Our Secret Ghost

While going to school for creative writing, we learned meaning could be found in the form of  writing as well as what was textually written. This is a little example of how meaning can be suggested through the visual manipulation of text.

A chair sits alone in a room left empty, and its been empty a while.
The story is untold; how it was bought, who sat in it, what they did while reclining there. Who were they talking to?

Who

It stands alone and implies that a person once existed within those green walls during a time when the paint was fresh and unblemished.  Who enjoyed it, but is no longer around? Either through death or rejection, the chair was left

Abandoned

We are left only to imagine the story of the chair, the room, or the person who sat there. Perhaps our mind will play a trick and afford us an apparition to bring meaning, or a metaphor will develop and attach itself to a painful past. What does this picture mean to

You?

A Recipe for Boiled Peanuts

“Awwwrite, people! The baaald peanuts are reddy!” Mrs. Brooks staggered under the weight of brine-boiled goobers in a large pot, on an August afternoon. A genteel, southern woman in her late seventies, Mrs. Brooks was able to retain much of the strength and energy of her youth, if not the dexterity. Today, she wore a peach colored dress topped off with an apron dappled in orange flowers. Her strawberry hair was pleasantly done for the occasion - a social commemorating the eighty-third birthday of the man sitting at the head of a long string of picnic tables wearing a light-blue cotton suit and a string bow-tie. The old farmer was proud of the fact that he could outwork most teenagers and did most of the farming without much help at all. Mr. Brooks' dark skin told the tale of many hours out in the sun and the balling of his large biceps punctuated any statement made on the subject. On this old plantation located in the bottom tip of South Carolina, he grew corn, soybeans, oats, and peanuts, rotating the crops every year to maintain the “soul’s” health and ensure the maximum yield of his harvest.

George Washington Carver, a freed slave, grew to prominence as a premiere expert in horticultural science in the United States, and became infatuated with peanuts when he noticed that the farmers of the south planted cotton fields year after year without rotating the crops with peanuts, potatoes and other specimens of plants that would rejuvenate the nitrogen in the soil. While educating the black farmers of the need for crop rotation, the erudite scientist learned there was hardly a market for peanuts and sweet potatoes, which discouraged the farmers from wasting the acreage on them. Carver resolved the lack of market value by developing more than three-hundred new uses for peanuts and over a hundred for the sweet potato. The innovations served to create a market for these crops, and to further the prosperity of the farmers of the south.

“I’ve made enough for Genrraal Shawman’s awmy so eat up!” The pot hit the picnic table with a thud that made the fat-flaps on her upper arms quiver. All the guests took their place in line to get our share of the bounty which included potato salad, green bean casserole, bacon-wrapped beef bits impaled on toothpicks, and - of course - the boiled peanuts. Being very curious about the contents in the pot, I looked into the cauldron at the dark hickory colored shells and smelled the earthy aroma coming from it. I intriguingly took some from the pot and placed it on my plate. The peanuts looked out of place on my plate as the rest of the food was bright and colorful – bright yellows and greens from the vegan dishes – deep reds and browns of the meats. The old southern delicacies were often pleasant to the taste as well as the eyes, and dinner tables at social events were often elaborate, rich, and full of garden produce. Mr. Brooks’ birthday dinner was no exclusion; yet, the peanuts seemed to hold a hallowed right to a standard part of the fare provided.

It’s believed that boiled peanuts originated from the Civil War, when General Sherman was making his march with Union troops through the South. The mission of the Union General was to consume every food store they could lay their hands on, while destroying anything that could contribute to the efforts of the Confederacy. The tactic did devastate the resolve of the Confederate Army through creating lack of food for both soldier and family. Prior to their surrender, there was an effort by The Confederacy to create other sources of nourishment that would be both substantive and last for days without worry of rot. One solution was to boil ripe, raw peanuts in saltwater so that the shelf life would increase, allowing soldiers to eat them over a period of a few days. The South’s dependency, specifically Georgians, on the legume during the Civil War became so strong that Confederate soldiers were nicknamed “Goober Grabbers.”

I picked the first peanut from my plate and inspected it. The shell was warm, wet, and yielded to the slightest pressure. I allowed myself to smell its aroma again before noticing that Mr. Brooks was watching me with amusement. “Go ahead son ‘n’ try it. You like chicken don’t you?” I nodded. “Then I think you’ll enjoy em. Go on.” I pinched the shell and it burst, allowing the salty water to run down my fingers. Then with a quick motion, I dumped the contents of the shell into my mouth as if I were taking an awful medicine. The peanuts were warm and fleshy – almost melting in my mouth like a well cooked piece of poultry. Unaccustomed to the consistency and taste, I had almost spat them out. Mr. Brooks chuckled, “They don’t taste like the peanuts yo used to? Ya’ll don’t have bald peanuts up nowth?” He took a long drink of his beer, which Mrs. Brooks vehemently argued was for his poor kidney function. It is true that Mr. Brooks was treated several times for kidney stones and urinary tract infections; however, he seemed to enjoy the beverage for more than its medicinal benefits. I continued to pick at the pile of peanuts while I ate heartily of the other food on the plate – all the while, developing a taste for the boiled legumes. I eventually went back for seconds, thirds, and – yes – fourths. I was a Yankee at risk of becoming a ravenous General Sherman incarnate.

Non-processed peanuts (roasting and boiling is not considered “processing,” I guess) have several health benefits which include inhibiting cancer and aiding the body to burn calories and build muscle. They are also naturally cholesterol free, thus, they aid in the reduction of LDL (evil) cholesterol. The peanut helps to control blood sugar and is packed full of energy with seven grams of protein per ounce. These legumes brag thirteen essential vitamins, thirty-five percent of vital minerals. These facts establish the goober pea as one of the most complete foods found in nature.

Mr. and Mrs. Brooks were still in love and seemed well aware of one another’s presence, even as they were in the midst of entertaining their guests. They would laugh and embracing one another and on more than one occasion, Mrs. Brooks would lay her fair brow against her husband’s cheek, in an ultimate show of love and affection that southern graces would allow in public. Such love is thought impossible in modern times where fidelity to self seems to reign over responsibility to a spouse. Many would ask them what their secret was - the recipe for a long-lasting and loving marriage. Their response was “You get what you put into it.”

On the What’s Cooking in America website, they post the following recipe for preparing boiled peanuts:
Ingredients:
4 to 5 lbs. of green (raw) peanuts still in their shells
4 to 6 quarts of water
1 cup of plain salt

Directions:Wash unshelled peanuts thoroughly in cold water until water runs clear; then soak in cool, clean water for approximately thirty minutes before cooking.
In a large pot, place soaked peanuts and cover completely with water. Add one cup of salt per gallon of water. Cook, covered, on high heat for four to seven hours – tasting and adding salt until the peanuts have reached your desired taste and texture (when fully cooked, the texture of the peanut should be similar to that of a cooked dry bean or pea).

The Devil's Playground

The ham for dinner was nothing more than a dry sliver on the plate, and George impatiently drummed his fingers on the table – waiting for someone to voice his complaints to. Finally, the girl serving his table rushes by and when George attempts to catch her attention, he is answered with an impatient index finger pointed upward as she hurries on. George, visibly frustrated, brought together his pale hands draped in translucent skin and interlocked them with the index fingers pointed in the shape of a steeple. He then brought those fingers to rest on his dry lips and closed his eyes.

George’s wife looked on with disappointment. "Why don't you try to eat everything else while you wait, George?" He didn't answer and maintained his meditative form of obstinacy. After a few minutes, Juanita turned to me with a sad, polite smile. "He hasn't been eating. All he'll eat is soup."

 "It's all garbage." George broke his silence with a Big Apple accent that weighed heavily on his words when he complained. He pinched the dried pork between his fingers to demonstrate his point and threw it back on his plate. "And their servings aren't worth the effort spent putting it on the plate."

 "Maybe that is all they can afford to give you? You know their budgets are tight."

 "It looks to me like they couldn't even afford this." Steepled fingers returned to his lips and his eyes closed again. The table remained silent until his server returned and asked if a grilled cheese sandwich would be a suitable replacement for the lackluster protein. George agreed and was brought a wilted hot sandwich with cheese running onto the plate.

George ate half of the sandwich before easing back into his wheel-chair and nodding to me. “Let’s go back to the room.” I took the handles of his wheel chair and weaved through the tables of limp bodies either waiting for the same plate of dried shoe leather or to return to their rooms. Overworked staff - attempting to keep up with dirty plates and food dribbling down slack, toothless jaws - made the job of navigating increasingly difficult. However, once we were clear of the dining hall and ran the gauntlet of residents lined up on both sides of the hall outside of it, our moods seemed to lighten a bit.

Meandering through the corridors, George talks about all of the ham still left on the plates of many residents and how it validated his criticism. Juanita would recount how she made her ham during Easters past while her husband would interrupt with a list of several other dishes his wife would offer during the holidays that he missed. Occasionally, nurses who adored George and Juanita would interrupt the flow of conversation to check on the couple. "I'm doing great," George would announce, "I don't know why they insist on keeping me here." Juanita would mouth the words "He's not eating" to the nurse to clue her in on the situation and she would wink back. After minutes of polite conversation, we allow the nurse to carry on with her duties and make a final push for George’s room.

We turned the corner into the corridor where George’s room was located and the maddened screams of a woman bound to her bed across the hallway from my friend’s room greeted us. Juanita’s shoulders slumped, “Dear Lord, she is at it again.” 

“It sounds like someone is torturing her. Is she in pain?”

“I don’t think anyone knows, Jack. And the nurses can only give her so much medication. It’s just terrible.”

Amidst all the wailing, we tried to finish the visit talking about family, spiritual matters, and doctor visits; but, the banshee fighting against demons of her dementia was an oppressive distraction. Occasionally, George would look into the room across the hallway and say in a low, sober voice, "Jack, this is the Devil's playground."

 Without the polite smile she had before, Juanita shrugged with tears in her eyes. "It’s like she's in Hell."

We sat, again in silence, while the words "They're hurting me! They're killing me!" were screamed over and over. Finally, a nurse gently  slipped a needle into the arm of the screaming corpse to silence it once again.

The visit finally ends with a prayer for George's health and the woman across the hall. As I leave, the elderly couple wearily escorts me down the silent hall and through the front doors of the nursing home. George offers some last minute encouragement and says he'll continue to pray for me and the church. Juanita warmly embraces me as she thanks me for the visit. I then drive away with the vision of the screaming woman still echoing in my mind, and a picture in the rear-view mirror of two prisoners wishing they could occupy the empty seats beside me.

Ulysses II

A poem for an undergrad class assignment where I had to write a response to a classic. Of course, I chose "Ulysses" by Lord Tennyson (Click on Title and Author to see this poem). I included some visual elements (the text looking like waves) because Dr. Hall was into that sort of thing.

It little profits an adventurous king

Knowledge of foreign lands

If all it does is add glory

To such a prideful, old man.

Telemachus is to be praised, sure

But would not a father want more

To make a great son a greater steward

Of his father's kingdom when he's interred

Send Telemachus to seek these strange lands

To learn strange wisdom, from strange hands

Then return back to father and his kingdom

So future generations will have their hero

That they'll lift up and name their own;

Partaking in Telemachus' achievements.

Beowulf too was a well traveled king

Made glorious by conquests of monsters

But he, also, had not considered his old age

And the great was made foolish as a young child.

Does It Have To Rhyme?

So you prize the

Lilting lyricals lighting lilly to lilly

At the cost of the dream weavers

Who describe images too deep

For rhyme or trope?

Can meter give hope

To one who only wants truth?

Pentameters and quatrains are whores

Who lend to the shallow hope

That they can be like the great

Classicals who sing and sing

Of wonderous nature and her delights

Yet fail to understand "leaf" and "root"

Still form a tree without rhyme.

The Laws of Physics

A little poem I wrote on a lazy, summer afternoon:

Greta lounges on the couch, sucking on her thumb while

enjoying her latest fix of The Backyardigans.

She occasionally throws a glance

over her shoulder to smile

at the image of her father

languishing

on the

lazy-boy,

pinned firmly

under his

laptop.

Right now the following laws of physics rule:

Lazyness > Motivation.

I've never felt so close to my daughter.

Coal Miner's Row

I met my first love - if you can call it love- when I was about eight years old. In a small shack of a post-office, waiting in a line for penny-candy, I impatiently watched a girl with long, blond pigtails trace streaks in the glass counter as she directed the post-master, George, to her choices. She would then tap the glass with a chipped-polish fingernail when George would locate the candy she wanted.

Once her candy was paid for and placed in a small, brown sack, she turned to face me with blue eyes exaggerated by the thick lenses of her large red glasses. She offered one of her purple Swedish Fish candies pinched tightly between her fingers. “Want one?”

“No.” I pushed past her to the counter to get my own.

George, smiled as I approached the counter and made my selections. I , too, was a fan of the small licorice fish and purchased several of my own along with a sleeve of small chocolate balls and Smarties. The post-master would occasionally look in the direction of the girl in long pig-tails as she observed me buying the candy. “Who’s your friend, Jack?”

“My name is Dani!” she announced.

“Good to meet you, Dani, “ George gave me a wink as he took my money and handed me my bag of candy.

I turned to leave and Dani confronted me; still chomping away at her candy with her large gapped teeth. “I’m making a sand-box. You can come and help me.” While taken aback by the directness of her proposal, my interest was piqued by the sandbox. I agreed to follow the girl to her house across the street and on the end of a row of small, shabby hovels where we lived. The cookie-cutter structures, built decades ago to house the miners who hammered their living from the coal laying several feet beneath the surface, mostly sheltered single mothers and their children these days. Dani led me under the front porch enclosed in lattice work and presented our project. It comprised of a hole she dug out of the dirt and a small mound of sand made from pulverising sandstone with a hammer belonging to her mother’s boyfriend, Jeff. Dani crouched down and raked her fingers through the sand. “You should get your hammer.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Maybe you can use a hard rock.” Dani’s pigtails whipped back and forth as she searched for a stone suitable for task and found one in the back corner of the porch. “Here. This one should work.” She presented me with a large, smooth rock and immediately demonstrated how to crush the sandstone to a powder. The rest of the afternoon was spent scavenging for sandstone and pounding it to sand and constantly congratulating ourselves on how much better our sand was than the stuff you buy at the store. At one point, Dani took a hand-full of the sand and we watched as it sifted through her fingers; sparkling like a fireworks display in the light of the setting sun. Dani’s glasses also caught the light. “See? The regular stuff doesn’t sparkle.”

Just then, the storm door squeaked open. “Dani! Time for dinner!” Dani motioned for me to be quiet.

“Dani! Dani! Get your butt home right now!” As her mother yelled, Dani crossed her eyes and mockingly mouthed her mother’s calls; causing me to laugh and give away our location.

“Dani, get out from under the porch and get ready for dinner!”

We climbed out from under the porch. “Wanna come over tomorrow?” Dani asked - brushing the dirt from her bottom.

“Sure.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” She then ran up the stairs of the porch and waved as she disappeared into the house behind her mother.

The next morning, my mother came into my bedroom. “Jack, you have a visitor at the front door.”

I rambled to the front door and saw Dani’s face up against the glass with her hands cupped around her eyes. “Can you come over?”

“Yeah.” Dani stepped back form the door to allow me to exit and we ran to her house through the high grass still wet with the morning dew and dove under the porch. After deciding that our socks and shoes were too wet, we took them off and resumed the smashing and grinding of sandstone. At times, we would sing songs like “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” and “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,” pounding the rocks to the meter of the songs. When Dani felt it was time for a break, she would go into the house for a couple cups of Kool Aid and we would talk about our favorite cartoons or complain about our mothers’ rules about nap-time and cleaning our rooms.

Finally, she popped the question that would usher me into a new reality I was completely ignorant of. “Do you wanna be boyfriend-girlfriend?”

I looked at her with some confusion. She pushed her glasses up her nose and sipped on her drink as she waited for my reply.

“Sure. I guess.”

“Well, then, we have to kiss.”

“Why?”

“Cause that’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do!” she said impatiently.

I remember being completely unsure of what was about to happen, but was willing to defer to her confidence. She finally leaned in and planted a clumsy, slobber-laden kiss right on my mouth and then leaned back with a look of satisfaction. As if some rite of matrimony had taken place, Dani announced, “Now we’re boyfriend-girlfriend.”

I wiped the Kool Aid scented slime from my face with the back of my hand; still unsure what to make of what just happened. After some thought, I replied “Can I have a turn with the hammer now?”

Later that night, I remember scrunching my mouth to my nose and still smelling Dani’s grape scented spit on my upper lip. I didn’t mind it and actually wondered how I could get my mother to drink Kool Aid before licking her thumb to scour food from the corners of my mouth.

The ritual of a kiss before playing went on for a couple of weeks without any emendation. However, Dani saw her mom and Jeff doing something one night that would cause her to feel we needed to take things to a new level.

“My mom was laying on top of Jeff last night when they were kissing.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. They had their clothes off too!”

“I’m not taking my clothes off.” I knew where this was heading.

Dani became impatient. “Okay, but I still have to lay on top of you when we kiss!” And so she did. As Dani went to work soaking my face with saliva, I allowed myself to be distracted by a spider fussing over her cotton ball nest tucked into the corner formed by the joist and the floor of the porch. Dani noticed I was focused on something other than the task at hand and twisted around to see what I was looking at. With the palm of her hand, she smashed the spider and resumed mopping my face with her mouth.

Suddenly, I felt a jerk and Dani disappeared through the opening where we entered the porch. I jumped out to discover Dani in the clutches of her mother; her thin body convulsing as her mother spanked her. Once winded, Dani’s mother released her arm and noticed me standing there in shock. With her long finger, she pointed towards my house. “Get your ass home!” I immediately turned and began to run home, but slowed after getting a little distance between myself and Dani’s mother. Knowing that a phone call was being made and my mother would be privy to what just happened, my sprint became more of a dawdle.

I was approaching the steps of the porch when the front door swung open. My mother exited and stood with her hands on her hips. “What’s going on?”

I carefully thought about my response as I picked the white paint on the banister of the porch, revealing the grey wood underneath it. Finally, I simply shrugged - knowing my mother would not settle for that answer.

“What were you and Danni doing under that porch?” My mother pressed.

Not able to take the pressure any more, I finally broke down. “Dani said we were boyfriend/girlfriend and she said we had to kiss! Then she said she saw her mom and Jeff laying on top of each other naked and I told her I wasn’t gonna take my clothes off, but then she got on top of me and was kissing me!”

I fully expected to receive a spanking of my own until I saw a wry smile spread over my mother’s face. She looked in the direction of Dani’s house and said, “Go to your room for the night. You and Dani stay out from under porches from now on.”

I entered the house and made my way to the bedroom I shared with my brother, Brad, who was on the floor whipping Matchbox cars across the floor. He looked up as I fell on the bed. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Leave me alone!” My brother simply got up and left the room - leaving me to sniff the Dani’s Kool Aid scented spit on my upper lip. This time it was cherry.

The next time Dani and I saw each other it was at the bus stop located in front of the post-office where we first met. Both of our mothers were there chatting as though nothing had happened, while Dani and I simply stood silent. At one point, her mother noticed we were not chasing each other around or climbing the posts supporting the overhang in front of the tiny building. “The two of you are unusually quiet.” I’m sure a wink passed from one mother to the next.

The bus finally pulled up and Dani and I climbed aboard. I sat down and Dani took her place on the seat in front of me. Once she was sure our mothers couldn’t see us, Dani turned around and peered over the back of her seat. “My mom says we can’t be boyfriend-girlfriend anymore because we’re too young.” I wasn’t too into the boyfriend/girlfriend business and was somewhat relieved that kissing was removed from the daily to-do list. I was more upset about the sandbox.

We continued to enjoy each other’s company for some time until the day Dani disappeared. Broken families in this small community never seemed to stick around long; however, there was always another mother with children moving in behind the ones moving out. Taking Dani’s sudden disappearance in stride, I continued on.

Many years went by before Dani and I would meet again. I was fresh out of the Navy and starting my first semester at Clarion University when I walked into a fast-food restaurant and noticed the girl who was taking my order had the name “Dani” on her name tag. Curious, I seized the opportunity to strike a conversation. I asked her if she ever lived in Huey, PA.

“Yep. A long time ago.”

I couldn’t hold back the smile crawling across my face; amazed of how puberty had made a shapeless and awkward looking little girl into the curvy woman standing in front of me.

“Do you remember a boy named Jack that lived a few houses down from you?” She thought for a moment, but when she finally recalled the memory - and saw the smile on my face - she turned from the counter in embarrassment and tried her best to avoid me.

Over time, she was able to overcome her embarrassment and reminisce about our time on Coal Miner’s Row and the “romance” we had. I also inquired why she moved away so suddenly.

“I think mom and Jeff broke up and we had to move back in with my grandparents in Knox. I saw you playing in the front yard just before we left that day and asked my mother if I could say good-bye to you. She didn’t let me, and I cried the whole way to Grandma’s.”

We only met a couple of times afterwards before she disappeared, once again, without warning. Still, I think about her occasionally when I visit my grandparents who still live in the small community of Huey, PA. From their porch, I have a full view of Coal Miner’s Row. The post-office has since shut down and was converted into a garden shed before being demolished completely. Dani’s house burned to the ground as did a few others approximately a decade ago. My old home still stands along with a few others - irregularly spaced apart like the teeth in young Dani’s smile.