Read Larry Brown.

image source: www.olemiss.edu

This weekend, I went camping at "Lake Sardis". My non-native friends say it this way. Otherwise called, "The Dam". I've adopted the charming new name which sounds exotic to me.
LARRY BROWN was a writer from Oxford.
I thought of his book, FAY and what might have inspired his story while I was staying in the area that he wrote about.
Weaving my bike across the back of the camp grounds in and out of the sounds of other campers offered some clues:
"Woke up 3 or 4 times this morinin', I mean wringin' wet"...
"What's real fun is goin' down there where they got the"...
"reckin' we kin fry ish catfish, wool I got sum innare froze"...
As I rode past huge uniform piles of chopped down trees other campers had brought from home, I felt I'd cheated myself, having bought my much smaller pile from Tater Bug's country store located just a few miles up from the lake, right next to the church made from two trailer halves. Recounting the five dollar bill I'd handed over to his lovely wife for my little bundle of sticks.
No singing joyfully around little bundles of burning wood, or telling big fish stories to one another. Just bursts of fragments, loud like honking horns, whipping through the oak trees above, dragging squirrels along by their tales, sacheing in persistence down to my ears with a well deserved slap in the face.
Tater, must have been touched by the generosity of Spirit of the Lord swelling over from the church next door, when Dad came back that morning with his $3 bundle of sticks, twice the size of mine. My humbleness grew.
Keith, a local, pastor, prayed a few nights ago, that we would all see that, each of us come to God, from different walks of life. None better or worse, just different backgrounds and different places along the journey.
Larry Brown wrote so wonderfully about people and their stories and places. Tater Bug. The little white church next door to Tater Bug's. The two double wide trailers joined together to make the church marked by a steeple on the roof. The precious souls gathered there. Maybe like Fay, to meet Jesus for the first time. The seemingly shallow conversations, and my inability to process my surroundings as articulately as Larry Brown did, reminded me that I should read more of his books. I would highly suggest reading Fay. Then, visit Lake Sardis where you'll find many of his characters, appreciate the brilliance of how he told their stories, and hopefully begin to appreciate the differences.

Mayes Lake, Sunday

Fall!

With wind, He causes each leaf to dance, and with His Spirit, moves praises in us. How would we know to praise our Creator, without His first moving us? How would we be forever blessed if not for Him?

He who forms the mountains, creates the wind, and reveals his thoughts to man, he who turns dawn to darkness, and treads the high places of the earth— the LORD God Almighty is his name. Amos 4:13

Welcome back Fall!

From The Maker.

"The Lord by wisdom founded the earth;
By understanding He established the heavens;
By His knowledge the depths were broken up,
And clouds drop down the dew.
My son [daughter], let them not depart from your eyes—
Keep sound wisdom and discretion;
So they will be life to your soul
And grace to your neck.

Then you will walk safely in your way,
And your foot will not stumble.
When you lie down, you will not be afraid;
Yes, you will lie down and your sleep will be sweet.
Do not be afraid of sudden terror,
Nor of trouble from the wicked when it comes;
For the Lord will be your confidence,
And will keep your foot from being caught.

Proverbs 3:19-26

Strange Seeds.

City With Soul.

I found this photo online of an outdoor board that Marc Leffler and I did last year as part of a campaign for the city of Jackson. I hadn't seen any of them yet. What a fun campaign! One of my favorites to work on for sure! And, Austin Cannon did a great job creating a website.
Gone an gitcha sef sum sowe: www.jacksoncitywithsoul.com

Like Sista, Like Sista

Is it possible that twins could have been born 6 years apart? It's mystifying how in sync mine and my sister's daily life is. Though we live hundreds of miles apart, it seems we are constantly tripping over one another in thought or action, deed or dilusion. When we're together, we say things, totally off subject, in unison, as if given a cue. When we're apart, we do things like both decide to join a gym or pick the same new hobby without the other knowing. It happens in the car, we have a bizzare thought at the very same moment. It happens on the phone, she calls with a random product she wanted to tell me about, only to find that I was just about to call her to tell her the exact same thing. Lately it's been the same ailment: So, we just have to decide which one of us wants to go to the doctor. She's probably adding this very phenomenon to her own blog right now.
Cheers to ya, Sis! Thanks for being such an amazing, brilliant, brave, and tallented person for me to look up to. Thank you for all of your love, patience, thoughtfullness and inspiration, be it by telephone or telepathy, through the fluid brain waves that break the laws of time and speed as they catapult between us.

Mayonnaise. (revised and spellchecked)

When I was home visiting Mom and Dad and making my way into town with them to check on some rental property, we drove past a fellow, who's struggle in life had become a series of accounts that had found itself in a small town legend, and after a few times around, became he, who was walking down the street as we made our way past the square towards our destination. "There's Mayonnaise!", Mom said, interrupting her sermon about needing to find a new painter, and how the last renters absolutely trashed the apartment, and she's not sure if she'll ever be able to get that carpet back like it was, swirling her finger in the air towards a harmless looking older gentleman, who seemed like he was continuing his quest for something from his younger days, but now, just out of habit and having forgotten what his pursuit was, had fixed himself to strolling along his course at a slow and steady pace, making shapes out of his progress throughout the town streets. As I looked in on his life from the backseat car window, watching it like an an old silent movie, I could have kept time by the gentle steady commitment of his worn shoes to the pavement below.
I found it strange that such a skinny man and such an old age would have the demeaning name of a substance that is made purely of fat and is a staple in every good person's gross potluck dish.
"Why Mayonnaise?", I proceeded.
"Well, ask your daddy." She looked at Dad who passed on it. "Well," she said, "Mayonnaise was a womanizer." "Well. A peeping tom. He used to look in on the women around town."
"So, why Mayonnaise?", I didn't understand.
"Well, he's afraid of mayonnaise."
"And?", impatiently.
"Well the women started putting mayonnaise on the windows of their home."
"Like a jar of it?" I said. "Like, they'd set an open jar of mayonnaise in the window and off he would go?" "What about flies?", I carried on cautiously, smiling and looking around as if I was feeding a practical joke.
"Well, the women would smear mayonnaise on the windows and he'd see it and run off."
"Really?, and that's it?"
"Yeah, he didn't like it. He hated it. He hated mayonnaise." Breath. "Yep, they'd smear it. And he wouldn't come around it."
"Like smear it all over the window? Like, making it so you couldn't see in through the window?"
"Yeah, but it was the mayonnaise that he hated." "You know. It was mayonnaise. Smeared. He could have still seen through it. If he got close enough to it. But he was scared of it." Her sentences short and breathy like a smoker's, blowing words out with a sudden gush, and adding a few at a time with each quick inhale, and repeating herself nervously.
Dad put the car in park and snapped the key out.
"You coming in?" she asked.
"No. I'll stay here." I replied.
"It's hot in this car. I don't know why you want to sit out in this car. If that's what you're gonna do. Don't overheat. Why don't you come in? Don't you overheat out here girl. You can die. Here. Here's the keys. If you're gonna sit out here roll down the window." mom said.
I measured the air as I breathed rationing it as if I were lost in outer space and I had only a 3 day supply of it, and watched them go inside. I continued my commitment to the car window, trying to soothe myself with it's rounded-squarish corners, and questions of whether it was Hellmann's or Blue Plate.

Sam On!

Below is a great recipe Courtney recently shared with me.

Asian Grilled Salmon
Copyright, 2001, Barefoot Contessa Parties!, All Rights Reserved

1 side fresh salmon, boned but skin on (about 3 pounds)

For the marinade:
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons good soy sauce
6 tablespoons good olive oil
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic

Thanks CoJo! You rock!

London Branch at Fusion Coffee House

Throwing To The Winds

"We have to somehow become capable of throwing all our limitations to the winds, so that the Holy Spirit can do through us works that are inconceivable."
--Thomas Merton

There is great pleasure in throwing to the winds. I've always enjoyed the act of disposing of freshly gutted watermelon. Carefully balancing it's heaviness all the way out to the edge of the yard, hoisting it above my shoulder to cast the slippery carcuss as hard and far as I can over the barbed wire fence into the pasture, and then watching it wobble clumsy and heavy and disappear into the yellow grass that grows there as high as my thigh. A spirit of enormous satisfaction and graditude follows the act of returning to earth, what it had first given me. I try and sneak an apple's core or an orange rind down into the creek behind my house nearly every day. God calls us to practice the same with Him. He gives us gifts, and we must enjoy the response of hoisting them back towards Him, and with them, "throwing all our limitations to the wind" as an act of obedience and faith.

Everybody Hates You.

Recently I had the awesome pleasure of meeting one of the great musical geniuses of jazz, Alvin Fielder. He is a drummer. And, he plays the instrument quite well. He is a master articulator of music, making his most indelible statements by merely suggesting them. Which brings me to something he said that has left me inspired for weeks now.

While at the show, I also had the great pleasure of sharing a table with another great musical genius, Raphael Semmes. So, while listening, I got to attend which musical phrases paused for weighing in Raphael's mind as they swung by us. It was usually the ones that held back and let the listener infer. After the last set, I asked if Raphael could introduce me to Mr. Fielder. He agreed and approached it by asking Al how he was doing, who, in a vigorous grumble replied, "Man, Everybody hates me. How you been?" and then, before and answer was found, looked up from his drum set, and replied to his own question. "Raphael, man, you know, Everybody hates you too!" After resolving the initial shock of a seemingly rude insult, I sat there in my grin, adding nothing, occurring that I had just witnessed a great compliment.

I love how Al said so much with so little, and like his drumming, he always knows where the tempo is, so he can afford to let the music breathe in places. In a recent quote Al says, "Music is like painting a portrait or creative writing" adding, "Drumming is not beating on something. Like writing, there is form to it. There has to be a vocabuary to have good music." Thanks for saying it that way, Al. Everybody hates you, and now I've had the great pleasure of hating you too. :)

If you'd like to hate Al as well, check him out in a live recording from Fusion Coffee House in Ridgeland by visiting on the web at http://www.fusioncoffeehouse.net/events.html#

Oh, yeah, and you can also hate Raphael there too, just scroll down until you see his name, click on the pod cast symbol.