Green Papaya Salad - Aridoi Restaurant, Okinawa Japan

My favorite salad, namesake of my blog.  Found at a wonderful restaurant in Okinawa, Japan.  Dad cooks, Mom waits tables.  I eat.  Life is good.

The Gift Of My Father

Camp Shelby Mississippi 

Is where it all began,

the transformation to a soldier 

from an unassuming man.

Soon thrust into a battle 

to preserve our way of life;

enduring cold, fear, hunger, 

and distance from his wife.

He stood tall when called upon, 

and always did his best,

and never once you heard him brag 

about the medals on his chest.

Honor, comittment, loyalty, 

and the courage to stand tall.

I reflect upon my Father 

and the gift he gave us all.

.

Bringing Home Sam

The last days of June were unusually hot, although I really didn't mind the heat as I spent most of my free time in the water. Learning to surf Cocoa Beach Florida at the sweet age of 53 was out of the ordinary, but I was quite the un-ordinary guy. Ron Jon’s surf shop had come to know me well in the past year as this was my usual hangout on any given weekend before I would head to the local beach.

My background up until a year ago was in the space program. My business card read Commander K. 'Papa' Pennebaker/Shuttle Commander/ NASA Flight Program Coordinator. I had flown missions out of Cape Kennedy with the shuttle program dating back to the 1980’s, and most recently held the position of officer in charge of new recruits indoctrinating into the astronaut program. Flying by the seat of my pants was what I really enjoyed, but working with the ‘new blood’ coming into the flight program gave me a great sense of satisfaction. I had decided recently that I had done all I could do and had seen it all, so last July I met with my good friend and supervisor, Wally Hunt, and told him of my plans to retire. It was time I thought to start thinking about a new life, and enjoy the fruits of my labor. If I had prepared the new recruits thoroughly I could leave the program without any reservation. That is when my cell phone rang.

“Papa, it’s Wally. We need you at the Cape. We have a Galactic Code 4.” As soon as his words were transmitted to my cell I was in my car and heading toward Cape Kennedy. I passed by security and drove straight to Building 1. That's where Wally was waiting with the news.

“It looks bad Papa. Sam has gotten herself into a real nasty situation. She was flying her first solo mission to Jupiter. While maneuvering though the Van Allen belt, her craft was struck by a meteorite. Our sensors indicate her oxygen pressure is very low. We believe it’s only a matter of time until she runs out of breathable oxygen, and then …well you know what that means.”

Sam was the top cadet that had come through the astronaut training program under my direction. She was a summa cum laude grad from UC Berkeley with a double major in physics and aerospace studies. She made it through the space program despite having two young children to take care for, and the death of her namesake Grandmother Natividad. Her hard work and professionalism impressed me above all the other students I had instructed. After she graduated the program at NASA we became good friends, and she even once took me to her favorite coffee house and also introduced me to her Mother's Filipino cooking. “What do you need me to do Wally? I’m in. I’ll do anything for Sam.”

“Papa, NASA needs you to go back into space and rescue Sam. Do you think you can do it? Can you reach into your gut and pull out the courage to fly again?” “Just show me the way to the launch pad Wally. The surf can wait a day or two; I’ve got a rendezvous with Sam.”

Wally and the pre-launch crew led me to the hangar where I was introduced to the Lapin Blanc. A prototype rescue craft, small, two-seater, white, sleek, awesome. “Why the name Lapin Blanc, Wally?” "It's French for White Rabbit", Wally replied. "A quick rescue vehicle developed in collaboration with the French Space Administration for just this purpose. This craft flies like a Ferrari with its two twin Kretchmar solid fuel booster rockets."

“What do you think Papa? Can you can fly it?” “For Sam, hell yeah I can... start the countdown!” “Countdown starts in 1 hour Papa, better suit up. Sam needs you.”

After a quick two fingers of tequila in the preparation room, and getting into my flight suit I was ready. I was going to bring Sam home in one piece or my name wasn’t Papa K.

3,2,1 blastoff. My body pushed back onto the leather seat of the sleek white rabbit as it rocketed through the clouds and within seconds blue turned to dark black space. As the twin Kretchmars disengaged I could see stars through the heads up display and I could feel myself go weightless. It had been years since I had experienced weightlessness, and now I understood why surfing appealed to me. It was that same kind of feeling.

My rendezvous with Sam would be in an hour as I familiarized myself with the robotic arm that I would use in pulling her to the Lapin.

Out of the dark Sam’s craft came into view. I could see it had been struck by space debris, as it wobbled out of control and gaseous vapor spewed from its port side. I sent a message to Sam by radio and was successful upon the first attempt. “Sam, it’s Big Papa K. I’m here to take you home.”

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard her beautiful voice. “How did you know where to find me Big Papa?” “I listened to your guardian angel Natividad. She showed me the way. Now let’s get the hell out of here and back to Karen and Mikey, what do you say?” As I grabbed her with the Lapin's robotic arm and pulled her inside the two seater she took a deep breathe of fresh oxygen and then smelled the coffee. “Yeah, I brought you one. It's a caff'e caramel macchiato from Peets. You didn’t think I would forget, did you?” We had both reconnected after all this time. Sam was still the bright Filipina Berkeley girl I had come to admire. The one who first gave me the name ‘Big Papa K’, the name that had stuck.

As we re-entered earth’s atmosphere, the sky was colored an unusual flush apricot sway. At that moment I turned to Sam and said, “You remember the song? Our song from long ago? Wanna sing it again?" We both laughed and started singing that silly song I wrote about my trip out to California to visit her once. As our little white Lapin sliced through the clouds, Cape Kennedy's runway came into view.

Filipino pride, Filipino pride...
Going back to earth in my little white ride.
Top down crusin' here comes the mornin' sun.
Becha I’ll be brown before this trip is done…

to be continued.....

The Responsibility of Our Blessing

As the fourth of July approaches I usually start thinking about barbeque, ice cold watermelon, a couple of beers, backyard parties, and flying the flag out front so all can see. I love flying the flag, and try to put it out daily, and not forget to bring it in at dusk. I have watched the flag for what seems like hours on occasion, and know how the red and white stripes flutter in the breeze and how the field of fifty white stars sit upon their dark blue background. Red, white and blue. Those three colors have come to represent not only our flag, but also an analogy for being a good citizen. “Yep, he’s red, white and blue through and through.” You have probably heard that many times in your life. It’s fitting that those colors represent someone’s loyalty to the United States. If you think about it, well it’s quite a compliment to be red, white and blue.

Blessed with citizenship, and not taken for granted. That’s what I wish for myself and my friends. I totally understand that this freedom I enjoy came with a huge price. The sacrifices of men and women before me, and those that will come after me have and will ensure this blessing for generations to come. Our present day responsibility collectively is to ensure that the younger generation realizes the prices paid, and the responsibility that is theirs in keeping our country free from tyranny.

I am very proud to be part of this great country. I am proud of each one of you who take citizenship seriously, and I am proud of those who come to our country legally and seek citizenship lawfully.    

So this fourth of July, as I eat my barbeque, fly the stars and stripes, and listen to the kids laugh and play in the yard, I'll also remind myself of the responsibility of my blessing.....

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Untouchable

I took along a few dollars worth of quarters in my pocket while walking the beach with my wife in Naples Florida this past Sunday evening. I knew that Steven Spielberg lived in one of the homes located along this stretch of beach. I had hoped to throw a few of the quarters onto his property. Actually I had hoped that he would notice and ask me what I was doing. When Steven was a young man he would ask for a quarter admission to view one of his home movies. I thought it only appropriate that a quarter be my token homage to this great film maker. I did get near his home, but the quarters remained in my pocket as I didn't get within throwing distance.
My wife and I still had a great walk along the beach. I guess it's all for the best that we didn't run into him. It gave me more time to be with the woman I love and reflect on how lucky a guy can be...now back to the future.

Little Bunny

This bunch of daisies I picked them for you
from a field full of flowers of yellow and blue.
A magic green field where pink bunnies speak
and little girls kiss their Moms on the cheek.

A bubblegum fountain that can actually talk,
and gingerbread sidewalks with lots of pink chalk.
Tall peppermint trees where the bluebirds all sing.
Imagine the fun you can have with such things!

And out in the distance a mountain so dandy
with a sea of red licorice and all sorts of candy.
Where mommies and daddies paddle in a canoe.
I see a white one, a green one, and one that's bright blue.

So remember to smile and sing your favorite songs,
and when you give hugs make them last oh so long.
Forever stay young while you live in this world.
These things I wish for you...my sweet little girl.

Basin Blues

I was asked to repost this short story with the additional poem that was included in my book Twelve Tall Tales published in February 2009.




Basin, Mississippi in 1975 was like any small river settlement in the deep South along the Pascagoula River. The brown water of the Pascagoula flowed southward to the Gulf of Mexico as it passed by the two hundred or so homes located along the sand bars of the "Singing River". Old timers called the river the "Singing River" named that for the Pascagoula Indian tribe that lived along the waterway until the early 1800's. The fate of the Pascagoula Indians is in dispute but a story of their demise persists to this day. It appears the Pascagoula Indians rather than face death and imprisonment from an opposing warlike tribe chose instead to march into the river and drown. If you believe this story you can almost hear the death songs of the Indian men, women and children as they took their own lives rather than face dishonor.

I turned 20 years of age that year. Two years at a junior college did nothing for me except make me question who I was, and where I was heading. It would have been easy to blame my sense of uncertainty on drugs, as it was the 70's, but I never did fall into that scene. It was an uncertainty I still don't seem to quite have an answer for. My longing for direction told me to find myself that year. I quit school, joined the Navy on a delayed entry program, and bought a boat. I had always wanted to be the captain of my own boat, and now I was going to be. Would I hear the singing of the river and experience what so many of the old timers speak of? Would buying a boat be a failure? I didn't know, but I did understand that I needed a change and this was how I was going to express myself, at least for the summer of 1975.

With all my uncertainty in navigating a boat on a mighty river like the Pascagoula, I set off on a Saturday morning to test the used boat that I had purchased. After launching the boat at Smith's Landing I headed south for about ten miles before I heard the clunk, clunk, clunk of the engine. I could see the next bend in the river coming up as my motor shut down and I drifted with the current. After this bend in the river there were no other homes until it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. It was by sheer luck that I spotted a cabin through the thick stand of scrub oaks, and river willows. A barking dog ran out from the lone cabin and stopped just short of the water's edge as if to say, "Don't even think of coming here." As I considered my options of making a landing or not, an old man appeared out of the cabin, waved off the dog, and signaled me to paddle ashore. It was a man I had always been told to avoid. I had heard stories about him from my parents and friends. It was Wes Gibson. A man who was known throughout the county as a recluse and scoundrel.

Old Wes Gibson had lived along the river since 1959. He built his own cabin that year on the banks of the Pascagoula. With no electricity, and no running water, he had lived a life of chosen seclusion for 16 years. The only time he had come into town was to complain to the health department that they should come out to his home and spray for mosquitoes. I only know this from direct conversation with someone who worked at the health department. Yes, Wes Gibson was a quirky individual, and I was afraid when I saw him.

I had no choice but to come ashore. If I didn't I would be floating into the Gulf of Mexico within a few hours. This was not acceptable. How would I explain to my Navy recruiter that I wouldn't be there for duty in November? How could I tell my family that I chose not to face my fears and try, at least try to rescue myself from drifting out to sea? I chose to drift toward Wes Gibson and as I threw him my line, I asked him to tie me off so I could come ashore.

Wes was a man who stood about five feet five and weighed around one hundred and thirty pounds. Not an intimidating persona, but a rough looking sort of man. His face was weathered and wrinkled and he sported a beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. As he called me ashore I could see from his open mouth that all of his front teeth, top and bottom, were missing. I wondered if that was from neglect or from the many stories I had heard about him from his younger days as a boxer and a scrapper. Needless to say, I was afraid.

I jumped out onto the river bank as soon as Wes had tied off the boat to a tree along the river. I was surprised that he offered his hand in friendship. He greeted me kindly and said that he hadn't seen another person for over a month. When I asked him if he had a telephone he smiled, and I knew the answer, of course he didn't. After all I was in the presence of Wes Gibson. I was in Mississippi. It was 1975. I felt more at ease from his greeting as we spoke about my need for finding a mechanic to fix my motor. He knew I wouldn't be finding any mechanic here. Inviting me to come inside his cabin, I felt a little anxious, but something drew me towards the house. Walking up the bank of the river towards his cabin, I could see smoke coming from the chimney. My sense of fear eased slightly as the smell of coffee wafted from the open door.

As I walked inside his cabin, my first sense was that of dirt below my feet. The dog had since taken a place near the stove and was eerily eyeing me. Wes offered me his cot to rest, and after drinking a cup of hot coffee I lay down and slept. It rained hard while I napped. I would never have guessed I would be sleeping inside a dirt floor cabin in the presence of such a much maligned individual. Upon awakening I realized that if Wes would have meant harm to me it would have happened while I slept. At that moment I heard the sputtering sound of my outboard motor running in the background. As I walked down to the river's edge, I saw Wes in my boat. He had the motor running like new. Wes smiled a toothless grin. When he saw me he said, "Neighbor, you better git before your Pappy thinks your dead."

As Wes untied my boat from the tree that he had hitched me to earlier that morning I gave him a nod and a smile. I think that is all that he wanted. To be acknowledged as a person. Someone who had value. I was beginning to see the larger picture. Everyone has a purpose and need in this life. It didn't matter if you were a banker, or a hermit. It didn't matter if you were a successful University student, or someone going off to the Navy in search of identity. We all have purpose and needs.

Gunning the motor towards Smith's Landing I broke into a wide smile and began singing out loud. I sang an impromptu song of my meeting the hermit Wes Gibson. I wondered if my voice would be heard over the drone of my outboard, over the song of the Pascagoula Indian’s death march? History was repeating itself; the song was back on the water. I will forever remember this moment and the link I felt to the river and its history, and maybe, just maybe, a little understanding of friendship, acceptance, and purpose of life.


River Chant

I heard Wes Gibson was a mighty mean man
a lazy right eye and lightening quick hands.
He’ll drop you down upon your knees,
spit mud in your eye then do as he pleases.

The tale has been told for at least twenty years
of how old Wes Gibson ain’t got no fears.
He lives on the river in a tiny wood shack,
eats fish for breakfast and squirrels for snacks.

Well I don’t care what the town folk say
I’m gonna shake hands with Wes someday.
They say please don’t go, don’t take that chance,
but listen to me sing my river chant.

The song’s on the water back where it belongs,
from the Pascagoula Indians long since gone.
To the young man singing ‘round the river bend,
old Wes Gibson is now my friend.

Feng Shui For Lovers

Yin and Yang, Wang and Wong,
I’ll move the sofa if it doesn’t take too long.
But first I’ll have to finish the chore
of cleaning up the beer I spilled on the floor.

My wife says the flat-screen would look good over there…
behind the pink sofa and that god ugly chair.
She said it will promote good health and well being,
But I think it would be damn difficult seeing.


Prosperity will follow with this type of Feng Shui.
“You’ll see," she said "just give it a day.”
“And good luck and happiness will soon be just right!”
But my mind was set on a little loving tonight.

“So the head of the bed should always face south?”
As I mumbled some curse words under a semi closed mouth.
“And the foot of the bed must be by the window right here,
so the neighbors can catch a quick glimpse of my rear?”

Feng Shui is about throwing out clutter,
but all I could think about were her hips soft as butter.
As she lay on the bed and I asked what she was feeling,
she said “Before we get going would you fix that crack in the ceiling?”

So I spackled and painted and straightened the mantle,
then lit up the incense and burned a big candle.
Then she whispered so softly, “Now I’m ready to play!”
But I was far too exhausted from the move to Feng Shui.

A Visit To My Father's Home

The rose had shed its petals along the walkway leading up to the home
as if welcoming a wedding party
on this early May morning,
but those who once lived here are either dead or scattered.



The lock still opened with the same key.
A familiar turn of the knob as the
door scraped against the threshold
and a creaking floor welcomed my footstep.

This was where I was born,
suffered angst, grew rebellious and
walked out that same front door,
leaving it for granted.

Now all that is left is the structure
with no foundation of family.
As a rose strewn walkway lays wait
with no cause for celebration.

East Meets West

I was born in 1955, and raised in a very small town in south Mississippi. Lucedale, Mississippi to be precise. A town which was at that time, and still to this day divided down the middle racially. You were either black or you were white. No in betweens, no mixing of races, and for that matter no other races made Lucedale their home.
For certain, if you weren't black or white, why would you move to this little town that was so segregated? Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a bad town, but people kept to themselves divided by the race line, and they were pretty happy with doing so. That all changed in 1975 with the addition of the first Asian family in town.
With the collapse of the South Vietnamese government in 1975, thousands of Vietnamese were granted asylum in the United States. The families were processed either on the west coast in California, or the east coast in Florida. The Vietnamese family that came to live in our little town had processed through a refugee camp at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. After they were sponsored in our town, I got my first view of what a Vietnamese family looked like. I was 20 years old that year, and these were the first Asians I had ever seen except for those on television or in magazines.
It was by random luck that Tai, the patriarch of the family walked up to me in June of that year and asked me if I knew where he could find a job. I was working at the local hospital to make money for college that summer. I thought the least I could do was direct him to the employment office. He was hired that day, and I found myself driving him home each day after work. That's when I saw her for the first time. The woman I would marry almost two years later. Her name was Nan Thi Nguyen.
Some would argue that there is no such thing as love at first sight. Well, let the argument end. Yes, yes it exists. Seeing Nan wasn't about needing to find someone, it was about an instant connection despite language differences and cultural barriers. It was more than attraction, it was a feeling of destiny. When the news broke in the town that we were in love there were a few people who I considered my friends that tried to dissuade me from marrying outside my race. One friend in particular took me aside and said to me "Kim, you are white, and she's Asian. If you marry her do you know what that will make your children?" "Yeah", I said. "It will make them beautiful rainbows."
So, 34 years later we still have this mutual admiration thing going. We take time to remember what attracted us to each other in the first place, and we continually remind ourselves of the blessings that we have been given along the way. I could not ask for more. I'll someday leave this earth, all well knowing that I'm also leaving behind a legacy of love, and wonderful memories and tales for our future generations. This is what will be told when they all recall their heritage and how they came to be. They will tell their children, "This is how east met west." Let the Bollywood dancing begin.

Chain Reaction 4675

A chain reaction began with neutrons
firing at atoms producing more neutrons
which produced an exothermic apocalypse
ultimately ending a young girl’s life.

4675 days were all you were allowed.
Sadako Sasaki…
your daughter, my daughter,
Hiroshima’s child.

When violence is accepted
war and hatred is
consummated and blessed
with our thoughts and our actions.

Let me make a difference
to be as brave as
you were.
To be persistent in dream, vision and action.

To have the courage and commitment
to seek peace through nonviolence.
For you, let the chain reaction
be that of peace, love, and understanding.

SixtyNine

Hands are clapping, fingers snapping, 
Aquarius Neo...Jimi's happening.
Clouds of smoke rise in the air.
Wearing flowers in our hair.

 Psychedelic stars above,
happy couples making love.
Make love not war...now say it loud!
Janis Joplin owns the crowd.

Sixty nine will always be
my recluse from reality.
Recalling youth and joining hands,
recollections from an aging man.

Walk

Come walk with me and breathe the air
where life is good and kind and fair
where children laugh and play their games
and gay and straight aren’t hateful names

Where a child can safely walk home from school
and neighbors heed the golden rule
where every person does their part
and love flows freely from the heart

No need for money in this place
we’re all part of the human race
when there’s a need we’ll all be there
to lend a hand and give our share

A dream perhaps, well maybe so
but if you don’t try you’ll never know
how truly beautiful life can be ...
so come and take a walk with me

The Buddhist and The Beetle

This morning, as with most mornings, I awoke early to get my daily 2.5 mile walk done and out of the way. Being on vacation, I had new terrain to cover, not the usual scenery passing me by as I made my way through the neighborhoods along such street names as Scrapbook Lane, Gasoline Alley, and Presidio Circle.
This day I would speed up my pace and go a little farther and faster than usual. I planned for a 3 mile walk instead of the usual and hoped to complete the walk within 30 minutes. Starting out I set a fast pace and thoughts of a successful finish were racing in my head. That's when I saw the beetle; a large Rhinoceros beetle on its back lying on the curb being ravaged by about half a dozen angry ants. I stopped my walk, brushed off the helpless beetle, sat him upright in a safe location, and resumed my walk withing a few minutes time. Immediately I realized my goal of 30 minutes wouldn't be achieved today. I had failed, or had I?
As I continued my walk I again passed by what had become familiar street signs in the last few days; Scrapbook, Gasoline Alley, Presidio. Presidio Circle made me think of San Francisco, which made me think of the Golden Gate, which made me think of new found friendship and peppermint tea. I turned the corner toward our vacation home and felt the warm rays of the sun break through the trees, and then the epiphany overcame me. It's not about the race, it's about the journey. The Buddhist in me smiled. I had won the race after all. Yeah, it's all about the journey.

Peppermint Tea House - For Sam's Kids

A Peppermint tea house on a minty green street
a hip little tea house where everyone meets
A cute little door leads to a pink little table
where short pudgy women serve soup with a ladle

The hot cups of tea are poured from a bowl
which rises from the floor through a strange little hole
Where tiny yellow men crawl out of the dark
and order up chowder on a whim and a lark

The Peppermint tea house is oh quite the rave
It’s coming to Berkeley and then to Del Rey
So come early for soup and tea if you’re able
I’ll reserve you a spot at the pink little table

Who Is John Bledsoe?

I awoke in a bright sunlit room. The window was open to the outside breeze and I could hear voices coming from the yard. My body ached, and I was thirsty. Looking around the room I could see that it was meagerly furnished, a bed, a wash basin and mirror, a chifforobe, and a chair against the far wall. My head felt like it wanted to explode. As I attempted to sit up in bed I became violently nauseous and immediately fell back onto my pillow and lost consciousness. When I next awoke, the room was dark, as night had come. I closed my eyes once again and slept until the following day.

A knock on the door startled me and without warning the door swung open. An attractive middle aged woman carrying a water pitcher approached me. “You’ve slept for two days soldier boy,” she said. “We didn’t think you would make it through the night, but I’ve been wrong about these things before." “Who are you, where am I, how did I…?” I couldn’t finish my words, so I closed my eyes as she began to speak.

"My name is Dorothy Hazard. This is my home, what's left of it. You were wounded on the battlefield, the one at Shiloh. Our farm help found you wandering in a daze over by Owl creek. I suppose with that gash to your head the confederate soldiers took you for dead. You must have come to and started walking. That’s when Benjamine found you and brought you here. We never took care of a Yankee soldier before, but all life is sacred in these parts of Tennessee. You’re lucky soldier, word is that one of our confederate generals, General Albert Sydney Johnston, was killed the first day of the fighting. If word gets around that we are keeping you here, you’ll be shot. I'm sorry I didn't get your name." As my memory slowly started coming back, I replied “John Bledsoe, Corporal John Bledsoe, 77th Ohio infantry ma’am.” As she offered me a drink of water I heard her say, “You get your rest, and we’ll talk later.” With that I closed my eyes and slept once again.

I was awakened by the sound of a child’s voice. “Yankees killed my daddy”, a little boy said as he stood by the head of the bed and looked at me with empty brown eyes. “Mama said you’re a Yankee soldier. Is that so? Are you a Yankee? Because if you are I hate you. When I turn twelve I’m goin' to join up with the Tennessee boys and shoot all of you.” With that the young boy turned and left the room. I never got his name. I only knew there were people in the house that didn’t want me here.

As the day turned into late afternoon, I got up to my feet and walked over to the wash basin in the room. As I gazed into the mirror above the basin I saw a deep laceration to my scalp above my left ear. It had been bandaged loosely, probably by Mrs. Hazard. The dressing was now completely off the wound and was covered with dried blood. I recall being in a gun battle with opposing confederate troops, then all went dark. I imagine I took a glancing blow or a grazing shot to my head during the first day of the battle. I knew I was lucky to be alive. I thought about my family and my home back in Ohio, and that gave me strength to survive whatever misfortune would come my way.

Another knock on the door sounded and before I could respond an attractive young girl entered the room. “Mama told me that you were feeling better today and that I should bring you something to eat. Are you hungry? It’s not much, but I made it for supper. I hope you like grits and eggs.” I was starving, although grits I didn’t know about. It didn’t matter, I was famished. “My name is Louisa”, she said. “Louisa May Hazard. I already know your name Mr. Bledsoe, I mean Corporal Bledsoe.” Louisa smelled of lavender water, her red hair pulled back with a bow, her green eyes sparkled and her skin was that of alabaster. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Louisa's charm and beauty made my heart beat as fast as when I had faced the confederates a few days earlier. Maybe someday I would be lucky enough to find a girl as beautiful as Louisa to settle down with in Ohio.

All of a sudden a sharp pain shot through my side, then another. “Wake up, wake up Jon! You slept through the alarm clock again. You’re going to be late for work if you don’t hurry and get dressed!" I opened my eyes to see my wife leaning over me with a frustrated look in her eyes. “I had that dream again, the dream about John Bledsoe and the civil war. I wish I knew what it meant. Be a dear and fix me a cup of coffee, I’ve got to get to the office.” As I lifted my head from the pillow I thought I briefly smelled the scent of lavender wafting through the air.


Methinks I've been Shot

Bows and hearts were made to be broken
Cupid has flown and left me a token
An arrow he shot upon my behest
The taste of an Angel pierced through my frail chest

The shaft of the arrow so deep did it drive
I felt so much love when it finally arrived
My prayer has been answered, my wound will be cleansed
I’m much more for knowing you, Louisa, my friend

Nite Nite Red Light

Through the tall pines I could see the red light blinking on and off in steady rhythm. It would start out as a faint red glow then increase in intensity until it was brighter than any other light in the sky. Closing one eye would make it disappear between the branches of the trees, then just as suddenly reappear when both eyes were opened. My vantage point was my bedroom before I lay down to sleep. The windows of the room lifted high allowing the cool night air to flow through the house pulled in by the attic fan. My older sister told me the red light was God, and I believed her until I was six years old. I would get down on my knees, fold my hands in prayer and pray to the blinking light in a way only a child knows how to pray, a prayer of complete faith and trust. I would end each prayer with the same sign off to God, “Nite-nite red light.” I still say it occasionally even now a half century later.
Someday I hope I can return to that same bedroom window with my grandchild and tell them about the red light, faith, trust, and God. How a radio tower beacon brought religion to my world in Mississippi through a stand of tall pines.

We Got the Okra

I think the Japanese people have a right to brag on their beautiful Cherry trees especially at this time of year, and that gives me pause to reflect on a plant equally as beautiful that we grow right here in Mississippi. Only one plant comes to mind and rightfully so. The majestic and revered Okra. Fried, boiled, tossed into stews. What other plant can even come close to its versatility and slimy goodness? And let’s just see those Japanese try to make gumbo with a Cherry tree. I mean c’mon.

My wife, and grandson on the porch. Tender mercies. I can't tell the story better than the photograph.

Thoughts of Home

I have started writing again following the publication of my last book 'Twelve Tall Tales'. Being away from writing for me is a difficult separation. There are always thoughts and stories in my mind that need to be told, but sometimes it's difficult finding the time to put them on paper. That has been the case for the past couple of months while getting my last book out in the market. I find the writing of a book is easier sometimes than the marketing. I can't complain. I hope writing will always come easier for me.
I have been away from home now for two weeks enjoying vacation. Still a while yet before I return to my Florida home. I enjoy my time away, but I miss home. As always home is where the heart is, and my heart is in Pensacola.
Here is the place beneath the larger of the twin oaks that I will rest. A favorable spot where I seldom see another soul and the day is mine to bid with. A sanctuary where I can sit and dream or work my hands into the soil until the sun sets and my weary body calls me inside. Beneath the twin oak of my life. My desire and choosing. My home.