Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Nothing is ever what it seems.....

Friends:

Nothing is ever what it seems ...

" .. .Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? From whence, then, hath it tares ... He said to them, 'An enemy hath done this' .... " Matthew 13: 27-28

We joke about Brantley County, but I had never really been there to see it for myself. You?
So yesterday I left Paradise Found for the trip inland. Nahunta, the county seat, is a microcosm of the hot, dusty reality of South Georgia in the summer, with the only discernible signs of growth being weeds and kudzu. It is an intellectual wasteland of low hopes and lower achievements. I was heading over there to meet my friend, Wayne Morgan, an excellent photographer of some local renown whose work is gaining regional prominence. He was my host to visit some of the most photographic sites in the county for photo ops.

As I crossed the Lanier Bridge, its apex whispered to me that this bridge represents both hopeful anticipation or memories past of something we've left behind, irrespective of the direction traveled. Since I was headed west, I knew what was behind, but expectant for an interesting day of photography. In about 20 miles I entered Brantley County. It's easy to recognize the entry, because news travels slowly, if at all, to this part of the world, and according to the signs, Mark Taylor and Sonny Perdue are still locked in mortal combat for the governor's race. Faulkner had it right: "The past is never dead. It's not even past."

Jerry J's was our rendezvous spot, the "J" quite possibly meaning "joint", the kind of place loved by locals where trans-fat is cleverly disguised as edibles. Having had our share, we headed out to visit scenic spots along the Big and Little Satilla Rivers, and I was amazed what we saw. Wayne is a local boy and an expert on the area. And experts are always advisable when in foreign lands. The rivers, though impacted by the drought, are still truly spectacular, their iced-tea colored water contrasting with the silica-white sand made them ideal for photography. I couldn't resist wading in some parts, and except for my modesty and decorous attitudes would have plunged in naked for the experience. Alas, the lost opportunities of life ...

But like America, the Satilla River basin is experiencing the influx of an illegal alien, an ugly creature known as the Flathead Catfish. Introduced to these waters by the same low form of humanity who brought in slavery, leaves dog excrement on our beaches and cigarette butts in the streets, they are decimating the redbreast sunfish population the region is known for. It kinda reminds one of the human illegals who are depleting jobs and welfare in this country.
But DNR has devised a novel cure: The Flathead is being introduced to sexy Mama-Cats and the effect of that conjunction is sterilization. Too bad the Flathead can't read Ecclesiastes 6:9:
"Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the desire .... " As usual, when an answer is found, it will be a simple, sexy one. I wonder if Congress has considered this plan. Am I getting ahead of myse1f?

Well, the beauty of the Satilla notwithstanding, a man needs some devil's brew occasionally to cut the dust, so about 4:00 I headed home, again crossing the Lanier Bridge with my own self-expectations. But it did occur to me that no matter what metaphorical Lanier Bridge we cross in life, we will always find beauty, intrigue and good folks if we look. And I reminded myself that I, too, have been an alien also in many places and in many times, though legal, and that's something to think about.

Bud
June 28, 2007

Thursday, June 21, 2007

....and the Smoke of the country was as the smoke of the Furnace"

“…and the smoke of the country was as the smoke of a furnace.”

Friends:

The Black Fly is a power-crazed cannibal that eats mosquitoes.

I learned this while sitting on Nardis’ and Mike’s patio the other night, having food and alcohol, which is what one should do on a patio. The small Therma-Cell lantern was burning softly, and there were no mosquitoes, which was a blessing in itself. It was Father’s Day, and our group of “abandoned” fathers had taken refuge, having been forsaken by wives, who claim we weren’t their fathers, and children who had forgotten their heritage. Mike allowed as how the Therma-Cell burned some concoction of chemicals and attar of some common flower, ground up to produce a smell sorta like that of the Black Fly. The Black Fly, it seems, eats mosquitoes, and the mosquitoes smell this odor and remain in hiding, knowing their worst fear of being eaten alive is near. The Black Fly tears the mosquitoes apart, limb from limb, and eats the bug like one eats a bag of KFC chicken…or so I’m told…it’s probably a fearsome sight, a Black Fly eating a mosquito.

I suppose some Bug Shrink interviewed the mosquito as to what its worst fear in life was…and its mortal enemy. But it is a miracle how someone found out what a Black Fly smelled like…do you know? It’s clearly a question for the Hangar Think Tank. I think I smelled one once while over in Alabama, where I dreamed of a Black Fly eating me, after I had eaten too much Dreamland BBQ in Tuscaloosa. I assure you the Black Fly is indeed fearsome!

In Enterprise, Alabama, there is a Memorial Stature to the Boll Weevil, a bug that destroyed the 1915 cotton crop so thoroughly that the area resorted to growing peanuts, which ended up being a better cash crop. So they celebrate the advent of the boll weevil to this day with a statue. This weevil accounted for a higher land use, and more prosperity for South Alabama. The Black Fly could do likewise for us. Think of the possibilities. Of course, the mosquitoes would migrate over to the mainland, which by then might be overrun with derelicts and escapees from New Jersey, and there would be torment day and night, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth because of the pestilence.

Extrapolate this concept…imagine a very large Therma-Cell furnace, with a smokestack imported from Hercules, erected on the island, and emitting a constant stream of smoke filled with Attar of Flower that smelled like a Black Fly. Why, there’d be no more mosquitoes, and the island would be filled with condos like Miami Beach. Go further…imagine a huge stature, rising from the marsh like a Phoenix, with a shrine nearby for its worship. “Daddy, what’s that?” little children would cry. “Why, Honey, that’s a statue to the Black Fly who made life possible on the island, free from mosquitoes,” he would answer. “Let’s stop and pay homage to it with a few coins.”


Bud
June 21, 2007

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Baptism by Fire


Baptism by Fire

Friends:

Frankie has one eye and drives a race car...some say that he's "hell on wheels." And on Saturday night he passed through that prophetic fiery furnace and lived to tell about it.

Jerry (with grandsons J.R. and Drew), George, Billy and myself headed out Saturday night to the Golden Isles Speedway for some diversion from the boredom of island cocktail parties and Halyards. We needed a change of pace, and we got it. Guests of the owner, we enjoyed the VIP Suite with burgers, BBQ, snacks and dessert and, of course, beer. I knew it would be an evening of laughs when we pulled into the Pit area, and the first race car I saw had emblazoned on its rear bumper, "Kiss This!!!" And it escalated from there!

Most of you have probably never been to a one-half mile oval red-clay dirt track. You should. It's a world apart in many ways: the spectators, the drivers and the perspectives on life. Drivers race with 500 h.p. souped-up rebuilts with 112 Octane juice, and run in packs akin to a herd of demon-possessed swine in circles to where a checkered flag announces they’ve arrived; and never far from the edge of the Abyss. As for perspectives on life, the "here and now" is all they see. Don't start me on the spectators...only to make this comment: I said, "Hey, Jerry, check out that very large lady with the tattoos...". His reply was, "Boy, they used a lot of ink on her!" It was a carnival.

The car exploded in a fireball on the first turn, just before the Herd reached speeds of up to 145 miles per hour on the back straightaway...Lee's car erupted in flames, and Frankie was "Kissing his bumper", which meant the fireball engulfed both cars. The crowd came instantly alive and leapt to their feet in excitement (about the most of the evening), pumping their fists in the air and screaming wildly. The drivers dodged death (again, I'm sure !), and I hurried to the Pit area to examine the carnage...both were OK and already recanting this death-defying experience to an awed crowd, embellishment already occurring. Which goes to prove there's nothing like a fire to excite a crowd, which is why it's illegal to scream it out in a crowd, "Fire!" But not here...anything goes, as we later learned, but not printable!

I guess there's a moral in this story somewhere, and it seems like if you're a fellow with one eye you might want to find a more sedate hobby. But not Frankie...he pointed out to me that "the race" was everything, and nothing else mattered but that moment. And to emphasize that perspective, he showed me that in these race cars, there are no rear-view mirrors. These boys come to win, and there's no looking back. So, I guess there might be some advantage for a fellow with one eye and no rear-view...and we might learn something from this philosophy.

Well, the spectacle droned on, but about midnight we finally had our fill of noise and beer and called it quits. Yet I do have to say that it surely was a good way to break the island monotony...try it sometime, and call me when you do...I'm ready to go!

Bud
June 14, 2007