A Constant Gardener

Life began in a garden.

Probably was in the Pacific Northwest, because apples certainly did well there. My present garden is also in the northwest - the northwest corner of an intersection of two streets in the town where I live.

There the analogy abruptly ends (sigh).

Anyway, after I moved from the Pacific Northwest not too long ago, I started a garden. I did this because I grew up in the wonderfully garden-friendly town of Crowley, Louisiana, or zone 9, for you zone-obsessed folks.

I carefully went about establishing my garden in the finest tradition of nilly-willy gardeners everywhere. I was ferociously efficient. I spent only, say, five minutes deciding to locate five east-west running rows that were 15 feet long by two feet wide.

The ends of the rows abutted a small bush-and-tree line to the west and my home to the east. How proud I was of that placement - using up most of my tiny backyard with a "productive plants" design !

In the completely barren front yard, I created a bed running north and south that was four feet wide and 20 feet long right in front of the east-facing picture window. Pretty soon, I figured, I would looking out upon amber waves of grain - or something like that - each and every day.

Now my front yard, I found out, had been used for 13 years as prime real estate - for parking broken-down cars. The back yard suffered no such abuse, as it was obviously the primary source for excavating the finest blackjack clay in a three-state region (no brag- just fact).

So my gardening adventure was a wonderful challenge and opportunity right from the "git-go," as old- khaki- pants- stuffed- in- the- tops- of- white- boots gardeners everywhere will appreciate.

First thing I did was amend the soil, because my soil's constitution demanded it. This was not easy, because - as with the United States Constitution - amending something so firmly entrenched is a slow process that takes years. I did not know this.

Merrily I hoed the blackjack rows in the backyard while adding, say, a few dozen shovels full of dirt transferred from a front-yard pile delivered 10 years ago to the owner of the home (and my landlord).

"Sold to me as topsoil . . . " the owner bragged to me, when describing the dirt. He neglected to finish that sentence as " . . . for a nuclear waste facility I had planned."

What it amounted to was hardpan clay that Crowley's rice farmers would kill for, to use either at the bottom of their flooded fields or as a liner base for their backyard swimming pools.

After hoeing this amalgam of clays into submission over two weeks of lumbar-shredding work, I planted myself in a recliner and grew tipsy, imbibing a favorite beverage and dreaming of plants in the Jack- in- a- beanstalk category.

Be careful - as my English teacher would say - for what you wish.

I soon reaped all of the horrifying results that Jack achieved without any of the fun (or golden egg- laying geese). Giants (swamp mosquitoes) chased me, women (neighbor ladies) slapped me, and I was - for a time - trapped in an oven (more on that later).

Anyway - despite the soil, despite my over or under watering, despite no fertilizer of any kind, despite the bugs, despite the meager 4-6 hours of sunlight a day, these gardens actually produced stuff !

These caretaker-challenged gardens triumphed over their creator's (me) lack of intelligent design and gave me spinach, dill, parsley, basil, cucumbers, cantaloupes, pumpkins, tomatoes, bell peppers, giant sunflowers, sage, birdhouse gourds, and jalapeno peppers.

On the ornamental side, they gave me brilliant red fairy trumpets, creamy white roses, sky blue, white, periwinkle, and purple morning glories, yellow calendula, blue flax, snowy white achillea, red/ orange/ yellow daisies, purplish bluebonnets, cerulean bachelor buttons, lavender lavender, and did i mention a giant sunflower that was 12 feet tall and had a head that was more than a foot across !?

If this is not evidence of evolution interacting with the life force, I am a monkey's uncle !

But that bombardment of braggadocio in the preceding paragraphs does not the whole story tell. I learned a heck of a lot about what to do next year because most of my garden would have been adjudged an abject failure had you compared it to an LSU Master Gardener's blue-ribbon winning efforts !

Where I over watered, mold grew. Where I planted too closely, plantswerecrowded and produced stunted fruit. Where I did not water enough, plants wilted. Where I didn't break up the clay deep enough and prepared a more shallow bed, plants toppled over.

Where the sun did not shine long enough, plants were small. Where I did not build up a raised bed, plants drowned. Where I did not mix in lots of organic material, fruit was pygmy-sized.

But all of these hard lessons learned did not my enthusiasm lessen. I was as proud as a papa could be about my foot-long cucumbers; baseball-sized bell peppers; juicy, tasty tomatoes; shot-put sized, juicy and sweet cantaloupes; birdhouse -to -be gourd; seven -foot tall and two -foot wide monster dill; 30 -inch tall basil; bushy big sage; frilly, full parsley; blue-green, bold broccoli, screaming orange, basketball-sized pumpkins, and did i mention that flagpole - sized giant sunflower ?

Life, as they say, began in a garden. My life was renewed there.

Walkabout

On most days ( but those like this one are my favorite - a cool, sunny fall morning ) I love to go on a walk.


Perhaps I shall take an hour's walk this morning (most of my walks are for an hour or less )

As I place one foot in front of the other, I always marvel at the feeling of the fullness of life that's in the very air, and resolve to never lose sight of how precious just an hour's walk can be.

Will I see or hear a favorite bird (I have many), or smell a favorite odor (I have many), or touch an unusual surface with my foot or hand (there are so many out there) or taste a favorite herb growing wild along the roadside ?

Ah, but mostly, will I be able to feel the glory of the life force all around me - and will I make plans for a longer walk ?


Perhaps I shall walk for an entire morning -

Now we're talking. A whole morning's walk will give me a chance to explore more without settling for a "catch-as-catch-can" experience during my brief hour perambulating.

I now will make time to veer off of the path and take chances and make guesses and ramble and wander and wonder a bit. I will be certainly take care to carry a few things with me : water, binoculars, a staff or two, a snack, a small journal and pen, a small camera, hats, good shoes.

I will have time to do that most sumptuous thing on a walk: stop walking; to watch a bunny feed, to locate the source of a bird's call, to see a caterpillar inch up a stalk for her breakfast.

This is my favorite type of walk, as it blends length and do-ability - I just need a whole morning !


Perhaps I shall walk for a day or more - ah - the luxury of it !



A whole day or more ! Surely I will have planned this walk to maximize the pleasure and chances of a fantastical experience. Even if the walk is for a week - it's done in day-tight compartments - so a day's walk is what I shall describe.

I can do all the things mentioned previously PLUS a few more things a whole day or more's time makes possible : I will have researched and so know what to look for, what to smell for, what to touch (and not !), what to taste, what to listen for; all that's left is what to feel - and that is at chance's door - how fabulous !

I am pre-dispositioned to want to feel the full measure of the life force as it courses all around me in naked nature. So I will look for ways to fit it seamlessly: I may sit in a tree for awhile, or wade through a brook, or sit in tall grass, or lie on the ground.

I will have time for an afternoon nap or a spate of writing in my journal after a sumptuous lunch. Food tastes better on the trail.

I will make the time for long stretches of what others might dismiss as "doing nothing" - whether that means watching nature or wandering aside the main path or simply stopping by the path to soak in the surroundings.

I will be making a place to stay for a bit - whether it's just for lunch or overnight or over several nights. That brings a whole set of challenges/opportunities, each one to be relished and realized for all it's worth.

I will prepare a meal - and indulge in all of the sensuality that involves (I love the whole process - the gathering of the food, the preparation, the cooking, the eating and sharing during the meal, the cleaning up, and, finally, the deep satisfaction of having re-created this ritual of life in a way I shall cherish in fond remembrance.


Here's the first couple to walk across the USA on the Discovery Trail - 4,900miles in eight months; they just finished up Saturday Oct 15 ! Here's the newstory about them.

Several cross-country walks are definitely on my list of things to do in the next 20 years. I know I want to walk across not only the USA but also France, England, New Zealand, an African Country, Japan, India, and parts of China.

The longest walks I have completed so far are only a week or so in duration, so I know I have a lot of training to do. But I did love my walks on the Appalachian Trail near Bryson City, NC; the Green Mountain Trail near Middlebury, Vermont; the Pacific Coast Trail near both Mammoth Lakes, CA and White Salmon, WA; and many walks on lesser-known trails in different parts of the USA and a couple in Ireland.

I remember so many walks from 1,2,3,5,10,20,35, and 50 years ago and many times in between that I know I shall write about them all one day.

Like fingerprints - no two walks are the same - and each has created its own stamp upon my body, mind, and soul.


So what am I waiting for ?

Harvest Festival of Fun

Crowd of 300,000 on October 15, 2005 at Crowley Rice Festival

Yesterday - October 14, 2005 - was one of those "Perfect Days" about which I wrote earlier in this blog (Perfect Day) .

My sister Jackie and I left Lafayette area early in the morning and traveled over country roads to the Iota State School where we found and purchased several plants from horticulturalist Greg Meche of Crowley. He's created paradise at Point-aux-Loups (an old place name in Acadia Parish near his nursery).

An entire post could be written about just that visit (and will be - look for it when ISS holds it annual fall plant sale). Suffice it to say for now that the Iota State School, under Meche's direction, has a phenomenal variety of high-quality, first-rate plants for sale at phenomenal prices.

We chose, among others, a few sweet olive, gardenia, cypress, weeping willow, spago palm, hummingbird, and day lilly varieties, and made out like bandits at those prices. Meche was especially helpful in sharing tips about the planting and caring for our new plant-world friends.

Then we were off to Crowley, where we found our 80-year-old father Emile sitting on his front porch, scowling. But he managed a grin or two when the conversation turned to the Rice Festival and especially a famous RF all-day party at Kenny Keigley's home.

Keigley, who truly loves our father as a fifth son would (Dad has four biological sons but has earned the lasting love of hundreds of other "sons" in a 20+-year career as a baseball coach in Crowley), recently purchased a lovely home a block from downtown Crowley (site of the festival) and

invites friends over to relax in the shade, use a first-class bathroom, share a bite to eat and a cool drink of your choice and perhaps visit with hometown folks you may not have seen in 15 or 20 years - right alongside those you saw last week.

This was a special highlight of the day - because Dad loves going there and it was obvious he was enjoying himself talking to Robert Habetz - with whom he played Fast-pitch softball 40 years ago on the Crowley Knights of Columbus team that was perennial champions in its SW Louisiana league.

2005 Children's Parade October 14, 2005 at Rice Festival

My sister Jackie and I also enjoyed a walk up and down Parkerson Avenue downtown, and each ran into several friends whom we had not seen in several years (in one case for me - 20+ years), stopping to briefly catch up and exchange hugs or handshakes and contact info.

One, an evacuee from New Orleans who had never been the Rice Festival, even walked with us for an hour before she had to return to her temporary job in Lafayette. Ironically - she had performed in Crowley in early1985 at an event in the Rice Festival Building - but had never attended the festival itself until yesterday.

This was exhilarating. Some longtime friends can pick up right where you left off with them with astounding accuracy and perfect emotional pitch. I was falling in love all over again with many of the ladies and also feeling that powerful "buddy" relationship re-bonding with the guys.

Laced all through our walk were sweet remembrances of our recently-deceased Mother "Sis," and how she loved her hometown's festival. Sis attended last year (2004) with Jackie, and she shared some classic quotes and behavior mom dished out during her final Rice Festival fun time.

"Good grief, people are fatter !" Sis deadpanned to Jax as they walked up and down the seven-blocks of food booths and games and rides and exhibits (mom weighed less than 100 pounds at the time but spent most of her life with shapely curves and post-baby [she had eight!] weight).

Jackie recounted that Sis would also motion "come here" with an index finger to children, pointing out candy left lying on the street after the Grand Parade's treat-tossing float riders had passed. After the child would capture the unclaimed sweet stuff, mom would say "you keep it," as if she were bestowing a gift on them.

Along the way - we bought a "poke chop sammich" from a famous booth that slathers two pieces of white bread with BBQ sauce and plops a pork chop down between them that hangs over the sides all around. Yum. We washed it down with lemonade chocked full of cracked ice and floating lemon slices.

We enjoyed watching the children's parade, and a school at which Jackie is assistant principal (Mermentau Elementary) won first place with a Two-Story Mardi Gras Float lookalike, complete with a New Orleans-style street lamp atop it all and plenty of youngins flinging purple, green, and gold beads. They deserved to win.

It all ended way too soon - but inspired me to do this again.

Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again - if you time it right !

We did.

, . ? ! ( ) " " : ; ' - ~ A * . . .

Check out those commas ( , ) ~ seen here at top of that circle in a group of four.

That's what I am, expressed as punctuation : a comma !

Oh, I used to feel that I was an exclamation mark ( ! ) ; but I'm not, and now doubt whether I ever was (except for brief amounts of time).

Definitely a comma
,
yep. that's me.

A comma signals that there's more to come. That characteristic, in one of those eerie coincidences, also is a feature of the meaning of my formal first name, which supposedly means "one who adds," or so I've read.

The comma conveys the feeling that the thought or action or imagining or hope or joy expressed is just one in a series, and not,





like the period,the end of things ( . ), or,
like the question mark, an interrogation ( ? ) , or
like the exclamation point, an indicator of emphasis or surprise ( ! ) , or
like parentheses, a clarifier or whisperer { ( ) } , or,
like quotation marks, a sign of attribution ( " " ) , or,
like the colon, an equalizer or set up for examples ( : ) , or,
like the semi-colon, a connector ( ; ) , or,
like the apostrophe, a reducer or owner ( ' ), or,
like the hyphen, a compounder or co-joiner ( - ) , or,
like the dash, an interruption or change in direction ( ~ ), or,
like the CAPITAL LETTER, an indicator of prominence ( IMPORTANT ), or ,
like the asterisk, a wild card that can mean many things ( * ), or,
like the ellipsis, an indicator of missing things ( . . . ) , and, finally,
speaking of missing things,

I trust I have not left out any punctuation commonly used in the English language.

Anyway - I now feel that many of us are commas, save for those moments when we find it necessary or unavoidable or just plain fun to venture into being more like those other realms of punctuation, but those times are marked by their celerity.



Yet we all know people who are most akin to periods - those folks whose primary activity in life seems to be stopping things.

The question marks are relentless in their questioning of everything.
As for the exclamation marks, they can be exhausting to be around, with all of their enthusiastic drama constantly on display.
Parentheses are a curious type, with all their furtive asides.
Quotation marks are in a never-ending quest for legitimacy by using others' words.
Colons (no potty jokes here) are pedantic, giving us plenty of examples.
Semi-colons (no half-potty jokes here) are joiners.
Apostrophes are ownership-oriented or reductionists.
Hyphens are multi-tasking over-achievers.
Dashes can be - what's the word - distracting, what with all the changes in direction.
CAPITAL LETTERS are so obviously screaming for our attention.
And those who are primarily ellipses are forever leaving out more than they ever include.

At one time or another, I admit I have been all of these, but try to live as a comma most of the time; I am simply more at home there, more "me" as a " , " than anything else. So there ! Make of that what you will ~

P.S. Here's a cute article along the same lines. Here's a quiz that's fun but limited.

Say Cheese

Michaela York, with John Folse (far right) and guest on their WRKF Radio Show

Phew ! (or is it Whew ! ? - I never know.) Can you feel the rush of air from my lungs as I sigh in relief ?

Seventeen straight days of blogging to start this exercise was fun - but, ultimately, I knew I would settle into a natural rhythm where some days I blog and others I don't - just like 99 and 44/100ths percent of all bloggers.

Tuesday October 11 was just "one of those days" where so much was happening that I simply did not get to sit down and create an entry. But today's' another matter. Let's start with yesterday.

After making my early-morning rounds in the fall garden (pumpkins, broccoli, cantaloupe, dill, parsley, basil, green onions, chives, spinach, sunflowers, fairy trumpets, morning glories, roses, wandering jew, flax, and several perennials plus the wonderful volunteers of various kinds that keep coming up), off I went to Baton Rouge to have lunch with my brother John.

He's senior paralegal for a New Orleans Law firm that's had to relocate to Baton Rouge for awhile, but the strain of his personal refugee status has only put a small dent in his effervescent personality.

Lunch was nice: just a sandwich, but he's good company and is the sibling who travels the most, so I got to enjoy - albeit vicariously - his travel adventures through his re-telling of them.

Then it was off to spend a fascinating 90 minutes with Michaela York, Director of Communications with The John Folse Company, in nearby Gonzales.

Michaela is one of those prized people who gives you a hug once she gets to know you, and I was the beneficiary of her good-natured affection to start our visit.

As a regular listener every Saturday morning from 11-noon (central time) to John Folse's radio show "Stirrin it up" (listen to it here)

(and also here) - I wanted to see the facilities about which he was always talking - and I was lucky to have Michaela as my guide / host. Although she is often wrestling an octopus in terms of a to-do list, she is unfailingly upbeat and fun !

If you need or want any info on the company's products or services, she's the one to contact.

The John Folse Company makes many fine things to eat - but the champion product has to be the cheese. His Fleur-de-Lis and Fleur-de-Teche cheeses have won several well-deserved awards, and deservedly so - they are way beyond delicious all the way to sumptuous, heavenly, and to die for !

During my grand tour - I began to understand why his whole company has succeeded. He has stayed close to his mission of spreading the culture through its tastiest expression : food and cooking.

The difference is John Folse takes the extra effort to provide the historical background and setting, and explains the heritage of many of the numerous variations on any one theme or dish that he prepares.

Visit his web site.

It's a twelve-course treat in and of itself !

Legends of the Fall

One of my Legends of the Fall with his trophies

The finest gift I ever received from a student (back when I was teaching) was a shadowbox made by the student and the student's grandmother. Inside, there were five leaves of various fall colors arranged pretty much like you see above in the photo, a few feathers from moulting birds of various kinds, a drawing of a meteor streaking through the constellation Leo, and this inscription:

To my fourth grade teacher, thank you for teaching me much more than math and reading and science and history as you were charged to do. Thank you for also teaching me how to catch leaves falling from trees in windy weather, what to do to attract birds to our classroom feeder, where to look to see meteors during the Leonid shower, and why certain groups of stars have names and telling us the stories attached to them. You have inspired a lifetime of learning.

Well, you can imagine how that made me feel. Years later, one of the lessons I learned from those fourth-grade students still motivates me:

Create Legends of the Fall (or any other season) by encouraging others to dream big, think big, feel big, learn big and most of all believe in something bigger than yourself - and do it all in the spirit of having the most fun you can have.

Another illustration: When my own son Christopher was only four, he asked me if he would ever have a trophy of his own in his room. He must have seen one in a cartoon and it caught not only his eye but his imagination.

Since we had this ongoing game where we used ever-increasing superlatives to tell each other how much we loved each other, I knew immediately what kind of trophy he would get.

"I love you more than all the raindrops in a thunderstorm," I would say to start the game. "Well I love YOU more than all the leaves in the forest !" he would shoot back, and the game was on, as we each tried to out-do the other in the choice of our superlative.

To signal the end of the game, I would always finish with "You are the best boy in the whole world !"

So a few days later, I brought home his trophy of Atlas holding the earth on his shoulders with this inscription:

Christopher
Best Boy
Whole World

He loved it. He's earned many trophies since then (he's 11 now), but that's still his favorite, earning center placement on his top shelf, with the other ones flanking it to either side.

With all the mass communication of TV, movies, video games, and who knows what else bombarding us with their images of who is a legend or a hero, it's more important than ever to create our own Legends and Heroes from the events of everyday life.

That young man at the top was recognized as "World's Greatest Leaf Catcher" that day, and he was, for there was no greater catcher of leaves on that certain day, at that certain time, in that certain place, in that certain school yard, than was he.

The title made him beam (as you can clearly see above), and you know what ? It didn't matter to him one bit that he might not be the World's Greatest Leaf Catcher the next day, because he just might be the World's Greatest Bug Catcher by then !

Bestow a fun, superlative title on someone you love today.

Pentimento

See head of a deer (esp black nose), center 3/4 down ? Pentimento !

Pentimento is an Italian-derived phrase used to describe what happens when evidence of an earlier painting becomes visible on a canvas where the paint from a subsequent painting has become transparent.

The most famous use of this wonderful word occurred when Lillian Hellman chose it as the title of one of her autobiographies. Here's what she had to say about the word:

"Old paint on canvas, as it ages, sometimes becomes transparent. When that happens it is possible, in some pictures, to see the original lines: a tree will show through a woman's dress, a child makes way for a dog, a large boat is no longer on an open sea. That is called pentimento because the painter "repented", changed his mind. Perhaps it would be as well to say that the old conception, replaced by a later choice, is a way of seeing and then seeing again." (Pentimento, Little, Brown &Co., 1973)

That's when I became intrigued by the word pentimento, and wanted to know more about it. As I researched the word, I came to a greater appreciation for its existence in all of our lives. Here's what I mean :

We each have one canvas upon which to paint our life's experience.

We continually "paint" on it as we experience life in all of its sundry and wondrous forms. Sometimes, evidence of our earlier "painting" shows through. Sometimes this has a startling effect, sometimes soothing, sometimes sad, sometimes confusing, sometimes illuminating.

Pentimento is an opportunity more than anything else. A chance to learn from what shows through from our "earlier painting(s)."

Now the very thing that this beautiful word describes is happening in my own life more and more often.

Just recently, I began gardening again after its absence from my every day life for more than 40 years. It had "reappeared" on my life's canvas even after so many years of having been "painted over" by other activities.

It has now become one of the greatest joys I experience. And I am by no means as successful (yet) as was my maternal grandfather, who introduced me to gardening a half-century ago and encouraged me to help him in his garden (which I did), located in his backyard, across the street from my own home. He soon established a second garden - this one in my backyard - and I assisted him in both gardens for several years.

Cooking is another example. Though I once helped my maternal grandmother and mother cook (I was the oldest of eight children and they simply needed my help), I drifted away from the frequent preparation of meals after leaving home for LSU in the fall of 1969, and cooked a meal only occasionally for many years.

That earlier experience, though, "shown through" many years later, when I became a father late in life and began cooking on a regular basis again. Suddenly I became aware of my preference for "certain ways of doing cooking-related things." Another "pentimento" had shown through subsequent behavior.

The pentimento I love most in my life has to do with human relationships.

Recently my mother died (August 6, 2005). During the final months of her life, most of my siblings came together around her. To my deep satisfaction (and surprise), this group of brothers and sisters who gathered around Mom grew closer together than we have ever been - even as children growing up together and certainly since then.

But the relationship template was there upon which to build : a "pentimento" from an earlier experience as siblings growing up together.

The same thing has been happening with friends from an earlier era in my life. As I reconnect with them, the "pentimento" of experience from our earlier friendship has shown through and helped us appreciate what we had then and how we might build upon that to create an even deeper friendship now.

This has been a very fulfilling and enriching experience for me, and I trust for my friends as well, even though the "repainting" can often be messy and impossible to foresee or control !

Pentimento.

Have some fun finding, then exploring, your pentimenti. Take them in. Learn from them. Go from there.

And don't be concerned with the messiness, or impermanence, of paint.

Just get busy painting !

Gumbo Weather

When the weather turns cooler in southern Louisiana, folks start licking their lips and mumbling something about it being "Gumbo Weather."

So I went in search of the Perfect Gumbo talker, not recipe, as thems is fightin' words among Cajuns - who each have their own favorite Gumbo recipe.

Someone who knows something about something AND can talk or write about it in a simple yet engaging way has a rare gift.

Sarah Savoy, daughter of Marc Savoy of Eunice, Louisiana, is just such a person, and it is she who speaks from here on (thank you, Sarah):

"It's not the easiest task in the world to get recipes out of someone who doesn't use them. I got these from my dad and had to make them myself many times to figure out the exact measurements.

"They taste right to me, and after 22 years of eating his cooking, I think I can consider myself a pretty good judge. Just keep in mind that the number one rule in Cajun cooking is, as Gil Young says, 'TASTE AND ADJUST!'

"Okay, so summers are often too hot to really want warm soup for dinner. My dad makes this year round. He doesn't care. It's one of the best dishes you can treat yourself to. We can expect him to make a gumbo at least twice a month during the cooler months.

"Often, on Saturday mornings, he'll invite his friends from the Savoy Music Center Saturday Morning Jam Session to head up to the upstairs quarters of the store to have gumbo, baked sweet potatoes, and maybe some potato salad.

"This is another dish that is fun to cook outside. If you have a very large pot, invite a lot of friends for your Cajun feast. Sit around and drink beer, play music and talk while your gumbo is cooking. Serve it with cold beer or cola."

"We normally make a two-gallon gumbo for our family of six. It keeps well in the refrigerator or freezer.

"Let's start with roux. This is available in many stores. My dad used to make his own, but now, because it's easier, he buys Savoie's dark roux in a jar (no relation to our family). Those rare moments I can find the time and patience, I like to make my own. I find there is only a subtle difference in the taste, but some people will disagree. This takes a little practice."

• 1 part white flour
• 1 part vegetable oil (Don't use olive oil, though; I tried it with olive oil and it made a pretty bad gumbo.)

"Heat the oil in a large skillet (lucky you if that skillet is cast iron!) over medium heat. Add the flour gradually, stirring constantly. You will need to stand over the stove stirring this the whole time. The roux is ready when it is a chocolate-to-coffee shade of brown, depending on your preference.

"The length of time will vary depending on the type of pot you are using and the level of the heat under your pot. It is important to know that in a heavy skillet, the roux will continue to darken once you have removed it from the flame. Allow the roux to cool almost to room temperature. You can put the cool roux in a jar and keep it in the refrigerator.

Now, on to the gumbo!

• 2 gallons water
• 4 Tablespoons roux (more if you want it thicker and richer, and vice versa)
• 1 bell pepper, chopped
• 6 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 whole chicken cut up
• 2 large onions, chopped
• 2 pounds sausage (We use garlic pork sausage from LeJeune's Sausage Kitchen in Eunice and all who have tried it are willing to argue that it's the best. I truly recommend you treat yourself and your friends to this. Otherwise use whatever good firm sausage you can find. Many people use deer sausage or andouille when these are available.)
• 1 bunch scallions, chopped, tops only
• 1 bunch parsley, chopped
• salt, black pepper, cayenne

In a very large pot, boil two quarts of water. Once boiling rapidly, add and dilute roux. STIR! STIR! STIR! When the roux is diluted the mixture will begin to foam up rapidly. CONTINUE TO STIR!! Add the rest of the water and stir more. Add the onions, bell pepper, garlic, chicken, sausage, salt, black pepper, and cayenne.

Cook over medium-high heat until tender. DO NOT COVER.

Boil rice.

5 minutes before serving add scallions and parsley. When the five minutes are up, remove the pot from the heat.

"Some people like to add filé powder. We do not use it. If you choose to, use about a half-teaspoon per bowl. If you choose to serve the gumbo with potato salad or baked sweet potatoes, put them in the bowl with the serving of gumbo. Some people also eat gumbo with saltine crackers. It s all a matter of what tastes good to the person eating it.

"Also, the meat that goes into a gumbo all depends on what you like. You can make rabbit gumbo, duck gumbo, squirrel gumbo, deer, wild boar, etc. I've heard of meatball gumbo, also, although I've never tried it. I've also heard of people using nutria, raccoons and opossums. I haven't had these meats, either.

"Then there is gumbo vert, also known as "gumbo des herbes." This is made with mustard greens and other vegetables. You can leave out the sausage.

"No two families make gumbo alike. Figure out your favorite recipe. Enjoy!"

Cool Thang

Part of Heaven on Earth is eating a perfect Sno-Ball.

As you can plainly see at left, someone with a perfect Sno-Ball will deign to look at you if you speak to them, but that will NOT deter or delay them from opening their mouth and placing their lips, teeth, and tongue (and just maybe the tip of their nose) on that cool, crisp surface, then gnoshing down into its mushy melange of sweetened ice crystals.

Paying full attention to you can wait (duh).

Nothing I write about this subject will come anywhere close to the actual experience. In that way, eating a Perfect Sno-ball belongs to that same sublime slurry of subjects such as

- getting a good night's sleep
- taking in a spectacular sunrise or sunset
- playing with a baby who can play back
- touching a surface you love with your fingertips as you think about why you love it
- seeing the face of a loved one after not having seen it for awhile
- feeling a sustained rush of wind at the change of seasons - like now
- hearing a song and getting a lump in your throat due to a remembrance tied to that song
- smelling a favorite dish from your childhood that grandma made and tearing up just a little as you taste it slowly
- and the crown jewel of this category : making love

More on those subjects another time. Now, as summer fades, I wish to praise the perfect Sno-Ball.

1. Perfect Sno-Balls are yours to eat. If someone else has a sno-ball they think is fabulous, but either won't share it with you or won't tell you where they got it, then it's not perfect. This is an oft-overlooked rule. Do all you can to make a Perfect Sno-Ball yours.

2. Perfect Sno-Balls are created from light-as-a-real-snowflake ice crystals and are gently sweetened, not syrupy sweet. Their consistency closely mimicks what they are named after: Snow. They not only don't weigh you down in any way, but they are so light and fluffy that you also have to keep watching that they don't fly off into space or into someone else's mouth. I am not kidding. Now I am a big boy - I don't cry over "spilt" milk. But should I drop or spill my Perfect Sno-Ball, I will cry. Sharing is fine, but only with someone whom you love and who loves you back very much.

3. Perfect Sno-Balls are good for you. You will feel better after eating one, no matter the set of circumstances you find yourself in just before you eat it. They will make almost any situation better. The calories they contain are negligible, and , in fact, it has been proven that you will lose weight if you eat nothing but Perfect Sno-Balls (ask any nutritionist). So why stop at one? (this is what is known as a rhetorical question - please don't flood me with answers)

4. Perfect Sno-Balls are accessible without being omnipresent. You can find them if you look for them, but they are not everywhere. You are blessed if your town has a place that makes them (but PLENTY of places make "just OK" sno-balls, so go out of your way and keep looking for a Perfect Sno-ball). If you find a place that makes Perfect Sno-Balls, share that information with everyone you know, even your vilest enemies. In this way the maker will be able to afford to stay open, which is a must - for the future of mankind. Email me immediately (funburn@gmail.com) all places that make Perfect Sno-Balls of which you are aware.

5. Perfect Sno-Balls in my corner of the world: Hansen's Sno-Bliz at 4801 Tchoupitoulas (just a few blocks west, or uptown, of Napoleon Avenue) in New Orleans. Being a block from the Mississippi River in Uptown, Hansen's was not at all damaged in any way by the hurricanes - do you really think that God is THAT CRAZY ? Have Some Faith ! Perfect Sno-Balls did not only evolve - they were intelligently designed !

Sporting Chance

Brooklyn Dodger Jackie Robinson Stealing Home

Baseball playoffs have begun, and I get heartsick. It happens every year.

Baseball, you see, is at the very center of my life. Its effect on me comes not only from the play of its reality on my very existence, but also from baseball-as-metaphor for many of my life's situations, circumstances, and, most centrally, attitudes.

Brief background: On April 5, 1948, my father appeared on the cover of Life Magazine as a Brooklyn Dodger rookie, and, as a direct result of his playing professional baseball, here I am (along with 17 other descendents, so far).

Mom and Dad met when he played first base and pitched for the Crowley Millers in the summer of 1950. He still holds several team and Evangeline League (south Louisiana) records from that 1945-1954 era of minor-league baseball (post World War II and pre-television).

When that 1950 season ended, Dad returned to Mobile, Alabama and was soon drafted into the Army for the Korean War. But before he left for basic training in Missouri and eventual stationing in Ft. Monmouth, N.J., he made a return trip to Crowley between Christmas and New Year's of 1950 and proposed to Mom. She accepted.

After our growing family of four (it would reach 10) returned to live in Crowley in February of 1954 (after Dad's discharge from the Army), Dad began a coaching career that lasted 20 years. He coached me and hundreds of other boys at every level:

Crowley's Minor League Dodgers (8,9), Little League Ricebirds (10,11,12 yrs old), Pony League Indians (13,14), Colt League Sox (15,16) and American Legion Millers (17, 18). He coached a couple of years before and after I played for him at all of those levels.

His teams always won the pennant or finished second. I was very proud to play under him, as his knowledge and "feel" for the basics AND sublties of the game were legendary in our town.

He "looked" the part too, being the only manager who wore a complete baseball uniform (with spikes) as we players did. You could plainly see the admiration in the eyes of the hundreds of boys who played for him, and how they adored playing for a former professional baseball player.

I never could hit a baseball as well as Dad could, so my 11-year baseball career ended after my freshman year at LSU, where I played shortstop on the LSU Junior Varsity team. After that 1970 season, I gave up the dream of playing professional baseball, and headed in another direction.

But baseball was and still is never far from my mind or heart. Perhaps that's because the life lessons baseball teaches are many and varied.

1. Team first. Individuals may win all sorts of accolades for their stellar play, but the championship is the thing. I was always proudest when my team was crowned champions, despite what kind of season I had personally.

2. Never give up. Baseball, unlike almost every other sport, has no time clock running. You have a chance to win the game until that last out in the ninth inning. In fact, some of the most memorable games in which I played were come-from-behind victories.

3. You don't have to be near-perfect to be great. The BEST hitters fail to get a hit two-thirds of the time. You can swing and completely miss the ball TWICE in each at bat and still you have one more chance.

4. The entire season and/or entire career (like life) is what counts, not temporary streaks of either good or bad performance. Sometimes a small adjustment, the smallest of details, will turn around a poor string of performances on both the team and individual levels.

5. The very best players are good sports both on and off the field, and they continue to learn from older players/managers/coaches and also offer to teach younger players.

6. Risk-taking based on a solid understanding of both the game and your talent is encouraged and rewarded. Crazy risk-taking based on nothing more than adrenaline and testosterone earns you a quick trip to the showers.

7. Baseball requires skills that are not learned or mastered quickly. It takes years of dedication and discipline and continued practice. That "natural touch" you see at the pro level was initiated in the player at age 2,3,4,5, when a father placed a small bat in the hands of his son and encouraged him every step of the way.

Look at Michael Jordan (basketball), Bo Jackson (football), Deion Sanders (football), Dave DeBushchere (basketball) or ANY other top-level athlete who mastered another sport at All-Star caliber but who could NOT translate their talent to baseball at anywhere near the same level of success.

Lesson: Baseball requires more different kinds of skills from an athlete, performed at a higher level of competence, than does any other sport. It has often been acknowledged that hitting a pitched baseball is the most difficult challenge in all of sport.

Dad used to tell me that three things are needed to acquire those skills: Practice, practice, practice.

8. Numbers, consistent numbers, are used as important gauges of success in baseball, and it's the unusual fan who can't rattle off his favorite players' statistics. But players and coaches know that numbers only tell part of the story.

9. At the bottom of all discussions about great players is the issue of "heart." The greatest baseball players had it, and everyone knew who they were and who they were not. Heart, dad always reminded me, was desire translated into clutch performance for the team's sake.

That's the best life lesson I learned from my father, and from baseball.

As I enter the sixth inning of my own life, one phrase still rings true in my ears and echoes in my heart:



Play Ball !

Stretching

A Feeling of E x h i l e r a t i o n is a Major Effect of Stretching

Stretching creates so many feelings inside, on, and outside my body and mind and heart and soul, that its lure is irresistible to me.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but stretching, in its many forms, is one of those actions that is at once necessary to a high quality of life and, I will argue, so full of fun and fear (and then overcoming that fear) that exhilaration is merely one of the many feelings it conjures up.

Let's start with the physical body. If you have never taken a yoga class - run , don't walk - to your nearest ashram and ask about the best local place for yoga instruction. Then sign up for a class. You will never feel the same; you will feel better.

Let's continue to the mind. F Scott Fitzgerald said that being able to hold two opposing ideas in your head at the same time while still being able to creatively function was one sign of high intelligence. That takes some mental stretching, but you are likely to develop more brain power as one result.

Ah, the heart. We all know that feeling when love encourages us to stretch beyond what we thought was possible emotionally. We deepen our connections, gain a richer intimacy with loved ones, and emerge a more complete person.

Finally, the soul. I believe there's a constant tug-of-war between faith (which results in confidence) and fear (which results in cowardice). Stretching your belief system to more fully embrace faith (in yourself, in your God, in others) while respecting yet working through your fears can be one of the most liberating stretching exercises you will ever do.

One note: in the photo below, notice how a more experienced person is helping adjust a pose in one of her yoga students. So, too, in stretching of any kind, it helps (a great deal) to have a mentor. Find one.



Stretching : Life's prescription for facing your fears.

Take a deep breath and start Limbering Up !



P.S. This blog, in fact, began as an exercise in stretching. I was inspired to give blogging a try after having been a longtime reader of Poor Clio , a blog by James Edmunds.

James created the "hip" alternative newsweekly industry in southwest Louisiana (Acadiana) a generation ago with his short-lived but very influential tabloid-sized newspaper named The Spectator.

That lead to The Times of Acadiana, which later was sold to the local Gannett paper. Recently, those successors to James who created the ToA came back into the market and created a competing alternative, carrying The Independent moniker. It captures James' spirit, and I choose to view it as his legacy to Acadiana.

Interstitial

"This cat who lives, sometimes near us, prefers be-
neath the house,
She scavenges to make her way - she never
kills a mouse . . . "

I began that poem many years ago - as a child - and didn't finish it right away, as I recall, because I wanted to watch this cat some more before adding other thoughts and textures and senses (or, to use my phrase at that time : good words) .

I was reminded of this cat from my childhood recently when observing another cat doing the same thing : living in the interstitial spaces between other lives and homes in a neighborhood I frequent.

This present cat (I call her "Stish"), is all shadow and smoke: not only does she display shadowy colors of grays and blacks in sundry shades on her scruffy, short-haired coat,

but she also engages in shadowy behavior : now you see her, now you don't; now she approaches you in case you have - and can share - something to eat, now she skitters away when she judges that you don't or won't .

She obviously likes it this way; perhaps her very life depends upon it.

When I caught a glimpse of her recently, she was already watching me.

I have a habit of saving the juice from a can of tuna and pouring it into a bowl for her. Since I sometimes open the can outside, I feel that - if she's near enough to me at the time - she can hear the manual can opener working, and that sound acts as a Pavlovian "come hither" prompt.

She approaches me up to a certain point (8-10 feet), and patiently waits, exhibiting that "high catness" detachment that expresses perfectly the attitude: "Get on with it - 'cause if you won't feed me I will look elsewhere and pretty damn quickly, so - get on with it ! "

I can't help but grin and shake my head as I study her studying me - often lingering as I pour the juice into her bowl to see if she will ever express impatience; she never does.

AS soon as I retreat past a requisite distance, she's at the side of the bowl in an instant, lapping up the tuna juice.

Then she's suddenly not there.


I think I can finish that poem now :

She comes and goes in shadowlight - we never see her long,
She slips between the spaces where she sings her
daily song:

"Come feed me if you're so disposed, or leave me quite alone
My life is interstitially dependent
for its home.

I did not choose this life, it just evolved this way for me,
But now I can't imagine being any-
thing but free,

Since life is short and brutal and affection rare and sweet,
Dispense to me the latter and the former
you can keep. "

Perfect Day

October's fresh face and encouraging disposition has framed so many "Perfect Days" for me that I tremble with anticipation as it begins anew each year.

Though I know not what October holds for me this year, I can't help but smile.

That's because the simple remembrance of things from past Octobers often transports me into a quasi-meditative state of deep synchrony with everything around me.

This is diametrically opposed to what I feel at those times when - as Woody Allen joked - I chafe at being "at two with the universe."

I'm certain all of this "The Perfect Days of October" thing started because my hometown celebrates it annual harvest festival (The International Rice Festival (RF) in Crowley, Louisiana) on the third weekend of October.

The RF became my focus each year during the previous summer - when i would dutifully earn money I then earmarked for spending at the fair. You met your bestest friends and "best girl" there and luxuriated in spending time with them amongst the fall weather, the distractions of fun-but-crooked games, people watching, and the intoxicating smells and tastes of open-air cooking.

You were also lucky if - while you were spinning around on those dizzying carnival rides - you didn't lose those meals you ate earlier.

But by Sunday afternoon - you were left with a feeling of having just lived several "Perfect Days," and that was enough.

Those early, exhilarating experiences of a "Perfect Day" or "Perfect Moment" or "Perfect" anything captured and set into motion my imagination and focused my determination to have more of them ever since, and I continue to spend lots of time and energy creating them.

One definition of a Perfect Day that my mother "Sis" once mentioned to me was what she described as a triple wish come true:

You were doing exactly WHAT you wanted to do, exactly WHERE you wanted to be doing it, with exactly WHO you most wanted to be doing it with !

When you can add the WHEN and WHY parts in there as well, a Perfect Day can't help BUT occur !

This kind of "Perfect Day" is rare, however - for how often do we think / daydream about preferring to be somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else ? More often, I feel, than we are willing to admit.

Yet, there are people, events, and ". . . places i remember, in my life, though some have gone. . . " (as the Beatles sang) that echo in my heart still - whether it be from one, two, three, 11, 20 years ago and more - and those remembrances encourage me to create as many "Perfect Days" as I can.

Sometimes, I feel that that string of Perfect Days IS my life - or much of what I cherish most about it.

Rebuilding

Best Wisdom on the Rebuilding of Lives and Communitites : Begin !

"Rebuilding" dominates my thoughts and feelings and desires right now - involving almost everything in my life and in the lives and communities surrounding me.

My own life is certainly at one of those "watershed" moments.

Here's a trio of reasons : The death of our family's mother (I am one of eight siblings) in August, followed shortly thereafter by the devastation and disruption of my home state after two category 5 hurricanes struck within a month.

Any one of these events could have caused a paradigm shift in my life on its own; all three guaranteed it. But enough about me, as the old joke goes.

Rebuilding is also going to dominate so many lives in so many communities that surround me, far into the foreseeable future, that for once I feel right in step with the mainstream - a feeling I have seldom been host to in more than a half-century of life.

And one of the desires that runs strongest in me right now is to participate in that rebuilding as I ferociously rebuild my own life. A great place to start : a community where one of my siblings lives - which was in one of the areas most affected by the big wind and water wallop of both hurricanes.

My Brother John's home in New Orleans - July 2005
Here's my blog on rebuilding New Orleans

Funny - the initial feelings of apprehension & preparation before the storms were followed by

feelings of fascination and the relatively calm enduring of the storms themselves,

and finally the feelings of shock & sadness after the storms because of the utter completeness of the destruction wrought.

But now the "rebuilding" gene I must have has kicked in and the adrenaline is beginning to pump, accompanied by the excitement AND terror that often are mates to adrenaline - sorta like standing on the edge of that 10 meter diving board as a 10 year old: it's exciting and terrifying at the same time.

"Don't worry about those butterflies," a favorite mentor used to tell me, "that's normal. Just get 'em in formation !"

Without any doubt - it's time to dive in.

The Sweetest Thing

Autumn, perhaps more than anything else, signals
a seachange in the quantity and quality of the
wind. It not only blows more frequently, but
stronger and cooler.

On my walks, as I thought about the wind and all
the metaphors it is used for,this song (long a
favorite of mine)came to mind,
and suddenly, like a chill north wind blowing
through town at the tip of a front, it seemed
to symbolize both the power of the life force(God)
AND the sweeping changes just ahead for the
thousands of people displaced and/or damaged in some
way by one or both of the two hurricanes.

In fact, you can read this song as being about
the Hurricane-as-part-of-God, and the question
that's begged might be:

How does one gain, keep, or restore
faith in God before, during, and after
those winds blew, and could this song be
read as a paean to God ?

Tell me what you feel and think about this
observation. You can either email me
or simply add to the blog with the tools right
here on this page.

Catch The Wind

by Donovan

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In the chilly hours and minutes,
Of uncertainty,
I want to be,
In the warm hold of your
loving mind.

To feel you all around me,
And to take your hand,
along the sand,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch
the wind.

When sundown pales the sky,
I wanna hide a while,
behind your smile,
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes
I'd find.

For me to love you now,
Would be the sweetest thing,
'twould make me sing,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch
the wind.

When rain has hung the leaves with tears,
I want you near,
to kill my fears
To help me to leave all my blues
behind.

For standin' in your heart,
Is where I want to be,
and long to be,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch
the wind.

(1965)