no need to be choosey

there is no shame in being one's self

so don't be afraid of my energy

no need to be choosey

or raise an eyebrow because I'm different

variety is the spice of life

and if every woman in heaven

or in your life

is a cookie cutter

lacking differentiation and

a way to intimidate you

that would just be shame

because I'm going to keep on
being me
and if you can't deal,
then honey raise an eyebrow
and get out the kitchen

we named the turkey Jerry

well, the uncle [a noted dark meat fan, and you people know who you are] insisted on a whole bird. drumsticks, wings, and a stuffed cavity. cavity?! on thanksgiving eve at 8PM, Mom and I were huddled around this recently defrosted carcas, sizing up the work to be done. before we got down to business as it were, I asked if we could name the turkey. as she answered, I blurted out, "Jerry."
Jerry was a gordo bird, nearly 20 lbs, and kept in a molded form by an elaborate series of trusses. after wrestling with the last of these trusses, in fear that something would give way and send inner matter onto us, my father was called into the kitchen. it is amazing that a man of limitted vision is still so agile with his hands. in one fell swoop the last of the plastic was gone. mom and I were shaking with laughter, our unwashed hands held like that of a surgeon prepping. this is when my sister departed from a magazine article she had been reading to join us. at that moment, dad pulled out the neck, which had been carefully stowed within said cavity. my sister chose to yell "OMG, is that a penis?" now wouldn't that be something.
needless to say, much of Jerry went uneaten. he was separated into various takeaway containers to be refrigerated at the uncle's house. Jerry was a little dry anyway. we made him into soup for dinner tonight.

Stardust

one of my favorite songs of all time

And now the purple dusk of twilight time

Steals across the meadow of my heart

High up in the sky the little stars climb

Always reminding me that we're apart

You wandered down the lane and far away

Leaving me a song that will not die

Love is now a stardust of yesterday

The music of the years gone by

Sometimes I wonder why I spend

The lonely nights dreaming of a song

The melody haunts my reverie

And I am once again with you

When our love was new

And each kiss an inspiration

But that was long ago

And now my consolation

Is in the stardust of a song

Beside the garden wall

When stars are bright

You are in my arms

The nightingale tells his fairy tale

Of paradise where roses grew

Though I dream in vain

In my heart it will remain

My stardust melody

The memory of love's refrain

the winds of every other day

The winds of every other day

ease the movement of the season,

as trees darken themselves

and release yellow fans

into a spiraled drifting

to the ground, where

they await another gust,

or the steady repitition of a rake

to comb the yellow grass beneath,

and form collected mounds

in the yard or by the street.

The aromatic death of leaves
is sweet, like the end
preparing for the beginning
of something else.

The barrenness of an unsheathing tree,

once plumed in a rustling coat,

reveals the secrets behind it:

a cemetary I never saw before,

or a playground whose children

I heard, but could not find.

Why Should the Fire Die? tour 2005

I wanted to write this while most of the details are fresh in my head. Let me just tell you that last night was absolutely breathtaking. Nickel Creek, one of my favorite groups EVER, has been trickling down through the South on their tour and I found out about it almost too late. When I bought tickets for last night's show, they ended up being in the second to last row of the balcony. This group is indie, and they play in smaller venues, so the nosebleed section still got a great show. I took my cousin, who with her cooperative smile got us into the parking lot for free. The lot attendant was creepy, and man was it embarassing having him ask us to smile perty, but we got in! Oh, and this living room party was packed FULL. I don't think there was an empty seat.

Martin Sexton, a lone folk musician with a guitar, opened with such exuberance that he could have been an entire band unto himself. While he sounds a little like the lead from CCR, he can emulate any sound (a white Bobby McFerrin?), and I haven't heard such range since the late Jeff Buckley. Sexton is pretty awesome. We were all laughing and clapping. My favorite song was his last, "Freedom of the Road." Check him out- I recommend his Live Wide Open album.

Nickel Creek pranced on stage around 9PM, and launched immediately into two songs from their latest album (Why Should the Fire Die? go buy it), including "Helena" which melted my heart the first time I heard it. I love these people. They played for two hours straight, smartin off between pieces and jamming intensely into arrangements of other songs within their own. Sean Watkins was playing so hard that he busted a guitar string during the third song. I had read that they had made an arrangement of Britney's "Toxic" and was not disappointed. Most of us were screaming by this time. They revealed their desire to have had the closing song on Lord of the Rings when they dissed on Enya and her reverb chamber, and launched into "Small People" in the middle of an instrumental. A bearded Chris Thile was all over the stage, dancing with an unstinting Frankenstein/ neo-Elvis stiff-legged jive. Fantastic. He was quite adamant in his love of coffee (and a little self-endorsement?). Does he need it though?

A favorite song of mine from their new stuff, "Anthony" was the show for me. Sara Watkins strapped on a ukulele and stepped forward. When one man in the audience hollered at her, she said, "Ah, a ukulele man. They come out." She began playing this simple piece, which sounds like it belongs somewhere in the '30s, standing alone in a spotlight. Her fellow band members quietly gathered around her, sharing her microfone to hum and add harmony. It was both effective and hilarious. A tall gentleman playing the standing bass stepped onto a small platform during the close of the last set, which nobody noticed until he started clogging. What?! We were on our feet, cheering. Nickel Creek was on fire!!! They came running back during our standing ovation, so happy and pleased, and then proceeded to play us several more songs. "Why Should the Fire Die?" closed the performance out so agreeably: they do play well together like a small orchestral ensemble, but when they pour themselves into a vocal like that... so smooth and easy, it is almost like a lullaby reverberating off the walls.

I hope they continue to grow and evolve in their music as a group, and as individuals. They are on an indie label, which I hope never changes. More than anything else, I hope they don't lose sight of themselves or become something of a puppet show performing in uber-plexes and coliseums. They are too good for that.

good for a laugh

note the Merrells peeking out of the skirt and the temporary scaffolding rigged up the stairwell, from which workmen applied cement to the ceiling and stucco to the walls. five of us spent several hours scraping it off of the stairs.

Cha'ston gentility

Yesterday was the moment the class had been waiting for all semester: our professor delivered her Piggly Wiggly project, which included the use of narrative voices for the reading of quotes. Prior to her 1.75 hour monologue, I overheard a group of women in my class discussing a commonly held notion which for years southern historians have been trying to dispell. And there those ladies were, sitting in a history class in the south. If you like Margaret Mitchell, please know that I may offend you, but hopefully this will be a good challenge.

At the plantation of my recent employment, the screen over the foyer window placed the public [waiting on the porch for a house tour] on display much like a two-way mirror, and many of us would gather there before opening the door, to gage the audience. You would see every kind of person standing out there. Each guide was required to wear a hoopskirt [from a bridal catalog] under a costume, which was a source of delight to many on the other side of that door. I chose to wear hiking boots and an unadorned outfit, just to mess with the tourists. To the German guests who murmurred "Scarlet" as they passed into the parlor, I replied, "She was English." The Old South is still represented by one film, captured there like a hiccup that never lets down. Everyone owns a sprawling piece of land, with an avenue of oaks leading up to a ridiculous mansion, and at least 100 slaves. In short, though so few of the estates are on public display today, this is translated into the houses on the Charleston peninsula. Surely these blue-blooded folk of old money are all gentile, get dressed for every occasion, refined people. The ladies [in my class] discussing the southern region president of Piggly Wiggly, Buzzie N., were shocked to learn that his Cha'ston home is festooned with pig statues and his luncheons are catered by the grocery store deli. Sweet tea, grab n' go chicken, green beans with pearl onions, and biscuits? Where are the caviar, the oysters, the bubbling champagne, and the decadent desserts?

Imagine, a wealthy southerner enjoying common amenities! I've seen this man at a restaurant: he's a regular guy. You needn't get all worked up. Having money, being rich, doesn't make the man.

mom?

I keep having these dreams in which I am pregnant. The night before last, I dreamt that my husband helped to seat me (because of my swollen abdomen) at the table for a family meal. Someone had poured me a glass of purple juice, referring to it as something healthy they'd read about. Will this happen in my future? Will my springy legs still take me everywhere, or will I end up driving some monster car, such as the one in the picture posted before this blog, toting my young ones hither and yon? With every passing year the prospect doesn't seem so likely. I had it all figured out, you know. The man of my dreams would swoop down [or come from the rock he'd been hiding under] and woo me in 2003. We'd marry and start a family, so that by the time my 10 year high school reunion rolled around, I'd have a wallet brimming with baby pictures. Turns out, the man who wooed me in 2003 had a completely different agenda, and good riddance to him. Que sera, sera!

"you sound like a Yankee"

My sister is the globetrotter, going anywhere she pleases. I’ve done a little traveling myself, but every city I live in, for whatever reason, is below the Mason-Dixon Line. I used to be ashamed to be Southern: for years I was shunning fried chicken and sawmill gravy, and speaking deliberately with a Midwestern accent I picked up from some friends. As a park ranger, I could get through an entire history talk without a single y'all, and had many a tourist to tell me “you sound like a Yankee.” This charade carried on for some time.

And yet, there were moments when the distant motoring of cars reminded me of the sound of boats motoring in the bay. I could close my eyes and smell the salt in the air. The afternoon sun was warming the side of my face. The romance! It is inescapable. At last I know that deep down I have always loved the South. The people here are more relaxed, polite, and warm than any other place I have been. I don’t want to be lost in swelling city populations, afraid to look people in eye. This move back to Charleston won’t be a step back; it will be a step forward, with a huge smile on my face. Now about that sawmill gravy…

Forest Trail to Pocahontas Street (revised)

Forest Trail begins on a rise at its merger with Ocean Boulevard, creating a consistent slope for coasting on a bicycle. The street narrows as it progresses away from the ocean, toward the intracoastal waterway. Indigenous barrier island oak, wax myrtle, and palm trees are in virtually every yard. I can still tell you who lived where, but I cannot tell you the formula for the volume of a cylinder.
The street makes a loop before spilling out onto Carolina Boulevard, and on the way were the Davis' and Reagan's houses. Dr. Morris' family and the Sullivans lived across the street from our rental home at 212 Forest Trail. The front yard was sand, and the backyard was grass. A drainage creek bordered the back from adjacent properties. Across that creek were the Gusses and the Traceys. We met the Traceys first, at a park in 1982, and have been friends with them ever since. My sister and I went to preschool and grammar school with almost every kid on the island. Though it seems cliche, this is true: no one locked their doors and everybody knew everybody.
Nearly everything was accessible by bicycle, including the new country club, Wild Dunes. Early on, we used the pedestrian passage to sneak in, and with a friend's swim team pass we went swimming in exclusive pools. Otherwise, we'd solicit a parent to watch us as we splashed in the sea. I'll never forget the taste of salt water or wild blackberries from the dunes as long as I live. Purple, almost black thunderstorms came every summer afternoon: the race home to escape them separated the tourists from the natives, because the tourists got soaked thinking the storm was headed in another direction. My friends and I would nearly be home, sand crusted on our feet and legs, sea water matted in our hair, before the first raindrop simmered on the asphalt. Everyone had a hose or an outdoor shower in their backyard, because this was and is a beach culture. We had rented another house before this one, a yellow one, which I remember only because yellow is my color. This was the life for seven years, until my folks bought a house on the peninsula of nearby Mount Pleasant [when I was nine]. A year later, Hurricane Hugo ate our former rental home by way of storm surge.

The neighborhood was very different on Pocahontas Street in Mt. Pleasant: older kids and latch-key kids milled around the street, inviting themselves to play in our backyard. My parents began locking the doors of the house and the car. We were instructed to take longer bike rides, away from those kids. Our escape was to the bay, which faces the harbor and James Island. A childhood friend would later hold her wedding reception at our favorite park, Alhambra Hall. We could go crabbing with [raw] chicken wings off the Old Bridge, but our catch had to be donated to someone else in passing [as we're allergic]. During softball games on the fields beside Mount Pleasant Academy, Dad would take us for snowcones from the snackbar. My favorite flavor was rainbow because it was everything. We still saw friends, but this required phone calls and someone to drive us here or there. The summer before middle school my mother and I got matching boy haircuts, which was a disasterous choice for an adolescent girl. These years have their own stories.

*this is the first in a series about the Isle of Palms (or is it I Love Palms? ;-))*

all leg

Did you know that Good Times airs on Saturday morning? I took in an episode while my friend thawed some ice on her busted lip. She had just been pummeled. Allow me to explain. Yesterday morning I went to a kickboxing class with my best friend. She had informed me beforehand not to laugh or call attention to myself, as the instructor would victimize me for the entire hour. The gentleman in question was a wiry guy with a military crew cut and a shouting voice which reminded me of Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men (imagine “I want the truth!” counting out reps). Every move we made was choreographed in 25 counts, double time. Today I feel like someone dragged me behind a bus, but that is a fine feeling. I really cannot complain. Jami goes to this class several times a week: she tolerates the beatings. Tom, I mean, Tim has kicked her in the head and punched in her cheekbone. This happens when the short-legged lady doesn’t partner up with her. Three of us were in class that morning, so to insure her safety, yours truly took her hand for the side kick lay-ups. The fact that I am all leg is something I chose to ignore as we practiced form for the first set. Tom shouted “ONE!” and I made impact. A target had been hit. “You just kicked me in the mouth!” she cried. Horror spread threw me: I beat up my best friend! She would not let go of my leg, insisting that I finish the set. If you know me, you know that I cope with being mortified by laughing hysterically. Here is the picture: I am up on one leg, with one foot less than five inches from Jami’s face and I am shaking like a leaf in a fit of convulsive giggling, while Jami has placed the collar of her shirt in her mouth to catch the blood and she is still holding my hand and my leg. This incident occurred in front of the entire karate class, waiting along the back wall. Jami is no longer allowed to have a partner.

sleeping with the windows open

one night this summer the entire neighborhood went black. the neighbors crowded in the stairwells, flipping switches, but all remained in the dark. the fireflies carried on noticed. the crickets harmonized audibly. the evening was velvet in its opaque prescence. windows were opened, with no rattling a/c units to disturb the breathing night. i had but two votive candles at my aid, and so with a contented sigh i slept the unencumbered slumber of a child.

put dad in the canoe

on the borders of the lake,
where the water
meets a fragmented shore,
leaves had collected,
and as we rode by
i could have scooped them up,
only to fill the red canoe
that my father was paddling.

we took a holiday to the lake
and discovered a canoe
in the boathouse for three
and oars for two,
and i discovered the little boy
in my father.
putting dad in the canoe,
with my uncle in back
and me in the middle,
he was 50 but instantly 11:
with an oar in his hands,
he traversed the lake
carrying us all with a smile
i'd never seen before.
his arms ached
for a week after,
but he never complained.