Just another day in paradise, but I didn’t know it. As is oft the case for me, especially on a winter day when I don’t know what to do with myself—an idle mind is the Devil’s workshop—I punted, all day long. The Devil is distracted by industry.
I didn’t want to burn up the roads, or gasoline, although I made one intentional trip to the county dump that included stops at the lumber yard and grocery store. I was forced to make a second trip into nearby Normangee Texas for plumbing supplies. Just like any other day, I didn’t want to try making sense of the chaos of worldly possessions that fill the barn where I live—still haven't figured out where to start. The plumbing in the outdoor bath area is repaired and wrapped, having suffered the effects of ice for at least the third time since the new Millenium. The latest damage happened, not in my absence of three months that included the beginning of cold weather, but since I have returned to Texas. I’m not a plumber, however, just the lumber yard pilgrim.
Newly-laid concrete pads finished out with river rock set in concrete lead to the two main entrances of my house. With the help of a neighbor for hire, I’ve once more re-done these approaches. As the saying goes, if I had a dollar for every stone I’ve moved here, well, as the saying goes, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. “Why are you doing this if you’re selling your house,” asked a friend visiting yesterday. Gee, do I even know? Is it to solve a problem that really isn’t perceived as a problem by someone looking to buy this property? Do I just like moving stones? Do I somehow know in my bones that I have to behave like Sisyphus, whose curse was to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll down again, and repeat this throughout eternity? Did I somehow miss the chapter on “do it once… and do it right? Yeah, I missed it, and I didn’t get it right the third time. Shadows of the outdoor bath dance in my brain.
I’ve actually been fairly productive since returning to Texas in late December. The antiques show where I exhibited the second weekend of January didn’t produce much return for me, but it required a lot of work nonetheless—loading and getting there, unloading and setting up, packing and loading out, returning home and unloading—truths that John Q. Public doesn’t realize about the life of a junk dealer. If that were the measure to be realized by my mantra—For Sale, All My Earthly Possessions—I am in deep trouble. It is tough times in the antiques business, a reflection of the sluggish, skiddish economy that apparently troubles the globe right now, and not just the United States. Pull up to the gas pumps, or look at the price for a cardboard tomato, a package of generic cheese, a whole chicken wherever you shop.
I’ve cleaned the landscape here, in preparation for spring. Most of this I did by myself, starting the very afternoon I rolled into the driveway from New Mexico. My neighbor-for-hire helped me finish this first push. Now only the roses wait for Valentine’s Day. I’ve worked on my taxes, filed my annual sales tax report, changed cell phone providers, and sorted through the box of mail that collected while I was away in northern New Mexico for several months. The push is still in front of me—getting all my tax information ready for the expert who does my tax return, doing the same for our mother’s tax return…for the one month she lived in 2007…, and somehow trying to liquidate some of my worldly possessions. I’d rather cook. I’d even rather make runs to the lumber yard for plumbing supplies.
Today, with cold, gray skies overhead and a light mist driving the chill deeper, I cooked. At the local grocery I opted for a whole chicken, frozen okra and corn, tomatoes canned with garlic and onions—my taste buds calling for a Southern treat. Outside of treasure hunting, which I have given up even before Lent, two things come naturally to me—digging in the dirt and cooking. All of the things that draw me involve a sense of the past and eyes somehow cast towards tomorrow.
Cooking is something best done for others. Consider the women who don’t seem to figure out how to shop and cook for two after the nest is empty, or when they are finally truly alone in the house. I spent time at my middle sister’s home over the weekend of my lackluster antiques sale. Returning to her place late Saturday—the house in which the three Hollis children grew up—I found a table laden with chicken gumbo and yummy sticky rice, hamburger casserole, peach and buttermilk pies. As the saying goes, there was enough to feed an army. I know how to shop for one because I’ve done it virtually all my life. For the past several years, however, I did learn to shop and cook for my mother, oldest sister and me. Now I cook for one again, but even that can be rewarding, especially in the face of tax preparation or making sense of a dwelling long-growing out of control.
This afternoon into the night an oak fire has burned in the woodstove, a chicken has roasted in the oven, I’ve changed my attention between a biography of Thomas Jefferson and presidential politics on CNN, and ultimately I’ve lost interest in the roasted chicken in the oven and the okra-tomato-corn gumbo on the stovetop. Without intention, I’ve prepared for tomorrow. Company would be nice.
The Joy of Cooking—Normangee Texas (January 22, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
I didn’t want to burn up the roads, or gasoline, although I made one intentional trip to the county dump that included stops at the lumber yard and grocery store. I was forced to make a second trip into nearby Normangee Texas for plumbing supplies. Just like any other day, I didn’t want to try making sense of the chaos of worldly possessions that fill the barn where I live—still haven't figured out where to start. The plumbing in the outdoor bath area is repaired and wrapped, having suffered the effects of ice for at least the third time since the new Millenium. The latest damage happened, not in my absence of three months that included the beginning of cold weather, but since I have returned to Texas. I’m not a plumber, however, just the lumber yard pilgrim.
Newly-laid concrete pads finished out with river rock set in concrete lead to the two main entrances of my house. With the help of a neighbor for hire, I’ve once more re-done these approaches. As the saying goes, if I had a dollar for every stone I’ve moved here, well, as the saying goes, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. “Why are you doing this if you’re selling your house,” asked a friend visiting yesterday. Gee, do I even know? Is it to solve a problem that really isn’t perceived as a problem by someone looking to buy this property? Do I just like moving stones? Do I somehow know in my bones that I have to behave like Sisyphus, whose curse was to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll down again, and repeat this throughout eternity? Did I somehow miss the chapter on “do it once… and do it right? Yeah, I missed it, and I didn’t get it right the third time. Shadows of the outdoor bath dance in my brain.
I’ve actually been fairly productive since returning to Texas in late December. The antiques show where I exhibited the second weekend of January didn’t produce much return for me, but it required a lot of work nonetheless—loading and getting there, unloading and setting up, packing and loading out, returning home and unloading—truths that John Q. Public doesn’t realize about the life of a junk dealer. If that were the measure to be realized by my mantra—For Sale, All My Earthly Possessions—I am in deep trouble. It is tough times in the antiques business, a reflection of the sluggish, skiddish economy that apparently troubles the globe right now, and not just the United States. Pull up to the gas pumps, or look at the price for a cardboard tomato, a package of generic cheese, a whole chicken wherever you shop.
I’ve cleaned the landscape here, in preparation for spring. Most of this I did by myself, starting the very afternoon I rolled into the driveway from New Mexico. My neighbor-for-hire helped me finish this first push. Now only the roses wait for Valentine’s Day. I’ve worked on my taxes, filed my annual sales tax report, changed cell phone providers, and sorted through the box of mail that collected while I was away in northern New Mexico for several months. The push is still in front of me—getting all my tax information ready for the expert who does my tax return, doing the same for our mother’s tax return…for the one month she lived in 2007…, and somehow trying to liquidate some of my worldly possessions. I’d rather cook. I’d even rather make runs to the lumber yard for plumbing supplies.
Today, with cold, gray skies overhead and a light mist driving the chill deeper, I cooked. At the local grocery I opted for a whole chicken, frozen okra and corn, tomatoes canned with garlic and onions—my taste buds calling for a Southern treat. Outside of treasure hunting, which I have given up even before Lent, two things come naturally to me—digging in the dirt and cooking. All of the things that draw me involve a sense of the past and eyes somehow cast towards tomorrow.
Cooking is something best done for others. Consider the women who don’t seem to figure out how to shop and cook for two after the nest is empty, or when they are finally truly alone in the house. I spent time at my middle sister’s home over the weekend of my lackluster antiques sale. Returning to her place late Saturday—the house in which the three Hollis children grew up—I found a table laden with chicken gumbo and yummy sticky rice, hamburger casserole, peach and buttermilk pies. As the saying goes, there was enough to feed an army. I know how to shop for one because I’ve done it virtually all my life. For the past several years, however, I did learn to shop and cook for my mother, oldest sister and me. Now I cook for one again, but even that can be rewarding, especially in the face of tax preparation or making sense of a dwelling long-growing out of control.
This afternoon into the night an oak fire has burned in the woodstove, a chicken has roasted in the oven, I’ve changed my attention between a biography of Thomas Jefferson and presidential politics on CNN, and ultimately I’ve lost interest in the roasted chicken in the oven and the okra-tomato-corn gumbo on the stovetop. Without intention, I’ve prepared for tomorrow. Company would be nice.
The Joy of Cooking—Normangee Texas (January 22, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
2 comments:
Hi Harold,
Your writing seems to get better and better. As I have already mentioned to you I love to read your blogs!
This blog "Joy of Cooking" makes me homesick for your place even though I have never been there.
Keep writing those delicious essays.
Sandra Walker
Hi Harold, maybe you should have set up at the Red Barn show, it was actually pretty good!! But, you're right if people only knew how hard it is to be junk dealer, they wouldn't even think of asking for a discount, maybe they'd even pay more or give us a tip; ok, so I'm dreaming...
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