What happens when you’re late to the boat.
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Most of the time, I have the best of intentions. A week into the oil devastation that now ravages our gulf coast, and I’d already registered my name with the Audubon Society as an eager volunteer, ready to give up his summer for the clean-up cause. That oil devastation, as you may know, is now going on Day 34, I believe. Or over a month, whichever sounds worse. This past weekend, though, I found myself in Biloxi, smack dab in the middle of Mississippi’s manmade coastline…and I didn’t clean up a thing. I didn’t have to. Now, it wasn’t entirely a planned trip. We’d...
Why I don’t like a blue cooler, Or, The dangers of making mud pies.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, food, health, life
I met my first pedophile when I was eight years old. In Clinton, Mississippi. I didn't know what he was, at the time, nor did any in my small group of friends, except Lori, but that comes later. I do however distinctly remember what he did. It's rather scarred into my memory, as you might imagine. Oh, now, he didn't touch us or anything. We were separated by a chain link fence. And, I hadn't even really thought about it since, until yesterday and I don't know what it was but something crossed my mind and Wham!: there he was, sitting in the...
I drank it as if it were holier than Coke.
Hold on, now. Don't think I'm crazy, entirely, but I have on three separate occasions dreamed things that have then occurred. In actual life. The first involved a childhood pet, Scruff, who had gone to live with my grandparents at Fish Camp, a family compound surrounded my cabins, ponds, a basic swimming pool, and a torturously long vegetable garden, where we gathered each summer for a fish fry and the annual task of grading blueberries and other such fruit; several on my father's side were in the fruit farm industry; after an afternoon of grading blueberries, there is no child on...
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