As the wind picks up, the green leaves on the trees effortlessly flip to show their light-colored bellies. Despite the breeze generated by the wind, the humidity feels as if it were some invisible force a body would have to strive against to get anywhere by foot. The tint of the sky changes from it’s usual transparent shade to one that mixes a pale red with a muted black. Clouds bump other clouds out of the way as if they were racing away from impending chaos.
A moment later, a large drop of rain smashes against the dry ground. A streak of lightning blitzes in front of the clouds so fast you ask yourself if you really saw it. Thunder rumbles in the air then bounces off the sky and shakes the ground. Another raindrop falls, then another and another.
The wind dies down for a moment, the leaves on the trees become still. The weird coloring of the sky seems like a photograph stuck in time. The humidity seems more stifling than before, so thick it could choke you if you had to breathe it very long.
Again, lightning cuts a zigzag pattern in the sky. Before you can count to the number two a roll of thunder growls from the belly of the earth while the sky turns black as night. Out of the darkness of the sky, the raindrops begin to accelerate. The wind picks up again, whipping and howling and keeping an un-synchronized rhythm with the lightning flashes and booming thunder.
Standing in shelter from the storm, the wind splashes water onto my arm and tries to tossle my short hair. The smell of new rain meeting a sun-parched earth fills my nostrils. Steam seems to rise from the soil. Lightning hits a few yards away and just as my nerves settle from it’s sudden strike, a clap of thunder rattles me again making me feel as nervous as a sinner in a snake-handling church service.
Retreating inside, I crack a window, settle into an easy chair and hope the rain settles in for a stay. I hear the rain pitter-patter on the roof and I feel myself growing sleepy. Rain falls, lightning crashes, thunder rolls, I fall asleep.
As my eyelids open I can see the sun shining brilliantly. I rise, step outside and find that the rain has left. I look at my watch and realize it was only ten minutes since one of those passing summer storms drove me inside. Standing there, I feel the humidity wrap itself around me like a coat. I see puffy, white clouds drifting in front of a blue sky. And I find myself wishing for just one gentle breeze.
8.25.2009
8.17.2009
Food and Death
Note: The following was written in the spring of 2003. Famed author Fannie Flagg ("Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe", among other works) visited our school then. On her visit to our library, Ms. Flagg was presented with a book library staff had gathered from school faculty and staff. The book featured memories of growing up in the South as well as uniquely Southern recipes. My friend, Sharon, works for the library and recently recalled my essay for this project and requested it be posted here. So, here it is, as it appeared in 2003, complete with a recipe for sweet iced tea. Sharon, thanks!
Death is one of those things we all experience. It seems to be something that also unites and reunites those of us who were blessed enough to be born and reared in the South and those of us who choose to live here after being born and reared here and who always seem to be drawn back here, irretrievably, no matter where we roam. Somehow in the midst of all this birthing and rearing in the South the lonesome experience of death is also present and almost always tied in with food.
My mother’s father died on the second day of October 1975. I was eleven years old on that autumn Thursday and had never entertained the idea that my grandfather, an ordinary man who stood ten feet tall in my eyes, would ever die. I had been grocery shopping with my parents that evening. As we came home, our telephone was ringing. It was my mom’s youngest brother urgently telling her he believed their father, my Papaw, was dying. As my mom and dad left I retreated a few hundred yards away to my brother’s house. As I walked there, an ambulance siren screamed in the distance. I recall stopping in my tracks as I watched the ambulance pass by realizing where it was going.
A few hours later, my dad returned with the news that Papaw had died. It was my first experience with death. It hasn’t been my last experience with the cold, clammy hands of mortality but looking back I understand it as an experience that still flavors my life to this day.
Two days later, my grandfather’s funeral took place. As we drove from the funeral home to the church, cars pulled to the side of the road out of respect for the deceased, in this case for my grandfather, and for our grieving family. In a white framed church in one of the most rural parts of already rural north Georgia, a congregation sang the grand ole hymn, “Farther Along”. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, or as some in the family refer to those who have earned their designation in the family by marriage, outlaws, were all there. After the eulogy, my grandfather was rolled out of the church in his casket to be laid to rest at the top of the hill in the cemetery behind the building. Only then, as his casket rolled past me and my family, did I cry…and I cried like I had been whipped. I also discovered during this time most everyone who knows you has no idea what to say or to do to make you feel any better although they try desperately.
Later that evening, our family gathered at my grandmother’s house. Her nine children and their spouses and their children crowded together to share a meal. Neighbors and church ladies had supplied plenty of food, no doubt some of it having grown in nearby gardens just a few weeks earlier. I recall there being some laughter there that evening as we sat down together. I couldn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t fully understand how the uniting and reuniting of those whose blood we share is part of the healing process. I also didn’t understand then the therapeutic powers cornbread, fried chicken and gravy, pinto beans and banana pudding have when the world has become a place where one of your heroes is no longer around.
Every third Sunday in August is Homecoming and Decoration Day where my grandfather is buried. It is one of those picturesque times of the year, every year, mind you, that many in small Southern towns can’t imagine life without. Family members return and bring flowers to adorn the graves of loved ones. The whole ritual is about missing and remembering those who have gone on to their reward and in some small way honoring what they still mean to us. We gather in the church for preaching and later outside the church building for dinner on the ground. Once again, food unites us in death.
Time has moved on swiftly since my grandfather died. I rarely get back for Homecoming and Decoration Day. I have buried the rest of my grandparents and other family members since then as well. With each death, we have been surrounded by family, friends and neighbors and by food…good Southern food like fried corn, fresh green onions, leather britches, chicken and dumplings, apple stack cake, cracklin’ bread and lots of sweet iced tea.
With each death it has also become clearer to me that those you know still struggle with ways to console you. They hug you and tell you how much your loved one meant to them and you often hear the words of your deceased loved one ringing in your memory about this person saying how they always had a ‘good turn to them’. These people you know almost always ask you to let them know if there is anything they can do to help. They realize though, as you already understand too well, nothing short of a miracle the width, depth and breadth of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead can really make things as they were. Maybe this is why when someone dies in the small town South, neighbors and church ladies still fill dining room tables with home-cooked food, fresh garden-grown vegetables and desserts whose recipes are passed from generation to generation by memory. It is one very significant way people show they care. At a time in your life when the world seems darker than it ever has that care and concern mean more than you could ever express or maybe even comprehend. As you sit there with your family recalling good times and lamenting how we only see each other anymore at funerals you are filled with food and memories and your own mortality. Somewhere though creeps in the comforting knowledge as you look around at these people you love so much that there is a place where you belong and you know it is with them.
Sweet Iced Tea
Fill a mid-sized pan three-quarters full with cold water.
Place five tea bags in the water and bring to a boil.
Brew until the tea turns a muddy ruddy color.
Remove pan from stove.
Pour the contents of the sauce pan into an old clean plastic milk jug or large glass container.
Add cold water to fill the jug or container until it is about three-quarters full.
Add sugar to taste.
Cap the jug and shake well or use a large spoon to stir the contents of the glass container until the sugar dissolves.
Chill.
A few hours later, serve, preferably in a large glass with lots of ice.
Fresh lemon, not lemon juice, optional.
Death is one of those things we all experience. It seems to be something that also unites and reunites those of us who were blessed enough to be born and reared in the South and those of us who choose to live here after being born and reared here and who always seem to be drawn back here, irretrievably, no matter where we roam. Somehow in the midst of all this birthing and rearing in the South the lonesome experience of death is also present and almost always tied in with food.
My mother’s father died on the second day of October 1975. I was eleven years old on that autumn Thursday and had never entertained the idea that my grandfather, an ordinary man who stood ten feet tall in my eyes, would ever die. I had been grocery shopping with my parents that evening. As we came home, our telephone was ringing. It was my mom’s youngest brother urgently telling her he believed their father, my Papaw, was dying. As my mom and dad left I retreated a few hundred yards away to my brother’s house. As I walked there, an ambulance siren screamed in the distance. I recall stopping in my tracks as I watched the ambulance pass by realizing where it was going.
A few hours later, my dad returned with the news that Papaw had died. It was my first experience with death. It hasn’t been my last experience with the cold, clammy hands of mortality but looking back I understand it as an experience that still flavors my life to this day.
Two days later, my grandfather’s funeral took place. As we drove from the funeral home to the church, cars pulled to the side of the road out of respect for the deceased, in this case for my grandfather, and for our grieving family. In a white framed church in one of the most rural parts of already rural north Georgia, a congregation sang the grand ole hymn, “Farther Along”. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, or as some in the family refer to those who have earned their designation in the family by marriage, outlaws, were all there. After the eulogy, my grandfather was rolled out of the church in his casket to be laid to rest at the top of the hill in the cemetery behind the building. Only then, as his casket rolled past me and my family, did I cry…and I cried like I had been whipped. I also discovered during this time most everyone who knows you has no idea what to say or to do to make you feel any better although they try desperately.
Later that evening, our family gathered at my grandmother’s house. Her nine children and their spouses and their children crowded together to share a meal. Neighbors and church ladies had supplied plenty of food, no doubt some of it having grown in nearby gardens just a few weeks earlier. I recall there being some laughter there that evening as we sat down together. I couldn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t fully understand how the uniting and reuniting of those whose blood we share is part of the healing process. I also didn’t understand then the therapeutic powers cornbread, fried chicken and gravy, pinto beans and banana pudding have when the world has become a place where one of your heroes is no longer around.
Every third Sunday in August is Homecoming and Decoration Day where my grandfather is buried. It is one of those picturesque times of the year, every year, mind you, that many in small Southern towns can’t imagine life without. Family members return and bring flowers to adorn the graves of loved ones. The whole ritual is about missing and remembering those who have gone on to their reward and in some small way honoring what they still mean to us. We gather in the church for preaching and later outside the church building for dinner on the ground. Once again, food unites us in death.
Time has moved on swiftly since my grandfather died. I rarely get back for Homecoming and Decoration Day. I have buried the rest of my grandparents and other family members since then as well. With each death, we have been surrounded by family, friends and neighbors and by food…good Southern food like fried corn, fresh green onions, leather britches, chicken and dumplings, apple stack cake, cracklin’ bread and lots of sweet iced tea.
With each death it has also become clearer to me that those you know still struggle with ways to console you. They hug you and tell you how much your loved one meant to them and you often hear the words of your deceased loved one ringing in your memory about this person saying how they always had a ‘good turn to them’. These people you know almost always ask you to let them know if there is anything they can do to help. They realize though, as you already understand too well, nothing short of a miracle the width, depth and breadth of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead can really make things as they were. Maybe this is why when someone dies in the small town South, neighbors and church ladies still fill dining room tables with home-cooked food, fresh garden-grown vegetables and desserts whose recipes are passed from generation to generation by memory. It is one very significant way people show they care. At a time in your life when the world seems darker than it ever has that care and concern mean more than you could ever express or maybe even comprehend. As you sit there with your family recalling good times and lamenting how we only see each other anymore at funerals you are filled with food and memories and your own mortality. Somewhere though creeps in the comforting knowledge as you look around at these people you love so much that there is a place where you belong and you know it is with them.
Sweet Iced Tea
Fill a mid-sized pan three-quarters full with cold water.
Place five tea bags in the water and bring to a boil.
Brew until the tea turns a muddy ruddy color.
Remove pan from stove.
Pour the contents of the sauce pan into an old clean plastic milk jug or large glass container.
Add cold water to fill the jug or container until it is about three-quarters full.
Add sugar to taste.
Cap the jug and shake well or use a large spoon to stir the contents of the glass container until the sugar dissolves.
Chill.
A few hours later, serve, preferably in a large glass with lots of ice.
Fresh lemon, not lemon juice, optional.
8.11.2009
Small Town
A few times a year I have to travel for my job. Sometimes the travel involves luggage and working my way through the gauntlet of an airport. Other times though it only means securing a car provided for me and driving up or down the road to a nearby town.
Recently, I had to take a half hour drive to a nearby town and attend a meeting one of my supervisors was originally scheduled to attend but could not. The reason for the meeting isn’t really important for our purposes now. I learned what I needed to know and passed the information on to those who needed it at my place of employment. The half day away was a nice change of pace from the normal routine. It was a sunny day and driving away from the traffic and hubbub of the city and into the slower pace of a small town was rather relaxing.
Not to sound too much like John Mellencamp but I was born and raised in a small town, educated in a small town, taught the fear of Jesus in a small town and had myself a ball in that same small town. And I imagine many from that small town today think I live in a big town, or a big city, and in some respects I do, especially compared to where I am from originally.
That said the trip to this town made me think about living a small town life. The actual purpose of the meeting I attended had nothing to do with this realization. It was more what I observed and felt while there.
I was an outsider to this group. It didn’t take much time or effort though to see and feel the camaraderie this group of thirty to forty people shared. Sprinkled in to the conversations prior to the meeting were comments and questions about neighbors and relatives and the community at large. Sitting there I couldn’t help but notice how all connected with one another they seemed.
Having spent parts of my life in a small town I came to understand many of the connections between people, how they were related to each another, how they worked side by side day after day, how they counted on each other for things great and small. I remember how not only the electrician on the edge of town sponsored the little league team you were on but also was the man your uncle worked for during the week. I recall how your third grade teacher was the sister to your next door neighbor. I remember how your arch rival in high school sports was the other high school on the other side of the county even though that was the school where your favorite cousins attended.
I understand I can get a similar experience in the community where I presently live, you know in the big city. And I know it’s similar but also I know it’s just different. It just feels more real in the small town, more genuine, less anonymous, like in some greater scheme of things you matter more because it’s harder to hide in a small town. In the small town, you have to pitch in and help out when it comes time to do so.
On the ride back to work that day, I could not help but think over some of these things. I couldn’t help chuckling how some folks can’t wait to leave the small town life behind while others dream of moving out of the big city and into a place where the pace is slower. And later while I slipped into the ambiguity of my suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood I thought of a small town not too far away where two old men regularly sit on a park bench outside the county courthouse and remember days gone by, where the lady down the road a mile not only is your wife’s Avon lady but also your children’s Sunday school teacher and where most of the citizens there look at living in a small town as the only way of life they have ever known or ever really want.
And as the day ended I knew deep down those idealistic thoughts of a small town might not be as realistic as I imagined. It is nice though to think that they just might be.
Recently, I had to take a half hour drive to a nearby town and attend a meeting one of my supervisors was originally scheduled to attend but could not. The reason for the meeting isn’t really important for our purposes now. I learned what I needed to know and passed the information on to those who needed it at my place of employment. The half day away was a nice change of pace from the normal routine. It was a sunny day and driving away from the traffic and hubbub of the city and into the slower pace of a small town was rather relaxing.
Not to sound too much like John Mellencamp but I was born and raised in a small town, educated in a small town, taught the fear of Jesus in a small town and had myself a ball in that same small town. And I imagine many from that small town today think I live in a big town, or a big city, and in some respects I do, especially compared to where I am from originally.
That said the trip to this town made me think about living a small town life. The actual purpose of the meeting I attended had nothing to do with this realization. It was more what I observed and felt while there.
I was an outsider to this group. It didn’t take much time or effort though to see and feel the camaraderie this group of thirty to forty people shared. Sprinkled in to the conversations prior to the meeting were comments and questions about neighbors and relatives and the community at large. Sitting there I couldn’t help but notice how all connected with one another they seemed.
Having spent parts of my life in a small town I came to understand many of the connections between people, how they were related to each another, how they worked side by side day after day, how they counted on each other for things great and small. I remember how not only the electrician on the edge of town sponsored the little league team you were on but also was the man your uncle worked for during the week. I recall how your third grade teacher was the sister to your next door neighbor. I remember how your arch rival in high school sports was the other high school on the other side of the county even though that was the school where your favorite cousins attended.
I understand I can get a similar experience in the community where I presently live, you know in the big city. And I know it’s similar but also I know it’s just different. It just feels more real in the small town, more genuine, less anonymous, like in some greater scheme of things you matter more because it’s harder to hide in a small town. In the small town, you have to pitch in and help out when it comes time to do so.
On the ride back to work that day, I could not help but think over some of these things. I couldn’t help chuckling how some folks can’t wait to leave the small town life behind while others dream of moving out of the big city and into a place where the pace is slower. And later while I slipped into the ambiguity of my suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood I thought of a small town not too far away where two old men regularly sit on a park bench outside the county courthouse and remember days gone by, where the lady down the road a mile not only is your wife’s Avon lady but also your children’s Sunday school teacher and where most of the citizens there look at living in a small town as the only way of life they have ever known or ever really want.
And as the day ended I knew deep down those idealistic thoughts of a small town might not be as realistic as I imagined. It is nice though to think that they just might be.
8.03.2009
Really, I Like The Cake
Wax runs away from a flame and down a small candle. A thin rubber band, no longer shaped in a circle but as a line, finds itself stapled at both sides of a flimsy cone-shaped paper hat with celebratory designs. A rectangular cake resting on a piece of cardboard covered in aluminum foil is the center of attention as icing in colors of white and green and red and yellow tease onlookers with the promise of an impending sugar rush.
Every year it is a ritual. Family and friends gather round and celebrate the passing of time known as a birthday.
I like the cake. Actually, I probably like the cake too much. I also enjoy the time with family and friends. But, honestly, I really don’t care that much about celebrating my birthday. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to be alive. I just don’t enjoy the fuss some wish to make over my birthday. I mean I don’t think I did all that much on that August day so many years ago. Maybe we could verify my exact role then with my Mom, my Dad and the medical staff on hand then, but I’m pretty sure I just sort of made an appearance. Maybe we should be throwing some of the praise to those who did all the work that day.
Despite my ambivalence, the party goes on.
There are pictures somewhere on thin, yellowing paper that time tends to curl at the edges or pictures pressed onto the hard backing of a Polaroid of my birthday parties through the years. They begin with the early years as a child and progress through time into adulthood. Family and friends crowded around to get in the picture with the birthday boy. Years ago, the cakes were round but still colorful and loaded with icing and candles. Some were taken while we were around our dining room table, others as we were around our picnic table in the back yard. Maybe in the background a balloon floated through the air or a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ was ongoing as a brief moment of a party was caught on celluloid to mark that instant in time.
The cakes became a bit more elaborate over time, maybe one was in the shape of a car or another in the shape of a guitar. I was fortunate enough to have an aunt who made a good living for several years as a cake maker and I was the recipient of some of her better cakes.
Some photos have a year written on the back, while others find me trying to determine a year by straining to count candles on a cake and doing a little math. As the dates on photos creep closer to today’s date, the photos show me growing older. As this happens, the photos become more posed, less spontaneous, more aware of the presence of the camera and maybe more cognizant of time moving forward.
The photos show other things. Places I once lived, people I once knew, people I have known longer than I can remember, times in my life when storms raged inside me or were battering my family and friends, times when it seemed nothing could bring any of us down, times before I met my wife, times since she became my wife, bad haircuts, poor fashion sense, questionable taste in furniture and gifts.
Those photos don’t show other things. Trouble at work, words spoken hours before in haste or anger at a loved one, what I was planning to do later that day, even the wishes made just before the candles get blown out, things that seemed like mountains to climb then but now fade into a place time has sealed shut from my memory. I can’t see those things in the photos. I can’t retrieve them by looking more intently at the photo.
Now the cake sits before me. Folks gather round and tentatively sing-song the words to “Happy Birthday”. Someone appears with a camera, so I stretch a smile across my face and give the camera my attention for a brief moment. I look at the cake and the flames from the candles momentarily run together in my line of vision. My mind races with all sorts of thoughts. As I stand, my eyes mesmerized by the miniature flames, I notice a drop of wax begin to slide down a candle so I bend down and blow out the candles before the wax drips onto the cake, thankful for another birthday and wishing for many more to come.
Every year it is a ritual. Family and friends gather round and celebrate the passing of time known as a birthday.
I like the cake. Actually, I probably like the cake too much. I also enjoy the time with family and friends. But, honestly, I really don’t care that much about celebrating my birthday. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to be alive. I just don’t enjoy the fuss some wish to make over my birthday. I mean I don’t think I did all that much on that August day so many years ago. Maybe we could verify my exact role then with my Mom, my Dad and the medical staff on hand then, but I’m pretty sure I just sort of made an appearance. Maybe we should be throwing some of the praise to those who did all the work that day.
Despite my ambivalence, the party goes on.
There are pictures somewhere on thin, yellowing paper that time tends to curl at the edges or pictures pressed onto the hard backing of a Polaroid of my birthday parties through the years. They begin with the early years as a child and progress through time into adulthood. Family and friends crowded around to get in the picture with the birthday boy. Years ago, the cakes were round but still colorful and loaded with icing and candles. Some were taken while we were around our dining room table, others as we were around our picnic table in the back yard. Maybe in the background a balloon floated through the air or a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ was ongoing as a brief moment of a party was caught on celluloid to mark that instant in time.
The cakes became a bit more elaborate over time, maybe one was in the shape of a car or another in the shape of a guitar. I was fortunate enough to have an aunt who made a good living for several years as a cake maker and I was the recipient of some of her better cakes.
Some photos have a year written on the back, while others find me trying to determine a year by straining to count candles on a cake and doing a little math. As the dates on photos creep closer to today’s date, the photos show me growing older. As this happens, the photos become more posed, less spontaneous, more aware of the presence of the camera and maybe more cognizant of time moving forward.
The photos show other things. Places I once lived, people I once knew, people I have known longer than I can remember, times in my life when storms raged inside me or were battering my family and friends, times when it seemed nothing could bring any of us down, times before I met my wife, times since she became my wife, bad haircuts, poor fashion sense, questionable taste in furniture and gifts.
Those photos don’t show other things. Trouble at work, words spoken hours before in haste or anger at a loved one, what I was planning to do later that day, even the wishes made just before the candles get blown out, things that seemed like mountains to climb then but now fade into a place time has sealed shut from my memory. I can’t see those things in the photos. I can’t retrieve them by looking more intently at the photo.
Now the cake sits before me. Folks gather round and tentatively sing-song the words to “Happy Birthday”. Someone appears with a camera, so I stretch a smile across my face and give the camera my attention for a brief moment. I look at the cake and the flames from the candles momentarily run together in my line of vision. My mind races with all sorts of thoughts. As I stand, my eyes mesmerized by the miniature flames, I notice a drop of wax begin to slide down a candle so I bend down and blow out the candles before the wax drips onto the cake, thankful for another birthday and wishing for many more to come.
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