Happy Halloween!
Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was young in Vivian, Louisiana. No one had yet heard of predators preying on unsuspecting kids, so my parents, and everyone else’s parents would let us go trick-or-treating as soon as it got dark. What’s more, no one expected us home anytime soon.
I couldn’t have been much more than five when I began staying out until the wee hours, dressed as a ghost or goblin, with my big brother Jack and close friend Wiley. Most people quit answering their doors at ten but that didn’t keep us from knocking, or turning over their trash cans if no one answered and rewarded us with candy.
The only thing I can remember that was slightly unsavory was that someone gave us weevil bread – cornbread with boll weevils cooked into it. We all decided that we had gotten the weevil bread from the mayor’s house.
I grew up in a different time, not better, just different, but I’ll never forget the feeling I had that I was somehow invisible, and that the darkness was where I was destined to be.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Another Place, Another Time
Weather in central Oklahoma is always unpredictable. Lately, it is downright crazy, almost a hundred degrees in early March, and cold, damp and rainy by the end of April. Tonight, as I prepared to feed my dogs, I fished around in my closet for a sweater. It is not that the weather is that inclement. It is just damp and chilly. The weather tonight and the sweater that I chose reminded me of a similar sweater that I owned during another place and time.
When I was in the boonies of Vietnam, I would go at least fifteen days with the same clothes. Socks, tee shirts and fatigue pants usually became pretty rank during that time. Underwear? We wore none. Whenever we returned to a forward firebase there was usually a bin where we could get clean clothes. The bin had tee shirts, socks, fatigue pants and shirts, all used. It also had a mixture of such things as boonie hats, neckerchiefs, and every now and then a monsoon sweater.
Digging through a clothes bin, I found two things of interest that I immediately confiscated - a neckerchief and a monsoon jacket. The black neckerchief had an embroidered skull with wings that said “Death from Above.” We were supposed to leave them on enemy bodies to show how bad we were. I stuffed mine in a pocket and kept it.
The monsoon sweater was a long-sleeved, drab green, light wool garment and I was in heaven from the time that I acquired my own. Temperatures were never cold in the tropics but there was always quite a divergence between the extreme heat of the day and the nighttime lows (seventies) experienced during rainy season.
When we finished humping for the day, I would tie my hammock between two strong bamboo shoots, stringing my poncho liner over the top. Then I would pull the monsoon sweater over my head, and heat a cup of coffee and a can of C-rations. Usually, by the time that I finished eating and crawled into the hammock, it would begin to rain. It is surprising how much a warm sweater can comfort you when you have nothing else in the world between you and the unknown.
I still have my “Death from Above,” neckerchief but my monsoon sweater is long gone. I recently did an Internet search, trying to find one online to purchase. I found none and apparently, they never existed. Well, they did exist, along with lots of other things polite society would rather forget, and probably already have.
Gondwana
When I was in the boonies of Vietnam, I would go at least fifteen days with the same clothes. Socks, tee shirts and fatigue pants usually became pretty rank during that time. Underwear? We wore none. Whenever we returned to a forward firebase there was usually a bin where we could get clean clothes. The bin had tee shirts, socks, fatigue pants and shirts, all used. It also had a mixture of such things as boonie hats, neckerchiefs, and every now and then a monsoon sweater.
Digging through a clothes bin, I found two things of interest that I immediately confiscated - a neckerchief and a monsoon jacket. The black neckerchief had an embroidered skull with wings that said “Death from Above.” We were supposed to leave them on enemy bodies to show how bad we were. I stuffed mine in a pocket and kept it.
The monsoon sweater was a long-sleeved, drab green, light wool garment and I was in heaven from the time that I acquired my own. Temperatures were never cold in the tropics but there was always quite a divergence between the extreme heat of the day and the nighttime lows (seventies) experienced during rainy season.
When we finished humping for the day, I would tie my hammock between two strong bamboo shoots, stringing my poncho liner over the top. Then I would pull the monsoon sweater over my head, and heat a cup of coffee and a can of C-rations. Usually, by the time that I finished eating and crawled into the hammock, it would begin to rain. It is surprising how much a warm sweater can comfort you when you have nothing else in the world between you and the unknown.
I still have my “Death from Above,” neckerchief but my monsoon sweater is long gone. I recently did an Internet search, trying to find one online to purchase. I found none and apparently, they never existed. Well, they did exist, along with lots of other things polite society would rather forget, and probably already have.
Gondwana
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Deep in the Forest
I have often talked about the mysterious Ouachita Mountains where I did my geology thesis. I am sure most everyone remembers the movie Deliverance that stared Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds and the frightening hillbillies encountered. On one of our field trips to the Ouachitas, my ex-wife Gail and I met our own pair of scary hillbillies. It was late fall, the days dull and weather dreary.
Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS). The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States. Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.
The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War. Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners. The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities. I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine. It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.
We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road. Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction. When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path. The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.
Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.
"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer. "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere. "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.
We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip. "Don't look back," I told Gail.
Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction. I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand. Were they being friendly? No! I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger. These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.
My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.
Fiction South
Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS). The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States. Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.
The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War. Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners. The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities. I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine. It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.
We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road. Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction. When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path. The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.
Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.
"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer. "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere. "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.
We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip. "Don't look back," I told Gail.
Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction. I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand. Were they being friendly? No! I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger. These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.
My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.
Fiction South
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Fresh Pumpkin Pie - a weekend recipe
Halloween, my favorite holiday, is almost upon us and one of the reasons I love this time of year are the tasty pumpkin pies my Mother and Grandmothers used to make. Here is an old yet simple recipe that I hope you enjoy as much as I do.
1 ½ cups fresh pumpkin
¼ tsp nutmeg
¼ tsp cinnamon
1 cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp butter
¼ tsp salt
Combine ingredients. Mix thoroughly. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake in hot oven (425 degrees) for about 25 minutes, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream on top.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
1 ½ cups fresh pumpkin
¼ tsp nutmeg
¼ tsp cinnamon
1 cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp butter
¼ tsp salt
Combine ingredients. Mix thoroughly. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake in hot oven (425 degrees) for about 25 minutes, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream on top.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Eric Takes a Ride
My first wife Gail loved horses and had two, Lady, a very gentle mare and Rodan, a large stallion. Not very friendly, Rodan did not tolerate carrying fools around on his back, a fact I quickly learned during my first visit to Gail’s home in Chalmette.
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Friday, October 16, 2009
Veiled Reality
Conjure Man is a short story that appears in my book Murder Etouffee. Mama Mulate, a character reprised from my French Quarter murder mystery Big Easy, is the primary character. Mama is the quintessential embodiment of two cultures; she is a voodoo mambo, practicing the mysterious religion of Vodoun, but also holds a doctorate in English literature and teaches at Tulane University.
While well versed in spells, hexes and potions, Mama can see neither the past, nor the future. When a hapless couple hires her to help them learn the fate of their missing son, she takes them to a seer, an old black man named Zekiel that lives in a shack built on a high spot in the flood control area outside of New Orleans. Zekiel uses a crystal ball to “scry,” or see the future and the past.
Practitioners of the almost lost art of scrying don’t always use crystal balls. According to George Frederick Kunz, author of the book The Curious Lore of Precious Stones, says, “Mirrors, globules of lead, or quicksilver, polished steel, the surface of water and even pools of ink have been employed and have been found to insure quite as satisfactory results as the crystal ball.”
While Kunz is correct that seers can use any reflective media to achieve their results, many use the crystal ball, not just for its reflective properties, but also because of what lies inside the crystal. Unlike a sphere of glass, a transparent ball of polished quartz is not perfect. It contains vacuoles, fractures, veils and needles of other minerals that reflect and refract light. These very imperfections are what allow the experienced seer to tap into secrets of the past and the future.
Light and reflections are the means we use to experience reality when we see, but consider this: not everything we see reflects reality exactly. When we gaze into a mirror at our own reflection, we are not seeing ourselves as others see us. The right eye looking back at us is really our left eye. The way we perceive ourselves is only a mirrored reflection of reality.
Veils and imperfections in a crystal gazing ball reflect and refract light in such a way that they “reveal” a different dimension to the trained seer. Is it possible to see into the future or the past? My answer is yes.
While most of us cannot explain why we are able to receive wireless voices on our cell phones, there are people that can. It is just as plausible that seers can see into the past and the future, even if they cannot prove it to us, except for the secrets they reveal.
Gondwana
While well versed in spells, hexes and potions, Mama can see neither the past, nor the future. When a hapless couple hires her to help them learn the fate of their missing son, she takes them to a seer, an old black man named Zekiel that lives in a shack built on a high spot in the flood control area outside of New Orleans. Zekiel uses a crystal ball to “scry,” or see the future and the past.
Practitioners of the almost lost art of scrying don’t always use crystal balls. According to George Frederick Kunz, author of the book The Curious Lore of Precious Stones, says, “Mirrors, globules of lead, or quicksilver, polished steel, the surface of water and even pools of ink have been employed and have been found to insure quite as satisfactory results as the crystal ball.”
While Kunz is correct that seers can use any reflective media to achieve their results, many use the crystal ball, not just for its reflective properties, but also because of what lies inside the crystal. Unlike a sphere of glass, a transparent ball of polished quartz is not perfect. It contains vacuoles, fractures, veils and needles of other minerals that reflect and refract light. These very imperfections are what allow the experienced seer to tap into secrets of the past and the future.
Light and reflections are the means we use to experience reality when we see, but consider this: not everything we see reflects reality exactly. When we gaze into a mirror at our own reflection, we are not seeing ourselves as others see us. The right eye looking back at us is really our left eye. The way we perceive ourselves is only a mirrored reflection of reality.
Veils and imperfections in a crystal gazing ball reflect and refract light in such a way that they “reveal” a different dimension to the trained seer. Is it possible to see into the future or the past? My answer is yes.
While most of us cannot explain why we are able to receive wireless voices on our cell phones, there are people that can. It is just as plausible that seers can see into the past and the future, even if they cannot prove it to us, except for the secrets they reveal.
Gondwana
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Skip's Salsa - a southwest recipe
When Anne and I first married, we lived in a large house with many windows that overlooked a small body of water called Ski Island Lake. My Cousin Skip worked for Capitol Records, recently transferred to OKC from Austin, Texas. Since he was new to the City, he spent lots of time with us and we enjoyed him immensely.
Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.
Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.
5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil
After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.
Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.
Gondwana
Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.
Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.
5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil
After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.
Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.
Gondwana
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Kafka for Breakfast
I had a dental appointment to fill a tooth. My dentist is great, the best I have ever had, and I trust him. Still, I do not like needles, probes and drills inside my mouth. Dr. K has a new assistant named Tina and she asked me if I would like to use nitrous oxide.
“It will help you relax,” she said.
Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.
“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.
I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose. I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction. The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant. Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them. Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.
I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin. She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling. I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth. I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.
Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now. Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”
Or some such! Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.
Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant. He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide.
Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place. The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.
I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten. Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office. Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
“It will help you relax,” she said.
Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.
“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.
I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose. I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction. The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant. Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them. Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.
I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin. She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling. I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth. I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.
Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now. Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”
Or some such! Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.
Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant. He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide.
Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place. The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.
I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten. Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office. Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Monday, October 12, 2009
Colors of Oklahoma
At one of my book signings, an old friend explained tearfully how much he had enjoyed reading Prairie Sunset. But there was a catch.
“The only problem with the book is there is no prairie anywhere in it.”
Because of his emotional state, I did not argue but what he said is not factually true.
The great sprawling metropolis of Oklahoma City occupies an ancient prairie. Just because buildings, roads and the residue of commerce now cloak it does not lessen that fact.
None of this really matters because the title refers to a state of mind rather than a specific location.
John Warren, the unlikely eighty-year-old protagonist of the story has literally run away from home in search of the “magic fountain.” What he finds is an even more unlikely love affair with an attractive sixty-something woman of American Indian heritage.
In a passage near the book’s end, John explains to Attie Johnson, the newly found love of his life, the meaning of the title. They are on a hillside, near Eureka Springs, Arkansas, watching the western horizon as the sun sets.
“Once, on a spring night in western Oklahoma I saw a sunset almost as beautiful as this one. Particles of dust from some volcanic eruption in the Pacific filled the sky. Invisible during the day, the dispersed particles became fiery streaks of crimson incandescence at dusk.”
“A beautiful sunset is something to remember.”
“Attie, do you remember the horse races?”
“Course I do.”
“Remember when I told you which horse I was betting on? You said he was the biggest nag on the track and had never won a race.”
“And you were too stubborn to listen.”
“I bet on the name, Prairie Sunset, because until I met you that sunset I saw in western Oklahoma was the loveliest vision I’d ever seen.”
* * *
Tonight, outside my kitchen window the wind chimes are singing, blown into full throaty sound by forty-mile-an-hour winds. When I stepped into the front yard and glanced skyward, I caught a glimpse of the vision John must have witnessed in western Oklahoma. Full glowing crimson, bordered by diffused azure painted the western skyline. Prairie dust, blown high by prevailing winds had created the resplendent scene.
Prairie dust, pixie dust, whatever! At that moment, I knew just how John Warren must have felt.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Hot Dogs and Cold Beer
I graduated from college years ago and have been successful and become wealthy in the oil industry. I often meet other wealthy oil people and rarely a week goes by that someone does not look me square in the eye and palm my hand in some secret fraternal handshake.
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
Friday, October 09, 2009
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Collective Consciousness and Cosmic Coincidences
A few nights ago, I strolled into the backyard with my two pugs, Princess and Scooter, and noticed a reddish star in the northeastern sky. At least I thought it was a star at first. The more I stared at it, the less I was sure.
The object seemed too big to be a star and appeared to be wiggling around in the sky as I focused my attention on it. Maybe it is a distant plane, I thought. It wasn’t, but I had it framed by the branches of a tree and my vision told me that it was moving.
It was dark, my eyes probably playing tricks on me. Still, it caused me to think about how our minds perceive what our eyes see. Tonight in the kitchen, I saw a shadow move across the opposite wall and immediately thought that it was my shadow. It was not in the correct spot to be my shadow and when I moved around, trying to duplicate it, I could not.
Going through a box of my Mother’s possessions a few days ago, I found a pillowcase embroidered with the emblem of the 8th Army Division, my Father’s division. My brother Jack visited today. When he saw the pillowcase, he commented that the 8th was the same division that he had served in when he was in the Army, a fact that I had not known.
“Dad’s last days in Germany were probably spent in the same town that I spent my first days in.”
“Funny,” I said. “My lottery number for Vietnam was thirty-eight, the same lottery number Dad had when he was drafted into the Army during World War II.”
The strange things I had recently experienced, and the coincidences reminded me of a review I just read of a book by Diane Hennacy Powell called The ESP Enigma. Far from a tarot card reader, Powell is a Johns Hopkins trained neuropsychiatrist. Rather than pooh-poohing psychic phenomena, Powell documents many stories that defy scientific explanation. The book sounds fascinating and I have ordered a copy.
French social theorist Emile Durkheim used the term “collective consciousness” to explain why societies maintain analogous, if not the exact same beliefs. Carl Jung had a similar, although slightly different concept – the “collective subconscious” that considers all humanity, our minds and memories hardwire into a common collective into which we all tap.
Perhaps they were both right. Maybe the strange things we cannot explain and the cosmic coincidences we all experience are simply a peek into a netherworld that few of us will ever understand.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
The object seemed too big to be a star and appeared to be wiggling around in the sky as I focused my attention on it. Maybe it is a distant plane, I thought. It wasn’t, but I had it framed by the branches of a tree and my vision told me that it was moving.
It was dark, my eyes probably playing tricks on me. Still, it caused me to think about how our minds perceive what our eyes see. Tonight in the kitchen, I saw a shadow move across the opposite wall and immediately thought that it was my shadow. It was not in the correct spot to be my shadow and when I moved around, trying to duplicate it, I could not.
Going through a box of my Mother’s possessions a few days ago, I found a pillowcase embroidered with the emblem of the 8th Army Division, my Father’s division. My brother Jack visited today. When he saw the pillowcase, he commented that the 8th was the same division that he had served in when he was in the Army, a fact that I had not known.
“Dad’s last days in Germany were probably spent in the same town that I spent my first days in.”
“Funny,” I said. “My lottery number for Vietnam was thirty-eight, the same lottery number Dad had when he was drafted into the Army during World War II.”
The strange things I had recently experienced, and the coincidences reminded me of a review I just read of a book by Diane Hennacy Powell called The ESP Enigma. Far from a tarot card reader, Powell is a Johns Hopkins trained neuropsychiatrist. Rather than pooh-poohing psychic phenomena, Powell documents many stories that defy scientific explanation. The book sounds fascinating and I have ordered a copy.
French social theorist Emile Durkheim used the term “collective consciousness” to explain why societies maintain analogous, if not the exact same beliefs. Carl Jung had a similar, although slightly different concept – the “collective subconscious” that considers all humanity, our minds and memories hardwire into a common collective into which we all tap.
Perhaps they were both right. Maybe the strange things we cannot explain and the cosmic coincidences we all experience are simply a peek into a netherworld that few of us will ever understand.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Brain Pictures
My new science fiction fantasy The Fourth Harmonic takes place in the future, during a stark and foreboding time. Words can paint a vivid picture but I finally concluded that a few pencil drawings could put the icing on the cake. This is a fine idea except that I am no artist and I do not know anyone that is. Before giving up on my idea, I decided to check out the resources on the Web.
After a bit of searching, I discovered a fantastic website called Guru.com. The site is an intermediary between client and artists. After signing up with Guru, a simple process, I posted my project and had forty-two proposals in less than forty-eight hours. That is where my problems began.
All forty-two artists are wonderful. They provided samples of their work that I have pored over for the past two days. The fun really began when I started communicating with a possible candidate.
“I’d like to know what visions are in your head,” the artist said. “Can you draw a few sketches for me?”
Well nothing is easy.
Of course, I have pictures in my head of every character and every scene in the book, but transforming them to a picture on paper is well beyond my capabilities, at least in a final form that someone might actually enjoy seeing. Alas, tomorrow I will attempt to put a few of my brain pictures on paper. Maybe the artist can interpret the blobs.
After a bit of searching, I discovered a fantastic website called Guru.com. The site is an intermediary between client and artists. After signing up with Guru, a simple process, I posted my project and had forty-two proposals in less than forty-eight hours. That is where my problems began.
All forty-two artists are wonderful. They provided samples of their work that I have pored over for the past two days. The fun really began when I started communicating with a possible candidate.
“I’d like to know what visions are in your head,” the artist said. “Can you draw a few sketches for me?”
Well nothing is easy.
Of course, I have pictures in my head of every character and every scene in the book, but transforming them to a picture on paper is well beyond my capabilities, at least in a final form that someone might actually enjoy seeing. Alas, tomorrow I will attempt to put a few of my brain pictures on paper. Maybe the artist can interpret the blobs.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Mr. B's Gumbo Ya Ya - a weekend recipe
My second wife Anne and I ate at Mr. B’s on Royal Street for the first time shortly after its opening in 1979. The B in Mr. B’s stands for Brennan, a name synonymous with fine dining. I love the restaurant and I featured it in a scene in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Here is a recipe for their version of gumbo (oh yes, it is very good!) from their website.
Mr. B’s Gumbo Ya Ya
Making a roux is tricky business. Some pointers to keep in mind: cook your roux over moderately low heat because too high heat will cause the roux to speckle and if that happens you’ll have to throw it away and start over; add the flour gradually to the butter or oil; you must stir the roux constantly with a wooden spoon, your arm will get a workout; and never, but never leave your roux unattended.
This recipe makes a lot of gumbo, 6 quarts, so you’ll have enough for a big party or you can freeze some for later.
1 lb. (4 sticks) unsalted butter
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 red bell peppers, in medium dice
2 green bell peppers, in medium dice
2 medium onions, in medium dice
2 celery stalks, in medium dice
1 1/4 gallon (20 cups) chicken stock
2 tablespoons Creole seasoning
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
2 bay leaves
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 lb. andouille sausage, cut into 1/4 inch-thick slices
3 1/2 lb. chicken, roasted and boned
hot sauce to taste
boiled rice as accompaniment
In a 12-quart stockpot, melt butter over moderately low heat. Gradually add a third of the flour, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, and cook, stirring constantly, 30 seconds. Add a third more flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add remaining third of flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Continue to cook roux, stirring constantly, until it is the color of dark mahogany, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Add bell peppers and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add onions and celery and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add the stock to roux, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. Add all remaining ingredients except chicken, rice, and hot sauce and bring to a boil. Simmer gumbo, uncovered, 45 minutes, skimming off any fat and stirring occasionally. Add chicken and simmer 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning with hot sauce. Serve over rice.Yield: about 6 quarts
CREOLE SEASONING
1 1/2 cups paprika
3/4 cup ground black pepper
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/3 cup granulated garlic
1/3 cup dried thyme
1/3 cup dried oregano
1/3 cup dried basil
1/4 cup granulated onion
1/4 cup cayenne
In a bowl, combine all ingredients. Store in an airtight container
Yield: 4 cups
Eric'sWeb
Mr. B’s Gumbo Ya Ya
Making a roux is tricky business. Some pointers to keep in mind: cook your roux over moderately low heat because too high heat will cause the roux to speckle and if that happens you’ll have to throw it away and start over; add the flour gradually to the butter or oil; you must stir the roux constantly with a wooden spoon, your arm will get a workout; and never, but never leave your roux unattended.
This recipe makes a lot of gumbo, 6 quarts, so you’ll have enough for a big party or you can freeze some for later.
1 lb. (4 sticks) unsalted butter
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 red bell peppers, in medium dice
2 green bell peppers, in medium dice
2 medium onions, in medium dice
2 celery stalks, in medium dice
1 1/4 gallon (20 cups) chicken stock
2 tablespoons Creole seasoning
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
2 bay leaves
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 lb. andouille sausage, cut into 1/4 inch-thick slices
3 1/2 lb. chicken, roasted and boned
hot sauce to taste
boiled rice as accompaniment
In a 12-quart stockpot, melt butter over moderately low heat. Gradually add a third of the flour, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, and cook, stirring constantly, 30 seconds. Add a third more flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add remaining third of flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Continue to cook roux, stirring constantly, until it is the color of dark mahogany, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Add bell peppers and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add onions and celery and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add the stock to roux, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. Add all remaining ingredients except chicken, rice, and hot sauce and bring to a boil. Simmer gumbo, uncovered, 45 minutes, skimming off any fat and stirring occasionally. Add chicken and simmer 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning with hot sauce. Serve over rice.Yield: about 6 quarts
CREOLE SEASONING
1 1/2 cups paprika
3/4 cup ground black pepper
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/3 cup granulated garlic
1/3 cup dried thyme
1/3 cup dried oregano
1/3 cup dried basil
1/4 cup granulated onion
1/4 cup cayenne
In a bowl, combine all ingredients. Store in an airtight container
Yield: 4 cups
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, October 03, 2009
How Ya'll Are?
Most Americans remember Justin Wilson as the humorous host of a long-running Cajun cooking show hosted by PBS, a pioneer and innovator in cooking shows. Arriving on television a decade, or so before Emeril or Rachel Ray, he helped change our perception of chefs performing in that media. With Mardi Gras in full swing in Louisiana, it is time we recognized his immense cultural contribution to this country.
Before Justin Wilson became a celebrity chef with his own television show, he was a very successful stand-up comedian. He was also a great Cajun cook and combined these two diverse talents to create a humorous and entertaining performance rather than just another dull – at least for most of us - “dump and stir” cooking show.
The Food Network began in 1993 and eventually - and quite successfully - changed the dry and dull cooking show into engrossing entertainment. They did this by hiring great chefs that also had the talent and personality to turn their cooking segments into highly entertaining television episodes with millions of viewers. Justin Wilson was, at least in my mind, the prototype for today’s culinary superstars such as Emeril, Rachel and Bobby Flay.
I had never seen Justin Wilson perform in person, even though he had twenty or so comedy albums in circulation and was a legendary performer in Louisiana. A newspaper article helped change that for me. I was a partner at the time with longtime friend John K. John, like me, was from the south, and a fan of Justin Wilson’s humor. He, also, had never seen a live performance of the Cajun comedian. When we noticed a small article almost hidden in the back pages of the Daily Oklahoman, that all changed.
The article said that Justin Wilson would be performing at the local clubhouse of the Fraternal Order of Police. This event was not open to the public, only police officers invited. John and I decided to sneak into the performance.
Waiting until the show had started, we slipped in the backdoor of the FOP clubhouse. The place was crowded with police officers and I don’t mind telling you that my rear end was more than a little puckered. The large room was dark and crowded, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder to see and hear the show. We had a few stares in our direction as we slipped through the crowded room and found an empty spot against one of the walls.
Justin Wilson’s performance was great and well worth our risk – at least considering that we managed to slip back out the back door undetected before the overhead lights came on. The mood of the crowd was jovial - everyone dressed in their street clothes and off the beat for the night. Still, John and I breathed sighs of relief as we drove away, neither of us thinking about what might have happened if someone had asked who we were.
Justin Wilson was an educated man, an engineer, but he maintained a thick Cajun accent during his performances. He would ask the audience “How ya’ll are?” and like Emeril’s trademark “bam,” Wilson would always say “I gar-on-tee.” Considering the consequences of sneaking into the FOP hall to see the comedian, our actions were probably stupid and juvenile. Still, realizing now that it was probably our only chance of ever seeing Justin Wilson in concert, the risk was worth it. And that I gar-on-tee!
Gondwana
Before Justin Wilson became a celebrity chef with his own television show, he was a very successful stand-up comedian. He was also a great Cajun cook and combined these two diverse talents to create a humorous and entertaining performance rather than just another dull – at least for most of us - “dump and stir” cooking show.
The Food Network began in 1993 and eventually - and quite successfully - changed the dry and dull cooking show into engrossing entertainment. They did this by hiring great chefs that also had the talent and personality to turn their cooking segments into highly entertaining television episodes with millions of viewers. Justin Wilson was, at least in my mind, the prototype for today’s culinary superstars such as Emeril, Rachel and Bobby Flay.
I had never seen Justin Wilson perform in person, even though he had twenty or so comedy albums in circulation and was a legendary performer in Louisiana. A newspaper article helped change that for me. I was a partner at the time with longtime friend John K. John, like me, was from the south, and a fan of Justin Wilson’s humor. He, also, had never seen a live performance of the Cajun comedian. When we noticed a small article almost hidden in the back pages of the Daily Oklahoman, that all changed.
The article said that Justin Wilson would be performing at the local clubhouse of the Fraternal Order of Police. This event was not open to the public, only police officers invited. John and I decided to sneak into the performance.
Waiting until the show had started, we slipped in the backdoor of the FOP clubhouse. The place was crowded with police officers and I don’t mind telling you that my rear end was more than a little puckered. The large room was dark and crowded, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder to see and hear the show. We had a few stares in our direction as we slipped through the crowded room and found an empty spot against one of the walls.
Justin Wilson’s performance was great and well worth our risk – at least considering that we managed to slip back out the back door undetected before the overhead lights came on. The mood of the crowd was jovial - everyone dressed in their street clothes and off the beat for the night. Still, John and I breathed sighs of relief as we drove away, neither of us thinking about what might have happened if someone had asked who we were.
Justin Wilson was an educated man, an engineer, but he maintained a thick Cajun accent during his performances. He would ask the audience “How ya’ll are?” and like Emeril’s trademark “bam,” Wilson would always say “I gar-on-tee.” Considering the consequences of sneaking into the FOP hall to see the comedian, our actions were probably stupid and juvenile. Still, realizing now that it was probably our only chance of ever seeing Justin Wilson in concert, the risk was worth it. And that I gar-on-tee!
Gondwana
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