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.
