At one end of Curd Street was a yard, encircled with chain link fencing and attached to a small church. In the fenced yard lived two German Shepherds, then the scourge of the dog world. These two worked in concert, like Cerebus, their two heads barking in every direction, their bodies close and quivering with anger.
If I remember correctly, I was fascinated by the dogs. I was all of ten years old, 5ft2in of legs, arms, knees and elbows. We didn't have much in those days. We lived in what could only be described, looking back, as slums. The drive through the neighborhood is almost unrecognizable, except for that feeling in the pit of your stomach that lets you know you have been here before. The fenced in church yard is still there, so are the apartments, red brick that stand to this day, although now they are overrun with vegetation.
I would walk to school, down my little street, turn left past the dogs, feed them a little piece of my breakfast, peanut butter toast, let them sniff my hands before they began to bark like mad, turn right at the end of the street, walk for about 4 blocks, turn left, scramble over hills that later became the base of the west side's Macon Housing Authority. Back then, the giant mounds of dirt that separated us from school were the biggest challenge of our day. The walk home would be the reverse, with some dry bits taken from lunch and furtively stuffed in pockets for the demon dogs I affectionately called King (yes, that was both of their names). They sniff my fingers, their noses wet. One King even ventured to lick my fingers before they both stepped back and started barking furiously. I let them know, by my voice, that they didn't scare me. When I talked about school, they stopped barking and listened. King would sometimes come closer. I talked as I walked around the fence and then headed home.
Our street was hilly and on the top of the hill was a two story blue house. The windows on the house were like a face and the dilapidated look of the house gave it a creepy feel. We always claimed that it was a witches' house. It was the kind of house you felt sure living next too would also brand you a witch and since I was already a vampire, well, I didn't need any more trouble. She hated animals and would complain about the infernal digging of our dog, Pearlie. I'm sure she hated the shepherds. You could hear King barking all the way to Jefferson Davis Road, the other end of the street, and I would stay awake wondering how I could charm the dogs.
We had our own dog who would dig holes into the hill. She would slink, fox like, into one of the many holes she created. She had puppies in one of them once and let me and my brother crawl through them to watch her feeding the puppies. Thank god for the knees and elbows.
It took several weeks before I tamed the dogs. Eventually, they were waiting for me in my walk. They stopped barking after a while and would perk up at the sound of my voice. The lady from the church was amazed. I'm sure she was afraid the dogs would turn on me, but they never did. For the four years the dogs and I lived in the neighborhood, we were friends.
I drove through the neighborhood the other day, my curiosity stronger than my need to hold on to memories that may not even be true. Everything was so different, though the chain link fence was still there. It was all so small. I couldn't imagine living there now. Of course, there are no dogs anymore. It's been more than 20 years. So much has changed, but the memories, faulty though they be, stay the same. I'm sure the dogs are playing to their heart's content out in the country somewhere.
My husband and I chose to live on a street that has a bit of a reputation. The people who live there and hang out often are called the Magnolia Street Mafia. I'm not sure how the reputation evolved, and maybe one day I will ask the Don, but as it is, when you walk down the street, and people are on the porch where the Don abides, you want to stop to pay your respects.
The Don is not a benignly menacing king, like Corleone. He's so laid back, it would almost be a joke that he's the Don, but there is something commanding about him that tells you to give him that respect because he will give it back to you, two-fold. His house is open to you, his porch is your port of call and on those days when you just want to sit and talk to somebody, anybody, there he is, he and his mafia, ready to parlay.
Normally, I don't get to see the Don's wife, but tonight, she was out and I took the opportunity to sit and talk. There is something very arresting about her, the tilt of her head, the way she moves her hands, and when she speaks, her voice moves in and out of sound. I know, it's weird. You continue to hear everything she said, but it is almost rhythmic, like she's singing an Irish tune, the lilt almost imperceptible, but just there, in earshot. She speaks as if she loves everything she's saying, like she treasures each word she chooses. Each crafted story is her child, which she introduces to the world and she doesn't care if you think it's an ugly baby or not, she just cares that you got to see her precious bundles of joy.
I'm sure I'm making it all up, but as we sat on the porch, drinking our wine out of mason jars, talking about cell phones and trees blowing onto power lines, talking about birthday parties and CD release parties, the chill settling into our bones, I realized that there might be a few more things about the south that I like.
I haven't had a drop to drink since I left Africa. Now, granted, that has only been five days as I write, so I feel sort of like an alcoholic saying that, but then, who doesn't feel like an alcoholic when they've spent nearly 41 hours in a state of inebriation because of the stress of traveling.
I may have mentioned once or twice about traveling surrounded by kids.
Okay, so I went to look in the fridge just now and was about to grab a glass of red wine, but something stopped me. I don't know what it was. Maybe it is the thought of tomorrow night's party. The word "copious" was used to describe the amount of alcohol and it's possible that my new favourite drink, Amarula (thanks, Ian), will be the drink of the day. Every time someone says it, they have to take a shot.
Drinking. My father was an alcoholic who smoke and as a result, followed numerous people down the chemotherapy path of throat cancer. It was not pretty, but in order to survive, he had to stop drinking. I remember thinking that I would never be like him.
My first taste of alcohol came as quite a surprise. Imagine a seven year old amidst the cast offs of her parents party. Finally able to come out of her room because the adults are gone, she goes in search of something to drink. Seeing a half full glass (to this day, she only sees half full) of clear liquid, she greedily grabs it and takes a big gulp. To her very unpleasant surprise, it was not the water she was expecting.
I never thought I would like gin after that. After that taste, I explored every bottle of alcohol until I smelled the bottle from which that monstrous drink had come. Seagrams Extra Dry Gin. I remember the small, heavy glass and the gleaming gold label to this day. I remembered because I wanted to avoid it. I never thought I would like gin, ever, until I was on the second leg of my flight, from London to Barcelona, and our British seatmate suggested a gin and tonic. We, wooed by her accent, ordered and our drinking life has not been the same since.
I know coffee. I savour coffee. I like trying to learn the tastes of beans from different regions. I have a friend who is not a coffee fan who is slowly learning the merits of coffee. In return, he is teaching me to appreciate liqour, which in many ways, I still don't. He poured a finger of Jameson's for me to taste and I could not think of any other way to describe it except olive oil. He was very disappointed.
Gin is the closest I've come to actually enjoying straight alcohol. For all my non-girl like tendencies, none of them extend to my drink. Yes, I like to taste the alcohol a bit - there is something about the flavour that other sweeter, more palatable liquids bring out - but for the most part, make my drink taste like anything but alcohol.
Which is why I like Amarula. I thought I'd seen it in the stores before going to Southern Africa, but I didn't know what it was and I'd already tried my fair share of Irish Creams liqeour, so I skipped it. However, as a pre dinner drink, it far exceeded my expectations on first taste. Silky, sweet, with just the right amount of bite. Mmmmmm.
I abstained from alcohol for many years past when I could have gotten some because of my father. He was an mean drunk or a self pitying drunk, neither of which is pretty on a Friday night. I won't ever become what he was, but I have to keep tabs on myself so that won't happen. It's not a matter of feeling I am better than him. It's a matter of being vigilant. I won't ever become what he was.
The party tonight will be interesting. If there is Amarula and the host has fallen under my persuasion powers, I will be able to enjoy amarula followed by a few gin and tonics. Just like in Africa.
Nice!
South Africa - So full of controversy and beauty, it is no wonder people want to visit and tourism is so big. The country has everything that someone traveling to another country could want: its own wildlife, its own wine, and its own coffee. I wish I could go there for all of the above, but I am going with a few friends on a safari.
I get the wildlife.
Which isn't so bad when you understand just how much I love elephants. I had never seen an elephant in person. When I got married, my husband surprised me with circus tickets. I'd never been to the circus, so I was really excited.
(What kind of childhood did I have that I didn't go to the circus???)
I was excited about the clowns, though I find them creepy up close. From a distance, they can be mildly humourous. This one had a dog, and the dog was really funny. I saw acrobatics, I saw contortionists, I saw beautiful ladies and muscular men and then finally, I saw the elephants.
My fascination with elephants started in the 3rd grade. It was my first trip ever to a library. I didn't even know such a thing existed. But there we were, in amongst the stacks. Except I towered over the stacks for 3rd grade readers. I wanted to be with the books on shelves that were taller than me. So I wandered away from my group and walked towards the books that had more words than pictures.
I didn't know what I was doing or how to tell if one book was better than another so I decided I would read whatever I found interesting. Yes, I was judging books by their covers and ended up picking out three books. One book had the most beautiful prints of knights in armour, one book was a book of Native American mythology, and the other book had the most beautifully painted men and women and these men and women rode elephants. I devoured the stories and as the years progressed, I forgot what I read, but I never forgot the image of the people on elephants and how majestic and huge the animals were, but how gentle and kind they seemed. How could I tell?
It was in the elephant's eyes.
Of course, it wasn't until I was in college, reading a book of verse that seemed vaguely familiar, that I connected one of my first read books to the actual words. The Bhagavad Gita will always hold a special place in my heart.
So, the circus elephant has come out and at first I am excited. But I watch how tired the elephant looks as it walks around, lead by his trainer. I see the elephant's eyes and it looks as if it has finally given up hope. Suddenly, I am sad for the elephant, ashamed that we tolerate this treatment for our entertainment, and angry that there is nothing I can do. My husband, who had hoped to be my knight in shining armour for bringing me to see the elephants is now upset because I'm upset.
This is not an elephant, but someone's very large animal, it's elephant soul trained out of it.
But I relish the little things because though this elephant was beaten down, it was not broken. It did its tricks, but with such a mean spirit, it made me laugh. "You did your mean laugh. What's happening?" my husband asked. I pointed out the things I imagined showed that the elephant was simply biding its time until the right time came. We laughed as the elephant refused to stand on the ball, or when it threw the ball, threw it just a little too far. The impatience of the trainer was evident and we knew that the elephant was going to pay for it later on that day.
At least, that's what we imagined.
So when I get to Africa, I want to see elephants. Herds of them. And baby ones too. Because I want to see what an elephant looks like when it has its soul.
