JB is a good provider. He came with a variety of meats: venison hot tamales made in Arkansas by our friend, Hov, a former head Chef at the Silver dome in Detroit, Michigan; assorted wild hog parts the butcher will process; wild hog neck stew with lots of vegetables; venison tenderloin; a two-foot long venison sausage; and two chicken breasts from the motorhome freezer. Our seven-year dormant deep freeze rose to the call of electricity and is working just fine.
He brought his laundry, imagine that, an iron skillet for cornbread - it doesn't taste the same in anything else, and a bag of rocks. They are not gemstones prized for their brilliance, they are working rocks, the suspenders of the earth. In February JB's friend drilled a well at Bobo Brake, Mississippi - not far from Alligator, when the Midwest was colder than a well-digger's destination.
The digger unearthed palm-sized and smaller rocks from one hundred feet. Intrigued, JB asked for some. One is dark orange, another black, one off-white, and the rest are shades of gray. Some have worn marks: water makes. Who knows how old they are.
Everything has a vibration. They bare the sound of rapidly moving water, lots of it. The Mississippi River is thousands of years old. In its unrestrained wanderings across the Delta it left deposits of soil, rocks and God knows what before the Levees were built to contain it. I wonder where these rocks began? My friend, Frances, sums it up best, "They're part of the great mystery of life."
2007 Red Convertible Travel Series