Driving through Wilmington yesterday and wound up in a less than reputable neighborhood. My subconscious pushed down heavily on the foot poised above the accelerator. Cilla pointed out the yellow sign that read, "Caution: Deaf Child."
"How mean that little brat gotta be they put up a sign like that?"
She hit me. Weren't no sign for that.
Shouting for "Free Bird"
If you have not sat in a bar in front of a live band in the South (with a capital "S") and shouted out "Free Bird" when they called out for requests, then...
Well...
What are you waiting for?
Margartita's Before 11am
We were walking through the beach town/tourist trap that is Rehoboth Beach today. It is only an hour away from our home and sports a board walk like I have only ever seen on TV and the dirty sand the brown water that I remember from the South Georgia and north Florida coasts. We walked by a restaurant and an older woman came out as we studied their posted menu.
"Yes, yes we are open. Don't look at the sign. Our sign, our pretty 'letric sign is already finito." she said with an accent that was not of the Northeast or the Southern drawl that I sported. "But our cook - our cook is authentic," and my mind wandered to thoughts of a fake cook and Jerry Lewis in the lead role only to be eclipsed by Lucille Ball - Lucy as a fake cook with Ethel tasting the horrors coming off the stove. "Our cook is from XXXXX, Mexico and all of our food is homemade," here at the restaurant my mind filled in as it made my lips smile at the older woman. "We don't buy our salsa, we don't buy our tortillas," you damn thieves my mind snorted through laughter which made me smile all the broader at the old woman. "You'll love our food. It is real. It is Mexican food. Wonderful."
And it was. And my mind relaxed under the influence of tequila and Cointreau and salt and lime. And I smiled at Cilla as the alcohol - just the right amount of alcohol - made me smile at the fortune that put her across from me at a little table at a beach in Delaware eating authentic cuisine from a cook from XXXXX, Mexico.
Pick Your Moments
Went to the beach this morning. I am still a FAT guy with all caps. But I am down 15 pounds since we came back from vacation. And a beach means sun. And dark fat is better than pale fat. Everybody knows that.
Today at the beach they were having the Mid-Atlantic Life Guards Competition.
Not a lotta fat on those no-shirt-wearing-abs-like-molten-rock-frozen-in-place ^%*&^%*&^%*&^%.
Shoulda found a nice museum. Never heard of a Mid-Atlantic Curator's Competition.
Mom is an Artist
Some of you who remember the bulletin boards she used to make for various elementary school teachers before she went back to school and became a teacher herself, know what an artist my mom was. But it is better than that. She took an art class in college and even she, her harshest critic, had to admit (and later waffle on the fact) that she had real talent. She used to find these old dead trees. Dead trees that most people ignore. But dead trees that had shadows dancing so slowly around them. The shadows moved like molasses on a cold morning as the sun effortlessly, all but unnoticeably, shuffled across the horizon. That slow, almost unnoticed shuffle? My mom captured that in drawings on white paper with black pencil.
I can't pass a dead tree on the highway now without seeing the dance and hearing the medley of sunlight and darkness and commenting on it. I am lucky that Cilla shares an eye for this tiny bit of artistic madness.
Here is the picture she took when I pulled to the side of the road just outside San Antonio. A framed version is being delivered this week to Mom to commemorate her birthday tomorrow.
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Jason Isbell - An Anachronism
Isbell is a singer of what my Daddy would recognize as country music. He is something different in today's world. An anachronism is something that does not fit with the times that it is presented. Like Lincoln talking on a cell phone.
Isbell makes music where the lyrics are important. Words ain't been important in music - at least country music - for at least a decade. You can make an argument that words are important in hip hop but if the dance beat ain't there, I still don't know if you have a leg to stand on.
Pick out your favorite alcohol and your favorite friends and sit out in the dark of the night by a fire and listen to Jason Isbell sing misfortune and loss and love. Its worth it even if you can't afford the good beer.
Drunk on a Friday
I drove away from my last class at Valdosta State University and the summer heat was something less than oppressive, so I "rolled" down my windows with the press of a button. I stopped for gas while still in Valdosta and on a lark bought a beer - a 24 ounce can - and sipped it while driving just above the speed limit on my way to Douglas. Hootie and the Blowfish were captured on the CD in the radio and played whatever I wanted at the least of my whims.
I had finished the 24 oz and had flung the empty from the open window as my hair was whipped around with the wind and the music. I stopped at the next store I saw and bought another beer - this time of a smaller size - my concession to caution. And continued at speed to my destination singing along with the energy of the hot air that whipped through the cab of the truck.
I ran out again and slung the remains out the window and stopped again and bought again and ran down the road drinking again.
Singing. I never sing. Well. In church I sing. Loud and proud. A joyful noise is a delight to the Lord. If I have been drinking quickly, I sing. If I am alone in my truck with the windows down, I sing long and loud until the traffic lights take away my anonymity.
This day, all three converged. I was in my truck flying down the highway with the hot summer air whipping my hair around, I was soon beyond drunk from my continuous stops for one can of beer, and God had to be with me to keep me from killing myself or worse - some of you.
I drank and drove and sang until I was passing by the Huddle House in Douglas and saw my Mom's car. I shot across two lanes and flicked a blinker on at the last minute and shot into the parking lot of the Huddle House with the suddenness of the Millennium Falcon coming out of hyper space.
I walked into the restaurant and saw my parents before they saw me. I remember thinking that this was not a normal reality. Everything was moving just off of normal. I had never interacted with my parents when one of us was drunk. At least not since I was four and Dad had given up drinking. But this was the first time MY reality was just a bit off from theirs.
I sat down across from my father who was withered from heart disease and would be gone from this earth in less than two years. I kissed my mother on the cheek unexpectedly - for both of us - as she was lifting her coffee to her lips.
My dad asked if I had to work today. This was a strange question. My shift did not start until 4pm. It was barely 1pm. I told him no. I did not have to work today.
Why not he asked. Because I have decided to call in sick. That's why.
He suddenly needed to go the the bathroom. I remember thinking that was strange. He seldom had sudden needs for the bathroom.
I should have noticed then but only notice now that I am writing this. He was working with a partner.
"You're drunk;" my mother stated without any real anger - but a disturbing weariness.
"What?"
"You have been drinking."
"Well. A little," I answered.
"You are drunk."
"Okay. A litlle bit of a whole lot, " I smiled.
"Ray, you could kill somebody... or yourself." Interesting the way that got phrased, I remember thinking.
"Okay, okay, can I just have a moment? Can I just take a second before you get loud and I get loud and we replay our greatest hits of angry at one another? Because that ain't why I stopped."
She turned from me and sipped her coffee. And sipped it again as the silence settled, slowly.
My fault. I had not expected silence. Have you met my mum?
"You answered my questions. The ones about baby's and love and sex. You answered them. You took me to every baseball practice I ever went to and drove me to practice football with the Douglas Demons. You coached that t-ball team of Jason's when they had stacked the other team with all the best players and you were left with the rejects, I have been able to ask you or tell you anything for over 23 years now. You had those notes sent home from teachers and you asked me to explain them. You didn't accuse - you asked for an explanation. I noticed that. I suppose that is what I want to tell you. I noticed. I remember every single time you took me practice, helped me with math homework when I hated needing help and punished whoever helped, I remember you taking me to baseball practice and watching while I never came close to hitting anything. I remember you helping me pick out my tux for the Prom. That's my point. I noticed. I have always noticed. I have not missed a single second of a single moment where you demonstrated that you loved me. You think I never noticed. But I noticed every single one of 'em"
She took another sip of her coffee and I noticed her eyes were wet. I kissed her again on the cheek.
"I just had to be drunk off my ass before I could admit any of that to you. I am sure a shrink will say that is all your fault."
"Go to Hell, " she replied. "And be careful on your way home."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
And I drove home just below the speed limit.
