The Drift

Incessant drip, dew fall. When the breeze picks up there's a shower from the trees. Lovely cool morning and it's very easy to roll over and go back to sleep. Last night's storm forced me to shut down during my writing time. Pissed me off, because I lost the thread of what I was thinking. Nothing for it. Moved over to the sofa and read. Fall back position. Second time I woke up it was dead calm outside, not a leaf stirring and all I can see is a wall of leaves. I'd meant to get right up, heat water, clean dishes, then sponge bath and hair wash, but postpone everything and sit down to write. Even Black Dell is comfortable. Turn off the radio, no music. The last thing I remember thinking, before the power went out, then back on, and I shut down everything, was about a time Dad and I were fishing on Julington Creek, a rented boat with our outboard motor (a 7 horsepower monster from Western Auto). We'd kicked upstream ('kicked' was always the word that was used) to fish a bream bed we knew about, and there was a strange object in the lily pads. Dad thought it was a body, but it turned out to be a dead alligator, belly up. It was the only time B. J., my father's name was Buren Jackson but everyone called him B. J. or Jack, ever talked about recovering bodies. He'd been a medic in WWII, then again in Korea. There were occasional war stories, especially in Key West, where Dad was on sea-duty (officially) but was home most nights. Key West was considered a great tour of duty. It was great. There was an international submarine school, and being chief in any navy being a kind of bond, almost every weekend, there'd be a group of international chiefs at our house, for a cook-out and home brew. War stories were common, but of a humorist or ironic twist. Some of these guys were quite funny, I remember Hans and Fritz from Germany, who were addicted to Mom's Key Lime pie. They'd sing when they got drunk. Dad could fetch a van from the base, with an on-duty driver, to get them back to their barracks safely. There was one black chief I remember especially, Walker, from France, and he would stay over, occasionally, fixing hash for all of us for breakfast. The left-over meat from ribs, potatoes and onions. I still make this, and the Key Lime pie, which is the only dessert I make, other than half an acorn squash stuffed with raspberries. I don't know when that started, living alone I suppose, but I like to roast an acorn squash, one half stuffed with spicy sausage and the other half just cooked with a tablespoon of orange juice. When I take the sausage half out, to eat as the main course, I stuff the other half with raspberries and run it under the toaster oven. Red and black raspberries are the caviar of fruits. In season, I just eat them with cream and sugar, and I buy them frozen, for the acorn squash. Flash freezing has changed the food industry. I can buy sweet corn now, or in February, and it's actually good. And baby limas, I swear, theirs are better than mine. There's a restaurant in Oxford Mississippi that prepares the best vegetables you've ever eaten. The butter beans (baby limas, the words are hopelessly entangled) are one of the best things ever. Period. Soft immature beans simmered with pork fat, corn bread on the side, buttered sticks, and maybe a country fried steak slathered with gravy. Dad's idea of a salad was always a sliced tomato and a raw onion. I still tend in that direction, though I add mozzarella and a good vinegar. I never did find the thread of what I had been thinking, something about my Dad. Even a small interruption is often enough to sever connection. I made a lovely hash (maybe that was the thought) from left over fillet and a piece of baked potato, a perfect egg on top, a very nice meal though it was three in the morning, windows open, a cool breeze, I was dressed, if you could call it that, in boxer briefs and a tee-shirt from which I had cut off the collar and arms. I wasn't actively sweating, comfortable in my skin, reading recipes for hash while I was cooking hash. A slider open on the front and the back door, and there was a nice cross-ventilation thing going on, when a goddamn dog came in the back door. I was shocked, claws chattering on my fucking floor, and closest offensive weapon was a tennis racquet I normally use for bats, and I smacked him up the side of his head. I do not want to kill the animal, it would just be another mess to clean up, so I grab the shovel I keep at the back door, and try to move him toward open spaces. He's not a large dog, 30 or 40 pounds, short hair, black and brown, some bird dog in there somewhere, but he manages to slump into a difficult pile. When I finally get the dog outside, door closed, back to my dinner, everything is cold and I can't remember what book I was reading.