1 Boring Old Man

It’s been an odd Spring in North Georgia. For one thing, we’re in a drought. People plant this time of year, and so "we need some rain" pops up in every conversation. Then there was a "blackberry winter." Spring came and was beautiful [and the pollen counts soared], but then there was a bad cold spell that lasted for days. It killed off the color and the trees went brown and stayed that way.

In the South, there’s a term, "called." It originated in the church – "he was ‘called’ to be a preacher." But it’s used other places too. It means a person is doing what he or she seems "meant to do." So you might say, "He was called to be a prosecutor" about somebody like Patrick Fitzgerald. Or "Jon Stewart was called to be on the Daily Show." There’s a subset of southern guys that are "called" to do bar-b-que – big bar-b-que for lots of people. Everybody knows who they are. When there’s a gathering, they’re always the one’s doing the cooking. It’s hard to tell who they are at other times. They might be doctors or lawyers or truck drivers. They might be black or white or even transplanted northern persons [formerly called Yankees]. There are contests and some even open bar-b-que restaurants, but most just cook for local gatherings once or twice a year.

I’m such a person. I got called under unusual circumstances – living in europe with a bunch of Americans planning a 4th of July Party. There was a bar-b-que guru from South Carolina who passed on the secrets. Cook the meat very, very slowly, never use direct heat, bathe the meat in smoke.  That’s it. We’ve cooked over an open pit, in and old refrigerator [the "refrigismoker"], but currently use a raised ‘pit’ built from concrete blocks covered with roofing tin. Here’s a picture [from last year in the sunshine]:

One can cook anything [but pork is the right thing]. When we were younger and the liquor flowed, we cooked whole pigs all night, a real art. But old men do pork shoulders. Yesterday was one of those days, a biannual gathering at our little lake. It was gray and rainy. We got the meat on about 8 AM. People stopped by to talk – and it only rained a little, but there was a low turnout. It was cool, drizzly. The greatest blue-grass band ever [the "Dappled Greys"] showed up early. The scene was right, except for the weather. Small crowd, not much talking. If you’re "called" to bar-b-que, how it goes matters, and this one wasn’t going so well. Pretending that how it comes out doesn’t matter is hard work if you’re a "called" person [and a basic lie].

Around serving time, the sun peeked through and the band began to play their good stuff. The food was great, people got happy [a few even teared up when they sang "summertime"]. Out of the grayness of the day, we had us one damned fine [sunny] bar-b-que [with mist rising off the lake]. You could just feel the thing turning around. People said it was the best bar-b-que they ever tasted [that’s what they always say if you’ve done it half-way right].

Later last night, it rained. A real rain. This morning, the sun was shining like it can here in the Spring. I was sitting on the front porch and I looked at the trees. Almost overnight, they’re finally coming back!

[If you think I’m trying to make an analogy about things finally growing back after a long drought and a Spring freeze, and a gray day at a neighborhood bar-b-que turning sunny, an analogy that has something to do with the current American political scene, an analogy about the feel of things finally changing for the better, I guess you caught me dead to rights].