DUCK, REDUX

Way back in the nineties, we lived in a ground-floor apartment on the back of a building, with an entire vacant parking lot and great green lawn with picnic tables all to ourselves. We could have parties and great numbers of guests accommodated better than we could have in another wing. And there was another duck incident, but not of our own flock---well, not really, but the fact that the first two, Maurice and Velveeta, beat a path from the little fake-lake to our apartment door twice a day DID bring it about. The little couple then brought a banshee-bird with them, who squawked insistently for breakfast at our open bedroom window beginning at 5 a.m., day after day. We named her Miranda, just wishing she would remain silent, etc.

 THEN, the crowds grew, and we had go to the used bread store for enough to keep them fed, and when they brought their babies in little bobby lines, our lawn began to take on the look of a lakeside latrine. We tried stopping the feeding sessions. They gathered, muttered to themselves---probably dark and dire things about US, then began a clamor that the neighbors could hear, I’m sure. Radio Free Europe could have heard THAT lot.

 So we gave in on the bread, and hosed down the lawn twice a day, for we knew we'd be moving soon. When we moved to the third-floor apartment over by the lake, they STILL gathered under our balcony, and we’d Frisbee bread down, especially when the lake was frozen, so they’d have something to go in their little bellies. But while we were still on the ground floor, I would go out and sit on the patio with my earliest cup, while the birds gathered. There were probably sixty or seventy by then, all mingled with some white ones which had been there from when the place was built. 

 One morning, as I sat on the concrete, a white one appeared in the crowd, and got fairly near me. I could see a big tangle of fishing line all curled and snarled around one leg, so I coaxed him nearer with some bread. He got right up to my lap, so I stepped on the line and hugged him with both arms. He went into squawk-and-flap mode, with me struggling to get up off the concrete with my arms full of irate duck. I went in yelling for Chris, who came running to the clamor, stark naked and soaking wet, just out of the shower and thinking marauders had me. 

 We DID get the duck into the house for the snipping of all that cord, and I’m sure somewhere there’s a Candid Camera crew bewailing the fact that they missed out on the sight of two hefty middle-aged folks, one wet and naked, the other hanging on for dear life and laughing hysterically, cutting 15-pound test off the leg of a squawky, flappy duck.

MY FRIEND OLIVER

I'd dearly love to hear my dear, dear neighbor from Mississippi at his Steinway, playing Liebestraum and Pavane for a Sleeping Princess and Moonlight Sonata and the mystical, haunting Traumerei, which he always played for me after a hard day at work or when the boss’ mannerisms had been especially harsh. I would sit in his Mother’s little gooseneck rocker, and he would hand me a dainty glass of Tawny Port; I would rock and dream and it would soothe away the day, and by the end of the Schumann I was almost melted into the chair like a spent snowman, dwindling in the sun. My dear pianist friend’s fingers spilling forth Rachmaninoff’s Variation on a Theme from Paganini the first time I put the music in front of him---he sat down and it just channeled out and up, like leaves swirling against a wall. And the look on Chris’ sweet face at our wedding, as those same notes rang golden into the Summer afternoon, and I came around the corner of the lawn in the beautiful dress he had designed for me. I severely regret the misplacement of a plate-sized reel of tape during one of our various moves; I’ve had no way to play it again, as we have never had a reel-to-reel machine, but just the having of it was enough. It was the pinnacle of my friend’s career as an artist and teacher, playing The Age of Anxiety, with Bernstein conducting. And just to hold it in my hands would be a miracle, of sorts---all that talent and those gifted hands and minds condensed and graven into that fragile, spinning hoop of vinyl and dreams. I will never forget that sweet friend, purveyor of magical music, friendly welcome, and Southern charm. He was a fourth-generation pupil of Liszt, mentioned just once in passing, and his time and place were quite the anachronism to his great talent. His name was Oliver Manning, and he'd be 105 now. After his passing, his family had a yard sale, and my Mother bought me his plaque for the 1938 piano award from Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, where he later taught, and a little bronze baby shoe---treasures I cherish for the memories.

PEOPLE OF PAXTON

I've long had a whole townful of folks circulating through my head---they're folks I've known, or would like to, or composites of two or three interesting or memorable characters of the past or present. Perhaps forty of them have been introduced in here, and on my PAXTON PEOPLE blog, and I hope to someday combine the whole town into a story or two. I get going describing folks---their talents, their houses, their attributes and afflictions, and their interactions with other folk, and I can do pretty well up to the point of GIVING THEM SOMETHING TO DO. A Plot. A Story that would be worth reading, interweaving lives and actions into some semblance of a book. 

 Someone will suddenly come to me, with a whole personality and whims and a life of their own, and it seems as if I've actually known them, and there's no trouble putting down whatever comes to mind, but then there they sit. And I have whole gaggles of Paxton folks circulating through my head---church folks and townfolk and folks scattered on their farms and little bits of land. They are from memories, wishes, and imagination, with no insinuation of which is which, since they feel like long-worn quilts from a fragrant old cedar-chest: scraps and pieces of whole cloth, aprons and dresses and shirts and a bolero or two. There might be a small swatch from the minuscule Barbie-skirt on Harliss’ plate, or a small snip from the MOTHER pillow sent from Japan by Carey Luke Bishop, while he was overseas. Perhaps a bit of lace from one of Mrs. Keen's dainty handkerchiefs she always had tucked into the sleeve of her silky blouse. The imaginary black-as-night silk cloak swirled in Miss Mavis’ wake makes an appearance, as well as a whole section of pattern composed of bits from prom dresses, bridesmaid’s dresses, piano recital dresses for generations of Paxton girls, all from the trusty needle of Mrs. Barbee.

 The tales behind the stitches in all those generations of Hope Chests in that small town could populate a library, and and I want so much to tell those stories.     All the pieces are separate, thus far, of different colors and patterns, velvet and gingham and denim and suede---good broadcloth and flimsy voile, taffeta and bridal satin folded with khaki, ancient woolen---blue and gray, sailcloth, stars and stripes, but just as I've never put needle to cloth with any useful or beautiful result, it's an uphill climb to get them all cut and sewn into a quilt pattern and a story and a town. 

I'm workin' on it.

STARRY NIGHT

All the moons and comets and stars have been great items of interest in the past little while, and we’ve stood out in the cold back yard, breaths wafting up into the darkness, as we took in these once-in-a-lifetime moments of astronomical significance.  All that cosmic display, going on for untellable time, just up there for the looking at---we seldom think of what grandeur just goes on without us, heedless of our little plans and designs.  

Leah just sent me a lovely video of an unimaginably-painted scene---Van Gogh’s STARRY NIGHT coming to life atop a bowl of dark water.    In a moment, the artist’s hands scatter-spatter, then splash-drip the paint in childish blobs.   Then he magically swirls and contours the masses of  quivering colour into the familiar beauty of Vincent’s nightscape with just a few dips and strokes of brush and fingers.  I cannot think how he ever thought to DO it, let alone honed such a technique into such a frangible art form, ephemeral and fleeting as smoke.  

A moment to take in the beauty of it, then a magnificent swirl of the heavens, like a cosmic interruption that shook galaxies in the creation of the Universe.   A few more drops of colour bring a magical transformation into another familiar painting---simply stunning in the making.  

This is too beautiful not to share---do make it into full screen, and use the SOUND.   Beethoven's MOONLIGHT only adds to the majesty---though they did not overlap in history, perhaps van Gogh heard these magnificent strains just one time. 

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1eS3ChsQAM

MAW'S STUFFED TOMATOES

This fabulous Tomato Season has me thinking about my first Mother-in-Law. She was really an Angel on this Earth---a kind, strong, loving, smart woman whose loving ways will make her long remembered by all of us who loved her. She was a marvelous Southern Cook, with a “way” with a Sunday pot-roast, and a true hand with a piecrust, turning out acres of Lemon Icebox and Karo Pecan and Chocolate pies for every occasion, and her Caramel Cake recipe is still sought by all of us who remember it.

But she had one recipe that I’d never tried before---when she made it, it was always called "Stuffed Tomatoes." She said it was from the "Murdock side" and had begun when Mayonnaise was a brand-new invention, and had to be made by hand, way before the family had electricity, or indeed, any appliance to ease the effort.

Maw always hollowed out the prettiest, well-matched tomatoes for her presentation; she'd stuff them just so and round the tops carefully, to make them into perfect orbs balanced amongst the parsley on a pretty plate. They were among the several recipes she referred to as "Preacher Food," and certainly the intent was elegant, if not the title.

And I can remember that Janie and Ralph would take several apiece, eat all the contents with a spoon, and leave the forlorn little pink shells for the chickens. And hollowing out all those tomatoes was not really fun work, so I began peeling them, mushing the whole bunch and chopping them with a handy little hand-chopper in a bowl, and going from there---despite my leanings toward gussying up certain dishes, this one just caused too much work and too much waste. Besides, it's really pretty, all pink and creamy in a pretty clear bowl.

STUFFED TOMATOES, just as she and I would have discussed the preparation:

Fry a half a’ pound of bacon pretty done, and save the drippings.

Six or eight REAL RIPE good-sized tomatoes---shape doesn't matter in this case

A sleeve of Premiums, crushed in the paper, with lots of small bits, not powder

A good big spoon-clop of mayonnaise (Blue Plate or Duke's make it authentic, but NEVER Miracle Whip!!)

S&P to taste, but AFTER the bacon is added

Peel tomatoes and chop fine as possible, or smush them with your immaculately-sterile fingers, into an almost-puree, with some small bits left for color. Stir in mayo, then start adding crackers; stir well, and watch for consistency---it should be thick, but not dry. You may not need to add all the crackers, depending on size of tomatoes. Crumble bacon and stir it in, along with however much of the drippings you care to---all is good, if you like a good bacon flavor, but it's to your taste.

Dip a spoontip into it, and do that little TP-TP-TP with your lips to check for flavor, and then salt and pepper to taste. Store in fridge for several hours, then stir well just before serving, or stuffing into a quarter-cut tomato for a salad plate, or put an ice cream scoop onto lettuce or sliced tomatoes.

This recipe has been in the family for more than a hundred years, from Grandmother White’s family out in the Hills, and tastes like a creamy BLT. Tomato season’s ON! Y’all go pick/get/order some really ripe ones, and have a taste of Maw Haley’s Table. She set a fine one, and what would we give to sit down at that table ONE MORE TIME.