OUT ON VACATION: TUMPED, RATTLED AND ROLLED

 This great adventure began with a surprise and a birthday for someone not easily surprised.  Early on our trip, I announced I was not giving away the location even if Burt guessed correctly.  We were traveling a busy highway with many offshoots leading to interesting destinations.  I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of figuring out my plan.  After all, I had put time and effort into this surprise adventure.  I told him to pack his basics.  I packed tricks up my sleeve.

We zoomed past the last turn off point to a big vacation spot,  We'd been traveling over two hours when he said one of the most rarely used words in his vocabulary - flabbergasted. Just hearing that word was satisfaction enough for all of my stealth.  Almost enough.  He knew I was pleased.  I told him I would tell him when we arrived.

We drove through little Arkansas towns we had only seen on the state weather map.  Ash Flat, Cherokee Village, Cave City.  Homes and businesses lining Highway 67, some more prosperous than others.  This was like the twilight zone to us, setting us down in another world in our very own state.  We do get around - except for this northeastern spot almost in Missouri.

I announced we'd arrived in the little town of Hardy, home to great canoeing, kayaking and white knuckle tubing adventures located on the Spring River.  Hunting and fishing.  The Spring River begins in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas about fifteen miles to the north.  A natural spring, eighty feet below the surface produces 9.75 million gallons of water an hour, a natural wonder producing the Spring River.  The river is 58 degrees at all times.  The river forks off in Hardy to a warmer version.

Canoe trailers are everywhere.  Kayaks are tied to car roofs.  This place is keyed into water adventures.  Tourism appears to be a healthy business.

We had canoed in college and kayaks don't match our waistlines so I had gotten us a reservation for a float down the south fork of the Spring River Saturday afternoon.  Neither one of us had ever floated or tubed down a river but children were included in the trip.  I figured it must be child-friendly and made for the novice.

My bag of tricks included special sunglass lassos, waterproof bags and food, 85 sun protection for lily white skin, and his old hat and tennis shoes and hidden swimsuits.  He was surprised again at my idea and preparation but most of all, the willingness of this summer couch potato to get into the water.

It was not a good sign when we walked up to the establishment and people were standing around complaining about the long wait for their rafting sessions to begin.  It is always good to crack open a few cold ones to cool off any tempers.  Beer and coolers, the more the merry for heading down water.  Everyone was so pleasant standing around in the 100 degree sunshine.

If I were to describe in detail our fetching attire, which we felt was necessary to protect our skin, our daughter might never speak to us.  Please don't tell RL I wore my favorite navy long sleeve blouse down the river.  Burt was asked twice if we were from Maine (t-shirt).  I do believe we had the experience of age over everyone else.  But at least we were moving.

Another questionable happening was the pile of life vests being decimated as the rafters pulled out of Dodge.  They are required to carry vests in the rafts.  No one made a point of requiring we get a vest.  After all, this was going to be a nice little float down a lazy river with a little rapid here and there.  And the remaining life vests wouldn't fit my big toe.

The rickety old van used to transport us to our river of Oz was not a good sign of corporate cohesiveness.  There were no instructions but Burt and I had seen other rivers where people looked so happy floating along, occasionally shooting through fairly shallow rapids.

The float (tube) is huge with a little canvas seat in the middle.  This is the advertised Cadillac version, seriously.  We wanted to be tethered to enjoy the experience together. I didn't want to go first because I had no clue of what I was doing.  I had packed two waterproof bags for a picnic on the river.  There were plenty of sandbars along the merry way according to the management. These bags were hanging on the tether but my float was not attached, yet.  When you sit your caboose in the float, your limbs go flying up in the air until you remember the importance of grabbing the handles.  This is the last moment of control until the lazy trip ends.  Suddenly, you are at the mercy of the river while your husband is still trying to get himself situated.

At first, the current is a good sign, the first good sign of the day.  I can still hear children getting in tubes with their parents.  But the current is carrying Burt and me further apart.  We can still see each others' faces and hear yelled conversations, but despite our best dog paddling, we can't catch up to one another.  As the lucky one who ended up going first, I'm soon around the corner and into the first little rapid.  This is so much fun!  I will try and watch Burt make his initial rapid and wait for him.

My first rapid made me realize the current was perking along.  I tried to stay steady and wait for my swimming partner but the water wouldn't let me.  I could hear him come around the corner but by then I was moving swiftly out of sight.  I yelled to him that I would wait at the next sandbar.

At one point, he yelled to me that he had tumped over.  I could only imagine the fiasco.  But at least it wasn't a canoe.  Unfortunately, he couldn't reseat himself in the tube and had to hang on top of the float, going head first into the rapids.  I knew his predicament but still had no control of my own journey, floating down the middle of the river, large sections of the river, totally alone, all alone.  I did have a few good rapids but I was worried about him.

This was his birthday treat and we were doing everything separately.  There was never a good stopping place.  I finally saw a family playing on the banks of the river.  A long set of steps went up to a house at the top of the hill.  I yelled out and asked if the water was waist deep.  The woman said yes.  She was just a couple of yards from me when I decided enough was enough.

I launched off the tube into water over my head.  I've grown up in water - chlorinated, beach, river, lake water.  I've never had this feeling before.  The tube flipped up over my head and my sunglasses and hat swam like a mass in front of my face.  I'll never forget the shadowy underwater image.  My first thought was "This is how people drown."  The undertow was my next shock.  I couldn't believe how strong the river bottom was flowing.  I say the grace of God gave my legs strength to make it to the nearby rock shelf.  I never let go of the float.  When I reached the woman and her family, my arms and hands were shaking uncontrollably.  I told them I just wanted to wait for my husband.

Burt finally arrived.   I asked the woman if those were her steps and house.  I told her I just wanted to walk up there and wait until someone could come get me.  I recalled a rough trip on the Buffalo River when I wanted a helicopter to come get me.  I told Burt I couldn't do it.  If I had had my wits, I would have let go of the float.  Whoops.  The nice woman told us the river had been closed the day before.  I could tell she wasn't impressed with the outfitter we had chosen.  We were like two fish out of the water.  She said she was always helping folks out.  She helped us get re-situated and we headed back down the river.  I never would have gotten back in if Burt hadn't had hold of my float.

For a short distance, the float was fun, going down rapids together just like I had envisioned.  But we were soon separated again and my quiet, lonely journey continued.  It seemed as if we couldn't stay together as we battled the current and the rapids.  It was a very strange sensation, going down the river with no one else in sight.  Nothing along the banks looked reliable and I was afraid of snakes.  I was stuck in the middle with no way of slowing or changing course.  Definitely not the afternoon I had expected.

Then Burt came around the corner, laying across his float, hanging on for dear life. Another rapid had tumped him overboard.  It was hard to see someone you love struggling and not be able to help.  He aimed for a rare large rock in the river and was able to right his float and get back on properly, resting in his Cadillac seat.  And then finally, the river begin to slow and we were able to get back together. We gleefully floated to the second bridge, our landmark for disembarking.  Our tour was ending.  Exhausted, we pulled the floats up on a grassy hill and I collapsed on the ground.  The picnic bag had not been sealed properly - my fault. Wrapped MM's and Kit Kats floated in the trapped river water.  My Coca Cola was salvageable but my blood sugar was going down fast.

Our chariot arrived, a van in worse shape than the first one.  Windows were loosely held on with duct tape which was a saving grace as a hole in the floor was sending noxious fumes inside.  I promised myself to just hang on, I would soon be in dry clothes.  We later laughed that maybe we were too old but scuttled that theory.  Maybe we should just stick to chlorinated water but that would cut out the beach and the lake.

Dry MM's, a Sprite, Peanut Butter crackers and a nap gave me the energy to go to dinner.  Burt met a live scorpion in the shower while I napped.  Just more excitement to the day.  We ended the day with a delicious steak dinner, watching the sunset on this part of the world, perched cliff side overlooking the river.  It wasn't our part of the river, but I looked at the rapids for as long as light would catch the white ripples.  They would be white even in the dark like the millions of gallons gushing to make a river, neverending, neverending, even in the dark.  The river represented our survival, coming through the rough waters.  But better served wearing life vests and tethered together, the best way to go down an uncharted river.






*We had taken out at the second bridge as instructed. After that point in the river, rapids and a large whirlpool awaited anyone on the river. We didn't know that part.  Later in the summer, a man kayaking through those waters was swept into and under the whirlpool area. His body was not found for some time. 

OUT ON VACATION: THE BEST AIR MATTRESS

 

We had four because we were four, traveling the country in a packed to the gills Yellow Ford Galaxy and later, a Shimmery Green Chevy Impala.  The best ever air mattresses were dual purposed, a necessity for camping.  By night, soft pillows of air tucked under flannel lined sleeping bags.  In the light of day and within sight of water, buoys across whatever beach, river, or lake called our name to a day of water-filled adventure.

The best air mattress, wide and long, with the reminiscent smell of a sturdy Goodyear tire, tried and true.  Every seam of the mattress was sealed to perfection, above and beyond the rest of any just plain water toy.

The green mattress had the feel of suede.  Surely, this rubberized canvas was sea worthy if a mast could be installed without puncturing the sturdy fabric.  Standing on the edge of the beach, looking out over the Gulf, one could imagine launching the float towards Cuba and arriving, if only to push up on the foreign soil for just a moment before discovery.

Landfall in Cuba brought to mind the struggle of the old man and the sea, and his daily tin can of hot coffee for breakfast before sunrise, another day searching, using the handmade ropes to capture the glory fish of his last days after a lifetime of just enough.

My imagination would be only a slight match for the old man's small wooden skiff.  The race of a silver blue fish out into the Gulf, caught in an unknown trap, a heavy load to shake off.  The old fisherman's gnarled hands gripping the endowed rope, the prize finally within his seasoned grasp.  The untamed, unchallenged will of the wild fighting with every cell this unknown outcome. 

The stillness of the sea, the unshadowed sun, the scavengers of the defeated.  The strength of anger to raise an oar and strike at nature's predators circling and circling.  The real one that couldn't get away.

The call to come in, dragging the air mattress behind me, leaving stripes in the sand as I turn towards evening camp chores.  When my parents were still drinking coffee around the fire, Sister and I would head to bed.  Finally tucked into my cozy sleeping bag on top of the taut mattress, the worst sound would be the barely discernible buzz of air escaping. Or the high pitched noise might be a blood thirsty mosquito dive bombing my ear.  At this point in the trip, a mosquito was the preferred option.  With rolling over came the realization that morning would find me on the surface of the topography of this campsite with only a tarp and a canvas floor as a cushion between me and the hard, rocky ground.  Nothing is flatter than a flat air mattress that has given up the ghost, slowly all night long.

When camping, we had exactly what we needed, carefully thought out for the two week trek to the echoing Colorado mountains or the Atlantic Ocean.  Year after year, my mother mapped out a trip months ahead of time, sending letters inquiring about the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde and the free maps offered by the different states we would travel through.  Or procuring tickets to visit The White House and The Capitol.  (We didn't camp while in Washington, D.C. but going and coming.)  Those mattresses were packed and unpacked many trips.

On the trails in Colorado

Campsite unloading.  Always a happy family time.  The folded mattresses would be put on the concrete table. We didn't have anything resembling an air pump but two pairs of lungs.  Oh the joy for the lucky children who got to blow up the mattresses.  But the campsite was not up and running until the "beds" had been made in the tent.

Blowing up the mattress would make me dizzy.  My cheeks would hurt.  I would blow and blow and see little result.  I would throw out a complaint which would not usually be noticed by parents placing stakes and smoothing the tarp.  I can still hear the sound of the heavy green canvas tent unfolding and becoming a shelter against the wilds of the wilderness like bears and cougars and skunks and hurricanes.

Immense effort continued in my physically exhausting attempt to get that float finished.  Sister would be working on her air mattress.  I don't know if it was the time expended in achieving the result or the burning lungs and exhaustion after the fact.  Toting water back to the campsite from the distant water spigot.  Shining a skinny flashlight down the camp road to get to the facilities in the middle of the night.  Waiting for the rain to stop while staring at the green canvas, not daring to touch the sides and start a horrible leak.   Blowing up the air mattress was the least favorite of the unfavorites.

But suddenly the welded rubber seams would straighten up and the flat columns of air would pop and I would quickly close off the brass nozzle.  The stress and struggle would result in something that would hold me up as I floated in the nearby lake, laying across it sideways, dangling my legs into the water which got cooler as I went farther out.  Or laying down on the mattress as I bobbed across salt water, soft waves on a quiet sea running underneath. 

But without the stress and the struggle I would only have a flat piece of suede-like rubber.

When life gets hard, look for a buffer.  Don't lay down on rocks covered only by a plastic sheet and canvas.  Pour the stress, anxiety and pain into something that can lift you just inches above the uneven surface.  Without the tension of the trapped air, the mattress can't inflate.  

You can be standing on your little Ship of Life and a rogue wave knocks you into the water.  Lady Overboard!  For a minute I flounder before I remember I can swim.  The best air mattress is thrown my way and I grab it and hang on tight, kicking out of the deep water.  Finally on top, I lay back resting on the pillow, as my tears of panic dry under the glory of the sun. 



Originally posted 4-3-14

OUT ON VACATION: Pea Salad for a True Southern Repast

 

Welcome to Wonderful

Southern Summer Homecooking

In our home, this scrumptious looking plate of goodness is referred to as a veggie dinner.  We come from a long line of summer vegetarians.  When the fresh summer vegetables are so plentiful and delectable why bother with meat?  Obviously, not totally meatless with the addition of a little piece or two of leftover ham in the green beans.  Both of my grandfathers had successful vegetable patches.  What I wouldn't give right now for one of their good tomatoes.

 

In the summertime, I can hardly remember my mother cooking anything besides vegetables.  I remember going to the Farmer's Market sheds downtown and coming home toting bags of goodies.  Summer wasn't summer without purple thumbs.  Or the pop of snapped green beans falling softly into the pot.  Or the pfft of corn juice bursting from the cob and  across your face.  Sadly, I was practically an adult before I fell in love with tomatoes.  I remember the plates of tomatoes I passed around the dinner table without having the good sense to fork a couple onto my plate.  My aunt would eat a tomato like an apple! 

 

This is not the column about my cornbread (which is perfect).  (Perfect Cornbread Post 11-23-13) That will come later when we delve into the proper method of making Cornbread dressing, close to Thanksgiving.  But you will need a mighty fine cornbread to go with this recipe.  For a little history, I will tell you that I made my first batch of cornbread one summer day when my mother had taken to her sick bed.  (This is a rarity for my mother who is the original inspiration for the Energizer Bunny.)  She had veggies cooked for lunch.  In his new job, my father was able to come home for lunch, rain or shine, which was a nice break from the stress of retail management. 

 

She told me to go make the cornbread for his lunch.  At this point in my shaky culinary career, I don't know if I had even baked a cake mix.  She told me the "Red and White Checkered Book" and the title.  Those were my instructions.  I know you are thinking this is a lot of info on cornbread, how could there be more if this isn't THE column, but I am the Cornbread Diva and my vast knowledge can't be contained here.  This is supposed to be about Pea Salad.

 

I don't know if Pea Salad is a family invention but I do know I have yet to sit down at another table serving purple hull peas and see this accoutrement. But I forgot about the purple hull peas!

 

I know I have eaten Black-eyed Peas but not by choice.  Purple hull peas are the purest choice for those of us down south just like we know the right way to pronounce  pecans:

(pu = pu(ff)  + cons ).  Pettest peeve - not PEECANS.  That is just rude. Not PEECONS.  Senseless. Enough.

 Fresh Purple hull peas (which will turn your fingers purple if you shell them but that is what shelling machines were invented for so spend the extra unless you want sore purple fingers or you wish to inflict a character lesson upon a child) after shelling, must be washed in a colander to pick out any bad peas (very, very few). 

 Place them in a big enough pot to cover well with water and leave room for a small simmer.  It is tempting to boil but it will make them tough.  Cook them on low, very slowly.  They have a little scummy foam (nothing bad) you will need to slough off with a spoon during the first part of cooking.  They are best cooked for about an hour and a half or longer.  But not to the point of being mushy.  You may need to add a little water as the juice boils off.  You want more juice than peas. 

 

Add salt and pepper to taste.  And also add, the butter of the south, a good tablespoon of bacon grease.  It doesn't take much but flavors perfectly.  They are not to be swimming in bacon grease, just gently flavored.  This is the secret to using bacon grease, less is really more.  Once they are seasoned, you can keep them on the stove until the rest of the meal is ready.

 

My great-grandparents had hotels in different little towns in Texas and Arkansas. Sons who would follow in his footsteps.  Some of these hotels also had dining rooms and hotel kitchens.  My uncle has been so good to share with me some of my great-grandfather's cooking leaflets and recipes.  Unfortunately, I think most of the recipes were those he knew by heart and never wrote down. Now that I'm writing about Pea Salad, I think maybe this is where it originated, for our family.  My husband, who was born in a border state with the Mason-Dixon running through it, loves Pea Salad on his purple hull peas and cornbread.

 

Measurements are approximate.  You need:     

1 good size green bell pepper/   1 small onion/    1 medium tomato

1 tsp. sugar/   1 tsp. salt/   1/2 tsp. pepper/ 

1/2 tablespoon Balsamic Vinegar/  Equal parts water and white vinegar

 

Clean and seed bell pepper.  I used three rings of pepper, dicing the rings into small pieces, as pictured.  /  I peeled and sliced and diced most of the onion, small pieces. /  I peeled the tomato and sliced and diced it into small pieces./  Add water and white vinegar in equal parts, more on the vinegar side.  Add salt, pepper and sugar.  For something different, I added the Balsamic vinegar and it works great.  Chill before serving.  The longer this sets, the tastier it gets.  To serve:  Slice and butter a piece of hot, out-of-the-oven cornbread.  Open cornbread up and add hot, cooked purple hull peas on top of the cornbread, with a little bit of the pot juice also.  Top this with cold Pea Salad but don't use a slotted spoon.  You will want the tangy vinegar dressing.  Add a little or a lot, depends on you.  There will be several layers of taste sensations.  You may consume another serving.  It is also permissible to make your entire meal of just cornbread, peas, and salad.  As my Pa would say, "Mighty fine, best I ever had."  You have arrived.                                             

 

 

 

 

signed,

a woman with butter dripping down her hand as it melts on hot cornbread (the dessert slice)       

 

 

 

**I wonder if anyone else has a similar salad for peas?

**This is also a necessity on New Year's Day and is delicious with Prime Rib, Ham, or Fried Chicken.    

 

 

Originally published 9-13-13