Gary, now a famous playwright/critic, who spends most of his days on a plane, as opposed to by a plate, always wants to hear about what Nana has cooked, created, invented, resurrected from her kitchen shelves.

Nana’s kind of magical that way.

And she has become something of folklore in my social circles, and many of my friends eagerly await for my Sunday dinner details. (I can think of one person who eagerly awaits for an invitation, patiently, week in and week out…I promise to make that happen, Maddy, I promise).

But, for those who have made the trek to the countryside of eastern Winston County, seemingly at the very line where the red clay becomes true dirt, well, those few can give honest testimony to the validity of her culinary talents.

Talents Gary had me bragging about in under fifteen minutes.

He was waiting in the airport for a return trip to NYC, and hadn’t had a “decent, damn meal in days.” Gary, though a southerner by birth, has since adopted the native tongue of the New Yorker.

“Tell me, tell me good, in long details, what she made today.”

So, I did.

And he told me I was a fool if I didn’t sit still long enough to right this all down. Which I then started to do. I do have an old church cookbook that has some of these recipes in them, already, but his point, fervent and directed at me specifically, made me think of how blessed I’ve been in the world of food.

I mean, I think I can honestly say I don’t come from sinners in the kitchen.

I come from saints.

No sooner had I started rattling off the menu: homemade potato salad (as in we grew the potatoes); pork barbecue ribs bathing in Nana’s secret sauce; yeast rolls, Moon biscuits and gravy, zipper peas (a favorite of mine!), freshly shelled butterbeans, apple pie…excuse me—

—my hand started to cramp from the weight of those delicious words—

Suffice it to say, Gary’s response was prophetic in its simplicity.

“Don’t ever think she didn’t love you. Mean people don’t cook like that.”

I’m inclined to agree, and since so much of my upbringing revolved around food (whose doesn’t, really?), and since so many of my blogs end up in some talk of the table, I thought what better way to honor the Nanas (and the U.L.s –don’t get me started on his coconut cake) of this world than by passing along a few of our secret family recipes, but nothing fancy, mind you…

I still want to be remembered at Christmas…

(Maybe you just don’t tell anybody I did this, OK?)

Ok.

Tigi’s Green Tomato Pickles

                1 gal. sliced green tomatoes

                8 medium onions, sliced

                3 green bell peppers, sliced

                3 c. vinegar

                5 c. sugar

                1 tsp. ground cloves

                2 Tbsp. mustard seed

                1 Tbsp. turmeric

Cover the first three ingredients with and ice and ½ salt. Soak 3 hours or overnight. Bring the remaining ingredients to a boil.  Add drained vegetables to this and cook until they turn color or comes to a good boil. Pack into sterilized jars and seal.

Cornbread Salad

                1 pan cornbread, cooked and crumbled

                2 lg. tomatoes, chopped

                1/3 c cooked bacon, crumbled

                2 boiled eggs, chopped

                1/3 c. sweet pickle juice

                1/3 c. sweet pickles, chopped

                1/3 c. onions, chopped

                ½ c. good quality mayonnaise like Blue Plate

                salt and pepper to taste

Crumble cornbread and add all other ingredients, then the mayonnaise. Mix well. Serve immediately, or for better taste, let it set overnight in the refrigerator.

Biscuit Pudding

                6 to 8 left over biscuits

                6 eggs

                1 tsp lemon (or vanilla) extract

                2 c. milk

Butter left over biscuits, place them in oven to crisp a bit. Mix remaining ingredients and pour over the biscuits, in a deep iron skillet. Bake at 350 until firm. You may want to add cinnamon to the top.

Chocolate Cobbler

                2 stick of butter

                1 ½ c. self-rising flour

                1 ½ c. sugar

                ¾ c. milk

                1 c. sugar

                6 Tbsp good cocoa

                ¾ c. hot water

                another ¾ c. milk, set aside

Melt the butter in a 9×13 pan. Mix flour, 1 ½ cups of sugar and ¾ cup of milk. Combine 1 cup of sugar and the cocoa; sprinkle over flour mixture. Combine hot water and the other ¾ cup of milk; pour over the sugar mixture. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.  After the cobbler cools, you might sprinkle a little powdered sugar and cocoa over the top. 

Trust me, there’s more than one cookbook’s worth of deliciousness in the collective heads of my family. Of course, when they find out I’m passing along the contents of their “secret cabinets,” I might be impeached.

In the meantime, try them out. Ask me for more. See what you think.

Personally, I’m shooting for the chocolate cobbler, for the first time, on my own, for a little party I’m attending this weekend. 

My goal? To get it to at least look like Nana’s.  

The taste part only comes with age.

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And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow.

It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it.

Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it.

When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. 

Somehow, maybe even overnight, fat entered my body and built a food court. I quickly grew bloated and stayed that way (I just saw the camp pictures to prove it). I swelled around my neck, and jaw, and most predominantly around my stomach. And trust me, if I could grow a beard down there, I would.

Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.

Although, that secret is out…everyone knows the benefits of facial hair. If only there were a way to market it to women that made the idea of facial hair feminine and comely, there’d be not one hairless face in this country.

This is on my mind of course because today my beard started itching again, and I know the only course of action will be to shave it. I’m sitting here trying to think of creative manscaping techniques that would both relieve me of the constant irritation the hair causes my face and yet, still retain the illusion that I’m not as fat as I think I am.

Like you, I think I’m far heavier than I know I am. It’s easier to think the worst than to recognize the truth. Always has been.

But, thinking won’t change a thing, won’t lose a pound. That, I’ll have to do the hard way, the old-fashioned-elbow-grease-pretend-you’re-really-doing-it-for-your-blood-pressure-which-has-contributed-to-the-early-onset-of-diabetes way.

I hate this way. But, there you go. There you have it.

I’m not sure I can shave my face into what I did last week. Last week I tried a soul patch which I thought was rather sexy, but good grief, it elicited many unexpected, sexual responses from people who saw me and my _______. (Sorry, I just can’t repeat what one person called it).

I guess everything’s not ‘’a cigar,” huh.  If we built this city on rock and roll, then we constructed the suburbs out of Grade A, pre-Fab innuendo. 

And as good as I think I look in a beard, it comes with some regrets.

For instance, most people think I don’t look good in a beard. That’s hard. Worse, my nephews don’t like to hug me now because the beard is scratchy; it’s very difficult to hold a toddler in your arms, to hug him, when he’s pulling with all his three-year-old might away from your face and your “cheek needles.” Oh and then there’s this:  The other day I was eating lunch, a sandwich with mayonnaise, mustard, the works, and was very absorbed in both my work and food.  A woman whom I didn’t know approached me and told me something else I also didn’t know: I had a glob of mayonnaise hanging on for dear life in my beard, below my chin.  Like a marshmallow.

Yet another Good Samaritan.

I wiped it away, thanked her, and immediately became embarrassed. Had she not said anything, I would have walked right into my meeting, unaware that I’d be wearing a small part of my Blue Plate Special.

It’d be different if I could wear fat well, like my mother.

Or, if, as I overheard in a conversation today, I had “a tan.” The exact comment was “something, something, no, no, I disagree. You can’t be fat unless you’re tan. Otherwise, it just won’t work.”

I often wonder why I’m obsessed with fat and body image, my previous eating disorders aside. And I think I’ve made myself believe it wasn’t about control as much as stability. Being thin, like I was as a child, was akin to being put into protective custody. (Well, that, and the fact that I’m too cheap to buy new clothes, so the ones I do wear remain a size too small).

But what about now that I’m an adult? What about now that I’m more or less stable, and for that matter, in control?  Because leading up to this mountain-top experience of being a responsible adult, I did a complete 180, and gained all that weight back and more. Gaining weight made those around me happy, but I was still miserable.

And fat. And un-tanned. 

Still am.

Except…I’m not miserable. Because I had an epiphany awhile back, about fat.

So, no, I’m not miserable. Just a healthy eater. And cook. And tennis player. And director. And writer. Friend. Confidante. Explorer. Bon Vivant. Lover. Reader. Jokester. Curmudgeon. Son. Uncle. Nephew. Diplomat. Arbiter. Actor. 

Person.

Human.

Which, just from the size of that partial list above, is hard to be—remembering all the things we are, all the people that we become on a daily basis. I mean, it’s easy to forget who all you are sometimes and get stuck on those parts we feel unable to change or change quickly enough, like weight.

But it’s so important to be reminded of a vital, crucial truth—body image, weight, those are only parts of the whole.

So, I’m fat. Ok, or overweight, whatever. In truth, all I have to do is step back and look at the bigger picture to see that being “fat” is really just a small part of it.

And to know that I don’t have to sit there and stare at that particular corner of the picture, all day.

Please, how could I?  For crying out loud, I’m a Cook-Writer-Jokester-Lover-Tennis Player, I’ve got work to do.

Don’t you?

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“What…did you…say?” I implored of him.

“Coffee,” he responded, and then with a nod of the head as if recognizing that he’d forgotten the magic word, added, “pease?”

It’s always precious when the little ones remember that fading concept known as “manners.” But, precious aside, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I went in search of his mother.

She wasn’t a bit thrown off by what I felt had been a rather strange request coming from a toddler.

Oh yes, she said, he loves it. Drink a cup a day, if I’d let him.

Surely you don’t, I said.

“Nah,” she replied, “I don’t have the time to make it in the morning.”

Oh, well, thank god for that.

“How did he even get started with coffee?” I continued.

“I have no idea,” she said.

My guess, though, if I had to give one, would involve a caffeine-addicted mother, a squalling baby, and a free pacifier.  We’ve all been the victim of pacifier-popping. In my family, it’s worse than pills. We were our own Valley of the Dolls, and, I mean, let’s be honest, we were also beautiful babies. I’m sure one afternoon, she found herself with a screaming kid and cup of joe, and before you know it, the pacifier is dipped in the cup and ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom, another barista is born.

“No idea. Huh,” I repeated.

I then went to the kitchen for an extra-large helping of Nana’s famous chocolate cobbler and waddled on back to the dining room, where, not more than five minutes later, my other nephew (step-nephew, actually), Isaac, a mature four-year-old if ever there was one, came and stood gracefully in the doorway connecting the dining room and the kitchen and announced that he would like to “make a pot of coffee.”

If only someone had had a camera to take a picture of my face at that moment.

His father said, “Isaac, now let’s wait a minute. We’re not all on dessert.”

Was that a slam to me? I eat fast, I’m sorry.

I looked at Isaac and said, “Do you even know how to spell your name, yet?”

“Yes, I do, and in cursive.” And with that, he slid into the shadow of the refrigerator. (It’s on account of where the refrigerator sits in relation to the door).

Am I missing something, here? Have children been drawn to the lure of coffee since time immemorial and I just didn’t know? I personally have never cared for it.

It’s not my kind of bitter.

Plus, it seems so unhealthy a habit, but then again, our first milk was hardly from our mothers. More likely, it came from the teat of Lipton. When we were weaned off our bottles, chances are they were full of sweet tea.

Besides, and you can trust me on this, it’s more than a little unsettling to have a four-year-old ask if you “want decaf or regular.”

Of course, only Marsha and I had anything really “anti-coffee” to say about this trend, whether it’s global or intra-family. Neither one of us drinks it.

Not so for the others in my immediate family. Several make a pot a day just for the smell of it; it signals morning. The rest of them would construct gated communities in their own cups of coffee—for crying out loud, it’s an ancient form of currency. That’s why I qualified it with the adjective “gated.”

Apparently, there is such a thing as a coffee connoisseur. And a coffee snob.

Amanda, for instance—more the connoisseur than the snob. But then you have people like Dodie who mainstreams her java tastes to whatever Starbucks says works for that week. Except during Christmas. She doesn’t care for their flavor-making experiments during the holidays.

I hadn’t realized the dominating pull of coffee for table conversation, though. People may not know what to do about the current Gulf Oil Crisis, or if they still like Obama, but god knows, they’ve got something to say about the quality of black gold.

And we got stuck on that for awhile, despite the fact that I’d been trying desperately to steer the point back to my original concern: children who drink coffee.  But that seemed such a minor issue to the rest of the family.

So what if they drink coffee. It keeps them quiet, I was told.

And oddly enough, it did. They didn’t get hyper; they didn’t burst into an all-consuming ball of energy and run themselves into butter like Samba. They sat, in the den, in individual recliners and watched Handy Manny. (Though, to be honest, Wynn did pitch a fit when he was given his coffee in his sippy cup; he refused to drink it unless it was put in a “real cup.” Consequently, he got one, with its own little saucer).

I was, I’ll admit, amazed that that was the result. I expected, barely two sips in, for them to become Satan’s little helpers, running and screaming, as they were wont to do, often enough, without coffee.

Which begged the real question: What on earth are they eating and drinking the rest of time that would allow coffee, of all things, to calm them down?

No one had an answer to that.

As a matter of fact the only person who said anything at all was Nana, who after a few thoughtful seconds, said, “So when did Isaac learn to make coffee?”

After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.

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• So, you know…I really like a potato log.

Well, I remember that and also this: I discovered fried green peas. They were at a small grocery store known as Jay’s, which was next to an auto plaza known as Carl’s, which was just down the road from the only restaurant for miles around, known as Hank’s.

Talk about a first-name basis.

I had to drive this last lingering distance to West Branch by myself. Pattye, whom I’d come on this trip with, was in the car ahead of me with our friend Scott, who was in Michigan directing his version of Rent, styling, modernizing it if you will.

(By the way, good job, Scott).

I’d only been to Michigan once before. I’d taken the train the last time; perhaps you’ve read my blog on that eventful trip.

I saw no dead animals, that time, though. I was rightly mesmerized that so many raccoons had come to Michigan to meet their deaths.  I tried very hard to turn them into badgers or wolverines, or a jaunty mix of both, but sadly, their markings were too obvious.

I’m not sure what I expected out of this second venture northward: pickled herring stands, brown patches of grassless lawns, perpetual Christmas. (I saw none of these, either, during my first foray to the Great Lakes State, and I must confess, I felt a little cheated. Then I remembered that Rose Nylund was from Minnesota, and forgave the whole state).

But, I was at least, on this trip, better prepared. Thanks to Al Gore’s Internet.

See, I did a little thing called research. (Which, I’ve discovered, is a lot like a drug—addictive).

Michigan is chock-full of things to see, and things to do. Did you know that among its many monikers, it is also called the Great Beer State? There’s also a large German influence in Michigan, most notably seen in the village of Frankenmuth, or as locals call it Little Bavaria. And though we didn’t get a chance to visit it, I hear Mackinac Island is well worth it. After all, Condé Nast Traveler called it “one of the top ten islands in the world.” I mean, that’s got to be a good thing, right?

In retrospect, though, I realized that Michigan is a state best seen by train. The reason? You don’t have to drive a train.

Plus, like every other state in the contiguous USA, a highway is a highway. By any other name, it becomes an interstate. Bottom line: boring.

Of course, I’m not one who appreciates driving like others.  (There are a few who do).

And like most every other state, the highways, the interstates aren’t built to take you to a place, as much as through it. Meaning? The charm of Michigan isn’t seen from I-75, or Highway 10. Though, unfortunately, its state motto doesn’t really encourage you to take the next exit ramp. I mean, what can you expect from a state whose motto boasts, “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”

I had looked all about me. And all I saw were dead raccoons, which I pretended were freaks of a badger-wolverine hybrid to keep myself interested enough not to run off the road.  (Badgers, I learned later, weren’t even associated with Michigan; they belong to Wisconsin).

It was all the same to me: the north—one large, cold state.

It wasn’t until I stopped, and got out of the car, that I learned my mistake.  That I remembered where, despite landmarks and sites of interest, the true charm of any place lies: in its people.

The people of Michigan are good, honest, people who a) don’t mince words, and b) don’t mix drinks. They also like a hearty pizza.

And they are resiliently, surprisingly, hospitable. I thought that was only in Mississippi; maybe it’s an “M state thing.” Though I wouldn’t bet on Montana.

After our brief stay in Lansing—only for the night of the performance—we were invited to stay with Scott at his mother’s (Anne) house, a quaint two-story, loft-style bungalow, near Lake Houghton, I believe, and it possessed all the magic that a cabin in the woods should: tall cathedral trees, bird feeders, quiet and serene back porch, and the following morning, a breakfast that could feed the neighborhood.  In a sense it did, his mother’s best friend, who told us her grandkids call her Granma Ribs, made short work of the front door welcome mat.

The evening before, they sat in front of the fireplace and enjoyed a few cocktails while regaling us with a barrage of amusing stories about their lives, their children, the strength of commercial lubricants, and gay marriage. Pattye and I at once saw the potential for a cable-style TV program: Ms. Anne and Granma Ribs. There would be a censorship disclaimer at the start of each episode. I think, before we went to bed, we’d gotten halfway through Season 2.

It was hardly twenty minutes into their dialogue before I felt what I always hope to, when traveling. I felt at home. When you’re on the road, for any length of time, that feeling is well worth the drive.

Earlier that night, we were taken to Hank’s, the local restaurant, vis-à-vis juke joint, where we met with our first round of colorful locals. What I will say about these Michiganders is the men smile and nod a lot and the women will kiss anything that moves. You will, no doubt, draw your own conclusions, but after the dust (of hairspray and makeup) has settled, and the John Deere caps removed, you end up sitting at a table with people you know. And oddly, people you like.

I don’t think they believe in strangers, in Michigan.

Which is a good thing.  It works for us down south. So, I guess what’s good for the goose, is good for the Michigander.

After a few rounds, a pizza the size of Pittsburgh, and what I’m pretty sure was an accidental lap dance from a woman named Shelia, we called it a night, and that’s when I saw the pièce de resistance: that huge, expansive Michigan sky.

I turned to Pattye and said, “They don’t make them like anymore.”

“No,” she replied, “They really don’t.”

I’ve seen a few clear skies in my day, but clear stars? That’s rare.

Just like Michigan.

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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 been wrestling with the stress of moving, jobs, waiting, impatience, final grades, and a brief interlude of “rest,” shall we call it, before I was to begin teaching for the summer. This period lasted for two weeks.

The plan was to get away, even if it was just a day or two. The plan was originally, to visit family. Family that lives in Hattiesburg. Hattiesburg which is close to the coast. So, being that close, well…you know what they say: When in Rome, might as well drive on out to Villaggio dei Pescatori.

Rome’s not quite on the beach, itself, you see.

Of course, Biloxi’s no Rome, or Villagio dei Pescatori, but let me tell you—a very easy, relaxing, fairly inexpensive, little getaway, it is.

And that was a pleasant surprise.

I was more than ready to drop everything, should someone approach me and miraculously know that I’d registered as a Volunteer because guilt goes a long way with me, but believe it or not, there was not a drop of oil in sight along the Mississippi coastline.

Nada. Zip. Zilch. Can you believe it?

Since Katrina, it appears that they’ve finally made an effort to clean up the coast; the oil spill however threatens to put a big, shiny kink in that plan. But, it hasn’t…yet.

The Mississippi Coast is untouched and bearing its rather empty beaches to the masses in all its native glory.

Granted, the Mississippi Sound carries that age-old fishy smell, but at least it’s a natural smell. They can hardly help where the Barrier Islands were put by Mother Nature.  And on the plus side, the beaches now have real sand, deep sand, up to your ankles easy, and it is as sugared as our neighbors over in Alabama.  (Another neat fact? We walked out nearly 300 feet into the Sound and it barely grazed our thighs. I found out later that we’re one of the only natural harbors in the world where the depth between shore and islands is never more than 20 feet deep.

…oh, and before I go any further, I would be remiss if I didn’t offer apologies to K.P.  But, don’t worry! We’re going back, avec you, I promise…!)

OK. Continuing…

One of my tiny dreams has always been to visit Ship Island, and since this spur of the moment trip wasn’t all that well-planned, Amanda and I literally drove into the Harbor parking lot with less than minutes to spare.  The foghorn was blasting (it was a terrifying sound, but not nearly as terrifying as the beer-drinking family that we had to squish in beside on the boat; almost four beers each, not even ten minutes into the ride; I nicknamed the mother, Cooter Brown).

My advice? Don’t be late to the boat.  

In my mind, I expected that there’d be no people on board. I thought they might be scared to visit, considering the oil spill. I shared a moment with Amanda where we thought that might still be the case. If not in the Sound, then definitely around Ship Island.

Again, I am happy to say, I was mistaken.

And though the boat was packed to the brim, the island had plenty of room to spare.  The shores were pristine; the water on the western side was gorgeous. I mean, shockingly beautiful: a clear, jade green. We got there early that morning, before the beach was awake and aware of intruders…but Ship Island, as you know, is a preserve, and its beauty, though small, is nonetheless breathtaking for all its untouched-ness.

The sun was scorching, however; they’re not kidding about that. And once on the island, you’re there until they come back and get you. There are no houses, condos, resorts on it. Just a snack stand, some showers, and pavilion with picnic tables and restrooms, and what feels like endless beach.  With real waves. That was always a disappointment in the Sound. The barrier islands keep waves out, but out on the barrier islands, it is a very different story.

And the wildlife.  I can’t tell you how many crabs we saw while beach-combing. And I’m not talking about your typical shore crab. I’m talking about crabs that are as big as a baby’s head. They eventually got tired of the sight of us and headed out to sea, with the fish, a few of which, about arm’s length, were not afraid of me.

I think the most amazing thing we witnessed were the dolphins. They literally jumped fully out of the water and chased the boat’s wake, there and back; the ride took about 50 minutes, each way. They were impossible to photograph, sadly.  

Our five hour sun-bathing, beach excursion was over before I could blink, though I did blink quite a bit both at the brightness of the sun on the sand, and the sunscreen dripping down my face. I’ve never known so hot a sun. Or sea water: I swear, it was as warm as a bath in most places.

Before we left though, history nut that I can be, I wanted to tour the much-smaller-in-real-life-than-in-the-brochure Fort Massachusetts. It took less than ten minutes, and offered two vital things: cooler spots to rest in, and fantastic views of the whole island. In the distance, you could just spot Gulfport and Biloxi, and the towers which are the economic livelihood of the Mississippi Gulf Coast: casinos.

I know I rarely harp on and on about these types of things, and I apologize if there’s a severe lack of anticipated wit in this particular entry, but, I’ve always been pro-Mississippi, if for no other reason than a man should take pride in where he comes from. I realize there are lots of things about our history that don’t put us in the best of light (we re-thought a tour of Beauvoir, but I still wouldn’t mind seeing inside it); still, there’s an awful lot that is and should be put up under the harshest fluorescents: the continuing saga that is a our gulf coast is one of them…and not just the usual destinations of Biloxi and Gulfport. On my return trip, we’ve been invited to stay in Bay St. Louis, which I hear is just shy of being an arts-colony, with slightly more private beaches, teeming with sea oats and shallow waters. 

I can hardly wait.

Especially if Fate changes course and the oil drifts our way. (It still seems a bit inevitable, doesn’t it?)

Where we stayed was under $100 a night; we weren’t there long enough to see holes eaten in our wallets, but it was a condo, and it was by the beach…though not on it. We could have easily bought fresh shrimp (they’re still allowed to fish in the Sound) and eaten at the condo, but instead, we shelled out money for two coast-only meals: a place called Shady’s (Thai-American fusion) and the Beau Rivage buffet, famous as is.

Altogether, we spent less on this beach trip than in previous years; we typically go to Gulfshores, Alabama, where the sand and sea are generally nicer, but the food isn’t.  However, with a boat ride to the Barrier Islands (Ship Island cost $24, round-trip), and a bevy of better restaurants…I’m hard pressed not to consider an in-house trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast an emerging better buy.

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Every year around this time, this humid, wet, hot time, I get the notion that, once again, who I really am has nothing to do with theatre, writing, or teaching. No, who I am, in fact, is a Farmer. I drag out the tools from the side of the house and cultivate the small patch of earth I have laid claim to, over by the magnolia.

I also track down a few unfortunate terra cotta pots that, for most of the year until spring rolls back around, lay dormant around the house, full of aged dirt and some off-shoot Christmas ornaments that I, at some point, thought would look good if decoratively situated and carefully placed inside them.

Everything gets wiped down, cleaned out, and reconfigured.

It is no surpise then that last week, I found myself standing in my front yard, doing my garden-thinking: What will you plant this year, Kris? I thought.

My answer? Squash, cucumber, peppers, dill (always dill), rosemary, oregano, but above all, mint.

I love me some mint.

Amanda and I, thus, found our way to Lowe’s…after we came up mint-empty at the Co-Op. I don’t want you thinking that I automatically go first to the big franchises for all my gardening needs. I go there second.

The Co-Op having disappointed us in the mint department, left us with only Lowe’s as a next-best choice. I suppose we could have fingered the pitiful flora at Wal-Mart, but why.

As we’d checked off our list, again mostly at the Co-Op, I began to have a few second doubts at Lowe’s. The tomato plants seemed a tad bigger here. So, we bought a couple of them.  And here, at Lowe’s, I also found Greek oregano, not originally on my list, so we added that as well. But, where on earth was the mint?

Finally, after digging through rows and rows of sage, thyme, mosquito plants, lamb’s ear (which I still can’t understand, as an herb) and stevia (which I think is manmade), Amanda located the one mint plant left in the entire store.

She cried, “Eureka!” (We really say things like Eureka!, Egads!, Heavens to Betsy!, Cease and desist!,  etc. as a means of self-entertaining) and from way back of the rolling piece of scaffold on which the herbs were placed, out came a mint plant.

I think.

It was beat-up, diseased-looking, and half-dead, but I’m pretty sure it was, indeed, a mint plant.

And here I’d thought you couldn’t kill mint.

Nevertheless, we took it up to the counter to be purchased because we really like mint; it goes well in juleps, you know.

But, then, as Andrew, the store clerk, began scanning our items, I had a change of heart. I just didn’t want us to pay for a plant that was, for all intents and purposes, stupid. I mean, all this thing had to do was sit in a biodegradable container and grow.

It seems that it was unable to do even this much.

I told Andrew, No thanks. We wanted good mint. And this was all they had, but I didn’t want it, anymore. Sorry.

Andrew cast about several suspicious glances a la the original Law and Order, and leaned in over the Miracle Gro Seed Starter Mulch with Miracle Gro. (Not a company known for its marketing skill, I guess).  He gestured that we should lean in as well.

So, we did.

“You really want some mint?” He whispered.

“Yes, we do,” I whispered back.

“All right, then forget this.” He pitched the life-support mint off to the side, where I noticed other untouchables had also been discarded. (This reminded me to start a compost pile).

“I live over at the apartments across from the Baptist church by the hospital? Apartment number 4. I’ve got the best mint around, I’m not lying, and you can have as much as you want, no strings attached. If the lady next door comes out, asking who you are, just tell her Andrew sent you.”

“Are you kidding.” I started to ask, but Amanda had already pulled out her iPhone to Google map his address. She wanted mint even more than I did.

Twenty minutes later, we had a plastic grocery sack, our trusty trowel, and were being led by GPS to Andrew’s mint-ridden front yard where, true to his word, there was enough mint to beat the band.

(We also say things like “to beat the band” though I have no idea what it means).

We got into stealth-mode, despite the fact that it was broad daylight and located in a part of the yard that made being inconspicuous impossible, and we dug up all the mint our hearts desired. We contemplated leaving Andrew a note, saying Thanks.

But, we didn’t.

We just committed the crime and drove back home.

Which is, in my book, how all crime should be committed.  Do the deed, then go home. And do something with what you stole. In this case, as Lowe’s says, ”Let’s build something together.”

After all that is their mission…and I’m pretty sure it’s Andrew who holds the hammer.

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I have never, believe me, ever been one to litter. I don’t like it. I find it tacky, low-class, and uneducated of people to throw trash along streets, highways, and front yards. I’m sure some of this has to do with the near religious obsession U.L. and I had with his own front yard, when I was growing up. The first beer can I ever saw was face-down in his bed of calla lilies, the ones that sat out near the end of the driveway.

People threw trash in the yard, all the time. It wears on you. It reeks, of refuse and disrespect.

So, I grew up hating the idea of natural beauty being marred by discarded McDonald’s bags and the occasional Budweiser can.

But, sometimes though the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, a strong wind can come along and blow it a few feet further down the orchard.

That has happened to me, recently, I’m afraid. And ever since, karma hasn’t left me alone.

Six days ago, to be exact, in some terrible lapse of personal judgment, I rolled down my window and threw my gum out of it. Just like that. Like I didn’t know any better.

Five days ago, as I was walking to my afternoon class, I stepped in a fat, fresh wad of pink-hued Bubble Yum. I am still regretting it, even though I reasoned, as you probably will, that it was no less than I deserved.

It’s gotten worse, though.

Chewing gum has now given way to my cell phone. Which I have come to hate with the burning passion of a thousand flaming suns…and not just for its proclivity for butt-dialing.

Further, I’m afraid it’s warranted.

You see, this past weekend I flat-out told my phone, to its interface, that I hated its guts. (And I do; we’ve had a torrid past as of late).

It rebelled by shutting off. Turning back on. Freezing up. Shutting off, again. Rebooting itself, and so forth.  I reached such a pinnacle of absolute disgust that I did the unthinkable: I went to the Verizon store and waited my turn.

Just me and my Blackberry Storm.

For over an hour. In the Verizon store, have I said that part?

This is the second thing I hate. Not just waiting, mind you, that’s bad enough, but waiting in the Verizon store, and let me tell you why. I have come to the conclusion that the majority of people who are Verizon customers are a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Myself included.

When my turn to speak finally came, I’d been standing behind the woman with a hundred children, thirty-two of which she brought inside with her, I believe the other sixty-eight were in the Chevy Caprice Classic with the illegally tinted windows (something a student of mine was ticketed for, I learned, earlier this semester).  Oh, how they enjoyed the store!  I can only assume she held the largest number of private shares of stock in Verizon as her children, her little loud kiddies, were given free run of the floor. They picked up every item from car chargers to silicone phone covers and hid them elsewhere in the store, pretending they were Easter eggs (what is this residual obsession with Easter, this year?), or my favorite, as every toddler is a turncoat-in-waiting, where one child decides, suddenly, that what every other child is holding is what he/she was supposed to hold.

Thus, tears are shed. Yanked. Pulled. Slapped. Dropped. Yelled. Hollered.

And, of course, most importantly. Ignored.

I was, I swear, an inch away from scolding them, myself. But I feared that, as in most families, maternal tolerance has a threshold that only runs blood deep. Should I have intervened, they would have formed a pack mentality, and attacked me. Even though I know she had to feel the same as I did. She would punish them, accordingly, though; not me.

I could respect that, but just barely. (I’ve been with my nephews before when they were out of control, and I’m not sure I would have stopped a stranger from jerking a knot in them, personally).

After she and her mighty clan exited, I stepped up to the counter and explained my problem. Below is a transcript of this exchange.

HIM: “So, what’s the problem?”

ME: “My phone. It won’t do what I tell it to.”

HIM: “Ah, issues with the Voice Activiation?”

ME: “What?”

HIM: “The Voice Activation, it’s not responding?”

ME: “Oh, no, no, I don’t even know about that. I don’t use that.”

HIM: “Oh. Ok.”

ME: “I just mean, the phone, the whole thing isn’t working. No Internet, no—“

HIM: “Whoa. No Internet? You can’t get the Internet on it?”

ME: “Uh, no, not anymore. It stopped—“

HIM: “When did it stop?”

ME: “Day before yesterday.”

HIM: “That is not good, that is not good, not with a Storm.”

ME: “Right. Well, I need…can you fix it?”

HIM: “Oh, I bet I can. Let me see.”

He then proceeded to take the entire phone apart. We waited for five minutes. Then, he put the entire phone back together. We waited again. He turned the phone on. We waited some more.

The phone then worked. I was elated…mostly because I’ve spent a good deal of money on this stupid phone and I expect it to do what it’s made to do.

But then, along came karma.

As he said, “ ‘Cause these here, these Storms, they’re top of the line, they’re good and they need to…shoot, hold on a second, please….”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his own personal Storm (no pun intended), held it up to his ear and said, “It’s not me, I didn’t mean to call you. It’s this phone. I don’t need anything. Talk to you later.”

“Sorry,” he said, “My phone keeps dialing my Mom.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, smiling, “I know just how you feel.”

The service was free, so I left after it was fixed thinking, It’s a real shame that they don’t sell gum here.

A real shame, indeed.

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Having played tennis most of my life, I am more than well aware that I have a good, nice, firm butt. Like, I could point my butt toward a bowl of walnuts and they’d crack immediately.  Out of pure-D respect.

I mean, facts are facts.

Now, I don’t often talk about my butt because a) it isn’t tasteful to do so, and b) I mean, look at it. I don’t really have to talk about it. It’s a little gift from Up Above (two, if you count my I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter legs) that I have somehow managed to take care of…where other things I let fall by the side.

That’s also a fact, I’m afraid.

The point is: I have, all in all, a magnificent butt.

And usually, I give it its due credit. When it behaves.

And I do what I can to take care of it; though I wish I could get out on the tennis courts more regularly, these days.  I frequent the gym (well, mostly just the tanning bed located at the gym); I’ve bought the specially designed Shape Up shoes that are meant to help aid and tone the buttocks area when doing mundane activities such as walking to the copier, grading papers, and racing your swivel chairs down the long, lonely hallway outside your office with a select few of your really cool colleagues.

Apparently, though, my butt had other ideas as to how it wished to spend its time: butt-dialing.

For starters, I have no qualms sharing with you the fact that I am not a fan of my own cell phone. As a matter of fact, next to Hitler, the pending Apocalypse, and people bad-mouthing the good honest work of Jamie Gertz on the ill-fated sitcom “Still Standing,” there is nothing I hate more than my Blackberry.

Had I only known at the time of purchase the sheer hatred I’d carry in my heart for that dreaded piece of smart plastic, I’d never have gotten it.  Had I further known the secret love affair my phone would have with my butt, I’d have taken the time to practice my once-perfect penmanship and reverted to that old art form known as letter writing.

However, I was already a Verizon contract-player, so I held out in the hopes that I was finally and successfully integrating myself into Modern Society by getting the next Big Thing in the world of cellular communication.

I have since 86’ed that notion.

I’m six months into my torrid relationship with the Qualcomm 3G CDMA model of the Blackberry Storm, and am more than ready for the clouds to clear. Of course, to ensure a proper storm passing, one must be ready to break the contract, and that costs a pretty penny.

At first, I took Blackberry aggravations in stride. Because the root of the problem seemed to be at hand: my hand. I hit everything but the right button and became accidentally more intimate with the Voice Activation Command than voice mail.

It was a real talent I had, there. I do everything backwards, I guess.

But, never did I expect that all along my beautiful butt was waiting for a chance to betray me.

I have, for as long as I can remember, never, never put items in my pockets. I couldn’t stand it. It felt so weighted to have coins, keys, the like, in my pockets.  So, why I ever started putting my phone in my pockets (front and back, mind you!) I simply cannot answer.  But, I did.

That’s when the trouble started.

I have to date butt-dialed twenty-two people. One person, my friend  Abigail, has been butt-dialed no less than six of those times. She’s the first name in my Address List. I can only imagine the strange, unintelligible messages she’s been left by my butt.

She did have the decency to call back, though, and leave a message for me, after the fourth butt-dial. “Kris, so good to hear from you, I hope everything’s OK, you’ve called a lot recently. Let me know.”

Bless her heart. (I hate you, Butt).

Back in the shameful days of my heavy drinking, I had a bad habit of “befriending” everyone at the bar. This led, of course, to many random exchanges of phone numbers. Some with real names assigned to them; others with, what I can only guess, were nicknames I’d given them at the time of the second or third round.

My butt knew this, and as payback, has also butt-dialed them. For kicks, I guess.  This has led to viciously punctuated text messages along the lines of WTF?!? Who is this?! and so on.

I’ve never been one to like a phone. I’m harder to track down with a cell than without. I just liked the convenience of a cell phone.  You know, in case I ever get lost backpacking through the Appalachians, my cell phone would have GPS; or, if I needed to immediately rifle through endless Facebook updates, then, Voila!, there’s my cell, ready and at the helm.

But for talking…I can do without that part, though, apparently, I don’t even have to worry about dialing should the need to talk to someone arise. My butt is more than happy to do it for me.

I don’t know how to prevent this, so instead, I keep my phone far, far away from me at all times, now. I let it ride in the passenger seat, seatbelt on, on my way to work.  I’ve put an extra chair in front of my desk, and there it sits all day, while I’m in my office. I don’t touch it unless I have to. 

Its ringer is on Vibrate because the other sounds scare me. I’m in search of a name to call this so I can at least have a viable diagnosis for this newfound phobia.

It’s not just butts you have to worry about these days, either. I have a chilling tale to share with you that involves another unbelievable betrayal.

Purse-dialing.

Several years back, I was driving a friend of mine and myself to a last-minute dinner, in town. We’d worked hard all day and were bent on rewarding ourselves with a tasty morsel or two in a local diner.

Two things had happened to her that week that she was eager to share with me: her cell phone purchase, and the introduction of a new man into her life.

She was ecstatic.

She was, however, still married.

We were barely a few miles down the road when a cat darted in front of my vehicle. We lurched forward in our seats, her purse fell from her lap, and the contents of it (and god were there contents of it) spilled all over the floorboard.

She picked them up, and continued talking—about the new man. In detail. Full. Graphic. Detail.

I did what I could to share her enthusiasm. I did what I could to not be judgmental. She was, after all, a grown woman.

Fate intervened, though. Because somehow in the course of dropping her purse and picking it up, the phone was dialed. The number? Her husband’s. Who then heard every word she had to say.

Now, that, my friends, is a confession. No?

Thank god I don’t have a purse because I’m having enough trouble with my butt.

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That is an absolute lie.

I have no record of good days versus bad days. I just try to get through them, either way. Like the rest of the herd.

I was reared by a bona fide cynic. I got it honest. Our world view was as follows: Bad day…well, at least, it’s only got 24 hours to live. A good day…well, same deal.  So, wipe the smile off your face and a) get back to work, or b) quit slouching in the pew and sing out.

Sounds drab and pitiful, doesn’t it.

But, of course, this is what Memory does to the average, plain moments of our pasts. What I call the day-fillers. You know, those parts that at the time we live through them we don’t really give much credo to them until one day, someone reminds us of a “moment” and all of a sudden, as we sift through those “moments” searching for a thread of recognition, we notice that we’ve rolled them all into this big, cerebral, massive chunk that we’ve labeled the “good old days?”

For some reason that changed this week for me. Because I noticed that each chunk, when broken back into its respective pieces was really the life I thought I was missing. Those weren’t just days filled with aimlessness and detritus of ennui and structure.

Those day-fillers, they were, and are, the real memories. The Full Life.

And guess what? That Life, those memories, both are completely at our mercy, at the feet of each and random whim that crosses our minds.

I’ll try to unpack that a little.

I used to have such angst or dread, and worry and stress, and fear and disregard for mornings, and evenings, and work, and…you know, that crappy substance that is day-filler, those aggravations, second helpings of cake, family photo albums, funerals, boring conversations and grocery store encounters, traffic jams, looming deadlines, burnt suppers, and egg hunts we all experience but seem to forget until some fine spring morning bursts onto the scene and we spend half the day rubbernecking about the “way it was.”

Last week, I found out that before it “was,” it’s the “way it is.”

(God, this kind of cheese is better suited for a piece of toast, but work with me…I’m new at this sort of self-discovery).

Because I swear it never really occurred to me that I was like the CEO of my Conscience, and in charge of my Memories.

What a simple, yet startling revelation.

All this time, I faced each day with headache and reality-wrestling because those days were inevitable. And how on earth do you fight what can’t be changed, right?

Well, here’s how: you remind yourself that each day has more than one hour, and each hour can be its own.

This past weekend, I hit a point where I fully became aware of the approaching upheaval I not only designed and created, but invited into my life. I have no idea what all is about to happen to me, in the next few months. I’m walking away from comfort, stability, and completely throwing myself into the spotlight of a final curtain call. (Aaaaaaaaaand, scene).

But, like any natural disaster, the following day when the sun comes back up and apologizes, there’s nothing to do but the doing, left. I’m leaving home, leaving Starkville (again), leaving, period. However, this time, I’m moving with purpose (that old theatrical adage), and I’m actually going to take time to stop when it feels too heavy, too overwhelming, and smell the roses.

Or, in my case, the wisteria. (Is this making any sense? My editor is gone this week…)

In my weekend clean-up of an, as of late, neglected house, I collected many items such as clothes, trinket-things, alarm clocks, candlesticks, etc. and instead of finding some other unnecessary place to put them, decided to donate them. (In this case, to the 50-some-odd victims of the terrible Crossgates fires, out on Highway 82). And unlike a typical donation, I gave away things I still wanted, still used, and you know what, it felt great.

I wasn’t expecting that.  But…

…doing good things really works.

And I can do a little good, everyday.

I can make “good” a part of the typical routine of conducting the “business” of myself. That’s a memory I can make for myself, and I can do it right-out, upfront, on any given day, regardless of the traitorous time-stealer than any job becomes.

Whether it’s donating things, smiling back, saying thank you, wishing someone well, sending positive thoughts, or, dragging the wicker chair off the front porch and putting it under the wisteria in the front yard and reading a book. (Thus, the above comment about wisteria).

Did you know: Until this past Sunday afternoon, I had no real idea how many people walked right by my house. Amanda and I are so often too tired to appreciate the yard, after working all day (even though we plant our own vegetables and herbs and flowers, each season). It’s as if we just reserve a little energy for that one long, backbreaking Saturday and plant everything at once…to be done with it.

That’s the problem, I’ve realized.

And I have a feeling that’s about to change. Now that I’ve figured out that time really is a gift, a privilege, not a task-master.  

I had no less than six people stop to say Hello, as I sat under my wisteria, facing the magnolia (our house really couldn’t be more Southern). They had such nice things to say about the yard, though it’s in progress, and some asked what all I’d be planting this year. One man even offered to finish raking for me; I’d started that process earlier that morning. (Of course, I realized his offer was only partly in my favor).  

They all, however, gave me a deeper sense of satisfaction about the amount of time I’d spent on the yard, even though I’d done that out of guilt and responsibility. But, the way their comments settled on my mind spilled a little downward, to my heart, and I didn’t feel burdensome, anymore.

I felt invigorated.

It wasn’t a chore; it was a choice.

And that’s my motto for this spring, with its cheesiness and all. There’s a lot I can’t change, but my goodness, there’s so very very much I can. So much so, that I had to ask myself: Why the hell haven’t I been?

My answer: I hadn’t read Epictetus yet.

So, whether it’s a shovel, a gift card, a pat on the back, whistling a tune, prayer, an email, words of encouragement, or continuing to read an irregularly written blog like this one, it’s not hard to do good, for others.

Being good…well that’s a different story.

Let’s just shoot for doing good, for now, shall we?

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Let me set the scene, for you: I’m teaching my Theatre Appreciation class, which is held each Monday and Wednesday morning in the small theatre studio, a few rooms down from my office. I’m in the middle of my lecture, standing in front of several large benches, set pieces for our upcoming production.  My back is both to the door and the darkened stage.

One of my students, who insists on being called Poonie May, suddenly emits a tiny screeching sound that catches my attention.

As if on cue, the entire class, with one gigantic move of their heads, turns to my left and craning their necks slightly, stares.

I felt that someone, or something, was behind me.

And there was.

I turned along with them to find that a tall man in a red Polo shirt, with a school logo embroidered on it, though sans Name Tag, is standing, almost directly so, behind me.

This man is from Maintenance.

HIM: “I’m sorry, are you teaching class?”

ME: “Um. Yes. Yes, I am.”

HIM: “Sorry, I didn’t know you were teaching class.”

ME: “That’s, OK. Can I help you?”

HIM: “You called.”

ME: “Excuse me?” (I didn’t know whom he was, at first)

HIM: “You called Maintenance, right?”

ME: “Oh, yes. I did, yes.”

HIM: “So, I’m here.”

ME: “I see that. Thank you for coming. But, I don’t actually need you until 3:00. I thought I said that in my message.”

HIM: “Yeah, 3:00.” (He flicks the edge of the paper in his hand) “That’s what it says here.”

ME: “Oookkk. Well, it’s 9:00, now, though. And I’m still teaching.”

HIM: “Yep. Oh, you want me to sit down, then?”

ME: “No, you don’t have—no. Actually. Could you come back at 3:00? That’d be better.”

HIM: “Well…what do you need?”

ME: “A truck. As I said in my message. I need a truck. And some help to move these benches to the other theatre.”

HIM: “A truck? What you need a truck for?”

ME: “To move these benches.”

HIM: “These benches, here? You gonna need help with that, or what, right?”

There is a pause, at this point in our conversation.

ME: “I—right. Well, yes, I’d like that. I can’t move them by myself, as you see, they’re a little heavy for just one, and, and I certainly need a truck because they won’t fit in my car. That’s, that’s why I called and made the request.”

HIM: “What kinda car you got.”

ME: “I…a Honda.”

HIM: “A car? Like, an Accord?”

ME: “A Honda Accord. Yes.”

HIM: “Yeah. Hm. You’ll need a truck. We’ll get you a truck, then.”

ME: “That’s most encouraging. I’m glad to hear it.”

HIM: “But now, I’m leaving today at 2:00.”

I have paused, yet again, at this point.

ME: “OK. Well, you can bring the truck earlier, then? Can you, that’d be fine.”

HIM: “Like now?”

ME: “I…I, maybe in an hour? I’ll be done in an hour.”

HIM: “Just. Here.”

And that’s how I got the keys to the truck.

I turned back to the class, who was fully entertained by this inopportune exchange of half-wit, and I tried, I did, and valiantly, to get us all back on track, and further into Chapter 15, a.k.a. the “chapter from which no bad student returns.” We were discussing, among other heady things, the architectural distinctions between Greek and Roman theatres, both thematically as well as structurally.

But, I couldn’t. I just, couldn’t focus, anymore. I couldn’t even glance at the open textbook, which I’d held in my hands throughout my alleged conversation. So, I dismissed the class.

I don’t know how this happened, this abrupt loss of interest, but by the time I found my way out of this dotty dialogue with a man, a character, so richly and originally drawn that he could not be accurately recreated by any playwright south of Shakespeare or northwest of Moliere, I was frankly, exhausted. I felt defeated, somehow.

I sat down on one of the benches and said to myself, You’ve got only a few months, left, Kris, and then, then NYC.

And though that usually perks me right back up, (at least, it has lately) and though, under normal circumstances, that thought alone would fuel me with such excitement that I could teach all of Chapter 15 in one breath and a hand tied behind my back, it made me a little sad, instead. (And nervous, considering what had been behind my back already).

As aggravated as I get in this job, as frustrated as I am each evening when I drive all the blame way back home, I’ve gotten used to this crazy box of crayons. I like the colorful people I work with, and sometimes, against. They’re hardly more than average, as far as crayons go, mostly your run-of-the-mill Reds and Browns; nothing more exotic than a Burnt Orange…or if you’re lucky, a stray Forest Green.

You know the colors that only get used when they’re all you have left. Or, it’s Halloween in your second grade art class.

Still, it’ll be sad to have to “buy” a new box.

I mean, I’ll do it. I’ve got the change in my pocket, as we speak, don’t you worry about that. I carry that change around all the time.

But, it’ll be different, for sure, an adjustment to make…because God knows, the Big Apple is a brand new box (the kind with the pencil sharpener built-in on the side) of weird, strange colors waiting for me like Electric Lime and Jazzberry Jam, Outer Space and Mauvelous.

All of which are actual Crayola crayon names. Check it out for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

It worries me; I haven’t the faintest idea of how one would even go about using a color known as Outer Space.

Although, on days like this, I have to admit: Outer Space sounds pretty Mauvelous.

And I hope it is, because in my book, New York City and outer space are pretty much the same thing.

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