Considering that it has been years since my last blog post, I wondered how I could make my latest musing profound and interesting. I figured I could expound upon my move to Connecticut: the beauty of Spring in the Northeast, the simple joy of a thaw after a long winter, the hillsides all abud. But I had no idea how to catch up on four lost years. Then again - since I'd not written in four long years chances are my avid follower(s) have since moved to pastures new.

Well anyway, here I am in Connecticut - and I feel as if the state has embraced me. It's the strangest feeling - to connect with a place so quickly and completely. I'm lonely here, too - I left my family, a slew of great friends and a burgeoning acting career in the South to start a new chapter in a place where I knew no one. But Connecticut loves me. I feel it every day when I walk outside, even when the snow is two feet deep. Connecticut loves me - with every bud that blossoms, with the dark, rich soil, with the apple trees in the neighboring farms reaching out their knobby arms and offering me their fruit. Connecticut loves me. It is not my birthplace but it feels like my birthright. I know the possibilities are endless here - I just can't breathe for the excitement of what is coming.

I was talking to my father last night and he pointed out that we both have been remiss in our blog posting. I thought I would jump in now to fix this, although I haven't got a topic... so let's see if I can find a random topic.

Ah no, there's nothing. And what is a blog post without a topic? Merely a stream of consciousness. This reminds me... I was digging through my old files at work the other day and found a random rambling, probably written while in a boring meeting. Wanna hear it? Here it go:

RANDOM RAMBLING #1:
There is no time like tomorrow. To procrastinate is to be alive. Why not reflect on the transcience of water or the inflexibility of time? There was once and age in which the opposite of thought coursed through the minds of philosophers. Now, what flows into our consciousness flows out just as quickly until the black hole sings with fullness. To digress, also, is to live. For in our digressions what dreams may come muct give us pause.


Pretty deep, eh? Heh - oh, no wait - I am mistaking incomprehensible with deep. My bad. That's what happens when you listen to Radiohead while posting a blog. You begin to think you are more profound than you actually are.

Gertie, Earl & Endicott 4

Dawn crept up the next morning, turning the buildings along Main Street a ghostly grey. Earl walked sleepy-eyed to the library where the guys were already waiting for him, outfitted each with ruck sacks for the march - all except for Jimmy who, on account of his cast, had to stay home. They plodded along in silence, past the bakery where Eartha Smiley was in the back kitchen stirring a big bowl of corn meal. Past the gas station, empty except for James Friedle’s pontiac up on hydraulic lifts. Past the fire station, where all but one of the Whites were sleeping soundly. Gertie watched them through the office window, and then slipped quietly out of the station behind them.
Before we go on with the story, I feel I should say a word about Mr. Carson. I just wish it could be a good one. My mamma used to say, if you can’t say nothing nice about a body, then come sit by her. Well, you’d be next to her in a jiff, if you were speaking about Lyle Carson. Never a meaner, more crotchety man ever lived. His only saving grace was that he hated people and so kept hisself far removed from them. Even Earl’s daddy didn’t like going up Carson way to get the garbage. If Old Man Carson’s shotgun didn’t scare you off, then one of his eight hound dogs would. The boys claimed they weren’t scared to head his way, but maybe they should have been. Maybe they should have been.
It was roughly seven o’clock in the morning when the boys hiked their way through the pines to the edge of a clearing. In the center of that clearing was an ancient crumpled woodsman’s cabin hanging on to verticality by spit and a shoeloace. Despite the day promising to turn into a Georgia scorcher, a thin trickle of smoke rose from the chimney pipe that poked out of the rusted tin roof. Old Man Carson was awake, then. Mount St. Henry rose up behind his house like crouched troll with hunched shoulders and a mean stare. Two sleeping dogs were chained to a tree. Who knew where the rest of them were?
The boys crouched down in the underbrush and pulled out their canteens and snack bars. Earl didn’t have either, so he had to settle for a swig of water from his dad’s old Thermos and a slightly-bruised apple. He kept his momma’s cold fried chicken for lunch.
“See that stand of scraggly pines out yonder?” Connie said quietly, pointing to the grim face of the mountain.
“Yeah.”
“Deacon said the tunnel was about there. Said the trees and stuff looked like they had been burned up a ways back and was just now growing back. Said it raised the hackles on his neck to look on it.”
“I see it!” cried Remi. The boys shushed him quickly. One of the sleeping dogs twitched its ear.
“No you don’t numb nuts,” hissed Conrad, narrowing his green eyes beneath fuzzy red-gold eyebrows. “It’s too far away.”
“We’ve got to move closer,” said Todd. “Earl, you first.”
“Me?” Earl gulped. The shadow of Old Man Carson passed in front of one of the dirty cabin windows. Todd shrugged. “Sorry, my friend. Flouder’s got to go first. Rule of the jungle,” he said, a sheepish grin on his face.
Earl shot him a dirty look and shouldered his pack. They heard a crack of underbrush from the woods behind them.
“What was that?” asked Remi.
“Dogs, probably,” hissed Todd. “Move it!”
They trotted off as quietly as they could, skirting around the clearing slowly. The creature in the underbrush followed them at a discreet distance. It wasn’t one of Carson’s dogs, though. It was actually Gertie White. Carson’s dogs were coming at the boys from the left hand side where, down wind, they had caught the promising scent of sweat.
The boys stopped about half-way around the circumference of the clearing, so that they were now directly behind the cabin and the two chained dogs. They peered across the way to the gap in the trees that led to the mountain face. Between the blackened, twisted stumps of pine new foliage grew in garish shades of bright lemony green. Just beyond, a dark smudge marred the red dirt on the volcano's side.
“I think I see it!” Earl whispered.
“Yeah,” agreed Todd.
At that moment, several things happened. Gertie White, hot, tired and hungry, got fed up with skulking along behind the boys. Whatever it was they were up to, she was sure it was no good and liable to get them in trouble. It was time, in her estimation, to put an end to it.
Down wind, Bumper, Old Man Carson’s bloodhound, let out a howl that was like to wake the dead. It caught Mr. Carson, who had just sat down with his second cup, by surprise so that he spilled hot coffee on his overalls. He cussed loudly and pulled Bessie (his shotgun) down from the breakfast buffet. Sasha and Cohen, the two dogs tied to the tree, woke up immediately and began to bark.
“Earl Crawford, y’all better get your butt back home or I’m telling!” Gertie said as she stepped out from behind the tree where she was hiding.
The front door of the cabin slammed open and Lyle Carson rounded the corner.
“Who’s there?” He called out, brandishing his shot-gun in the air.
“Run!” hissed Todd.
Sasha barked. Cohen growled. Bumper crashed through the underbrush, followed by Killer, Flea-bag, Spike and Dirty Harry.

Gertie, Earl & Endicott 3

Now, in case I hadn’t mentioned, St. Henry’s was a small, small town. ‘Twas quiet too. Ain’t nobody came to St. Henry’s since the volcano went dormant. In fact, not too many folks even knew where St. Henry’s was. Fact is, the town mayor paid Earl’s daddy fifty bucks extra to sweep the cobwebs and trim the brush off the welcome sign once a month. St. Henry’s is a small, quiet town. Can’t walk down the street without someone noticing. Can’t drop a gum wrapper into the gutter without someone’s mamma hollering at you to pick it up. Can’t much have a secret meeting in the basement of the library without Mr. White, the librarian, knowing exactly where it was.
“Hey Earl. If you’re looking for the boys, they’re down by Ka32467.23,” he said from behind the circulation desk when Earl walked in.
Mr. White was a handsome, dark-skinned man, who liked reading, tidying up, polishing his glasses and cooking out. In fact, he met Gertie’s mother one fall evening when he was out back of his house deep-frying his Thanksgiving turkey and the flames got a bit higher than regulation. Truth was, there was nothing wrong with his fryer or his methods. Jenny White was just looking for an excuse to talk to the handsome, shy man. But that’s a whole other story.
Earl mumbled hello and slid quickly down the stairwell two flights. He found the guys at a long wooden table at the far back. Jimmy Jackson, the leader of the secret society clicked on the green-shaded reading lamp and tilted so its light lit his dark face from below. He was dressed entirely in green, and even had a green tube sock fitted out over his leg cast. He was the son of the town grocer, one of the rich kids. He broke his leg in a dirt bike accident.
On his right sat Rembrandt Fisk, a tow-headed kid with thick Harry Potter glasses and cherubic dimples. Mamas loved Remi because he was so darned cute, like an abandoned puppy. Redheaded Connie Jones sat next to him, with his Braves cap flipped backward, chewing on a pen. Lastly, Todd Stevens sat with his head bent over a spiral notebook, drawing a cartoon version of a volcano erupting and women and children dying in flames. Todd was really cool, in Earl’s opinion, though he didn’t talk much. Earl tossed his backpack on the table and sat down next to him.
“Hey y’all,” he announced to the group.
“Hey, Earl,” Remi said and smiled a smile that would sell a crate of toothpaste.
“Hey,” said Jimmy, and nodded once.
“Greetings,” said Todd as he shaded some billowing smoke.
“Uh, ex-squeeze me, flounder. What do you think you’re doing?” Connie asked.
“I’m joining your group,” Earl answered. He never much liked Conrad Jones.
“We don’t let flounders into secret meetings. Get lost.”
“Get bent,” Earl replied.
Todd, sitting next to him, snickered quietly but never looked up from his drawing. He was working on an image of a skinny man drowning in a pool of lava.
“Jimmy, my brothah, tell him,” Connie appealed.
Jimmy rolled his eyes and flipped the lampshade back down toward the table.
“I asked him to come,” he said.
“Ah man, what for?”
“Because I felt like it.”
“Man, his dad picks up my dad’s used toilet paper!”
“He does not!” Earl shouted.
“Well, technically that’s true, you know. Your dad is the garbage man,” Remi said cheerfully. He looked so darned cute. Earl wanted to punch him.
“Shut up!” he said, instead.
Jimmy picked up a red plastic gavel that he kept for just this purpose. He banged it on the table.
“Hold up. Hold up. Are we gonna talk about The Project or ain’t we?”
“What project?” Earl asked.
“Not ‘what project’, The Project.”
“Come on Jimmy! Don’t tell him nothing. He’ll tell his girlfriend,” Connie sneered.
“He means, Gertie,” Remi piped in.
“She’s not my girlfriend!” Earl shouted. There was a shuffling noise from behind the closest bookshelf, but no one except Todd noticed. He put down his pen and looked behind him.
“You know this is a guy’s club?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You can’t tell anyone, least of all a girl.”
“I won’t.”
“Not even Grodie Gertie your goober girlfriend?” Conrad asked.
“Shut up, Connie,” Earl said, rising out of his seat.
“Ooo! He doesn’t like it when we talk about his widdle fwend dat way does he?”
“She’s not my friend! I don’t even like her!” Conrad shouted.
“Dude,” Todd murmered.
Earl swung around. “What!”
Todd held up his hands.
“Never mind, man. Chill.”
Earl blushed and sat back down.
Jimmy crossed his arms.
“That was right entertaining and all. But can we please get down to business?” He looked around. When no one answered, he continued.
“Okay, here’s the deal-yo. Connie has a line on a new tunnel up round back toward Old Man Carson’s place.”
“How?” Earl asked.
“Flounders should be seen and not heard, Guh-Earl,” Connie replied, tilting back in his chair and propping his feet up on the long table.
“I’m just asking how Connie knows this seeing as how Old Man Carson shoots tresspassers and all.”
“Got it from his brother, Deacon.”
“How’d Deacon know?” Todd asked.
“He was up that way on business, trying to trap one of Carson’s dogs what had gone rabid. Said it disappeared down a tunnel on the ridge above Old Man Carson’s cabin before they could get at it,” Connie said. Deacon Jones worked for Animal Control. Got to wear a snazzy uniform and everything. Said it was better than college because chicks love a man in uniform. Conrad and the boys couldn’t understand what he’d want with girls, but did admit that he got to drive a pretty cool truck.
“We mean to explore it,” Jimmy said.
“What?” Earl asked, slightly alarmed.
“But Jimmy, ain’t it the flounder’s job?” Remi asked.
“What?” Earl asked, even more alarmed.
Jimmy turned to him and grinned. All the boys were smiling.
“Well, I was getting to it. Everyone knows the St. Henry’s Apes chart the volcano tunnels. And how do you join the Apes?”
“But, I thought...”
Connie grinned and pulled his feet off the table.
“You thought what, Flounder-Man? That you had to explore an already charted tunnel? Man, you are as stupid as you look.”
“Shut up, Gonad - I mean Conrad,” Earl growled.
“You aren’t scared, are you?”
“No.”
“Because you look a little scared.”
“It’s true, you know. You’re face has gone green.”
“Ah lay off him,” Todd said. “You don’t have to go up there alone. We’ll be coming along, at least until Old Man Carson’s property.”
“We want to make sure we see you going in,” Connie said.
“Think of it as a bon voyage party,” Jimmy said, grinning.
“Wha- when?” Earl stammered.
“We’ll meet here bright and early. Six AM. Pack a lunch.”

Gertie, Earl & Endicott 2

Now, I remember it as if it was yesterday. School had just let out for the summer, and the boys of St. Henry Junior High were already dreaming up how they would pass their summer days away. Earl Crawford was no different. This year he decided he was going to join the Apes come heck or high water. As soon as the school bell rang and exhausted Miss Fischer waved them away, he snuck away from campus at a fast clip, his blonde, buzz-cut hair hidden under a low-slung Braves cap. He kept his eyes to the ground and looked neither right nor left. No luck. She spotted him.

“Earl, wait up!”

Earl wrinkled his brow and sped up, but Gertie White caught him up with no problems. She was on the track team.

“Earl, you goober. Didn’t you hear me?” She asked and patted him on the shoulder. Earl glanced around, but nobody was looking at them.

“Oh hey Gertie,” he said.

“Hey,” she responded and fell into step beside him. She was a tall, gangly girl with skin the color of coffee and cream. Her wiry hair started out the morning in two tight braids, but by the afternoon several strands had escaped and sprouted out around her ears like iron shavings stuck to a magnet. She tried not to show her teeth when she smiled because she didn’t want anyone to see her braces, but Earl got an eye full of the sight of them as she broke into a happy grin.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.

Earl swallowed and kept his head down.

“Nothing,” he said. Jimmy Jackson had told him the Apes were meeting in the stacks at the public library at 3:30 and that if he was serious this time about joining, he should be there. No girls.

“Well, my daddy’s cutting out early today, he said, on account of school letting out and all and he was gonna take me up to Macon for supper. He said I could invite you, too if I wanted,” Gertie said.

Earl could feel his face begin to burn.

“I can’t. My dad says, uh, I’m being punished.”

“Punished? What for?”

“Not cleaning my room.”

“But it’s the first day of summer!”

Earl shrugged. They walked a while in silence, until they came to the corner of Main Street and ended up in front of the fire station. Gertie’s ma was the fire marshall, and a fine woman she was indeed. Six feet of muscled blonde femininity; Jenny White was known for her bravery, temper, arm-wrestling and fondness for kittens. You might meet her if ever your stove caught fire, but for now, she keeps pretty much out of this story.

“What about tomorrow then?” Gertie asked, placing her hand on the brass doorknob. The Whites lived above the garage where they kept the town’s only fire truck. The steel garage door had a small red door inside it, just under the alarm bell.

Earl shrugged.

“I’ll call you,” he mumbled. Gertie gave him a weird look and glanced around. Earl could feel the blush creeping up his neck, but if his friend noticed anything suspicious, she didn’t say so. Instead she slipped inside the fire station and closed the glossy red door. Earl breathed a sigh of relief, hoisted his backpack and headed straight down the road to the library. So intent was he on his destination, that he didn’t notice the small red door open up again, allowing Gertie to slip behind and follow him.

GERTIE, EARL & ENDICOT 1.1
It’s time you learned the truth about dragons. They’ve been called many names, depending on where you’re sitting and who’s doing the talking. Most of ‘em have been right slandered and that’s the truth of it. Yes, sir. Now, I ain’t saying as all dragons are good, but I sure ain’t saying as all of them are bad, neither. Just like most folks, dragons got all sorts of personalities and you just can’t get along with all of them, not in a million years. But if you meet one that you like, and he in turn likes you, well, that could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Such was the case for a ten-year-old Georgia boy named Earl Crawford.

Earl lived in a small town just south of Macon called St. Henry. There ain’t much to tell you about St. Henry that you couldn’t learn by visiting there. In many ways, it was your typical small town. It had grocery store, a pharmacy, a library, a fire station, a school, three First Baptist churches, the “Georgia Peach” fast food restaurant, and of course, a volcano.

Old Thundertop.

Simply gorgeous. It rose from the red Georgia earth at the south end of Main street, and gradually got darker and darker nearer to the summit, so that its peak was as black as a night in the bottom of a well, and its base was as red as the devil’s underwear. It had gently sloping sides which made it excellent for hiking, and better still, it was riddled with caves and tunnels. Sometimes rivers of steam curled out of these tunnels and wormed their way around the base of the volcano, making it look like it was floating on a cloud. Sometimes a loud bang would send foul smelling gasses out of the top, and St. Henry’s would be awash in the farty stink. Mostly though, Old Thundertop lay like a dog on a hot porch in summertime, sleepy and not inclined to activity. It hadn’t erupted in over two hundred years. That is to say, it hadn’t gone off at all, until the day Earl Crawford woke a sleeping dragon.

I was reading on CNN.com about Garrison Keiller's trip to the Iowa state fair. The article made mention of a pork chop on a stick, and Keiller's delight at eating it with his hands. This got me thinking. About pork chops.

There is something fundamentally wonderful about a pork chop. Some of my fondest memories from childhood center around this shoulder-blade-shaped meat product. I remember quite clearly bonding with Mom as we Shaked and Baked. She'd wet the chop, I'd shake it madly in the coating, together we'd bake.

Or the Waffle House pork chop. In this fast-paced, maddening world, it is good to know that at any time of the day, at almost any roadside pull-off, you can find a moderately priced Pork Chop waiting for you. I have never actually purchased a pork chop at the Waffle House, but I am vastly comforted to know that I can.

I live on my own now and I don't often make dinner with mom anymore. Usually we reserve our kitchen bonding for more complicated dinners - like when she showed me how to cook a turkey. Every now and then, however, out comes that blue box. Family, comfort and nostalgia are only a shake and a bake away.