Wythe Notes

So far, it’s showered about 3 inches worth, and the shower is supposed to last all day. I could take a couple of shots at the folks at the National Weather Service, but that would be like picking on a cripple. Despite all the science, and Viper Radars, and the voodoo hoodoo, weather forecasting is still basically a crapshoot. The most accurate forecast I can recall was from George Carlin as Al Sleet, the hippy-dippy weatherman. It went something like, “light… followed by increasing darkness…”

In case you’ve forgotten, we’re only two-thirds of the way thru fall. Technically, winter is still 5 and 1/2 weeks away. By the time spring rolls around, we may be about as entertained by cold and snow as we care to be, but for today at least, I plan to bundle up at some point and go outside and enjoy the scenery. I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to get a photo of the 6-point buck that strolled across the ridge 20 feet from the back door at 5:30 am.

Yesterday, I set out to do a little toodling around the backroads and take a few pictures. I slapped Bernie Coveney’s Whispering Pines CD into the player and drove down Red Hollow Road to see what I could see. The weather was turning out to be much better than had been predicted and I was in good spirits. I found some great photo ops and began mentally composing another puff piece about the beauty of Wythe County one can find off the beaten path. I took pictures of an old mill stream, some wonderful derelict buildings, and some beautiful farmscapes. Nice, huh? But, by the time I got home, I was sad and angry.

What was it that ruined what had otherwise been a terrific day?

LITTER.

Waste that is UNLAWFULLY disposed of on our roadsides. And folks, for the most part, it’s not the tourists who are doing this; it is the residents of this county.

Here is a photo I took of a swinging bridge across a creek that runs alongside Crockett’s Crossing, a backroad off a backroad off a backroad. Crockett’s Crossing is a narrow, gravel road barely wide enough for a single car to travel. For the last mile or so, there are no houses.

Directly across from this charming scene I found this:

It’s a little hard to tell from this picture, but the items you see include a glass jar, a plastic water bottle, an aluminum can, and a fast food carton. There were other items around that I could not include in the frame: a cardboard beer carton, beer bottles, a plastic bag, and more fastfood containers. Here are a few statistics for you to ponder on types of litter and how long they stay in our environment:

Cigarette Butts 1-5 years
Aluminum Cans 80-100 years
Orange Peels Up to 2 years
Plastic Bags 10-20 years
Tin Cans 50 years
Wool Socks 1-5 years
Glass Bottles 1,000,000 years
Styrofoam Undetermined
Plastic Bottles FOREVER

Francis McAndrews in his widely used textbook, Environmental Psychology, states that the most prolific litter offenders include women, youth, men under 25, rural dwellers, hunters, fishermen, truck drivers, and construction workers. I include myself in this list. I am a smoker. Until about six months ago, I thought nothing of tossing a cigarette butt out the window, but no more. My cigarette butts now stay where they belong–in the ashtray. Outside the car, I knock the fire off when I’m finished and put the butt either in a trash receptacle or my pocket. I have never thrown other trash out the window and never will.

Litter is not just unsightly, it causes real problems. A lot of litter in this area, particularly styrofoam, eventually ends up in our waterways, killing fish and wildlife who injest it thinking it is food. Paper cups and plastic bottles retain water that serves as a breeding ground for disease-causing mosquitoes. Piles of trash attract rodents. Litter begets litter. If we throw our trash along the roadside, it tells tourists and others passing thru our county that we don’t give a damn, so why should they? It is a fact that some businesses take into consideration the amount of litter in an area before deciding wheter to locate there. People who don’t care enough to keep up the place where they live, will not care enough to make good employees.

We live in a time when most of us feel that the majority of the problems we face as a society are beyond our control. Gas prices, global warming, a crashing economy, growing unemployment - these are all things that we as individuals feel powerless to control. But litter is a growing problem we can do something about.

It’s very simple. To begin with, make this pledge:

I WILL NOT LITTER, NOR WILL I ALLOW THOSE UNDER MY INFLUENCE TO LITTER.

In the weeks and months to come as I become more knowledgeable on the subject, I will have more to say. In the meantime, please let me hear from you. I welcome your opinions and suggestions.

The Jackson’s Ferry area is about 2 miles south of our humble little cottage, less than that as the crow flies. It is one of the more historic areas in SW Virginia dating to pre-Colonial days. It is also one of the most scenic. The view from the bridge than spans the New River where the ferry once ran is breathtakingly beautiful. I posted a picture I took from the bridge a few months ago. The area around the bridge is rife with postcard photo opportunities. Here are a few for your perusal.

(Note to Earlene L. and Georgia H. - I received your comments, but they were garbled. Please resend them, and thanks for visiting my blog.)

There’s an old expression I’m sure you’ve heard, “I’d rather be lucky than good.” When it comes to photography, I’m not all that good, but sometimes I’m pretty lucky. I took this photo on my way back from Floyd Saturday afternoon just as the sun was dipping behind the mountain. For just a few seconds, there was an explosion of color. Compare this picture with the one from the previous post, and you can see I’ve been pretty lucky with sunsets twice in a row.

The theory of genetic memory describes a variety of processes by which genetic material confers an individual’s past history. This theory would suggest that we are born with memories imprinted on us by our ancestors. Maybe this theory explains the tranquility that settles within me when I watch the sunset over the New River. And why I felt like after a lifetime of yearning for a distant place, I was finally returning home when I moved here to these mountains.

I grew up in the North Carolina Piedmont on the edge of the area known as the Sandhills. My boyhood home is as different from my current home as night is from day. However, I feel more at home here than I ever did in the place where I grew up. Genetic memory is the only thing that makes any sense.

My European ancestors where mostly from Scotland. They were a fiercely independent bunch who lived along the River Dee in the Scottish Highlands. They lived in isolation much like the people of Appalachia did for centuries, many of whom are also of Scottish descent. There are numerous parallels between the two. Both areas possess great scenic beauty. Highlanders were rebels and outlaws who refused to bend to the will of the English government until forced. Even then, the remoteness of the region made foreign governance difficult. To this day, they remain critical of government and powerful institutions. The same stubborn blood that cources thru their veins, courses thru the veins of the people of Appalachia. There is a feeling of pride and independence in these hills unlike any I’ve experienced anyplace else.

I’ve never been to my ancestoral home, though I hope to one day. If I don’t make it though, this place will do just fine.

                                                             OBAMA!

Our (cough) high speed internet service is provided by a company called Wild Blue. At least it does when the moon is in the right congress, and the weather co-operates, and the wind doesn’t blow the pine trees too far to the left. Needless to say, the “service” has been pretty iffy lately. For 95 bucks, a technician came out to look at things after we had been without a connection for 5 days. He made a few adjustments and gave me two options: cut down my favorite white pine, or spend $150 for a pole on which to move the dish. Nevermind that it has only been a year since it was installed, and the rocket scientist who did the initial installation (at a cost of $300) put it behind the tree in the first place. See where this is going?

To say that we’re not happy with our options is to put it mildly. If we can actually speak to someone who can gives us a definitive answer, we hope to switch to Citizen’s Cable. According to several friends, that may be like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. I’m told Citizen’s has their own problems, but at least they have an office in Floyd where I can go postal with any complaints if necessary.

That said, things have been interesting here on the Creek lately. Anne is in DC for her week in the office this month, leaving me here with our 14 year old dog, Tasha, and 4 year old cat, Sassy.

Tasha is part Keeshon and part psychotic. She requires a great deal of human contact which is standard for her breed. That’s not too difficult when there are two of us around to provide it, but when it’s just me, having a senile, arthritic canine follow (literally) your every move can be a challenge. And the cat? Well, Sassy has been in a snit and refuses to have anything to do with either me or the dog.

Domestic animals like routine. In fact, they demand routine. Any interruption in their routine leads to unhappiness. When you leave a dog alone, even for an afternoon, they think you’re gone for good. It can lead to anxiety which can lead to the destruction of some of your most favored possessions. That’s why they’re so happy when you return. Jumping all over you and peeing on the rug is just their way of saying, “I’m glad you’re not dead, now feed me.” And cats? Who knows what the hell the cat is thinking. Sassy just seems to tolerate me. Thankfully, Anne will be back Saturday.

The strictist definition of family is a group of people affiliated by consanguinity. That is, they are related by blood.

Last month I went back to my hometown in North Carolina for a family reunion.  This was an extended family reunion, the 55th year in a row that it has been held and the first time I’ve attended in more than forty-five years. My great-grandfather was named Gentry Dees. Folks called him Gent, or “The” Gent. He had two brothers named Franklin and Malachi, and the hundred or so attendees at this year’s event were the descendents of those three brothers. Except for my particular branch, I have not seen most of these people since I was a child. There were a great many that I have never met. It was sort of strange walking into a room full of 2nd and 3rd cousins. When I initially arrived, I only knew 4 or 5 people in the room, yet the strong family genes made a lot of folks look familiar.

The next couple of hours were a lot of fun. There were relatives from 5 states at the gathering. I could sit down at a table full of strangers and within a matter of seconds establish my bonifides and relationship to them. I sat down with strangers but ended up conversing with family. We had a pot luck lunch and it was cool seeing how “old family” recipes were interpreted by other branches of the family. There was a bulletin board of old family photos, some dating back nearly a hundred years. I could see part of myself, the consanguinious affiliation, in those old photographs.

There was an unexpected kind of warmth that emanated from the room that day. It’s not often that one receives instant love and acceptance from a room full of strangers. I came away feeling somehow more grounded with a greater sense of who I am and where I came from. There is an old expression that goes something like “family are the people who will take you in when no one else will” or words to that effect. It certainly seems to be the case with my family anyway.

My 2nd cousin Eddie Dees, the mayor of Hope Mills, NC

I guess if you’ve been paying attention, you know I’ve been on a blogging break for the last few weeks. It wasn’t planned; it just sorta happened. I have something called Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD). Thanks to SAD, when the days start getting shorter, it takes me awhile to adjust. I usually get a little depressed, and tend to withdraw for awhile. But, I’m over it for the time being, though February might be a little iffy.

In the next few posts, I’ll catch you up on what I’ve been doing. In the mean time, I hope you missed me because it’s nice to be back.

Last month when I was down by the creek, I thought I saw some bear scat. I wasn’t sure, because I’ve only seen it once, and that was two years ago. But the folks at the New River General told me that there have been black bear sightings in the area for the last year or so. Well, I can now confirm those sightings.

Anne nearly dropped her coffee when she looked out the living room window this morning and saw the bear in our front yard. By the time I could grab the camera, our furry visitor, Ursus americanus, was making his way back up Chestnut Ridge. The most recent census estimates there are between 3,500 and 4,500 black bears in Virginia, most of them west of the Blue Ridge. Judging from what I estimate to be a weight of 300 plus pounds, this is probably a male, since females only weigh between 100 and 200 pounds. Females range a 15-20 square mile area while males range 20-30 square miles and as far as 120.

Black bears are omnivores, that is, they feed on a variety of plants and animals. During the fall they prefer acorns and hickory nuts, both of which we have in abundance right now. They also feed on small animals. We have a couple of those as well. Research tells me that black bears are shy and don’t like confrontation. Let’s hope so; otherwise, it’s the game warden and heavy artillary time.

The fall lettuce crop is coming in and we’re having some excellent salads. We’re harvesting the mesclun mix as well as thinning four other types of lettuce. The arugula, spinach, and turnip seeds went in the ground this weekend.

Anne added some nasturtium blossoms to the baby lettuce for last nights salad. Nasturtiums are easy to grow self-seeding annuals. The edible flowers have a slightly peppery taste and make even the most ordinary salad look and taste special. We dressed ours with Anne’s vinaigrette and a little cracked pepper. It was yummalicious. I sure hope our first frost decides to hold off for a few more months.

If you’ve ever considered buying a house and remodeling it, you should probably reconsider, unless you’re into self-flagellation, or insane, or you’re a building contractor or have the necessary skills to build a house from the ground up.Those skills include plumbing, electrical, carpentry, dry wall, painting, heating and air conditioning, tile, and a multitude of other skills as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of local building codes. None of which I possess. Well, I can paint, but only if the drywall has been taped, mudded, and sanded. It’s not that you can’t hire someone to do the work, you can–as long as you’re willing to wait a couple of years or so. In a county with a population of less than 30,000, how many skilled craftsmen do you think are available? I don’t have any idea, but I do know that most of the ones I’ve talked to prefer to work on new construction, rather than remodel work. There are far fewer headaches in new construction.

I’ve been working on our humble little cottage for almost three years now with the assistance of an interesting variety of people. First was Lester, a self described hillbilly, who has never traveled outside the state of Virginia. He and I constructed what I consider to be the best roof in the state. One day this house might fall down around our ears, but I guarantee the roof will remain intact. The electrical upgrade came courtesy of Jim and his crew, who did a good job at a reasonable price. After Jim was a concrete guy named Donnie, who did some really mediocre work at an exorbitant price (read rip-off). Next came Chris who turned out to be a cocaine abuser and thief who disappeared with some of my equipment. Chris was followed by Leo and his crew of non-English speaking vaqueros who came down from N. Virginia and who disappeared when Prince William County cracked down on illegal immigrants, even though Leo and his guys were all legal. My second cousin Jason from North Carolina next lent a hand until his job and other obligations prevailed. His father Mel has been my one constant in all this, but Mel’s skills are not much better than mine. Which brings me to my friend Bernie Coveney.

Here’s Bernie backing out of my closet.

Some of you might recognize Bernie as a world class musician who has toured with Emmy Lou Harris and Juice Newton, hung out with Robert Duvall, scored a movie, recorded several albums and lives a pretty cool life in Floyd County. Bernie also built his own house. All those skills I mentioned above? Bernie has most of them. He’s also a hoot to work with. For the first time, we’re beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Last month when my five year old grandson and heir apparent, Connor, was visiting, Bernie had him wrapped around his little finger, or maybe it was vice-versa. In any event, we took Connor to the Friday Night Jamboree in Floyd where Bernie and the Floyd County Irregulars (a group of guys who just came together for the evening) played a set. Connor was beside himself watching his idol play. He and a little girl he met on the dance floor did their version of the chicken dance. I have some great pictures of the evening on a 2 gig memory stick. Unfortunately, my antiquated laptop has only 1 gig, so it’ll be awhile before I can download them. In the meantime, here’s a picture of Connor (in the Red Sox shirt) and his posse that I took when I returned him to his home in Maryland.

If you think I wrote this post to do a little name dropping and show a picture of the little prince and heir apparent, you might be right. It’s my blog, and I’ll brag if I want to.

When you mention The Trail in this part of Virginia, most folks assume you’re talking about The New River Trail State Park, and not the Appalachian Trail which also passes thru here. The New River Trail is a 57 mile linear park (the only one in Virginia) than runs from Galax to Pulaski with a spur to the town of Fries. The Trail follows an old railroad right-of-way donated to the state by the Norfolk Southern Railroad, 39 miles of which parallels the New River. The photo is of one of two tunnels along the way. This one is approximately a mile north of the Austinville entrance.

I don’t know if the seemingly inordinate number of morning spider webs I’ve been seeing lately means anything, like a hard winter, early frost, or anything like that, but they make some cool photos. Here are a couple for your perusal.

The Grits Mess

Anne tends to eat healthier than I do, particularly when it comes to breakfast. She favors whole grain cereal and fruit or juice, while I prefer a more cholesteral laden country breakfast. On those rare occasions when she does have something sturdier in the morning, it’s usually the grits mess, a creation she credits to her Uncle Mac. You start with a bowl of grits and add whatever you wish to it. Eggs, cheese, sausage, bacon, ham, onions, peppers, mushrooms, whatever blows your hair back.

When I went back to college after the army, I joined the Vets Club, a fraternity like social/service organization of military veterans who, like me, had returned to school to complete their education. We did good work, volunteering in a number of areas to benefit the school and local community. We also partied……hard. Some of our parties were legendary, like the time Anne and several other wives mooned the governor, senator, and state attorney general of North Carolina. Parties aside though, we were a fairly responsible group. We used designated drivers long before it was the fashion. And we generally ended our parties with a grits mess, one that included all of the ingredients listed above and then some. If you’ve never tried a grits mess, I highly recommend one.

Anne and I met in Germany in 1968 and got married there the following year. One of our favorite things to do was something we called toodling. We’d hop in our VW Beetle, which we called Myrtle, the Mean Green Machine, and go for a drive. Most of the time, we had no itinerary other than to meander around the countryside to see what we could see. Toodling is an excellent cure for “the ennui.” Yesterday, we toodled over to Bluefield and back.

We took I-77 going and Rt. 52 on the return. The portion of I-77 between Wytheville and Bluefield is one of the more scenic stretches of interstate on the east coast. The drive takes you thru part of the Jefferson National Forest and there are two tunnels, including one thru Big Walker Mountain.

On the return trip, Rt. 52 winds around and up and down thru the forest and over the top of Big Walker. The picture above was taken from atop Big Walker standing next to the observation tower. I elected not to pay the 5 dollars to climb the tower since I was satisfied with this view of the valley.

After we returned home, we kicked back with a couple cold beers and fixed an excellent meal. It’s days like this that remind us why we chose to live here in the first place.

Well, the big day has finally arrived. Today is my 60th birthday. I googled the date and found that I share a birthday with Garrison Keillor, one of the people I most admire. Warren Zevon, a singer/songwriter that I include in my top ten favorites of all time, died on this date. And in 1927, a fellow by the name of Philo Farnsworth first demonstrated the television in San Francisco.

Sir Elton John spent two years planning his 60th birthday bash which included over-the-top parties in London and New York, and culminated in a sold out concert at Madison Square Garden. Muhummad Ali’s 60th warranted a TV special.

When I turned 30, Anne threw me a small surprise party, the highlite of which was me walking naked into the darkened rec room only to have our friends yell SURPRISE! when I turned the light on. You can say that again. For my 40th, she waited exactly one month before throwing the party. She and most of our friends had pretty much ignored my birthday when it rolled around. I was so hurt and pissed that I almost refused the dinner invitation to go to the friend’s house who hosted what turned out to be the most fun and surprising party I’ve ever had. For my 50th, I got sloppy drunk and maudlin with friends and neighbors at an afternoon drop by.

I’m pretty sure there isn’t going to be a surprise party today. At least I hope not. Anne just returned yesterday from a two week trip, most of which was spent at a conference in Germany. Jet lag has a way of dampening enthusiasm. No, today I intend to spend the day just the way I want to, lazing around with my wife and the cat and the dog. I may cut the grass, or I may not. I’ve got a rack of baby back ribs for the smoker this afternoon and a couple bottles of good wine for our evening porch time. I suspect I’ll get a few phone calls from the people I want to hear from. No over-the-top bash. No TV special. Just an ordinary day in paradise.

All in all, it’s shaping up to be a pretty good day.

One of the least pleasant aspects of country life is the variety and number of critters with whom we often share our humble little cottage. For the first couple of Decembers  when I came down for the weekend, I found the place overrun with mice and ladybugs. The mice I expected, but the hundreds of ladybugs, both living and dead were a surprise.

Other parts of the year bring all manner of flying insects, ants, naturally, fleas, ticks, and one of my very favorites: wood roaches. The sight of one in the house causes Anne to display that most Southern of conditions known as the “hissy fit”, and the pile of mulch next to the house is full of them. {Note to self: Make sure they dump the next pile further from the house. Better yet, hire someone to distribute the stuff as soon as it is delivered.}

Our current plague seems to be spiders. I’m not talking about black widows or brown recluses, the ones that can turn your switch off permanently if you’re not careful. I’m talking about your average, run of the mill webslinger, the kind that, overnight, can spin a web the size of a pickup truck in the bathroom. Now, intellectually I know that spiders are very beneficial to the control of other insects, and that we shouldn’t kill them indiscriminately. And I don’t as long as they stay outside. I’ve watched the spider in the picture above work on that web for two days now. The architecture of a well built spiderweb is one of nature’s engineering miracles, and this one looks particularly well done.

But, should the little dude who built that beauty decide to move inside, it’s squash-city for him. I’ve been bitten by spiders twice in the last four years. Both times at night while I was asleep, and both hurt like the dickens when I awoke. They also took several months to heal and left permanent scars. So my live and let live policy with the natural world doesn’t apply to spiders in the house. I take no chances, and I take no prisoners.

Here are a few comforting thoughts. No matter where in the world you are, you’re usually no more than six feet from a spider.  And those daddy long-legs we used to let crawl on us as kids….those daddy long-legs have a very dangerous venom, one of the most dangerous venoms to humans. Luckily, their mandibles (jaws) aren’t strong enough to break our skin. Now, isn’t that special?

Ennui. What a funny looking word. Ennui. Ahn-wee. From the French . It looks nothing like it is pronounced. Ahhhhn-weeeeee. I love the way it rolls off the tongue. It’s an interesting word, because it has more than one accepted pronunciation. AHN-wee or ahn-WEE, your choice. A feeling of utter discontent resulting from a lack of interest. Ennui is a literary word, not a spoken word. I’ve never heard anyone say they suffer from ennui. Most people just say they’re bored. Ennui seems a little more sinister, almost menacing. Very French.  Can you imagine this conversation?

Good Morning, Clyde.

Mornin’ Lester, how you feeling?

Well sir, I got the ennui.

No lie? I’m sorry to hear that.

Yep. I was standing on the porch having my coffee this morning…everything was just hunky dory one minute, and the next minute, I just didn’t give a rat’s patooey. So I figure it must be the ennui.

Yep. Sounds like it. I hear it’s goin’ round.

Ennui seems to best describe how I’m feeling right now.

I turn 60 in a few days. Sunday to be exact. God help the person who says to me, “age is just a number,” or “you’re only as old as you feel.” Only a much younger person would say something like that, thinking they’re being sympathetic rather than patronizing, as if one needs sympathy at this age. 60 IS a number. A fairly significant one. Pretty soon it will be my number. Two of my closest friends also turned 60 this year. One got a divorce, and the other bought a Harley. I suspect my reaction will be somewhere in between.

Once I turn 60, it means that I will be closer to 80 than to 40. It means that I have a lot less time to get IT right than I once had. IT being life. There are things I still wish to accomplish, and there are definite things about myself I want to work on. I plan to quit smoking. I plan to be a better husband and father and grandfather, less judgemental and more accepting. I have gained a lot of knowledge in my 60 years, but my real goal is wisdom. Seek and ye shall find.

I so hope that is true.

Literally translated, pappa al pomodoro, means “mush of tomato” in Italian. In this country, we know it as Tuscan Bread Soup. Tuscany is in central Italy and has an inland geography  much like our own. The region is noted for its grilled meats and hearty soups. This is the area that produces pecorino cheese and chianti classico wine.

The traditional recipe calls for this soup to be cooked, and served warm. I took the basic ingredients, and gave a different riff to them. The results were pretty spectacular I think. For a brief moment after taking the first bite, I imagined a Roman Gladiator, his sword raised to the heavens, booming, “I Will Eat This, And Nothing But This, For All My Days!!”. Part soup, part salad, it’s a great way to serve the excellent tasting heirloom tomatoes that are at their peak and in abundance right now.

Use whatever combination of tomatoes you have, and the best quality ingredients you can obtain. The recipe is for one person, but it can be multiplied to serve as many as you wish.

2 cloves of garlic

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 cup chunked tomatoes

1/2 cup water.

6 fresh basil leaves

1 medium banana pepper, sliced into small rings

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1/2 cup stale bread, torn into bite-sized pieces

parmigiano reggiano freshly grated for service

Early in the day, smash a couple of cloves of garlic, and place in a small bowl with 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil. I used Ottavio, a Spanish olive oil that has a spicey fruitiness to it. Cover and set aside.

Later in the day cut one cup of tomatoes into bite sized pieces. I used a red and yellow from my friend John. I failed to get the names, but I’m pretty sure one of them is a Lemon Boy and the other could be a German Johnson. I also used some Lemon Pears from our garden. Be sure to include some of the caviar, the center of the tomato with the seed mass that is often thrown away. Place the tomatoes and water in a glass bowl large enough to hold all the ingredients. Cover.

Around two hours before service, stack the basil leaves on top of each other and slice into small strips. This is called in French, a chiffonade. You may slice the leaves either lengthwise for a large chiffonade, or across for a smaller. For this recipe, I used the smaller. Add the basil, sea salt, ground pepper, sliced banana pepper and half the garlic infused oil to the bowl and lightly toss, making sure all the tomatoes are coated. Add the bread and toss  again.

Let me take a moment and talk about the bread, for it is key. I used half a focaccia roll baked by Ecce Panis in New Jersey for Wal-Mart and warmed, but not served the day before. You may use any good, day-old,  hard crusted artisan bread available to you, the drier the better. You want the bread to soak up the juices and still have some chew to it. A soft bread will just dissolve into a soggy mess.

To serve, transfer the soup to your favorite soup bowl. Remove the garlic and pour the rest of the oil over the top, along with a little more sea salt and ground pepper. Top with freshly grated parmigiano reggiano. Anne brings a chunk back from Trader Joe’s in Centerville when she has to spend her week in the office every month. If you can’t obtain the real deal, use a good quality domestic parmesan.

The smells of the basil, the garlic infused oil, and the cheese combine to make a heady aroma as you bring that first bite to your mouth. Cool and refreshing and perfect for this time of year, the taste is that of an Italian summer in a spoon.

It was foggy out this morning. I sat on the porch with my coffee for an hour or so listening to the sounds in the fog: the startling bray of one of the miniature donkies on the farm next door; the lowing of a cow across the way; the caw-caw-caw of a crow. Each sound distinct and seemingly unconnected and random.

For the most part, the sounds I heard were natural. Except for the occasional intrusion of an invisible automobile  on Rt. 52, it was the animals who were speaking. Mostly I heard the birds. A single, high-pitched tweet here, followed by a lower twitter there, and a rapid tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet overthere.  I’m trying to identify birds and learn their calls. I’m sure one of the calls I heard this morning was from a cardinal; I’m  just not sure which one.

The fog bends sound, muting some while simultaneously amplifying others. The different sounds become isolated events, giving you a chance to focus on a sound, hearing it and only it for a brief moment. I felt like I heard some sounds for the first time. I understand now, why the crow’s caw-caw-CAW can seem so menacing. A disembodied threat looming out of a chilly, enveloping cloud.

As the  fog burns off, the sounds develop relationships and context. They become more cohesive, and less distinct. The level swells and increases. Sounds that weren’t there a few minutes ago lend their voices to the growing din. The overture is finished, and the symphony has begun.