The inn is very quiet. I assume all the other guests are asleep. I'm the only night owl here, the California girl who feels it's only 9 o'clock, when by east coast standards it's three hours later. I have heard footsteps in the hallway recently, though. Another guest on this floor, the third? Or could it be the ghost said to haunt this building, coming to pay his midnight respects? His room is just down the hall, on the back side of the building. Nicely furnished, like the rest, it has a fireplace and comfortable chair. I wonder if ghosts like to sit in front of a fire and feel the warm ooze through their vapors. He likes to sit on people, they say. Makes it feel as if their legs won't work. And a scent of cherry pipe tobacco is known to appear and disappear at mysterious times. His sign, they say. I took Hwy 25 north out of So. Carolina into No. Carolina, in awe of the greenery that lined the sides of the roads. Such a contrast to the bare branches of these Blue Ridge Mountains, just months ago. A short, straight, easy drive led me into Flat Rock, just outside Hendersonville, NC. Past lunchtime, a sign for coffee, bread and pizza caught my eye, to the side of the road and in front of a small white building Directed by another sign to enter around front, I followed the driveway toward the street, arriving at The Wrinkled Egg gift shop.
One bowl of delicious, spicy Carribean Root Stew (sweet potato, carrots, potato, malanga, fresh ginger, garlic and other spices, topped with feta and cilantro) and a glass of water later, I thanked Briana, Matt and Scott, who all work there, along with one other employee. I browsed around The Wrinkled Egg for a bit, which was filled with colorful, whimsical merchandise and bore a name that originated with a farmer who once held the property and had chickens with calcium deficiencies. As a tribute to the unusual eggs produced, the store gained its name. Clever.
I landed in the last tour slot of the day and owe heartfelt thanks to Dorothy Hall, an extremely knowledgeable guide, for offering me a private showing. Inside the walls of this 165 year old house, the life of the Sandburgs became very real, not just a part of history. Purchased in 1945 for the sum of $40,000., this property offered Pulitzer prize-winning author Carl Sandburg the privacy he needed for writing, while providing ample pasture and barn areas for Lillian's champion goat herd. They called it Connemara Farms.
I thanked Dorothy for the wonderful tour and took some time to walk the grounds. circling the lake. I came to rest on a quiet bench near the water, where I reflected on the life of this great man, who dropped out of school after eighth grade to work delivering milk and who later failed math and grammar exams for entrance to West Point. Steadily pushing ahead, he became a journalist, a world traveler, a singer and a lecturer. He enrolled at Lombard College, wrote and edited for numerous newspapers and published many wonderful works, including Rootabaga Stories, The American Songbag and both Abraham Lincoln: The Prarie Years and Abraham Lincoln: The War Years. Here on this property, Carl Sandburg continued to write prolifically, received many honors, and enjoyed a rich family life until his death on July 22, 1967. I lingered just a bit longer, then decided it was time to head off in search of lodging. For a change, I knew exactly where I was headed this time...
 If You Go:
Carl Sandburg Home |
A path to the right of the shop led me to Flat Rock Bakery, a little hideaway with four small indoor tables and some additional patio seating. Humid outside, I took a round corner table, a mosaic inlay decorating the top, with a circle of copper edging. Walls in shades of melon, slate, blue, chartreuse and brick red gave the place a fun, artsy feel. Fresh-baked loaves arranged in front of the order window reminded me my appetite was calling.
Just down the block, I pulled into the parking lot of the Carl Sandburg Home, a National Historic Site, run by the National Park Service. High on a hill, overlooking a lake, this 165 year old house has been preserved with Sandburg's own belongings, which consist of books, books, books, some furniture, and some more books. Tours are given by park service volunteers. I had just missed the start of one, so took advantage of the wait until the next one to view the barn and visit with the resident goats, descendants of the goats Lillian Sandburg bred.
Walking from room to room, I was able to see where family dinners were shared, where Carl read aloud or sang with children, grandchildren and guests, and where he hid away to work during the late hours of the night to work on fiction, non-fiction, poetry and children's literature. His typewriter rests on a small desk, his green visor from early journalism days lies in a flat letter tray. Books reach from ceiling to floor, row after row. It's not difficult to envision the life led in this treasured home.