The Skinny Island Post

The Feral Poet is an enigmatic, sometimes mysterious person.  We learned just the other day that he very nearly had a career as a musician.

Segovia, Montoya, and Me

Begun with a long look
at rain coming down
on a late blue lawn,
then finished with words

encased in wine, my friend explained
that it takes a good guitar years
to get used to being one,
and then, that there is a certain

time of day it plays best.
For some it is morning, before
morning, really,
in the last hours of night.

For others it is a syrupy afternoon
or crumpled evening on a porch.
Rarely is it mid-day.
Mine sleeps against a wall,

dreaming.  Occasionally there is
the brittle hum of insects, and once
an owl flew out of the sound hole
and a man laughed in Spanish.

The Fixins

Celebrating Cinco de Mayo is kind of a recent phenomenon on Skinny Island, we think, certainly in the environs of the little hacienda.  We are certain our ancestors up the road a bit didn’t give it much credence, if they even knew about it.  Historically speaking, when the event occurred on which the celebration is based, namely the unlikely defeat of a French force by Puebla Mexicans in 1862, (not Mexican Independence) we were engaged in a little difference of opinion of our own down here.  That said, it is a boon for bars and restaurants, particularly those with some outdoors ambiance, and we have gradually and somewhat reluctantly warmed to the idea, if on a small, private scale, aided by a little personal affinity, born of travel.

We toasted Cinco de Mayo last year, fittingly, poolside in San Antonio, on the first leg of The First Farewell Tour, and continued toasting throughout the desert southwest as long as the Tequila held out.  With no blender, and wary of carrying glassware in the camping gear, our Margaritas were served on the rocks in all-purpose plastic, but seemed to suffice.  Not surprisingly, the desert is by far the best environment for imbibing tequila.  It’s natural; it fits.  That warm internal glow is ineffably enhanced by the mystery of the desert in last light, as one discovers kinship with creosote, sage, juniper, jack rabbits, and agave.

So, yearning for the desert, our toast tonight will be to returning to that magic land a time or two more.  Well fought.  Cinco de Mayo, y’all.

As we have said, we are very water-conscious here on Skinny Island, particularly in the environs of the little hacienda.  We don’t get near enough rain, and what we do get we try to capture and store for use in the garden and for the few ornamental plants that otherwise manage to survive in this harsh environment.  We have the washer drain to a barrel outside (gray water) for plant use as well.  We take short showers; never leave the water running when brushing teeth or doing dishes; and generally freak out when the infrequent guest does.  All of which leaves us somewhat chagrined in light of a conversation we had coming back from Amelia Island last night.

I don’t remember the context, I guess it was gliding through a purple dusk anticipating summer, but somehow the subject of playing in the hose when we were kids came up.  Both Papa and Meemaw are Florida natives, and spent the majority of our childhood in heat and humidity, and consequently, inventive ways to cool off.  Meemaw claims to have had an above-ground pool– not a wader– at one point, which in Miami was something of a rarity, but not the Harrison children.  If we weren’t frolicking in the Gulf, our chosen method of cooling off was an event called “Playing in the Hose.”  Everybody did it.  It began with you moaning and whining about being hot and having nothing to do, and when she’d had enough, mom saying, “Why don’t you go play in the hose?”

Advocates of the “Slip ‘n Slide” may or may not pay historical respect, but the fact remains, “Playing in the Hose” preceded any commercial adaptation.  Technically, of course, for the uninitiated, uninformed, or just plain slow, you weren’t really playing in the hose, you were playing with the hose, or better yet, playing in the water provided by the hose.  It was a simple process really, and could be practiced alone if necessary, but always better in small groups, i.e. friends, cousins, even sisters.  You took turns; everybody had to be a squirter, that is, man the hose and, controlling the flow with the thumb, administer the water in as creative a fashion as personal gifts allowed.  The rest got to run through, or otherwise act the fool in the stream of water.  This could go on for hours, usually until well after dark.  I cringe now to think of the thousands of gallons of water that went into that play, but hey, it was watering the lawn.

“Making It Rain” was probably the most popular variance, accomplished, of course, by pointing the hose skyward and achieving a rain-like effect by skillful use of the thumb on the stream.  Some could do it, and some could not.  Arcs, straight blasts, stingers, and sticking the hose into one’s swim trunks were other variations.

Those were the fundamentals.  The next step, and for some an advancement of the technology, was “Playing in the Sprinkler,” with the sprinkler in question usually a small rotating device with four arms that, when turned on, threw water amazing distances, and much later, toward the end of the Playing in the Sprinkler Era, the aluminum arch that sent forth an anemic rainbow of water.  Clearly, though Playing in the Sprinkler freed everyone to run amok, it lacked the nuance, the creative spirit, of Playing in the Hose.  It is a vague memory, so I must have been a small child, but we at one time had a metal clown figure you stuck in the ground, with a bib on the back for attaching the hose.  He either spit, or spewed, or vomited the water as you ran past, which was both exhilarating and terrifying.  Long after he was retired for some malfunction or disinterest on our part, he stood in a corner of the garage and leered at me, dying a slow death of rust, but smiling unnervingly, nevertheless.  I think he may have influenced my negative feelings for Playing in the Sprinkler.

Could I still do it?  No, I don’t think so, even if physically able.  I couldn’t let myself.  Too much has changed; too much has grown inside; things like responsibility, stewardship, conservationism; things that, while certainly necessary, often are unsmiling, even grim.  That said, the memory delights, and my idea of a perfect world would certainly include enough water for “Playing in the Hose.”

* * *

Despite our best efforts, The Feral Poet located us in Fernandina, and offered the following:

Feral Shrimp

25 booths
peddling shrimps
degraded
in many ways,
only one offering
wild caught.
The others,
we assume,
were domesticated,
with names like
Pinky, and Jim.

The Skinny Island Post is on the road this weekend, at the Amelia Island Shrimp Festival, a people watching bonanza. We have a booth showing paintings done by the editorial board. Can you say “Self Portrait?” stay tuned.