Kudzu's Last Rites

By Cappy Hall Rearick

My granddaddy had a dying wish. He asked us to buy MaMa a puppy so she wouldn't be lonesome after he floated up to cigar heaven.

So the day after PaPa's funeral, we took a trip to the animal shelter where we found Kudzu, the sweetest, ugliest mutt ever born. MaMa fell instantly in love, and the two of them remained side by side till the day she drew her last.

Which brings me to her final request. She asked us to take Kudzu home and at his death to bury him in the plot between her and PaPa, at the very site we had mistakenly thought belonged to one of us. At the time, we bobbed our heads up and down in agreement like dashboard dolls. We were sad and would have agreed to pretty much anything. Little did we know that the city sanitation department had very specific ideas about where Kudzu should rest, following his lazy, but final demise.

"What they don't know won't hurt em," Daddy announced the day Kudzu gave up the ghost.

He took the dog out to the cemetery late one night, intending to bury him according to MaMa's dying wish. The city and their rules could just kiss his foot, he said. I went out there with him.

We couldn't go in the front entrance because the gates were locked. I thought that was curious. "Why would they lock up the cemetery at night, Daddy? And please don't tell me it's because people are dying to get in there."

Daddy explained about people stealing funeral flowers. "I remember once when I was young, one of my buddies stole flowers off a grave to give to his sweetheart," he said.

"That's tacky, Daddy." Even so, locking cemetery gates so people wouldn't steal carnations seemed like overkill to me.

"Still," he said, "others dig up the graves, open the coffins and rummage around in there for valuables."

"You gotta be kidding. What kind of valuables?" I couldn't imagine anybody brave enough to feel around inside a dead person's eternal bed.

Daddy laughed. "Rings and watches. You'd be surprised how many people think they can take it with them."

He turned off his headlights and we drove around to the side of the grave yard where it was so dark we couldn't even find the flashlight button. Kudzu remained in the trunk, wrapped like a baby in his ratty old blanket. We parked under some trees and Daddy said, "Come on. I'll hoist you over the fence. Then you can stay there till I come back with Kudzu."

"Whoa! Then what?"

"Then I'll lower him over to you and you can hold him while I crawl over the fence."

At that moment, my eyes grew four sizes larger and, for the first time in my life, my mouth would not close. "You want me to hold a dead dog in a dark cemetary?"

"It'll just be for a minute, Sweetie. It won't take me any time to get over the fence, but I can't do it and hold the dog. If he's too heavy for you, put him down on the ground."

Heavy or not, that's exactly where he went.

I kept a lookout while Daddy dug a hole between MaMa and PaPa. He dug pretty deep and was all sweaty by the time he got finished.

Daddy had thought of everything, even a Bible. When all the dirt was packed tightly over Ol' Kudzu, Daddy told me to jump up and down on top of the soil so it wouldn't look like new dirt. Then he began to read from the Bible. After a verse or two, he said "Amen," and snapped the good book closed.

"Tomorrow, we'll come out here and plant a big azalea bush on top. That way, nobody will ever suspect Kudzu of engaging in inactive fertilization."

Daddy turned toward me for an instant, just long enough for me to see a shiny spot on his cheek. He coughed and turned away, and I pretended I had not noticed the tear.

Water Colors

I first discovered the talent of Walter Anderson through my online travels with Mississippi riverman John Ruskey. There is something captivating about the art of both men that brings to mind nature in all its' glory and majesty. Weeks after Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast, efforts continue to salvage lives, homes and the timeless art of a man devoted to his craft. Ocean Springs, Mississipi took the brunt of the storm along with other cities along the coast of that state. It is there that the museum featuring the works of Walter Anderson still stands, though a bit waterlogged and storm weary. Volunteers are busy with a salvage and restoration project aimed at preserving the watercolor legacy of an artisan who claimed his muse in the Delta.

"Walter Inglis Anderson was born in 1903 in New Orleans to George Walter Anderson, a grain merchant, and Annette McConnell Anderson, an artist. His mother’s love of art, music, and literature strongly influenced Walter (called "Bob" by his friends and family) and his two brothers, Peter and Mac. Anderson was educated at a private boarding school, then attended the Parsons Institute of Design in New York and the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, where his drawings earned him a scholarship for study abroad. He traveled throughout Europe and was particularly impressed with the cave art he saw at Les Eyzies in France. His wide-ranging interests included extensive reading of poetry, history, natural science and art history. He pursued man’s search for meaning in books of folklore, mythology, philosophy, and epics of voyage and discovery. Anderson returned to Ocean Springs and married a Radcliffe graduate, Agnes (Sissy) Grinstead, started a family, and went to work creating molds and decorating earthenware at Shearwater Pottery, founded by his brother Peter. Anderson felt that an artist should create affordable work that brought pleasure to others, and in return, the artist should be able to pursue his artistic passions. In the 1930s, he worked on regional Works Progress Administration mural projects and began to view his role in art as a muralist."
In the late 1930's Anderson was diagnosed with a mental illness that required several hospitalizations, known these days as chronic depression. During the recovery period at his father-in-law's plantation home in Gautier, Mississippi he created some of his most dynamic works reflecting the scope of his talent and his passion for art history. Anderson spent the last 18 years of his life living a solitary existence with the understanding of his wife and children. He lived alone in a cottage and rowed the twelve miles to Horn Island where he often lived under his boat for weeks at a time while drawing and painting the nature that he so loved. His works were later found scattered here and there among the dunes and quiet spots that brought him solace as he endured extremes of weather and documented the habits of the many species of wildlife that he shared his life with.

Want to know more? Visit the city of Ocean Springs.

Information and images courtesy of:
Walter Anderson Museum of Art
510 Washington Avenue
Ocean Springs, MS 39564
228-872-3164

With or Without

We moved to Raleigh in August of one year. It was hot and the humidity high. My confusion level was on high as well. I am not the best navigator in this world. Okay – clueless would probably describe my abilities to “find my way home.” I do a lot of sightseeing – if you know what I mean.

Nevertheless, on that particular day back in the ‘70’s, I was fed up with trying to figure out the beltway around the city. I was also hungry. I finally determined to stop going around in circles and picked an exit. When you are lost what does it matter which exit you pick – except that it has a sign for food? Right. I might have been lost, but my priorities were still on target!

I pulled into a little local diner along side the road. That was an unusual step for me. Normally, I try to hang out at the “familiar” joints – like Mickie Dees with the arches. I am not an extremely adventurous person and I feel safe with what I know.

Anyway, on this particular day I found myself pulling up into a gravel parking lot. Name of the place escapes me. A local place - with not a lot on atmosphere but chances are they’ve got great food. You know the kind I mean. All towns have them somewhere. There’s a handwritten sign with the day’s offerings on it, the truck drivers are sitting at the counter, and the booths used to have those little jukeboxes. Maybe all those thoughts are what pulled on me like a magnet. Dad and I went to a place named “Kurt’s” every now and then. Kurt made the best curly fries you ever tasted. He’d take (what today would be the equivalent of a small pizza box) and fill it to over-flowing with his delicious goodies. He’d slather those hot greasy fries with enough salt to raise your blood pressure a few points. Dad said he made a mean bowl of chili too. It might have been those fond memories that made me break my normal habit – I don’t know.

However, the minute I walked in the door I knew I wasn’t in South Buffalo anymore. I must have looked like the deer caught….. – well - you get the point. I had stumbled into a world of unfamiliar cuisine. I glanced at that board and knew I didn’t have time to try to figure out what some of those words meant because there were a line of people right behind me waiting to be served.

“Hey – dear!”

I looked up at the smiling, welcoming face and wondered if my features were giving away my “…in the headlights” feeling. Was she offering me hay? I didn’t think so.

“Wattkineyegitchatday?”

I didn’t feel like sounding like a two-year-old asking endlessly -“What’s that?” So I garbled out that I’d like a burger and fries. I mean – what can go wrong with that good old standard?

“With or without?”

Again, rather than risk sounding like an idiot. I said – with. I ordered some ice tea to drink. The good manners my mother raised me with stopped me from spitting it out of my mouth. I just had gotten a swig of my first sweet tea. (drink it all the time now) However, I know my mouth dropped open when my burger showed up with green stuff piled high on it. “With” equals coleslaw on burger. The beltway suddenly appeared a safer place.

Written by Lillium

Due to many complaints about Blogger Comments.....

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

The Paperclip Project

I love documentaries. Over the weekend, I saw one on HBO titled, "The Paperclip Project." It was about a group of students at a middle school in Whitwell, Tennessee, who were studying the Holocaust. The school principal, Linda Hooper, wanted to do something different in her school. She wanted these children who have little or no exposure to other ethnic groups, to really understand the costs hatred and violence bring to the world. It began as a weekly, afterschool, project, attended on a volunteer basis, due to the graphic scenes and descriptions of violence that the children would be exposed to.

As they read books, did research, the same number kept coming up over and over. Six million. Six million Jews executed. One student asked, "What does six million look like?"

The students asked if they could collect something to represent six million, so that they could grasp the vastness of that number. Hooper agreed, but the students were told they'd have to find something that had meaning to the project. They decided to collect paperclips because, they discovered, during the Holocaust, Norwegians wore paperclips on their collars in silent protest against Nazi policies.

By the end of the first year, they'd only collected 10,000 paperclips. But then, two reporters from the DC area, who worked for a German newspaper, caught wind of the project. After their story was published, the flood gates opened. The school began receiving so much mail that the local post office could no longer deliver it. Most of the paperclips they received were from Holocaust survivors, their children, their grandchildren. A large portion of the shipments were accompanied by letters, personal stories of horrid experiences.

I managed not to cry through the beginning of the story, but when a few New Yorkers arrived to speak to the students, all Jewish, all a little afraid of being in Redneck land, and were greeted with hugs and tears and exclamations of, "Don't be scared, we're just folks!" well, that's when I started to lose it. It was a beautiful thing. Then, an older man, not very tall, spoke to the crowd and said, "My name is Joe and I'm a Holocaust survivor," while holding up his arm and showing his tattoo, I fell apart. I watched the remainder of the movie through tears, I'm a big wussy baby, I know.

The school decided to use the paperclips to build a memorial. Through a series of events, they were able to obtain one of the rail cars used by the Nazis to transport people to the concentration camps. The entire town volunteered to help with repairs and landscaping. It now stands in the town of Whitwell, Tennessee, holding eleven million paperclips. Six million for the Jewish people who died in the camps and an additional five million to represent the Romani,homosexuals and other human beings who were forced to suffer and were senselessly murdered.

God Bless Linda Cooper and the teachers, students and townspeople of Whitwell, Tennessee. It's a beautiful thing.

Penguins Gone Wild!

Moody Gardens, located on Galveston Island off the coast of Texas in the Gulf of Mexico, began in the 1980's as a hippotherapy riding program for people with head injuries. Today it is a premier educational/recreational facility. Moody Gardens provides horticultural therapy, education and employment for persons wih a wide range of physical and emotional disabilities. A part of the complex houses three separate pyramid shaped buildings serving the public as educational facilities. The pyramids are Rainforest and IMAX theatre, Discovery Pyramid which houses the NASA exhibits and other science exhibits, and the Aquarium Pyramid.

My favorite exhibit at Moody Gardens is in the Aquarium Pyramid, opened in 1999, and it is the penguin exhibit. The penguin exhibit is in the South Atlantic section of the aquarium. The natural habitat of the penguins is simulated in a two level exhibit. Visitors can view the penguins above and below frigid Antarctic waters. Caves under an ice sheet allow visitors to see penguins swimming in their natural habitat. They are quite the little performers and they love a crowd!

Four types of penguins inhibit the exhibit. They include the King, Chinstrap, Rockhopper and Gentoo penguins. The exhibit is patterned into rocky beaches to mimic South Georgia Island, the penguin's native habitat.

Well, something very interesting started the afternoon before Hurricane Rita landed on Galveston Island. The biologists are calling it "penguins gone wild"! Lots of penguin love was observed by the curators and courtship behavior, such as elevated penguin heads, was rampant. Necks stretched, beaks raised, downy chests puffed out, all to look taller for the ladies. The lovefest was very helpful from the scientists' point of view as penguin research is costly and nesting sites are difficult to reach in the wild. Penguin sex remains a bit of a mystery!

The exhibit's lighting system mimics the light cycle of Antarctic islands where the penguins originate. The month of October begins the natural breeding season for penguins and the lights are on for 18 hours. By December, the lights are on for 22 hours. Penguins, for the most part, mate for life. Some of the biologists, though, say they've seen some hanky-panky.

After thirty-nine days of incubation, the first successful gentoo penguin to hatch at the aquarium did so after being conceived the night Hurricane Rita struck the Gulf Coast. The chick weighed 3 ounces and was 4 inches long. It will be adult size in 75 days. The sex is unknown as of yet, it will be determined through blood work. If the chick is a girl, it will be named Rita. If the chick is a boy, it will be named Cane (short for hurricane).

A second egg is to hatch very soon. A baby brother or sister is on the way.

"From the Editor"

It has been brought to my attention that comments are going missing for a few people after they write them. Blogger does have this issue at times. I myself have gone back to a comment I made to find it gone. I have noticed comments have been really light this week. Blogger is shutting down for an hour or two for maintenance today. Let's see if that fixes it. If you are still having issues, please let me know. I will look into other solutions if there are too many complaints.

Thnxs!

The Story Behind the Barns

Clark Byers.

If you’re like me, the name means nothing, but I’m sure you’ve seen his work. He was an artist and his paintings were once displayed in nineteen states. Before he became a painter, he worked in a cotton mill and bottled buttermilk for three dollars a week.


Then he was approached in 1937 by the owner of a southern tourist attraction to create advertising for the business. By the time he retired in 1969, he had about 900 works to his credit.

What was he painting? Clark Byers was the man behind the “See Rock City” barns. He braved ornery bulls, slick roofs and avoided lightning while painting rural barns. Barn owners received a free paint job for their barns, Rock City bathmats and thermometers. If they wanted more than a trinket, they were given five dollars.

Byers painted up to six barns a day and earned about forty dollars per barn. But from that forty dollars, he had to buy paint and pay his helpers. Every two years, he’d repaint the logos.

In 1969 he retired to his farm in Georgia and kept his hand in painting by doing work for local churches and schools. He died in 2004.

About two hundred Rock City barns remain today and Rock City itself maintains about seventy of them. The end of Rock City barn advertising came in the late sixties when the “Ladybird Law,” which banned ads along main roads, took effect.

You can still buy the logo today. Cracker Barrel restaurants sell black and red birdhouses with the “See Rock City” logo on them.

I’ll bet nobody ever said Clark Byers couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

Are Ya Southern or That Othern?

I was born in Arizona and have lived or traveled extensively around all the Western states. I now live in Pancake Flats, Kansas. Yet, I'm 76% Dixie. Go figure.

And how 'bout all y'all? Are ya Southern or Northern? This simple test lets ya know.

Maybe I'm Southern cuz My First Wife is a Mississippi-born Georgia Peach.

You Might Be A Girly-Girl If...

As a girl growing up in Texas, I tended to waffle between slightly tom-boyed and girly-girl attitudes;depended on what the situation called for. A Southern woman always knows how to hedge her bets. So, if the day's fun called for chunking dirt clods, then I was right out there getting my fingernails crammed full of dirt. Having only one brother and no sister meant I had to learn the boy stuff pretty quick. As a playmate, Bear was not about to dress up a Ken doll or build a playhouse. Thanks to him, I learned the business end of a bat, how to throw a football, and the best way to skip rocks.

The day of the neighborhood clod throwing contest, I caught one full in the face, knocked out a tooth and split my upper lip up into the tender part of the nose. Face swelled to a #3 cantelope. Rule #1: never walk in front of a future boxing contender when he is intent on heaving a big dirt clod over the uppermost highline wire. In later years, when all the Tijerina boys were big stars in the Golden Gloves tournaments, I would chuckle to think I took a punch from one of them and lived to tell the tale.

As I recall, when the blood started spurting, the Tijerina kid hightailed it out of there. My mom way-laid my brother, until I could sputter through the busted lip to tell her he was not the culprit. Still today, I carry a tiny gristled area in my upper lip as a reminder of that day's antics. Can't complain, gave my upper lip a very perky bow shape. Just one of those little childhood scrapes that would result in a messy lawsuit in today's litigatory-happy world.

Ways To Know If You Are A Girly-Girl:

1. If you never learned to make a spit ball that would stick on it's target...you could have been a girly-girl.

2. If you're too ladylike to break out in a run in public...you could be a grown up girly-girl.

3. If you enjoyed fishing but were never able to bait your own hook...you could have been a girly-girl.

4. If you've never gone swimming in a ditch after a big rain ...you could have been a girly-girl.

5. If you never once sat on the roof of the house you grew up in...you could have been a girly-girl.

6. If you've never swung from your knees on a swing set or tree limb ...you could have been a girly-girl.

7. If you've never worn abandoned locust skins as jewelry...you could have been a girly girl.

8. If you've never been scolded for making unladylike noises with your palm cupped under your armpit...you could have been a girly girl.

9. If you never tried to dig your own swimming pool and fill it up with the water hose, only to end up with a mud hole instead...you could have been a girly-girl.

10. If your mama wasn't always reminding you of the things little ladies did and did not do...you could have been a girly-girl.

(this list courtesy of Shellie Rushing Tomlinson)

Southern Sisters

Old Mrs. Hamilton has the bluest of hair you ever did see. Steel blue, kept fresh by a regular Roux rinse and a weekly visit to the beauty parlor where they fuss over her curls and catch her up on the latest gossip in the 'burg. Now and then, she fires up the faded red and white Ford for a visit to the dime store on the square. She always did love peeking at those parakeets in the back of the store and comparing them to her own. Each bird sings a different song, especially the caged ones with the brilliant feathers. I've heard tell that Ethel's voice could be heard for blocks away from Pate Street hollerin' at Oskie as he walked to work at the grocery store down by the train station. That was then, though. And this is now.
* * * * * * * *
Her granddaughter brings her to the restaurant on her "day out" because she doesn't drive anymore. Sometimes they pass the time together chatting, but mostly Miz Hamilton prisses on up in there all dressed to the nines and sets herself down at a table for one. "I'd like some half and half in my coffee, sugar" she says. We always keep a pint around, because we know that some folks enjoy the finer things in life like a good cup of coffee or tea fixed up just right like a celebration. We never know when she's gonna show up, but it's always an occasion. Her cotton shirtwaist tends to be floral, and fits snugly around her ample body. She smooths that linen napkin across her lap and settles down for lunch. Back when Oscar was alive and the kids were all over the place, she had her own cook. Rosa Lee usually wore a paper bag on her head while she was in the kitchen, but on special occasions wrapped it up in a kerchief just so and posed for pictures with the family. One of the reasons Oscar bought that Ford was so they could pick Rosa Lee up and she didn't have to walk over to Pate Street with that bag on her head.

Her daughter never could cook worth a lick...good cooks have to be taught and Ethel was not much in the kitchen until her twilight years. That one great granddaughter of hers would cross the playground and slide down the hill to enjoy a lunch of oven fried chicken and gravy with stewed potatoes and a green thing. There was always a biscuit or two and dessert was usually berries and cream on those special occasions. My, how she enjoyed those lunchtime visits! What was her name anyways? Oh..yes. It was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Jane. Her grandma lived right across the street.
* * * * * * * *
That young blonde waitress with the big smile looks a whole lot like my great granddaughter, and acts like her too. What's her name again? Oh..yes. Her name is Lauren. I bet she can cook real good. I sure do enjoy her smile and her attentions. That little gal always makes sure my tea glass is full and there's plenty of ice. Plus, we visit sometimes and she tells me about her boyfriend and her family. She's gonna make some lucky fellow a good wife someday. I imagine she'll even have her own kids to cook for, bless her heart. The blackberry cobbler is mighty good today. Thank goodness there's just the right amount of ice cream meltin' over the top of it the way I like it. Where's my pocketbook? I gotta leave that girl a shiny tip for takin' care of this old lady and acting like she cares. You think maybe she does?

Elvis has Left the Building

....and so has everybody else at Baptist Memorial Hospital on Union. As of 6:45 am on Sunday November 6th, the cornerstone facility of this not-for-profit hospital system will be imploded with thousands watching on local TV stations and on site. When the dust settles, part of the legacy will be given to The University of Tennesse Center for the Health Sciences, with the other part going to the Bioworks Foundation.

Memphis is located in southwestern Tennessee right smack on the bank of the Mississipi River. The city was home to Elvis and company for many years and pilgrims still surround Graceland on special anniversaries. They light candles and sign their names to the massive wall that surrounds the estate, all the while humming their favorite tunes like Blue Suede Shoes. I happened to be on I-240 the day of his funeral procession and I'll tell you what...it was the slowest I've ever seen traffic move on that loop to nowhere.

Lisa Marie was born at Baptist, and Elvis had his own private suite with gold fixtures in the bathroom. He died there, in a cloud of mystery and intrigue that was investigated by medical examiner, Dr. Jerry Francisco. The poor boy from Tupelo made good in the city of Memphis, and they loved him.

When you hear the big "BOOM", sing your favorite Elvis tune out loud.

Photos courtesy of The Commercial Appeal

Leftovers

Do y'all eat leftovers at your house? We do cause my southern upbringing taught me to believe it was a sin to throw food away. Remember all those starving children in China? I also remember the whipping I got when I suggested my grandmother send the turnip greens that I hated over to China and let those children eat them.

Anyway, I usually don't worry about leftovers. My hubby takes his lunch to work so that uses up most of the leftover food. And I work from home and eat what's left. Of course, when my boys went off to college, I had to retrain myself and learn how to cook for just two people again. For a while, we had beaucoup leftovers!

But I digress. I have leftovers now that I'm real worried about. I'm talking about Halloween leftovers. An entire gallon size baggie full of little bitty candy bars. I've hidden them in the back of the pantry but even through the closed door I can hear them calling my name.

The first year my hubby and I were married, I bought a big bag of the cheapest candy in the store. We lived in an apartment complex and I figured we'd have lots of kids knocking on the door. When I was a kid, we'd always go to a nearby apartment complex cause that was easy pickin's. You just moved from one door to the next, looked cute and loaded up on candy. I guess kids today haven't figured that out. Or maybe their parents had heard about the wild parties every Saturday night at the complex where we lived. Anyway, I had most of that cheap candy left over. After that, the hubby ordered me to only buy stuff that we'd eat if it was left over. Of course, that was in the days when I could consume a gazillion calories a day and not gain an ounce.

Today I can drink water all day, eat only low-glycemic-index foods and exercise moderately, and I still have to loosen the top snap on my jeans after dinner. *sigh* So those beckoning Halloween leftovers are a real problem. I can't throw them away and I don't think my neighbor would be real thrilled if I offered them to her four kids. She'd probably send them over to my house and let them bounce off my walls when the sugar high hit.

I should go back to buying the cheapo stuff, huh?

Darn my southern upbringing.

The Bible Moth

Joe hailed from Texas, somewhere around Killeen. I went to Texas once, and didn't think much of the place. Evidently he didn't either because he got the heck outta there and moved onto Arkansas. His lovely ex-wife Martha is one of my best friends ever in this world.. Swear on a stack of Bibles.

Martha Ann took me to a revival a few miles north of home where Joe was preaching. Now mind you, she didn't sign up for this. When they were engaged, she thought she was marrying an Air Force pilot in training. The Lord had other plans in mind for the boy and so there you go, into the ministry. We drove to Trimble and settled into the center pew. There's three sections of pews, each with their own usual inhabitants. The Pope family is spread all over in amongst the Whitsons and the Shoffners and the Roses. Stained glass windows are strung along each of the side walls with memorials to saints etched at their bases. Old Mrs. Mooney worshipped here back in the day, along with many other faithful ones.

Joe called on the Bible moths to read their passages during his sermon. My spot was marked with a visitor card, so I found it quickly and read out loud from the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 25. " Lord, when was it that I saw you hungry and gave you food, or hungry and gave you something to drink. And when was it that I saw you a stranger and welcomed you. Visited you while you were sick or in prison." I knew right then that it was, once again, about the least of these and the sheep and goats.

Many years later, I visited that church again, several times. Joe and Martha were long gone from my life...moved on to their next chapter. The first time I went, you'd have thought I was the prodigal daughter come back to roost among the faithful. I filled out the visitor's card once again and chatted with my new friends. We smiled at the kids and sang hymns that we knew by heart, because we've heard them over and over whenever two or more are gathered in His name. I heard there was fried chicken later. Bet it was good.

Tomato Pie

Posted by Marilyn
(from Paula Deen at www.foodnetwork.com)

Ingredients:

4 tomatoes, peeled and sliced

10 fresh basil leaves, chopped

1/2 cup chopped green onion

1 (9-inch) prebaked deep dish pie shell

1 cup grated mozzarella

1 cup grated cheddar

1 cup mayonnaise

Salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

------------------------------------

Place the tomatoes in a colander in the sink in 1 layer. Sprinkle with salt and allow to drain for 10 minutes.

Layer the tomato slices, basil and onion in pie shell. Season with salt and pepper. Combine grated cheeses and mayonnaise. Spread mixture on the top of the tomatoes and bake for 30 minutes or until lightly browned.

Cut into slices and serve warm.

Life Lessons in Mason’s Bend

Written by: Marilyn Puett
http://marilynp.blogspot.com/

Nestled in a sleepy curve of the Black Warrior River is Mason’s Bend, part of Alabama’s Black Belt, home of the poorest counties in the state. Every semester a group of Auburn University architecture students leave the comforts of campus life to study, work, and live in this Hale County community. They participate in a program called Rural Studio to design and build homes for the rural poor.

The brainchild of the late Samuel Mockbee, a Professor of Architecture, Rural Studio is a curriculum designed to allow students to put their education to a real-life test. Most of the students are from relatively affluent families, and moving to one of the poorest counties in the nation is an abrupt lesson in culture shock. From day one, they are immersed in an environment where people live in tumbledown chicken coops and abandoned buses. Working with local agencies, the students select a family and then get to know them so they can meet their real needs. Rural Studio gives these families a hand up rather than a handout since they are actively involved in the design and construction of their homes.

Living in several old houses donated to the program plus pod dwellings constructed of waste corrugated cardboard, the students pour over building books and blueprints at night instead of watching television, working out practical and cheap solutions to their project. Money is tight, so students look for innovative construction materials such as the aforementioned cardboard. One of the first houses was built of hay bales, and another project has a glass wall made from old automobile windows. A chapel was constructed from tires donated by a man under court order to get rid of them, and another building was shingled with old license plates donated by a judge. Leftover carpet tiles were compressed and used to build the walls of a recent project. While they may sound depressing and unattractive, these well-built and often colorful structures have been featured in national magazines, and the program is respected worldwide.

In 2000, Mockbee received a half-million dollar McArthur Foundation genius grant and in January 2001 he was awarded a one hundred thousand-dollar “Use Your Life Award” by Oprah Winfrey’s Angel Network. Sambo Mockbee died from complications of leukemia on December 3, 2001. While on his deathbed, he completed and submitted an entry for the World Trade Center memorial. Rural Studio is still a strong part of the architecture curriculum at Auburn. Further info is available at http://www.ruralstudio.com .

To the residents of Mason’s Bend, Samuel Mockbee (or Sambo as he is referred to by students and locals alike) was an angel. And to the students who were privileged to work at Rural Studio, he was their mentor. He instilled in them a sense of civic pride and responsibility that he felt necessary in the profession. He watched his students work to earn the respect of area families.

My personal experience with Rural Studio occurred in the fall of 1998 when my son was selected to participate. I knew little about it other than the few facts he gave us. And I was a bit surprised that he wanted to give up the campus life to live and work under these conditions. After assurances that it would be a plus on his resume, I agreed and sent him (and his money, because Rural Studio participants pay to take part) to Hale County.

We kept in touch by phone, and halfway through the quarter he emailed me photos of their project. It was a simple three-bedroom home, designed to provide creature comforts yet have its own spirit. Their client was a single mother with four children. At the end of the semester, my husband and I were invited to Parent’s Day to see first-hand what our son had been doing. We visited previous homes from the program such as the Butterfly House, which has a roofline reminiscent of a butterfly in mid-flight. We met the owners and heard their stories and the gratitude they expressed over Sambo and his students.

We met the woman whose home our son was helping to build. She told us about her chaotic life with her children divided among different relatives. This home would allow the family to be reunited. She made a special effort to speak to the parents and thank them for her new home.

Several weeks later the quarter ended, and my son came home for Christmas. Shortly thereafter, he returned to Mason’s Bend to spend his vacation finishing the house so the family could be in by Christmas.

In September 1998, I sent Rural Studio a boy. In December, they sent back a man. He learned compassion and understanding in addition to design and sheet rock installation. I think he’s well on his way to becoming that “citizen architect” that Sambo hoped his students would become, and the world will be richer for it.

*******

Footnote:

My son received dual degrees in Architecture and Interior Architecture from Auburn in May of 2004. He works for MSTSD, a mid-size commercial architecture firm in Atlanta, Georgia.

Childhood Memories

Written by Kenju
www.justaskjudy.blogspot.com

The house we lived in when I was ages 9 to 12 had a chicken coop on the property; a holdover from the days when it was okay to keep chickens in that area, before it was taken into the city limits. My dad used it as a tool and garden shed, and my mom convinced him that he could share some of the space with me, to use as a playhouse. We scrounged up some carpet remnants and mom made curtains for the windows, and added a small table and chairs. I spent hour upon hour in there, either alone or with friends, having tea parties and playing house. In truth, it was a ramshackle building and sadly in need of repairs, but to me it was a castle. The only downside was that the remaining faint aroma of chickens drew black snakes all too often. The snakes were disappointed to find only dolls and tea party dishes!

I spent most of my time on a bike, when I wasn't in the playhouse or in the woods. I became a daredevil; riding down the hill in front of our house, standing up and not holding the handle-bars. I got away with it most of the time, but I fell once, skidding my knees on concrete and coming to rest with the kickstand penetrating my calf. My knees took almost 5 months to heal, because every time they got a good scab on them, I knocked it off again. I still remember one time when I approached the teacher's desk at school, hit the corner of it with one knee and screeched with pain and the knowledge that I had broken it open once again. If you look closely, you can still make out the scars.

In the summer, my friends and I were addicted to telling ghost stories. Most of us had been to some form of summer camp, where such stories are legendary, and we brought them home to share with each other. I remember sitting in Julie's big walk-in closet, lights out, and being scared to death by the story. Inevitably, at the point where the fear was the greatest, someone would reach out and grab me. I screamed bloody murder on more than one occasion and her mother would come running to see if we had been spirited away. When we weren't telling stories, we played paper dolls. I had boxes and boxes of them, and so did my friends. Little girls nowadays don't know what they are missing! I bought some nostalgic ones for my granddaughters, but they were not too impressed. I guess they pale by comparison to video games.

Our picnics were not too frequent, but when we had one, we did it in style. Sometimes mom would pack a lunch as we would just get in the car and drive, stopping whenever we got hungry. It might be a roadside park or a cemetery or a church yard but the location didn't matter as much as being in the open air and having a great picnic. Sometimes we went to Coal River; I don't know why it was called that. Perhaps a WV'ian will see this and be able to tell me why that is the name. There was a section that had been dammed up and it made a wide swimming area. They had formed a beach with sand brought in for that purpose.

There was no place to buy foods or drinks at that time, you had to bring your own. So mom would pack a picnic the likes of which few have seen (except maybe Jen and Angie): fried chicken, ham, potato salad, devilled eggs, biscuits or cornbread, and desserts to make everyone else jealous, plus the inevitable watermelon. Cokes (the old-fashioned kind in 6 oz glass bottles) were flowing like water. I have a few photos from those days; I will post them when I learn how. When I was about 16, a group of girls and I went to the river with a huge inner tube from an airplane tire. It held all 6-7 of us, and we floated lazily downstream. We got so engrossed in our conversation, that we were about 2 miles down river before we realized it. We had to walk back, carrying the inner tube.

My first "date" took place while I was living in this house. I was all of 10 or 11, when a neighbor boy invited me to go to the movies on Saturday. My mom said I could go, but that I shouldn't let him pay for my ticket or my snacks. She sent me off with money for it; his mom drove us there and my mom was picking us up afterward. When his mom let us out of the car, I made a mad dash to the ticket counter and bought my own. I don't think he was happy about it, but then he realized he would have more money for snacks - so he happily let it go. I hope he learned to be first in line after that!

What it Was, Was Football -- Alabama Style

Written by: Marilyn Puett
Website up and coming - stay tuned

It was November. Now where I grew up in North Carolina (you know -- it’s one state up and one state over to the right), November is just that month that contains Veteran’s Day, Thanksgiving, and thirty of the fifty-four shopping days prior to Christmas. But as I quickly learned, November in Alabama holds an entirely different meaning.

Despite telling my husband that I’d sooner move to Hades proper than to Alabama, I found myself with my bags packed and the car headed in the direction of a town called Huntsville. The first weekend, we decided to orient ourselves to our new hometown. In 1973, *The* Mall was *the* place to shop. Parkway Place Mall was a strip center called Parkway City, and life as we know it today pretty much stopped south of Airport Road and west of Jordan Lane. Whitesburg Drive was a two-lane street, there was a drive-in theater where it intersected with Airport Road, and fast food had not invaded the culinary scene.

Our first stop was The Mall, which sat at the intersection of University Drive and U.S. Highway 231, also known as the Parkway. In its heyday, The Mall was a bustling shopping center with two anchor stores, and on any given Saturday it was full of all types, checking out the latest fashions, searching for the newest bestseller, or just hanging out at the center-court fountain. However, on this particular Saturday, something was occurring that we, as “foreigners,” were unaware of. This was the day of the annual Iron Bowl -- better known in layman’s terms as the “Alabama-Auburn” (or “Auburn-Alabama” depending on where your loyalties lie) football game.

Our first stop was a small clothing store that catered to men. We strolled through the store, stopping at various racks and displays, showing some interest in several items. We were never approached by a salesperson.

‘They’re all just busy at the moment,’ we told ourselves. Just then, a cheer arose from behind the sales counter and we noticed all the store personnel gathered around a television set. Peering closer, we saw a football game. And then we stepped right in dog doo by interrupting the camaraderie and asking for assistance. If looks could kill, several of Huntsville’s finest young men and women would be serving life terms. And then we waded farther in by asking who was playing.

Maybe it was the stupid looks on our faces that gave us away, but some poor soul finally clued us in. “Hells bells, y’all. This is the Iron Bowl -- the biggest football rivalry in the great state of Alabama,” he explained before turning back to the television in rapt attention.

Iron Bowl? Football? Remember, we came from North Carolina -- the basketball land of Dean Smith and Jim Valvano, the Atlantic Coast Conference, and Michael Jordan. Football? These folks were getting this riled up about a football game? Shaking our heads, we left the store, only to encounter the same madness in every other establishment in The Mall. Shucks, it didn’t take long to figure out we could have shoplifted the contents of the entire mall while that game was being played, and no one would have been the wiser. Waving the white flag of surrender, we returned home, confident that the day’s experience had been a fluke, and that life would return to normal the next day.

Yeah! Sure! Just like life returns to normal after an atomic bomb is dropped or man walks on the moon. “The Game” was rehashed in a bazillion newspaper columns and a gazillion sports broadcasts, discussed in Sunday School classes across the Tennessee Valley, and Sunday morning quarterbacks replayed it for another week. Marriages were threatened and friendships jeopardized over the Tide and the Tigers.

Fast-forward thirty-two years. We moved away from the Tennessee Valley for several years in the mid-seventies, but chose to return here because we felt it’s one of America’s best-kept secrets. The Mall disappeared years ago, Whitesburg Drive is a major thoroughfare, the drive-in is gone, and civilization extends well south and west of Airport Road and Jordan Lane.

But every year, on a Saturday in November, the month of Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving, and right smack in the middle of the Christmas shopping season, hordes of fans still gather in front of television sets to watch the Iron Bowl -- still the biggest football rivalry in Alabama, and something bordering on religion for many. And while we still claim our North Carolina roots, I now have a sweatshirt bearing the logo of one of those universities and a coffee mug proclaiming me a University Mom sits proudly on my desk. And I’ll never forget that day when I learned that what it was, was football -- Alabama style.