Online Under the Liverwort

Tuesday began with a cool drizzle dampening my head as I loaded a few bins into the car before driving the twenty-one miles south to the house nestled among trees on Old Dixie Lane. There was a storm warning for this area last night and it was immediately obvious that rain had muddied the road as well as refreshing all the green. The good and surprising part was the sight of a road grader already out making sure the surface was both firm and free of standing water. The happy sight for me was the liverwort’s return to lushness. The plant is something called a bryophyte that has no roots, reproduces by spores and is often found on trees and rocks. What strikes me as strange is its ability to curl up and turn brown for days or weeks at a time, looking for all the world as dead as can be. Then it rains and suddenly it comes to life again, vibrant and pure green wrapped around the trunks of trees.

Arrival was earlier than usual today because the Internet guy was coming and I wanted both desktop and laptop set up and ready for his connections. As it happened, most of his work was out in the backyard setting up the dish on a pole and then getting the cable from there to the side of the house where it comes through the wall into the master bedroom. Turns out it was the perfect point of entry for my arrangement. When the bed is delivered and put in place it will cover both the connection box and the wireless router that provides a Wi-Fi connection anywhere around the house and yard. I have here a stronger and more reliable Internet connection than I had at any time living at the beach. There were always, always problems there and I could never be sure when the Internet connection would be down. Goodbye to all that and it’s worth every penny.

Water out here is from a well requiring a big bag of salt pellets poured into the well ‘filter’ (filter is a guess) once a month to soften the water. What I didn’t know until today is that the added salt makes the water bad for all the trees and plants I’ve been watering the past few days. My neighbor told me today that it’s best to use the two big barrels of rain runoff for watering. On two sides of the large utility shed barrels are set up to catch the water from the drains and each has a nozzle to which a hose can be attached. From now on I had best use that water for the lemon, lime, apple, Japanese plum, frangipani and palm trees, as well as the other flowering plants all over the front and back yards. Living in the country comes with its chores.

My other neighbor down the road is coming tomorrow to cut the grass, which he looked at today and figured was due for a cut. Said I might not get out here tomorrow because of obligations and last minute preparation for the movers coming on Thursday morning, but Manny told me not to worry. “No problem. I’ll just jump the fence,” he said. I repeat myself, but the area to be mowed is something like one acre, which Manny is happy to cut for a case of Budweiser. He calls it “one hand washing the other” or neighbors helping each other out when they can. Without a car, he sometimes needs a ride to the small store about three miles away. A case of beer and a ride to the store… Can anyone tell me where to find a better deal for cutting so much grass in ninety degrees and ninety-five percent humidity?

Books, Woodpeckers & Cicadas

After ferrying a few small things from beach to Oak Hill, today seemed a good time to begin organizing books for shelving that I hope to do next Saturday and Sunday. The large furniture items will be delivered on Thursday, moved around on Friday to figure out a comfortable arrangement and on the weekend stacks of books juggled and confused during the move will hopefully be sorted, categorized and shelved. Books and bookcases are already in the new house, but filling the cases and then realizing I want to move them to another place along one wall or another would be a foolish mistake. Bookcases lined with 200 books or more do not shift easily.

One of the bookcases will for certain go in the larger bedroom along the wall to the right of the bed. And with that certainty I spent an hour gathering from the stacks of books everywhere all those related to Japan and Japanese studies, books that I want in the bedroom. Hunting through everything on hands and knees, I picked out enough to make a teetering ‘Japan’ stack, carried those to the bookcase and returned to collect another stack. Five trips from one room to the other and the Japan books were looking complete, but each time I looked again to make sure, I turned up several more, most of the time at the very bottom of a stack. This got to be wearing after a while, but finding a particular title was sometimes a cue that a companion volume was still lost in the haphazard stacks. Finally I gave up, realizing that everything will come to light in time.

Sitting now on the screened porch later writing some lines in a journal, the woodpecker furiously hammers away in the camphor tree outside. I imagine that at any minute he is going to drill a hole through the limb and come out the other side. Moving quietly, I step outside to watch for a while and maybe see what he is so hard at work on. But I discover that woodpeckers are similar to cicadas in one sense: they don’t like to be stared at when busy with their wood pecking, just as cicadas when rasping in a tree don’t like observers. One day some years back, walking along a road on the Greek island of Crete, I stopped to admire one large and robust cicada clinging to the branch of a tree. Something made me think the insect would carry on singing-screeching and ignore my nearness, but as soon as I drew near the creature went silent and patiently waited until I had passed on before resuming its song. In the same way, as soon as today’s woodpecker sees me looking up at him, he stops his rat-a-tat-tat and maneuvers to the far side of the limb. Could it be that woodpeckers and cicadas are cousins in shyness?

Listening to Grass & Trees

Someone down the road is cutting his grass, the not unpleasant sound of the lawnmower echoing through a wall of trees that makes man and machine impossible to see. The sound makes me wonder just how soon the same task will fall due with the very large yard I look out upon this afternoon. Do I need to ask friendly Fred to come and give me a driving lesson? Should I bring in a few gallons of gasoline for the mower? It’s all too soon for someone who has not fully moved into the house yet and sees the grass as not especially tall just now. Time enough for all that sometime next month.

A little earlier, from a vantage point in the front yard I sat doing nothing but concentrating on the mix of small sounds that make up what anyone would describe as perfect quiet. There is never outdoors the sort of dead silence that occurs inside behind thick walls and doors, for that is an artificial quiet arranged for a purpose. Each day for the past two weeks I have sat in the backyard of this Oak Hill house and marveled at the quiet, but at the same time hearing a million insects, limbs full of birds, the tap dance of a squirrel on the tin roof and the occasional thunk of small limbs falling from a height. And when for a beat of fleeting seconds there are no birds in the trees, no screaming locusts or buzzing hornets, the pause is filled with the lift of wind shifting leaves, a rustle of green bending and murmuring in the thickness of arching branches.

The drone of a plane far overhead, invisible through the network of branches and a small sound by all accounts sets the woodpecker to knocking and unsettles a basking lizard that suddenly jumps, scurrying across a bed of dried leaves setting loose a crackling rustle at ground level. I try to imagine how long it will be before this complex outdoor symphony comes to me with fuller understanding of all its instruments and players. From over by the picnic table a bird sings, but I know nothing more than ‘bird.’ There is some impatience now with my inexperienced ear, the inability to identify sounds in a way that gives more shape to the surroundings. I think maybe I want too much too soon. In the passing of a month or two these conversations in the grass and treetops will perhaps have a fuller meaning to city ears. 

Turning a Thumb Green

Watering day at the Oak Hill homestead. Last week the rain was enough to freshen everything on this new expanse of 43,560 square feet, but there’s been little of it this week and everything is sagging with the need for a soaking. I watered some three days ago but only in one area, struggling with a disagreeable hose that slithered itself into kinks at every chance, cutting off the flow of water. Neither could I get a spray nozzle attached, making do finally with a languid flow of water.

Today I used a hose on the near side of the house and made a much better job of it. Made a good job of getting dirty at the same time, but accept that dirt is a big part of yard work. Late afternoon is prescribed as the best time for watering, and on another day I will wait until the cool of the day. Read an Earth Day magazine article yesterday that said in watering outdoors during the heat of day half the water is lost to evaporation. I don’t question that wisdom but hope that some of the evaporation is ameliorated by the shade that covers a large portion of my yard, front and back.

Confederate jasmine growing on a trellis at the front door

I have a lot to learn about yard care and gardening, so the coming months will definitely be a learning experience. Still a little nervous about happening upon a pygmy rattler flashing its fangs in all these leaves and brush, my movements are probably over careful, not quite trusting that my approach will in many cases scare off a snake. A large patch of purple lantana just in front of the screened porch is in bad need of raking, leaves layered almost two inches deep, but I worry what may be sleeping or living among that comfortable nest of leaves.

Purple lantana in a thick bed of leaves

A few tomato plants and an herb garden would be a useful project to undertake and the herbs might not be difficult. Never having tried tomato plants, a bit of reading and asking questions will have to come first. Growing up in south Louisiana my father cultivated a backyard garden every year, growing tomatoes, green peppers, eggplant, squash, butter beans and string beans. How he loved that garden, working in it just about every day after work and on weekends. But he could never entice me to join him in the hoeing, weeding and coddling. I might be in a  better position today had I laid aside the football or bicycle and worked with him in those precious rows.

Yesterday I fertilized the dozen or so citrus trees on the property, but it looks like more will be needed to give the trees some bulk. Half are spindly with too few leaves but the lemon in the front yard doesn’t look all that bad. Again, the right method or fertilizer is something a beginner needs to look into. For this first time, I grabbed up a bag labeled citrus fertilizer in the hardware store and followed the directions. A nursery might be a better choice for fertilizer and advice.

One puny and struggling Meyer lemon

As for the bugs, a new accessory seems to be effective in keeping them at bay, despite the odd appearance. Running the risk of looking like the hostess in the Piccadilly Cafeteria, I pin a sheet of Bounce fabric softener to the front of my shirt where it hangs in bad imitation of a frilly handkerchief bunched like a flower.

Swapping Woodpeckers for Phone Calls

Out in the country surrounded by birds and the strident hammering of a resident woodpecker. Over the past few days I’ve heard more woodpecker pecks than all those of previous years. At first I thought the sound might grow tiresome with a bird so insistent, but it is just the opposite and when Woody flies away I almost miss the sound.

Magnolias are in bloom.

Woodpeckers make a pleasant background, but in fact my thoughts are a thousand miles away. Three or four days ago I got by email an invitation to link with a magazine I sometimes send stories to. Not completely sure what I was joining, I clicked ‘okay’ and soon found myself a member of the professional networking site, LinkedIn. Didn't think much about it until the following day when I got email via LinkedIn from a friend of thirty-one years ago.

I met JB in Los Angeles in 1975 and for the next seven years we spent a lot of fun time together, most of it crazier than mules drunk on vodka martinis. From the first day we met it was obvious we were brothers in humor, and becoming fast friends was a given. Memory reminds me those were heady days, JB and I at the front of the line more often than not yelling for more. At the time JB was living in a big, old house in Hollywood that had once belonged to cowboy star Tom Mix. Not more than a few months in town I moved into the house, joining three others.

JB and I remained good friends over the next seven years. He was having some success with his music and soon enough I found myself taken up with classes at UCLA. Then one day I went to Japan and JB went to New York. Many times over the passing years I thought about my friend, wondering how he fared. Many years passed and eventually the memories got locked away. Around 2006 another California friend emailed asking if I knew someone named JB, that he was asking about me. A mix up of some sort short-circuited the connection and we never did hook up. Until today.

Busy with moving house, I didn’t have a chance to call the number on JB’s email until this afternoon. After a minute of verifying names, JB said, “I have been looking for you for thirty years.” It’s a warm feeling knowing that you have a friend who never gave up trying to re-connect across so many years.

JB lives now in San Francisco, married for the past seventeen years and the owner of a theatrical production company. The timing was bad on our call, not enough time enough to say much, but we made a good start. Looking forward now to re-kindling a long dormant friendship.

For the Birds

Tuesday saw the wagon train of goods moving once more to the wilds of Oak Hill. Lucky me, four friends wanted to see the house and offered to load their SUVs with lamps, two tables and a big bin of miscellaneous trappings that included the last of the ink and another two stacks of books that surprised me in the back of a closet. We also squeezed in one more painting, leaving only the four largest still to be wrapped and transported. On Wednesday I brought over all the hanging clothes, with only the folded things in the chests of drawers waiting to go. The movers will wrap the chests in bubble wrap with the contents still in the drawers. What I call an easy deal.

A favorite painting on the bedroom floor

A good part of the morning was frustrated by automated telephones and their idiotic questions. “What is your first name? Please say the name and then spell it. For example, if your name is Robert, say “ROBERT” and then “R-O-B-E-R-T”. If you understand, say “OKAY.” If you don’t understand, please say, “WOULD YOU REPEAT THAT.” And God forbid you let out an unsolicited groan, or any sound of frustration escape your lips. Twice I made small noises to myself and twice the robot voice snapped, “I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THAT. I AM RETURNING YOU TO THE MAIN MENU.” It took twenty-seven minutes to accomplish a change of address for a magazine subscription.

Next on the agenda was the same chore at the DMV. I had been warned to check the website for the necessary documents in changing the address on a driver’s license and now I suspect it is easier to cross the border into North Korea. They wanted my birth certificate or a valid passport, my social security card and two documents showing the new address with my name included. Then I had to hand over $25 to proceed to queries asking if I were a drug addict, a convicted felon and if I suffered from either epilepsy or insanity. Last, the woman wanted to know how many times my license had been suspended for either DUI or hit and run. I was sorely tempted to ask if the big screen on her desk was a computer and did it show any of these descriptions under my name and license number. However, it is best not to antagonize a bureaucrat. I walked out with a new license showing a loopy picture that suggests an insane epileptic with a drug problem.

The friends who came to see the place yesterday brought an excellent housewarming gift. I have mentioned before all the birds, and now there is a bright red octagonal bird feeder hanging from a limb of the elm tree outside the back screened porch. For now, it hangs there empty of any seed and swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. It came with a big bag of seed—a mix of sunflower seeds, thistle, millet and sunflower chips—but I am saving it for the time when I move out here to stay. No fun in putting seed out, going away and missing the action. Pretty sure if I filled the feeder today half would be gone before I next return.

Today I’ve seen two cardinals, a male and a female, and a solitary woodpecker. There is a steady chorus of birdsong out there beyond the screen, but today I’ve had only fleeting glimpses of anything other than cardinal and woodpecker. Birds aside, I did see a fox crossing the road as I drove up to my gate.

Crawfish Pie

Monday came around with me hardly able to climb out of bed. The day after day heavy lifting hit all at once and I came awake with the awareness that a rest from the packing and moving was necessary or I would need a month of physical rehab. That fact clear in mind, lying in bed my thoughts roamed until I recalled Sunday night’s dinner, a delicious treat eaten after crawling in the door too tired for cooking and grateful for the foil wrapped pie waiting in the refrigerator—another five-star wonder from sister Beverly’s kitchen.

Most Louisiana natives will walk through fire to get at a table of boiled crawfish, and I’m no exception. I have long had the impression that crawfish is a misunderstood delicacy among too many outside of the state, all too often the very mention of eating crawfish rousing a nasty “Ugh!” and a disgusted look. Well, they just don’t know what they’re missing. Yesterday my sister brought a crawfish pie with the suggestion that I might not be up to cooking later. 

The recipe originated with one of our Louisiana aunts and at sometime in the murky past was passed on to our mother. Beverly stood at Mamma’s side by the stove every night from the age of twelve learning the basics of Louisiana cookery. And well she learned. I have on many occasions thought that my sister should apply for a private Michelin star, so skillful and tasty is her cooking. From Aunt Flossie to Mamma to Beverly, here is a recipe for crawfish pie that would delight Gordon Ramsey and John Folse.

LOUISIANA CRAWFISH PIE

Ingredients: 

1 pound peeled crawfish tails (Chinese crawfish do not have the flavor of Louisiana crawfish)

4 oz (1 stick) butter

½ can cream of mushroom soup

1 10 oz can of diced tomatoes, no juice

1 tablespoon cornstarch

2 cloves minced or crushed garlic

1 small bell pepper chopped

2 medium onions chopped

2 stalks celery chopped

Handful of chopped mushrooms, but not too fine

Handful of chopped parsley & scallions, tops included

Zatarain’s Louisiana seasoning to taste

No salt needed.

Preparation:

Sauté onions, celery & bell pepper in butter until tender. Add mushroom soup & tomatoes, then garlic and cook 10 minutes. Add crawfish and cook a little longer. Add mushrooms & cornstarch diluted in water, then add parsley & scallions. Pour the mixture into a cornmeal pie crust (recipe below).

Cornmeal Pie Crust:

1 cup flour

½ cup yellow cornmeal

½ teaspoon salt

Preparation:

Combine flour, corn meal and salt in a bowl. Cut in 1 stick of butter until mixture has the look of coarse cornmeal. Sprinkle with ¼ cup of ice water and stir until it forms a ball. Roll the ball out as with any pie crust, put it in a pie dish and bake 10 minutes at 400 degrees. Remove crust from oven and fill with crawfish mixture. Bake 10 minutes at 400 degrees, then another 30 minutes at 350. Cut and serve as you would any pie.

Serve the crawfish pie with a green salad followed by a light dessert, maybe sherbet or a sorbet. Sure thing you will never again turn away from a dinner of Louisiana crawfish.