Soup Weather

Yesterday afternoon, I picked up Cindy at Griffin Tech and drove her home. After a short cuddle and a good head-patting for the dog, we decided that it would be alright if I drove to the grocery and bought the ingredients for vegetable beef soup and Mexican cornbread.

So I drove to Ingle's and bought the ingredients and came home, with a stop in between to Rite-Aid to purchase some generic Claratin for Cindy. I was fortunate to be able to find the Claratin readily, but then there was no one at the front counter who could take my money. I wandered around the store looking for a clerk. The pharmacist and his assistant were quite busy taking care of pharmaceutical requests so that they couldn't help me.

So I continued to wander the aisles of the Rite-Aid before, on my third pass, I finally encountered one of the clerks. In my growing frustration, I briskly asked her if she could check me out. She informed me, just as briskly, that the other clerk was up front and he could help me. She also informed me that they had been removing the garbage.

Well, la de da.

Anyway, I finally went back to the front and encountered the other clerk, who seemed surprised that I was there, but still took my money. How mighty big of him.

So at that point, I was released to return home and assemble the ingredients for our soup and cornbread.

The cornbread was very good and reminded me of how much I enjoy good cornbread. When I say that, notice that I talk about good cornbread, for there is a gracious plenty of the other kind. Much cornbread is dry or too sweet. I don't particularly enjoy yellow corn bread; I prefer white cornbread. That is not racial, just what I consider to be a regional preference. For instance, I prefer silver queen sweet corn to other, more sweet varieties.

But, despite Cindy's impression that I had not included grated cheese in the recipe, which I had, the cornbread was quite delightful. My grandmother once told me that cornbread was her favorite type of bread. There are so many types of bread to choose from, it is difficult to say that any one variety is my favorite. However, I must say that cornbread should stay high on my list as well. In these modern times, it seems that cornbread is relegated to a back bench in the world of breads. However, this is really a cultural bias, in my estimation, since we forget how much of the world, particularly the hispanic world, probably uses some form of corn bread as their bread staple.

At any rate, the only problem I had with the meal was the absence of green beans for the vegetable soup. With carrots, celery, onions, potatoes, red kidney beans, green peas and tomatoes, I think I had enough vegetables to authorize me to refer to the soup as "vegetable soup." All the same, I would have liked some green beans in the soup.

The soup was pretty good, although quite hot. Not hot with spice, but hot with temperature. I ended up filling two plastic bags and a tupperware bowl with soup, so we should be in soup for quite a while.

I must say I ended up with quite a mess in the kitchen and very little energy to clean it up. Cindy and I teamed up on that this morning before we left for work. All in all, it was a good first foray into soup season.

Apologies for my lack of French

I am sorry about my lack of French. It is sometimes difficult living among the frogs when you are a little British terrier. I referred to Cindy's aunt and uncle living in Beau Chien, which translates, I am told, as Beautiful Dogs. Instead, they apparently live in Beau Chene, or Beautiful Oaks.

I don't really understand the problem. I suppose the occupants want to live among the beautiful trees, rather than a bunch of pretty dogs. Or perhaps the occupants... I don't know. Anyway, I hope I didn't offend anyone.

I am just a little doggie, digging in the dirt. Sometimes I find a nice bone.

Pearl

The pherenomes kick in
And we are swept away
On a stream of hormones.
I don't recognize what
Or why; it just is.
And despite our faults
And the weaknesses
We come to acknowledge,
The idiocyncracies
Grinding like sand inside the oyster shell,
We still can love
And are touched by the tiny endearments
Which bind us together
In a true miracle:
The imposition of the holy
And eternal
On the temporary and profane.

A lustrous pearl of great price.

October air

There is so much about October to like:

The darkening world,
The color of the leaves,
The growing coolness,
Football season,
The World Series,
A trip to Florida or Louisiana,
Oysters,
Hot dogs and chili,
Corn dogs at the Spalding County Fair
Pulling out the tweeds and cardigans,
Anticipating the seasons ahead,
Bonfires lighting the darkness,
Amber beers,
A breakfast of oatmeal and tea,
Orange things,
The clarity of the air,
The amber afternoons,
Shorter days, longer nights,
Candy from strangers,
Opening your front door to the world,
Passing out the bounty,
Orange and crimson and yellow,
The coming brown season,
Lighting the night to chase the darkness,
Warming your hands with hot chocolate
And boiled peanuts.

Come hither, love, and let me hug you close.

Chilly/Chili evening in late October

Yesterday afternoon, Cindy and I drove around buying things for the house and getting ready for the Bonfire Bash at the church. The Bonfire Bash is a celebration we have had at the church for several years which is the substitute for Halloween. In years past, the Galloways hosted the party by their lake behind their house. Steve would arrange for a large pile of wood to be burned as a bonfire for the festivities. It was all quite Celtic and Druidic.

Unfortunately, this year, the Galloways would be coming back home immediately before the party started, so the place for the party was transferred to the church parking lot and the pavilion in the woods off the parking lot.

In the early afternoon, Cindy and I met one of the other members of the church in the parking lot and helped decorate the surroundings. Then, after going home to change clothes and let the dog out, we returned to the church, where I began preparing the large grill for cooking hot dogs. As I got the coals started, several young male members of the church came over to talk to me and keep an eye on their anticipated hot dogs. Apparently, they were filled with quite a bit of anticipation.

Later on, a number of members brought crockpots full of various types of chili for the supper. After we burned the first batch of hotdogs (three dozen), and then adjusted the grill for the second three dozen, I was able to eat a slaw dog, and a bowl of chili. The chili-fixing abilities of our members is actually an untapped source. Several of the varieties were quite tasty. I sampled a few varieties and had several hot dogs before I was through.

As the sun went down in the west, the air began to cool, and I put my sweatshirt on to roast marshmallows on the big fire in the pavilion. It was fun enjoying the comradery and communion. It was fun to enjoy the fire and the treats.

It was all over by 8:00, but a fun time was had by all.

Artifice and family bonds in Southeast Louisiana and beyond

We woke up on last Saturday morning and everyone was preparing for our little family excursion to Madisonville, Louisiana for the wooden boat show. Cindy's Aunt Joan and Uncle Ray drove us over to Aunt Cindy and Uncle Chuck's house in Beau Chene, where we gathered for all of the cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and children to arrive so we could drive down Ivy Street to the manion in the woods and the dock for the yacht out back.

Several months ago, I read a diary written by a young woman who built a houseboat on a barge with her male companion, down in the bayous along the Atchafalaya. They lived for about ten years in the waters of Southeast Louisiana, living off what the river and the forest gave up for their support and subsistance. She now lives in Pike County next to some friends of ours. She is still quite self-reliant and impressive in her peaceful self-satisfaction.

I watched a film about her diary and she was present in the studios of the public television station. I was quite impressed with the film and her life. There was an air of serenity that flowed through the film and the interview.

But here we were, carrying food and drink on board a one hundred foot yacht, ready to sail down the river to downtown Madisonville for a wooden boat show. As the ship's captain cranked up the engines on the big vessel, we watched as the boat left shore among the diesel smoke and bright October sunshine.

As we floated down river, or up river, I'm not sure, I watched the cable television in the library on the second level of the yacht, trying to get coverage of a couple of football games being played in Georgia and elsewhere throughout the country. Meanwhile, lunch was served in the aft salon. I drank several beers and stepped carefully from one deck to another, impressed with the cabins, their appointments and the sheer size of the vessel. It was a beautiful yacht.

When we got to Madisonville, we quickly found ourselves the center of the boat show. People stopped and stared and took pictures. Little kids waved. I remarked to the owner of the ship that we were now part of the boat show. He agreed. Meanwhile, we tried to catch glimpses of the actual boat show along the bank, set above the crowds, as we were.

After several minutes of providing our part of the show, the captain turned the boat around and headed back home. As I examined a photograph of our hosts with the new Governor of Louisiana, I wondered how much it cost to make this short little trip up and down the river. I was later told that to fill the tank up with gas would cost around $12,000.00.

Later, we left the luxurious surroundings, the pomp and circumstance, and headed off to a little restaurant in a strip shopping center called "Rags" and ate shrimp and oyster poboys and drank beer and iced tea with the whole family. The family provided a pleasant chatter to the small restaurant. Later, at the end of our meal and the day, we stood out in the darkness of the parking lot for the strip shopping center and talked amongst ourselves. A sense of reality slowly flowed back into my brain.

That night, I drove Missy and Megan to the local Barnes and Nobles. The security guard at Beau Chien took my name down for the second and third time that day, his pencil scratching on his pad. In the bookstore, I examined all of the books about Louisiana and New Orleans in the Local Interest section. I found a book about a couple who, immediately after Hurricane Katrina, fired up their airboat and rode downriver into the flooded streets of New Orleans to help out. The sense of the story that I gleaned from the dust jacket was that they realized the need for assistance in the city immediately, and simply packed their airboat and traveled into town. No hesitation, no complicated plan. Just a simple response to an overwhelming need. If only the powers that were could have responded in the same manner.

It reminded me of a men's bible study I attended one afternoon, a long time ago. The leader of the group was trying to get us all to share our lives with each other. Progress was slow. We were Presbyterians after all. We were all stiffly wading through the thick mud of the masks we wore. As one young man finally began to slowly tell his sad story, he began to tear up and sob. Almost all of us sat there in silence, sheepishly staring with embarrassment at the young man.

But not one of the leaders. He immediately charged out of his chair and rushed to the side of the young man. He carefully placed his arms around him and asked us to pray. We closed our eyes and joined the leader in prayer for the young man. Suddenly, a small bond was formed between us that afternoon. Something real occurred despite our reticence. A communion of a spiritual nature, which manifested itself in our common prayers.

Reality, communion and love lie right below the surface. Despite the artifice. Despite the attempt to surround ourselves with the images provided by the things we have accumulated. In my better moments, I yearn for the spirit to reach for that communion when it presents itself. Like the young couple in Louisiana. Like the bible study leader ten years ago. To show love without hesitation.

Thanksgiving journey

Where the trip begins
The hills fall away
Like rumpled sheets on a morning bed.
Time to get up, sleepy head,
And the Flint, she flees away
Running out of the room
On past Thomaston and Butler
And Ellaville, on and on,
Rushing to the dying of the orange sun.

When the hills peter out,
The cotton fields then begin
And this cool November evening
Hides the lint in the ditches
The bolls stacked in blocks
On the side of Highway 19,
And the Flint, she flows on
Under the shadow of the Windsor Hotel
On through downtown Albany to the sea.

The Christmas decorations
Are draped across the country courthouses,
Standing solemnly at the stoplight
At the center of town after town;
Every thirty minutes, or so, a break
From the darkness and the stars
On our Thanksgiving journey
Through South Georgia to the sea.

And the Flint and I are running,
Growing stronger as the year grows shorter
And we are drifting on to the Gulf
Through the pinewoods of Florida,
Driving on through the growing nothingness.
The stars above us are just a gentle light,
For we both know our way southward
To the place to lay our heads by the sea.

The Gulf is so pretty;
Here where the rivers come to offer
Their bounty and provide shelter
For the families of shrimp and the oyster-beds;
The gulls scream in the Autumn wind
And the tides still crash like cannon on the sands.
Come closer, sweet thing, hold my hand,
And share a moment of deep heart solace,
The end of our journey, the end of this day,
Asleep in the tangle of rumpled bed sheets
Below the starry night, the thrashing waves,
The moonlight reflecting on the crystal sands.