crick in my neck

Was it the hours of sitting in front of a computer for multiple years that has caused this horrific crick in my now crooked neck? Or was it the three-week journey by car to my multiple family homes compounded by sleeping in one, two, three too many beds that were not my own? Or is it simply (or not so simply) the mounted tension that I hold in my shoulders? How much yoga and walking and stretching and massaging and walking and yoga and gardening and standing and breathing and walking will it take to get better? I will overcome! Hopefully, sooner rather than later.

wet balls of sand

While I walked on the beach a few days ago, James sat under his beach umbrella making perfect spheres of sand from about two inches in diameter to maybe 9 inches in diameter. He created them one at a time and placed them in a line leading toward the beach starting with the smallest and making each increasingly larger. My walk was about an hour and I returned while he was finishing the 8th sand ball and moving on to the 9th and final one.

"People keep looking at me." He said as he dug sand from the pit in front of him and packed it onto the growing sphere. He nodded toward two children standing with their hands folded staring in our direction. "What do you think they are looking at?" I laughed because I think his question was sincere. I tried to explain how unusual it might look to others - picture the scene - a tall unshaven man sitting by himself under a bright turquoise beach umbrella decorated with fish and seashells, wearing a giant, battered, bahamian straw hat with a homemade sheriff's badge attached to the front, reflective sunglasses, a long-sleeved shirt, and blue floral swimming trunks - and he just happens to making sand balls. James enjoyed the description but didn't really get what was odd about it. After finishing the last one, he stood, brushed himself off and went for a swim.

As soon as he walked away, one of the staring children, a little boy of about 8, ran up to me and asked,"What are those?" My reply. "Sand balls." He wasn't satisfied. "Why did he make them?" My reply. "Because he wanted to." Another question,"What is going to do with them?" My reply. "Nothing - he just wanted to make them." Obviously the boy wanted more, but there was nothing more I could tell him. "Oh," he said and ran back to his sister.

James returned from his swim and we lowered the umbrella. As we picked it up and turned away, two other boys ran along the beach toward the balls. "I think they want the sand balls." I said to James. He didn't believe me. We walked a few more feet, turned and watched as the boys swooped in, each grabbing one of the balls and running away - carefully balancing them. "They are stealing the sand balls!" James exclaimed. Soon a little girl was running toward the balls. We watched in amazement as each ball was removed by a different child and taken to their respective play areas. Children who weren't quick enough cried out at the inequity. Parents did their best to console and distract the losers. Chaos a la James was created on the beach that afternoon and he is still rejoicing in the memories of it.

fer-men-ta-tion

Just because one small jar of salsa exploded three years ago during one of my food experiments, James has declared himself anti-fermentation. Personally, I find great joy in fermenting foods and have returned to my explorations since moving back to Florida. While living on the Apple Farm in 2006, I discovered a number of food books - Wild Fermentation was one of my favorites. Prior to that, I had not considered the health benefits and the flavor enhancing possibilities available in properly aged foods. Since that time, I've made a variety of concoctions - some that are more easily accepted like sauerkraut and sourdough starters for breads, and some that we in the US would not necessarily expect to ferment - like salsas, chutneys, kvass, and other health tonics.

James will sometimes try my fermentations, but mostly, he leaves them for me to eat. Last night, I served a peach chutney as an accompaniment to the pork, green beans, and sweet potatoes that he created. He was supportive yet not enthusiastic. He put a little chutney on his fork, asking repeatedly what was in it and how long it had fermented. Finally, after it passed the smell test,he ate a little with the pork. Victory came when he chose to chew it up and swallow it without spitting it out. He didn't ask for more and acted a bit tortured throughout, but he did, in fact, eat all five pieces of peach and raisins I put on his plate. Progress!

glass lizard in the grass

You might imagine my surprise upon seeing our old friend the glass lizard today. I was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and talking with James when I saw a movement across the sidewalk. This little snake-ish lizard or its twin sister or relative has lived in the yard for much longer than I've been in Florida. A few times a year, mostly in the summer months, I'll see a shimmer in the mondo grasses by the mailbox and I'll know that the lizard is still about.

Because it looks like a snake, I always imagine how my mom or grandma Mattingly would react to seeing it - much vocalization and swatting would ensue. If a hoe were present, the lizard would most likely meet its end.

Because of knowing James and spending time outside looking at snakes and other creatures in nature, I find that I've been able to turn my fear of slithering things into respectful curiosity. I'm not saying I want to pick them up and cuddle, but I enjoy looking at them and knowing that they do nice things for the world,like keeping the rodent population down.

Though they look like snakes, they are actually legless lizards . They have little earholes on the outside and, crazily enough,eyelids. They also amble more and slither less. James and I love having them in the yard and look forward to seeing them.

So, we followed this one around the yard, James with his camera, and I with my coffee cup - noticing its various colors and little knicks on its body, possibly from a larger something trying to eat it. The lizard didn't seem bothered by us and was in no hurry to get anywhere. Neither were we. And a pleasant time was had by all.

What's next?

Over the past couple of months, I've been asked with great regularity, "What's next for you two?" Though I should have a pat answer, the question always takes me by surprise. What is next? I wonder. The question makes me feel as if I should know, and truthfully, I don't.

What I am confident of, is that with each move and with each return to Gainesville, we progress. We see a world that is bigger and with more possibilities. We are educated about the people and places of our country and the countries of others. We fill our minds with new information both pleasant and painful; listening to the sounds, smelling the fragrances, tasting the cuisine, breathing the air - all the while creating memories, ties and friendships.

Most likely, what is next will be more of the same. A life adventure that takes form in an unfamiliar place for the purpose of learning, growing and sharing.

"What is now?" is the more relevant question. This one I can answer. Now is time at home with friends and family. Time to enjoy all of the things we love about Florida. Time to take care of things that need taking care of. Time to rest. Time to regroup. Time to plan. Time to cook in our own kitchen and grow our own garden. Time to help. Time to watch movies and to read. Time to take little trips. Time to work, though not too hard. Time to take in all that we have experienced. Time to appreciate each other and those we love and miss while away. Time to sit quietly on the front porch. And, as always, time to tell stories.

bugs, glorious bugs

While investigating the sting on my toe yesterday, I realized that over the past year there has been a great absence of insects in my life. Besides the disgusting cockroach/ palmetto bugs that ran through the streets of New Orleans and often through our home, insects were few and far between.

I don't think I missed the bugs, but lately, I've been noticing them. No-see-ums in Suwannee,FL, mosquitos in Gainesville, dragon, damsel, and fireflies in High Springs, chiggers and horseflies in Henryville, IN, spiders in Salisbury, NC, houseflies in Rock Hill, SC, and, yesterday, bees in Clover, SC.



My mom and I visited her friend, Sally, a beekeeper, who, because of my interest in bees, allowed me to suit up and journey with her to two of her hives. It was thrilling to open the hives and look inside while worker bees bumped us in their efforts to protect the hive. We found small hive beetles and ants in residence with the bees. Sally believes in treating her hives without chemicals, so she sprayed vinegar around the frame to ward off ants (ants aren't dangerous to the bees, but will eat the honey) and squashed beetles because they threaten the health of a hive.

Smoke is said to calm the bees, so because I was with her, Sally smoked the first hive, but decided against smoking the second (she generally doesn't smoke the hives when she visits them alone). The second hive proved to be a lively bunch and after we returned the lid of their home, a few followed us out into the field to make sure we were headed out. My mom, who was not in bee gear, remained calm yet was a little disconcerted when a single worker bee bumped her nose repeatedly in its attempt to get her to vacate the area.

We left with only one small sting between the three of us. Forgetting to grab my tennis shoes, I was wearing Tevas - leaving most of my feet exposed. One unfortunate bee landed on my foot and when I stepped toward the hive, it was squashed under my sandal strap, stinging me lightly in the process. A minor irritation for me, a bigger loss for the bee.

Sally's business, Mama Beehive, is thriving and info can be found on her website at www.mamabeehive.com.

at the pool

While at the pool with my good friend her 7 year old daughter said, "Mom, Heather looks like Evie's Mom, except Evie's Mom is skinny." Made me think twice about my decision to wear a two-piece....

the little things

There is something absolutely wonderful about a man who, when confronted with an unexpected summer downpour, runs inside grabs a bar of soap and a washcloth, runs back outside, strips down to his skivvies, lathers up, and begins singing off-key while enjoying his evening shower.

normal?

After one month, is it possible that I'm starting to feel like myself again? We're home. The mold seems to be under control. (Most) things have found their appropriate place in the house. I'm sleeping through the night. We've found a sense of purpose that allows us the freedom to do the work that is needed without going overboard. Not bad progress for one month.

To say that our experience in the past year changed us would be true, but to describe exactly how... that is the challenge. We can only take a deep breath and acknowledge that we have learned and seen more in one year than we could have imagined. This blog only touched on the reality of our life there.

Still, we did the right thing by moving to New Orleans, just as we have done the right thing by returning to Florida. Now we can move forward with what we each know and what we admit we will never understand.

This blog will change, but I intend to keep writing. Life has way too many stories to stop now.

Krewe of 2

James' mom described us as her 'crew' when we stopped by to deliver a chair today. Aptly put, I thought. In the past month, we've been the moving crew, the repair crew, the cleaning crew, the organization crew.... We are the type of crew that can adapt to the situation at hand.

We are helping to ready their condo in St. Augustine for sale. All in all, we are enjoying the change of pace, the independence, and in still having meaningful work. It has been refreshing to have a goal and, with each day of work, to see our joint progress toward that goal. Plus, there is something to be said for starting and ending a day of hard work at the beach...

NOLA view - our yard

back yard view



Sometimes in looking back at a situation, the reality is more shocking than when it is staring you in the face. Looking through pictures of our yard and our neighborhood, I find that I am actually surprised by how it looks.

front yard view

from my window on the 23rd floor

Though I don't sit in my New Orleans office anymore, life continues to happen there. My previous co-worker now occupies the space that I used to fill. Together we would often look out the window and discuss various activities happening below. Most frequently, police movement would attract our attention. She e-mailed me today to tell me that many people gathered in my office to watch as two body bags were carried from one of the Iberville Project's apartment doors.

Though I'm not there, I see it, and I know the scene exactly. I know the faces of the young men who may have been in each of those bags. I saw them each day as I entered and departed. I know that summer is worse for those who have no school, no job, no hope, nothing to fill their time except their disputes with one another. Anger at their world and at their resulting unhappiness - dealt with using terminal violence.

changing gears

Lately, I've been attempting to change gears while biking. I have this Schwinn that I bought at the Bridge House in New Orleans for $20. I chose it because it sits more upright than my single-speed Specialized which was made for me by a buddy of mine. The roads suck in NOLA contributing to my achy neck and back while biking around. So, I switched my basket and my bell from the Specialized to the Schwinn and used it while tooling around the Crescent City. If nothing else, NOLA is flat, so though the Schwinn had many gear options, I kept it at #2 on the left side and #4 on the right side (roughly equivalent, I'm sure, to my single-speed).

Surprisingly enough, when compared to NOLA, Gainesville has varied elevation, so I've been practicing changing gears. So far, I can't figure it out. My chain has fallen off more than once, I pedal too fast sometimes and with too much resistance other times. I'm told that gears do lots of nice things for you, like making hills easier to scale and giving your knees a break. Also, if you have gears, I've heard that that your bike likes for you to change them.

My response to this gear changing hoop-la is that I don't need to do it. I've given it my best shot and I'm a confirmed single-speeder. My legs adjust to the needs of the road when I bike, just like they do when I walk or jog. No need to fix what isn't broken.

back in FLA

After a year and a few days in New Orleans, James and I have returned to our Florida life. We arrived to a musty, moldy home that required significant cleaning after no air conditioning or heat for one year (yes, we had a tenant - no, he didn't use either - an unfortunate miscommunication which we have accepted and are dealing with). The upside is that the house has never been so thoroughly cleaned and we uncovered many items that will soon be craiglisted. We've spent the past few days visiting wonderful friends in Suwannee and will return to Gainesville to decide what life holds for us next.

Many stories have yet to be told and many photos have gone unshared, so perhaps, the blog will not end right away. It may even take a new direction. For now, I'm enjoying the freedom my brain has from the constant stimulation of NOLA and James is relieved to be released from the endless temptation of the large, deep-fried shrimp/ fish po-boys.

power outage

Yesterday, winds picked up suddenly at dusk, the world became a dust bowl, and finally - 15 minutes of beautiful, much-needed rain. A little later, James and I took a walk. After two weeks of mid-90's, 82 was a welcome temperature and we wanted to enjoy it. About 6 blocks from home on our return, we saw some plants sitting at the curb waiting for trash day. Not able to leave them, I hoisted a large, neglected schefflera onto my hip and we began walking again. Just about that time, we saw a huge flash of light and then the street went dark. A transformer blew out and surged a couple of times in an attempt to regain power. As we made our way down the final blocks home, our neighbors began emerging from their homes, talking back and forth across the street, asking if anyone had called Entergy. Many didn't have phones and couldn't call, one woman, new to the neighborhood, had one of those minute phones, but she ran out of minutes earlier that day. The hairdresser had a phone but it wasn't working. Others had no phone at all. The buzz of conversation continued as we walked along. Even with the chatter in the street, we were amazed at how quiet the neighborhood seemed. No airconditioners buzzing, no radios, no sizzling electric lines. Someone said that it sounded like this after Katrina, but was darker, because this time, there were only a few blocks without power. We went inside, lit candles, and went about our business, our neighbors, however, stayed outside until another hour or so until the Entergy truck arrived and the power was restored.

'the smaller the group, the bigger the party'

At least 3 nights a week and always on Sunday evening, our corner neighbor, the hairdresser, plays this song. Sometimes she replays it multiple times in a row, sometimes she plays the entire mix cd, so that on any given week night, we might hear this tune 3-7 times. After having lived in the Irish Channel for one year, I estimate that we have heard this Mel Waiters song an absolute minimum of 468 times. I know its thumping base by heart. Interestingly, I still don't know the words.

Often there are loud conversations that take place over the music. Large, styrofoam Daiquiri 'to go' cups are generally present. Sometimes a grill is wheeled to the curb and some food is prepared. On occasion, a dance party ensues. Once, bag-head participated in a dance off with the hairdresser and the pink-shirt crack addict - somehow pink-shirt acquired an American flag and incorporated that into the dance routine. You never can tell what will happen in our neck of the hood.

It's all about the food

One of the many reasons that I love New Orleans is because the people who live here love to eat. And they eat well. Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving unless gumbo, mirlitons, and bourbon are present. Spring isn't spring without crawfish boils and Abita Beer. Every season has its food and every food has its cocktail. The city celebrates its love for food with fabulous restaurants, food festivals, museums devoted to food and drink, and many, many books on the subject.
One Book One New Orleans promotes literacy by selecting a city wide read each fall. This year they are also promoting this love affair with food in their book selection, Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table, by Sara Roahen.
Another recent release of interest to me is New Orleans Cuisine: Fourteen Signature Dishes and Their Histories (University Press of Mississippi, 2009).

too hot for po-boys

Can it be possible that it is actually so hot that even a po-boy from the Family Grocery at Louisiana and Daneel isn't tempting? Mid-90's every single day with no hope for rain. Nature boy James refuses to go outside during the daylight hours. This morning I left the house at 7:00am in a feeble attempt to beat the sun. I arrived at work by 7:30am, drenched in sweat and went straight for the water cooler. Aaahh summer in the hot, humid south.

The upside is that I love the genteel hats, delicate sundresses and the increased presence of linen. There is something divine about a place where, when others are wilting, a New Orleanian dresses up, smiles, drops a few more ice cubes in their cocktail, and sees the heat as a perfect excuse to sit on the front porch chatting the day away.

comments made in passing

People talk to me. Pretty much any time I am alone in public. Let me modify slightly. Men talk to me when I walk or bike by - sometimes kids do too, but definitely the men do. It has happened for as long as I can remember. My assumption was that this happens to everyone. James is skeptical when I share my encounters, because neither men nor women talk to him in this way, so sometimes, he follows at a distance to see if hears anything. Usually, he doesn't.

"I sure do like looking at your legs." "MMMmmmm... I bet you taste better than this pizza." "Hola, mama, mi amor. Beseme porfavor." "Oh, I see you walkin by and not lookin at me." My question is, What exactly is being accomplished? I can't consider what is being said a compliment and it isn't going to lead to any sort of further positive interaction. So, what's the point?

For the past few weeks, as I walk to the corner of Canal and St. Charles to wait for the street car, comments have been increasing in their aggressiveness and graphic nature. A few days ago, I saw a man grab a woman's rear end and squeeze hard as she passed by. She just kept walking without missing a step. Shocked and concerned, I turned and chose a different route to the car - no one is grabbing my ass without consent.

The increased talking in my direction troubles me. Can't women walk down the street without being verbally assaulted? Don't we have the right to go to and from wherever freely? Today, after two weeks of riding the car, I took my bike to work. Simply to avoid the comments. Kind of sucks if you ask me.

counting down

8 more days at Tulane. 12 more days in New Orleans. Can't believe we're really leaving....