One Christmas when I was still working at
Lucent Technologies, in Atlanta, we drove to
Santa Rosa Beach, for Christmas, and ate at
Pretty Michelle's. Woodie Long brought a pot of
beet tops out of his garden. He grew beets, kohlrabi, and
Swiss chard. I realized I wanted to live where I could
make borscht whenever I killed a chicken, eat mullet,
caught in a local bayou with a castnet, and go to hear
live bluegrass music on the weekends, at The Red Bar, say.
So when I got laid off, that is what I did. Now, Brenda is here
with me and she does that too. We keep the grandchildren when
we can. She keeps chickens. She grows the garden. The first thing
she did was buy a load of mushroom compost and plant Seminole pumpkins
in the front yard. We ate them all winter. Baked, like an acorn squash.
With lime juice and garlic. We shared them with friends. At Halloween.

Thanksgiving. Christmas. Those holidays all make me crazy.
I'm practically a recluse. I don't want to leave my writing room.
I haven't made borscht in a coon's age. But I call myself a beet poet.
I have Woodie Long to thank for that. Woodie, I loved you. You were good to
my kids. They loved you too. Owen and Balder.