When he was senior in high school, a friend of mine’s son and some of his buddies decided to go camping one weekend. This was more than 20 years ago at least. In the middle of the night the boys got hungry and drove up to an isolated country store to buy some peanuts from a vending machine on the front porch.
The remains of the old smokehouse sit just beyond our kitchen porch — The Kitchen Porch Cafe at Delialand it has been dubbed. The smokehouse was one of the victims of Hurricane Katrina when she unleashed her wrath on this area. The storm took out most of the trees around our house and laid part of a huge pecan on top of Smokey.
Like many folks, wife Danny and I didn’t do much “getting out” before the pandemic put a basic stop to any “getting out.” These days, though, being told that we can’t go to favorite restaurants, and knowing that we may never be able to go to some establishments that don’t survive the quarantine, makes us feel like we used to “go” a whole lot.
It was kind of like peace and the plague at the same time at our house Easter Sunday. It was chilly in the morning and we began to think the weather prognosticators might be wrong, and that the heat of the day likely would not develop the fuel which the pending storm system needed.
Regular readers of this column will remember that among all the other critters that we herd on our hill in Sebastopol, wife Danny and I also run a part-time vulture ranch. Here in central Mississippi we’re more likely to call them buzzards, but black vulture or turkey vulture is their given name.
April Fool’s joke? Don’t we wish! Really, don’t we wish the president would sashay up to that microphone this afternoon for his daily update and announce to the country that this whole coronavirus thing has just been one huge April Fools joke. Don’t we wish. Unfortunately that is not the case.