Saturday, July 28, 2007

The Kudzu Kweens

There's this little bar just south of town square and between the two bridges that is literally surrounded with kudzu during the growing season. If it weren't for triple strength Roundup and sheer determination by the owners not to disappear under the heap, the place would be a goner in one summer. There's an apartment upstairs that has been rented by various and sundry patrons over the years...those who sleep during the day and work at night while the crowd is gettin' rowdy.

Most afternoons, except for ladies day on Thursday, the place is an after work watering hole for all sorts of guys running the gamut from mattress maker and farmer to lawyer and vet. Most of 'em go home for supper with their wives at a halfway decent time. The single ones tend to hang around a bit longer, but they also head home way before curfew. When that crowd leaves, they are replaced by a younger bunch who have had their grub, gotten kids situated and need to get out and chill with wifey just to clear their heads. The owner is a biker, so there's lots of chrome and noise and charity runs. His co-owner spouse ....y'all wouldn't believe how she can sing! They had the karaoke set-up for years traveling from party to party for Bev to knock everybody's socks off and put on their dancing shoes. After they bought the kudzu bar, the weekends turned into singin' and dancing heaven.

Now, me and a few of my girlfriends had been long time customers at this fine establishment but with ladies day becoming a regular thing, we decided one day after a few beers that we would be Kweens of the Kudzu that creeps right up next to the building. We were regular as clockwork showing up for our meetings with big plans to establish a charter for our newly formed not-so-secret society. Our common bond is a love of good times, friends and being a redneck if the situation requires such. Oh, we can fit right in with the upper crust if THAT is absolutely necessary, but it ain't near as much fun as being a kween.

Weeks and months passed and the charter never got talked about, much less written. We celebrate birthdays and Thursdays and sometimes even Mondays. Think "I Love This Bar" by Toby Keith. Add a little AC/DC and Creed plus UT Vols football with a dash of Nascar and a sprinkle of Harley Davidson and you've got the general idea. We've changed jobs and men and names but by golly, we've always got each others' backs when crunch time comes.

Which brings me to the latest adventure of the kweens. Back in the day, there was a front bar separated by a half -wall with spindles to the ceiling from the back part with the tables and booths and such. People got to dancing on that main bar so much that the owners were afraid somebody would fall off into the kudzu or something, so they built a little dance floor up right behind that dividing wall surrounded by brass railings so folks could dance their little hearts out and be safe. Oh boy. The other night we were out there celebrating a kween birthday and as the beer flowed and us girls got rowdy, we decided to dance a little. Now, mind you, these guys back at the bar are just totally amused at the old gals having such fun and eggin' it on by supplying dollar beer. Yeah, that's right. We're cheap dates on Thursday. The rest of the time, y'all better come through with the nice stuff because southern ladies demand respect.

So, we're playing the jukebox and having a big old time when birthday girl decides to bust a move up on the little stage that used to have those spindles runnin' to the ceiling. I was about to enter the ladies room when I saw her strike a pose and do a dang backflip off of that stage OVER the half-wall ACROSS a table and two chairs and smack her dainty little noggin right on the concrete floor. I wasn't quite sure that I had seen what I just saw so I just stood there like in slow-mo waiting for her to reappear. Pretty soon she did, with the help of several gallant gentlemen. The bartender fetched ice in a big old baggie for her the back of her head.

Now, y'all might think that was the end of the party but not so. By this time we were laughing so hard tears were streamin'. Birthday girl was quite embarrassed for about five minutes but then she got over herself and laughed with us. We talked and laughed and danced some more and then we had to go home because tomorrow was a work day. Dang..I hate it when that happens!

Sometimes? It's good to be kween.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy

This young man stopped the ancient Ford long enough for me to snap his picture in the late afternoon shadows yesterday. It's not unusual for one to come across any number of folks doing the hard manual labor called farmwork here on Pecan Lane. It takes a village to raise a crop, you know?

There's a big old herd of cattle following the leader from shade to pond and back again during these hot summer days, swattin' flies with their tails, oblivious to the tags on their ears that identify them when market time rolls around. MoooOOOO! There's field corn on all sides of us and some GOOD lookin' cotton down the lane past the dairy barn to the right and left of the kudzu heap. That's where the climbing begins if you're hoofing it up from the main road to the house. Over on the right there's mimosa trees showing off their pink furry heads to the ones who slow down long enough to look. One of my favorite memories as a kid was sitting in a mimosa tree with buddies at my daycare, stripping off those tiny little leaves and wearing the blooms in my hair.

The horses? Well, heck...they're just spoiled dang rotten. Nobody ever rides 'em so they enjoy long days in the pasture and cold winter nights in the barn where they feast on sweet feed and hay and the trough NEVER freezes. It's good to be Trapper and Pride.

Growing up on this farm I thought it was the most isolated miserable place to be for a town-girl wannabe. No neighbors. Nobody to play with but bratty brothers and assorted wildlife. A funny thing happened when I moved to town though. I wanted to come back to the farm to raise my daughter with all the perks that I had known as a country kid. We're still here, and we won't be leaving until they send the sheriff to pitch us out.

Can I call y'all for bail money if that happens?

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina


We pulled into Myrtle Beach on a Saturday afternoon with the sky looking threatening. We had known we were getting closer to the destination as the number of beach, shrimp and adult toy shops climbed. (For some odd reason resort towns have an unusually high amount of “adult” shops.) I noticed that on the outskirts of town a fair amount of stores were boarded up with “out of business” signs on them. They did not appear to have storm damage so it must have been for lack of business.

We proceeded to idle in stop-dead traffic with movement at the lights every 5 minutes or so for the next full hour. We only were trying to go 6 miles. The beginning of our vacation did not look promising. But as it turns out it was the witching hour of 3:00 check-in on Saturday - and the traffic did not continue this way the entire week.

We pulled into our resort as the skies opened up. Our first hour of unpacking also had the children freaking out as the balcony started to flood and the lighting crashed around us. My hubby stated we were in the middle of a squall. So instead of dining out on seafood with great cocktails, it was Bud Light and hot dogs in the living room of the condo while thunder and lighting were our ambiance.

But then the clouds disappeared, the people came out to play on the wonderfully clear and clean beach, the music started at the tiki hut bar under our condo and down in Myrtle Beach proper (We were about 8 miles away), fireworks were going off.

It was wonderful!

The next day we wandered into Downtown Myrtle Beach, to discover it’s like any other resort beach town. People ambling mindlessly into traffic, cheap shops selling souvenir t-shirts, and overpriced food.

They also have an amazing amount of Putt Putt Golf attractions (known to the rest of the world as Mini Golf), but not your usual small tacky ones. These were masterpieces of design. 5 story tiki huts, giant skulls that blow smoke, jungles, volcanos, etc. Each one was on a grand scale. We did the Tiki Hut one, Mt. Atlanticus and the kids adored it. Hubby and I had our legs collapsing after the 4th level, but it was worth it.

What follows is a listing of the places we visited and my short review of each. I will state here that at all the shops/stores/restaurants we went to the people were lovely, kind and friendly in a very real way - not the fake "make the customer happy so they'll leave a big tip" way.

We ate at Sea Captain’s House in downtown, which had a lovely view and wonderful outdoor seating behind the sea grass where you could wait for your table. Average wait…… 2 hours. The service was quite nice though and the food was fairly good. The view was wonderful and on a nice day there was no irritation at the wait. They did have a full bar to keep you busy.

The next night we tried to go to The Hard Rock CafĂ© at Broadway on the Beach. What a mistake to go to that massive arena mall at night! Hard Rock actually had a 25 minute wait just to get to the door of the restaurant to get in line to eat. Tried again the next day at lunch time – walked right in – apparently most people wait for dinner to go out. The restaurant was busy, and food took a long time to get to us, but the wait staff were very friendly and professional and the kids loved being allowed to walk around all the other tables (they were encouraged to) looking at the goodies on the walls. Pricey though - $10 - 12 hamburgers, $3 sodas…..but the food was nicely prepared and tasty.

Also at Broadway on the Beach was Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville and the music was too good to resist so we wandered over there. After we waited in that line for 10 minutes to get to the door we were told that the wait was 3 - ½ hours! There was no way we could wait that long. I'm not sure if lunch is any easier to get a reservation for as we didn't make it back to try. We were later told by several people that while the atmosphere is great there, the food lacks quite a bit. Mind you, I didn't try it so I couldn't say, but that is what I heard. If so, I recommend a drink at the Smuggler’s Cove Bar, listen to the music, skip the restaurant and move on.

Joe’s Crab Shack – this is where we ended up when we couldn't wait for Margaritaville. Great service and only an hour wait to be seated – bonanza! Food was reasonably priced and also tasty. This is a chain restaurant, in fact there’s one by my house, but it was on the water and kid friendly. We actually went back one more time for lunch.

Spuds @ Merrell’s Inlet – Fantastic view of the inlet. Live singer on the outdoor seating balcony really added to the enjoyment. Food was quite nice and the outdoor seating was wonderful. Shortest wait time for dinner we had at the restaurants yet - it may have been a slow night, it seemed like it usually got very busy there.

Broadway on the Beach – This is an absolutely massive piece of real estate. It boasts at least 6 major restaurants (Hard Rock and Margaritaville included), an IMAX theater, tons of shopping, a Kiss Coffee House (that was hilarious to go into) a regular 16 choice movie theater and the Ripley’s Aquarium. There’s also a mini amusement park and a putt putt golf with a volcano that scares you to death every time it goes off. It continues across the street with many more stores and Planet Hollywood. We never went across the street so I can't really comment on that side. The side we were on though was wonderful – most restaurants on the water, little water taxis shooting around from side to side, fish to feed. Really nicely done.

We did go to the Aquarium, which we, the parents, were less than enthusiastic about since we've been several times to the same aquarium in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Turns out though that it was just different enough to not feel that we were just repeating ourselves in a different town. The kids, of course, loved it. I personally have enjoyed the Ripley's Aquarium over any other I've been to just for the friendly, hands on atmosphere.

Angelos Steak and Pasta - Wonderful little "old school" Italian restaurant. Dark and cozy. We loved it - ate there twice. Great service, warm little semi-private rooms intermixed with larger communal areas. The food was great, all you could eat salad and rolls included. There are two sides of the restaurant and one is definitely the older side with a bit more charm that the newer side, but the food stays the same. One night the wait was only 20 minutes and the next night, Friday, we thought we would stroll right in as many people already left town from their week stay, but it was 1-1/2 hours as it was packed with locals. That right there tells you it's good stuff. It is most assuredly on our visit again list.

One last note – we stayed at the Myrtle Beach Resort and do they cater to the families. From the beach to the water park for little kids to the Lazy River – they also have planned children activities throughout the day. They have little food bars and “stores” all over for quick bites and items you run out off. They have a little buffet restaurant with simple food if you don’t want to leave. One of our favorite places was the Tiki Bar with live music at night. This is actually a “family bar”. All ages allowed with security around being friendly and making sure no one gets out of control. There’s a volleyball court where all the kids tend to gather and have giant games with as many children as you can fit on the court. I was up in front of the band with my little girl and a ton of other smaller children as she was dancing away with the teenagers and adults. They also server burgers and hot dogs there. Papa John’s supplies each “restaurant” there with pizza every day.

My overall impression of Myrtle Beach: beautiful beaches, very friendly people, clean town (always important). The town itself is the usual ticky-tacky that is a beach town, but it is also extremely kid friendly. If you want to get off the beach there is definitely a full days enjoyment to be had elsewhere. We mainly stayed on the beach and therefore don't have as many activity reviews as other might have. We have in general been Gulf Shores people for our vacations, but we might have to do a little switching off in the future and include Myrtle Beach in "our" places to stay.

Looked for Celia but didn’t see her anywhere. ☺

Idgie

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

"Out of Office"

In case you worry as there are no new articles up this week, I'm out of the office for a week's vacation.

I'll be trolling the South looking for new spots to discuss and review for you!

Look for new goodies next week.

Idgie

Thursday, July 12, 2007

"Country Roots and Southern Branches"


From: Mr. Bee
http://canyouhearmenow.typepad.com


I was born on October of 1940; the third of what would be nine children, 5 girls and 4 boys. I was the oldest son, the first son. I was delivered by a country doctor and midwife at home. The house I was born in was a share—cropper’s shack. Dad worked for a wealthy farmer who owned a large farm in Portland, Kentucky, on what was known as Grassy Creek.

Some of my earliest and dimmest memories are of playing with the owner’s children around the farm. I was told that we moved to Newport, Kentucky when I was barely three years old. Is it possible to remember events that happened at that young age? Either it-is possible or I am remembering events that happened on occasions when we went to visit the farm after moving to Newport.

Dad worked at the Wright Plant up in Ohio at that time. It was during World War II and the Wright Plant was a defense plant, manufacturing gears and sprockets for planes, tanks and other weapons of war. The government did not draft him because he had too many children. I remember rationing and scrap drives for metals that were in short supply. Gasoline was rationed and tires were all but impossible to get, but what did that matter to someone who had no automobile?

We were poor but I didn’t know it. Everyone was in the same boat in the neighborhood we lived in so poor people didn’t stand out. Everyone’s life was difficult and we just did the best we could. There were free garden plots allocated to families with children. The garden plots were located in the east end of Newport, on land that was owned by the city and many years later become a landfill. There is a shopping mall, high school and a section of the 471 circle expressway there now.

We were fortunate enough to get a plot and everybody pitched in and helped. Nothing went to waste. What we couldn’t eat right away was put up in Mason jars and stored in the earthen floor basement of our two family house. My Aunt Fannie and Uncle Steve lived on the first floor, we lived on the second floor and some strange, old man lived in the attic by himself. He was like a hermit. Not sociable at all. Came and went without so much as a word. No one knew anything about him, not even his name.

Being the only boy for most of my life at home was not the best of circumstances. Of course, I was the only child who didn’t have to wear hand—me—downs, but I was expected to be the man of the family when Dad wasn’t around. That was a heavy responsibility at times. I protected my sisters. I had to learn to fight at an early age. I was small, skinny and had very large ears.

School was not one of my favorite things in life. I only tolerated it, knowing that my parents would have more trouble to contend with if I didn’t go everyday and at least get passing grades. It was best for my bottom and their peace of mind that I just squeaked by with D’s and E’s and some C’s.

Things were looking up! Dad got a job at the Newport Steel Rolling Mill after the War was over and they had closed the Wright Plant. He could walk to work everyday and the pay was good enough that we were soon able to afford a car, a 1937 Plymouth Coupe that had a rumble seat. It wasn’t big enough for all of our family, so needless to say, we didn’t take family excursions or vacations.

Back in the early 1950’s I spent some of my summer vacations with an Uncle who lived in Booneville, Kentucky; that’s in Owsley County. It was like going back into the past. There was no actual road leading to his house. We drove up what was a dry creek bed, very slowly, watching for places where rocks were jutting up higher than the rest of the surrounding rocks, fearing they would knock the muffler loose. It required one to take a zigzag path up the creek bed. Eventually, we left the creek bed, up a gradual rise of the right creek bank and onto what looked like an old wagon road. It was just two wheel ruts with a mound in the middle.

The house was a sight to see, sitting back in a notch cut out in the side of a mountain. The house was hardly more than a shanty constructed of loosely fitted, rough hewn, poplar boards. It had a small porch out front, and the whole thing was mounted on posts that elevated it approximately four feet off the ground. There was a barn and outhouse down a path to the left of the house. The roof was covered with sheets of metal; I think it was tin. It was rusty and reflected a red tint in the sun. There were only two rooms in the house, large rooms, one a huge kitchen, the other an even bigger bedroom. There was no kind of covering on the floor, just bare boards with large cracks between the boards. Keeping the floor clean was a simple matter of sweeping the top of the boards and letting the dirt fall between the cracks onto the ground below.

There was no electricity. Kerosene lanterns provided light. All meals were prepared on a wood-burning stove. A tank on the side held water that stayed hot as long as there was fire in the stove. Flypaper strips hung everywhere around the house. The doors, one at the front leading onto the porch and one in the back led out of the kitchen. Just outside the kitchen door was an empty, fifty-pound lard can. It was called the slop bucket. Into it went just about everything one could consider edible, even some things I didn’t consider edible. They even poured dirty dishwater into it after meals. Every evening, whoever was assigned slop bucket duty, (usually a team of two children) carried the can over to the pigpen and poured its contents into the feed trough. Never have I heard such sucking and slurping noises.

After sundown, we would sit on the porch and swap stories or just talk. We could not stay out on the porch too long. The lantern that provided light was a lure to all kinds of bugs. Hard shelled beetles, hundreds of various kinds of moths, katydids and every once in a while, a creature they called a “Grampus”. It was big and had a fearsome pair of mandibles, or as they called them, pinchers. I would later find out they were the adult form of a Dobson Fly. In the larval stage they were called “Hellgrammites” and were sought after for fish bait.

Life was primitive in the mountains, but was it ever enjoyable. I would save some money every year for that visit. For a dollar and twenty cents, I could buy a whole case of RC Cola and give everyone a rare treat. I bought my first sack of Bull Durham tobacco during one of those visits and learned to roll my own. I was also introduced to chawing baccer as they called it. Days Work, Brown’s Mule or the cheaper kind, Wild Duck twists. Some of it was sweet and tasted good for a minute or two until the ambure started to seep out the corners of your mouth. I would keep it in my mouth just long enough to become deathly ill and turn two or three shades of green around the gills.

Since there was no electricity, there was no refrigeration. Anything you wanted to keep from spoiling had better fit in the old milk can that was suspended on a rope and lowered down into the dug well which provided all the families drinking water. Only much later in life did I come to fully understand the need for a smoke—house.

If meat was going to be preserved, it had to be smoked or salted or canned. I used to think that smoking meat was just a way to make it taste better. Turns out, that wonderful smoky flavor was a bonus derived from the preservation process. Everyone had a root cellar of course, but it was only cool, not cold. Vegetables and berries and fruit could be kept for a length of time there. I gained a certain respect for the resourcefulness of rural Americans. They possessed a strength forged from hardship, nurtured by an awesome respect for God and maintained by close, family ties.

I can recall some hot, July days, when boys were boys. We explored the surrounding countryside, poking our curious noses into places they sometimes had no business being. Coming upon another man’s watermelon patch, and seeing several mature ones, just laying there, begging to be picked and eaten; we obliged, keeping a wary eye peeled for the owner and made our escape back to the house. My Uncle had his own coalmine, a small one, for his own personal use.

It was a low tunnel, not too deep into the mountain. I had occasion to go back in it, all the way to the coalface, where we used a pick to harvest a wheelbarrow full of coal for my Uncle. The floor of the mine was always covered with seep water. Its sulfur content made it smell like rotten eggs, but it was cold. We stashed our ill— gotten booty a ways back in the mine entrance, half submerged in one of the deeper pools of seep water. They lay in that water for the best part of a day, which transformed them into mouth-watering treats that we would consume under the cover of darkness. They were not as ripe as one would like, but we ate them with great gusto. Needless to say, we paid for our transgression the next day by frequent trips to the old outhouse.

Most of our days were filled with grapevine swinging, fishing, swimming, hunting and generally, just enjoying ourselves. There were times we had to work right along with the adults. Tobacco was the main money crop and it required a lot of long, hot hours of labor. I was described as a left—handed (expletive deleted) after I had broken the handles out of three tobacco, cutting knives. I was demoted to spearing the tobacco plants, after someone else cut them. The only work I found to be harder was putting up hay.

There was adventure enough to be found, enough to fill any young man’s idle hours. We held marksmanship contest with rifles, shotguns, pistols and bows and arrows. Competition ran the gambit, right down to throwing rocks and chucking horseweed spears at imaginary targets envisioned in our minds. Some things we found to do were downright dangerous; things like setting off quarter-sticks of dynamite for the forth of July and holding quick-draw competitions with hair-triggered pistols. I remember one instance when I nearly shot myself in the thigh as the front sight hung up in the holster and the hammer slipped from my thumb when it was in a half-cocked position.

One of our favorite activities was knocking bats from the air with long, cane fishing poles. We would remove the hook, leaving the lead sinker and a short length of line. Late in the evening, bats would fly around the barn, catching insects that were leaving the hayloft, where they had been hiding during the daylight hours. Twirling the sinker round and round from the tip of the cane fishing pole which we held high over our heads, the bats would detect the fast moving sinker, think it was insect prey and dive for it. If your timing was right and your aim perfect, you could slash at the bat with the whip—like action of the limber cane pole and knock a bat right out of the air.

Those were wonderful times and I have many precious memories stored away in my mind. Those adventurous days ended the summer I broke my arm acting like a squirrel. My cousin was chasing me and I ran for a Walnut tree across the creek that ran in front of the house and started climbing it. I was doing just great until I grabbed hold of a dead branch while 20 foot off the ground. The branch gave way under my weight and I went plummeting backwards out of the tree. I threw my arms behind me to break my fall. It broke my fall all right, but the impact with the ground caused a compound fracture of my left arm. The break was so clean; it was as if the bone had been sawn in two with a surgeons saw. The doctor in Jacksonville lacked the experience needed to set that kind of break; it required a specialist.

My parents had to miss work, drive down to Booneville, and get me to a bone specialist at home. They we slightly upset, to say the least. The result was eight weeks in a special cast and a moratorium on summer vacations in the mountains of Kentucky. You know what we old Hillbillies always say...

"Those were the days."

(reprint from October, 2005)

When Bubbas and hoes are extra welcome.


I don't usually just swipe an entire article and print it up at the Dew, but this Celia column was too priceless to pass on. It's from the Myrtle Beach Online news and you can go to the actual article at the link.

CELIA RIVENBARK
FROM THE BELLE TOWER


There are moments when you realize that, despite all the talk of blended populations and such, we Southerners are still different from the rest of the world. And not just because the people who work at Chick-fil-A always tell you to "have a blessed day." I'm not sure why we're different. Maybe it's because we live in perpetual fear of monster hurricanes and unsweet tea, both plenty scary in their own way.

If you don't believe me, consider this. Last week, I was visiting a new friend who moved here from the North. She lives in a lovely subdivision filled with dozens of folks who have moved from Long Island, which has a completely different approach to iced tea, by the way.

We were saying goodbye on her front porch when I spied a 4-foot-long snake slithering its way toward my Taurus (incidentally, the car recently named "statistically least likely to be stolen," which somehow leaves me feeling insulted). I screamed, and to her credit, my new Northern pal screamed, too.

"Snake!" she shrieked.

"Snake!" I shrieked.

"Get the hoe!" I shrieked.

"Huh?" she said.

Fortunately for us, at this moment, my pal's husband and a neighbor, also from the North, walked into the yard at just the right moment. The garage door was up, and I could see an array of Snake Killing Implements hanging neatly on the pegboard.

"Get a hoe!" I shouted to the men. "There's a snake!"

They looked perplexed.

"A hoe?" said the neighbor, who was wearing some kind of jumpsuit with what looked just like the Dharma Initiative logo from "Lost" on the pocket. Funny the stuff you notice when your adrenaline is pumping.

The neighbor and my friend's husband looked at me as if I had asked them to help me strangle a basket of kittens.

"Oh, he's not a threat," Dharma guy said. "Snakes actually protect us from other harmful pests."

I could've sworn I saw the snake pause to laugh at this, while sidling up to my wheel well.

"GET A HOE!" I repeated, thinking that at least my friend's hubby would take this seriously.

But he'd also become Johnny Environment, and the snake was just outright guffawing at this point.

And then it hit me. I needed a Bubba. My whole life, Southern men have come to my rescue, but this was not something that translated geographically. Where I'm from, if a woman hollers "Snake!" at least four Bubbas will magically appear, hoes in hand, and you're looking at snake puddin' in under 10 seconds.

The snake, hearing all this, slithered away to romp some more in his happy Bubba-free neighborhood.

"Fuhgeddaboutit," I heard him hiss.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contact CELIA RIVENBARK at celiariven@aol.com or go to www.celiarivenbark.com.

Monday, July 9, 2007

Kudzu Power


Back in the spring, I noticed this dogwood tree just dying to bloom all pretty and pink. Problem was, it was being choked out by a nearby kudzu heap. Any southerner knows that the evil vine will take dang OVER anything in its' path...including the road, if the highway department isn't on their toes. I was determined that this particular dogwood would bloom without evil Asian tendrils clinging. May found this tiny tree kudzu-less and all decked out with delicate blossoms.


Next thing I knew, it was summer again. There's monkey grass everywhere and weeds'n stuff. And Lawwwwwwwwwd at the kudzu! It's dripping from the trees every which way you look, especially up around the barn. Grapevine has near about taken over the riverbed...that and the andromeda strain of poison ivy that lines every path to the water. Duckweed on the ponds and sloughs. Bream slime everywhere. It's disgusting, y'all.

This year I heard the call of the cicada quite early....back in June. Mama told me I was hearing things but we know that fall can't be far behind when the ree-a-rees go to singing at sunset. That's what we're hoping for anyways.

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Wonderful Quote


"The South's got a lot wrong with it, but it's permanent press and it doesn't wash out."

Pat Conroy, author of Beach Music

Kudzu Vermicelli/Instant Noodles



Kudzu Vine Vermicelli

Go HERE to buy it!

If anyone tries it, be sure to give the Dew a review!