As some of you know, I no longer bring meat into the house–it’s all vegetables, fruits, legumes, nuts and seeds there. But I occasionally indulge while eating out. And for some some reason, today I had an all-too-powerful-to-ignore-or-resist hankering for a hunk of grilled meat. So I pulled up to the Green Truck, bellied up to the bar to avoid the table wait and ordered the Green Truck Classic Burger, described in their menu as “plain and simple as an old truck: lettuce, tomato, onion and our soon-to-be-famous house-made pickle.” (I added cheddar.)
Yum. No, double yum!
I kept furtively looking around to see if any of my vegetarian friends might have followed me inside. I was nervously poised to slam my meaty plate in front of one of the folks on either side of me at the bar.
Anyhoo, I savored every moment, every bite. (Do Not Tell Anyone About This! It’s Just Between You And Me.)
Well, when I finished, (and be forewarned, the rest of the story is probably TMI, so stop right now, if you like, and you will still have my burger story), I went to the non-gender-specific bathroom–I’m so 2014– before waddling back to the car.
There was the coolest retro sink inside.
And the typical cabinet.
But for some reason I glanced at the cabinet again …
… and thought, “I wonder what’s in that little cabinet? And if the contents are also non-gender-specific?”
(P.S. When inviting me to birthday or Avon parties, put some of those plastic child resistant lock things on your cabinets. I’ve never been able to figure them out.)
So, of course I reached up and opened the cabinet door. Wouldn’t you? No?! (I also opened a door in a huge hallway in the Biltmore House in Asheville some years back, and a piercing alarm went off, terribly embarrassing my family and friends. Me? When things like that happen, I just try to go to my Happy Place inside and block out externals. There might have been an “Alarm Will Sound” notice on the door, I can’t remember, but really, how often would the Biltmores have changed the batteries?)
Lo and behold, an alarm of sorts also went off when I opened the cabinet door inside the Green Truck’s non-gender-specific bathroom. Here’s what was scrawled on the inside of the door:
I walked out of the bathroom beet red.
(P.S. II: I was so taken aback by the message that I completely forgot to see what was inside the cabinet. If someone wouldn’t mind, would you rush over to the Green Truck, pretend to have to use the bathroom, and snap a pic or two of the inside of that cabinet so I can go to sleep tonight? Thank you.)
You know, if you really think about it, we have So Much to be thankful for. (Btw, even though I’m an English prof, I’ve decided it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition.)
Here’s my short list this week:
1. Hosting a small gathering to celebrate my parents’ 70th (yes, 70th!) wedding anniversary.
Harold Hulon (Tub) Saye and Geneva Mae Reavis were married on September 12, 1944.
Cousin Jennie (below) helped me host the party at my parents’ little house (which, by the way, my father built himself).
Do other folks out there do what my family does? All get iPhones and set up a little Family Group Messaging System? Well, my two daughters Amy and Emily, along with Donna (even though divorced now, we remain the best-est of friends) have done just that. And it’s such an incredibly efficient strategy for staying in touch, bothering each other constantly and having SO MUCH FUN!
The other night, daughter Amy (and mother of grandsons Daniel, 7 and Gabriel, 4) sent us this text.
I LOVE faith-stretching strategies such as that! My response:
A bit more of Amy’s explanation:
Me:
End of discussion until a couple of days later when we received this text from Amy as she, Orte and the boys were driving down to Florida for the weekend:
So this morning I decided to “do church” by driving twenty minutes south from my place in Savannah’s historic district to Tybee Island. Even though the dark clouds kept threatening to open up, I communed with nature and thanked God for the beauties of creation.
(I wanted to take up an offering, but the obviously heathen beachcombers just would not cooperate.)
So I walked.
And looked.
And listened.
And then, lo and behold, at one point I glanced up from checking my stock portfolio …
… and all of a sudden JUST KNEW what my Tybee trip this morning was Really All About:
“Look! I am meant to Be a Lifeguard!”
And, clearly, the island is in dire need–the lifeguard stand stands sadly empty.
“Hey you! Yes you!”
“I’m talking to you!”
“That swimming suit looks ridiculous on you!! What were you thinking?!”
And a little later:
“Oh gosh, someone’s in trouble! I gotta take action!”
After the life save, I hurried back up to my post 14.
And then this “official” rescue personage came driving up …
… and asked me what the heck I was doing on a condemned life guard stand. Like it wasn’t crystal clear that I was saving lives while he was golf-carting around and looking at girls.
“Sir, for future reference, please do not climb on these old structures. And be careful climbing down.”
(As if a fit lifeguard like me would have any issues.)
If you need me at the beach, rest assured, I will be on the lookout.
So last night good friends Donnie and Kinzie (Donnie is at SCAD–the Savannah College of Art and Design–studying film, and Kinzie is a talented photographer) texted me from their holiday soiree in hometown Urbana, Illinois:
Donnie in pic below:
My response:
(Maybe I shouldn’t have included that part of text about crying over Tiny Tim IN A MUPPET MOVIE. It’s a little embarrassing, mainly because it’s true. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have confessed that part about truth. Oh well, water under the bridge now.)
The next interchange between Kinzie and me:
You see, I live in Savannah, GA. That’s right, the deep South, and we ain’t never hearda snow. But, if you can believe Donnie and Kinzie, it’s this white, frozen stuff that falls out of the sky. Ha! Right! Like I’m falling for that. And it seems you can make “snow men” out of it. Ha! Right! The only snow man I can make is outta socks:
So, professor that I am, I decided to do some serious research about Donnie’s and Kinzie’s “snow.” Of course I headed straight to UrbanDictionary.com. And, looky here, Donnie and Kinzie. Here’s what snow means:
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1. Snow — Something that is radical, cool, or otherwise awesome. Something that is snow is generally the sh_t, being top score, bitchin, etc. The word is derived from the fact that snow is generally off the hook in its beauty, power, and pimpery.
“Duuuuude I just saw Predator and it was sooooo snow.”
9. Snow — It is the process of adding lots of small hole-punched papers into a nuggeted back pack.
“Who snowed my back pack?”
10. Snow — Mislead, especially by overwhelming with (mis)information. Deceive. Hoodwink Bamboozle.
“The teacher was snowed by the seemingly endless barrage of students’ questions and failed to realize what was really occurring in the classroom.”
25. Snow — Snow is a racist term used to describe white people in general, mainly because their skin tone is white as snow.
“Damn, look at that snow whitey, he’s white as snow.”
32. Snow — To shed excess amounts of dandruff on another person.
“Mary was disgusted when John came over and snowed on her shoulder.”
Last Saturday, loaded down with a big stack of research paper first drafts, written by my delightful and intelligent international graduate students in our Research, Reading and Writing in Art and Design class at SCAD, I escaped down to Amelia Island, Florida. My Distinct Intention: sitting, for the next two days (since Monday was a holiday) on the patio of the condo, listening to the crash of waves …
… and occasionally eyeing a sea turtle meander up onto the lawn from the protected dunes …
… (this one’s about sixteen inches long) while Determinedly, Professorially marking up student texts. And even though the papers are on fascinating topics, such as the spread of memes through websites, the commercialization of global opera, color’s impact on productivity in the work environment, and how video games make our lives better, can anybody besides me see a potential problem here?
I had no excuse.
But, to be honest, and to defend myself a little, the BETTER part of Saturday had really already vanished by the time I arrived at the condo, unpacked (I ALWAYS unpack–my mama says not to live out of your suitcase), took a much-needed barefoot walk on the beach to calm my nerves after the hour-and-a-half drive from Savannah (okay, maybe I stopped at Starbucks in Brunswick for a quick Salted Caramel Mocha), washed the shells I found …
… thought a while about whether I should make a hip Christmas sea shell wreath or just put them in a glass jar, ran to the Lucky Wok for a spring roll and Balsamic Vegetable Medley, rushed back to the condo and soaked my feet in bath salts–thus it was simply too late to think about grading. Seriously.
So Sunday morning I got up energized–ready!–but, discovering there was nothing in the condo for breakfast except some peanut butter which had gotten beach sand it in and several pints of old strawberry ice cream, I had No Choice but to hightail it over to my favorite historic district Fernandina Beach breakfast place, Bright Mornings Café. (Isn’t that a cool name?)
As soon as you sit down, the FRIENDLIEST wait staff rush over with a variety of muffins, jam, marmalade and coffee. (I wish I lived inside that place.)
(I forgot to take the above pic until after most of the muffins were gone.)
Well, the neatest thing happened next! I was lucky enough to have the World’s Best Waitress, Laura, who, after recommending the breakfast potatoes (boy, was she right!) shared a terrific story. Actually, she shared after I complimented her on her interesting necklace:
She told me that her daughter had given her the necklace, and it represented the body’s chakras. You know about them? Energy distribution centers throughout the body. The lower one is the root chakra, which seems to be powerfully related to our contact with the earth, helping us to be grounded into the earthly plane. Also it represents the center of manifestation, especially with the material world. Anyway, after getting the necklace, Laura explained that she took off her shoes and enjoyed feeling the ground, the earth, with her bare feet. The next day she received a large amount of money. Wow. Whatever we may believe, material increase came to Laura. So cool! I haven’t worn shoes since hearing the story, and ain’t planning to anytime soon! (Kidding.)
Leaving Laura and Bright Mornings (darn it), I thought I should probably go back and start grading, but as I walked down 3rd Street in Fernandina Beach, I saw this sign …
… and it pointed in the opposite direction from where my little car Skedadler sat waiting for me. So, being the lawful person I am, I traversed the way of the sign, and within minutes started hearing people (bunches of people) speaking French and Spanish and Deep Southwest Georgia Drawl and other languages I couldn’t understand.
Well, lo and behold, I stumbled upon a major national sports tournament!
I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the International Petanque America Open Tournament! How exciting is that?! One of the biggest tournaments in all of Petanque!
Okay, okay, I had no clue what Petanque is either. Other people, from all over the world, apparently DO know what it is. Before I explain, a few pictures:
Petanque (pronounced “pay-tonk”), I found out, “is one of Europe’s most popular outdoor games, a cousin of both horseshoes and of the Italian bowling game called ‘bocce’. The game originated in the South of France in the early 1900’s. The aim is to toss, or roll a number of hollow steel balls (‘boules’) as close as possible to a small wooden target ball, called ‘but’ or ‘cochonnet’ (French for ‘piglet’). Players take turns and the team that ends up nearest to the target ball when all balls are played, wins” (petanque-america.com).
Players must stand with both feet firmly planted in a circle when tossing their balls. (Why did I just giggle like a seventh grader?)
Those petanque folks were all SO friendly, even when I kept mistakenly walking onto the playing courts or talking to the players in the middle of their games. (It was all just a bit confusing to me, like Harry Potter’s quidditch, but then again, I never quite got the hang of horseshoes.)
I discovered that the only store in the Americas dedicated to petanque was right there in Fernandina Beach, Petanque America, owned and operated by Philippe Boets, an emigre from Antwerp, Belgium. Doesn’t he have the coolest name, Philippe? I’m thinking of changing my name to something hipper than “Neal.” Any suggestions?
Here I am sitting on the sidelines, trying my best to stay out of trouble and wondering where that man standing in the circle got his shirt and whether or not I should roll up the legs of my pants to look a little more European.
And here I am with Rosemary Szczygiel, a Fernandina Beach petanque enthusiast, who filled me in on the basics of the game.
Such new-discovery fun!
P.S. I had the papers marked by the time I headed back up the road to Savannah.
NealEnJoy 