Last night Robert and I returned home late from dinner, got out of our car, looked up and saw this …
HR’s true partner/cat Benny perched in our second story study window, gazing out. Looking down, his head slowly followed our steps as we walked to the door.
Benny prophesied our return home.
One of the unexpected joys of living in Savannah’s Historic District, just a couple of blocks from the mighty Savannah River, has been regularly seeing (and hearing) the massive cargo and container ships making their way into our busy port.
The Port of Savannah, the nation’s third largest seaport, is special because the ships leave the Atlantic Ocean, navigate their way inland about 15 miles to downtown Savannah, and pass directly in front of our busiest tourist strip on River Street …
It’s always fun to be on a walk along the river when a huge ship comes into view and watch the shell-shocked tourists gaping at the ships’ sizes.
Here’s a short video from last year when the largest container ship EVER came to Savannah.
And here are a few random shots of ships Robert and I have enjoyed seeing as we walked along the river.
Just the other night …
Others …
But, perhaps somewhat weirdly, the greatest Ship Joy of all to me is SOUND.
Robert and I will be in bed (most commonly with HR peacefully asleep and me slowly, slowly heading in that direction). But all of a sudden I will hear it. And perk up. Sometimes even sit up.
From a few blocks away, down on the river. The night ships. The sonorous, plaintive, somehow both exuberant and unexplainably sad horn, sounding from the ship, finally, finally making its way, exhausted, from who knows where into our little city … and past the sleepy little dwelling of Neal and HR.
Listen …
And somehow, that sound, time and time again, makes me realize that we can get from Where We Are … to Where We Need to Be. To a port of rest, to a place of quiet. To a place of, at least temporarily, no more movement.
And I sleep.
1. The fact that most of the disagreements between Robert and me are of a minor variety. Such as “how to have” tuna salad for lunch. He likes to get all carbohydrate-y with bread …
While I, more superiorly, (is that a word?) skillfully position the tuna, tilting rather Cirque de Soleil-ishly, on a bed of lettuce and tomato …
Okay, maybe his looks a little better. From the side.
2. Last night watching Grandson Daniel beautifully yet harrowingly perform perhaps his most serious role yet—Buddy Layman, a depression-era autistic teen with the ability to find water, in Jim Leonard’s The Diviners.
The full cast …
Not-so-happy ending …
3. Chrysanthemums in Savannah.
4. Shrimp.
5. The word “healthy” in all its various meanings.
I hope you have a healthy and restful weekend ahead.
Each day, I continue to be amazed at the incredible, diverse joy of Plant Life.
This post could go on and on, but I’ll end with perhaps The Joy of My Life, the southern Longleaf Pine …
Here’s to Plants!
So Robert and I are in Atlanta this weekend for Pride. You may (or may not) know that the traditional month for Pride celebrations is June. But not in the deep South. It’s too hot! And some of our Pride might melt. October works better.
We’re staying at a very cool Airbnb near Piedmont Park where the festival is held.
We get our steps in climbing up to our suite …
And we have our very own little morning coffee spot …
Like-minded folks here.
Today, Saturday, is the Pride festival. (Tomorrow is the parade.)
Such loving, accepting and inclusive fun.
HAPPY OCTOBER PRIDE, Y’ALL!
1. My glasses.
Oh my goodness, WHAT would I do without them?!
2. The Atlanta Braves winning the National League East … again.
3. Lunch with youngest granddaughter Isabelle for Pre-K lunch (at 10:45 a.m.!).
Isabelle hugging Nana and holding a tiny piece of broccoli.
4. Colorful Fall
5. The simple joy of being alive.
Side note: The dead-looking, brownish clumps you see to the right and underneath the brilliant green …
They are not dead at all. They are Resurrection Ferns. And as soon as the next rain comes, they will burst into more obvious life and challenge the green vine’s brilliance.
May we all burst into More Obvious Life this weekend!
Robert’s incredible pizza on his brand new 13-inch pizza stone.
Sorry, Papa John’s. I have a new Papa.
My pizza maker.
If the shoe, crown, fits ….
It sorta fits. Don’t you think?
This blog category is the journaling and journey-ing of my quest to say (with cautious sincerity) “Hello, Anxiety” and to take a look at the condition from my “me-andering” views.
So the other day HR and I bought a bunch of local fresh, Savannah corn. It was the yellow and white bicolor variety (which I refer to as bisexual corn). I shucked it ALL MYSELF. For some reason (childhood issues?), Robert WILL NOT help with that chore. But I find it soothing and therapeutic. Savagely ripping the husks and tassels off and carelessly tossing them into the trash. (Note: Talk to Therapist Rubi about all this.)
We first did corn-on-the-cob—my favorite corn rendering. But we had a bunch left over.
“Google it,” HR said. “Find another recipe.” For some reason, that suggestion got on my nerves a little bit, but I did it.
Break in the Narrative.
This morning, I woke up early, ready to face the challenging world. But two things happened, causing that challenging world to be REALLY challenging.
First, I burned (burnt?) the bacon. Okay, let me explain. For 99.99% of the adult population, burning bacon is no big deal. But for me, today it was devastating, especially when I had just gotten off the phone with my dermatologist’s office (which actually caused the bacon to be burned).
For months now, I have been having pretty severe lower leg rash issues. I was supposed to have had an appointment this morning to look into the problem. But I got a call—my dermatologist came down with COVID-19. And I would have to be rescheduled.
Well, the earliest I could see my doctor would be mid February 2023!! I have a conflict/avoidance issue, so I didn’t pitch a fit, which most normal people would have, and which I should have.
So after the burned (burnt?) bacon, and the dermatologist fiasco, I spiraled a bit. Into anxiety. Of the “Nothing is good in the world variety.”
As we were sitting down for breakfast, HR said, “Well, at least you didn’t cry when you burned the bacon. You usually cry when you mess up your dishes.” (TMI?)
We both laughed at the pathetic yet victorious truthfulness of his observation, and salvaged what we could from the bacon. I should’ve taken a picture of it. But if you can just imagine a piece of black construction paper, that’s basically what my bacon looked like.
Back to the narrative.
I found a recipe for Sweet Corn, Shrimp and Rice Skillet. Initially, I thought it was too fancy for me to try. HR’s the gourmet chef. But then I decided to attempt it anyway. In my grandmother’s 10-inch cast-iron skillet.
First, I cut the corn off the cob.
Then I made a purée of onions, garlic, shallots, red bell pepper, fresh ginger, fresh turmeric and homemade vegetable broth.
I added the corn.
Put it in the oven to cook it all down a bit.
Quickly sautéed the shrimp.
And put it all together.
Beautifully delicious.
But what was best about all this corn-ing around was that it got me out of my downward anxious spiral. Finding the recipe, doing the prep work, especially cutting the beautiful corn, was meditative. Allowing me to pay attention to my bodily sensations—smelling the freshly grated turmeric and ginger, feeling the shrimp as I patted them dry with paper towels, tasting the purée to make sure it was seasoned perfectly, choosing the pretty deer bowls from the cabinet, and calling my husband to lunch when all was ready.
I attended to my body, which got me away from the stories my mind was telling me about my “problems.“
Yes, sometimes it’s perfectly fine to be corny.
NealEnJoy 