Those heady days of early May when I had all the time in the world on my hands: gone. Azalea days, blank-slate days, days begun with big plans to kick out a draft of an autobiographical novel by summer’s end: gone. It’s not that I wasted it all; no, I conceptualized, noted, even wrote some. I recovered from a hellaciously busy academic year. And so often, when life came calling, offering road trips or street walkin’, I put the notebook down and chose action over craft and reflection. Time passed like the miles on the odometer. So where did it go?
A lot of it went into my mouth. I had some of the best meals of my life this summer, starting with our mid-May trip through Tennessee and back. On our first day in Nashville, Laura and I checked out a Travel Channel suggestion for down-home country cooking: the Loveless Cafe on the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace. http://www.lovelesscafe.com/ . The place was no secret. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, we still faced a 1.5 hour wait, which allowed us to browse the gift shop and write postcards. Yes, the gift shop. I grew concerned that we had fallen into a tourist trap, but when our buzzer went off and we were ushered through the wainscoted dining room, its gingham-covered tables laden with plates of biscuits, country breakfasts, chicken and ribs, I knew every body in the joint was there for the real deal. We got a corner table, comfortably seated between tall paintings of Johnny Cash and Jesus. The biscuits – the specialty so heavily promoted on TV shows by their baker, Carol Fay – came hot and fast, and were high-risen, moist, butterlicious. I’d like to sleep on a bed of those biscuits.
A lot of it went into my mouth. I had some of the best meals of my life this summer, starting with our mid-May trip through Tennessee and back. On our first day in Nashville, Laura and I checked out a Travel Channel suggestion for down-home country cooking: the Loveless Cafe on the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace. http://www.lovelesscafe.com/ . The place was no secret. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, we still faced a 1.5 hour wait, which allowed us to browse the gift shop and write postcards. Yes, the gift shop. I grew concerned that we had fallen into a tourist trap, but when our buzzer went off and we were ushered through the wainscoted dining room, its gingham-covered tables laden with plates of biscuits, country breakfasts, chicken and ribs, I knew every body in the joint was there for the real deal. We got a corner table, comfortably seated between tall paintings of Johnny Cash and Jesus. The biscuits – the specialty so heavily promoted on TV shows by their baker, Carol Fay – came hot and fast, and were high-risen, moist, butterlicious. I’d like to sleep on a bed of those biscuits.
And the fried chicken touched my soul. Really, I’ve tried to describe it with the terminology of both religious epiphany and sexual ecstasy, but words fail. It was perfect, period, and any variation in its preparation might have compromised that perfection. How much care and experience must a cook bring to the fryer to get it so right? Further down the road, I had the best ribs of my life at A & R Barbecue, and some stunning sweet potato pancakes at The Arcade, both in Memphis. I washed it all down with some fine swill, too, like Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel and scuppernong wine from Asheville, North Carolina.
And there was song. Laura and I kicked off June with and unprecedented three-night run at the 9:30 Club, probably my favorite venue in D.C. Maybe the bands that play there are just big enough, or the ticket prices just high enough, so the crowd isn’t afraid to show a little enthusiasm. (I get regularly pissed-off about D.C.’s disaffected audiences.) Since I’m like a dwarf, “seeing” shows is relative. We arrived pretty late for the Doves concert, so I’m not really sure how many Doves there were up there, but not only was their sound studio-tight, the show featured a video-screen backdrop where captivating images of urban alienation and psychic apocalypse (and hand-bones) accompanied the trippy performance. Night two: The Hold Steady, the band that rocks my heart out. I put a flask down my sock and got up to the stage early for a great view of the keyboardist and bassist, of Craig Finn’s animated delivery and of all the sing-along kids with their fists in the air. The day after, I woke up late feeling spent and empty. The sun hurt. I couldn’t imagine going at it again. Laura and I walked the blocks around the club sipping a Rogue, not quite adjusted to night life, but adjusting. In the cool dark club, a quilted curtain hung behind the stage, a bright, warm, abstract backdrop for TV on the Radio, who opened with their haunting “Love Dog.” Never have I seen a more musically beautiful rock show.
Mind you, my summer wasn’t all eating and rocking out and hyperbole. I did work a few weeks at summer arts camp and even made a painting of my own, something I haven’t done in years. And I did wrestle some words onto the page, writing at campground picnic tables, in the heat of my high-rise apartment, at Mayorga Coffee, in the middle of Rock Creek. I like the solitary nature of writing, but when you’re writing constantly about the people and places you’ve loved, you stoke a deep social craving. So off we went to Michigan in early July, and to Minnesota in late July to reconnect with family and friends. In Ann Arbor, Chris Palmer hosted a little barbeque in his backyard. We spent a fun day getting giddy for the party, stringing his ’71 VW bus with party lights, laying blankets down beneath the heavy-fruited mulberry tree, chilling the Michigan craft-brews and checking email to see who all would show. Pete and Heather Lee came early. We hadn’t seen Heather for five years. Pete, however, kept things consistent by showing up with a bottle of Pucker. Some things have changed, and some things never change, but during those hours of reunion, the ache in my heart that has, to some degree, existed since we stopped sharing cities and sharing lives was temporarily soothed. And then Mike and Sue showed up with Aidan and a croquet set; Suzanne and Paul came, celebrating new jobs; Barb and Tim brought the kids who have grown into fine young citizens; Kyoko and Jason brought Sakura and we made camping promises; Ben and Dina brought their boy Benjy and a good supply of Stroh’s. We laughed and drank and danced too much, and yet, the night was too short. But so sweet. And it proved that my memories are not overly-romantic, and my pickiness when it comes to friends is not unjustified. I looked around myself in Chris’s backyard and saw some of the most fun, most interesting, best-hearted people in the world. And that’s what I meant to write about; I’m most disappointed that I didn’t record and arrange more memories (and fictionalize them just enough to protect our reputations).
As I wallowed in that disappointment (which is not as strong a motivator as one might think), contracts for academic year 09/10 arrived in the mail; I revised syllabi; I watched each day growing shorter with a low-grade sense of panic. I started a list of things to look forward to in the fall, things like football, paychecks, season 3 of Mad Men, Oktoberfest beer. But with time on my hands the final weekend before back-to-school, did I buckle down and kick out a few chapters? You bet I didn’t, because some newer friends invited Laura and I to camp in the Catskills, and we’d never camped in the Catskills before, and we were eager to build upon our acquaintance with those particular fun, interesting, good-hearted people. We were eager to cool off, see the stars, climb the peaks, build the fires. We got rained on all weekend, and the drive was long, but I loved the thunderstorm-camaraderie, the clean smell of the creek mist and the green, piney smell of the mountain top, the laughter and the beer. That’s my problem – if it is one: I split my bets. When it comes to wine, women and song; food, friends and the road, I live like there’s no tomorrow. When it comes to fulfilling writing goals, I live like I’ve got all the time in the world. The rewards of the former are so immediate; the rewards of the latter, so uncertain, if not altogether unlikely. So be it. All I can do is perpetually re-commit to those elusive writing goals. Who knows, maybe Fall 09 is when the draft gets done (in between teaching comp classes at American and Maryland). But I know one thing for sure: Come Labor Day Weekend, you’ll find me up on the Allegheny Reservoir, enjoying the company of two of my favorite co-campers, Laura and Chris. We’re going to get out on that water and up in those hills, and every fire-cooked omelette and hobo pie will warrant an impromptu ode.
And there was song. Laura and I kicked off June with and unprecedented three-night run at the 9:30 Club, probably my favorite venue in D.C. Maybe the bands that play there are just big enough, or the ticket prices just high enough, so the crowd isn’t afraid to show a little enthusiasm. (I get regularly pissed-off about D.C.’s disaffected audiences.) Since I’m like a dwarf, “seeing” shows is relative. We arrived pretty late for the Doves concert, so I’m not really sure how many Doves there were up there, but not only was their sound studio-tight, the show featured a video-screen backdrop where captivating images of urban alienation and psychic apocalypse (and hand-bones) accompanied the trippy performance. Night two: The Hold Steady, the band that rocks my heart out. I put a flask down my sock and got up to the stage early for a great view of the keyboardist and bassist, of Craig Finn’s animated delivery and of all the sing-along kids with their fists in the air. The day after, I woke up late feeling spent and empty. The sun hurt. I couldn’t imagine going at it again. Laura and I walked the blocks around the club sipping a Rogue, not quite adjusted to night life, but adjusting. In the cool dark club, a quilted curtain hung behind the stage, a bright, warm, abstract backdrop for TV on the Radio, who opened with their haunting “Love Dog.” Never have I seen a more musically beautiful rock show.
Mind you, my summer wasn’t all eating and rocking out and hyperbole. I did work a few weeks at summer arts camp and even made a painting of my own, something I haven’t done in years. And I did wrestle some words onto the page, writing at campground picnic tables, in the heat of my high-rise apartment, at Mayorga Coffee, in the middle of Rock Creek. I like the solitary nature of writing, but when you’re writing constantly about the people and places you’ve loved, you stoke a deep social craving. So off we went to Michigan in early July, and to Minnesota in late July to reconnect with family and friends. In Ann Arbor, Chris Palmer hosted a little barbeque in his backyard. We spent a fun day getting giddy for the party, stringing his ’71 VW bus with party lights, laying blankets down beneath the heavy-fruited mulberry tree, chilling the Michigan craft-brews and checking email to see who all would show. Pete and Heather Lee came early. We hadn’t seen Heather for five years. Pete, however, kept things consistent by showing up with a bottle of Pucker. Some things have changed, and some things never change, but during those hours of reunion, the ache in my heart that has, to some degree, existed since we stopped sharing cities and sharing lives was temporarily soothed. And then Mike and Sue showed up with Aidan and a croquet set; Suzanne and Paul came, celebrating new jobs; Barb and Tim brought the kids who have grown into fine young citizens; Kyoko and Jason brought Sakura and we made camping promises; Ben and Dina brought their boy Benjy and a good supply of Stroh’s. We laughed and drank and danced too much, and yet, the night was too short. But so sweet. And it proved that my memories are not overly-romantic, and my pickiness when it comes to friends is not unjustified. I looked around myself in Chris’s backyard and saw some of the most fun, most interesting, best-hearted people in the world. And that’s what I meant to write about; I’m most disappointed that I didn’t record and arrange more memories (and fictionalize them just enough to protect our reputations).
As I wallowed in that disappointment (which is not as strong a motivator as one might think), contracts for academic year 09/10 arrived in the mail; I revised syllabi; I watched each day growing shorter with a low-grade sense of panic. I started a list of things to look forward to in the fall, things like football, paychecks, season 3 of Mad Men, Oktoberfest beer. But with time on my hands the final weekend before back-to-school, did I buckle down and kick out a few chapters? You bet I didn’t, because some newer friends invited Laura and I to camp in the Catskills, and we’d never camped in the Catskills before, and we were eager to build upon our acquaintance with those particular fun, interesting, good-hearted people. We were eager to cool off, see the stars, climb the peaks, build the fires. We got rained on all weekend, and the drive was long, but I loved the thunderstorm-camaraderie, the clean smell of the creek mist and the green, piney smell of the mountain top, the laughter and the beer. That’s my problem – if it is one: I split my bets. When it comes to wine, women and song; food, friends and the road, I live like there’s no tomorrow. When it comes to fulfilling writing goals, I live like I’ve got all the time in the world. The rewards of the former are so immediate; the rewards of the latter, so uncertain, if not altogether unlikely. So be it. All I can do is perpetually re-commit to those elusive writing goals. Who knows, maybe Fall 09 is when the draft gets done (in between teaching comp classes at American and Maryland). But I know one thing for sure: Come Labor Day Weekend, you’ll find me up on the Allegheny Reservoir, enjoying the company of two of my favorite co-campers, Laura and Chris. We’re going to get out on that water and up in those hills, and every fire-cooked omelette and hobo pie will warrant an impromptu ode.
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