Stalking the collards man

I saw him out of the corner of my eye today, driving a pickup truck piled high with collards. I know his haunts and I followed him until he parked.

So it was that I parted with three dollars and he parted with three luscious pounds of greens, piling them up in a paper sack while his beautiful white dog made friends with me.

It is so much more fun to shop for one's comestibles this way, instead of in some stark and soul less monster market.

Spring and summer will bring many more such opportunities, and one can buy everything from mushrooms to honey.

The pot is bubbling and boiling now, with a tasty pork knuckle tossed in for seasoning.

Eye contact

Now and then, one gets a clear reminder of our more savage human past.

If you look a dog directly in the eye and maintain that contact, you are challenging its status. He who looks away first admits subservience.

Wednesdays are my lunch buddy day with the little guy at his school. I got there a little late today, and found that he had plunked himself down right in the middle of the group of hostile, unpleasant kids who pick on him.

The battle was not long in commencing. They began to try to tell me all the bad things he had supposedly done. Then I felt a shift, an attempt to probe and challenge my authority. Which is awkward, because as a lunch buddy, I'm not supposed to be an authority figure in the first place, just a friend. And these inner city youngsters already get enough harshness and push-back from the adults in their lives.

So it is as if I was thrust back again into the middle of the kid-pack of my own childhood, and yet, of course, it was different. I felt their hard stares, their barely disguised jibes at both him and me -- but what could I possibly do? For I remember being little myself and how mortified I was as a youngster when a well-meaning teacher stepped into a situation to protect me but only made things worse.

Do I ignore it? Do I tattle-tale? Do I try to turn it around, disarm them with wit and warmth rather than attempting pyschological dominance?

I opted to warn them that I would take the matter to their teacher if it kept up, and then to pointedly ignore them and focus on my lunch buddy, even though my words to him sounded awkward, and I felt very vulnerable, as if they knew I was trying to dodge them rather than confront and win. But in a few minutes, somehow we all got talking about airplanes, which was apparently more interesting to the group than meanness.

I was reminded of what I read somewhere: the only people who want to be kids again, are those who have forgotten how hellish childhood really was.

Revelation

A streak of mica gleams against the salmon-hued granite rock that I hold in my hand – ancient rock, born in boiling lava millions, perhaps billions of years ago, when this continent looked vastly different.

I have been back to nature today and I brought this little bit of it back with me. Certainly, it was only a lunch-break excursion but it was a revelation. Right here not ten minutes drive from my office is an island of wild-ness. I have known about it, vaguely, for years, but have never gone there on my own. Just as, for years, I never thought to wander through the very forest that lies behind my home. It took a visit from my parents, who are prone to wander and explore everywhere that they go, to wake me up and get me out there.

A friend has loaned me a book, Last Child in the Woods, that is absolutely horrible.

What I mean is, that it is as bleak and sad a commentary on our civilization as Jeremiah’s Lamentation for Israel in the Bible.

In only one generation, America has gone from a land where children splashed in streams, built tree-forts or played ball in weedy lots, to a nation where children are more familiar with Pokemon characters than the plants that grow or the animals that live in their neighborhoods.

The consequences are not just children who don’t grow up to be birdwatchers. The consequences are children who grow up completely disconnected from nature, obese, depressed or dosed with Ritalin.

Perhaps I am in the generation in between. I had a nature-touched childhood, played with frogs in my Grampa’s creek – but I had to be pushed a little. I preferred to have my nose in a book most of the time. My mother even locked the door behind me one summer day to force me to stay outside for a while.

As I noted above, I still have to work on myself today, push myself out of the rut, make being in nature a conscious habit.

Today’s children are not only not taught to enjoy nature, in many cases they are actively discouraged from doing so. Parents fear to let them wander alone. Homeowners covenants prevent them from building treehouses or even climbing trees. Even summer camp these days hardly matches the original concept.

In my opinion, a guy who cuts down a thousand trees to build a subdivision and then replants with some saplings from Home Depot, is much more reprehensible than some kid who breaks a branch trying to climb in one of those saplings.

I was proud of myself today. All on my own, I found my way back to the very spot in that wild place where my guide last Saturday showed me trailing arbutus. Here is a picture.



It’s not much to look at right now, but wait until I catch it in bloom!

As I walked back, I saw deer tracks.



Then, at a meadow’s edge, I found a feather, black and white, who knows from what. Later, I caught sight of a small bird balancing on a shrub. He was just far enough from me to be an indistinct blur and I longed for a good set of binoculars to see him better. I have not had such a longing before. Maybe I can make this my nature goal this year; to pay more attention to the birds around me.

And maybe somehow, I can involve a child. I don’t have any kids of my own but I have a niece, as I’ve mentioned. What fun we would have had today, looking at arbutus, pine cones, deer tracks and birds!

Terror by night

Sweetie has forgiven me. But it took Her a few minutes to do so.

Just as we were falling asleep last night, I saw a horrible banshee creature with a ruined face, standing beside Her, by our bed. My protective instinct was to grab Sweetie and tell Her that I would protect Her from this thing.

Of course, there was nothing actually there. It's a mental phenomenon, documented in normal people around the world, sometimes called "The Old Hag Syndrome." Your brain, just as you are falling asleep, for some unexplained reason, conjures up a vision of some horrible creature of fiendishly evil mien, bent on doing you harm.

Usually when I see this thing -- and it has been many months since it last happened -- it is on my side of the bed and so Sweetie's only involvement is to shake me awake and comfort me.

Being grabbed in the middle of the night, by surprise, is not a pleasant experience. So I lay there with my heart pounding against my ribs, and She resisted the urge to hit me with the alarm clock.

Tobacco

Two of my blog friends have written about their personal history with tobacco this week, so I thought I'd put my two cents in.

A long time ago, when tempers were raging hot about the temperance movement, a politician was asked where he stood on the issue of alcohol, and he said something like this:

"Well, if you're talking about the spirits that warm the soul on a cold winter day, the convivial refreshment that gladdens the hearts of friends, I'm for it.

If you're talking about the demon drink that drives a man to madness, breaks up families and brings a tear to the faces of wives and children, I'm against it."

That is how I would express my feelings on the golden weed.

The aroma of a pipe is sweet and pleasant and it was once good enough for Santa Claus. A good cigar also perfumes the air and conveys a touch of class. And there is a camaraderie among smokers of cigarettes that we non-smokers can't replicate; there is a sultry glamour when a beautiful Woman leans in for a gentleman to give Her a light. And for a certain kind of guy, crimson lipstick on a snow-white filter lights a fire as hot as a cigarette's glowing cherry, creamy smoke rising from soft red lips melts him like butter in a hot pan -- but I've gone on about that before and won't tonight.

That side of tobacco cannot be denied, cannot be ignored, if we would speak truthfully and in totality about it.

But the sight of some down-on-his-luck soul digging through a public ashtray for a smokeable butt; the early aging of a beautiful face; the mounds of discarded butts at every stoplight; the sad stories of people who have lost loved ones prematurely -- this is the dark side of tobacco.

Joy fulfilled

Saturday was perfect from start to finish.

Bundled tight against the cold, I followed an expert botanist through a woodland in the heart of our city. I never expected that here in our Virginia flatlands, She would show me a certain plant that is often talked about, rarely seen.

It is trailing arbutus -- a lovely wildflower that bears a heavenly scent, I am told. Of course, what I saw this time of year was just a handful of leaves but I will return to that spot as spring conquers winter, and experience this legend for myself.

Then, from the quiet of that woodland, it was off to the theater with Sweetie and my little great Niece. Of course, She (great Niece, not Sweetie) wanted to blast Hannah Montana on the car CD player and we indulged Her.

She loved the movie Water Horse, shared a DQ Blizzard with us, and then spent some time playing games in the arcade. She was particularly attracted to that awful grabber-crane thing that gives you about ten seconds to try to grip some cheap little squishy toy. She spent about four of my dollars on the damn thing after which I called a halt to the bloodletting.

Oh, but how can one resist the quivering lip and the sad eyes of a six year old who just wants "one more chance, please?" Sweetie implored me as well and Sweetie generally gets Her way.

As She sank another dollar into the machine, I began to silently but fervently pray -- not so much for the sake of my wallet as for a little Girl to make a happy memory.

Scarce had I completed my earnest request of the Power Above when She (the Great Niece, not the Power Above) began to squeal. She had hooked not one but TWO of those squishy balls.

The day was saved.

I drove Sweetie and Her home through snow that was beginning to fall thick and fast, feeling quiet joy suffuse my soul.