Sam J. Kourkos

Photo by Eric Wright, December 8, 2017.

One year ago yesterday, Eric and I were honored to be on the same flight from Atlanta, GA to Kansas City, MO as the remains of a WWII soldier who was killed in the Gilbert Islands in1943.  With a cold Southern rain on the verge of turning into the snow that would later shut the airport down, we watched silently and prayerfully from the window of the plane as Marine Corps Reserve Pfc. Sam J. Kourkos boarded in his flag-draped casket, flanked by salutes.  My thoughts on that flight were of our grandmother who had passed away the month before and whose memorial service we were traveling to attend, and of this soldier who died so long ago and was on his way to be reunited with family, seventy-four years late.  This was a homecoming for Pfc. Kourkos.  A homecoming that would end for him at the airport in MO, where family and media waited. When our plane landed, he disembarked ahead of us into the brilliant Kansas City sunshine, while we, spellbound, watched from the windows until the flight attendants had to ask us to please disembark the plane ourselves so they could allow the connecting passengers to board. 

74 years later, slain WWII Marine's remains returned to family

Funeral Announcement For Marine Killed During World War II (Kourkos, S.)

He died in battle nearly 75 years ago — now he’s coming home to Kansas

Birmingham, Alabama: Five Points

We are terrible at relaxing. So terrible at relaxing, Eric had to change out hoses on the Jeep and I had to put a second coat of stain on the front door before we could “earn” our planned-for-over-two-months-ago, out-of-town-for-one-night getaway.  This is NOT normal behavior.

With promises to each other to do better at relaxing and getting away in the future, Slim and I hopped on I-59 and headed south to Birmingham.  Our destination was the art deco Hotel Indigo (formerly the Hotel Highland…more formerly than that, the Pickwick Hotel…and even more formerly, the Medical Arts Building), overlooking The Storyteller Fountain in historic Five Points.  The inspiration for the trip was a gift certificate from the clever and thoughtful Steven and McKenna to Frank Stitt’s Highlands Bar & Grill.  A gift certificate that was just over a year old, having been intended as a gift for our birthdays LAST YEAR.  Have I mentioned how bad we are at relaxing?  The upside of waiting a year to spend a gift certificate to a restaurant like Highlands is that IT MIGHT WIN ANOTHER James Beard Award during that year.  Which is exactly what happened back in May when Highlands won “the prestigious James Beard Foundation Award as the most outstanding restaurant in America.” 

The downside to a James Beard Foundation Award for the most outstanding restaurant in America (if there is a downside), is that even if you call several weeks in advance to make dinner reservations for a Thursday evening, you may find that there are no reservations to be had.  And in a case like that, thank goodness for the bar, which requires no reservations.

We arrived in the ‘ham in time for a late lunch at Hattie B’s Hot Chicken.  Our server Kordell helped me navigate around the gluten, which resulted in a very tasty basket of grilled chicken tenders with slaw and potato salad.  Eric managed a basket of spicy fried leg quarters with fries.  After watching Anthony Bourdain sweat through a hot chicken basket from Bolton’s on his Nashville Parts Unknown, we had both ordered cautiously in our heat choice, but agreed that we’d go hotter next time. 

Maybe it was because the corporate inspection threw off our check-in at Hotel Indigo and someone took pity on us, or perhaps it was our Gadsden (and Nanda Patel) connection with the young woman handling guest services that afternoon, but we ended up with the most extraordinary corner suite of rooms with a view of Red Mountain’s Vulcan instead of a standard room with a nothing special view. Upon entering # 307 and first seeing a sofa, coffee table and TV, with a kitchen and small dining set just beyond, I thought, “Oh, no!  Where’s the bed?” We realized very quickly and quite to our disbelief that we were standing in a parlor and that down the hall, past the sliding-industrial-doored-bathroom was the bed, a closet with safe, a desk, a chaise lounge and another television.  

Swanky room left behind in favor of a walkabout in the neighborhood, we stumbled upon Charlemagne Records.  The concert-poster-plastered stairwell was just like it was twenty-four years ago when I hesitantly ventured there while killing time before my Physical Anthropology grad class.  Red carpet still stained.  Bins like a feed-n-seed store, full of old and new vinyl as well as CDs.  Two original Howard Finsters swung from the ceiling.  And although I’ve been paring down my CD collection, I purchased Cannonball & Coltrane, Son House’s Original Delta Blues, and Atlantic Jazz’s Best of the ‘50s.  Another promise made, this time with just myself, to get my old CD player from mom’s house and take time to listen to CDs again.  Slow life down some and enjoy it.

Highlands Bar & Grill was already hopping by the time we stepped over their threshold at 5:30PM.  Seated at the bar, we enjoyed an adult beverage while we daydreamed of home projects. A Pecan Old-Fashioned for Eric (Knob Creek, pecan orgeat, orange peel, Angostura Bitters), a Bourbon Crusta for me (Four Roses Small Batch Bourbon, Cointreau, Luxardo Maraschino, lemon juice). 

As we sat with our drinks and dreams, Eric’s face took on a look of someone who has seen something that they are excited about, but also want to be cool about.  “Are you okay,” I asked.  Eyes growing wider, through clenched teeth, “Yesh.  I think I just saw the guy.” “What guy…Oh, Chef Stitt?” I totally couldn’t turn around to look because it would’ve been completely rude, and would’ve betrayed my fangirl feelings towards chefs, including all of those feelings left raw and exposed from Anthony Bourdain’s death.  So, I kept my back turned and my mouth shut as we ordered another round of drinks, a Buffalo Creek for monsieur (Knob Creek, ginger syrup, lemon juice) and a Paradise Cay for madam (Appleton Signature Blend, Ferrand Dry Curacao, Lustau East India Sherry, orange, lime). 

Still full from our late Hattie B’s Hot Chicken lunch, but not wanting to miss out on the amazing food from Highlands, I ordered a Belle Meadows Little Gem Lettuces salad of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and Green Goddess dressing, while Eric ordered the Prime Beef Tartine on sourdough with Arugula, pickled onions and Roquefort aioli.

After several hours on a bar stool and a final nightcap, we made our way back along the tree-lined streets, past The Storyteller and to the Indigo.  A pack of bicyclists pelotoned past us at one point, a festive, motley group of neighborhood riders, reminding us of the two whose gift certificate prompted the getaway in the first place, and a silent thank you went out to Steven and McKenna.  

We tucked into our decadent digs early, wanting to take advantage of the luxurious suite…and the cable TV in two rooms.  I woke the next morning disappointed that we had not experienced any of the supernatural goings on that other guests have reported at the hotel, but Eric was quick to point out that maybe all of the little odd things we experienced were our version of a supernatural force (room mix up, elevator refusing to come when called, staff accidentally opening our room up for inspection…with us in it).  A final meal at the spectacularly understaffed Waffle House allowed us time to people watch and dig deep into our wells of patience before hopping back on I-59 to head north to Gadsden.

Hattie B's Hot Chicken

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Hotel Indigo

Vulcan from Hotel Indigo

Charlemagne Records

Charlemagne Records

Charlemagne Records

The Storyteller

This time, last year.

Last week, Eric and I were reminiscing about how this time last year we were in Atlanta for the American Library Association's Mid-Winter convention.  And how one night we (and Amanda & Jeremy) had dinner and drinks with Joshilyn Jackson ('cause she and Amanda are BFFs), how one day Eric met and chatted with Senator John Lewis during his book signing, and how on the final day of the convention we were witnesses to the magic show of NEIL PATRICK HARRIS, a magic show during which Mr. Harris stunned us all with one of the biggest slights of hand I've ever seen (or not seen, because hey, slight of hand).

But once we came back from convention, we got down to the business of having our retaining wall and second patio built.  We went from this:

To this, with the work of our friends from Finlayson Landscape Design:

And then, after moving some plants I'd been saving for the spot, plus the dawn of a new season, this:

Yes, that's Booker in the middle of the planting bed.  With his stick.  The three of us have enjoyed sharing that space with our people.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

I was completely hooked by the first chapter of The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón.  The chapter was enticingly entitled “The Cemetery of Forgotten Books.”  It is to this Cemetery of Forgotten Books that protagonist Daniel Sempere’s father has brought him so that he may choose a book of his own to protect for the rest of his life and make sure that it is never forgotten. 

“This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens. This place was already ancient when my father brought me here for the first time, many years ago. Perhaps as old as the city itself. Nobody knows for certain how long it has existed, or who created it. I will tell you what my father told me, though. When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands. In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you here has been somebody's best friend. Now they only have us, Daniel. Do you think you'll be able to keep such a secret?” (page 6, Penguin Books, softcover edition)

In that sacred place, Daniel chooses a title by an author unknown to him, The Shadow of the Wind by Julián Carax. And in that same sacred place begins Daniel’s quest to find more works by Carax, works that are impossible to find because a mysterious stranger has been destroying them as if in an attempt to wipe clean the world of any evidence of the author’s existence...

Eric recommended Zafón’s The Shadow of the Wind to me with the promise of passages reminiscent of Garcia Márquez and Faulkner.  Yes.   Shadow is a lush and juicy story within a story; a literary mystery full of suspense, romance, and murder.  It is the type of book to read and re-read, to protect and make sure that it is never forgotten.  When I came to the end of this book, I thought back to a passage from the beginning, “Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.” (page 8, Penguin Books, softcover edition)