Sunday, February 9, 2014

Be There or Be Square

Tonight, season premier, nine.


Afternoon Delight

The truck is clean and shines. The engine oil has been refreshed with an addition of a bottle of Marvel's Mystery Oil - even dumped a bit into the gasoline. (Its that red bottle at the auto shop.) The truck tires are stuffed full of new air and I even cleaned the friggin leaves out of my windscreen vents.

The driveway is leaf free too. I swear six tons of leaves have fallen since last week. I, of course, was careful not to allow any to escape into my neighbors yard....she's so prissy about leaves from her oak, which the winds dump onto my driveway, finding their way back into her yard. Last time we had words I told her I was certain she wanted to mulch them and only wanted to help. So instead I was careful to blow the pile deep into her shrubs. She'll never know the difference.

Earlier as I hosed clean an area of our brick walk I passed by one of my old clay pots where once a beautiful healthy basil grew. I glanced around at all the other now empty pots and felt like old cat poop at a dog show. I believe it's time for me to rebuild my herb garden....such as it was, all in pots.

I haven't a single solitary pepper plant. They've all died. I place all the blame on my six day work schedule and this friggin depression. Anyhow, it's time for change.

So, next weekend, on my day off, I shall make time and visit a local plant nursery. (They, the lovers of northern climate change, giggle. Nursery? Well yes. One of such is located but a few minutes from my front door and guess what, its open.) There I shall pick through their sorry stock and find something, some herb, to plant.

I have an itch to grow food.

It's been a short weekend.



Here it is, my favorite day of the week. I've finished reading the paper. Had my pot of tea and eaten an English muffin. Time to rise and work just as soon as the tiny Carolina Wren outside my window finishes her song.

There, she's done. As soon as my lovely wife arrives home from church I will gently push her out the garage door and place a bucket of soapy water near her feet and a sponge in her hand and point towards my truck. It's filthy. I'm embarrassed to drive the thing. There are standards, don't 'ya know.

I'm sure she'll not mind the mixture of cold water on a fifty degree windy morning. She's made of tough good Georgia stock, fine breed those Southern peaches. I'll, of course, lend a hand. The tires could stand a bit of air. Oil level requires a check, and perhaps the coolant needs a topping off.  Don't worry, I'll stand by in case her wash water needs another shot of liquid soap.

As I wait for her I should make preps for our dinner. Remember the tease I posted, of course you do, the chicken dish...yep, that one. Thing is the dadgum chicken, a whole beauty, is partially frozen. My Georgia peach forgot to take it from the freezer. I'd left instructions, in plain simple English, over the phone. It a whole chicken...needs to be butchered, reduced to portions, but in its current state that's kinda hard. To give her credit she did remove a package of pork chops and they are nicely thawed.

I'm sure she'll not mind spanking a sparkle onto my dirty truck.


The weight of procrastination sits heavily on my shoulders. So, I sit and wait her return and think of you.

I envy you, all my Northern friends with your deep cold snow and your houses all snug with the warmth of wood fires. The smell of freshly baked bread or biscuits with perhaps a bottle of honey, or better yet, a big bottle of real cane syrup proudly placed at the center of the breakfast table with fresh ground coffee all enjoyed by the light of your Aladdin lamp. I bet you've taken your grandmother's black and crusted dutch oven and placed it on the old wood stove and it simmers a wonderful venison stew.

Later you'll settle back with a good book, wool clad feet towards the fire. The dog nestled nearby and you'll listen as the winter winds howl you towards nirvana. Do you truly understand just how lucky you are to live so far from that imaginary Mason-Dixon line. Well, do you....

 Here I sit. The morning temperature now stands at fifty-seven degrees. The weather bug predicts sixty-seven under partially cloudy skies. The river is flat since the wind has died to nothing and a half. I suppose I should get outside and move my truck and get her bucket of water and sponge ready, maybe an old towel so she'll be able to dry the spots from the trucks just isn't cool to drive a spotted truck under this Florida sunshine.

You bunch of lucky people you...


Well, why not



Maybe I'll order two.