Weather Extremes

Hot now, and Black Dell is bitching. Mostly I try and write at night, but I turn on the AC in the afternoon, when I start sweating while sitting still and reading. Rereading Michael Gruber. Because the AC was on, I didn't hear the beginning salvos in the latest rendition of King Of The Compost Pile. I'd stopped using the outhouse for a couple of weeks, so it would be dry, and I'd tipped it over, so I could dig out the pit. Dug a deep hole in the compost, shoveled in the shit, then accumulated kitchen waste, then a bucket of ashes, topped with compost and green waste clipped from the access I'm cutting to the back of the woodshed. Aubrey and his son will unload my state subsidized firewood right at the back of the shed, all I'll have to do is stack it. Joel calls from Atlanta and we talk about food and food writers; he says I'm writing well, telling stories, which, he says, is what I do best. Linda agrees with that. The word "naturalism" was mentioned several times. Actually, I thought I'd been rather flat recently, and I was surprised to hear that might not be the case. One way or the other. Friends lie, of course, to walk you off the ledge, and even enemies contribute to the construct, by acknowledging that you do, in fact, exist. History is dogshit. Everything is fiction. When I illuminated the compost pile there were three warring camps. Dogs rampant, a coon with red eyes blazing, and a bobcat holding the high ground. I don't attach any significance to apparent order, every time I do I'm called wrong, proven incorrect. I hate those squabbles and the noise. I throw a couple of rocks, to disperse the crowd, go back inside and get a drink. The current sleep pattern (I enjoy the quiet, writing in the early morning) has me missing dawn. A monster, short-lived, violent thunder storm and I harvest five gallons of wash water in just a few minutes. I remember I have a small ear-phone CD player D and Carma bought me, and new batteries, and I'm able to listen to a couple of Skip James songs. They fulfill whatever that function that is, when it gets dark in the afternoon and the sky rips open. Thunder that shakes the house. I had to shut down, fearing for my modem; never did lose electricity, but the phone is partially dead and won't allow a connection. Par for the course. Still, I can write and save. I rendered out a cubed piece of salt-pork, because I needed the fat, then made a crackling sandwich, with avocado and Dijon mustard that was very good. You could duplicate this with a bag of pork rinds or whatever they call them. I've been somewhat addicted to cracklings since I was four or five. There are family stories. And photographs where I have a large grease stain around my right pocket, a clear indication that I had stashed all the pork rinds, from last night's fried salt-pork, for later consumption. Mom finally bought me a plastic change-purse, to save wear and tear on my pants; which resulted, years later, in a comic incident. After I left home, I continued frying salt-pork (and curing it) at least once a week, because I needed the fat, for cooking, and I had a Jones for cracklings. There were a succession of plastic change-purses, as they are the perfect vehicle for carrying around pork rinds. One night I was with Big Skip and we were in a terrible section of town, at a black club, trying to hear the music. A fight broke out, the cops arrived, and we were all arrested. When I was patted down they found my stash of pork rinds. One of the cops knew what they were, his family raised pigs; I made my own bail, charges were dropped. But it was so silly, being arrested for carrying thin fried strips of pig skin. At the worst I could start a small fire that could be put out with spit. The last time I flew, at the other end of the spectrum, there was a kid, a girl-child, maybe five years old, and she was out of control. I ask her mother if I could hold her. It was obvious Mom was at the end of her rope. I had everyone's attention. Pulled two pork rinds from my pocket, mimicked what to do with one and gave her the other. She chewed all the way to Denver. The folk from first class sent me back a bottle of champagne. Really, how hard is it to be addressed? I thought, later, it was probably just the salt.