Events Currently

Not commenting on the state of the world does not mean I am unaware.

Turkey's President Erdogan pledges all-out defense against Greek military moves.

 Brothers of Italy celebrate Giorgia Meloni's victory.

Putin thinks he is, in fact, Peter the Great.

Arlene Jefferson Lee (F)

Just as Arlie checked the pot of water on the stove, the alarm connected to the front gate buzzer sounded. She set the small bag of shrimp in the sink and dried her hands on a dish towel.  

At the roll top desk in the dining room, Arlie toggled through the security screens to the entrance camera. UPS. The blonde woman looked up at the camera and held out a smallish package.

Arlie flipped on the intercom. “Thanks, Teri. Just leave it in the hopper. Have a good one.”

“Okie dokie, Arlie. You too.”

Before Arlie could take a step toward the kitchen, the upstream view filled the screen. She leaned in. Just above the sea grass she saw a head with a cap pulled low moving along the creek.

Harlan Deeds headed home. His place—his family’s home—was the next one up Temperance Creek. Arlie shook her head. Harlan was locally famous for penning up all his hogs just before the eight-foot surge came rushing in in ’89. Every last one drown.

His mama when she spoke of him would always refer to him as that boy. “That boy is gone out fishing.” “That boy will be back from town later.” “I’m sending that boy over for some flour.”

That boy is nearly 40 now snickered Arlie. But he does have a knack for fishing.

Back in the kitchen, Arlie pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She dropped the shrimp in the boiling water and took the pot off the stove.

After 2 minutes she scooped the shrimp into a small serving bowl with cucumber slices and diced cherry tomatoes. She stirred in a tablespoon of red wine vinegar.

As Arlie was wiping down the counter after her meal, the rear house camera alerted. She walked into the dining room and peered at the screen. Pelicans. Five of them on the dock. She laughed. No reason to get her hackles up, they couldn’t read the warning signs.

Might as well do a camera check since she was there.

Front gate, turn left, turn right—highway traffic light. Back to front view.

Barn camera, zoom to water trough, turn right to house, turn left to drive.

House front, left to barn, center to drive, right to tool shed.

House rear, left to pine stand, center to dock, right to garden.

Dock camera, left upstream, center across creek to Barker’s Hummock, right downstream.

Last Labor Day at Arlie’s annual picnic, Lydia Cole and Kiki Banks spent a good portion of the afternoon sipping rum and cokes and spying on the neighbors.

Every time Arlie came into the house, she could hear the women laughing or fussing about the action outdoors.

“Y’all are going to bust that thing.”

“Arlie, this is better than a week of Real Housewives.”

“Y’all are just being trashy.”

They clinked their glasses at her and turned back to the screen.

One year, Wilson Gore after several rounds of an informal bourbon tasting contest lit into Arlie over the security system.

“Dammit, Arlie, why you’d spend all this fool money on nonsense? You got a gun, I seen you shoot. Pretty damn stupid.”

“Shut up, Wilson.”

“Arlie, you got no sense. Hell, get some damn dogs, woman.”

Arlie grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. “I’m not going to be a victim! I’m not!" She let go of his shirt. "I’m not going to be a prisoner in my own home.” 

Lyman 2022

    

One Second

As children develop a sense of humor along and along, many will get around to playing the following gambit. A few years ago, a young neighbor called me over and I responded, "Give me a second". Before I could turn my head, I heard the count begin. "One Mississippi...."

Ah, the clever little comic literalist.

I guess most of us still toss off a "give me a second" or "give me a minute" even in this age of milliseconds, or rather nanoseconds. Not sure anyone is calling out "give me a few nanoseconds". Maybe the phrase works for physicists, maybe even as a punchline.

How I got a second on the brain came the other day in the kitchen. Nope, I wasn't watching a countdown on the microwave. By the way, apropos of nothing, I usually wait for the bell to sound. Yes, very nearly always.

No, I was looking at a row of 16-ounce glasses lined up like soldiers across the top of my cabinets. These dust-collectors are trophies for weekly summer evening sailboat races in Charleston. And I fixed on the second one from the left for a second place finish our first race on my Pearson 26OD  Lun'R'Sea.

Of course, I didn't choose that name, but I was--am--superstious enough to keep a boat's name unless she is christened something lewd or complete nonsense.

I might have preferred LunaSea. But only a little.

Now about that second place finish--it was by one second on corrected time.

I'll spare the vast percentage of the disinterested the vagaries of a sailboat handicapping system relative to on the water realities. Suffice to say, our finish computed to a second place by one second. 

One second. After around 6 miles of sailing, at least as the gull flies. And here's the juicy little morsel to still set my teeth on edge. The winning boat was a boat I raced on for 8 years. Same skipper, same core crew. More than 150 races together.

Yep, we came within--well the list is long for the finish. I lost that race to my former mates with a conservative start. I lost that race every time I lost my focus on driving the boat. I lost that race every time I stood up to look around the headsail just to make sure of the input I was getting. 

We lost that race each time a crew member stepped across the boat or went forward of the mast. We lost that race on every wind shift, no matter how great or minimal. We lost that race on how the bow sliced through a wave. We lost that race on every mark rounding. We lost that race on every tack. We lost that race on our tactics. 

We lost that second over and over and over and over and over again.

One second. One Mississippi--

A Moment's Peace

I was turning back to the house after checking on a small fig--squat bush, not a tree--out front. Gliding in on our east wind this morning was a red-shouldered hawk. Surprise, it chose to land on my back fence. 

In stealth mode, I--well, somewhat stealthily since I am still hobbled by a tear to my left Achilles. Moving up along the side of the house, hidden behind an 8-foot Heart's-a-Bustin' (Euonymus americanus), I peeked out. The bird was still there.

But let me go back half an hour or so. While I was turning over this season's tomato beds, I spied the hawk perched at the highest remaining point on the grandfather tree down by the lake. I also happen to see it dive to the ground, but when it flew up to what I think of as the corner oak, it was empty-taloned.

Immediately, much smaller birds--sparrows I think--and then a crow joined together to persuade the hawk to fly off across the lake.

Now, there was the hawk sitting quietly. The wind ruffled its breast feathers, the bird looked about, the wings tucked in. I stepped out into the open. For a few moments, the bird and I at peace. The sky above with a few clouds, the air cool and much less humid than it often is. All good.

I couldn't help but think of a favorite line of mine from Robinson Jeffers: "I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk...".  Of course, I am not really a misanthrope to that degree, but I appreciate the sentiment.

The hawk scanned the terrain, seemingly disinterested, but I was wrong. Off it flew, following the slope of the hill down to where it often hunts from above.

Whether a kill was made, I could not say. 

What I was certain of in the first seconds of the encounter was simple.

No photo. No video. No TikTok. No YouTube. No Snapchat. No Facebook.

Perhaps you think, then, to snipe at me about sharing the moment via a blog post. Fair enough. But I thought with a few hundred words, you might get the picture.