The Moving Maze

  I never was too good at Tetris. Now I feel as though I live inside the game. Odd shaped blocks surround me, and I must weave through the maze. I expend extra energy dodging boxes. Every day when I return home I discover the new paths through the boxes. This requires relearning the grid so that my poor toes do not continue to pay the price.

  The refrigerator is a wasteland. Old bits of cheese and peanut butter highlighted my recent search for a snack. I did recover two expired cans of Miller High Life beer. They were astoundingly refreshing (Now you know how desperate the situation  has become). Jill sipped her wine from a Styrofoam cup during dinner. She smirked as she enjoyed her beverage. I presume that the bouquet of the wine in a foam cup differs significantly from that which is served in a wine glass. The cookies and chocolate are memories. One lone peach hides in the fruit bowl. Paper plate service is the new the dining protocol.

  Moving generates an asinine amount of trash. So far we average approximately five bags of trash daily. I wonder what important papers are hopelessly lost forever. Hopefully several bills are in the mix. Half full trash bags litter every room. The hall has been reduced to one-way traffic. A four day old fried chicken box permanently resides behind the front door. Starbucks coffee cups decorate the counter tops.

http://tokyo5.wordpress.com/2010/04/02/godzilla-tokyo-hollywood/

  I was denied the use of the washing machine tonight. "Don't mess with my rhythm." Jill warned me as she neatly rationed and folded my clothes for me. A basket by the bed (next to a towering stack of boxes) has become my dresser. I figure by tomorrow the basket will be gone, and I will have a pair of shorts set out for the move. Where are my shoelaces? The crooked stacks of boxes make each room look like mini-cities which wait anxiously for Godzilla to come out of the sea wreaking havoc.


  The moving truck has been ordered. The candle on the good-bye cake has been extinguished. The mail has been switched. The batteries have been charged for the Flip recorder. Eight more boxes to pack and my eleven year saga of Douglasville comes to an end... (and forty odd for one of us [cough]).

More to come,

gf

Moving Day Blues

  As I relace (by the way Webster does not acknowledge this word "relace") my moving shoes, my thoughts wander through the past eleven years. I know these shoes well. Somehow they are comfortable even after many years of neglect. Maybe I am a Gypsy.

"Medusa" by Jonathan Ewert

www.elfwood.com

  There are many details to work out. Dates need to be studied schedules need to be changed. Cable men worry the mind the most. Checkbooks stretch and creak, under the immense weight of deposits and fees. I recently found out what a concession fee was. What a holy crock of manure this concept is. By the way, breaking a lease brings out the Medusa apartment lease ladies. Anyway, Concession Fees are the monies that one would have paid if the lessor had not given such a remarkable deal. Such as, fifty bucks off the monthly rent (because possibly my hair was quite coiffed on a Wednesday). One must pay all of these discounts back as a penalty for being a Gypsy. People do not like us Gypsies. This is no good. (Go back and say those last two sentences with a crappy Russian accent to get the full effect.)

  I often wonder how much stuff I could get rid of. I have a full storage unit which I honestly have not missed much, save a barbecue grill and some fishing poles. I could just donate it all to charity and take a $3000 tax credit. No, the wife would not have that. We must have stuff. We must pack it in endless boxes and take them down endless flights of stairs. I wonder if the Japanese Tsunami survivors miss their stuff. Wait, stop. They are not Americans who save everything and buy bigger stuff every day. They are all minimalists except for the Sumo wrestlers. I am sure that they have a lot of stuff. They are the most American Japanese... then again, maybe not. They are very important and religious allegedly. They have shrines. That is what is missing from the WWE. Shrines. That is the ticket.

  Oh yeah, stuff is everywhere. Boxes scribbled with nonsensical descriptions of the contents. "Bathroom" or "Greg's Crap" are the norm. Some are unreadable and look like designs from a Mayan calendar. I have stubbed my toe thrice this evening. Look at Gypsy feet. They tell a story.

  More to come.

gf

Sweet Corn Sex Education

  I am a city-boy trapped in my city-boy ignorance. Therefore, I seek out information from farmers whenever possible, just in case all of the farmers get annihilated by the big meteor (... and we all know that is coming soon, even though some preachers are lousy at predicting exactly when). 

  After the meteor disaster occurs, city residents will ask me the farming questions... such as... How does one grow strawberries? How does one breed cows? How does one make cheese? How does one raise bees? How does one raise chickens? How does one make bread from scratch? How does one grow corn? What are the (specific) ingredients in "The Recipe" from Walton's Mountain? 

  I respect farmers and gardeners. Do not be deceived by the farmer-folk mannerisms. They know if hens make noise when laying eggs. They know about plants. They can raise goats and Guineas, and farmer kids know about sex way before the city kids do.

The following is a guest post by my farmer-friend Beth. Her family has been farming "forever". The following is how one "does" corn. 

  The story begins with an evening phone call from my Mother. “You wanna do corn in the morning?” (Why it seems like just days earlier, my Father was standing in my kitchen complaining about the rising price of the sweet corn seed. Now we are here already?) I answer "Why yes, we can do that.".

  My Father plants about four rows (50 feet long each) of sweet corn in the family vegetable garden every year. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it does not, sometimes the deer and the 'coon eat it all. Last year my Father was ill, and it did not rain, and the deer were hungry. That was not a good year, but usually there is enough (enough to pick, shuck, cut, blanch and freeze) to keep everyone happy throughout the winter. 

  When the corn has matured (to a point to when one pierces the kernel some milk squirts out) it is ready. My family is picky. Why do all this work if it is not perfect? So when it is perfect, we “DO” corn. 

  It starts early in the morning as the sun is rising. Daddy’s job is to pick, and it must be done while the corn is cool and damp from a bit of dew. He fills the back of his pickup truck with anywhere from 45-to 100 ears of corn (as I said depending on the rain and critters).

  Next Mom will arrive. She will have all the necessary equipment with her including her red chair. Yep, she brings her own chair. This red chair is one of those typical kitchen chairs, red vinyl, with the steps that pull out from under the seat - anyway she cannot cut corn without it. She will also have her strawberry short cake pan  (an over sized deep sided cake pan), two or maybe three very sharp knives, her cigarettes, and her tumbler filled with ice and coke.

  I will be waiting to get that first cup of coffee, checking to see if the skillets are clean, and looking to see that I bought enough zip lock bags. 

  When I look out and see the pickup parked in the shade, the shucking begins. This shucking and cutting process is all accomplished outside. When cutting corn the way that we do it splatters all over everything, and that mess is not wanted on the kitchen cabinets. Daddy will have started shucking, and mother will be positioned on her chair waiting for the first ear. “Get those kids out of bed, and get them down here to help”.

  I hope you can picture this scene as well as I ever so fondly recall. Three teenagers half asleep shucking, Mother and I cutting, swatting flies. Then my father (who is a man of very few words) will begin to speak to his grandchildren about corn. Now what some of you may or may not know is that each baby kernel on the cob has a single strand of silk running to it. In order for the baby to grow, the silk strand must have one drop of pollen from the top tassel fall and “pollinate” the silk. Thus, a baby kernel will produce (that is if it rains and the critters are scarce). There you have it, and that is when my father smiles his proud smile having given his children sex education in its purest form. After the corn is all shucked, the kids announce they are going back to bed (it is after all summer vacation). My mother and I finish up the cutting. Here, I will revel to you what is considered to be one of the family secrets to cutting corn. You must scrape the cob after the corn is cut and capture every bit of the juice. This is very important. Now you do not have to bite the ends of each raw cob before you toss it back into the truck (like mom does - I don’t). She cannot stand to have that last little baby kernel she missed with her knife go to waste. She is crazy like that. 

Beth's Corn Pudding

  Into the kitchen, we go. The corn is put into a skillet just a couple of cups at a time with some of the juice/milk and cooked over a medium heat for just a few minutes (just until it turns color). It is then scooped into zip lock bags (about two cups in each one) with all the air is squeezed out (ALL), and then put into the freezer. Mother will tell me the story about her grandmother "Granny ". She used to put the bags between her legs and squeeze out all the air. These bags of corn will sit in the freezer quietly, until the weather changes (around Thanksgiving). I always bring corn pudding at Thanksgiving and often at any family function. 

  Cook a bag of corn, 2 cups whole milk, 3 to 4 eggs (depending on size) and ½ a stick of melted butter (cooked like a custard) on 325 for about 35-40 minutes-and until golden brown. There is something about the smell of corn pudding cooking in my kitchen. It usually means I got up early and started the day preparing food for a special gathering for those I dearly love. When my children walk into the kitchen and smell that smell, it’s a blending of life’s moments. It is Papa‘s wise words of the birds and the bees, grandma and her red chair and mom cooking in the kitchen. It is the aroma of the family; it is the smell of love.


Thanks for reading,

and thanks to Beth for writing,

gf

The Road to Jekyll Island

  Most people use the Interstate Highway System to reach their destination of choice. Sure, it is quick, and there are plenty of cookie-cutter gas stations along the way.  Gas Stations where one can get a Big Gulp with High Fructose Syrup to overload their liver until the next pee break. However, there is a better way to go. The old forgotten highways (or Parkways) of the not-so-recent-past are the best way to get to your destination according to gf.

  Driving from Atlanta to Jekyll Island gf chooses the "Golden Isles Parkway" (or Highway). There is some confusion about the name as there are two different signs posted along the way. Some signs state that the road is a Highway and others state that it is a Parkway. The shop owners on this route even get confused. There are businesses named after each version. I do not think anyone truly knows if it is a Parkway or a Highway. Parkways are scenic roads where one may park to admire the beauty of the surroundings, while highways are just elevated roads. Let us ask Webster.

Highway
: a public way; especially : a main direct road 
Parkway
: a broad landscaped thoroughfare 

I took some pictures along the way. You be the judge of whether this is a Highway or a Parkway.

A few miles past the Swine and Dine BBQ restaurant, I spotted what I call the "Cornbread Castle".

Cornbread Castle

 Several miles north west of McRae is an American Artist of sorts. I did no background work. I have no idea who is responsible for this cornbread art, but I did find it fascinating.

  The monster Weather Vane atop an odd shaped WW2 style hanger caught my attention initially. Only after stopping and taking some photos of it did I notice the other delicate art sculptures.

The Fisherman and Jonah's Giant Fish Weather Vane

Satellite Dish Shade

 The Random Zombie Camel stared into my eyes and made me dizzy.

Random Zombie Camel

Tungsten Sunflower

   Viewing this roadside art made me think that the road to Jekyll actually may be a Parkway instead of a mere Highway. There is not much else to look at on this alleged Parkway save some mobile homes, deserted factories, Pine trees, lumber mills, vacant produce stands, and a dozen or more "towns". If one drives this thoroughfare on a Friday night during football season, one may witness a Middle School football game. The local football stadiums are packed to the gills on a football Friday night in small-town America.

After smelling the sweet fragrance of the Tungsten Sunflowers, I plodded ahead toward the metropolis of McRae. Sometimes one can appreciate things better from afar. A bikini swimsuit is like that. Appreciating a hot pink bikini at the beach from afar is much more rewarding that getting the close-up (well, 87.4% of the time).

  One needs to view the Mini Statue of Liberty in McRae with a passing glance to appreciate it to the fullest. Do not stop and take pictures as I did.

Patriotic McRae (from afar)

What the... ??

Zombie Nation

Liberty Bell (crack and all!)

Proud to be an American

   I was emotionally charged from the visit to the Mini Statue of Liberty. Emotions such as fear, anxiety, confusion, anger, and sympathy ran through my mind. Who has done this, and why? Now I understand why the French gave us the Statue of Liberty. We suck at making statues.

 
   Jasper gave up its Crown Jewel this year. Check out this taxidermists dream ride. It was quite the traffic stopper.

Pimp My Ride

A 'coon skin cap on Crack

Are those Antelope horns?

Proud to live in the South

Is that Woody from Toy Story?

Nice Rattle Snakes

How much wood could a Wood Chuck Chug?

Ducks on a truck...

  I have no more words for this truck.

  "Scenic Parkway" can mean different things to different people. Obviously, in the great state of Georgia the definition of scenic is subjective.

  Hoping for some more traditional Parkway scenic views, I pressed forward to Jekyll Island.

Latham River

Looking toward Jekyll Island

Mudd

Banana Spider

Jekyll Creek

Jekyll Marina

Fisherman on the old bridge over Jekyll Creek

  I conclude that there is parkway like aspects of this Golden Isles Road. However, the majority of the pavement must be called a highway. Either way, it is still a better drive than the Interstate. Drive the road less traveled and find something intriguing.

Thanks for reading,
gf