Four Seasons in the South

If I have heard it once, I have heard it a thousand times, “I couldn’t live in the south because I like the “changing of the four seasons.” This is usually uttered by some Yankee who went to Florida once at Christmas time and experienced a few days of highs in the low 70’s and lows in the high 50’s. It felt just like the 4th of July weekend back home and mistook the dead of winter for the an early summer weekend.

The South has four distinct seasons and they are not deer season, duck season, turkey season and quail season (well maybe if you live in Texas.) The South has a distinct winter, spring, summer and fall. The differences are much more subtle then they are in the frozen north, with practice even a Yankee can learn to recognize the southern seasons.

The seasons in the north and in the South differ in a few ways. The weather in the south is less extreme then in the north, but it is still warmer in the summer and colder in the winter. The landscape is vastly different in the north and south, leading to very different seasonal variations. Northern seasons tend to be a subtle as a Manhattan cab driver; southern seasons are as subtle as a southern belle.

The major landscape difference in the south and the north is mixture of evergreen and deciduous trees and shrubs. In a typical northern wooded area between 80% and 90% of the trees loose their leaves seasonally. In the South the proportions basically reversed. In the South 80-90% of the trees and shrubs are evergreen and 10-20% are deciduous. The mixture will vary depending on how far south you are, the real southern evergreen mixture of trees does not really flourish until you get to about Atlanta and points south, by the time you get to the Keys nearly no trees loose there leaves except during a hurricane and that is another story. A surprising number of trees are found in both regions, pines, hemlocks, cedars, and Magnolias are found in the North and the South. The species may vary, but the general types of trees are widespread. Live oaks are a very southern variety. Live oaks need a moderate to tropical climate and do not loose all of their leaves at once. They are constantly shedding some leaves (year around raking) and sprouting new leaves (kind of like the teeth on a shark, constantly replacing one another.)

The types of grasses in the landscape also vary widely from the north to the South. Southern grasses tend to be crunchy; Yankees look at southern grass as crabgrass. What grows as grass in the north, goes to seed in about May in the South and then turns brown. In Florida I use to plant rye grass in November, it would stay green until spring and then go to seed once the weather turned decent in March, or about the point it would get to in August in New York.

Winter in the south is a time of dormancy for the landscape. Despite the fact that many things are still green, they stop or slow down growing. The intensity of color changes in the landscape. The landscape has much more brown, and yellow in it during the winter, and the greens on the evergreens tend to be very dark, almost black-green. In winter you only mow your lawn every other month instead of every other day in the peak of the growing season (just kidding, you seldom need to mow more then twice a week.) As far south as Miami the grass will turn brown when there has been a frost or extended dry spell. The no-grow season and temperatures below 70 degrees typify the dead of winter.

Spring follows winter in the South just as in the north. Spring can come very early, February in south Florida, March in the rest of Florida and into Southern Georgia and Alabama. Spring will arrive between late March and late April as far north as Kentucky. Everything starts to grow in the spring. The deciduous trees sprout new leaves; the evergreens sprout new leaves and the grass needs mowing. The greens of spring are light and bright and translucent. The trees bloom and in the deep-south the air is scented with citrus and palm bloom (makes me homesick just to think about it.) The temperatures rise, with occasional cool nights. Spring has really arrived when you are free of the risk of frost for the year, February in south Florida, mid to late April in Kentucky, and the 4th of July in Cleveland.

Summer in the South is very distinctive. The weather tends to be warm, but as I use to tell people there is good news and bad news. The good news is that the average summer day in central Florida will have a high temperature in the high 80’s and a nighttime low in the mid 70’s, it seldom gets over 95 degrees in peninsular Florida. The bad news is that it can get like this in May and some years it does not cool off until November. The humidity tends to be comparatively high in the deep-south, 70-80% being average summer time humidity; no one needs a steam room when they live in the real South. If you are near the Ocean or Gulf, you tend to have summertime afternoon thunderstorms in the South. It takes a lot of rain to keep the semitropical landscape green. The landscape becomes dark rich green in the summer. The landscape tends to bloom to the point of rotting with intensity. Nearly anything will grow in the south. Northern plants that do not survive in the south generally fail because they grow themselves to death in the warm rich climate, burning out in the nonstop party of summer, or going to seed far before their time. The sun can be intense. Anything left exposed to the summer sun tends to fade; asphalt streets bleach to grey and white in the summer sun looking more like concrete then asphalt.

Autumn in the south is very subtle. The temperatures moderate, the growth of the landscape slows down. Anything that is going to seed goes to seed. Long growth crops like citrus ripen and are harvested. The color of the flora fades to softer tones, with a hint of yellow and brown. The deciduous trees start to loose their leaves, though this process may not be complete until the cold days of winter kick in.

There they are, four distinct seasons. Now I have to admit it took me a couple of years of living in the semi-tropics of the deep-south to start to recognize the subtleties of the changing seasons. Once I learned to recognize them, I really learned to love them. Unlike the change of seasons in Yankee land that hit me like a hammer between the eyes, I had to use all of my senses to detect the distinctive southern changing of the seasons. God how I miss the subtlety of a real southern winter!

Written by: DG
http://travelpenguin.blogspot.com

THE WALL

Written By: Franklin P. Smith

Al held an unlit cigarette while standing beneath a medium size oak
tree. A couple of yards in front of him the Wall stood. He had mixed
feelings of why he had come to this place, but he knew that he had to
be here at this particular time.

He moved slowly toward the walkway where the black marble monument
began to emerge from the manicured green lawn. Al could see the
glistening effect of the sun on the raindrops left on the shiny black
marble.

The young Korean woman had captured the essence of the dignity of the
names the memorial bore in the cold marble who had fallen during the
conflict his country had been involved in for over ten years. This
conflict had created a chasm that would never heal. The arising
intersecting slabs of cold black blue marble symbolized the rising of
the dead of the thousands of Americans’ who had followed their
leaders into a futile war. This wasn’t a conflict or a police action but a
political war. A political war fought in the jungles, where the
fighting was unlike anything a human had ever experienced before.
Along the declining walkway toward the intersecting black slabs on
both sides, Al could see numerous individuals kneeling and praying,
feeling the etched marble with their fingers. Others were standing in
a somber state focusing on nothing but probably a memory of the person
or the last place they had been with this person.

There was an emptiness inside Al, while he looked at these people who
walked by or stood along the Wall. His stomach was tight.
Instinctively, he wanted to leave. He knew, he couldn’t.

Why did I have to come to this place? Was it closure or to acknowledge
of what these men who were posted on the Wall did for him and gave him
in that year? Some he had only known causally and only for a couple of
days. The only thing he knew was that he had experience the reality of
what he had experienced in Vietnam like these men had.

Al stopped suddenly. The hot sun was bearing down on his body. His
forehead was sweating. Al felt the perspiration dripping underneath
his armpits and the wetness’ on his broad back. He remembered
sweating like this his first day in Vietnam. The place was the Danang Air
Force Base. The date was August 18, 1973. The place was chaos.
Everyone seemed to be going in every direction. The heat was
unbearable and this was compounded more by the humidity factor. He had
heard it stayed this hot nearly year round and the humidity was a fact
of life in this part of the world. He was amazed that there were no
accidents or anyone killed at this insane pace. He learned this was
false; at least two were killed each day because of someone’s
carelessness in Vietnam.

Al didn’t know as he stepped off the C-10 transport plane, he would
be changed for the rest of his life. He had been told that he had an
office job after he had graduated top of his class at Radio School.
He had been led into a false promise. The second day he found himself
on a chopper to some God-forsaken base camp for six months before he
went to R & R in Singapore. Singapore had the women and the drugs
that allowed a man to escape the hell; he had endured those months.
The women could send a man by their little tricks, they had been taught
by their madam.

He placed the unfiltered cigarette in the corner of his mouth
underneath the bushy mustache. Al had had this since his second week
a base camp. The guys had made fun of his attempting to grow hair
underneath his nose. He wondered if it was the drugs, the beer, the
women, or facing the uncertain death that had changed him. This was
not to mention being shot at from Charlie from the bush, just being
plain scared to hell that he would not live the day out. Whatever it
was, it was made his body develop into a solid lean masculine
structure.

Out of his platoon in the first two months, over half of its
members were either sent home in a body bag or wounded seriously enough to be
sent to Hawaii. Those guys were the lucky ones; the ones were alive,
he always thought. Down deep, he knew they would be the most messed up
when they returned to the States. Granted they would get a check
every month, but everyone in the States hated them because either they
didn’t like the war or did not want to be associated with the results
of the abyss inside America. Al’s eyes were focused on the wooden
matchbox he had pulled from his right front pocket.

While he lighted the cigarette, a smile formed on his lips and face.
This was where he had first smoked a joint. Drugs were his preference
to the beer, which flowed like water. Marijuana was used to escape
quickly the horrors that that was seen – done that day and the day
before or to face another day and night that exist for him. This was a
war, not a conflict or an assistance program to prevent communism from
spreading. Al now understood his father’s actions when he had asked
about Korea when he was a child. His father would always change the
subject or leave the room if he was confronted with conversation about
war. Al took a deep drag of the burning tobacco.

The fighting in Nam was like an office job. At an appointed time, his
squad would leave the base camp and in a couple hours to a couple days
they would be picked up by a couple of choppers. If someone was killed
or wounded in the field, a chopper would pick them up after the action.
He could remember at the base camp when they were waiting for orders
to go into the bush, a chopper would ferry pizzas in Danang or Saigon.
On numerous occasions the helicopter would bring in stewardesses from
one of the contract air-transports to camp. Each one had probably
earned a couple of thousand doing her tricks. Al figured they gave the
pilot a share of their earnings.

Al released the smoke he had accumulated in his lungs. The white
smoke rose up hiding his face. His smile disappeared. He could still
hear the wrapping of the chopper blades at night sometimes, if the
circumstances were right. For the most part he had adjusted to the
killing and hell he had experienced. He could still see at times the
two kids, a boy of around ten and a young teenage girl, he had killed.
There was no choice. It was either them or him. One had a hand
grenade and the other had a Russian AK- 47. He had heard other
stories of whole villages being wiped out; women, children and old
people that were killed because the villages were one of Charlie’s
bases of operations. Al lowered the smoking cigarette beside his side.
He had also heard the stories of the senseless random killing of
innocent civilians because some of psyched up Lt. was on a rampage to
get a higher body account.

He dropped the burning cigarette on the green grass, and crushed the
smoldering tobacco with the bottom of his right shoe. After the first
week, he had gotten his first kill. Al was ordered to check one of
those tunnels where Charlie had stored his rice, guns and ammunition.
Al learned later that this was part of the Ho Chi Mi Trail. He had been
chosen to go down into the tunnel, because he was smallest and newest
member of the squad. The tunnel was infested with snakes, rats, and
the walls were dripping a wet some slimy substance. He had killed his
first person on this journey. He killed was barely sixteen and
probably scared to death just like himself, when they faced each other.
He had been lucky that day. Both had let out numerous rounds from
each of their automatic guns at each other. After the squad had
blown-up the chase of ammunition, a chopper came and they went back to
base camp. The squad was given six cases of beer that night. Al
drank his share but threw-up all that night. He could still see the
young mans’ eyes when he closed his eyes that night.

He was cheered as the hero of the day. This act had brought him into
the fold of the squad. Now, he was one of them. The next day as he
was nursing his hangover, waiting for the squad’s next assignment, he
looked and examined each member of his squad. They were just like him
young and mostly misfits that had been drafted just like him, but they
were now seasoned veterans by the killing and the surviving of this
day.

Living; day by day in combat in the jungle, classified you
as a veteran or just being a plain survivor in this hot humid hellhole.
A smile formed on Al’s face again. Before Vietnam he couldn’t
stand Mo-town music, but Lee from Detroit had changed that. He kind of
understood, of sort, the meaning of this kind of music had for these
people. But Lee was dead; he had thrown himself on a grenade the VC
had thrown into a foxhole with two other people in it and they were
white. A man did strange things for the man next you.
A grin formed slightly on Al’s lips while he pulled a pack of open
cigarettes out of his front pocket. They had all been strangers thrown
together from all parts of the country. Each individual was counting
the days to leave base camp for either their flight home or R & R at
some government retreat. Pulling the single cigarette out of the pack,
Al laughed softly. They had all formed a bond between each other.
Each bond was different. There was a bond even with the “lifers”
as they called them. Most of the lifers were on their second or third
tour. They enjoyed the killing and could not wait to go out to hunt
Charlie. A person could see it in their eyes. Living on the edge
between life and death was their soul purpose in life. . There was
one unwritten bond between the men Al had fought with. The common bond
was survival and knowing each person had to go beyond himself to save
himself and the man next to him.

He lighted the cigarette and started to walk on the walkway next
the Wall to the intersection of the two pieces of black blue marble.
His soul and mind felt a longing to see the men that he knew who were
listed on this wall.

He could not believe the day; he had received his orders to catch the
chopper back to Saigon. On the flight back to Saigon, he thought of
how he had changed. He had gained over fifty pounds; most of the guys
had lost weight. Al was different. He spent most of his time in base
camp lifting weights with Lee and a Polish fellow named Ski. Al had
turned himself into a muscle bound human specimen. He knew that his
mind would never be the same with all the killing, the drugs, and the
realization of the lies the government were telling about the war.
He understood now what happen to people in war.

Al stood motionless in front of the marble slab. At least the
government had not screwed-up this tribute to his fellow comrades.
Each name was listed by the year, month, and date the person had died.
He thought taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

December 20.
HARRY F. STEPSON
FRED J. WATKINS
JOSEPH JONES

The list ran on at least twenty more. Here was Jones’ name in the
marble. Al put his fingers on the etched name. He had taken a bullet
meant for Ski. Both of them were in a foxhole together in the outer
perimeter. Joe had taken his place behind the 90mm. Ski had turned
to get a drink of water. Joe fell over dead with a single bullet in
the head. Joe was going back for Christmas and going to get married to
his high school sweet heart on the 31st of December. He was going to
work as a bookkeeper for his father while he went to college to become
an accountant. He always talked about making it big when he got his
CPA. Al could feel the dampness coming from his eyes. Ski had
suddenly disappeared into the bush after Joe had got it. We could hear
Ski firing his M-16 and people screaming when they had been hit. The
guys in the squad stayed away from Ski for a month after this incident
- he knew what the ‘kill’ was all about now.

It had been Skip that had come to him afterwards this incident. There
was a strange bond with him and AL. Skip was strange anyway. The
last Al had heard about Skip was that he had gone back to Nam one more
time and had gotten wounded. He either be retired by now or would be
getting a check for some reason from the Army. Afterwards Al had
heard that he had moved to a remote island off the coast of Georgia.
He was living the life of a semi-hermit. He would only go into town
for his monthly check, and would catch wild pigs for the tourists to
eat, using only a 12” knife to catch and kill the wild pig.
Al flicked the burning cigarette on the grass in front of the Wall.
He was still a mess inside. After he returned to the States, he
worked construction with his father, and married Julie. Things
weren’t the same with her. He had taken her virginity away a week
before he left for Nam. Sex, after Nam was different. Al’s outlook
was different about everything. Julie left him after a couple of
drunken weekends. Life had become meaningless and really not worth
living especially at night when nightmares would come back. A month
ago he figured to end it all with an over dose of sleeping pills the
doctor had prescribed. He had bought the pills and was going to do
the deed, when he received a phone call from Joe’s father. In the
phone call Joe’s father had told him that after six years, he had
finally gone through Joe’s personal papers. He apologized for the
time delay, but Al knew about the denial that Joe’s father was going
through. Al had been in denial since the first day he had stepped
into base camp and realized this place was going to be worse than hell
itself.

A grin appeared on Al’s lips. His fingers were still touching the
etched name of Joe. Al would always remember what Joe’s father had
told him that day. Joe had written his father telling him about how
Joe appreciate Al going beyond the orders the squad leader had given;
placing himself always in front of danger and placing him out of
danger, that is, going first into the tunnels and finding Charlie.
Everyone hated this job but this was now Al’s task on every patrol if
a tunnel was found.

Al turned around and saw the setting sun. One more day was
finished. He had lived another day. The night would probably be
rough, but he would live throughout the long night. There had to be a
reason for him to be living. Al thought wiping the moistness from
both his cheeks.

In turning he thought about going to college. He could meet some
women his age at night school. I could earn more money and maybe find
another career.

Al turned around so he could look squarely at the Wall again.
Sitting in the old 75 FORD, Al paused one more time before he cranked
the truck.

He wondered why he had survived and those died.

House of Brews, Huntsville, AL

Don't ever let anyone say there is nothing to do in Huntsville, Alabama! I have proof that there is a diverse collection of gathering places for which the metropolitan can cull from on any given night.

Downtown Huntsville has become quite the hotspot for which to hang out. The House of Brews is most definitely worthy of your patronage traffic. I have been twice and will go again in the future. In fact, I will confess it to all of my friends, new acquaintances, and my co-workers
from now on.



The beau and I decided to go to the House of Brews this past Saturday evening and for the price of one iced white mocha coffee ($3.85 ea. + tip), and some fantastic entertainment, we had the best time ever!

Ricky Ray was the selected choice of entertainment for the upstairs lounge. Man, he put on a great show. Now, I may be biased because I love the blues music but I think even the non-bluesy person would have been toe tapping and finger snapping to Ricky Ray and his accomplice accompanist (drums). Yes, I did get a picture with Ricky Ray but decided not to publish my mug on this review!



We even had some dancers get up on the floor and they were something to watch too! Man, they stepped it out that night with their youthful energetic lustful style of swing! Really, they were mesmerizing.

The beau and I have GOT to learn how to dance like that! HOT I tell ya, and makes for great exercise no doubt.

Our arrival time was perfect. We left our improper headquarters around 8:30 arriving in downtown Huntsville 10 minutes later and found a parking spot easily, we walked one block to get to The House of Brews; the night weather was perfect for it too.

No cover charge for the House of Brews either. Like I said we purchased one iced white mocha coffee (each) then headed upstairs for the entertainment. Ricky Ray had already started but we got right in and found seating quickly. Later in the evening it started to fill up with all sorts of characters from the progressive youngster to the more mature "engineer type" audience.

The upstairs lounge seating was perfect with your choice of overstuffed leather couches/loveseats and chairs, to regular high top bar tables, to the modern 2 person tables which by the way you could easily maneuver and group them if need be.

My pictures don't do the place justice. I wish you could see the exquisite wood floors, the stylish brick walls, and all of the paintings they had up from local artists I'm sure.



As you can see a variety of "spirits" can be had by all. Just remember to designate a driver, preferably a sober one. The house even had a bouncer and I got to see him in action at one point during the evening. One fellow just got a little too friendly with the bar staff
is all, there was no real commotion to speak of but still it was nice to know they had things under control.

I am getting a little ahead of myself, let me back up and show you some other pictures - downstairs at The
House of Brews.

A quaint and casual variety coffee shop, with treats, where you can mingle with your friends or just sit and enjoy the free wireless internet.



Hmmm, I think I have found our next Alabama Bloggers Meetup location!

While we did not try any of the treats that evening they all looked delectable indeed; maybe next time and trust me, there will be a next time. You had your choice from soups & sandwiches to your choice of goodies for the sweet tooth.



I swear if I could get away with it I would become a regular and frequent the The House of Brews every Saturday night.

Check out their website where you can view their
menu and get a sneak peek of who will be performing!

Looks like Shametown (love the name) will be up for the 19th of May.

Visit their PICTURE PAGE too!

I wish I had asked who did the artwork on the walls because they were spectacular. Oh wait, I can ask them the next time I am in there,
which will be very soon I assure you.

Doesn't that fabulous mural look real?

Yep, The House of Brews is definitely worth your time. I am confident that if you go you will want to go back again and again.

Thanks House of Brews for giving Huntsville some lively merriment along with
perhaps some cultural enjoyment.

This review will be submitted to:

The
House of Brews Review Page
My
Associated Content
Dew On The Kudzu
al.com - Everything Alabama

Review Written by: c.a. Marks
All photographs courtesy of yours truly!

--

The old Homestead

The old Homestead

It stands like a soldier from the war, battered, but never broken; as passers-by whiz quickly on, they leave naught ev'n a token.
Though worn, but proud, it signifies the tears and toils or yore..
Now only memories remain, there's hardly any more.

It sheltered, harbored, shared it's life that others could exist.
A castle in the families' eye, 'twas home, 'twas love, 'twas bliss.
A world of sounds and tears and joys once dwelt within this frame.
But through the years all things have changed,
"T will never be the same.

Though crumbled, broken, strewn and strown the chimney shared a time of warmth and peace and family life; which seemed so safe... sublime.
The chards of broken window panes served once as wings of
dreams to children deep within the nest, who fantasized and schemed.

Coated with rust, a dented doorknob rolls on barren floor; its
weathered, callused owner's hand will be felt nevermore.
Hanging askew on broken frame the front door yet remains, to share with all who care to look,
Just what a HOME contains.

****
J-A Heitmueller

MidSouth Photos

MidSouth Photos
Owned and Operated by Will and Chris Schmied
Hernando, MS
Will and Chris are photograhers specializing in Southern landscape, sporting events, people, anything that you can think of really. At their site you can purchase some fantastic photographs that they have taken, or you can hire them for special events of your own (no weddings).

They're mostly interested in sports action photography, landscapes, animals and candid images of people going about their lives on any given day.

They also design graphic logos and other related work.

Please visit their site if you're interested in learning more about them, or if you'd like to purchase some of these lovely photos.

All photographs in these galleries are the property of www.midsouthphotos.com and are registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. They may not be reproduced, copied, printed, published, modified, altered, combined, or direct linked in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the photographer.

Southern Style Biscuits

I spent some time yesterday at the feet...or rather in the kitchen...of the master.

Betty is recognized on the mountain as the best scratch biscuit maker in these parts. Everyone says so, and having had these mouth-melting treats of the Southern table at her house, I must agree. I've had the best. These biscuits Betty makes rival and surpass Mrs. Wilkes famed biscuits from The Boarding House in Savannah, Ga.

Betty learned to make biscuits from her Granddaddy Hall sixty something years ago when she was 10 years old. Her mother was laying-in pregnant and Grandpa Hall was living with them after the death of her grandmother. He learned to make them from his wife who was also a famed biscuit maker.

When she learned how to make them, and up until the 1960's, she was making them in a wood-burning cook stove. Even after she switched to electric, she kept the big stove to cook on during the winter. It would warm the house up really nice.

"I was first making them real small like." She said, as I was stuffing my face with chicken-fried steak, gravy and biscuits, "But Lee, he got right upset and said, 'I feel right embarrassed having to keep reaching for biscuits...if you make them big, I don't need so many!'"

Betty said a typical family of eight would go through a 25 pound sack of flour per week. She would make her biscuits in the morning for breakfast and sometimes do another batch at night if the menu called for them. Left-over biscuits never were wasted. Sometimes, if the kids were home from school, she'd make ham or jelly biscuits to go with their lunch. The menfolk appreciated them after a heavy morning of ploughing, discing or tomato picking.

She also made something she called a "poor folks blackberry pie", that involved splitting the biscuits and putting the bottom halves in a pan. Then she'd layer blackberries, sugar and butter on top of those. Cover that up with the tops of the biscuits, dot with butter and bake until bubbly. This, she says, was very delicious.

If you have ever made scratch biscuits, you know they can be fickle things unless you have your way of making them just so. If you handle the dough too much, they can become hockey pucks. Too little and they are too cakey. If your fluids are not chilled, the biscuit can also be tough and inedible. I must say that I have, once in a while, suffered the embarrassment of making a bad biscuit.

So, I was really eager to watch Betty make hers. I picked up some tricks I'm happy to pass on to you, and intend to practice in my own kitchen.

This is going to be more of a technique lesson than anything. Like most southern recipes of this type, the ingredient amounts are mostly by "feel".

Betty-Jo's Biscuits

Preheat your oven to 500 degrees. Start with a two quart bowl, three-quarters full of White Lilly self-rising flour. Make a well in the center of the flour. Put approximately 3 "eggs" (a unit of measurement approximating the size of a medium hen's egg) worth of white shortening. Using your hands, gently crumble the shortening into the flour. Add one coffee mug of fresh cold buttermilk. Combine gently using your hands. Add enough cold water to make the dough a good consistency. It should be well combined, but not overworked. Moist, but not runny. Pat biscuits into shape, or gently roll out and cut into circles with a jelly jar. Grease up your pan real good with shortening. Put your biscuits in the pan, just touching. Place in the oven and cut the heat to 350. Bake for about 10 minutes or until risen, then broil to brown the biscuits. Serve hot!


While Betty was making them, I asked some questions in between handing her the buttermilk and doing other small tasks to help. On the subject of flour, she is most definite about the quality of White Lilly.

"How about just using plain flour and adding the rising?" I asked.

"Lord, no! I never use plain flour since they came out with self-rising."

"How about adding and egg or two?" I asked.

"Noooooo," she clucked at me, making it clear that any deviation from this formula would result in certain biscuit disaster.

There was one variation that she did endorse slightly. Up until not too long ago, Betty and her family kept family milk cows. Churning butter, buttermilk and keeping fresh homemade dairy products around the house was also part of their routine on their farm. Betty was also considered an expert at turning out sweet fresh creamery butter. One auntie of hers used to love to make these biscuits with the fresh butter from Betty's churns. They were so delicious that they called them "butter pies" and would serve with fresh jam or hot berry compote.

I'd invited myself to this demonstration of biscuit mastery, but, of course, Betty didn't see the point in just making the biscuits without a meal to go along with it. So she whipped up a meal of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, corn and gravy to go along with the biscuits. The grand kids heard Mamaw was making them and showed up to scarf the leftovers.

I ate myself stupid, then kicked back and watched part of the Gaither Gospel Hour on RFD-TV with her.

I did do the dishes. I had to fight her on this, but she eventually did let me help.

Written by Rosie
Smokey Mountain Breakdown

The Baggataway

He looked down and around at the dead brown grass. The cold wind blew against John’s tall lean frame. The empty space looked like an empty meadow where the grass had been cut before the first snow. The breath John exhaled came out in a white mist.

John moved his head to the left and to the right. He could picture the old lacrosse goals on each end of this field.

From the looks of the field, no one had used this place for really anything. Maybe the local kids used it on the weekends as a football field or to play softball, he thought.

He looked again at both ends of the field. This was where they made a bald spot on the field and where a mud puddle would appear after a rain. John smiled. How many years had it been since the last combat between two teams running up and down this field, trying to project and fling a small hard rubber ball into their opponent’s goals. How many bones had been broken, how many knees and elbows were made bloody by a dive to secure or throw a small hard rubber object into the clutches of a friendly player’s possession or out of the reach of a foe wanting this object at any cost.

John could still imagine the weight of the seasoned oak stick in the grasp of his left hand. He could toss the ball over sixty feet with one swift motion of his hand. Yet his players could only manage a control pitch of twenty feet. At times when luck was with them, they could achieve a pitch and catch of thirty-five feet.

A smile appeared on John’s face. He was someone who had seen manhood emerge in a simple youth to become a real man in the world. John looked toward the building where he had had his office and where the players had dressed before each game.

John wondered where the man was who had written him to visit this place one more time. He was intrigued by the man’s letter, which was simple and to the point. The man had requested his presence on this date of Dec 7. This letter had informed him that he would receive an item, which would be most precious to him, and he would cherish it every day of his life. John could not understand the momentous importance of this date. All he could remember was that he had spent one year of his life here at this Ivy League prep school. Now, it had been taken over by a local church for the instruction of inner city kids who were bused in to attend a highly intensive instruction in science and mathematics. World War II had ended the sport of lacrosse for the duration of the war and the sport had never really come back as far as he knew. He moved that spring to Canada to teach Chemistry in Montreal, and coached track and field on the side to earn a little extra money. The following summer, he found a coaching position at Ashland College where he stayed until a year ago when he retired. He cherished the fall and the spring on the Ashland campus. It was a beautiful region with their rolling hills and numerous trees and flower gardens. There was something poetic about the leaves falling off the trees, the disappearance of the greenery in the fall on the campus and the rebirth of the flowers and the trees forming their leaves again in the spring. There were times during these two seasons he would just walk the campus to feel the change that was occurring.

Wet cold weather was starting to penetrate his heavy brown coat. He had heard on the radio that there was a high probability of snow flurries. He turned and started to move toward the car, when he heard a cry in the distance.

“Sir!” There was a short pause from the voice he heard in the distance. John turned around and saw a short man moving quickly toward him.

“Please wait!” came another cry from the man.

“I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure what time I told you to be here.” The young man’s voice said in a softer voice.

“I’ve just come from practice.” The man said trying to grasp a breath between each word. John stood motionless. He could not understand what this young person wanted from him or what he could give that he would cherish. John could see that the face of the person he was speaking to have been brutally hit on more than one occasion. The boy’s nose had obviously been broken, possibly several times. There was a long scar just above his left eyebrow, and a longer scar on the boy’s right lower jaw. John thought fast about what kind of practice this young man was talking about. Perhaps, he had been playing ice hockey for one of the local schools around here. John remembered the Harvard prep school down the road about a mile. The school was still running at full blast. Money does that. John had seen this at Ashland.

The young boy just stood there in front of him. John was still trying to gain his composure. John looked at this boy. He was barely over five foot tall. His body was stocky. From the look of his thick muscled neck, John could assume the boy’s body was solid and had no fat. The thought entered his mind that this kid could be a varsity lineman for one of the prep school football teams in the area.

Still examining this youth, John suddenly became irritated. Why had he come over two hundred miles to this strange place, where he had not been for over four decades. Granted, his time was abundant since his retirement, but this was his time and especially his money he had spent on gas for the trip.

“I’ve got to go now! I’m getting cold! It’s starting to snow.” John spoke rudely directly leaning into the boy’s face.

“Hey! Wait! Please!” The boy pleaded. John could see the boy’s large brown eyes. They seemed to beg for him to stay. This did not change John’s mindset. He was tired from the journey in his old car and he could start to feel the cold wind penetrate his old wool coat. He would probably catch his death of cold and have to spend money on a doctor’s visit if he came down with one. On his limited income he didn’t need this or the aggravation that this young boy was giving him.

“I know you don’t know me!” The youth exclaimed while John turned and started to walk away from this meeting.

“You knew my father!” The boy exclaimed louder. John stopped, and wondered who his father could have been. He had been caught off guard. He was cold, tired, frustrated, and now hungry. He should have stopped at one of the fast food places along the road. It was too late now to do anything about his growling stomach.

John immediately took four steps forward. This placed him inches away and squarely in front of the stocky youth. John looked at the boy.

Both individuals were motionless and speechless. The boy looked directly into John’s face. John looked at this boy who had aroused his curiosity and wondered what connection he had with him.

Who in the hell could he be a descendant of? He had never coached football. This was the only connection this boy could have with him. John thought to himself while he silently examined the person in front of him. He had seen thousands of faces and bodies like this during his coaching career. Anyone could have been this boy’s father. The only players with scars were the lacrosse players he had coached here years ago. After the first month of play they seemed to be immersed in the game. The only purpose in their existence was to play this crazy torturous game. Not injury, the length of the game nor the intensity mattered to these young players.

John noticed the boy was slowly moving his right hand from the heavy coat he was wearing. John took a step back. A range of thoughts ran through his mind. Did the kid have a weapon? What was going to happen next?

John fixed his eyes on the boy’s right side while he took another step backwards. He had not expected these events.

The boy’s hand emerged from his pocket with his right palm open flat. John could see he held a colored necklace. Intrigued, he took a step forward. John could see the necklace better now. The necklace was woven with crudely shaped alternating black and red beads.

Instantly, he recognized and remembered the time, the place and whom he had given the crude Indian necklace to. He had personally made each necklace from some beads he had bought at an art shop in a nearby town. He had made these necklaces for his lacrosse team that had played on this field where he and this boy now stood. John had never seen such an odd ball group of boys wanting to play the game of lacrosse. All were seniors except one. They were so awkward, thin, and out of shape. The boy interrupted his thoughts.

“You gave this to my father years ago. He gave it to me last year just before he died. He asked me to give it to you.” The boy spoke boldly.

“He told me the story that you told the team. He said, you told the team at least once a week when I visited him at the nursing home. He wore the necklace all the time.” The boy stopped speaking.

John looked directly into the boy’s eyes. He could see his eyes begin to water. Doing this was important to this boy. John stood motionless in front him. He knew this was the boy’s duty to his father and had to be accomplished.

“He was the tenth man on your team. He told me, you only used him when you had no choice.” The boy stopped speaking again and bowed his head indicating he was ashamed that his father had been only a substitute player. Raising his head, the boy started to speak again. “He was built like me - short and stocky. But he was heavier than I am. You probably would called him a “fat boy” back then. I’m all muscle.” There was another pause from the boy standing in front of him. John could see the pride being re-established in the boy’s face and his whole posture change when he spoke his last sentence.

John stared in amazement at this youth. He was speechless.

“I’m like him. I play Baggataway. The other players I play with make fun of me, when I tell them the story you would tell the players and my father; of how the medicine man would take the young warriors down to the river to hold the ritual before the game of Baggataway with a neighboring tribe. This was one way a young man could prove himself as a man and a proud warrior of their tribe. I told them an Iroquois warrior would play Baggataway for days on end. The field of play could be over several acres of forest, not a field of a 110 yards by 60 yards. A ball was made of deerskin and a heavy stick made of a sturdy maple or oak limb with a narrow fork at the end of the stick. The cup was covered with strands of hardened deerskin to catch the ball. There was no formed cup to rest the ball like we use today. The warrior wore only his loincloth. He had no protective gear to protect his body from the blows of his opponents.” The boy paused breathing deeply, reliving the intense tension his mind and body possessed. John still stood in silence. He was astonished at the boy’s approach to the game. He had the same emotion as the boys he had once instructed.

“My father wanted me to give you this.” The boy said. Both of their eyes looked at the strand of beads.

“He told me that you told the tale of the medicine man taking the tribe’s team before each game. To tell you the truth, everyone, even my father thought you had lost your mind. But after the third time, nearly everyone realized this was not an American game. The French had taken the game from the American Indians and some forgotten missionary put the label of lacrosse on the game. This was a warrior’s game to establish dominance over another tribe. Baggattaway was a game for the chosen few who could endure and rise to the cause of the team and not of individual desires. This game taught pride in one’s actions on or off the playing field. Only the true leader could withstand and rise above whatever he faced in his world.” The boy stopped speaking and each looked into each other’s eyes. John finally remembered the change in the individuals on his team. They had changed mentally, physically and developed a fire of desire in their spirit to perform beyond their physical capabilities. Before him, he saw the same fire he had created in those youth’s years ago.

“He told me about the match that was held on this day some forty years ago. You took the team down to the creek the evening at dusk before the last game. Over there.” The boy paused, pointing with his clutched fist over to the right. In the far distance they could both see where the little creek still flowed. They first thought it a little crazy when you dressed up in only a piece of loin skin around your waist. You told them the story, but you had a green and black necklace that you threw on the creek’s rocks shattering the strand of beads with the bottom of your bare foot. You claimed this was a sign that the team would crush their foe in the coming match. The team understood later the match that they would play next was not just another match. This was a spiritual and personal issue for each player to deal with themselves and as a team as a whole. Win or Lose. This game would affect them the rest of their lives.

You and the Harvard prep team thought your team members were crazy when they saw the players with their painted faces. My father told me that the team got together and decided to decorate their faces and arms like Huron Indians going to war. They figured that this might give them a slight advantage in the first quarter.

Remember, they yelled and screamed like idiots. At least this is what my father told me.” A smile appeared on John’s face. He could see and hear his players that day.

“It worked. We out scored them two to one the first quarter. They came back and by the second quarter the score was tied. In the second half, each team developed a desire to win at any cost. Players started to get hurt. At first there were only bruises. As the game went on the intensity increased, several players lost teeth and blood began to appear on every player.

My father claims, it was his team’s stubbornness not to accept defeat at the hands of their opponent. Pride has its place, he would always tell me.

Just before the end of the fourth quarter. Jerome, our goalie, was hit on the right forearm. The break was clean and another person had to take his place. The only person left was my father. The “fat boy”.

The Harvard prep team had at least ten more people to give their players a break, but we had only my father to relieve his teammates.”

The game ended in a tie. 8 to 8.

At the end something strange happen. The players would not leave the field. Each team wanted a decisive victory. Suddenly, my father screamed a loud war cry followed by the words “Victory!” “Let’s play Baggataway.” The rest of his teammates followed his chant. The Harvard team started to yell. “Let’s Play!” You and the other coach talked and decided to let the teams play until there was a Victor.” The young boy was quiet. John looked at this individual standing in front of him. There were no words he could say. The boy had said everything. John could not tell how many minutes had passed before the boy spoke again. From the tone of his voice, John could tell the boy was nearly finished.

“I wish that I could say that my father won, but they lost. Only by a goal, and only five goals were scored. Three for the other team and two for my father’s team. They played for two more hours. More blood was spilled and more teeth were lost. My father’s team left their mark on each member of the opposite team. My father swore no injury was inflicted on purpose but only in combat to score, to protect or secure the ball.”

When I was young, I would sit after dinner on Sunday and listen to him tell of his exploits in the military and his life. I guess you are wondering why I am so young. I’m eighteen. I go to Harvard in the fall to study medicine. My father finally married after Korea. After he died I went through his personal effects. I never saw so many medals.

Funny, he hated war. Especially the killing. After he married my mother, he started a small business to keep himself busy I think, to teach me about the business world. He would comment later on how he wished that I did not have to go to war and experience the Hell of killing another person.

After he opened the business, I was amazed at how people respected him and I guess feared him. He learned that from you that season.

“This was the way to live life. One must give everything to what you do no matter what the task; one must over come the obstacles life puts in front of you. There must be Honor; Duty and one must go beyond what you think you can do. I’m the only one to care about my grades or about my future on my team. The other guys, they like to drink and party. I know if I am to meet the task I must approach everything like the game of Baggattaway.” The boy stopped speaking. Both men stood facing each other. John knew now the individual was not a boy but a man among men even at his young age.

The young man broke the silence again.

“I am sorry. I have kept you too long in this cold weather. Here is the necklace. He wanted you to have it,” the young man said, lifting his hand upward extending his open palm with the exposed Indian necklace toward John.

“I can’t take it.” John replied.

“Yes. You can.” The young man said.

“No. It’s yours and the necklace is in your blood and life. You must keep it. I’m old and I’ll die within a couple of years.” John said, motioning a refusal by pushing the young man’s palm closed.

“No.” The young man said sternly.

“Why?” asked John.

“Before he died my father told me that I would find seven more necklaces in his safe-deposit box. Most came from the Pacific in the war.

I expect that I will get the rest when they died. They all kept track of each other. My father was the goalie. They all looked up to him after the match that day. They figured that the “fat boy” would lose the game for them in the last quarter of regulation time. He didn’t. He became a leader then.

After he finished telling me the tale one-day of that day when he was in the nursing home, he told me how he lost the game. Three of them ganged up on him. Two of the opponents ran full force into him sandwiching his body between their two bodies making him unable to move while the third opponent tossed the ball toward the goal. Yet, he would make the final comment to me. “That’s life. You do the best that you can and a little more.”

A year ago I met the forward on his team. He told me why my father missed blocking the ball by inches.

“No. This is yours.” The young man said, emphatically giving the necklace to John.

“All I can say is “Thanks”. No words or trophy can replace this necklace.” John replied.

“I am the one to give you the thanks. You have given my father and me the experience of the Baggataway.

Without speaking both individuals turned around in opposite directions.

John quickly cranked his old Ford station wagon, turning on the heater. His body was cold but not his soul. He stayed there in the station wagon looking at the deserted playing field watching the snow gently fall.

Written by Franklin P. Smith