Of Bigfoot, BBQ and Kudzu

Today at lunch, I stopped in at the local neighborhood market to pick up a diet Pepsi before heading back to work. The thirty dollar ho from across the road was in line in front of me (oh joy of joys.) She asked the cashier if she'd heard about that woman up on Split Branch who'd seen Bigfoot.

Huh? Why had I not heard of this?

A boisterous discussion ensued, speculation as to whether it was actually a bear or some old mountain man that had actually been seen, with the thirty dollar ho finally paying for her ho rations and leaving. I slapped my Pepsi down on the counter and said, "Okay, spill it. What the hell is this about Bigfoot?"

"Oh geeze, I don't know. It happened last week sometime. There were about forty men that came into the diner for breakfast on their way up to Mack's Peak (located on Split Branch.. It's complicated, stick with me here.) They told the waitress they were part of a Bigfoot hunt going on up there. There's some website where they contact each other for these hunts."

LAST WEEK? I can spit on the diner from my property. Anyone going up to Mack's Peak has to drive by my house and as ya'll know, you can't fart sideways in Frog Pond Holler without everyone knowing about it. Why hadn't I heard anything about this?

I went back to the office, giddy with juicy gossip. I called Bubbles and Thelma into my office, told them the story I'd heard and asked if they knew anything about it.

"Why yeah, I was in the diner when they came in," said Thelma. "They were all decked out in cami, we thought they were a' hunting bear, 'ceptin it ain't bear season, and they didnt have no dogs out in their trucks, we sent Junior out to check."

"We seen 'em headin' up the mountain on our way to church, Hubby told me what they was doin," Bubbles chimed in. "They had them big infrared lights mounted on top of their trucks, it looked like a convoy a goin' up there."

"Well, who exactly saw Bigfoot?" I asked.

Both of them shook their heads. "Some woman up Split Branch is all I heard," stated Thelma.

This was starting to sound like a Sci-Fi channel movie of the week or something. I couldn't believe there'd been a Bigfoot sighting here. I've never heard of any around here before. I mean, this is the South, not the Northwest. Kudzu monkeys... maybe. Bigfoot... no. Granted, there are some serious looking wooly boogers that come down of the hiking trail in the summer, with dreadlocks, strange piercings and the occasional kilt, but not Sasquatch.

I also found it really hard to believe that no one seemed to know just who this woman was who'd seen the thing. Everyone in a twenty mile radius would have known her identity within minutes.

I decided to see if I could find the website with the limited information the cashier at the store had given me. I did find it and sure enough, an expedition had been scheduled for our area last week. I wish I could post it here, but I know the locals are probably googling the hell out of it at the moment, so I'd better not. I spent some valuable company time on the site, but I figure it was for the good of the community *cough*. From what I can gather, there was no sighting. This group organizes expeditions in locations all over the country. Their data shows that the last sighting reported for our area was in 1899.

I'm no rocket scientist, but I'd say that particular critter has made his way to the great beyond.

Anyway, this group gets $400 per vehicle taking groups of 25-45 people. You must provide your own food, camping supplies etc. There's no fee for the camp sites. You must provide your own vehicle.

I'm a little pissed. These people are making a KILLING!!!

WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS??????

Taking a group of city folks out in the remote areas of the mountains, dividing them up in to groups, sending them out in the woods in the dark of night with flashlights... where I come from, we don't call that an "expedition"... we call that SNIPE HUNTING. If you don't know what a snipe hunt is, gimme a call. I'll be more than happy to take you on one. I went on my first (and last) snipe hunt at the ripe old age of thirteen, when I was attending the Triple R Ranch Christian summer camp program. I didn't sleep right for a month after that.

I feel I must interject here, that there may very well be a whole friggin' colony of Bigfoots.. Bigfeet.. whatever.. up in these mountains. There remains plenty of remote areas back in there, where something or a family of somethings could live unnoticed. Take for instance, the case of the panthers (mountain lions.) The U.S. Forest Service swears there aren't any left here, but there are numerous eye witness accounts by fairly sane and sober residents of the area. The Cherokee have a name for a large hairy man beast, said to have walked these hills for centuries, which some speculate could be the same creature as the legendary Bigfoot. So who knows?

It also occurred to me as I was writing this, that maybe there was a sighting by a member of the expedition, not by a local resident and perhaps that's where the rumor got started. I've been told the whole story will be in the county paper tomorrow. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm thinking of starting my own "expedition" business.

"Mahala's Kudzu Monkey Search, Pork BBQ and Shindig in the Meadow."

You see, I figure, the rafting business is probably winding down for the season, so those rafting companies will be looking for some other sources of revenue. I can probably lease one of those big buses they use to carry rafters up river pretty cheap in the off season. I'll sell seats on the bus for about fifty bucks a pop. I just know city folk will be lining up for my hillbilly extravaganza.

I'll cart 'em all out to the edge of town where there's the biggest patch of Kudzu you've ever seen. I'll bet it covers nearly five acres. On the way there, I'll tell them all about the small, mystical, spear bearing creatures that reside in the depths of the invasive vine. I'll get 'em worked up real good. When we arrive at our location, I'll instruct them to line up around the edges of the Kudzu patch and slowly begin walking in, whispering in unison, "moooooooooonkEEEEEEE.... mooooooonkEEEEEE."

As they begin their quest, I'll climb the ladder to the top of the bus, sit back in my lawn chair, propped back with my diet Pepsi, cigarette hanging strategically from the corner of my lips, cradling my shotgun cocked and ready, just in case there's any mishaps. What? You didn't think I was going in there with them did you? Are you nuts? I'm not walking in that stuff.

As for the little critters themselves, I'll employ the assistance of my crazy old aunt who lives in a double wide at the top of one of the back country peaks about ten miles outside of town. She's got this pack of dogs on her property, which originated from two Pomeranians her father-in-law had and one Chihuahua mix she had. After ten years of fornicatin' and propigatin' and the sewing of wild seed, she's got about thirty little evil midget dogs running wild up there. You think I'm joking... but I'm dead serious. I figure, we can have old Crow hiding up in the far end of the Kudzu patch, in his overhalls that always reek of Penzoil and Redman chewin' tobacco, with those evil midget dogs in crates. Believe me, Kudzoo is thick stuff, you could hide a whole house in there. When I give the signal, he'll release them into the vines. The snarling, growling and whining of those little beasts is enough to make your hair stand on end. The paying customers, who by now are waist deep in thick growth, will only hear the sounds and see the rustling of leaves and will, undoubtedly, crap their BVDs. We'll have Joe hiding under the bus with empty crates filled with dollar store brand kibble and some left overs from the diner's breakfast offerings, to ensure that the little demons run the adventure seekers all the way back to the bus.

By now they'll all be spent from the excitement (and a little stinky from the need to change their delicate underthings) so I'll take 'em all down to Moe Ray's picnic area down by the river, where they can rinse off before dining on some good Southern pork BBQ, and listen to the rousing sounds of the FFA Bluegrass band.

Oh hell yeah. I'm gonna be rich.

Collard Crock-Pot® Casserole Weapon

Every widower knows that a casserole is a devious weapon that available women use to attack poor helpless eligible men. This casserole is a dangerous example because it is loaded with flavor and yummy richness. You can dump the ingredients into the Crock-Pot® and leave it. If you wish, you can dress it up.


Ingredients
16 ounces (5 cups) frozen chopped collard greens
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon salt substitute
2 teaspoons Splenda®
1 can (10 ½ ounces) cream of mushroom soup
1 can (10 ½ ounces) cream of chicken soup
1 can french-fried onions

Preparation
· Place all ingredients except the onions in the Crock-Pot ®.
· Turn on the heat. Use low if you are going to work or shop.
· Use high if it’s 2-3 hours until dinner.
· Cook the mixture until the greens are tender and the liquid has thickened.
· Layer the onions over the top of the mixture 10 minutes before serving.

Equipment/Utensils
Small Crock-Pot®

Suggestion for Pot-Luck Supper
Prepare 2 batches in a medium-sized Crock-Pot®. After it cooks until the collards are tender, transfer it to a large casserole or baking dish (2 quarts). Top it with 1 cup (4 ounces) grated sharp cheddar cheese, 1 cup toasted pecan pieces, and then the onions.

Recipe given to the Dew by: Mary Lou Cheatham

I would love to invite you to look at www.FlavoredwithLove.com and www.CollardLovers.com. Also Flavored with Love and The Collard Patch are featured on www.Amazon.com . My friend Paul Elliott who helped me write The Collard Patch and I are planning to launch The Collard Patch November 2.

Life on Mississippi Turned Upside Down

On the near anniversary of last year's disastrous hurricane season, I thought I would share this article I came upon, describing how working and living on the Mississippi River has changed. A different view of the damage and changes brought about by the natural disasters of last year.
-----------------------------------

By CAIN BURDEAU,
Associated Press Writer
Sun Mar 5, 12:21 PM ET

Down where this great American river meets the Gulf of Mexico, river pilots negotiate a new reality as they steer oceangoing oil tankers, cruise ships and gigantic cargo carriers toward the warehouses, docks and rail yards of New Orleans.

Their world was turned upside down by Hurricane Katrina. With the roads down the river out of service, they had to hire helicopters to get to their posts in the days after the storm. With their pilot stations heavily damaged, members of this fraternity, many related by blood,— have lived like sardines on barges.

And their working life on the Mississippi River is a lot less predictable and a lot more reminiscent of Mark Twain's daredevil tales, ever since Katrina knocked out navigational lights, jetties and other manmade structures like wing dams and rock jetties that tame the river and steer currents. And the channel bottom was clogged with mud and silt brought in by Katrina's storm surge.

"It all looks different to us," said river pilot Tony Vogt. "You're extra aware of the situation."

From the control tower at a hurricane-damaged pilot station at Southwest Pass, the primary channel from the Gulf to the main trunk of the river, Vogt's new reality comes into focus. A rock jetty that protects and demarcates the channel, like an airport runway, disappears under the water not far from shore. That line of rocks used to run farther out, and the pilots say it's trickier now to take ships into the pass.

Before Katrina, piloting a ship was like walking down the unlit hallway in your home at night, Vogt said. You do it without incident, he said, because you've done it so many times before.

"But if you change a door frame or something, you'll bump into it until you learn it all over," the 45-year-old pilot said.

The same principle applies on the river, but the stakes are much, much higher.

A mistake doesn't result in a stubbed toe or knocking over a lantern. Instead, human and environmental catastrophes hang over their heads.

"You take a tanker with 500,000 barrels of oil in it, each barrel is worth $60, and that's just the cargo, there's a lot of money involved," said Michael Lorino, the president of the Associated Branch Pilots.

By law, each deep-draft vessel that goes up the Mississippi must have a pilot at the helm familiar with the ways of the river.

Despite the new risks, pilots pushed the limits and remarkably got traffic flowing again five days after Katrina without any major mishaps being reported.

They were forced to: The pressure was too great.

"Gas prices were rising," said Petty Officer Jesse Kavanaugh of the U.S. Coast Guard. "Our main objective was to get the oil tankers up the river, those were priority ships."

The port system on the lower Mississippi is one of the busiest in the world with about 6,000 ships a year docking there. Oil refineries, chemical plants and other industries line the banks from below New Orleans all the way to Baton Rouge, and about three quarters of U.S. grain exports pass down the river.

"You only realize the importance of this vital economic asset, this river artery that stretches from the Midwest to the Gulf of Mexico, when you lose it," said John Hyatt, a board member of the International Freight Forwarders and Customs Brokers Association of New Orleans.

One of the biggest risks they took was to take ships up the river even though the channel was not as deep as it typically is.

"Risky? There are always risks associated with this job," said pilot Stephen Post. "If you want guarantees, go to Sears."

For Hyatt, the risks they took were good for business.

"They tell me time and again that they were taking chances," he said. "I don't have a problem with that, sometimes you have to take chances. You've got some soft bottoms, so you can drag bottom to some degree."

Dealing with new conditions on the river, stronger-than-usual currents, outdated radar on rusty liners, fog, sandy bottoms, river traffic, storms, is what the pilots are taught to expect. It's all part of the job.

What might take longer to adapt to are the changes to their way of life.

Katrina left Pilottown, a century-old clustering of homes built for pilots near the river's mouth, a jumble of ruin.

"You hate to leave it, but we believe the time has come and gone," Lorino, the pilot president, said.

The Associated Branch Pilots, or Bar Pilots, voted not to rebuild their old pilot station, a West Indies-style cypress building, and to abandon the town's two dozen structures, all of which were badly damaged. The Bar Pilots bring ships across the mouth of the Mississippi before handing them over to other pilots who make the voyage north.

Months after Katrina hit, Lorino picked his way through the mess at Pilottown.

"Look at that! That's a 2-by-4 stuck in the palm tree," he said. "Do you know how hard the wind had to be blowing to do that?"

Inside the pilot station, heaps of marsh grass, clothes, boots, papers, books, a boxing glove and an assortment of other belongings is an entanglement of loss. The flood waters and winds left little untouched.

"This was it," Lorino said. "This was the body and soul. Pilottown was the body and soul of the Bar Pilots."

Pilottown was built when pilots and their families lived as close as they could to the action. At one time, the town had a post office and its own ZIP code and a school.

"Pilottown even had a baseball team," recalled Paul Vogt, a 64-year-old pilot who's been guiding ships up the Mississippi since 1967.

He said he'll miss the place he remembers so vividly from his youth.

"As a kid I used to fish for eel, people would use that for catfish bait, crawfish, and just hang out. Shoot fiddler crabs with BB guns, do the little boy things."

There is some hope for the town, however. Another group of pilots that also used Pilottown plans to keep a station on the same site and there is a chance that some pilots who owned structures there will want to keep hunting and fishing camps there.

But will it look, and feel, the same? Pilots said that's unlikely. While it may still retain the name Pilottown, it will likely not look much like a town. And that signals the end of an era: There may never be another full-scale town this far south where the river ends.

It's happened before many, many times. Hurricanes have torn apart the towns that sprung up over the centuries in the soft, marshy delta soil. They were places called Balize, Oysterville, Port Eads, Burrwood.

The towns always served economic ends as stopovers for ships, or stations for pilots, or trappers' settlements.

They're all gone now, swallowed by the marsh, time and the Gulf.

--------------------------------------------
Original link:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060305/ap_on_re_us/katrina_the_river_story

Copyright © 2006 The Associated Press.
Copyright © 2006 Yahoo! Inc.

Quite a few book reviews!

The Dew has had quite a number of books being sent to it recently for review. Make sure to pop on over to that section and check them out. I've added two just this week.

Upcoming reviews:

Celia Rivenbark - "Stop Dressing your 6 Year Old Like a Skank"

Cappy Hall Rearick - "Simply Southern Ease"

Various Writers - "The Foxfire 40th Anniversary Book"

Teensy Gets a Date

Teensy Kilbraken had a way with animals and it had been that way since she was a tiny, young thing. Everywhere she went she carried some animal with her, talking to it like a baby. It was jest plain cute when she was little, but as she got older it was jest plain strange, if you ask me.

But then again, everythin’ about our Miss Teensy is strange.

Other children would be out playin’ Cowboys and Indians or hopscotch, but Teensy would be in her backyard buildin’ a new wing onto her animal hotel/doghouse her daddy put together for her belated dog, Dewey, the one who was run over by Mayor Wolford.

Anywho, Teensy would find a hurt bird or squirrel – and sometimes I swear they found her – and she would take care of it in the dog house. And, mind you, this weren’t no tiny doghouse, it was fairly big.

And woe and behold anyone who came near her precious patients, like the time Anna Marie Johnson faced the wrath of Nurse Teensy.

Anna Marie was a princess, or so her momma and daddy said. And that’s how she acted too. That girl didn’t have to lift a finger to do anythin’. Well, one day she was walkin’ pass the Kilbraken house on her way to her best friend, Betty’s, house. Teensy was sittin’ on the front porch wrapping a raccoon’s broken leg with some gauze.

Now, the reason I know this is because I was sittin’ across the street in front of Corrine’s Cross Stitch Palace. This is what happened…

"Well, if it ain’t Teensy the Twerp," Anna Marie drawled, jest oozing with sugar sweetness and smiling a practiced smile.

Miss Teensy smiled right back, showing bright, white teeth. "Well, hey there, Lizard Lips!" she exclaimed as if overjoyed at seeing her classroom rival.

Anna Marie’s somewhat thin lips pursed in annoyance, but she smiled her fake little smile and continued as if Teensy had said nothing. "Betty Butts called and asked me to go shopping with her this afternoon."

"Hmmm," Teensy murmured, her attention back on the injured animal.

"Shopping in Birmingham," Anna Marie carefully said, pressing the importance of this occasion.

"Birmingham, you say?" asked Teensy. The raccoon wiggled in her lap.

Anna Marie’s blonde head nodded. "Uh huh. Daddy gave me a ton of money to spend. Too bad your daddy doesn’t buy you many new clothes. But, "she went on maliciously, "I guess that’s good ‘cause you’d jest mess them all up playin’ with your critters and all."

No response. Teensy had finished wrapping the raccoon leg and was whispering words of comfort to it. Furious at not getting Teensy’s goat, Anna Marie tried another tactic.

"Oh, and Teensy? Guess who I am going to ask to the Sadie Hawkins dance?"

Still no response.

"Come on guess!" By this time, Anna Marie was tapping her foot impatiently on the sidewalk.

"Heavens to Betsy, Teensy! Can’t you pay attention to me? I’m gonna ask Boyd Utley!"

"Boyd?"

"Yes, Boyd," Anna Marie said snidely.

"How do you know Boyd?" Teensy asked, picking up the raccoon and cradling in her arms like a baby.

"Well, I don’t, but he is the most popular boy in school and I’m the prettiest," she raked her slim fingers through her hair vainly, "and the best dressed. That’s all a boy cares about anyway."

Teensy just stared, her eyes twinkling with a secret delight.

Anna Marie, seeing the look, faltered a bit. "I jest know he’ll say yes."

"You think so?" questioned Teensy with a grin.

"I know so. Besides, what do you know about boys anyway?"

"More than you probably, Lizard Lips. In fact, I bet if I asked Boyd to the dance, he’d say yes and forget all about you."

Anna Marie stiffened with outrage. No one insulted her like this, especially strange ol’ Teensy Kilbraken.

"Oh yeah? Well, you just go ahead and do it and I’ll be laughing when he turns you down flat."

At this, Teensy’s eyes became unfocused and she began mumbling.

"Boys and girls jest a prancin’

Let Boyd say yes, and we’ll go dancin’."

Anna Marie watched in disgust and with a little bit of horror. She had heard of Teensy’s strange predictions and curses and didn’t care to be witnessing one. After Teensy finished, she walked over to the corner of the house and yelled, "Hey Boyd!"

A voice answered from the side of the house as footsteps were heard on the flagstone walkway. Anna Marie watched in horror as the subject of her argument came swaggering over to the front porch.

"B-B-Boyd?" she stammered?

‘Oh, hey Anna. Whatcha doing here?"

"I…I just…I was gonna ask ya’ somethin’," Anna began, unable to believe her eyes

"Boyd, you’re goin’ to the Sadie Hawkin’s dance with me, aren’t cha?" Teensy interrupted, handing the raccoon over to Boyd who began petting the creature with affection.

"Yep!"

"And why is that, Boyd?" Teensy prodded, elbowing him in the side.

"’Cause you’re the coolest girl in school, Teensy." Boyd, the little heartbreaker, recited.

With that, Anna Marie fled.

I tell ya folks, that girl was jest a sobbin’. I could hear her all the way from across the street, and as she ran, I heard Teensy say…

"Thanks Boyd."

"No problem, Teensy," he replied gleefully, "Goin’ to the dance is not much of a payment for fixin’ Ricky’s leg here."

"Well, jest don’t go and tell anyone we had a deal, got it?" Teensy warned, then smiled a secret little smile as she watched Anna Marie run down Main Street.

© Dana Sieben

www.southerngalgoesnorth.blogspot.com