Satsuma Me

I’ve eaten gator, and turtle and squirrel, and carp, and possum, and coon; but, of that list the only curious thing eaten here was gator. And, I don’t think breaded and fried on a stick with 14 different spices at a booth at the Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival is an exacting way to neither judge alligator nor consider it unusual and exotically treated. But the point I set out to make was really about eating unusual and exotic which brings me back to the Satsuma.

Dramatic pause, I am waiting for the chorus of heavenly voices to quite before I continue. Yes, the Satsuma the jewel of Louisiana, found elegantly displayed at every Farmers Market and touted for its heavenly taste, both sweet and tart at once, from Grand Isle to Ruston. It’s delicate sweetness, enveloped by a bright tartness, its fragrant aroma. Sincerely the poets wax lyrically in odes to the Satsuma, brought from Asia and nurtured lovingly by a devoted citrus grower now to be revered by all who plant, grow and share this jewel.

I say, are you serious! For me the Satsuma has been pimped by the southern office of Madison Avenue. For me it is no sweet talked up jewel. Drinking the kool aid, when I first heard about the Satsuma, I bought a huge bag. Fail, but I was undaunted I knew the jewel resided there so I tried again and again and again to experience the fairy tale I was sold. Instead I encountered a beautiful, puckery, and limited on sweet, piece of citrus. Now I am not discounting the romantic history of the Satsuma, nor the predilection for a regional favorite, but for me, I’ll stick to my California Navel Orange with its sweet, sunny swag until something else prevails.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

The Kindness Of Strangers

 

The Kindness of Strangers! Ahhh, yes, the kindness of strangers. Until I moved down here that was just a clever little rhetorical line uttered by Blanche Dubois to bounce around when one wanted to appeal to a friend for an obscure favor. But here, the kindness of strangers has a completely different status.

Here, people who do not know you and are not seeking any favor, obscure or otherwise, come to your rescue unexpectedly. Hands full, can’t grab the door handle; suddenly a generous smile has the door open, while you mumble a very foreign, ‘thanks’.  Friendly hands guide you into a tight parking spot, rather you sought assistance or not. A wondered out loud comment sends you off in the direction of a store, a product, or object you really could not locate; often with a wonderful story to share with someone else. Need a good doctor or dentist, count on the person at your swim class or post office to know the perfect person, who calmed their dentist challenged nerves.

Now this may not seem like a phenomenon to you who claim this as your birthright, but to me, a stranger in a strange land, and coming from a land where everything but a neon sign flashes never, ever, ever, ever interact with strangers for any reason at any time; these little acts of kindness have gone far to make the almost insurmountable mountains of daily living into molehills of the mundane.

But it goes farther and deeper than that. These “random acts of kindness” invade the Grinch zones of your heart and almost before you have realized it, or have formally addressed it, you have become acclimated to proffering a hand, or, delivering a genuine smile along with some simple information. Then, presto-change-o you are feeling like a nicer, more trusting and approachable person overall.

No, I still will not leave my car keys in the ignition to dash over to the mailbox, nor will I leave my cell phone in plain sight while parked. But I will however strike up a conversation while waiting in line, share information about something wonderful, return a shopping cart for the lady with the two small kids and help an elder into her car with her bags because, now, I do respect and reciprocate the kindness of strangers.

These are the musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, you can easily find me.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Insurgents in Our Mist

Insurgents!

 I live a whisper away from the sainted city of New Orleans. A place steeped in history, draped in the Spanish moss of parasitic mystery. A place where one can get lost in magic, the magic of the architecture of the French, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese; the music of Africa, Spain, France and their fused souls; and, of the food, a strange and beautiful a gift of the land and waters that surround it, and made soul stirring by the hands that touch it lovingly.

And, then, creeping in like the low fog off the mighty Mississippi is the increasing fear of the insurgents. Yes, insurgents are afoot in this beautiful city of New Orleans. The society it seems is now being threatened at every corner by the insidious insurgents that grow like a plague in the city. While government grinds slowly forward to find solutions, and headlines blare scares of “tourism revenue may be lost”, the armed insurgents roam the city killing and maiming at whim. Meanwhile, we hold our pain and watch the insurgent fog, and pray to the pantheon of deities, that the problems that have created the rise of insurgency can be discovered and explained and reconciled. Then, peace, or at least a semblance of normalcy can be restored. Certainly other cities have had to fight the insurgents that leave the collateral damage of shattered families and lives to mourn. Here under the flag of jazz funerals, which seek to ease those left behind into the river of healing, death seems less damnable, but hearts don’t heal any faster and loss threatens to turn us all into refugees in a familiar land.  Where are the answers, how do we return to peace time and, how do we turn back the fog? Start the fires along the rivers so the answers can find us through the fog of insurgency and return us to our New Orleans state of mind.

These are the musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, you can easily find me.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Reconciled Roots

I am not a southern girl. I am a northern girl with southern soul and family roots. My spirit is rooted in the South. Every goodthing in my life emanates from southern soil. My sense of family, love of Catholicisim, joy of cooking and my delight in gathering my big, small family around me. My sassiness and my swag all eminate from my Southern roots.


And therein lies the conundrum. Had I been born and raised down here, I would have been graced with the ambiguity of this place called south. Embracing secrets and burying family lies until the truth rolls out slow like dark molasses, giving off its sweet smokey complex flavors found deep in those time honored wooden barrels. But alas I am a northern girl, filled with the complexity of getting to the bottom of things, and hanging the truth high from banners across the landscape of the metro pole.

Blending my Southern soul in the North was easy. The sway and magic of Louisiana filled the pots with aromatic flavors and peppered treasured stories. All grounded by Northern sensebilities. But here in the South East of Louisiana, combining those two elements, Southern sensebilities and Northern pragmatisim

 has presented a grueling proposition, yet full of observations and reflections and a lot of confounding opportunities.

First, living here has made me an advocate of dispelling such trite rumors such as “southerners move so slow,” as perceived by my northern compatriots. Bring your haughty I don’t want to sweat self down to this steaming burg, and see if that east coast/west coast speed racing doesn’t drench you in a malarial like fugue of sweat and prayers for deliverance. And.Why do “they” wave at strangers driving past? Friends, drive anywhere down long highways, and seemingly isolated stretches of road for awhile then see how delighted you are to see a smiling face and friendly wave, reaffirming you are still in civilization, not lost, and probably headed in the right direction. All the while you’ve missed the beautiful breathtaking flora and fauna surrounding you, the way the cypress bend low to dip their leaves in the cool bayou waters, and the graceful egrets gliding to the banks of the bayou, or the dramatic brown pelican rising to claim these beautiful southern skies, and of course you missed the eagles nest with the new babies.

And what about the theory that southerners are “so casual. They just don’t take anything seriously. Time is of the essence.”  Such naive an observation, if you don’t live here, and didn’t grow up here, you have no idea how silently the wheels of getting it done move, one person enlist several other persons who expand that network and in a very short amount of time it is accomplished, and the unknowing can’t conceive at how it was accomplished.  Yet another delightful mystery of my southeast Louisiana.

These are just the beginnings of my musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.