SOUND AND FURY

We read. A lot, all of us---we’re constantly immersed in other places and other times and outlandish events and sweeping feats and heroism and silliness. Our bookshelves overflow---I look at the months' accumulation of paperbacks lying sidesaddle atop the neat, upstanding rows and immediately start stripping down the numbers---somehow my avarice for the page is eclipsed by the sheer mass of them. I can’t understand how that tipping of the scale from can’t-get-enough to need-the-clearing-of-spaces-no-matter-what comes to be. One day, we’re just all comfy and surrounded by all our dear things; the next, looking at the skewed and piled and over-running shelves brings on the urge to cull and remove.

The new-boughts go to the swap-it store, the others to Goodwill---only paperbacks, only read ones. I cannot bear to part with any of my beautiful picture books of gardens and kitchens and other folks’ houses in places I’ll never see, of dimensions and décor that I’ll never achieve. But they’re interesting and fun and restful, somehow, for an hour in the arbor with iced tea, or a sunny morning in the little upstairs alcove with its plants and windows and welcoming cuddle of soft chairs. Great towers of them huddle beneath the pillowed bench, a neat stack serves as resting place for a teacup and lamp, and they are as much furniture as words.

There are books that I return to, time after time---Austen and Christie and Doyle and Burke and the childhood favorites. I still have shelves of Stephen King, but haven't opened one in years---there's enough going on in life; there's no need to seek out an intentional "BOO!" to flutter our days.

For years I read Gone with the Wind every other Summer, and Dickens was saved for a Winter read; all that roast goose and chilblains and those high-necked coats with cravats big as life-vests---those NEED a nip in the air to be real.

And I always saved Faulkner’s books for Summertime---it set the stage somehow, calling for heat and the dust rising in little tornado-spirals over the cottonfields. To get the true flavor of his words, you need to sweat some, sleeving off your upper lip with a scrape against your arm before you turn the page. Way before I was of age to delve into the grim happenings of Yoknapatawpha, I would disappear into the backyard, up a tree, or hide out in my favorite spot inside our boxwoods, soaking in the dust and depravations, drinking in the sin.

I never met Mr. William, but I do remember visiting Mr. John, who was unpacking a bunch of his paintings, which had just come back from a show in Paris. They were all nailed into neat boxes made of pale lumber, and the smell of pine as he and my friend pulled out the nails and removed the screws equated to the turpentine that we used as a paint thinner. Somehow in my young mind, I expected the paintings to be dripping still, and perhaps smearable, as the men removed their resiny armor and set them against walls around the room.

And even then, I found the pictures to be rather kindergartenish, much like the fingerpaint stuff turned out by a Vacation Bible School class, with primitive round exaggerations of scarf-covered Mammyheads amongst the brilliant greens and white dobs of the cottonfields. I found them tacky and trite, even at that young age, and wished a better depiction of where I had always lived.

I stood a long time, however, before the one I remember as all black, though it couldn't have been. I finally sat down before it on the hardwood floor, and just became immersed in the representation of an older black man, lying in bed---presumably dead or dying, as his angelself rode a mule up a golden-lighted incline toward a glowing cross on a hill. You could almost hear the swells of Sweet Chariot.

But I haven't read Faulkner in years, though some days during the rush and scramble of everyone in and out and meals to cook and the garden beginning its whimpers for attention and watering and its fix of Miracle Gro, I get the distinct feeling that great manic puppeteers have been assigned to pull the strings to control our days, to yank us along in a Howdy-Doody quick-step, tripping us over air.

And I think mine's Benjy Compson.

R. I. P. POPEYE

Our little Grand who stays with us a lot will be two in a few days, and her Mama has been wanting to retire her pacifier from use. And for some time now, Our Girl has been calling it “Popeye.”

We’ve gone through quite a few in her two years---pink ones and Purdue ones and those emblazoned with the blue “COLTS” shoe; a Santa one and a diamond ring one, and even one with her own pair of Bubba Teeth showing---quite fitting, as her parents are sporting a set in one of their formal wedding photos.

As am I, sorry to say---I just lost all reason. I’d been working on the reception food for 200 for days, had had the kitchen co-opted by the tile crew the week before, THEN I painted the kitchen while all the appliances were out of it (more convenient?---what was I THINKING?). Plus we had houseguests for that week, and I was just plumb slap-dab wore out when I got into that dress and those pantyhose.

They made a lot of pictures beforehand, and I was just sagging, with all the supervising of the kitchen left to do. So, when they called me up for pictures, they stood one on each side of me, DS whipped a pair of the teeth out of his pocket and handed them to me, I popped them in, and for all eternity, we smiled into the lens. I can only plead the insanity of being plumb tuckered out and perhaps had just slap lost my mind.

(My Sis took pictures home with her, and passed them around to her friends as the Bride, the Groom, and their Mother).

Today as BabyGirl went down for her one o’clock nap, I could hear her talking to herself and it, and then a bit of consternation as she lost it. I have rescued countless Popeyes from beneath beds, carseats, and various furniture. I’ve rambled in purses and bags and stroller-seats and the floors of cars, touching who-knows-what detritus and crumbs for the sake of that Popeye (Passy) (Nonny) (Foi-foi). So I went up, retrieved it from beneath the bed, handed it over, and she sagged into sleep.

As she came downstairs from her nap, we set out the potty seat atop the toilet and she took her perch. A moment later, waving the Popeye was her undoing. PLOP! It went, right down the chute into the water. We looked big-eyed at each other, and bemoaned the tragedy. We got her dressed, looked mournfully at Popeye one last time, then I lured her out to watch “Ernie” for a moment while I donned a rubber glove and wadded Popeye to his final resting place into a paper towel, thence into the kitchen garbage.

We went back, peered down into the paper-filled water (anybody ever get a little one to sit there a minute without five handfuls of paper going into the bowl?), flushed, and lamented the passing of an old friend.

Smart salute (woebegone “bye-bye” and forlorn wave) as we flushed Popeye away, with the wavery soprano (me) notes of “Taps” in the background. (Actually, I sport a pretty formidable baritone---weird, huh?---but soprano seemed more apt. And wavery because it’s hard to hit the high notes in such a moment).

We did everything but fold a flag, but after many a farewell and a last wave, we came bravely out to rejoin “Ernie” for a little bit of comfort. She and her Ganner are out blowing bubbles now, and I suppose that’s apropos, as well, that symbol of lifting in flight and winking out from human view.

And so Popeye is gone forever. Seems fitting somehow---Burial at Sea.

TWO HUNDRED

Two hundred posts---this Sunday will be eight months---since I took the leap into throw-it-out-there blogging, sending my thoughts and words out to who-knows-where, and November now seems eons gone, and yesterday-fresh.

These words and stories have been received by nothing but kindness; each day brings a pageful of bright flags from nations unvisited save through sending out little snippets of the everyday moments which make up our days. And never have the words been greeted with aught save kinship and welcome. The “followers” are few, and I look on those faces every day with gratitude and respect and welcome of my own, thinking of their taking out a moment to look in, to peek into the windows of our lives here, to walk across the mat and settle into the sitting room or lawn chair for tea and a friendly chat.

And I thank them. I say a heart-deep Thank You to each and every one who has stepped into these pages, for a tiny glimpse, for a fleeting moment, for a settle-in with a Saturday-to-spare immersion. That’s a wonderful thing, a compliment whose import I cannot express, wordy though I am.

The boxes and reams and overflowing closet of midnight words and daily tellings have always been written for ME, somehow, with only family and a friend or two privy to the tales; and now, with this newfound medium, there’s a bringing-out of old thoughts and memories, a dipping-back into the well of the old writings, as well. There's also an unaccustomed wideness to it, a vast unknown to the sharing that is gratifying in a deep way, and scary as all get out, as well.

I just cannot tell you how much the interest and the comments and the mere stopping-by mean to me, for it’s akin to being visited every day by friends, old and new. And that’s a wonderfully happy thing, the bright moments of meeting new folks and re-kindling old friendships.

Your welcome and your words, your interest and your loyal following---I cannot imagine a greater compliment, a greater gift. And for the Two Hundredth Time: Thank you. Thank You from my heart.

LAGNIAPPE

I'll be out today from very early until about noon, and wanted to get this up and ready in the night, because I've been given a lovely compliment, in that another blogger asked if she could write a bit about LAWN TEA, and link it, so her readers could look in. It was such an unexpected and kind thing to do, and I'm honored to be mentioned on a site that I enjoy so much.

There was a Broadway song back in the Fifties that went, “We be-long to a Mu-tu-a-a-l Ad-mir-a-tion So-ci-e-ty . . .” And I though of it immediately yesterday when an e-mail from my friend Janie at Southern Lagniappe arrived.

I’ve long had deep admiration for this fellow Mississippian whose bright, far-reaching photos of “Back Home” kindle nostalgia and longing and sheer delight in her work, the slideshows accompanied by just the perfect music. It's easy to just sit here and listen, looking my eyes full of scenery and flowers and children and historic sites. Her blog is a wonderful glimpse of another place, of many times, and I can walk right into the pictures of places remembered, places only familiar, places I’ve really never seen but that feel like home.

She looks in here, as well, quite often, and her comments are so sweet and gratifying, as she calls my posts “painting pictures with words.” And then yesterday, I received an-e-mail which was so very unexpected and flattering; she’s featuring this blog on her post today, and linking it for her own followers to look in on.

And this IS a bit of lagniappe, this out-of-the-blue proffering of such generosity and honor, which causes a smile and a glow of happiness in the receiving and in the having.

Rachel, here is a draft of my post about you and your blog. I wanted you to see it before I publish it, in case you'd like to correct or change anything. I found it hard to express how much I enjoy your writing, but wanted to share it with people who haven't discovered you yet. Let me know if you'd like me to change anything before I publish it. I also took the liberty of editing your header photo, and hope that's okay.

Thanks,
Janie

That’s just the loveliest thing, like recommending a book she liked, and as not many people actually “follow” here, I appreciate her wish to share my words and stories of the South. So I thank her from my heart, and add a link to her own blog, which will just blow you away with its intricate simplicity and beauty and such a gifted eye---anyone can focus and click, but Janie truly SEES through her lens and translates it to page as effortlessly as breathing. I told her that seeing the “new post” sign click on is WAY better’n the “HOT NOW” light at Krispy Kreme.

And it’s just that addictive.

http://southernlagniappe.blogspot.com/

ASIAN STAR SALAD

Lots of things going on today---filling in with a good recipe for a Summer Day is always a good thing. This has a lot of textures and flavors, and is perfect for a patio get-together or a poolside buffet.

Asian Star Salad

½ lb.linguine or spaghetti, broken in half, cooked, rinsed, and cooled
1/2 head sliced Napa cabbage
1/2 head purple cabbage, halved and sliced very thin
1 heart of Romaine, leaves sliced across
8 oz. baby spinach
1 each red, yellow, orange bell pepper, julienne
Wash, drain and pat dry ½ lb. bean sprouts
3 to 6 sliced scallions, white and green
English cucumber, matchstick or long thin strands
½ lb. snow peas, strung, blanched 30 seconds, shocked, sliced long-ways into 3
Handful of cilantro, chopped, stems and all

Toasted sunflower seeds or toasted sesame seeds or a cup of cashew halves (I buy the "broken" ones, cause the whole ones are a bit of a mouthful with salad), toasted gently in a dry skillet---set aside til serving

DRESSING:

Zest and juice one lime
¼ cup peanut oil
3 T dark sesame oil
¼ cup soy sauce
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 T grated fresh ginger
2 cloves chopped, smushed garlic
1 jalapeno, minced, no veins or seeds, or 2 red chiles, sliced thin
Cilantro---handful, chopped

Shake dressing in a jar. Toss salad in large bowl, except for seeds or cashews. Add dressing and toss thoroughly. Serve on wide platter, with seeds or nuts scattered atop. Garnish of onion brushes, snow peas, carrot flowers, if you're inclined to that sort of thing. If you like, scatter a couple of handfuls of Chow Mein noodles on top---the vermicelli size are crisp and wonderful.

Or keep it in a BIG Tupperware, to have all to yourself, for DAYS. It's one of those things in the fridge, like chocolate pie, that will call out to you at odd times, like three a.m.

This recipe is not inherently Southern, but it's one of those that the under-the-hairdryer and Bridge Club circuit would pounce on, make once, and claim for their own, and would not be above casting a judgemental, comparing eye upon an almost-twin platter set down on Church Supper night. "Now the way I make MYE Asian Star Salad . . . "

moire non,