Deep River Writing Workshop
10 March, 2021
Prompt: https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-journal/rembrandts-late-self-portraits-by-elizabeth-jennings
20 minute write
Meeting up at French Quarter Fest in New Orleans might have been my idea, or it might have been Mississippi Ann’s inspiration. We were overdue for an excuse to get together, and the idea of melding a small group of her friends and mine appealed to us both. I had met Mississippi Ann on a flight years ago. At that time she was just in the process of relocating to Sacramento from Mississippi. I’ve always had a preponderance of friends named Ann, so adding one more to the mix was bound to be confusing, ergo the moniker reflecting her place of origin. I’d been boarding a too-early-in-the-morning flight home. After a four day business trip concluding with a boozy late night sales dinner I was tired, hung over and cranky.
I made my way down the aisle casting about for a possible window seat where I might catnap across half the country, cursing the Southwest airlines protocols and my lack of frequent flier status on this non-business carrier. As I paused mid aircraft an attractive blond woman on my left beamed up at me, “Y’all want to sit here?” she indicated two free seats next to her. Neither was a window seat. Appallingly I replied, “No, that’s OK, I’m looking for a window seat.” Her immediate reply of “Y’all can have my winda!” sealed our friendship. She claims that after I asked for the window in order to get some sleep, I proceeded to talk to her for the entirety of the three hour flight. It’s a story we both love to tell. Ironically Mississippi Ann is now a flight attendant for Southwest airlines. It suits her perfectly.
Our differences were obvious — a New Jersey native, transplanted to California, cynical and blunt, bordering on crass, careless about my appearance and a Southern belle, always incredibly coifed and put together, gracious and hospitable and coy with the men. A septuagenarian debutante. Somehow, we learned to love those differences and when a disastrous break up threatened Mississippi Ann’s safety and health a few years later, I was able to offer her sanctuary. The bond of our friendship was sealed.
Ann and her friends, Mississippi Linda and Mississippi Iris (as I called them) were all cut from the same cloth. A good ten years older than I am they look amazing, and work really hard at maintaining their remarkable appearances. They good naturedly fight aging at every turn; botox injections, aggressive daily workouts, skin and hair products, make up tricks and cosmetic surgery are integrated into their conversations.
The friend I chose to join me at French Quarter Fest was Jill, a college comrade who had remained in New Jersey, and who was overdue for some fun and music. Jill was now acting as full-time caregiver to both her infant granddaughter and her aging father. After retiring from finance a year earlier, Jill had let her hair go fully gray, and arrived in New Orleans with a small carryon suitcase of frumpy clothes worse even than the less-than-flattering discount store odds and ends that I had assembled. We were a study in what not to wear and about to spend the weekend with Charlie’s Angels.
That weekend could have gone one of two ways, but when a large SUV pulled up at the airport to collect me and Jill, and three decidedly hot but undeniably aging Southern women waved frozen margaritas out the windows which had been freshly acquired at a near-by drive through cocktail bar and shouted “HEY! You made it! We got y’all some drinks!” I had a pretty good idea that it was going to work out after all.
Prompt — photo, face down on sand
10 minute write
Flat Out. I was seriously good tired yesterday, and it had been a while since I felt that way. And like getting into good trouble, purposefully getting yourself good tired feels righteous. Early in the pandemic I had socialized the idea with close friends and neighbors of offering some curbside Covid 19 catering. Knowing that many people were stretched thin, and struggling myself to remain useful and relevant, it seemed like an appropriate offering to fill a need. Parents who were exhausted from trying to work remotely while home schooling two or three kids, single friends used to dining at restaurants most evenings and older folks intimidated by the risks of shopping in the markets were all delighted with the service. Reasonably priced home cooked food, carefully prepared and packaged, available for pick up twice a week after five. The meals were definitely a success, and I threw myself into it for months.
Once everything started to go to hell, I took a pause. Too many human contacts, too much spread of disease, too close to the holidays, too much work to do extricating myself from a too long, too unproductive and too mundane relationship.
Having recently availed myself of two vaccine shots, admittedly a bit ahead of schedule, I decided that my penance for taking advantage of a vaccine dose ahead of those who would have been better candidates would be to reopen curbside catering. And so, without the assistance of my former lover slash sous chef I took orders for 34 meals yesterday, smoked 8 racks of ribs, prepared four pans of green chile mac and cheese, shredded a bucket of cabbage for slaw, prepared my own tangy barbecue sauce and spontaneously added an espresso brownie bite and watermelon cubes to each order. Crazy busy, dancing, cooking, smiling, chopping, laughing, hustling, tasting, plating and cleaning. Until at the end of the day, with the dishes washed and with text messages of appreciation pinging on my phone, I laid myself down in bed, flat out. It felt great.
