Sweet Tea in Southern Georgia

I Like Poetry

I like poetry. I like the way it struts and boogies and whispers and wails and sneers and laughs and stinks and stomps and scratches and sneaks up on you like your own shadow. I like people who like poetry. They wear a patina that gets better with age. I like to sit in the audience at a poetry reading and watch new poets open their timid mouths and lay bare their writings. I like to listen as their words take on wings and flutter and flicker and fly. I like poems that rhyme and poems that don’t rhyme. I like veiled poems that repeat consonants and vowels in subtle secret. I like word combinations that follow me home. I like poems that stutter and stutter and stutter and then take off in song. I once read a poem that hammered out an idea and left it hot on my lips. That idea is still there, simmering on the edge of my tongue: I don't know what to do with it. I like to fill up on poetry and savor the aftertaste while drinking a glass of red wine at the end of the day. Poetry often smacks of home. Last night, I read a poem that tasted of homemade bread. I’ve tasted coppery, bloody poems and poems that reek of whiskey and nicotine. Jeff Newberry’s pieces often carry the aroma of youth and fish and saltwater. I can usually smell his works a mile away. Many of Christopher Martin’s writings take me back in time and bury my face in my children's hair. Shampoo. Sweat. Innocence. Herbert Shippey’s poem in the Spring 2013 issue of Pegasus is drenched in fumes of varnish. To me, Flames, by Billy Collins smells of smoke and excitement and fear, but you might not think so. That’s what I like about poetry: it’s a liar and cheat, and it's always telling a different story. Arrive early to a poetry reading and you’ll smell unspoken words hanging in the air just waiting to settle in your hair and cling to your clothes like the scent of a no-good, two-timing lover.

I attended ABAC’s Pegasus Ruby Celebration last week. Late that night I took a shower to wash the scents of poetry and prose from my flesh.

At Hal's Place

at Hal's place

One of Hal's Westies attacking my niece after untying her shoes!

at Hal's

He’s a handsome redhead whose thick, curly hair is dusted in gray. At our house, we’re happy to call him a friend and we wouldn’t hesitate to dial his phone number when in need or whether just wanting to talk. His place in the country is quiet, comfortable, and feels like home, the kind of place you want to run to when this crazy world of rush, rush, rush gets too much to bear. At his place in the country, you can actually hear nature overhead, in the bushes, in the nearby woods, and near the pond. And he’s the kind of man who will open his door and invite you and your joys and troubles to come inside. I can hear him now: “Come on over!”

His hands are big; his heart is big; his laughter is big. He specializes in the breeding of West Highland White Terriers that come from close champion lines. With his immaculate reputation as a breeder, Hal has no need to advertise his business, Sutton’s West Highland White Terriers. Just take a look at his Facebook page filled with comments from all over the world such as: “Doc will be 11 in May.” Trixie will be four in December.” “Happy New Year Hal! I think we need to have a Westie reunion at your place. What fun it would be to see you and all your dog children together after they have grown up :)).”

He’s placed Westies in homes all over the world and his dogs and clients love him. He says the responsibility of owning one of his Westies is never taken lightly; he compares it to adopting a child. My husband and I have observed him up close with those Westies and he’s a gentle expert who provides excellent care for the mother, the pups, and all his dogs.

My son Patrick had known Hal for only a few months when his tire blew out away from home. At the time, my husband and I were out of town and it was Hal who came to the rescue. Patrick didn’t have to ask him. Hal told him to hang tight. He’d be right there.

His land holds the paths and shadows of a family's long history. After traveling the world, he landed back in the place where it all began, to cultivate the years that built up while he was away, to welcome the ghosts of a wonderful past. He knows the land, he knows the home place, and it remembers him well. We often drive up and find him outside painting the house, placing bricks for steps, lovingly tending to home and his dogs, the sun blazing over the pond, a cardinal in a nearby tree.

Hal adopted us as much as we adopted him. When my daughter and son perform with ABAC Chamber Singers, ABAC Jazz Choir, and ABAC Chorus, they always look over the audience for him, knowing he’ll be in the audience. Their eyes search for him as soon as they walk on stage, and they aren’t satisfied until they’ve spotted him in the audience, often with friends he’s brought with him.

Our family will claim Hal Sutton as a friend for life.

Hal and one of his loves.

Through the Eyes of Children

When my two children were young, my husband would leave for 3-month deployments aboard a nuclear submarine. While he was away, my children and I attended the theatre, symphonies, and ballet performances. Before long things changed in our household. My husband and I separated. Patrick wasn't yet in preschool when our family of four was reduced to three. It remained that way until I married Richard twelve years later.

During the years when I was a divorced mother, and while my two children and I were living in Illinois, I read that Phantom of the Opera would be coming to Peoria, Illinois. For several years, we'd been living near Bradley University where I worked. We often attended events at Bradley that were offered free or at a reduced price to staff and faculty. But Phantom of the Opera had nothing to do with Bradley. It would be performed be at the Civic Center and, on our budget, I wouldn’t be able to afford tickets for all three of us. I had an idea though: If I put aside a specific amount of money from my next two paychecks, I’d have enough to purchase two good seats for Phantom of the Opera.

The night of the performance, Alyson and Patrick bubbled over with excitement. They showered and dressed in their best clothes while I stood outside watching fat snowflakes leak from the sky. The snowfall had just begun. When the cold had chilled me to the bone, I went inside and put on the tea kettle.

Alyson and Patrick rushed downstairs as I was finishing my tea. They sizzled with anticipation on that cold winter night. They'd never seen Phantom and neither had I. I handed them their tickets and asked them to sit on the sofa for some instructions. Don’t talk to strangers. Meet me after the performance at the exact location where I drop you off. Don’t separate from each other no matter what. If one of you must go to the bathroom, the other will wait outside the door.

My children were as beautiful to me that night as they would ever be. Magic swelled and trembled inside them. Outside, snow covered our little world.

As I drove to the Civic Center, I reminded them again of the rules. At the time, Alyson was approximately fifteen years old, and Patrick, eleven. I sat in the car, watching my children rush to the entrance. They turned and waved to me. Alyson blew me a kiss. The snow thickened as I drove home to wait until time to pick them up.

By the end of the performance, snow flurries were dropping in silence all over Peoria. Trees, shrubs, cars, and homes wore fresh white blankets. I arrived early, parked in the lot and waited for the crowds to exit. About 15 minutes later, my children spotted me and rushed to the car, squealing with excitement, virgin snow caressing their hair, melting on their flushed faces.

On that night, I did not yet know that my son had Asperger's Disorder. The official diagnosis would come many years later while he was in college. It would come after 2 days of intense testing at the Georgia Board of Regents Center for Learning Disorders. It would come after he had diagnosed himself. Throughout his childhood, I took him to doctor after doctor for his poor motor skills and his inability to ride a bicycle or even balance good enough to walk down stairs without using the handrail. The doctors could find nothing wrong with him. They thought it was unusual that he could spit out football statistics like a computer. They weighed all the evidence and said he's highly intelligent, but we have no idea why he can't tie his shoes or open a coke can. They didn't know why his handwriting was scribble or why he memorized every detail that interested him. Maybe he has arthritis. I'll prescribe some Relafen for his joint pain. You need to work with him on his shyness. He's different, but he'll grow out of it. I already knew he was different--he knew he was different-- but because Patrick took advanced classes in school, because teachers said he seemed bored in class, no one ever thought he might have a learning disorder. He excelled in advanced classes, yet struggled and sometimes failed in classes that couldn't hold his interest. And so, on that silent snowy night, I had no idea my son saw the music of Phantom of the Opera in brilliant color, through kaleidoscope eyes. I didn't know the music he heard in the Civic Center that night followed him home and slept inside his memory in swirling colors. In colors I could not see and his sister could not see.

I took the long route home, listening to Alyson and Patrick chatter on and on as they shared with me details of the performance: the music, the soloists, the costumes, the set, the singing, and the chandelier. The consonants and vowels of their words were damp with the wonder and awe known only in children. And though their hair, faces, and shoulders were dusted in snow, a light burned in their eyes.

To this day, I’ve never seen Phantom of the Opera except through the eyes of my children. And that's the best way to see some things--through the eyes of children.

Exploring the Past

The house.

tin roof

side view

Looking into the past.

another side view.

The snake.

The magnificent oak tree.

Another view of the oak tree.

I don't know what kind of flower this is. Maybe it is a weed.

Is this wegia? It's growing in the yard of the abandoned house.

Growing in front of the house.

These were growing in the yard of the abandoned house.

Where does this road lead? We found a roadside memorial down a piece from here.

looking ahead

(All the photos except the one of the snake were taken by Jacy and Lynn Romanus. I was the stupid one who took the pictures of the snake.)

I grabbed the camera and the three of us loaded into my GMC to go scouting the countryside: me, my sister Lynn, and my 13-year old niece Jacy. We rode down country roads until we found the place we'd hoped to explore. The property was free of “No Trespassing” signs and was not boarded up. The old house, probably 110 years old or more, sat behind waist-high weeds and grass at the edge of a huge field that would turn white with cotton come September. Lynn and I both felt it was packed full of secrets, emotions, and ghosts from the past. We stood back and gazed at the 4-room house with no indoor plumbing and could almost hear the echoing laughter of children playing. We pictured a mother cooking for her family. We pulled up visions of a family living through the depression in this very house.

I told my fellow explorers I was going inside by way of the front door to see if it was safe enough for us to tour the interior. As I started making a path through the overgrowth toward the porch, Lynn said, “Watch for snakes.” And I did. We’d grown up in the country, picking blackberries near areas where rattlesnakes had been spotted and killed. We’d worked in tobacco and fished and swam in ponds. We didn’t consider ourselves to be city girls. We grew up with our feet bare in southern soil.

barbed wire

I watched the ground as I strolled toward the house. When I was nearly at my destination, the porch right before me, I spotted a long, thick rope, half under the porch, half out. It was stretched out near a bottle of some kind and the rope had a head that was lifted and frozen in place. My heart raced, and I took a step back, calling out to Lynn and Jacy, “Oh my gosh. It’s a snake.”

I called for my sister to come look, telling her, “It is so still I think it is dead. It would curl up if it wasn’t dead.”

Lynn, who was standing close enough to see the snake, said, “Get back. That thing is alive. This house is probably filled with snakes.”

“But the snake isn’t moving at all. It must be dead.”

“Then maybe it has shed its skin.”

“Maybe. But I still can’t understand why its head is raised like that. It looks alive but it can’t be.” My sister backed out and I called to my niece Jacy to come close enough to see it. She handed me the camera, took a peep at the snake and also retreated. I started taking photos and the snake still didn’t move. “It’s got to be dead, Lynn, or it would move after hearing the camera clicking.”

After taking several photos of the snake skin, I, too, reversed paths, heading to the back of the property. I’d need to climb over the dead snake to pull myself onto the porch and the thought of it made me uneasy. The front steps had been removed and I really didn’t want to get near a snake, dead or alive. I'd have to wade through even thicker growth to enter the porch from another location. I retreated to the rear, leaving the same way I'd come in.

a cardinal

From the rear, the three of us looked in the house through a large opening where the back door had once been. The house was falling down, the floor caving in. I imagined rain tap dancing on the tin roof. Jacy took photos of it all while we explored. We were all mindful of where we placed our feet.

We stood under a magnificent oak tree, its trunk twisted with age. Tears filled our eyes. Who had played under this tree? Did a tire swing ever hang from its strong arms? How many families had it seen come and go?

In the front of the house, we found a blooming bush we couldn’t identify along with weeds and flowers that reminded Lynn of spring. She said that as a child she loved those flowers because their colors meant spring had arrived.

I said, “I’m going to climb over the dead snake and go in the house. Or at least get on the porch and see if I can look inside.” I traipsed through the overgrowth again and stood looking down at the bottle under the porch. “Lynn! The snake is gone!”

“Get out of there!”

I backed out carefully, squeamish that snakes might be nearby. So much for being a country girl!

Jacy took some wonderful photos of our explorations that day. And that night, I dreamed of snakes. Then last night, I dreamed of the house and its multicolored past. The place had survived numerous winters alone with roots of the past sleeping in soil, dreaming of green leaves and blooming flowers and shrubs. My niece Jacy captured the colors of spring in her photos.

If you’ve never walked into a past far beyond your reach, you should try it sometime. We are all just passing through.

A memorial we found on the side of a dirt road. Our hearts swelled with emotion.

I love the aged colors of the wood.

Bottles & Brushes March 2013


Rolando Licea. What a guy!!!

Kwanda always does a good job. She's very confident when it comes to color.

Jim. I'd hang his painting in my house anytime.

Debbie Salter and daughter Savannah. Debbie is painting a water lily and dragonfly. She's good enough she doesn't need to stick to the agenda. Savannah inherited her mother's creative genes.

Jane paints and quilts and has a heart of pure gold.

Polly keeps everything going and makes my job so much easier. She sets up for the class, keeps class registration, handles publicity. I bring in my paintings and teach. She is a dear friend and one of the most talented people I know.

These guys can paint!

Savannah's talent is obvious in this unfinished painting.

Jim and Ellen. Jim kept us laughing and talking. He brought a lot of humor and fun to the class. Ellen painted like a pro.

This turned out to be a beautiful painting. It's not completed in this photo, but as she continued to add colors, it came to life and was one of my favorites.

Lovely!

The quilt was designed and sewn by Rae Giddens, award-winning quilter from Ocilla. She based the design on a painting from Bottles & Brushes, one of an owl perched in a tree. The quilt is amazing in detail and color.

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