One time I had driven to Tallahassee, in search of work,
and stopped at The Oaks to eat, on the way home.
I noticed at the cash register a new edition of The Living Dock
at Panacea, with color watercolors by Walter Anderson. I had read
the book, but didn't own it, and in that edition, the author wrote about visiting
Shearwater Pottery in Ocean Springs, after Anderson died, and his widow
showing him the Little Studio he worked in that had 30,000 pieces of art work
in it. I decided to buy the book. A man came up and said, "Do you want me to
autograph that for you?" "Sure," I said. "Are you Jack Rudloe? Inscribe it,
`To Brenda Saunders, Happy Birthday, Jack.'" "Are you Jack Saunders?"
Rudloe said. We had read each other's books but had not met.
We had a mutual friend, Mack McElderry, who lived next door to
Gulf Specimen Laboratory in the Out Back Smoke Shack,
a World War II surplus Army barracks from Camp Gordon Johnston.
To me, the three of us were like Ed Ricketts, John Steinbeck, and
Joseph Campbell, when he visited them in Monterey. Cannery Row.
Ricketts took Campbell on a collecting trip to the Northwest Coast,
where he was introduced to their art, myth, and folklore, and saw similarities
to Indo-European art, myth, and folklore he had studied in Germany.
In fact, Mack wrote a book called Chicanery Row: A Panacea Fantasy.
Also called Panacea Fantasía. Ricketts and Steinbeck took
a Journey to the Sea of Cortez. I thought this book would be
like that one. You know: without going anywhere.
And by myself, instead of with a friend.
Just me in my writing room.
Driving my Morgan.
Having sex with beautiful women.
"The Secret Life of Walter Mitty."