Wildcat Fire Station Rises From Ashes

As I gear up to trot the annual Lake Burton Fun Run, I find myself thinking not of sweat, heat or lime-flavored Gatorade, but of one of the landmarks along its route: the Wildcat Volunteer Fire Department. And how much the property has changed in just one year. Fourteen months ago, a tornado came ‘round the mountain, plunking itself right smack on top of the station. Twister, plus ensuing fire, equaled complete destruction of the property. Trees, trucks and equipment lay in smoldering ruin too.

Only one of the fire trucks survived. Driven out of the burning building, by who else – a quick-thinking fire fighter. A year later, through much planning and toil, the station has been rebuilt, under the keen direction of Chief Pat Thompson. Offices, kitchen, bunkrooms, rec room – two floors of impressive space. It was the chief’s idea to take the ruined pecan tree out back and create the station’s kitchen cabinets from its wood. They turned out beautifully. Someone call Martha Stewart.

Jokingly, I asked Chief Thompson, “Where do blue prints for fire stations even come from…greathomes.com?”

He answered, slightly embarrassed, “Well, I designed it.” 

So humble. Truth is, not only did he create the floor plan; his own hands did much of the labor. Along with the rest of the volunteer fire fighters. They all worked together building back up what Mother Nature had torn down.

At this spring’s open house, chief Thompson took me aside. He pointed out the one lucky fire truck which made it out alive. And its back melted light, now reduced to droopy white plastic. He could've had it fixed. But chief has left it disfigured on purpose - to remember. Now looking entirely akin to an oversized marshmallow gone wrong, it gave me shivers. 

They should drive the truck to schools on don't-play-with-matches day. Nothing beats a great visual aid.

From the two bunkrooms, freshly painted game room and Viking stove tucked between those hand-made cabinets, there was much to admire at the station’s open house. But my favorite was the people. Each fireman associated with the station seemed on hand for the big day. They wore their uniforms and polished nametags and smiles. It was an honor to meet so many of them.

If you ever find yourself in Rabun County, Georgia, drive past the Wildcat V.F.D. station. Maybe even park out front, admire its million dollar view of Lake Burton. Stunning location. I'm sure the old station thought so too. 

The old station. Gone, but not forgotten. Through the years, it housed much more than red trucks and equipment. Swinging wide its doors welcoming church services, local meetings and educational programming. That was then. I can only imagine all that will take place under this new station's watch and keep. It's off to a beautiful start.

http://www.rabuncountygov.com/firedepartment.html

www.kathleenmoorephotography.com

BBQ Fund Raiser at the Firehouse

“Once. Twice. Three times…sold!” rang the auctioneer voice of fire chief Mr. Chad Dixon, gesturing enthusiastically in the direction of someone other than myself.

Rats. Outbid fair and square. I really wanted that item too. After all, who wouldn’t get a kick from an airplane joy ride high above Rabun County in the depths of spring?

But that’s how it goes at the annual Tallulah-Persimmon volunteer fire department BBQ fundraiser.

This year’s event took place March thirty-first, at where else - but the sturdy firehouse itself. Polished to a glorious shine the station’s arsenal of trucks patiently waited outside, grabbing gravel during the affair. Their home temporarily parlayed into a party venue. And what an amazing event fireman and organizer, Mr. Tom Madison Sr., created.

Old and young gathered together under a big blue sky, American flag waving overhead. Thanks to The Foxfire Boys, mountain tunes tickled the crowd as the scent of BBQ punctuated the air. Several ladies broke out in dance as we all clapped along. It was a festive atmosphere almost belying the gravity of the event. Each of Rabun County’s twelve volunteer fire stations needs every dime they can get.

  


































“Raised funds go primarily toward life support equipment,” Mr. Madison informed me. “We’re in critical need of pagers, portable radios and breathing apparatus.” He also explained the importance of a solid ISO rating: a ranking system that gauges a community’s fire-fighting capabilities. Ratings are based on several criteria: well-trained fire fighters, proper equipment and adequate supplies of water.

    


































“ISO ratings effect citizens directly. Great scores equal lower rates for home insurance,” Mr. Madison continued. “A couple of years ago Rabun County received an upgraded rating. It’s in everyone’s best interest to maintain that quality.”

 Think of it as a help-me-help-you kind of thing. Attend fund-raiser, eat BBQ, enter raffle, bid on auction items, raise money, lower insurance rates, sleep well, eat more BBQ. If properly orchestrated it all comes full-circle, like a well-played Seinfeld episode.

This year’s auction and raffle prizes alone were something to get excited about. Just ask Mr. Kenny Walker, who strolled away with a $500 Wal-Mart gift card. Not to be out done, pastor Kevin Hurt won a $500 Ingles gift card. Go in peace. Reeves Hardware donated a serious looking riflescope, but I was more taken with the gorgeous leather ottoman offered up by Timpson Creek Gallery. I didn’t win that either. Mr. Madison’s daughter-in-law Jennifer, was the high bidder on that piece. Her feet are probably comfortably propped-up on it this very minute.

    

I did however come away with a hand-made bracelet and one oversized carrot cake. Plus, a newfound appreciation for all this station does for the community. Approximately two hundred 9-1-1 calls are answered annually by the Tallulah-Persimmon department, working with a current roster of only twelve volunteers. Their area of service covers the Northwest region of Rabun County, including Lake Burton up to the North Carolina state line.

Without a doubt my family will be back in attendance at their BBQ fundraiser next year. We’ll be armed with hungry bellies and a handful of cold hard cash. I’m already looking forward to it. Next spring that airplane ride over Rabun County oh-so-generously donated by Joan and Wayne Plaster, is oh-so mine.

https://sites.google.com/site/foxfireboys/

Bald Eagle Thrills Over Burton

Winding north over back roads heading to Lake Burton, the speedometer of my car keeps to the obligatory slow speed limits, but my heart races ahead. Expectations are high. For I know what I shall find. This place has me trained now. Languid rolling mountains in flawless fellowship with emerald waters. And over those waters, the scent of a bonfire wafting through the air, curling down the lake, just as the mist will do tomorrow at dawn. 

Especially enjoyable, the smallish wooden sign nailed to a tree off Lake Burton Dam Road. PRAY, it suggests. Like I’m not already. Is it even possible to lay eyes on this place without one’s soul surging upward in a swish of gratitude? 

But where is the fun, if known expectation can’t be turned on its head, further enlivened? Such was the case this summer during a family afternoon of boating. The kids - three of ‘em, ages nine and under - had worn us down with what seemed like the one-hundredth wakeboard run. We, the parental authorities in charge, had finally exerted veto power, demanding a lunch break. Off to La Prades. An hour later, full, refreshed and recommitted to the day, we clamored back down one of those long docks, piling into our oldie-but-a-goodie bow rider. 

Suddenly at the top of her six-year-old lungs, our daughter shrieked. Shattering the afternoon peace, she hollered, “Bald Eagle!”

Snapping to attention, I whirled in the direction her pointer-finger furiously jabbed. Eyes flashed to the sky, even as my mind zoomed in the opposite direction. No way. She mean a hawk. Maybe a really big hawk. 

But the unmistakable vision, a mere thirty-five yards away begged to differ. Fresh from his hiding place high in the trees, a speeding form raced like a black and white dive bomber. Ebony wings stretched themselves from the biggest raptor body I had ever seen. A fierce white head lead the charge in a nose dive toward the unsuspecting lake. Like a scene straight out of Animal Planet, the creature deftly changed motions at the last second. Propelling underside forward, feet and talons smashed through the surface. Spray erupted wildly. From the restaurant’s patio a chorus of voices sang out in unison. 

“Bald eagle! Bald eagle!” yelled half a dozen people at once.

Perhaps distraction got the better of him. Performing under pressure always a tricky dish no matter what species. In a flash the eagle rose back into the air, empty fisted. Some lucky spotted bass or trout left shaken but alive, free to swim another day. Mesmerized, every head turned in the direction the bird flew. Remembering that for once, the camera was aboard, I lunged for it chaotically, managing to snap a shot. We watched, soundless now, as this iconic raptor elegantly lifted himself higher and higher. His black silhouette pitched vividly against the cloudless, chalky-blue sky.

Euphoria at such a spectacle ran high through the children. My husband and I more quietly, more deeply moved.

“Remember this,” their father told them. “You’ll probably never see it again in your lives.”

But then again, perhaps they might.

After speaking to Mr. Jim Ozier with the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, I learned the American Bald Eagle has been on the dramatic increase here in Georgia since 1980. Conservation laws, restoration work and a ban on the pesticide DDT have helped the bald eagle recover from near-extinction.

“This year we counted 143 nesting pairs,” Mr. Ozier told me over the phone. “Georgia’s eagles stick mostly to the coast, but we do hear reports of sightings in the Lake Burton area.”

Of course they do. And really, what’s so unexpected about that? If tired of the usual haunts, an eagle succumbs to wanderlust and happens upon Rabun County, he like the rest of us, would be enchanted. And if, on a lazy afternoon, the mood strikes to do a little fishing, undoubtedly the choice local would be our beloved Lake Burton.

If while enjoying Rabun County, you spy the unexpected, let the Georgia Department of Natural Resources in on your find. Mr. Ozier encourages the public to report all sightings of American Bald Eagle nests and pairs. Contact him at jim.ozier@dnr.state.ga.us or call 478.994.1438

www.kathleenmoorephotography.com

7-11 meet Norman Rockwell

Lake Burton Grocery has a real name. Lake. Burton. Grocery. But we simply call it Joe's. That because it's Joe who's running the place, and Joe's life-blood sunk into it. Joe and the rest of his hard-working family originally hail from Florida. But he's here in Georgia now, cooking up the best batches of turkey and artichoke dip I've ever had. The "grocery" is hardly just a grocery. Oh no. It's a deli, a kitchen, a place to buy your bait and firewood, grab some Tylenol and ice cold beer. Perhaps not in that order. The place is like something out of the 1930's. Just one look at the old building and ancient gas pumps, give a clue that you're in for a real treat.

When you visit Joe's - I mean, Lake Burton Grocery -follow this plan: First, pull off of Hwy 76W, parking on the splash of asphalt out front. Do not run over any free-range children who've walked up from the lake for ice cream. Do brace yourself to be hit by the scent of bbq wafting from a beat-up smoker to your right. Pause. Breath deep. Walk up, pulling open the old screen-door serving as the grocery's grand entrance. Let it smack shut behind you. Register that oh-so-satisfying sound. Nothing says you've left the city like an anciently painted screened-door banging shut. Step foot over the decade-old, scuffed-up wooden floors. This aint no 7-11. You'll be greeted by a friendly smile and a "How ya doin'?" by either Joe himself, daughter Barbara or a real-deal Rabun County resident.

The front room of the store offers anything a visitor or local resident may need. There's cold drinks and matches. Lighter fluid and tick-tacks. Graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate for those parents who couldn't get it together, coming up to the mountains without s'mores supplies. There's dog food, canned beans and Starbucks iced coffee in the fridge - for city folks and their ensuing coronaries if gourmet caffine consumption is disrupted. Joe has his wooden shelves stocked with wine (that's for me), fishing line and lures, shampoo and homemade fudge. But wait for it. It gets... better.

Durk's Take-Away is the official name of the kitchen and deli in the next room. This cozy space while small in square footage, feeds masses of hungry. Visitors and locals alike. It's a great mix of people milling around waiting on their BBQ and slaw. The daily menu board will make your mouth water. Realizing you missed home-made breakfast sandwiches makes you wanna kick yourself. Noting that on summer eves Joe produces gourmet take-out dinners, will having you placing an order faster than a...well, lets just say, really fast.

I don't know who the Durk, in Durk's Take-Away is. Usually it's Joe himself back in the kitchen. Looking like a wild mad-man, tongs and cutting knives whirling. Longish white hair attempts escape freedom-fight style under a tightly worn ballcap. His white goatee - much better behaved - surrounds a wide smile of interesting dental work. Joe wields his spatula more like a pitch fork or light-saber. The man is a mix of Sweeney Todd meets Emeril Lagasse. Don't be scared. He won't bite. He just wants to feed your belly.

It's touching how proud Joe is of his place. Last summer he showed me all around the storage rooms explaining his plans and grand visions. He giddily showed off his place like a normal grandpa would photos of his grand-kids. Joe asked what I thought of his ideas, inquiring if I liked the new and improved patio. How flattering. And yes, I did like the new patio - a.k.a. relaxing waiting area. Huge logs-seats and benches provide a fine space to kill a little time while you hang-out. Newspapers lie scatter around underneath a huge map of Lake Burton hung perfectly at eye level. Nearby, that rusty smoker churning out the scent of tantalizing pork being cooked oh-so right. You'd better sit down.

Most of the folks who traverse through the place are salt of the earth. Its sweet - sentimental in my old age I am - to see the local, older guys come in for their morning cup o' jo.. Clad in jean overalls and wilted ball caps, you get the feeling you're witnessing what's been their daily uniform for 60 plus years. However, I can report at least one instance of the direct opposite. It wasn't pretty. High-glossed Range Rover barrels into the tiny parking area like they own the joint. Two people hop out. You know them: Ken and Barbie. Stepping up to the kitchen's counter, Ken can't wait to order those sandwiches. And he's going to do so, with great lunch-ordering authority. However, Joe had stepped into the back. Kitchen momentarily unmanned. My sister, Nicole, stood nearby, holding up the wall while waiting for her own sandwich she'd just ordered. Ken glances around blinking. Empty kitchens confuse him. Darting eyes quickly settle on Nicole. She's positioned on the customer side of the counter - just like he is - but clad in jeans, t-shirt and ponytail. Typical weekend attire.

"I want to place an order," he informs her.
Amused, she looks up. "I think you should."
Ken just stands there. Emaciated Barbie linked to his arm, scrying hungrily, hoping her man will provide.
"Aren't you going to take our order?" Ken demands.
"I don't think so." Nicole informs calmly.
"Why not?"
"Because... I. Don't. Work. Here.

Just then, Joe emerged from his cloisters quickly taking the guy's order. He then handed my sister her steaming-hot BBQ, thanking her by name - as he does all his regulars. But as I stated, this type of customer is the anomaly. Most folks milling around are either up from Atlanta on a fantastic day-drive, or weekending at the lake. Either way, its a prime environment for a lot of happy, shiny people. Often, I've envisioned Vermont's Norman Rockwell - great American illustrator who's paintings showcased small town U.S.A. throughout the '30s - '50s - waltzing into Lake Burton Grocery feeling right at home. It's a special kind of store, with the authentic feel and flavor of a bygone area. And except for the occasional out-of-line Range Rover, you'd almost believe not a day has passed.

Lake Burton Grocery / 7335 Hwy 76 West / Clayton / GA 30525

phone: 706.782.4646

website: yeah, right