Description

Steam rises from terra cotta ground. They call it red clay; they say nothing grows in it. But they’re wrong. Everything grows in it. This place is teeming with life. So much so that it’s trying to take over. Embolden deer march right up the the patio to dine on the potted plants. Possum families take over the front porch late at night. The little ground squirrels busy themselves with their assault on the retaining wall. Alll this happens within the city limits. You can’t coax them away. You can’t scare them away. They are the proverbial camel with its nose under the tent. They would commandeer your sofa if you let them.

I have been moving sideways here for months. It has me climbing the walls – giant, bulging walls. Too many and too often. This might just be the place of no forward motion. Everything is slow and languid. And if it must come from the heart to be great, it will. I shall bury my heart deep in the red earth here. And here it will remain, beneath the cucumbers anxious to cover every square inch of real estate above it.

And then there’s Dan; he will always have my heart. Dan rests in peace somewhere north of Kennesaw Mountain – most of him does. The rest of him remains with me. We go everywhere together these days. Dead men travel well. Dead men don’t get liquored up and fall on fragile hips like big burlap sacks of potatoes. Dead men are easy to lift when they’re down. Dead men don’t squeak when they move. And they don’t cry. And I don’t either. I don’t pine for Dan; I ask him for favors, and he responds in kind. Long live Dan.

The official flavor of the region is salt pork. Its presence is ubiquitous, in every dish that graces a southern table. However, you’ll seldom see it, and when you do, it is the white lump in the black-eyed peas or the layer of grease that congeals on top of the left-over lima beans. It is uniquely Southern, born from the backs of the sweaty hogs that cool themselves rolling in red clay.

Here, there is space to move and space to live. Roll around in the grass. Every house is surrounded by a lush green lawn of grass – to some degree or amother. They keep the ruddy earth in place during the daily torrents, which can get violent. This place stays saturated - hence the steam, hence the aggressive cucumbers, hence the furrowed brow and the lazy eye. You know you will sweat when you step outside after a deluge, and you hear an insect symphony. They sing to the sweat. They revel in the moisture. Look around. All you see are the green and tall trees, and they tower over you like a kindly overlord, who strokes your hair with his long, slender, gentle fingers.

Fireflies used to light up the summer evenings, flickering and twitching in a brilliant mating ritual. I haven't seen one in at least ten years. The farmer's almanac says their numbers are declining due to light pollution, habitat loss, and pesticides. We used to trap them in glass jars. We did the same with the beautiful butterflies. We used to do a lot of things. We didn't know better. These days I buy organic; I love fireflies. I am hoping that helps; I am also hoping it's not too late.

I know the East, and I know the West. I know nothing of the in between. I have observed that every Easterner is married with children, while the Westerners make love to their pets. They dress them in little sweaters and spoon with them at night. They drive them to special parks and take them on play dates. They give them report cards and table scraps. And if Rover needs a kidney, by golly, they make that happen. They will take out a second mortgage to put Rover under the knife. That’s what happens out there but not here. No one does that here. Here, Rover might just get a bullet to the head; here he’s lucky to get coffee grounds. Here, Rover sleeps under an oak tree tethered to a 6-foot chain. No one here takes Rover to bed.

The afternoon reaches its peak around 4pm. That’s when the sun strikes the hardest and the walls come down. That’s when the wine splashes and the knives come out. That’s when the sweating stops, and the conversations begin. And you talk until the evening news puts everyone in a most somber mood. So, you splash some more wine, and the world seems better. Apparently, the sky is not falling. Apparently, it’s been this way since the pharos – pharos, kings, oligarchs, CEOs, deep state. What’s the damn difference? The names might change, but the song remains the same. Tomorrow, the world will still be turning on a tilted axis. Apparently, it's not ending.

But, then again, her’s might be. Her world might be ending any day now or, perhaps, it had ended already. Wait. I am getting ahead of myself.

For now, let me introduce myself. Let me prove my credibility. Or, at least, let me attest to my ability to tell this story with accuracy. I know her, and I knew him. I know them all. I have been dancing on the periphery of their social circle for quite some time now, long enough to see through the thin veil of normalcy they strive to project onto the world. I have peered inside and seen the broken hearts, the quiet desperation, the longing for freedom. It just life. We all must make choices. And some choices preclude other choices. And sometimes, it’s simply luck that turns the tides of fate.

As I said, I am merely a keen observer. I flirt with that life from the safety of the sidelines, occasionally dipping my toe into its turbid pool. I am the traveler. When it gets too hot, too cold, or too anything, I pick up and move. My roots are shallow, my needs are few, my wanderlust profound. I have no family. I will likely die alone. But then again, won’t we all?

I am a mature woman, though in no way matronly - math nerd, communicator, dutiful daughter, rock climber, wall climber, lover of the grape, nature enthusiast, Rick and Morty fan, bitch, friend, people person, loner, traveler, writer, joker, artist, sister, aunt, former potato chip addict and self-medicator, former skydiver and proud member of the Mile High Club, blah, blah, blah. I have become quite disillusioned with my current role as landlord. Sadly, it has not lived up to my fantasy. But that is another story for another day. And this is quite enough about me. Let's talk about her.

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