Summertime South Part I

I often write about European life and idle wanderings, but I’m really a son of the South…the southern United States that is.  Although, I admit to a kinship with other southerners around the globe.

Just returned from a sojourn in the southeastern U.S.  Reconnected with old friends and the old roots.

You talk about lazy!  The South in the summertime goes as slow and warm as melting butter on fresh bread.   People from the north think about going to the beach.  Southerners are a little bit different.

Family.  Friends.  Barbecue and ice cold beer.  Sittin’ outside.  Taking life slower and easier than a tired sloth.

Traveled through the beating heart of the Deep South.  Atlanta, Charleston and places in between.

Backyard Capers.

Don’t drink beer?  Well, sit out back, overlooking a lake.  Pull up a chair to the picnic table and pour a wine cooler, an iced tea, anything that wets down the body and soul.  The blaze of the sun seems to cut through the towering trees and long, low shadows.  Sure, unlike most of Europe, you can go inside and let the air conditioning do the job, but it just isn’t summertime if you’re not outside sweatin’ on the outside and coolin’ down the inside.

The lake is as peaceful as it gets.  Wide and deep. Water like dark glass.  Ducks paddle by, hoping for some breadcrumbs, or cracked corn.  Turtles, just their heads above water, paddle around the dock.  A few bass and sunfish feel the call and join the crowd.

Of course we grab a handful of this and that and toss it.  Couple of white swans elbow their way closer, tame enough to take bits of bread from your fingertips.  Careful they don’t take the fingers, too.

My friends notice a big flock of Canada geese cruising on the other side of the lake.  “Hate those bastards,” he says.  “They scare away the ducks and crap all over the dock, the yard, everywhere they damn well feel like it.”

I know he keeps a couple of pellet guns around.  “Think you can hit ‘em from here?”  I know he can’t.  The geese are specks, maybe a thousand yards away.

He fetches the pellet gun and gives it a pump.  Slides a .177 pellet in the chamber and raises the barrel like he’s aiming for a moon crater.  Can’t see where the projectile hits, but the geese hear the snap of the air and gently move even further away.  I mention it to my buddy.

“They won’t come closer while the swans are here,” he says.  “Swans don’t take any crap from anything or anybody.”  If the pun was intentional, he doesn’t show it.

His wife comes up from behind.  “I’ve got some cans saved up, if you want to do some target practice.”

The pellet gun is ready.

We go back to our chairs at the picnic table while she sets up the cans across the yard, about fifteen yards away.  My buddy and I take turns plinking.  The .177 is not a big caliber. A .22 would dwarf it, but the cans still fly off when you connect.

He’s a better shot than I am, but the game is still entertaining and we go on for about an hour, pausing for sips of wine cooler, or to nosh a bit on cheese, crackers, and sausage we picked up at Whole Foods.

Meanwhile the wives chat about things that wives chat about.

As our enthusiasm slows, his wife comes up with another stroke of genius.  Fireworks!  Nobody in the neighborhood seems to care that we spend the next hour blowing up the backyard.  Sparks everywhere.  Some shots go high in the air before explosions send small, colorful comets across the sky.

Fireworks!

Darkness falls late, but suddenly.  We turn our attentions to greater libations and to the evening primrose, a flower that blooms at night.  While we watch, one flower after another pops open.  By the next afternoon, the flowers die and another set of blooms take their place.

This is real time, not time lapse.

In the south, you’re never bored.  As a last resort, grab another adult beverage, settle back, and watch the flowers bloom.

Farmers’ Markets

Another favorite summertime sport is a visit to a Farmers’ Market.  Unlike the European versions, which can quickly devolve into stands of cheap clothing, soft ice cream vendors, stalls with crude leather goods and the like, many Southern Farmers’ Markets, like the one in Charleston South Carolina, do a better job of vetting the participants.  Yes, they include artists and food vendors, but these are top of the line and in no way detract from the bushels and bushels of home grown fresh fruit and vegetables.  One man, selling local shrimp, cries out, “These shrimp were swimming yesterday!”

Being a doubter by nature, I check my watch. 9 o’clock in the morning means those shrimp haven’t been on ice more than 12 to 18 hours.  Can’t get much fresher unless you’re working on the shrimp boat.

We check out the shrimp and grits, down a coffee, share a fresh donut that was in hot grease just moments ago.  In a nearby gazebo, two guitars and two singers belt out some tolerable John Denver and Willie Nelson.

Shrimp and Grits

 We get up and wander.  Paintings that capture the soul of Charlestonian life, such as sea creatures, historic buildings, cobblestone streets, and plantation houses.  Other vendors sell homemade fruit jams and relishes, kettle corn from a huge copper pot, fresh bread and local cheeses, home grown herbs in plastic pots, pottery that catches the eye, hand crafted wooden furniture from salvaged planks. But, nothing detracts from the bounteous mounds of sweet, yellow and white corn, red and brown skinned heirloom tomatoes, shiny black eggplants, bright green okra, and summertime fruits.  Everything is local and vine or tree ripened.  The green striped watermelons are begging to be iced and sliced, peaches that capture the gold of the sun are ready to burst.

One lady and her helper, who might be her teenage daughter, offers samples of relish on a smooth cracker.  “Been making these in my house since I can’t remember when.  My momma and grandmomma made ‘em.  Everything comes straight from my garden to my kitchen.”

Golden honey from local bees.  I’m traveling, but I can’t help myself.  I buy all I can carry.  Some I’ll give to friends, some my wife and I will eat.

This is summertime in the South, with a warmth that feels like home.