The weather in central Oklahoma has been stormy lately, one series thunderous tempests after the other racing through and leaving paths of destruction. I awoke to a rainstorm this morning. By three, the weather was hot, muggy and sunny.
The combination didn’t last for long. Yet another storm front moved through the area, bringing with it high winds and golf ball-sized hail. It quickly passed, doing no damage in my neighborhood, but it postponed my afternoon walk.
A fragile mist hung in the air as I finally started up the road. Elevated humidity carried lingering odors with it, mostly in moist pockets settling in low spots. They reminded me of the months I had spent in the boonies of Vietnam, shielded from the elements by only a poncho liner and sheet of plastic. After living outdoors for so long, my senses became more acute. They stayed that way long after I returned to the States.
Once, Anne, Ray, Kathy and I were sitting outside by their pool. “It’s going to rain,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re smoking, Pard, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky,” Ray said.
Within five minutes, gentle rain began soaking the cement around the pool causing Ray, Anne and Kathy to stare at me, wide-eyed.
“I could smell it coming,” I explained.
I wasn’t lying. My sense of smell was more acute than others. After living many years now in heated and air conditioned houses, that particular talent has disappeared. Still, as I plodded up the blacktop through my neighborhood, the odors carried by the mist—someone’s septic tank, the fetid smell of damp earth and grass, a dead animal—brought back memories.
It was almost dark as I rounded the last bend and started up the gentle hill to my house. Shadows cast by a darkened sky and surrounding trees formed eerie patterns on the damp and broken asphalt road. A tiny crescent moon and one bright star shined dimly through an open spot in the thick layer of clouds. It was a night perfect for wispy ghosts playing in shadowy mists. The thought crossed my mind as I shut the front door behind me.
Eric'sWeb
Showing posts with label oklahoma stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oklahoma stories. Show all posts
Monday, May 17, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Houston and Dallas Snow Pictures
My friend Mickey and I were in Houston in February for NAPE, the big winter oil show held every year. The biggest recorded snowstorm in the history of Dallas occurred while we were there and we had to drive through it on the way back to Oklahoma. It's April now. Spring has sprung and I am happy.
Camera Freak
Glancing through my closet just now, I noticed a box I had brought from my parent’s house during my last visit there. When I opened it, I found it contained a Kodak Brownie, circa 1950s, in pristine condition. Best as I remember, it was the first camera I ever owned. My Mom and Dad had bought it for me. It wouldn’t be my last.
Last month, I purchased a fixed-lens Nikon L100. I already have a Nikon S210 that I love, but I wanted something with a longer lens and faster shutter so that I can capture birds and butterflies in flight. The L100 has a 15 x optical zoom but, as yet, I have been unsuccessful in my attempts. The L100, by all counts, is my ninth digital camera.
Which is the best? They were all good but I really like my Nikon S210. It is compact and versatile and I keep it with me wherever I go. I know, it’s been replaced by a newer, faster model, but I’m too poor to upgrade every six months.
Before going digital, I owned more 35 mm cameras than I can count. My first was a Yashica, my last a Canon. I loved them all but none could match the ease and sophistication of digital. I spent much of my tour of duty in Vietnam without a camera but did have a half-frame the size of a cigarette case toward the end of my time there. I can’t remember the make, but it took exceptional pictures, many of which I still have. Maybe it was a Minolta.
My first fixed-lens single lens reflex was a Kowa (I know, I don’t think they make them anymore). My first interchangeable lens single lens reflex was a Minolta SRT101. It took gorgeous photos. How many cameras have I owned? I’d say easily a hundred. Will I own more before I die? Yes, unless I die tomorrow, and I have my fingers crossed that that won’t happen.
Eric'sWeb
Last month, I purchased a fixed-lens Nikon L100. I already have a Nikon S210 that I love, but I wanted something with a longer lens and faster shutter so that I can capture birds and butterflies in flight. The L100 has a 15 x optical zoom but, as yet, I have been unsuccessful in my attempts. The L100, by all counts, is my ninth digital camera.
Which is the best? They were all good but I really like my Nikon S210. It is compact and versatile and I keep it with me wherever I go. I know, it’s been replaced by a newer, faster model, but I’m too poor to upgrade every six months.
Before going digital, I owned more 35 mm cameras than I can count. My first was a Yashica, my last a Canon. I loved them all but none could match the ease and sophistication of digital. I spent much of my tour of duty in Vietnam without a camera but did have a half-frame the size of a cigarette case toward the end of my time there. I can’t remember the make, but it took exceptional pictures, many of which I still have. Maybe it was a Minolta.
My first fixed-lens single lens reflex was a Kowa (I know, I don’t think they make them anymore). My first interchangeable lens single lens reflex was a Minolta SRT101. It took gorgeous photos. How many cameras have I owned? I’d say easily a hundred. Will I own more before I die? Yes, unless I die tomorrow, and I have my fingers crossed that that won’t happen.
Eric'sWeb
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
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
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Afternoon at the Lake
The recent weather in central Oklahoma has been gorgeous and unseasonably cool. Dad and I enjoyed the wonderful weather this past Sunday on the inside patio of the Lakeside Restaurant that abuts scenic Lake Hefner. I was happy we went there, for more than one reason.
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Souvenir Tee Shirts
Decades of clutter populates my house and office. An organizational message appeared in my mail yesterday. If you have not used something in two years, it said, chances are you never will. Toss it was the impending message. Clutter slows you down, impedes your life and makes you unhappy.
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Girlfriends, Guitars and Karma
I left a secure job with Texas Oil & Gas years ago to start my own company, soon learning that running your own business was tough. I persevered and managed to learn a few things along the way,
I had less than a thousand dollars saved when I decided to vacate a secure job in lieu of starting a new company. Times were tough and I ended up borrowing a thousand dollars from my girlfriend and mortgaging my motorcycle for a thousand dollars. Six months passed without having earned a single penny and I was starting to become desperate.
My girlfriend Carol knew that I had talent. I had often thought that I was the world’s greatest oil finder. Of course, I have many other delusions as well. We had gone to a movie at Shepard Mall (the first mall in Oklahoma) and were passing a music store.
Carol and I stopped, gazing in at the most beautiful guitar that I had ever seen. It was a maroon-colored Guild and I knew the moment I saw it that I could not live another day without it. I bought it about ten minutes later with the last few dollars of credit remaining on my last credit card.
“You are an idiot,” Carol told me. “You haven’t made a penny in six months and you are wasting money on things you don’t need.”
“I’m making a statement,” I argued. “I’m demonstrating that I think my financial situation is temporary and showing my resolve that things will soon turn around.”
Carol left me shortly after I bought the guitar but I was soon able to repay what I owed her because I made almost four-hundred-thousand dollars the second six months that I was an independent.
Many years later, back in 2003, my business was also failing. Remembering the crimson Guild, I talked myself into buying an electric guitar on eBay that I could ill afford. Amazingly, business turned around almost overnight, shortly after it arrived.
Times are tough. The stock market has crashed, along with the price of oil and gas. Like almost everyone else in the country, I feel as if someone has nailed me square in the gut with a steel pipe. I know what I intend to do about it. When I sign off on this post, I am going to log on to eBay and buy a twelve-string Martin. Wish me luck because if this works, I will take everyone along with me.
Fiction South
I had less than a thousand dollars saved when I decided to vacate a secure job in lieu of starting a new company. Times were tough and I ended up borrowing a thousand dollars from my girlfriend and mortgaging my motorcycle for a thousand dollars. Six months passed without having earned a single penny and I was starting to become desperate.
My girlfriend Carol knew that I had talent. I had often thought that I was the world’s greatest oil finder. Of course, I have many other delusions as well. We had gone to a movie at Shepard Mall (the first mall in Oklahoma) and were passing a music store.
Carol and I stopped, gazing in at the most beautiful guitar that I had ever seen. It was a maroon-colored Guild and I knew the moment I saw it that I could not live another day without it. I bought it about ten minutes later with the last few dollars of credit remaining on my last credit card.
“You are an idiot,” Carol told me. “You haven’t made a penny in six months and you are wasting money on things you don’t need.”
“I’m making a statement,” I argued. “I’m demonstrating that I think my financial situation is temporary and showing my resolve that things will soon turn around.”
Carol left me shortly after I bought the guitar but I was soon able to repay what I owed her because I made almost four-hundred-thousand dollars the second six months that I was an independent.
Many years later, back in 2003, my business was also failing. Remembering the crimson Guild, I talked myself into buying an electric guitar on eBay that I could ill afford. Amazingly, business turned around almost overnight, shortly after it arrived.
Times are tough. The stock market has crashed, along with the price of oil and gas. Like almost everyone else in the country, I feel as if someone has nailed me square in the gut with a steel pipe. I know what I intend to do about it. When I sign off on this post, I am going to log on to eBay and buy a twelve-string Martin. Wish me luck because if this works, I will take everyone along with me.
Fiction South
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Hoodooed in Oklahoma
I came home early this afternoon because Marilyn had left for Ardmore earlier today to pick up our daughter Kate. My new pup Princess had been alone inside the house for a while and I wanted to give her a potty break. When I opened the back door I got a big surprise. A large snake dropped down from somewhere above me and landed directly at my feet.
The snake was as startled as I was. It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp. I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp. It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.
The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches. It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake. It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides. Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.
I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door. I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me. It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.
The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy. Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me. I created her for heavens sake! Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.
Nah! No one practices voodoo in Edmond America. Or do they?
Fiction South
The snake was as startled as I was. It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp. I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp. It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.
The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches. It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake. It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides. Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.
I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door. I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me. It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.
The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy. Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me. I created her for heavens sake! Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.
Nah! No one practices voodoo in Edmond America. Or do they?
Fiction South
Friday, July 17, 2009
Joy's Wild Sand Plum Jelly
Marilyn and I were taking my Dad to lunch on Sunday when she pointed out to me a bushy tree loaded with small reddish-orange fruit.
“Do you know what it is?” she asked.
She explained that it was a sand plum bush, the fruit of which produced her mother Joy’s second favorite jelly; blackberry was her first. Sand plums grow wild in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma and served as an important food source to the native Indians and early settlers.
Joy isn’t around to make us any sand plum jelly and the last jar we had we purchased in Guthrie, Oklahoma while shopping for souvenirs. Marilyn and I agreed that we would find a sand plum bush and plant it in our yard. Maybe then she will take a stab at Joy’s simple recipe.
Wild Sand Plum Jelly
4 c. wild sand plum juice
4 c. cane sugar
1 tbsp. butter
Wash well and barely cover with water both ripe red wild sand plums and partially ripe pink plums. Boil until fruit is soft and liquid is bright red. Cool until warm only and strain through cheese cloth to obtain clear pulp free juice.
Make jelly in proportion listed above. Bring strained juice to a boil, stir in butter to keep juice from boiling over sides of pan. Slowly stir in sugar, stirring constantly until mixture reaches 220 degrees on candy thermometer. Remove from heat immediately and pour into dry, warm sterilized 1/2 pint jelly jars, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at top of jar for expansion when jelled. Seal jars tightly.
Wild plums contain natural pectin. Do not over cook because jelly will continue to jell while cooling in the jars
Yields approximately 8 to 10 jars.
Fiction South
“Do you know what it is?” she asked.
She explained that it was a sand plum bush, the fruit of which produced her mother Joy’s second favorite jelly; blackberry was her first. Sand plums grow wild in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma and served as an important food source to the native Indians and early settlers.
Joy isn’t around to make us any sand plum jelly and the last jar we had we purchased in Guthrie, Oklahoma while shopping for souvenirs. Marilyn and I agreed that we would find a sand plum bush and plant it in our yard. Maybe then she will take a stab at Joy’s simple recipe.
Wild Sand Plum Jelly
4 c. wild sand plum juice
4 c. cane sugar
1 tbsp. butter
Wash well and barely cover with water both ripe red wild sand plums and partially ripe pink plums. Boil until fruit is soft and liquid is bright red. Cool until warm only and strain through cheese cloth to obtain clear pulp free juice.
Make jelly in proportion listed above. Bring strained juice to a boil, stir in butter to keep juice from boiling over sides of pan. Slowly stir in sugar, stirring constantly until mixture reaches 220 degrees on candy thermometer. Remove from heat immediately and pour into dry, warm sterilized 1/2 pint jelly jars, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at top of jar for expansion when jelled. Seal jars tightly.
Wild plums contain natural pectin. Do not over cook because jelly will continue to jell while cooling in the jars
Yields approximately 8 to 10 jars.
Fiction South
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Karmic Highway
I never believed my wife Anne would lose her battle with cancer but she must have had an inkling. “Cremate me and spread my ashes on that beach I liked so much on Cape Cod.” Five or so months after she died, I flew to Boston to do just that.
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
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