Wewahitchka

 A perfect pair of eyes grace the side of her face. Her nose is the river, Apalachicola, running always toward the bay and Port Saint Joe. Buster, I came across Wewahitchka one day out looking for tupelo honey and I fell in love with the sound of the name.

“That’s easy to do, for you, fall in love.”

Very easy and I don’t mind, but I have never been there. I want to find my way, one of these days. It sounds like a good place to go, to take a road trip. And while we’re at it let’s take in Tate’s Hell. Tate’s Hell used to be a swamp, a wetland, but it was drained to make way for commercial logging and 12 ecosystems were destroyed.

“Another insult to our Mother.”

That’s right, after that, you know what? Where there is money involved, people will rape the land, without a first or second thought. Now the fishermen wonder why Apalachee Bay is in such a mess. They want to blame the people in Georgia who use water out of the rivers. I’m sure that’s part of the problem, but I also imagine a lot of those problems originated in Tate’s Hell when it was forever changed by 40 years of logging; back then they called it land management.

“I hope they replanted some trees.”

The state took control of it in 1994 and now it’s called a State Forest. Florida is trying to return it to its natural state. Projects have been completed to that end, but it will take a very long time for it to return to its natural state if that’s even possible. We’ll have to be careful when we go there, Buster, I hear there are wild cats out there.

“Busters not scared of a wild cat, or any other kind of cat.”

There is black bear out there too, but I’m not sure how long they’ll last. The state has decided to declare war on bears.

“What does Florida have against bears?”

A bear kicked over a trash can in Tampa, so the legislature decided enough is enough and allowed permits to be issued to bear killers. They’ll be after the wild cats next. I tried finding us some boudin today, Buster, but I never found any. Something must have happened to the truck hauling the boudin.

“What’s boudin? Something to eat?”

Something good to eat, Buster Posey. But it was not in the cards for us to have any tonight. I drove to where the truck was supposed to be, but he was not there and I found out later what happened. All that means is that I drove a long way for boudin and came away with nothing but a craving for boudin.

“You never did say what boudin is, exactly.”

Boudin is a sausage that I have not had in quite a while. I used to get it in Lafayette and Henderson, Louisiana, but I don’t get by those places like I used to. I heard that a food truck here in Tallahassee had some boudin balls. I saw them featured on their menu. I went to where they were supposed to be parked today, but they were not. I’m having to do without, Buster, just like you said, so now, we’ll both have to do without. You might not like boudin, Buster, it may be too spicy for your sensitive pallet.

“I want to try some boudin. Bring Buster boudin!”

I’m not giving up, my little friend, today was a setback, but hopefully, Captain Q will get his act together and get his mess running again and one of these days, I will track him down. Maybe we'll run up on him on the road to Wewahitchka. Anything’s possible.

 

Buster’s Journal

14 August 2015

Tallahassee, Florida

Coffee without Donuts

I met a family, today, who was on a road trip together.

"Where were they tripping to?"

Going to T-Town, Buster, Tuscaloosa, Alabama to drop off a young man who's about to be a freshman at the University of Alabama. I was so proud of him. They stopped for a break, where I was having a cup of coffee.

"Lucky Goat?"

Of course, Lucky Goat, I had a little time to kill, and I was there drinking coffee, writing in my journal when this crowd came in and sucked all the air out of the room. They all talked at once and naturally, settled in next to me and I could not think to write with all of that carrying on. Once the caffeine kicked in, I struck up a conversation with the mother figure and she said yes, they are on their way to Tuscaloosa to take a pimple-faced young man in a crimson-colored shirt, to the Promised Land.

"Did you say any more, or was that all? I imagine you went on once you found that much out."

You know I did. I told them that Alabama was the finest University in the Southeastern Conference and that they, or he, had made a great choice. He said he was going there to study business. They were a very nice family. I tried not to bore them, but they knew at my reaction to where their road trip was bound, that I was very happy to hear of the destination.

"Did you mention rolling anything, Crimson anything, or Tide? Did you mention the Tide?"

I may have said Roll Tide a time or two; I mentioned that the response, Roll Tide, or Roll Tide Roll, was the appropriate response to all questions anyone may have, once they arrive at their destination. And I asked their son to hug Nick Saban's neck for me.

"I can see it now; you have no shame. Was the place full of Seminole fans?"

There were no other folks in the shop. I explained to my new friends that I was from Alabama and that my Mama passed on her Love of the Crimson Tide to me. And that I have been in Tallahassee for a few years and that in order to get along, I adore FSU and that I have an FSU hat that I wear around town so that folks will treat me better.

"Does it work?"

Does what work, Buster, you're speaking in riddles?

"Does the hat work? Do people see you in a different light when you wear the FSU hat as opposed to the Notre Dame hat?"

I believe they do. Wouldn't you?

"Maybe, maybe not. But that's not a fair question to the one you love, who loves you too."

That's the truth, I'm not one who “hates” people for a school they like. I like all schools, I'm not only an Alabama fan. I like school in general and open-minded people. I do care if a person is narrow-minded and unwilling to learn new things. I like libraries too. I need to get those poems in the mail to Apalachee Review.

"Do that already, if the poems are ready, do it tomorrow! You could have done that today, with all the time you had on your hands, drinking coffee at doughnut shops. How many pastry did you eat?"

I ate none, not one, Buster, the donut is not on my diet. I had coffee. I longed for the double chocolate donuts while they made my coffee. But I left them alone and that's the truth.

Buster's Journal

13 August 2015

Tallahassee, Florida

Buster's Journal: Funny how things happen

Dust of Snow 

by

Robert Frost

"The way a crow shook down on me,
the dust of snow from a Hemlock tree,
has given my heart a change of mood.
And saved some part of a day I had rued."

 

Funny how things happen in the course of our days that change our minds and make us less afraid. How are we to know how a day will go until it's over. I feel like some days are going to be bad and then they're not. 

"I never feel that way. I take each and every day as they come."

Today the day got better when Henry came out to see me on our walk this morning. Up until then it was just another day and Monday, to boot. Then on our walk when we passed by Henry's house and I said hello to him, he came out to be petted. He's a good cat and I think he knows how much I miss Alex. 

"You petted that cat? That thing looks like it has fleas."

Henry does not have a flea on him. He was clean as a whistle today. I petted him and he was purring. Did you notice he began following us?

"He was up to something."

Up to being a good cat and a Loving cat, that's all. Henry may be sweet on Buster. I noticed he had that tail sticking straight up. Today was so much cooler than what the weather has been. Maybe that's why Henry was so frisky. We were all able to breath a little easier. The whole day was that way. It was hot, but there seemed to be a bit more mildness to the heat and there was something of a breeze. 

"The sky got dark and it thundered. I heard a pitter-patter of rain."

The rain where I was was sparce, but the clouds helped cut the heat.  After work had cleared out and I had the place to myself, I walked around outside, enjoying the first Monday of Summer.

Monday of Summer

I’m here, but don’t know for how long.

Maybe I ought to go, but how far?

All the way, I presume to know ends.

To be born again and get it over with.

Thunder rumbles through dark clouds.

Promising a cool rain; seldom it comes.

The thunder is left to echo throughout

My lonely hollow soul empty of promise.

I will never be less lonely in this life.

Never fall in Love again without recalling.

Always knowing what I left behind.

To be a writer without a heart to break.

 

WPCannon

22June2015

Tallahassee,Florida

 

I worte this while I was waiting to go in to work. I had time, so I took out my journal, sat under a shade tree and this is pretty much what came out. If it's crappy, give it time.

"Not crappy at all. It feels like a Monday poem."

It needs work, like every thing, every time, it needs work. Tomorrow I'll see things differently. Maybe some thing will happen, though, to change my mind.

 

 

Buster's Journal

22 June 2015

Tallahassee, Florida

The Fog of Memories

This morning our walk was so cool and less hot, less humid, I was very happy to be out early on a day like the way this day began. I was also proud, later in the day, to hear the thunder rumble past us, Buster. I know that noise upsets your sensibility, but for me it was calming and conducive to comfort.
"Buster though the place was under attack."
When it happens and I'm not there to hold you, Buster, get under your blanket and hide from the storm. I know, I wish I was there for every storm, to hold Buster and comfort him, but that's not always possible. LittleBit will protect you.
"That cat doesn't even know its happening. She's sound asleep, no matter what or how bad it gets. I wish I was so inclined, so indifferent, but I have sensitive hearing and the booming is disquieting."
I know Buster, but I'm here now and it's quite alright. A lady in one of my poetry groups shared a poem of hers with us today, a poem about picking up after parades when she was a child, working for her father, picking up the litter left behind. It reminded me of the aftermath of many a mardi gras. The sadness at the end of the parade that comes to those of us who wait to see the joy fade away with the sound of the last band. The first poem I ever recall writing came after seeing a parade for the first time as an adult, by accident, I had forgotten it was carnival season and just happened to be on the parade route having dinner with friends. I shared my poem with her.
"Did she like your poem?"
I don't know, she never did say. But she did take down the one she had posted. I never heard anything more from her. Someone picked her poem apart because she began every like with a capital letter. That may be why she took the poem down. I'm neither in one camp nor the other on capitalizations in poetry. I see where it matters little, it's more important, to me, what the poet says, not so much how it's written. Some word programs insist on beginning every new line with a capital letter and the one I use will do it for me, as if I have no say in the matter; unless I go back and set the letter manually as a little letter. Maybe at one time it was considered a formality to capitalize the first letter in every line of a poem, I don't know, I have seen it done that way and not. Then there is e e cummings.
"Whatever that means..."
Ann White's poem on parades disappeared, the way parades do into the fog of my memory.

Moon Pie's Taste Like Mardi Gras

Mobile, 1993
~
~
Sitting across from friends
At a bistro on Dauphin Street
Someone said,
"The Parade's here"
~
~
I started out
And hesitated at the rain.
Not enough to stop the parade,
But enough to dampen my excitement.
~
~
I eased out under awnings, along store fronts.
And was stopped,
At the curb,
By the sight of the first float I had seen in twenty years.
~
~
I forgot about the drizzle.
I just wanted to catch something,
Beads, doubloons, and
foil covered cakes.
Moon pies!
~
~
Umm,
Moon Pies taste like Mardi Gras.
~
~
WPCannon 
March, 1994



Buster's Journal
11 August 2015
Tallahassee, Florida

Having it Out with Myself

If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may

    be certain that the illness has no cure.

                        A.P. Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

...or, shall I compare thee to the brambles and briars
of my life?
The complications, the wheelbarrows full of mulch?
The old buildings I scrape and paint?
The confusion and complications in not knowing
ways you make me feel some days when I was sure
everything was going well, but now I know it's not;
but I don't know why.

The maddening knots we tie ourselves into
the suddenness of wanting to be alone
the compulsion to lash out
the late feelings of guilt and sorrow
the empathy
the pain
of being alone and with you
at the same time,
but not knowing why?

‎...or, shall I compare thee to baseball
the summer sun, or
cold beer in the shade
of beach umbrellas
as the breeze
from all my past summers
containing the sameness,
the tallow of tanning lotions
the sand filling up with waves
of memories as high tide
washes in...

Oh, summer's day complete
this ideal dream
your close
heart beats in harmony
with mine.

...or, a spring evening
on the back porch of my life
feeling a damp coolness
sweeping up from the creek
out of the woods
across the garden
&
into my bones
while I smile an illegal smile
the kind Grand Marnier
will stem, but only
when I let it.

Journal Entry: 23 June 2014 A Mid Summer Night's Dream

I was back at driving; on a bus.
A scheduled run,
from where and to where,
I had not a clue.

I have longed
to be back at driving
the dream made this;
impossible, I know.

Lost souls always
remain lost and
fitful after short
Mid Summer night's sleep.

Lost most of the trip
naked at the wheel,
I find life leaving me behind.
A bus stop on wheels.

Where will this next
long day lead?
To a slightly longer night
I plead.

WPCannon
Havana, Florida
23June2014

Journal Post: 22 June 2014

I was going to write tonight about today, but instead, no, I'm going to bed.Depressed people Love to sleep.