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United States, North Carolina, Carrboro, English, Paul, Male, 56-60, All Music, All Food.

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Sunday, April 20, 2003

My gentle little friend She wears Harry Potter glasses. She plays outside Room 158 and I am in 160. A child 8 or 9, she has not, like myself, learned to be fearful and paranoid of strangers. I fear for her but I fear for myself as well. She plays with robot toys that ask her what is her favorite color or what is her favorite cookie. She enthusiastically answers aloud and then punches her choice on the robot’s shirt buttons. I am afraid to return her friendship because I know the rest of the world would never understand either her innocence or the vestiges of it that remain in me. Not what is but waht it might appear to be. Totally open, the first time I pulled my rental car into the space designated for 160, she picked a snippet from a greening shrub outside 164 and laid it on my doorstep. As I walked into my room for the first time she said. “Well, aren’ t you going to pick it up?” I bowed to her and picked it up. Later, it began to wilt, so I put it in a motel plastic cup with some tap water and it soon revived. I am fearful and paranoid, a strange man traveling alone where any gesture to a child is open to misinterpretation. In my heart, I am as innocent and childish as her, but I am not a child. I wish her parents would take her inside and warn her about strangers. I am not a threat but there are so many real threats out there. The best I can do is to avoid encouraging her, so I say as little as possible. This morning, as I arrived back at 160, there was peripheral motion as she scurried, ducking to stay out of my view, to gently place a daffodil blossom on my doorstep. As I entered my room, I set down the computer case, picked up the blossom, bowed again, opened the door and said “Thank you” as I went inside. Maybe she already knows the difference between gentle folk like herself and those who are truly threatening. I want to believe that, but I fear for her, my gentle little friend. I put the blossom in the plastic cup beside the stem from the shrub. Later, when I left again, she waved me goodbye with both her arms, looking like a little windmill. I wonder, should I have left her presents to die in the sun on my doorstep? 9:43:36 PM    comment []

This is day 5 of vacation. Last three vacations I've had have been unkind. Last year, I'd planned to go to a hog butchering at the farm of Wernher and Fifi. I went but was miserable from a sinus infection. No fun that time. A couple of years ago, Liz and I went to Savannah and got a room right up on the water. If you’ve seen Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil, you know how beautiful that city can be. Not for me. I was so ill I made her miserable and we both had a lousy tie. This year is bearable; I feel great but have pretty much lost my voice to a throat infection. I felt it coming on Tuesday at work and used the last of my natural strength voice to do some high-intensity cussing. Do not go gentle. Other than not being able to speak coherently to my family and friends, which isn’t all that unusual, I feel great. I drove back from Toledo to Columbus Saturday morning and found Mom Wilson’s, the Route 23 sausage shop. They make traditional farmer’s sausage, seasoned mainly with salt and pepper, lightly smoked, very light on seasonings. Now they are are experimenting with jalapeno and cheese (see my recipe on the left) in loafs and sausage, but it’s pretty much the traditional stuff and pretty much fantastic. Simplicity trumps exotic on my scorecard. When I got to Mom Wilson’s I took a few photos from the “Porkin’ Lot”. Nothing remarkable about the market building, it could easily be a Dairy Queen or even a small health clinic; it’s only a single level and might be a ranch home were it not for all the glass. Oh, yes, and the sculpted pigs on the lawn. I snapped photos of that stuff and went inside to get to The Real Thing. For a sausagemaker, a country sausage shop is one step from heaven. A gentleman behind the counter asked me if he could help me. I wanted to snap a few pictures of their goodies to post up here when I get back to real blogging. So I asked him if it was okay photograph their display case. I was a bit surprised when he asked back, “Why would you want to do that?” I knew it was a losing battle right then. To him, I was not a grown up country boy with an acquired appreciation of the wurstmeister’s craft; I was a high-falutin’ city boy with a fancy-schmancy digital camera and a condescending attitude. Okay. I explained that I stop by Mom Wilson’s every time I come back to Ohio, all the way from North Carolina (“See? I’m really country too! Land of Doc Watson!”). So then suddenly he was the snooty sophisticate and I was the hillbilly, “Take some pictures outside, go for the big picture, the large scale view..” I knew I was beaten. He did not want photos taken of the display case and I did not want to offend. He didn’ t have to say “No.” That’s the way we talk in Ohio. I ordered some smoked sausage, two pounds of the best bacon this side of the International Eon Line of the Universe, and a couple pieces of beef jerky. They’ve started to pepper their jerky, you can see the seeds on the outside. My Ohio brother behind the counter hit me with a friendly caveat, “You might want to try some of this before you buy it.” No, I told him, if it comes from here I’m sure it is excellent (now I did say “excellent” just to override the previous digital hillbilly image). He asked again. I should have tried some so I could compliment him on its excellence right to his face, but I’ve been away from Ohio too long to remember all the nuances. Once again, I said “I know it will be good if it came from here.” I went back to my car and gobbled down all the jerky as I drove the last few miles back to Columbus. If you’re ever driving on Route 23 south of Delaware, OH, keep an eye out for Mom Wilson’s. 6:53:26 AM    comment []