Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Roses in December




"God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December". J.M Barrie

He was "Uncle Zeb" to his friends and neighbors and "Papa" to his children and grandchildren. A good steward of his land, Papa lived as harmoniously as one man can with nature. Peanut farmers from miles around would come to hear his horticultural wisdom, much more valuable than any almanac. The sun was his taskmaster; he rose early before Sol could catch him aslumber, and went to bed with the last fingers of light still streaking across the low horizon. Its been said he could work magic with rain; sitting patiently on his front porch stoop silently coaxing angry clouds to loosen their tears upon his fields, then returning indoors when his vigilance was rewarded.


The Old Homeplace in 2003

He raised his family in the old homestead; no indoor plumbing or electricity. In the late 40's his son-in-law and the nephew built a new house for Papa and Mama just a half-mile or so from the old place. Mama moved up right away, the luxury of water at the easy turn of a faucet handle instead of a cranky handpump a most welcomed gift. Papa sat it out for three weeks, refusing to budge from the place he knew as home. Late one evening just about dark-thirty, Mama saw him slowly walking up the dirt lane, an ancient trunk filled with his few belongings hoisted on his shoulder and a look of stubborn pride in his face. Whether it was from loneliness, or the lack of hot supper, the old fella had moved to the offending new abode. Some things wouldn't change - Papa thought having a toilet indoors was heathen and unclean thus took his daily constitutionals in the outhouse by the mule barn.

In 1947, Papa planted a red rose bush just off the edge of the front porch, his one frivolous gardening concession. Like his peanuts and his orchard, it thrived in the sandy soil.


Papa and his roses in 1963

Years have passed and the clouds have no more magic; Stagg cemetery has grown with headstones and families are rejoined under the same loam that once provided their sustenance. The new place is now in as much disheaval as the old homestead; plaster falling from the ceiling, birds roosting in the top of an old lamp, and deer sleeping in the tall weeds of the once neatly mowed front lawn. An ancient pear tree still bears a few small fruits and the berry vines struggle through the briars. No Sleeping Beauty here, just the land's remembrance of its once more cultivated self.

A couple of weeks ago, Kman and I spied something bright red up near the front porch of the "new place". Gingerly, we made our way through the hip-high weeds and patches of poison oak. A lone rose blossom was bravely clinging to a spindly stalk, stretching towards the few rays of sun that found a way to shine through the overgrowth. Taking a sharpshooter from the back of the Expedition, Kman very gently dug up the rose bush, keeping as much of the dirt ball around the roots as he could. Driving back to Cowtown, we planted it in our backyard garden next to the antique fence railing on the upper terrace. With a little dose of Miracle Grow for Roses and a lot of kind words, we are hoping to keep this small memory of Kman's grandparents alive. Perhaps a tiny spark of that magical farming spirit remains deep within the tough fibers of the old rose and we will be successful in our transplant attempt, much as Mama was those many years ago with Papa.

When the blossoms come again, I will remember the hardscrabble life these people lived and the image of a late afternoon when Papa trudged the path to the new house with a trunk on his shoulder and a begrudged acceptance of change.

Whistle A Happy Time

I would like to welcome a special guest Contributor, who I hope will continue to provide articles to the Dew.

She is Cappy Hall Rearick, book author, columnist, and Nominee for 2003 Georgia Author of the Year. Her website is: www.simplysoutherncappy.com

"Whistle a Happy Time"

Having taken its own sweet time, autumn has begun to arrive. This annual manifestation of nature makes me nostalgic. When the sun begins to slump behind trees more quickly each day, I find myself looking out the dusty windows of my past.

It is a late October afternoon. A cool breeze drifts down to settle for the night. I am with my friends not far from where I live. Smoke rises over the rooftop at the house across the street making my nose sting from the pungent smell of burning leaves. Like other normal small town occurrences, I barely notice the smell, the nose-sting or even the smoke. They all occupy a rightful place in my yesterday life.

This is the time of day I listen for Daddy’s whistle, as opposed to the ring of a cell phone. Microchips and fiber optics have not yet begun to govern our lives. There is one black telephone at our house with no dials or touch-tones. I can’t use it until after piano practice and homework is finished.

When I hear the anticipated whistle, I stop what I’m doing to listen for the second one. Daddy’s whistle is my signal to come home.

“Gotta go.” I say as I quickly peddle my bike down the street.

All the fathers in our neighborhood whistle for their kids to come home but they’re all unique. Daddy presses two fingers down hard between his lips and blows through his fingers. The “whew-ah-whew” has its own timbre, rising as it reaches its final “ah-whew.”

I recognize other whistles, but Daddy’s is the one to which I respond. He whistles twice with a full ten minutes in between. Time enough for me to stop what I’m doing and come straight home for supper.

The crisp autumn weather puts Mama in the mood to cook chili and a steamer of rice served with cold milk left in bottles at our front door before the sun came up. I sop up chili juice with crusty homemade bread lathered with Aunt Polly’s country butter. Eat your heart out, Parkay.
It is a ritual, this evening regimen. It is the way our family closes the door on another day. We say grace before supper; my brother and I wash dishes and try not to kill each other while Mama and Daddy read the evening paper. It all begins with Daddy’s whistle.

No doubt today’s cell phones provide easier communication between parent and child, but it can’t replace the feeling I get when my nose stings from the smell of burning leaves, when I ward off the afternoon chill with an old sweater or when I hear a whistle similar to Daddy’s. October is when I long to hear that special, unmatched trill, the unique whistle my Daddy used to call me home.

— End—

My Hurricane Story

We lived through a particularly nasty hurricane, Hurricane Andrew, in Lafayette, La. Normally, Lafayette is far enough from the coast, about 50 miles, and hurricanes bring wind and rain or will spawn a tornado. This was 1992 and Hurricane Andrew devastated parts of southern Florida as a category 5 storm and then went back out into the Gulf of Mexico to power up again.

My husband and I decided to remain at home and ride the storm out as it was not predicted to be too damaging to our area. So of course, the path of the storm shifted just a bit at the last of the build up. We were up the entire night the eye came onto Louisiana's coast. Our son was a toddler and mercifully slept through the entire ordeal. It was the scariest experience I have ever had with Mother Nature! The windows were shaking, the old magnificant live oak trees were swaying and of course the power went off.

Our house survived. A neighbor across the street had a live oak tree uprooted in his front yard. Our electricity was out for a week.
Trucks with ice came in fairly quickly and believe me, ice was like gold to us.

We love the Gulf coast and chose to live here. With the blessings of this part of the world comes a very healthy respect for Mother Nature. Fools who want to party and act like they are too macho to leave, usually end up dead fools.

Monday, August 29, 2005

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle

(*I wrote this piece back in the early springtime)

"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."

-Langston Hughes

The early morning wind whips mischievously round the glass and mortar towers of downtown. It has a mind of its own, finding stray newspapers, women's skirts and flimsy day-glo orange construction cones to dance with. Today, an old street beggar is standing at a corner. His too-loose baggy trousers become like a catamaran sail, filling with an unseen gust and propelling the gaunt black stick figure along the pavement. He seems too frail to withstand the rough and quick buffets, but with a determined stiffening of his back, he counters them and manages to keep himself erect. His slightly bulging eyes peer from beneath overpowering brows of grizzled and frosted hair. Deep brown creases in his face could have been carved from a sculptor's clay. A fur-lined hat, out of season for the warm spring morning, is pulled down tightly around his ears. A sad face, an angry face, when did he last smile? Ahead of him, a tee-shirted, khaki-clad man picks up his pace and jay-walks across the street to avoid any chance of contact with the sidewalk scarecrow. Looking furtively across his shoulder, arms swinging with determination, the worker jogs to put some distance between himself and the object of his unease. The old black man notices and shakes his head, his hat bobbing a bit with the movement. A gnarled hand reaches up and anchors it back down. His lips are moving with soundless words that are eaten by the breeze. The out-of-place inhabitant of the inner city seems like a fierce old lion, once the king of the pride but now powerless; beaten by life and weary. His mane is shaggy and matted, his gait unsure, and his bones made more prominent by the devilish wind pushing the threadworn cloth tight against his frame.

After work and driving west, the brilliant red and gold sunset could have been shining across an African savannah and I recalled this morning's odd encounter. Faint strains of music from a long ago song played in my head and I wondered, where will the lion sleep tonight?

Hurricanes

They are a fact of life for us Southerners, particularly along the coastal areas. I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida and there were plenty of times as a child that I can remember one storm or another churning up our way. Momma would throw a hurricane party, we'd head off to bed and that would be that.

The first storm that really had any emotional resonance for me was Hugo, closing in on its sixteenth anniversary. I'd gone to college in Charleston and had fallen in love with it. It was so unlike the cow towns I'd known growing up, full of charm and culture. You can truly breathe the history in the place.

I was back home in the Tampa Bay area when Hugo hit. I remember waking up at four a.m. to see, well hear really, a newscaster broadcasting from what is now the Charleston Place Hotel. It was pitch black, the electricity was out and the fear in his voice was palpable.

Once the news crews could get out, the destruction was enormous. Really, it was too much to take in at once and that was just watching it on television. I also remember yelping in surprise as I recognized a former co-worker's house on the Today Show, an uprooted tree bashing in his beloved BMW. It was an odd feeling, having such intimate knowledge of a place so severely affected. Because so often, places like that are just...places to us.

Now we have all sorts of warnings and the Doppler Radar and computer models, but it's still a guessing game. Because they didn't expect Katrina to take that jog to the east that spared New Orleans but apparently wiped out Dauphin and the other Alabama barrier islands, with no way to know the casualties until tomorrow, if then.

And there's still another two months to one of our 'seasons' in the south--hurricane season.

Why Parents Age Prematurely: Chapter One ~ A Southern Belle Story

Submitted by: SRP
http://melange1.blogspot.com

A 6-year-old was overheard reciting the Lord's Prayer at a church service: "And forgive us our trash passes, as we forgive those who passed trash against us."

A Southern Belle will never curse in public beyond Dad-gum-it, Oh my gosh, Shoot or Darn.

I know you wonder what the two statements above have in common and what they could possibly have to do with the sweet, shy, demure, beautiful little Miss Priss. I promise to connect-the-dots.

Miss M. is "Momma" to Miss Priss. She is also "2nd Momma" to my Nyssa and Miss M. considers Nyssa her "first-born". When we moved to Mississippi, Miss M. was in high school and worked after classes at the preschool/daycare where Nyssa attended. The 3 year olds adored her. Little Patrick S. loved Nyssa and "Miss M. with 'lellow' hair". He wanted to marry both of them and give them pink Corvettes. She became our baby sitter, house sitter, animal sitter and occasionally overnight care giver if I had to be out of town. Miss M. and Nyssa both have long curly blonde hair and more than a few people actually believed Nyssa was her child.

After high school, she met our medical transcriptionist and when an opening came up Miss M. began her career at the lab. Miss M. worked there almost as long as I did. After a difficult marriage to "frog-boy" (Oh! Bless it! He sort of ties into this story in a very, very pathetic way. Ha! Ha!), Miss M. finally found the gem, the diamond-in-the-not-so-rough guy, Mr. M. They eventually produced Miss Priss who is the actual star of the story.

Now, there is something you must know about Miss M. She is one of the truest examples of a "Southern Belle" that I know. Bred, born, and raised in Mississippi, you could put her in a hoop skirt, lace petticoats and flowered garden dress with a wide brimmed straw hat and white gloves and she would slip effortlessly back into the 1850's; as long as there were air conditioning, that is. And Miss Priss, as her little twig, does not fall very far from the tree.

Things to remember about the Southern accent, especially the "Southern Belle" accent, include the persistence and prolongation of short words to a point that they seem to go on forever. Example: "Momma, IIIIIIIIII'm hoooooooot!" Most often the elongated word is at the end of the sentence as this produces a more pronounced effect. If the word contains the "long i" sound such as in "IIIIIIIII'd liiiiiiiike some iiiiiiiiice cream", or "myyyyyyyy eyyyyyyyyes are tiiiiiiiiiired", then the "long i" sound may be held as long as your breath holds, in any part of the sentence. Speech must be slow of pace and always accompanied by the appropriate but subtle gestures; a turn of the head, lowering of the eyes and batting of the eyelashes. Occasionally, a hand raised to the mouth and a light touch to the lips by the fingertips helps dramatize the mood of the sentence. The wide-eyed doe look with rounding of the mouth into a look of complete and total surprise is also quite effective.

As a "Southern Belle", Miss Priss inherently knows all these things without being taught. She learned from the example of her mother and other "Southern babies". The M's answering machine message is a classic example. Miss Priss's innocent voice tells callers, "Weee can't coooome to the phone riiiiiiiiiiiight now, but if you leeeeeeave your naaaaaame and number at the end of the little beeeeeeeeeeeeeep, weeeee'lll be sure to get riiiiiiiiiiiiiight back with youuuuuuuuuu."

Miss Priss is also very bright. She learned her colors, numbers and the names of most of her animals at an early age. She did however have a particularly difficult time pronouncing the name of one animal; the frog. Her "raw" sound for the "ro" came out of her mouth as an "uh" and the "g" sound at the end always seemed to sound like a "k". In fact, the only letter she had down was the "f" or "fuh" sound. Now Miss M. upon hearing the resulting combination of sounds worked tirelessly with Miss Priss to correct this problem. She knew that this word was not acceptable to any "Southern Belle" and that the problem left uncorrected would certainly lead Miss Priss into a faux pas of immense proportion. This could taint her reputation for life, particularly if it was said at a friend's house or at preschool. Try as she might, Miss M. made very little headway in correcting this pronunciation, finally determining that the word "frog" would simply not be said nor the animal talked about in polite company, or at any time for that matter.

All was going splendidly with this plan until a fateful visit to the local Hallmark Shop. Miss Priss and Miss M. both loved to look at the stuffed animals, the angel figurines, the ornaments, and the wrapping paper as well as the cards. Miss Priss, though only two, didn't run around the store, kept her hands to herself and comported herself admirably on these outings. The Hallmark Shop, unusually busy for the time of day, (it may have been near Father's Day) was filled with many other "Southern Belles". On this day Miss M. had a specific purchase in mind and headed straight for her item. She did not realize that Miss Priss had stopped dead in her tracks at the front of the store to look at the first display table. She also did not know that this display was a collection of FROGS in all shapes, sizes, and colors. There were plush stuffed blue and yellow polka dotted frogs, large ceramic figurines of frogs lying on lily pads, small yellow and red frog stickers, kissing frogs with little red hearts on tea cups and a miniature garden flag picturing a frog with a red ladybug on its nose. Frogs were on the table top, on display tiers above the table and on the floor around the table.

Miss Priss stood there in complete silence for a few seconds, her eyes as big and round as a doe and her mouth open and rounded in surprise and awe. She had never seen so many frogs. She loved frogs! She knew she should talk softly like the other "belles" in the store but her momma was walking away from her and she just had to tell her what she had found so..............Miss Priss yelled out in her most "I want everybody's attention here!!!" voice......"MOMMA!" Miss M. whirled around, and in one microsecond assessed what Miss Priss was pointing at and knew what the next words out of her mouth would be; but, alas, she was not fast enough. "MOMMA! LOOK! F...................KS!"------- In the stunned silence following this outburst, heads looked up all over the store, mouths formed the rounded "O" shape of surprise and not a few hands reached up to touch shocked lips.

Miss M. wanted the floor to open up and swallow both herself and Miss Priss, although Miss Priss just stood there with her innocent doe eyes, and had no idea of what cardinal "Southern Belle" rule she had broken. Therefore, in what can only be called true "Southern Belle" style, Miss M. glided across the floor, swept Miss Priss up into her arms and said in her own "I WANT EVERYBODY'S ATTENTION HERE!!!" voice, "YES, BABY!!! THOSE ARE LOVELY FROOOOOOGGGGGGSSSSS!!!!

This said, she turned with Miss Priss still in her arms and successfully negotiated another "Southern Belle Necessary": the swift and graceful exit.

Needless to say, the Hallmark Shop was off limits until the display was replaced by one for the Fourth of July.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Where I’m From

Submitted by Cowtown Patty
http://texastrifles.blogspot.com

I am from railroads and long trains with mournful horns singing late at night through the rusty screens of open bedroom windows . I am from Schwinn bicycles with handle-bar baskets and sidewalk skates strapped to tennis shoes. I am from bellbottom jeans, sit-ins and a lost soldier’s name on a metal-tagged ID bracelet.

I am from two-laned blacktopped country roads, shimmering with heat waves from a burning Texas sun. From white clapboard houses with root cellars and chicken wire fences. I am from small town beauty parlors with pink and gold speckled naugahyde chairs supporting large hooded hairdryers - futuristic brain scanners from a cheap sci-fi movie. I am from player pianos, Jewel Tea pitchers, and a purple dragon-embellished tea set from Occupied Japan with the delicate face of a geisha drawn in the bottom of each tiny fragile cup.

I am from bull nettle stings, goat-head stickers that push through rubber flip-flops, and horny toads with blood-squirting eyes. From wild tangy plums and mustang grapes that leave raw remembrances on my tongue.

I am from playing music by ear, homemade hooch and Forty-Two. From strong determined men and women who earned a living with their backs and hands. I am from hand-stitched quilts made with scraps of faded workshirts and christening gowns, from pillowcases made of flour sacks adorned with flowery embroidery. I am from Willis and Sarah, from Joe Gus and Lillie, and a family tree branch that reaches to France.

I am from vines that sprout from my ears after swallowing watermelon seeds; from long ago Indians who buried the hatchet up on Santa Anna mountain. I am from the grandfather with the whispered mental illness, kept locked away in a small bedroom for fear he would walk too far to remember the way back home. From a Cherokee princess and living off the "Rez". I am from a great aunt in Tishomingo and a great uncle more cowboy than any Louis L'Amour wearer of spurs.

I am from hard-shelled Baptists who proclaim their faith waist deep in the cold Colorado river. From stiff cardboard fans on wooden sticks advertising Mr. Goodjoint’s Lumber Yard passed out each Sunday morning before service. I am from homemade macaroni casseroles hand delivered to mourning families; from tent revivals and Tuesday night visitations.

I am from the central prairies of Texas, the Louisiana swamps and a rich Creole heritage. From the Black Dutch people of northern Germany and the French countryside of Alsace. I am from truck patch vegetables like turnip greens, black-eyed peas and okra. From cantelope for supper with fresh green onions, red beans and syrupy sweet ice tea; from leftover cornbread crumbled up in a glass of cold sweet milk before bedtime.

I am from a father whose bad traits often overshadowed his good, but never let me doubt for a second that he loved me; a man who fought personal demons inherited from a tough poverty-ridden childhood. From a mother dedicated to see her children in a better place; instilling a strong sense of getting ahead and living the American dream. No gold or material riches, no vast acres of ranchland to inherit, but a family history of hard-dirt farmers who survived the Dust Bowl and the Depression with determination and humor to spare. No famous names nor infamous ones, no governors or kings; just a long saga of everyday people living everyday lives with extraordinary courage, love and stubborn Texas gumption.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Pecan Crusted Southern Fried Chicken

From Emeril
Via Mike @
http://exscientia.blogspot.com/


Vegetable oil, for frying
1/2 pound pecan pieces
2 cups flour
Essence*
1 large frying chicken, cut into 8 pieces, about 3 1/2 pounds (2 breasts, 2 legs, 2 thighs, and 2 wings)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons milk

Heat the oil, over medium heat, in a large cast iron skillet. In a food processor, fitted with a metal blade, finely grind the pecans. Combine the pecans with the flour. Season with Essence. Season the chicken with salt and pepper. Whisk the eggs with 2 tablespoons of the milk. Dredge the chicken pieces in the pecan flour, coating each piece completely. Dip the chicken in the egg wash, coating completely and letting the excess drip off. Dredge the chicken in the pecan flour, for a second time, coating the chicken completely.

Gently lay half of the chicken in the hot oil, skin side down. Fry the chicken for 6 minutes. Turn the chicken over and continue to cook for 6 minutes or until the chicken is golden brown and the chicken is completely cooked. Remove the chicken from the oil and drain on a paper-lined plate. Season the chicken with Essence. Continue frying the remaining chicken.

Serve the chicken with Maw Maw's Slaw

*Essence (Emeril's Creole Seasoning):
2 1/2 tablespoons paprika
2 tablespoons salt
2 tablespoons garlic powder
1 tablespoon black pepper1 tablespoon onion powder
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
1 tablespoon dried leaf oregano
1 tablespoon dried thyme

Cow Tippin Flunkies


By: Future Daddy
http://futuredaddy.blogspot.com

Now I's growed up in North Carolina over by Back Swampnot too fur up the road from Raft Swamp on ChickenRoad. Down a ways a piece from Cooter Bug's Gas Station. Any how's here awhile back, me and some cousins got pure fed up with failing the time honoredrite of passage into manhood......"Cow Tippin."

You see now, we felt that no matter what, we needed to come up with something to help save face. Well, one day a man from the light company came out and he wasa-sprayin orange paint all over the fool highway. We finally got up a-nerve to ask him what the fool he was up to and he told us he was just a-survey in and a-markin the underground gas lines.

About that time one of my cousins caught a-hold of aright good idea. "How's about we run into town and get us some of that orange spray paint." Now of course, we had to spend several days walking up and down the roada-pickin up soda-water bottles to return to the store fur the deposit afore we had us enough money to buy the paint.

Once we had us enough paint we hauled off and planned us a-Cow Tippin. Now we had already learnt that we were too runty to tip any so we packed our orangespray paint with us.

And then you know what we did? That's right!! We used up 4 cans of orange spray paint!! Having flunked out of Cow Tippin, we reckoned that we might as well just haul off and start Cow Paintin!

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Mooresville, Alabama - "The Town Older Than The State"

Recently, I was visiting the Huntsville Space and Rocket Center with my kids and grandparents. On the way, my grandfather, who is famous for his "side trips" announced that he would be taking us through Mooresville (right off I-565, east of I-65), a small, historic town with a current population of around 60.

The first settlers came to this area on the Tennessee River in 1805, which until then had been occupied by the Chickasaw Indians. The Chickasaws ceded the land to the Federal government and, by 1818 , the area had 62 new residents. They petitioned the Alabama Territorial Legislature for an Act of Incorporation that year, which was granted a full year before Alabama became a state in 1819, making Mooresville known as "the town older than the state".

The first building that my grandfather showed me was the Mooresville post office, the oldest operational post office in the state. I had the pleasure of meeting the post mistress there, but being the novice that I am, I forgot to get her name. She was very accomodating and let me take a few pictures of the inside of the post office. (Thanks ma'am, and as soon as my other CPU is up and running, I'll get those pictures posted pronto!)

Mooresville has a lot of southern history. Andrew Johnson, 17th president to the US, stayed there as apprentice to a tailor, 20th president, James A. Garfield preached in the Church of Christ on Market Street while stationed with his Union regiment (Mooresville was occupied by Union soldiers during the Civil War) and cotton was king in the Tennessee Valley at that time. Check out Mooresville's Festival website for more information.

The town's streets are lined with ancient trees, some from the early 1800's. Quiet reigns there and you can see tour groups making their way up and down the shady streets, taking pictures of the antebellum homes. The historic Old Brick Church on the corner of Lauderdale and Broad Streets has a curious touch to it. If you look at the steeple, you will find that instead of a cross or weathervane, it has a hand pointing up to Heaven instead. Very interesting and I would like to know the history behind it, but that story is for another day.

Maybe Mooresville is best known as being the setting for Walt Disney's Tom and Huck (1995), a recreation of the story of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Certainly the houses look as authentic (and they are) as the ones Tom could have lived in. The wooden fences are as white as Tom could have whitewashed, the magnolia trees stately and green. It is definitely a beautiful town and I plan to visit again someday.

Some good links are:

Mooresville Festival
The News Courier
Mooresville Cemetary
A Visit to the Past - Mooresville, Ala
Mooresville: A Town of Charm & History

Y'all Come!!

My mom and dad just recently returned from Montana where my brother and sister-in-law live. They brought me some coffee roasted locally. It was huckleberry flavored. Mom said that it was all the rage up there, i.e., that people were selling preserves, muffins, and other sorts of things flavored with huckleberries. I thought that that was sort of funny. How does a food become "the big thing" in a certain area of the country? I mean, what was it before? And what is next? A fruit is a trend??

Down here there are constants. Food is one of them. Good ol' fried chicken and okra, cornbread, greens, grits, blackeyed peas and buttermilk, just to name a few standards. Now, a lot of folks up north call that "soul food". Down here it's just dinner. I was thinking the other day about my Mammaw's cooking (I miss it-she died when I was 17). It never failed. Going over to her house for supper was an event. She cooked more food than all of us, meaning all the brothers, sisters, spouses, cousins, and grandkids, could ever consume. We all sat around the dining room table, elbow to elbow, passing around platters and bowls of deliciousness. All of the food I mentioned above and then some was normal fare. Then came dessert. Pies, banana pudding, and cobbler. Sometimes one, sometimes more than one. It is not a wonder that my mom's family liked getting together so much, often on Sundays after church. I always looked forward to that time.

Food trends that are "all the rage"? Not in my experience. I have not seen any kind of southern cooking become trendy and then go out of style. It is part of our lifestyle and culture.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Fudpuckers - Restaurant Review


Fudpuckers is located in Destin, Florida and is the most fun you can take a kid to.

When you first pull up into the parking lot, you spy Alligator Crossing signs everywhere. Before you get out of the car you find yourself looking out the windows onto the ground suspiciously.

Then you see the building - Wow! Painted mainly in a fushia sort of color, it has every other color on it too, plus a VW bus sticking 1/2 in and 1/2 out of the building. Grafitti is a must there - every conceivable bit of space, including the hanging lamps, tables, chairs, walls, etc. is covered in grafitti. My son was openly hostile toward me since I didn't just happen to have a Sharpie pen in my purse.


Then comes the zinger for the kids, and adults alike. The 80 alligators surrounding the restaurant. You can stay up top and feed them with poles (bit pricey at $3.00 for 4 pieces of food) or you can go below to the "museum" and see them thru the glass swimming around. They have an actual degreed alligator expert on staff to keep them all happy and healthy, and to answer all your questions.

There is also a huge gift shop, full indoor/outdoor bar with stage for weekend bands, and a playground for the kiddies while waiting for seating.

The food is extremely average, but you don't go for the food. They give it fun names though and I felt very naughty ordering the "mother fudpucker" burger. The kids meals are average with overpriced drinks, but you get a little dinosaur on each plate and that was more exciting to the little kids than the alligators swimming everywhere. Another night I had nachos which were extremely dull.

This is one of the few restaurants in Destin not on the water or a pier, but it's a nice change for the kids and when we were in Destin, we actually went here twice.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Living a Dream

I first noticed John Ruskey’s picture in my local newspaper with full costume. He and his river partner, Michael Clark were panelists during our local community college’s book festival featuring the history of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Something about their commitment to a dream caught my interest and has held it. Ruskey and Clark took off on an expedition that began on September 3, 2001. Their journey with a map was to follow the path that Lewis and Clark had forged all those years before them.
lewis and clark
These guys were river mates for over a year and re-discovered the beauty of the wilderness that is growing scarce in this great country of ours.

John Ruskey is the owner of Quapaw Canoe Company, based in Clarksdale Mississippi. An integral part of his business is teaching apprenticeship. Quapaw hosts an after-school program called The Mighty Quapaws that teaches the art of canoe construction, swimming and other river skills to kids and adult volunteers. Many of them also learn about website construction and surfing the net while earning money to put into a savings account for something special. The emphasis of the program is on exercise, good health and positive role modeling, funded by a grant from Dreyfus Health Foundation. He and his staff of guides offer custom river expeditions complete with gourmet meals of raft ‘taters and stargazing. There are Full Moon floats and Musicians' floats along with special retreats for the artist in you.

John is an artist and musician himself, as well as a riverguy. His ties to Clarksdale are a commitment to the rich heritage of Delta blues legacies such as BB King and Muddy Waters. Originally from Colorado, he settled comfortably into the Delta region and found himself at home there in the midst of kudzu and voodoo with the Mighty Mississippi as his best friend.

This is one of Ruskey’s paintings that served as the logo for the 2004 meeting of the National Association of Environmental Educators.
ruskey naaee

He answered a few questions for me recently:
1. How did you end in Mississippi from Colorado?

Gravity brought me here. Follow the water out of Denver and you'll eventually end up in Mississippi, down the Platte, the Missouri, etc. The Mississippi connects us all, east & west.

2. What is your vision for the Mighty Quapaws?

The Mighty Quapaws is an after-school apprenticeship program run by Quapaw Canoe Company for Clarksdale youth, skills include swimming, canoe making, paddle construction, and river guiding.

The purpose of the Mighty Quapaws is to provide an opportunity for Clarksdale and Colorado youth to learn the skills necessary to safely paddle canoes on the Mississippi River, and to guide clients on Canoing Expeditions. Mighty Quapaws must be willing to paddle on the Mississippi, to work with other interns, to listen to teachers and senior interns, and above all to respect the river. The river is God's creation and must be loved as such.

Look for the Mighty Quapaws on the Mississippi River at the Memphis Canoe Race in May, 2005 and on the Sunflower River Expedition, February, 2006.


3. Where did you and Michael hook up and find a common dream?

Mike Clark and I first met by chance coincidence out on the waters of the mighty Mississippi near Hurrican Point, he was with two other paddlers descending the length of the Mississippi, and i was with a Dutch couple. It was one of the those mysterious river moments, the river bringing together driftwood from different regions of the country.


Contact information:
Quapaw Canoe Company
291 Sunflower Ave.
Clarksdale, MS 38614
662-627-4070
www.island63.com

Life Seasoned With Spice

I'm a Southern girl by birth. That's pretty cool right there. Yeah, it is. I am from Louisiana but originally from "the North." Anything north of Alexandria is considered "the North." Shoot, I didn't taste gumbo til I moved down south. So it's really cool when a Cajun boy asks a Northern girl on a date. Yeah, it is. When I was young and looking to get hitched, I just thought a Cajun name would sound exotic. You know, Jeansonne (Jau-sawnh), Dubois (Do-boys or Do-bwauh), Tauzin (Toes-zanh). Yeah, it did. But once you meet a Cajun, you learn there's more to them than just a cool sounding French name.

The first time a Cajun boy takes you on a date, it's very likely that you just might go to a pig roast. The experience is amazing. It's a buffet for the senses. I mean...man, you've got a pig cooking over an open fire. You talk about smelling good! You got the tunes of Rockin'Dopsie, Jr. and the Zydeco Twisters, Wayne Toups, Buckwheat Zydeco, and Doug Kershaw. If you can stand it (and I can't), you can sit back and watch everybody get out there under the porch lights and jitterbug the night away...or like my Daddy says doing the "Cajun Stomp." The cool night air, the laughing, the talking partly in English and partly in French, dancing to Zydeco music, and smelling the best food on Earth cooking only prepares you for what is yet to come. If you think you've had fun so far, just wait til the food is served. You'll think you just died and went to heaven. They pull that pig off the fire and serve it up piping hot. My favorite part is the cracklins or the skin with the white meat attached. Yeee-Yummmm! And you can't miss the dirty rice, crawfish taters, and tater salad.

Once your tummy is full and your feet can't hold you up, it's time to head on home. Now from my own personal experience, I was secretly hoping that my Cajun boy would let me do this again 'cause I had the time of my life. These people had something that as much as I love my North Louisiana family I'd never experienced before. A flair for life? A built-in party gene? I wasn't sure at the time. But thankfully, my Cajun boy liked me enough to hang around and I soon learned what that special spice was. It was something sweet, salty with a little heat. What a combination!

Passion. Everything they did was done with spicey passion. Whether they were partying or selling a car or teaching a classroom of pre-schoolers, they were passionate about what they were doing. I married my Cajun boy and I've tried to live my life with the special spice that made his people so special to me. Now whether I'm riding my horse or organizing my closet, I do it with the zest that I learned from the Cajun people I love so dearly.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Neshoba Fair is a 'Missippi' Thang





The reader's request sounded simple enough: "Why don't you write about this Neshoba Fair thing?" He's not from here, bless his heart, and I think he's trying to understand the draw of "Mississippi's Giant House Party," aka the hottest place on earth in July, where thousands flock to party, sweat, listen to passionate political speeches and bands, sweat, eat fried chicken-on-a-stick and, did I mention sweat?

Upon further reflection, his request wasn't simple. I can't really explain the Neshoba County Fair. Sure, I have reams of articles where other writers, from here to the New York Times, have attempted to explain it. But I can't find where anyone really did. They do all seem to mention it's hot as Hades, they can't be called out there. They give some history: It started as a farmers' picnic in the late 1800s, although I think there's some debate over exact details. It's been synonymous with Deep South politics since the 1890s. It was once a notoriously segregated event, but now draws a somewhat diverse crowd of thousands, emphasis on the somewhat. It has the state's only legal horse racing track. And as one profound writer (me) once wrote: "The Fair is known for its political speeches from state election hopefuls, and occasionally a president, let-your-hair-down partying, hot, humid weather and red-clay dust."

Did I mention it's hot? But none of this satisfactorily explains the Fair. About the closest I can get is this: It's a Missippi thing. That's Missippi with only two "S"-es, and I think it's pronounced "thang." Missippi thangs are usually complex, bittersweet, and they are often both good things and bad things, maybe changing, but ever so slowly. I think the Neshoba County Fair qualifies on all counts. Now, I'm no gentleman planter's son, but I do have some Neshoba Fair memories I'll share. My earliest memories of the Fair are of grade-school jealousy; many of my classmates had been to it and I hadn't. One of my friends had a bow-and-arrow set he claimed to have gotten from real-live Choctaw Indians at the Fair. (I later bought a similar rig at a Stuckey's, so I harbor doubts to this day). But I soon got to go with a friend and his family. I remember eating a lot, watching the horse buggies race, running around, having kid fun. A second trip followed in my youth, a side trip with family friends who were going to Philadelphia for some other reason. This trip is memorable primarily because me and my young friend rode in the back of a pickup from Edwards to Philadelphia. There's probably a Jeff Foxworthy "You-might-be-a-redneck-if" joke in this somewhere. On the way back, we were cramped in the truck bed with a load of shoe-peg corn the family picked up in Philadelphia and I was covered in chiggers upon return. More fun trips followed in college. I was friends with a guy and his sister whose family owned cabins at the Fair. That's the true way to experience the event, staying in the fabled cabins. One of these visits was a true college road trip, three carloads of us, including several pretty co-eds, but I digress.

I remember preparing for this trip; we were loading the cars down with cases of beer and one of my housemates, Louis, who was is black, had declined to go. In fact, he asked us if we were out of our minds for inviting him.

"There's black people there. It's not like it used to be," my cabin-family friend explained to Louis. "Walter Payton has a cabin there." But Louis was unconvinced, and I still recall his parting words: "Y'all tell Massah I said hello." I don't remember a lot about this trip (note the cases of beer reference above), but we all agreed we had a good time. I don't recall that we attended the political speeches that trip, but I did learn that the temperature at the Fair grounds is downright pleasant at about 3 in the morning. Louis didn't bear any grudge about missing the trip. We never saw "Sweetness" Payton. My subsequent trips usually have been as a working journalist, with the emphasis not on working. Last year an accompanying photographer sarcastically noted, after observing me listen to a speech, interview two spectators, bang out a story in 20 minutes and then seek air conditioning, "That was a tough day's work, eh?" Also last year, me and some other journalists had fun judging perhaps the first-ever "Who's the Sweatiest Politician" contest. As I recall, a large, soaked down-ticket pol won the overall, but of the majors, I think former Gov. Ronnie Musgrove won. Neshoba is fabled as the demarcation point for politeness, where candidates take off the gloves and really bad-mouth their opponents. But last year Gov. Haley Barbour and Musgrove had been slinging mud for months prior, so the stumping was somewhat anticlimactic. I'm afraid I've failed at really explaining the Fair, but I gave it a shot. I can say this: You should go. It runs all this week and the political speeches are all day Wednesday and Thursday.

If you're a Mississippian, it might make you, for a brief time, feel like a Missippian. You might grab a chew of tobacco and start yelling about politics or soybean futures. If you're not a Missippian, like my questioning reader, bless his heart, you'll probably get a kick out of watching some in action.

And on a personal note, the air conditioning in my truck is broken. There's probably another Jeff Foxworthy joke in that somewhere. Did I mention it's hot at the Fair?

By GEOFF PENDER
The Sun Herald

Reprinted from the Daily Times Leader,
West Point, Mississippi

"Are you a Southerner?"

This happens to be floating around the internet, on about a thousand sites, so I'm not giving credit to anyone since I don't actually know who's it is. But it's an amusing list and I'm proud to say that I understood each and everyone line! (I'm pretty sure I had this list on my blog at one time.)

Only a Southerner knows the difference between a hissie fit and a conniption fit, and that you don't "HAVE" them, you "PITCH" them.
_____
Only a Southerner knows how many fish, collard greens, turnip greens, peas, beans, etc., make up "a mess."
_____
Only a Southerner can show or point out to you the general direction of "yonder."
_____
Only a Southerner knows exactly how long "directly" is -- as in: "Going to town, be back directly."
_____
Even Southern babies know that "Gimme some sugar" is not a request for the white, granular sweet substance that sits in a pretty little bowl in the middle of the table.
_____
All Southerners know exactly when "by and by" is. They might not use the term, but they know the concept well.
_____
Only a Southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a neighbor who's got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of cold potato salad. If the neighbor's trouble is a real crisis, they also know to add a large banana puddin!
_____
Only Southerners grow up knowing the difference between "right near" and "a right far piece." They also know that "just down the road" can be 1 mile or 20.
_____
Only a Southerner, both knows and understands, the difference between a redneck, a good ol' boy, and po' white trash.
_____
No true Southerner would ever assume that the car with the flashing turn signal is actually going to make a turn.
_____
A Southerner knows that "fixin" can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adverb.
_____
Only Southerners make friends while standing in lines. We don't do "queues," we do "lines"; and when we're "in line," we talk to everybody!
_____
Put 100 Southerners in a room and half of them will discover they're related, even if only by marriage.
_____
Southerners refer to one or many persons as "ya'll."
_____
Every Southerner knows tomatoes with eggs, bacon, grits, and coffee are perfectly wonderful; that red eye gravy is also a breakfast food; and that fried green tomatoes are not a breakfast food.
_____
When you hear someone say, "Well, I caught myself lookin'," you know you are in the presence of a genuine Southerner!
____
And a true Southerner knows you don't scream obscenities at little old ladies who drive 30 MPH on the freeway. You just say, "Bless her heart" and go your own way.
_____
To those of you who're still a little embarrassed by your Southerness: Take two tent revivals and a dose of sausage gravy and call me in the morning.
_____
And to those of you who are still having a hard time understanding all this Southern stuff, bless your hearts, ! I hear they are fixin' to have classes on Southernness as a second language! _____
Bless your hearts, ya'll have a blessed day!

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

We've Been NOTICED!!!!!!!

I, on the hope that someone might actually pay attention to an email from me, sent off a note to Celia Rivenbark, letting her know that I had placed her books on our book review page.

I received this note back from her this morning:

"Well, I love y'all back. Thanks for the free publicity. I truly appreciate it. And good luck with the magazine. It's fabulous.
Celia"

Celia says the Dew is fabulous!

My week is now complete. :)

100 Things to Eat In Alabama Before You Die



The Alabama Bureau of Tourism has come up with an interesting draw for Tourists. They've made a list of Alabama’s 100 most exceptional eats. The website, where you can download the actual brochure, can be found here.

If you have visited any of these places and had the food, please leave a note in the comments section!

I've eaten mainly in the Gulf Shores restaurants they have listed. I've tried for years to do the Lambert's "Throwed Rolls" in Foley, but the line, starting at 10 in the morning is out the door. I've always decided that waiting one and half hours for lunch with three kids is not worth it just to have rolls chucked at my head.

Nolan's in Gulf Shores is listed as having fantastic steaks, but again, the restaurant just screams, "DO NOT BRING YOUR CHITLINS IN HERE" and the prices go along with that slogan so....

The Original Oyster House in Gulf Shores is a great little dive with the BEST Bloody Mary's. Since I can't eat Seafood, elsewise I puff, I mainly stick with the Bloody Mary's while my hubby enjoys the "Fresh from the Sea" catches.

I do have to say that I've been to Bates House of Turkey in Greenville and all I can scream is.... "RIP OFF!!!" They must have paid mucho bucks to get on that list. And seriously folks, it sells nothing but ... Turkey. Turkey soup, sandwiches, fingers, hot plates, etc. All way overpriced and small. We nearly had to put 4 snamiches and 2 kids plates on the Gold Card.

I'm going to add one of my own personal favorites that's not on the list. Why? Nothing is exceptional about their food, except the price. In Gulf Shores, right on the beach - which by the way is somewhat rare there, most are off the beach surrounded by parking - is a little tiny hole in the wall called Sea N Suds. I'll be honest, they lost it all in the Hurricane last year but I hear they rebuilt and are business as usual. I didn't get down there this season since so many hotels weren't in business yet. Sea N Suds has a big back deck that goes over the beach and looks out on the water. You can get a drink at the restaurant and wander on down to the water while you wait for your name to be called. The kids tend to be wet again by the time we sit down. The joy here? No one cares!

This place is the type with the plain plastic tablecloths, the papertowel holders for napkins, the fixins to make our own sauce for the seafood on the table. The prices are ridiculously low! A hamburger for $1.60, a big plate of shrimp for $4.99, a big salad bar for $1.99, etc. The kids love it and it's the perfect place to go when you are burnt out from your day in the sun and want nothing more than to eat a simple dinner and not fret over your kids acting up in public. Last time we went to Gulf Shores, we were there 6 days, we ate at the Sea N Suds 4 of them. Walked along the beach to it every night. So easy.

I just hope that they didn't change too much from the rebuilding.

Anyway, ya'll take a look at the list and let us at the "Dew" know if you've been to any of these places and what ya'lls thoughts are.

Monday, August 15, 2005

The L.D. Club

The first time I heard that term was when my Daddy said it. I asked him what he meant by that, and he explained that it referred to the guys who hang around on the benches at court square talkin’ about how life has done ‘em wrong. Every town has a club like that.
flag
Walter was not your usual LD. As the story goes, he had a wife and kids and a good job and just simply said “to heck with it” and went to live on the streets. He was about my age, and I always wondered how one gets to that point. Later in life, I understood to some extent. I remember going to pick my daughter up at middle school years ago, lined up in the parent caravan traveling up College Hill. This particular day, Walter came stumbling down the ancient sidewalk dodging the hormones in designer tennis shoes. About halfway down the hill, he fell. The crowd went wild with laughter over his bad luck. There ain’t a meaner gig around than the self esteem of a 7th grader looking to be boosted. He eventually got up and stumbled on his way toward court square and his spot on the bench. He was found dead several years ago curled up in an abandoned building.
confederate 5
Whitman was a Native American from a neighboring county who had dogs for company. They walked and walked up and down the main drag to town, and that little black and brown dog never left his side that I could see. Even when he was admitted to the hospital, the dog came and hung out in the parking lot . He lost his legs, one at a time due to diabetes and the bottle. He’s dead too.

My own father-in-law was an LD. Clementine…..Clem for short. He didn’t last long on the streets because he had always had somebody to take care of him, sisters and brothers and such. I had just started working at the hospital when he went the long slow way to heaven in the intensive care unit at the age of 55. He cooked for the cops who picked him up on public drunk, and they paid him back by donning full uniform and carrying him to the grave. Two whole rows of ‘em. My ex was always afraid he’d end up like that. Time will tell…..I moved on.

They sit around the base of this statue, the Limp Dick club. I don’t know their names now. There’s one who comes around to our ER at the point of death every now and then. His favorite nurse, the caretaker, doesn’t work there anymore.

All these folks have a hard luck story, and I see people every day stopping by to check on them and listen to their pain. God bless the ones who stop to talk and care. You never know when just a gesture of kindness is all the world to somebody.

A Birmingham Landmark


If you've ever been to my neck of the woods, Birmingham, Alabama, surely you have at least seen the Vulcan statue.

Having lived here my whole life, I will honestly say that I really don't know what the excitement about seeing the world's largest cast-iron statue is. Never mind me, though.... it is still a very popular tourist site.


It had to be taken down of its pedestal several years ago for repairs. Many years of weather exposure and such had weakened the iron and it was feared that continued wear and tear would cause it to crumble. The statue was put back up on its pedestal piece by piece until it stood tall again looking over the city.

Maybe I'm a little jaded. Perhaps I should visit the new and improved Vulcan Park seeing as it has been over 10 years since I have been up there. Ya think?

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Folks and Golden Corral Restaurant Reviews



Today's restaurant review will be about two Southern chain restaurants.

Now first off, it's my duty to tell you that while they are Southern chains, apparently Golden Corral is nationwide, while Folks is only in Georgia.

I was informed that Folks was part of the Po' Folks chain of fine dining but wanted to get rid of the trash, became Folks in Georgia and stays Po' Folks in other states. I do believe they have the same food. I will say here though that I could not verify the information that they used to be Po' Folks. The two websites do not mention each other at all.

Okay, that was a little history on the first restaurant. Now to history on Golden Corral. Sadly it has a rather tarnished history. Mainly, a lot of food poisoning. A few years ago all of the Golden Corrals in Atlanta were shut down for several cases of food poisoning. All of the restaurants have been given clean bills of health, but I'll say the most noticeable change is that the food on the buffet counters are in much smaller bowls to come fresher from the kitchen. While that's nice, it also means they run out of food faster.

Folks serves up fine Southern Home Cookin'. Everything from Smothered Chicken Fried Steak, Chicken and Dumplins to catfish to my favorite, Fried Green Tomatoes. They also have every Southerners preferred meal choice - meat and two or three veggies. A "make it your own" plate. It's prices seem a bit high to me for it's home grown plates and I found everything to be extremely salty. The kid's plates are reasonable, and they do advertise a senior menu, but rather forgot to put on the website how much that might be.

But they do live up to their claim of having dern good Sweet Tea. The decor is really cute and Southern with knicknacks all around and pictures of cows and pigs and cute Southern sayings.

On to Golden Corral. It has no decor to speak of, they might have tried, but then gave up. It's a buffet, so in reality you're spending all your time looking at the food choices rather then pretty pictures.

You pay up front, sometimes there are people to help with the trays, sometimes not. The prices have gone up since they started offering steak every night and I'll say now, that I've not been there since the price hike since it lost it's family appeal with an over $9.00 menu. Plus another $2 for a drink. But if you're hungry....

They have all the Southern foods you can ask for. Usually there's a shrimp dish of some sort too. They have pizza, rolls, soup, salad, main dishes and a ginormous dessert bar. Sweet tea, coffee and soda only for beverages. If you pay the money and take advantage of the assortment of food, you will positively waddle out of there. I have many a time. The kids do love it since they can take little bits of the stuff they want and not get stuck with a plate of weird stuff. And since the dessert bar also offers ice cream toppers like Gummy Worms and M&Ms......

A waitress does come up and first and offer plates and forks and takes a drink order. Coffee is supposed to be offered 1/2 way through the meal, but sometimes you never see the waitress/waiter again. It does happen. They clear the tables when the plates become too high. You are expected to tip though often I wasn't sure why. They all seem to hate their job. Perhaps no one tips?

These two restaurants I would recommend if you want to "fill your gullet". They offer straight vittles. But if you want anything more than food in front of you, go elsewhere.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Food-O-Scope

Many Southerners get real squinty-eyed about horoscopes and the folks that reads them. But if we just change all the star signs to symbols that all true Southerners understand, well then...

Symbols like:

OKRA (Dec 22 - Jan 20) Are tough on the outside but tender on the inside. Okras have tremendous influence. An older Okra can look back over his life and see the seeds of his influence everywhere. You can do something good each day if you try.

CHITLIN (Jan 21 - Feb 19) Chitlins come from humble backgrounds. A Chitlin, however, will make something of hisself if he is motivated and has lots of seasoning. In dealing with Chitlins, be careful; they may surprise you. They can erupt like Vesuvius. Chitlins are best with Catfish and Okra.

BOLL WEEVIL (Feb 20 - March 20) You have an overwhelming curiosity. You're unsatisfied with the surface of things, and you feel the need to bore deep into the interior of everything. Needless to say, you are very intense and driven as if you had some inner hunger. You love to stay busy and tend to work too much. Nobody in their right mind is going to marry you, so don't worry about it. Most of the men in Pancake Flats are Boll Weevils. They break stuff just to see if it will break.

MOON PIE (March 21 - April 20) You're the type that spends a lot of time on the front porch. A cinch to recognize the physical appearance of Moon Pies. Big and round are the key words here. You should marry anybody who you can get remotely interested in the idea. It's not going to be easy. You always have a big smile and are happy. This might be the year to think about aerobics. Or maybe not. My friend Curtis is a Moon Pie!

POSSUM (April 21 - May 21) When confronted with life's difficulties, possums have a marked tendency to withdraw and develop a don't-bother-me-about-it attitude. Sometimes you become so withdrawn, people actually think you're dead. This strategy is probably not psychologically healthy but seems to work for you. You are a rare breed. Most folks love to watch you work and play. You are a night person and mind your own business.

CRAWFISH (May 22 - June 21) Crawfish is a water sign. If you work in an office, you're hanging around the water cooler. Crawfish prefer the beach to the mountains, the pool to the golf course, and the bathtub to the living room. You tend not to be particularly attractive physically, but your head is on real straight. If you’re anxious to get married, look for a Moon Pie that lives near the water.

COLLARDS (June 22 - July 23) Collards have a genius for communication. They love to get in "the melting pot" of life and share their essence with the essence of those around them. Collards make good social workers, psychologists, Little League baseball coaches and Awanas leaders. As far as your personal life goes, if you are a Collards, stay away from Crawfish. It just won't work. Save yourself a lot of heartache.

CATFISH (July 24 - Aug 23) Catfish are traditionalists in matters of the heart, although one's whiskers may cause problems for potential loved ones. You Catfish are hard people to understand. You run fast. You work and play hard. Even though you prefer the muddy bottoms to the clear surface of life, you are liked by just about everyone. Catfish should certainly stay away from Moon Pies.

GRITS (Aug 24 - Sept 23) Your highest aim is to be with others like yourself. You like to huddle together with a big crowd of other Grits. You love to travel though, so maybe you should think about joining a club. Where do you like to go? Anywhere they serve cheese, gravy, bacon, butter, or eggs and a good time. You are pure in heart. Hmmm…do I see My First Wife?

BOILED PEANUTS (Sept 24 - Oct 23) You have a passionate desire to help your fellow man. Unfortunately, those who know you best, your friends and loved ones, may find that your personality is much too salty, and their criticism will affect you deeply because you are really much softer than you appear. You should go right ahead and marry anybody you wants, because yours is a charmed life. On the road of life, you can be sure that people will always pull over and stop for you. Boiled peanuts and Catfish! Mm-Hmmm! What a delicacy!

BUTTER BEAN (Oct 24 - Nov 22) Always invite a Butter Bean to a party because Butter Beans get along real good with everybody. You, as a Butter Bean, should be proud. You've grown on the vine of life, and you feel right at home in Atlanta or in Hot Coffee, Mississippi. You can sit next to anybody on the Greyhound bus. However, you should find happiness with a Moon Pie. Or a butterscotch cream pie!

ARMADILLO (Nov 23 - Dec 21) You have a tendency to develop a tough exterior, but you are actually quite gentle and kind inside. For you, a good evening is old friends, a fire, some roots, fruit, and some of Bertie’s Rhubarb Pie. You are a throwback. You're not concerned with today's fashions and trends. You're not concerned with anything about today. You're almost prehistoric in your interests and behavior patterns. You probably want to marry another Armadillo, but a Possum is another kinky mating possibility.

You can read this and other interesting things at my blog, Writing from the Hip. Stop in and say "Hi."

North Carolina Legend: Lover's Leap


View of my little town from Lovers Leap.

As you cross the "big bridge" into town and you look to your left, you'll catch a glimpse of a piece of rock sticking out from the side of the mountain, known to locals as "Lover's Leap." I've been told that you can see for miles from that vantage point, access is pretty easy if you're up for a short hike up a well marked trail. Personally, I'm horrified of heights, especially when there's no guard rail or anything else to keep you from toppling off, so I've never been up there. It is said that when this valley was inhabited by my Cherokee ancestors, this outcrop was used to keep an eye out for enemies aproaching.

The legend surrounding the naming of Lover's Leap is as follows:

A Cherokee chief named Lone Wolf ruled the springs located by the Tahkiostie river. He had three sons and one daughter, the beautiful "Mist-on-the-mountain." She showed no interest in the braves her father would have chosen for her to marry, including Tall Pine, a brave much older than she. Her heart belonged to Magwa, a tall handsome young brave whom she met when another old chief and some braves came to visit Lone Wolf in his village, bringing gifts and wares to trade.

The night before Magwa and his band were to leave and return to their village he asked Lone Wolf for his daughter's hand in marriage, but Lone Wolf refused, stating that she was already promised to Tall Pine. Late that bright June night, Mist-on-the-mountain waited for her family to go to sleep, then she snuck out of the village and made her way to the foot of the towering outcrop of rock which over looked the valley. She waited for Magwa there as they had arranged, but the only sounds she heard were those of the animals one always heard late at night. She was unaware that someone or something waited in the brush, watching her every move.

The silence was broken by the sound of a canoe touching the banks of the river. As Magwa emerged from his canoe in the darkness, another figure emerged from the brush. Tall Pine struck Magwa across the head, crushing his skull. He fell back into his canoe and Mist-on-the-mountain watched in horror as it was taken back into the river by the current and carried his body with it down stream. She felt his spirit call to her, for her to keep her promise. She fled, running as fast as she could up the trail that lead to the outlook, with Tall Pine following close behind. When she reached the top, she stopped for just a moment, again hearing the spirit of Magwa call to her, for her to join him. Just as Tall Pine reached out to grab her, she lept from the mountain and into the river, to join Magwa in his journey.

Tall Pine was so horrified by the sight, he didn't notice the glowing yellow eyes or the gleam of white fangs of the panther that lept from above him, striking him on the shoulders. It was with a horrid cry of man and beast that again the silence was broken as the pair rolled down the path, ending at the bottom in the dark rhododendron.

It is told that the spirits of Tall Pine, Magwa, Mist-on-the-mountain and even the panther haunt both Lover's Leap and the trail that leads to it. Maybe that's the real reason I've never been up there.

Revival

I have never quite understood why churches have their revivals in the extreme heat of summer. In the old days, they were held outside in tents and it was probably difficult to tell who fell out due to the Holy Spirit and who was just overheated. I noticed in the church newsletter that came today that my favorite "renewer of faith" is about to arrive at the old home church at the end of the month. Of course instead of revival, the homecoming is being called "Festival of Faith."

Reginald Mallet is quite a unique individual in his own right, and his relationship with Methodist churches across the world adds to his importance as an evangelist. Dr. Mallet has the distinct advantage of being not only a British Methodist minister but a physician as well. In an unconventional move for the sixties, he and his family accepted an exchange pulpit arrangement with our local Methodist church and our minister and his family went to England for the summer swap. I was charmed from the moment I first heard him speak when I was just a small child.

Dr. Mallet weaves tales that range from his childhood in England through his experiences with patients and include his world travels. During that first summer in Dyersburg, he became a beloved honorary member of our church, along with his lovely wife and children. They have returned on numerous occasions over the years, and it is always a huge delight for not only our congregation, but people all over the West Tennessee area who travel to hear his soft British accent tell stories of the way that the Bible teaches us to live colored with a delightful sense of humor and everyday experiences.

The mecca for Methodists in the states is a place called Lake Junaluska in North Carolina. Though I've never been there myself, I have heard that it is an awesome spirit filled place where souls are freshened and renewed by the mountains and lake . One of my favorite books of all time is a collection of Dr. Mallet's sermons from his visits to Junaluska entitled Sermons by the Lake. He has led several tour groups of historic churches in England attended by Americans and others who feel the timeless bond of the church.

Much later, in the nineties, our church again sponsored a pulpit exchange with a British minister, Stanley Barker. Our associate pastor spent the summer in England with his family and again we were all challenged to look outside of the doors of our own building and out into the church universal. One of the Barker children was a 16 year old named John, who seemed quite smitten with BabyGirl after they attended church camp and other activities together. He visited our home a few days before he left the country, and I was amazed at his keen interest in professional wrestling! Imagine that...the WWF spans continents and oceans ;)

I rarely attend formal services anymore. More often than not Sunday morning finds me in the bed with a book, resting my spirit in my own way with no makeup or clothes. But I will be there to hear Reg speak the Gospel while he is here. I'm just thankful it won't be in a tent on the grounds, but in an air conditioned building!

NASA Soars!

Pondering Penguin

What a magnificant sight it was to watch The Discovery land in the early morning hours, in the dark, all lit up! And flown by a woman pilot trained by the USAF. The turning move she did with the shuttle that allowed pictures to be taken of the tiles was incredible.

Could you hear the exhaling as they safely landed? We live in the normal flight pattern for a Florida landing so my son's school was part of the sad hunt for debris due to the explosion of the Challenger. They did a grid search of the playground area and sports field.

We live in Houston so there is much pride here for this national treasure. As a mom, I remember my son's first big bus trip to NASA on a field trip. We lived in Lafayette, LA so it was a long journey to little kids. They left in the pre-dawn hours and were back past normal bedtime but what an experience for second graders!

As a proud American I will tell you that my husband and son had the pleasure of escorting 2 Iraqi engineers on the NASA tour a few months ago. My husband was teaching a class for them and serving as host for their visit. What did they want to do on their day out of class? Go to NASA, of course! We are quite used to doing that for any out-of-town visitors but this was a first in international public relations for them!

This country has many blessings. NASA is right up there on the list.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Just What The Doctor Ordered

Just so yall know...I've been run over by something. Something humongous. I don't know what it was. Fever, chills, body aches...you name it. I've had it over the last week. Thankfully, I'm recovering. I'm going to live. If I lived anywhere else, chicken soup may have been the answer but down here in Louisiana...GUMBO...is just what the good doctor ordered to chase away that fonk that has been plaguing my house this week. I hope yall don't get the fonk but if you do, you might just want to try this recipe. It'll cure all that ails ya. I guarantee!

First you boil you up some boneless, skinless chicken breasts in chicken broth (not water!). Spice it up with some Tony's seasoning. It's got all the cayenne, salt, pepper and all the other seasoning you need all in one little green can. Now, my little Cajun mother-in-law (we'll call her Maw Maw from here on out) uses chicken with bones and skin. But that's just plain out ole gross but you do what you like. Don't say I didn't warn you though. Once it's all done, cut up the bird into pieces. Next, cut up some link sausage and fry it up in your iron skillet. Set it aside. Don't throw out the chicken broth or the drippings from your sausage. It's going to be smelling purdy darned good about now.

Now that your meat is done, take your big old gumbo pot and put a little oil in the bottom. Now I use olive oil. Now Maw Maw...her...she thinks it has to be vegetable oil. Doesn't matter that olive oil is healthier. No. It's been this way for 100 some odd years and she's been making gumbo for seventy of them. Who am I to argue? Anyway, I digress. I love Louisiana cooking but I do tend to avoid intentionally adding enough grease to squeeze a hog through a keyhole. Back to the recipe, once you heat that oil in the gumbo pot, you add in some flour. Stir it up real good. Stir. Stir. Stir. It's going to start getting brown. This is a roux. You got to be careful that you don't let it burn. Stir! Once you get it good and brown but not burnt, add about a cupful of the broth. Not too much yet but enough to keep the roux from smoking up the house.

Then you add the "blessed trinity" that is chopped onion, peppers, and celery. This is a staple used in practically everything Louisiana cooks make. Now, you can stand there at that counter for an hour, chopping, and crying like my precious little Maw Maw or you can go to the freezer and take out a bag of frozen seasoning mix. If you read the ingredients, it says..."onions, peppers, and celery." That is the "blessed trinity." Try to tell that to Maw Maw. Want a smaller butt? Well, after the butt chewing lecture you get after trying to make that point, you'll have one. I try to have the "blessed trinity" debate anytime my jeans start filling out. Okay stir some more and some more. It ought to be smelling good enough to eat about now. Add a little more Tony's for taste.

Okay. Now you can scrape your sausage drippings in the pot and stir that in. Then start adding the broth to the gumbo pot by the cupful until you've added it all. Stir. Stir. Stir. You will never get the burnt gumbo smell out of your kitchen so don't let it happen. I'm telling yall. Listen to me. Stir! Then you put the chicken and sausage into the gumbo pot and you guessed it...STIR! Let it boil and then turn it down to simmer til you are ready to eat. Taste to see if you have enough Tony's in it. That's something only you can decide. For me, it hard to get too much Tony's. But that's me.

Now, at this point, I'm going to tell you what my Maw Maw would do. I don't recommend it. But you do what you want to. She gets her gumbo to boiling. Then she drops raw eggs into it. They boil up real fast and look like white, rubbery things floating in your gumbo. Plain ole disgusting. But hey, some people like white, rubbery things floating in their gumbo. Not me. People down here eat it up. To me, eggs are good with cheese, not gumbo. Thank you very much.

There's nothing better than sitting down to supper with gumbo and rice sprinkled with file', cracklin' cornbread, and baked sweet potatoes to chase away a flu and just plain ole make life better. Shoot...I can just taste it now...and I'm feeling better already.

Explorin' the Competition

I'm going to tell ya'll a bit about the competition here! There's a magazine, been out about a year or more, called Y'all.

Now please note it's spelled different that I spell it. Depends on the region you're from and how you pronounce it I think. I say YA - all, and they........well, they apparently say it wrong.

I have copied below an article Rhonda Rich wrote for the magazine last year. The website for the magazine doesn't seem to really keep up with their issues. But the article is amusing.

The magazine seems to cover everything from entertainment, music, that pesky thing called sports, and recipes.

It's a bit expensive in my eyes. If you order a copy online, it's $5.95! But a subscription is $19.95 for a year - only 6 issues. I might have to get one and check it out.

Here's Rhonda's article for YA-all.

What Southern Women Know
Y’all Yankees Should Know The Rules
from the November/December 2004 Issue
by Rhonda Rich


Southern women are terrific at writing our own rules. Of course, we don’t always go to the extreme of imposing these rules on ourselves but we do sweetly suggest that others follow the guidelines we have devised.

Here’s a rule of Southern womanhood: Never be offensive to a Yankee who has enough courtesy to stay put above the Mason-Dixon line. There is no sense in ruining our gracious image by being mean to those who know their place. Besides, there are some excellent Yankees, both here and there, who should not be judged by the behavior of the obnoxious ones.

Another rule is that if they do move to Dixie, then do your best to win them over. Mold ‘em more into our image because, after all, the world could use more of our kind. Teach ‘em the importance of multiple casserole recipes, sweet tea, hand-written thank you notes, perfect hair and silver patterns. We know going in, that it might be a losing battle. Admittedly, we Southerners have lost a few battles to the Yankees but we have also won some mighty important ones. Therefore, we are never without hope. We are an optimistic society.

Some Yankees complain loudly of their treatment when they move South. Maybe it would be beneficial to explain a few things that might help us all get along better. I don’t suspect any Yankees will be thumbing through Y’all, looking for tips on harmonious living but some of y’all might want to clip it out and send it to offenders. This, of course, should be done courteously and anonymously. We wouldn’t want to offend anyone openly.

Number One Rule: All white flags are immediately rescinded the moment that a Yankee makes fun of us. That is called stepping across the proverbial magnolia line. We don’t cotton well to it at all and anger crawls across us as quickly as kudzu spreads in the summer heat. Here are other words that rile us mightily:

I can’t understand a word any of you people say. Sounds like you have a mouthful of grits. Why on earth would anyone come to a person’s homeland and make fun of the way they talk? Would you go to England or Scotland and spit their words back in their faces? That’s bad manners at their worse. Besides, we’re proud of the Scotch-Irish, French and English accents that dance through our words. It’s lyrical and soothing.

That’s not the way we did it up North. We’ll try to be polite but underneath, we’re seething when we hear this. Bottom line: We don’t care. It’s how we do it here and we’re the ones who have been nursing this land back to health since the war that ravaged us and the depression that dang near starved us.

I’m surprised that so many people have indoor plumbing. If you really thought that, then why were you dumb enough to move here?

Is in-breeding a wide-spread practice? Now, here’s an example of over-the-top rudeness: A transplanted Yankee clipped out a wedding announcement and took into the bank to share with my niece’s husband. “Look here!” the Yankee exclaimed happily. “Nix Marries Nix! All my friends up North told me I shouldn’t move down here where they in-breed. I’m mailing this to them to see they were right!”

Without a smile, Jay replied, “That’s my brother-in-law.” My nephew had married a young woman who, coincidentally, had the same last name. No relation.

Now, a Southerner would have had the grace to salvage the moment. For instance, had we said something unkind about our most hated enemy, General Sherman, and the person replied, “He was my great grandfather”, we would have recovered quickly to said something like, “And I’m sure he was a fine family man. We just found him lacking in certain social graces.”

But not that Yankee. That Yankee, instead, clapped his hands together in delight and laughed gleefully. Apparently, he was happy to meet a member of the clan.

You need to know this: When you cast aspersions on our bloodlines or our families, you have crossed the line into the marshes of dark anger. You will not win. Instead, you will sink only into a murky abyss.

All I know about the Civil War is that we won. Those are sure-fire words that’ll end the cease fire.

There are some nice Yankees who live here and are a welcomed addition to our homeland. But some of ‘em are giving all of ‘em a bad name. So, perhaps we should prevail kindly on the nice Yankees to take care of the mean Yankees.

Apparently, southern niceness isn’t working completely.

Ronda Rich is the author of What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should).

Sunday, August 7, 2005

First Book Review at the Dew Review Page!

Go on over there and give it a read!

Has anyone read "Gods in Alabama" yet? I haven't had the opportunity. If you have, let me know if you want to write a review.

Saturday, August 6, 2005

Southern Dressing

This was submitted by Purple Penguin!

Southern women know that some things are non-negotiable, like how to dress.

Dressing for the occasion is drilled into our heads from birth, maybe from conception. In today’s casual world, many people obviously are clueless about where the lines are drawn for respectable dressing. For example, I have vivid memories of Easter pictures taken by my father of my mother and sisters and me on the grounds of Centenary College in Shreveport among the blooming azaleas. The foliage produced a beautiful background for our dressy Easter outfits, often including hats.

These memories were brought to mind recently with the nomination of Judge John Roberts for Supreme Court Justice. At the announcement of his nomination, he brought his wife and two small children onto the staging area for introduction. His wife, an attorney, was dressed in a pink suit. Nothing flashy. The children looked like they had on their church clothes, which is the suitable attire in this situation. The little boy, 4 years of age, was in a jacket with short pants and oxfords. The little girl, 5 years of age, was in a sweet dress that hit just below the knee along with anklets and patent leather mary janes. All completely normal in Southern circles.

Well, this picture set off a hissy fit of a column by the “Style” editor of the Washington Post. This woman was trying to make the case that these people were obviously phonies and trying to look like June Cleaver and family. Guess she doesn’t get south of the Mason Dixon line much. Maybe shorts and flip flops were more of what she had in mind.

The World's Longest Yard Sale is this Weekend!


The World's Longest Yard Sale began on Thursday. Private sellers and antique dealers are setting up shop over a 450-mile stretch from Gadsden, Alabama, to Covington, Kentucky, along U.S. WWY 127.

The original idea came from former Fentress County Executive, Mr. Mike Walker. His plan was to bring travelers from the busy Interstate System to the less traveled highways of Tennessee and Kentucky. The event has grown every year since its modest beginning in 1987. This is the 19th year of the Sale and it promises to be bigger and better than ever!

Go here for more info! This is the official website for the yard sale.

If you are near the yard sale or go to it and would like to write about it ~ please contact the Editor of the Dew. Unfortunately none of the contributors seem to be in the same area as Highway 127.

Friday, August 5, 2005

A Yankee Boy goes to the Movies

I done learned in on the TV.

I got to admit that we get a lot of what we know or think we know from television. Today the “Dukes of Hazard” movie opens across the country in theaters. It was a show that I watched as I grew up. It was a show that shaped my prejudices about what Southerners were like. If you be Dixie born and bred what do you think of this stereotyping?

I mean it swings both ways. One of the reasons that I watched the show was because I thought that Daisy Duke was hot. I know the girls went gaga over the Duke boys. The carefree attitude about life and the thumbing your nose at authority were like eating candy. So here we are with a movie version ready to reinforce our Southern prejudices.

One reviewer; Eleanor Ringel Gillespie from the The Atlanta Journal-Constitution says this:

“All them grinnin' yokels from the CBS hit series that ran from 1979 to '85 are back for the movie version. Those wild 'n' crazy moonshine-running Duke boys, Bo and Luke (Seann William Scott and Johnny Knoxville). Black-hearted Boss Hogg (Burt Reynolds). The souped-up '69 orange Dodge Charger with the Confederate flag painted on its roof. And, um, cheeky Daisy Duke, played by Jessica Simpson, who's fittingly introduced butt-first.”

So here us Yankees wonder if all the Southern police are plain stupid and are crooks themselves, if anybody really has a job, if it’s ok to break the law in the South as long as you don’t get caught and can drive fast…

But most of all leaves us wondering about the wonderful ethnic mix that is found in the south. Shows like this simply don’t embrace it. They miss the cultural wonders by a wide margin but manage to poke fun at a whole bunch of people and reinforce negative stereotyping.

So which Duke character are you?

The Giant Peach Watertower

Many of you from this area are familiar with this oh so delicious looking landmark. When you see it you know you have reached a little piece of heaven. Chilton County, the peach capital of Alabama, if not of the whole USA, is home to several very wonderful fruit stands featuring giant juicy peaches (naturally) as well as strawberries and apples.
It's about a 45 minute drive from my house, but definitely worth it. I keep on planning a drive down there, and I think that's definitely in the cards for the near future.
For more information, check it out
HERE.


Exciting Magazine Addition!

We are going to start reviewing books on a regular basis in the near future! A publishing company, which will remain nameless until it's a set deal, sends out books of the appropriate selection to magazines for review. Come to find out they also send out books to Online Magazines. It has been asked if the Dew would be interested in being added to the list of "Southern Subjects". To receive said books for review.

YES!

It has been mentioned that we might find ourselves deluged with books so if you are interested in sharing in the reading and review, let me know and when this starts, I will parcel the books out to the interested contributors.

I'll have to set up a section for this on the magazine!

Wednesday, August 3, 2005

Do you know your way to The Big Chicken?

Sometimes a landmark just sticks in your head. You'll always remember it.

I used to live outside of Atlanta and there is a very famous landmark in Marietta, which is a little north of the Great Southern City.

The Big Chicken.

Way back when, in 1963 I believe, this was originally for a fine eatin' establishment called "Johnny Rebs". He had Rebel Burgers for $.15.

At some point in time Kentucky Fried Chicken took over the restaurant when "The Colonial" apparently bought out the "The Reb Soldier".

On a humerous note, I'd like to note here that Kentucky Fried Chicken changed it's name to KFC when we all started forgetting to teach our children to read, and now KFC is supposed to stand for "Kitchen Fresh Chicken", getting rid of that unhealthy Southern term - Fried. Ya, that'll do it.

This Big Chicken is such a landmark that it's now a direction. Anything from oral directions to commercials on t.v. to billboards will say things like "Turn left at the Big Chicken", "1/2 mile past the Big Chicken" and so on. Everyone in Atlanta and the surrounding areas will immediately know where you mean to go.

I personally remember several car accidents when tourists would get caught up staring at the chicken's eyes rolling and the comb waving and crash into the car in front of it.

Before I moved away the eyes no longer rolled and the comb didn't wave and it was looking a bit dinged up. I thought it was falling apart and the end was near.

Imagine my surprise when I drove through Atlanta years later and there it was! The Big Chicken in all it's glory! Of course I pulled in immediately and went in for some Kitchen Fresh Vittles. They also have a gift shop where you can buy many Big Chicken and KFC souveniers.

Apparently Marietta had a bit of an outcry when KFC was going to tear it down in 1993. A mob formed is what I heard. The company backed down on their plans to build a shiny, sleak, industrial and oh-so-efficient new KFC and had the old one refurbished.

It's nice to know that sometimes, when people fight to hang on to the good ole' times, they win little bits of it.

So if you're going thru Atlanta, and manage to get out of town without stopping at the Varsity for lunch, get on Highway 41 North and keep your eyes out for the Big Chicken. It'll be on the right hand side and you won't be able to miss it! Have some kitchen fresh chicken and buy a souvenier. You won't regret it.

(Actually, you might want to buy some Tums on the way. Turn right at the Big Chicken and a CVS is 1/4 mile down the road.)


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Do you have a famous Southern Landmark in your area? Write about it and publish it on the "Dew"!