina and surrounded by forest and beautiful countryside, it was a delight for me and my 20+ cousins. We, or at least I, thought it was heaven, even though there was no running water and I was called upon daily to haul heavy buckets of water from a spring several hundred yards away (and what cold, delicious water it was!).

My Grandmother's Ramshackle Cabin

There were many wonderful things to see and do at my grannie's cabin: wander through the woods, pick blackberries or shell black walnuts, swing from the big oak tree or climb the cherry tree, walk to the country store to buy treats, make sandwiches with Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip and just-picked tomatoes from the garden while fireflies flickered, visit the Meadows children at the end of the long driveway, play the many box turtles on the land, collect blackberries, or splash through the small stream, disrupting the crawdads-- but my biggest delight was a bookcase with a long line of books by early twentieth-century author Albert Payson Terhune. Terhune raised collies at an estate called Sunnybank in New Jersey and he wrote books about his wonderful dogs Lad, Lady, Bruce, Wolf, and others. I and many of my cousins devoured them, reading of collies one doing noble and heroic act after another. I loved those books.

LTR: My Brother Rick, Beauregard, A Dog Whose Name I Don't Remember, and Me (1959)

In my early visits Grannie actually had a collie. His name was Beauregard. He was big and shaggy and beautiful and, unlike the collies of today which have had the intelligence and broad snouts of traditional collies bred out of them in pursuit of show trophies, the very personification of Sunnybank Lad. I loved Beaury and he passed too soon. I loved my grannie, too.

My Grandmother in Her Garden. Note the Tomatoes! (1974)

Those days and my grandmother and her cottage are long gone, but I and I'm sure some of my cousins remember vividly the exploits of the Sunnybank collies.

Somehow across the decades I disremembered Sunnybank was in New Jersey-- but when returning home from Wayne one day a year or so ago I saw Terhune Boulevard. Could it be? Yes! Had to be named after the author of the collie books!

As soon as I got home I consulted The Google and discovered Sunnybank Estate had been preserved as a Terhune Memorial Park in Pompton Lakes. Every time I was in or near Terhune Boulevard I looked for the park but never managed to spot it.

Finally I decided to make a concerted effort to locate the park. It turned out to be right on Terhune Boulevard. The entrance was marked with a small blue sign, easy to miss.

Terhune park is a lovely place, wooded and bordering tranquil Pompton Lake. I could see why Terhune found it so special. It would be a perfect place for an afternoon of reading or quiet contemplation or for a picnic or as a spot to visit while boating on Pompton Lake. There are plenty of benches and I have a book already marked out.

The Terhune home place, by the way, is long gone, razed in the 1960s because it had fallen into disrepair. The parking lot marks its location.

I own a couple of Terhune's books. I recently re-read Lad: A Dog and found Terhune's style hyperbolically sentimental-- a trait non uncommon in 1919, when it was written. Terhune's sense of personal superiority, which was invisible to my childhood self, manifests in my adult reading and when describing an attempted burglarly (foiled, of course, by Lad); his fawning adoration of women is of course sexist, and he manifests the racism of his time. Nonetheless I enjoyed my read and plan to re-read more of Terhune's books. A half-dozen or so are available in electronic format and, happily, all seem to be selling for three dollars or so at Advanced Book Exchange. I think I'll build a set.

Here are some images from my visit.

 Lad, the Terhunes' Most Famous Dog, is Buried Close by the Parking Area

The Terhunes' Beloved Lily Pool Long Since Dried Up

Puppy Yard Photo From Sunnybank Collies Website

Our House Is Now in Its Blue Period

If Picasso can have a blue period, why can't a house? I ask you.

I mean, our house wanted to be blue. I know it did. Just look at it.

Now check it out when it was a nondescript gray.

I rest my case.

Pot Van

So-- I'm walking with my friend Rena, in Manhattan, just off Times Square, and we pass this van. This marijuana van. Weed World, it proclaimed.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" I asked.

"You did," said Rena,and walked over to ask the driver if he was really selling pot.

"What did he say?" I asked upon her return.

"He said "Duh!" she said.

It really is a pot van. Check these flavors of ice cream:

AK-47, Bubble Kush, Sour Diesel, and Girl Scout Cookie. There are also cookies and brownies. All varieties are five dollars.

Newspaper reports say there's no marijuana in the products.

Smoking out a scam, NYPD officers “field-tested” the candy and found it contained no marijuana, officials told The Post. 

“Maybe we can slap them with a charge of lying to the public,” a law-enforcement source said. 

The bogus-buzz traffickers haven’t been busted for drug pushing or consumer fraud, but cops are cracking down on aggressive sales tactics. The outfit recruits “street teams and candy girls” to draw customers. (New York Post, August 11, 2013).

I might just have to give the Bubble Kush a try.

No Grits for You!

Photo By sashafatcat

Grits are a fact of life in the South. From Virginia to East Texas, they're part of breakfast-- and sometimes the entirety of breakfast. Every home cooking restaurant serves them, and many fast food places and chain restaurants have them on the menu-- for instance, both Cracker Barrel and IHOP do.

Grits are simply ground up maize (corn). They're of Native American origin and related to corn porridges from around the world-- for example, polenta. In the American South they're not made from dried raw corn, but rather from dried ground hominy. Grits, and for that matter corn meal or hominy, can be made from either yellow or white corn.

(See this article by Linda Brandt for a discussion of grits, polenta, porridge, and mush).

Hominy, for those who might not know, is made from dried corn soaked and heated in an alkaline solution in a process called (no kidding!) nixtamalization; this increases the flavor and aroma of the corn and makes it easier to grind. Most grocery stores in the south and most hispanic groceries in the north sell hominy, which is called posole in Spanish.

Grits come in three varieties:

Instant grits, which should be mixed with hot water and then thrown away;

Quick grits, which cook in five minutes and will do in a pinch;

And grits, which cook in twenty or so minutes.

The hardcore like their grits stone ground.

Grits are, or should be a savory dish. They are served on a plate next to bacon or eggs, or in a bowl. They should never be sweetened, unless that's how your poor old mama made them, in which case it's okay if you use sugar or honey, provided they're for your own consumption. Most Southerners add just salt, pepper, and butter to their grits.

Grits should have the consistency of mashed potatoes; just say no to runny grits.

It's okay to add cheese to grits, or crumbled bacon, or country ham, but baked grits are not a breakfast dish. I've never tasted them, so I'll reserve my opinion on them.

Grits are uncommon in the Northeast. Most people who live north of Maryland have heard of grits and may have even tried them, and most have a negative opinion. I shudder to think of the grits they have tried. Many northerners believe they have led totally gritless lives.

That's not quite true. Corn porridge, mush, and polenta, which are widely consumed above the Mason-Dixon line, are pretty much the same thing. But just try convincing Vinnie of that.

(Grits play a significant role in My Cousin Vinnie. Check this out)

It's fairly difficult to find boxes or bags of grits in grocery stores in New Jersey (usually they carry only instant and/or quick grits) and damn near impossible to find them in restaurants. Diners, which have the world's largest menus, don't serve them. Even Cracker Barrel and IHOP don't seem to have them on its NJ menus.

So, paraphrasing the Soup Nazi, if you're from the South and you find yourself in New Jersey--

No Grits For You!

One Year in Jersey

January 28 marked the one year anniversary of my move to New Jersey. I've been mostly silent on this blog because I wanted to log in some time here before I started commenting much about my new home state. I wanted to know more or less what I was talking about and I figured a year would do it.

So, first upin the next post-- grits