Years ago, I was a freshman in college at Northeast Louisiana in Monroe. At the end of the hall was a cigarette machine, a soda machine and one that sold Honey Buns. One night while I was studying my roommate came running into the room in an animated state of excitement.
"The honey bun machine is broke. Help me, quick!"
The machine was broken. Every time you pulled the retrieve handle, several Honey Buns would pour out of it. My roomy and I cleaned out the machine.
Several weeks or so later, after consuming many Honey buns, I never wanted to see a Honey Bun again as long as I lived. It made me think of the first time I got inebriated. The same year, I think. My roommate - yes, the same culprit - and I were at a piano bar in downtown Monroe, Louisiana.
Chuck was very cosmopolitan and had been drinking alcohol for years. At least that's what he said. My parents were teetotalers and I had never ever sipped a beer.
"Try a sloe gin fizz, honey," the pretty, but old -at least to me at the time - singer suggested.
I took her advice and had several. I think we were finally thrown out of the place, or at least asked to leave. I woke up before morning, very sick. You don’t want to know the details. Anyway, a month or so ago, I ordered a sloe gin fizz at a bar I frequent. It was the first I'd had in more than thirty years. I didn't finish it.
Before my Mother died, we took a trip back to Vivian. Along the way we stopped to buy groceries in Atlanta, Texas. While there, my mother bought, of all things, a box of Honey Buns. On the last leg home we stopped at a liquor store and I bought a twenty-four ounce Evil Eye High Density 10 % alcohol lager. I'm not making this up. I drank the strong beer after my parents turned in for the night.
I'm not particularly proud of the fact but the brew weakened me to the extent that I opened a Honey Bun and ate it.Well, unlike the sloe gin fizz, my first Honey Bun in more than thirty years wasn't so bad. Truth is, I even opened a second and ate it too. I guess what they say is true - time heals all wounds. Well, except for sloe gin.
Gondwana
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Seven Lucky Charms
While walking to the mailbox, I picked up a circular bit of metal on the street. It turned out to be a penny that someone had bored a hole through to form part of a necklace. A good luck charm, I thought, since it was so lucky that I had even glanced down at that exact moment. As I put it in my pocket and continued up the hill to the mailbox, I remembered the seven good luck charms I carried with me at all times during the Vietnam War.
Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.
Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.
Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, as I walked to the mailbox, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.
What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.
Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.
Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, as I walked to the mailbox, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.
What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Mom's Pineapple Pie - a weekend recipe
Mom’s Pineapple Pie
My favorite pie has always been pineapple. My mother would bake pineapple pie for me whenever I came home from college. On holidays, I would have three, one from my mother and one each from my two grandmothers. They were all good, but different. While looking through some of Mother’s old cookbooks, I stumbled on her pineapple pie recipe. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
1 c. sugar
Pinch of salt
4 tbsp. flour
2 egg yolks, well beaten
2 c. evaporated milk
½ stick butter
1 large can crushed pineapple, drained
1 tsp vanilla or pineapple juice
Combine sugar and flour in saucepan; add salt, egg yolks, milk and butter. Stir until smooth; cook over low heat until thick. Add pineapple and vanilla; remove from heat. Pour into one 9-inch cooked pie shell. Top with meringue.
Fiction South
My favorite pie has always been pineapple. My mother would bake pineapple pie for me whenever I came home from college. On holidays, I would have three, one from my mother and one each from my two grandmothers. They were all good, but different. While looking through some of Mother’s old cookbooks, I stumbled on her pineapple pie recipe. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
1 c. sugar
Pinch of salt
4 tbsp. flour
2 egg yolks, well beaten
2 c. evaporated milk
½ stick butter
1 large can crushed pineapple, drained
1 tsp vanilla or pineapple juice
Combine sugar and flour in saucepan; add salt, egg yolks, milk and butter. Stir until smooth; cook over low heat until thick. Add pineapple and vanilla; remove from heat. Pour into one 9-inch cooked pie shell. Top with meringue.
Fiction South
Friday, November 13, 2009
Family Spirits
The dictionary defines triskaidekaphobia as the fear of the number 13. Today is Friday the thirteenth, supposedly an unlucky day. My day started in frustration with me thinking things are going badly for me. It made me think, which spirit have I angered. My first thought was my Mother.
My Mom died of lymphoma about two years ago. She was eighty-five when she died and mentally as sharp as a twenty-year-old. She fought her cancer until the end because she didn’t want to leave my Dad, who has advanced Alzheimer’s, alone. I assured her, just before she died, that Brother Jack and I would look after him.
I have wondered lately if she is keeping an eye on things and somehow unhappy with the way Jack and I are managing things. I have thought this for sometime now because my “Magic Moonflowers” haven’t bloomed since she died.
I don’t know if any of this is true, but last night I called on the spirits of my Grandpa and Grandma Pitt, my Mom’s parents, to intercede if this is truly the situation. Jack and I are far from perfect and neither of us can be with Dad as many hours each week as he would like us to. I also know that no one could ever take care of him as good as my Mom Mavis.
Now I know lots of you out there don’t believe in spirits, but today my luck took a turn for the best. Two very positive things that I had almost given up on happened and I have had a mile-wide grin on my face since noon.
I know the world is an imperfect place. I have thought many times that no one can do anything as well as I. I also know that when things don’t go right you often tend to blame the ones you love the most. I’ve known this since I was a child.
My Mom and my Grandma Pitt were very close and never a day passed that they weren’t together. Brother Jack and I were no angels and got into trouble on a daily basis but we always knew that Grandma Pitt would intercede on our behalf, no matter what mischief we had caused. Grandpa Pitt would back her up and tell my Mom to cut us some slack.
“They are just being boys,” he would say.
Today is Friday the 13 and a chill wind is blowing outside the house. I am happy as I keyboard this story because I realize that “family” is the single strongest entity that exists and that I can still grab my Grandma’s spirit leg and ask her to protect me, and know that she will.
My Mom died of lymphoma about two years ago. She was eighty-five when she died and mentally as sharp as a twenty-year-old. She fought her cancer until the end because she didn’t want to leave my Dad, who has advanced Alzheimer’s, alone. I assured her, just before she died, that Brother Jack and I would look after him.
I have wondered lately if she is keeping an eye on things and somehow unhappy with the way Jack and I are managing things. I have thought this for sometime now because my “Magic Moonflowers” haven’t bloomed since she died.
I don’t know if any of this is true, but last night I called on the spirits of my Grandpa and Grandma Pitt, my Mom’s parents, to intercede if this is truly the situation. Jack and I are far from perfect and neither of us can be with Dad as many hours each week as he would like us to. I also know that no one could ever take care of him as good as my Mom Mavis.
Now I know lots of you out there don’t believe in spirits, but today my luck took a turn for the best. Two very positive things that I had almost given up on happened and I have had a mile-wide grin on my face since noon.
I know the world is an imperfect place. I have thought many times that no one can do anything as well as I. I also know that when things don’t go right you often tend to blame the ones you love the most. I’ve known this since I was a child.
My Mom and my Grandma Pitt were very close and never a day passed that they weren’t together. Brother Jack and I were no angels and got into trouble on a daily basis but we always knew that Grandma Pitt would intercede on our behalf, no matter what mischief we had caused. Grandpa Pitt would back her up and tell my Mom to cut us some slack.
“They are just being boys,” he would say.
Today is Friday the 13 and a chill wind is blowing outside the house. I am happy as I keyboard this story because I realize that “family” is the single strongest entity that exists and that I can still grab my Grandma’s spirit leg and ask her to protect me, and know that she will.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Happy Veteran's Day
My Dad was a soldier in WWII and has six battle stars. My brother Jack served in the Army in Germany while I was in Vietnam. We all understand service and we all understand the sacrifice service men and women undergo.
Marilyn and I sat on the patio of Kang’s Asian Restaurant tonight, drinking sake and Sapporo Beer. The night was warm, maybe a bit too warm for a date this late in November. It didn’t matter as we enjoyed Kang’s wonderful patio.
Kang asked if we liked venison. Even being from Louisiana, I had never tried it. Marilyn has. He treated us to bowls of venison soup that was nothing short of wonderful.
As I keyboard this story, I think how lucky I am to live in the greatest country this world has ever known. I also reflect on how lucky I am to live in a country where brave men and women risk their lives and limbs on a daily basis to protect our freedoms.
Happy Veteran’s Day and thanks for your service. We wouldn’t be here without you.
Gondwana
Marilyn and I sat on the patio of Kang’s Asian Restaurant tonight, drinking sake and Sapporo Beer. The night was warm, maybe a bit too warm for a date this late in November. It didn’t matter as we enjoyed Kang’s wonderful patio.
Kang asked if we liked venison. Even being from Louisiana, I had never tried it. Marilyn has. He treated us to bowls of venison soup that was nothing short of wonderful.
As I keyboard this story, I think how lucky I am to live in the greatest country this world has ever known. I also reflect on how lucky I am to live in a country where brave men and women risk their lives and limbs on a daily basis to protect our freedoms.
Happy Veteran’s Day and thanks for your service. We wouldn’t be here without you.
Gondwana
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Poor People's Food
My sixteen-year-old stepdaughter Kate searched the refrigerator in vain for something to eat, or at least for something she wanted to eat.
“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.
Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry. “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said. “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”
Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry. Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.
“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.
“No way,” Kate said. “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”
“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.
“No way!”
“Then how do you know how it tastes?”
“Who cares? No one even knows what it’s made of.”
“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.
Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally microwaved a Hamburger Helper. Still, the discussion caused me to consider the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana and how much enjoyment people miss because they have preconceived notions.
My parents were simple working folks, my mother a homemaker, my dad a pipe fitter. My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I do not recall ever missing a meal. I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner. Spam was not the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.
Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages. My Aunt Dot sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.
Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence. I think not. A Rolls-Royce will not take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker.
As the saying goes, money cannot buy happiness. Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss because of their snobbery? This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even think about, until you lose them.
Gondwana
“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.
Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry. “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said. “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”
Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry. Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.
“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.
“No way,” Kate said. “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”
“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.
“No way!”
“Then how do you know how it tastes?”
“Who cares? No one even knows what it’s made of.”
“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.
Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally microwaved a Hamburger Helper. Still, the discussion caused me to consider the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana and how much enjoyment people miss because they have preconceived notions.
My parents were simple working folks, my mother a homemaker, my dad a pipe fitter. My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I do not recall ever missing a meal. I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner. Spam was not the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.
Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages. My Aunt Dot sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.
Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence. I think not. A Rolls-Royce will not take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker.
As the saying goes, money cannot buy happiness. Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss because of their snobbery? This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even think about, until you lose them.
Gondwana
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
A Trick of the Mind
Like you, I do not believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality. I talked about telling the future using reflection from polished objects such as crystal balls. I suggested that veils, fractures and inclusions of other minerals might affect the transmittal of light through this media such that a person trained to do so could “see” into a different dimension. The last time I visited my father in the reminiscence center where he lives, I witnessed something that lends credence to such claims.
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Zombies, Images and Geomancers
Naomi (Shuchen), my accountant, is from Taiwan and is thinking about returning soon for a visit to see her mother. She has a few trepidations and one of them is visiting her Father’s grave. It was broad daylight when she explained the reasons for her reluctance, and her story chilled me.
The graveyards in Taiwan are far from the populated parts of the country. Located high in the mountains, they are remote. Many of the sarcophaguses are quite elaborate, almost like houses for the dead.
“Taiwan is very humid,” she explained. “There is a smell of death lingering in our cemeteries and no one ever visits after sundown.”
Naomi did visit her Grandfather’s grave after sundown once. When one of her teachers tried to discipline her by smacking her palm with a ruler, she hit back with a pencil holder and then ran away, hiding at her Grandfather’s grave until long after dark.
The grave was on her parent’s farm and not part of a cemetery. Still, she felt the presence of spirits around her as soon as it grew dark, and she ran back home to be punished by her Father for striking the teacher.
This is not the only experience Naomi had with cemeteries. She and her family lived in a small village; a place where everyone knows everyone else. One of the families was having problems and consulted a geomancer, a person practiced in the art of feng shui, and he told them they needed to move the grave of their mother that had passed some ten years prior.
No one visits a Taiwanese graveyard after dark, but the geomancer advised that the family should exhume the grave at nine at night. Everyone in the small village went to the cemetery for support of the family, although none of them allowed to dig, or to view the disinterred remains. What the family found when they opened the casket was a shock to the entire village.
The woman’s body had not decayed. She lay there before them - as if she had just died - her eyes open wide. Her hair and her fingernails had continued to grow and she appeared like a wraith, or a zombie, before the horrified relatives that stared down at her body.
The family moved the woman’s body to the spot the geomancer had prescribed, and a hunk of flesh removed from her arm to accelerate decay. The image remained locked in Naomi’s brain as she contemplated visiting Taiwan, her mother, and her father’s grave. The image is indelible and now remains locked in my own brain.
Gondwana
The graveyards in Taiwan are far from the populated parts of the country. Located high in the mountains, they are remote. Many of the sarcophaguses are quite elaborate, almost like houses for the dead.
“Taiwan is very humid,” she explained. “There is a smell of death lingering in our cemeteries and no one ever visits after sundown.”
Naomi did visit her Grandfather’s grave after sundown once. When one of her teachers tried to discipline her by smacking her palm with a ruler, she hit back with a pencil holder and then ran away, hiding at her Grandfather’s grave until long after dark.
The grave was on her parent’s farm and not part of a cemetery. Still, she felt the presence of spirits around her as soon as it grew dark, and she ran back home to be punished by her Father for striking the teacher.
This is not the only experience Naomi had with cemeteries. She and her family lived in a small village; a place where everyone knows everyone else. One of the families was having problems and consulted a geomancer, a person practiced in the art of feng shui, and he told them they needed to move the grave of their mother that had passed some ten years prior.
No one visits a Taiwanese graveyard after dark, but the geomancer advised that the family should exhume the grave at nine at night. Everyone in the small village went to the cemetery for support of the family, although none of them allowed to dig, or to view the disinterred remains. What the family found when they opened the casket was a shock to the entire village.
The woman’s body had not decayed. She lay there before them - as if she had just died - her eyes open wide. Her hair and her fingernails had continued to grow and she appeared like a wraith, or a zombie, before the horrified relatives that stared down at her body.
The family moved the woman’s body to the spot the geomancer had prescribed, and a hunk of flesh removed from her arm to accelerate decay. The image remained locked in Naomi’s brain as she contemplated visiting Taiwan, her mother, and her father’s grave. The image is indelible and now remains locked in my own brain.
Gondwana
Monday, November 02, 2009
Goodbye, Lucky
My dog Lucky died today. He was twelve-plus, an advanced age for a Labrador retriever. My deceased wife Anne bought Lucky six months before she died and the big pup soon became my constant companion and best friend.
Lucky helped ease me through a hard time in my life. I am sad tonight, but I am happy that he lived such a long and happy life, and died on such a gorgeous day with no apparent trauma.
Goodbye Lucky and rest in peace. 11-02-2009.
Fiction South
Lucky helped ease me through a hard time in my life. I am sad tonight, but I am happy that he lived such a long and happy life, and died on such a gorgeous day with no apparent trauma.
Goodbye Lucky and rest in peace. 11-02-2009.
Fiction South
Sunday, November 01, 2009
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