Community Banking

Last week, we opened a joint account at the American Community Bank on the other side of our building.

I heard “Hello there!” “Welcome back!” as soon as we walked in. Since there weren’t any other customers and the two ladies behind the counter were smiling directly at us, I figured they meant us. I’m not used to getting so much attention at a bank, and with one of them standing to my left, the other to my right, I struggled to make eye contact with both of them to explain we needed a new account. It was like watching a tennis match from mid court.

We were shown to an office where a third lady did the paper work. She remembered Scott from a few months ago and they chatted about how the bank used to be a diner, the NCAA basketball tournament, her daughter who lives in Atlanta, her commute to work. I asked about the name of the bank and got elbowed by Scott. That just cost us another five minutes of chatting.

After the branch manager Peggy came in to say hello and talked about the neighborhood happenings that night, it came time for me to choose a user name for online banking. Scott suggested “wong” and it went through. Not “wong2012”, “wong123” or "wongnc. Just “wong.”

According to Wikipedia, there are 60 million Wongs in the world. At the Charlotte American Community Bank, it's possible I'm the only one.

Lake Wylie Adventures

Despite a schizophrenic forecast showing downpours followed by an 80-degree sun, we decided to explore the Lake Wylie area in South Carolina.

At the state line we stopped in the South Carolina Visitors Center, which was surprisingly impressive. It was nice, clean, and fully stocked with free brochures organized by regions. Who knew South Carolina had more to offer than just Charleston? It was one of the few occasions when I truly appreciated the use of tax dollars.

An hour later we arrived at the town of York, eager to sample the fare at Jasmine Café, which was touted for having a great brunch. As we approached, the deserted main street didn’t bode well and sure enough, we rolled up to an empty parking lot and a locked door. We had forgotten that everything is closed on Sundays. Except churches. If they were to set up cafes, they’d make a killing.

It’s now two hours since we left home. Hungry and cranky, we contemplated our options nearby: pretzels from the gas station, a sandwich from Food Lion, McDonalds, Jersey Mike’s Subs. I decided I’d rather starve.

Hoping that there’s a café on their 110-acre property, we drove another 15 minutes to the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden. No such luck. It looked amazing though and we plan to come back when we’re not light-headed from hunger.

Another 30 minutes later we arrived at T-Bones on the Lake, where we got to eat at last. The menu – salads, burgers, fish tacos – was tamer than the taxidermy décor would suggest. A stuffed Kodiak bear with a sea captain’s cap guarded the entrance; jackalopes and antelopes stared down at us from walls; bobcats and raccoons lurched in corners ready to pounce, and armadillos lay on their backs to sip beers. The remaining wall space was plastered with signs and banners from fellow Southern states. Since Scott is delighted with all things Texan, he was especially partial to the sign that said “Don’t Mess With Texas.”

Outside on the deck, catfish nibbled on fries that people threw into the lake. Someone was fishing off the pier and he almost hooked one several times, but it wriggled free each time. A few moments later, a giant catfish appeared and circled around his bait. Then it bit and we watched with anticipation the ensuing struggle until he finally pulled the fish out of the water. It wasn’t quite Old Man and the Sea sized but it must have been at least a foot and a half long. I felt a little sad that the fish lost its freedom for a soggy fry, even as I contemplated how I’d cook it. The guy was just about to put away his catch when his friends made him pose for one last photo. The fish flopped in his arms a couple of times, then splashed back into the lake and disappeared. I hope the picture turned out to be a good one.

After lunch, we discovered the scenic Riverwalk Trail - renamed as the enticing "Piedmont Medical Center Trail" - that flanked the Catawba River. The trail is only 2 miles long but is well kept and picturesque. We climbed down from the trail to soak our feet in the icy water and skipped stones from the river bank. After years of failed attempts, I was finally able to make them skip - one more checkmark on my childhood to-do list.

Back on the trail, we ventured into a building which we thought was a recreation center for the surrounding housing development. It turned out to be a new special events space named Brakefield at Riverwalk, its design inspired by the grand European architecture from a Thomas Kincaid painting. A bridal photography session was taking place as the owner proudly showed us around. Despite my misgivings about her taste in art, her business vision was impressive. She had commissioned the structure from scratch and had chosen a prime spot on a hill overlooking the river. The space was not even officially open yet and she had already booked 80 events.

Just before sundown, we visited Glencairn Garden in Rock Hill. Though free to the public, it could easily rival any botanical garden that one has to pay for. Windy paths curved around handsome landscaping, punctuated by lovers swaying to their own rhythm on swinging benches; flowerbeds bursting with pink azaleas lined the paths and the bubbling creek; a promenade of white dogwoods created a snowy canopy overhead, and a lane of “cupcake” trees carpeted the ground with deep pink blossoms topped with yellow “icing.” We couldn’t believe that such a garden was maintained by the city, had no graffiti, trash or skateboarders anywhere, and yet so few of our friends have heard about it. Hands down, it was the best discovery we’ve ever made.

Turns out, at least one friend of Scott’s had made the discovery years earlier, when she would stop at the garden for a make out session before heading home from a date.

Night fell and we ended our Lake Wylie tour at Hickory Tavern where I indulged in one of my new favorite dishes – shrimp and grits.

‘Twas another typical day trip in the South.

The Charlotte Spring

We came back mid-March from a 10-day vacation and found Charlotte in full spring.

The only activists in this spring are the frenzied bees that dive in and out of flowers and trees that suddenly came to full bloom. All over the city, streets are lined with dogwoods – “cotton ball trees” as I call them – with puffs of tiny pure white or pale pink blossoms that completely take over the trees. When pedals fall, float down in the air and settle on the sidewalks, they resemble snowflakes. Magnolias were stunning with their purple and white blossoms as big as the size of your hand. To me they represent the South even more than grits and fried chicken do.

If that weren’t enough of a sign of spring, I found that everything on my desk, in front of an open window, is covered with a fine coat of yellow dust. When it rained yesterday and I saw yellow water running down the road, I thought that it was chemical waste. I was just about to make a racket when I realized that it was pollen washed off from tops of cars, buildings and the parking lot.

I’ve traded black Manhattan dust for yellow Charlotte dust.

We’re actually a little worried about this “spring,” which really started in February and has already hit a few 80+ degree days. We don’t know what this means for summer, but at this rate, we wouldn’t be surprised if winter hits in July.