Too Happy to be Creative?

My creative juices have gone stagnant, thick with algae, green flies swarming over the surface. I’m not sure how they got this way, only know they aren’t moving me in, urging me to write. I don’t wake with poems churning in my head. Could it be I’m too happy? Is that a real thing, too happy? Over the last 15 years, I’ve experienced some life changing and devastating life experiences, and through them all, I’ve gotten up every morning eager to write them down. I’ve raged at God, questioned my sanity, wondered if I would ever survive. But now, life is settled and stable as I face the upcoming tenth anniversary of Clint’s death. I survived the fourth anniversary of Parrish’s death at the hands of an incompetent staff at Gateway. I have almost forgotten the times I was so depressed I got lost on my way to the hair salon I frequented for years, the times I go lost trying to find the barber shop so Clint could get a haircut, the times my short term memory was so completely absent I couldn’t construct an coherent sentence. I am surrounded by natural beauty and fast friends and family who love and cherish me. I even have a social life of sorts, meeting with life-long friends for cocktails almost every Friday. I go to Sunday School but not church.

The beach beacons in the spring weather, and I often take my dogs there so we can all get some ocean air and exercise. Yes, we have another dog now, an All American Dachshund-Terrier mix adopted from a shelter near Atlanta. He’s as laid back as Della is wound up, so they are good for one another. I even have a little bit of a tan. We have experienced extremes in the tide and some days the water is sucked out so far to sea, it looks as though the beach goes on forever. Other days, the sheets of water, bearded with foam, lap against the dunes. 

I’ve been stitching a needlepoint pillow and watching French Open tennis on TV, caring for my orchids, all five of which are in bloom, decorating my house with their exquisite beauty. The birds are well fed, their water station filled and ready in case they get thirsty, and I have moon flowers planted in the back yard. I’m not that crazy about the marsh rat that comes to my bird feeder every afternoon at dusk, prompting me to take it down every evening, but, hey, he was to eat too. I take a certain surprising joy in keeping house and yard. But I haven’t felt compelled to sit down and write about it. Do I need to be in crisis to be stirred to record my feelings? 

Fonda, my dear and precious friend, is here with us for a few days. Word nerds both, we have filled our time with crossword puzzles and other word games. And there is all the talking and catching up and just loving being in one another’s presence. She brought two containers of her famous pimiento cheese, and we have been feasting on that. Crab Man caught us a small mess of crabs, and we picked them out and I made us a pot of crab and sweet corn soup. I steamed some fresh shrimp Crab Man caught off the pier in his cast net. Life is certainly good. 

I am filled with gratitude. I get to live here on my beautiful Saint Simons Island, where the Live Oak trees offer shade that keeps us a little cooler than the mainland, where boas of Spanish moss sway from their branches as though conducting a secret Island orchestra heard only by those of us who are attuned to it. Sunlight filters its way though the branches in glorious streaks. It’s easy to see why people come from all over the world to catch a little handful of the magic we enjoy year round. Yes, it’s almost summer, and it’s hot, but that’s just the trade-off we have to make for getting to live here.

There is no crisis. There is no angst. I have learned forgiveness and acceptance. It seems impossible my life has ever been wracked with loss and anger and mental imbalance. My Xanax bottle sits untouched in the bathroom cabinet, and I am flanked by Della and Hank, my precious dogs, who bring me such joy, yes joy, a sense of steadfast contentment and belonging. Gretchen is a good roommate, and I am grateful to have her with me.

Maybe all this happiness will stir those creative juices, act a little like chlorine and clear them up. In the meantime, I’ll just keep on feeling content and fulfilled. 

Beach-Walking and Crab-Cooking

  An old friend once advised me to spend New Years Day doing the things I want to do for the rest of the year. Besides visiting  my long time friend, Laura, in the hospital, which I certainly hope won't happen again, I accomplished a couple of things Tuesday which I hope will foreshadow my new year. 

The weather was fine on with the temperature registering a comfortable 81º. So, in the middle of the afternoon, I donned a sleeveless linen dress and a pair of sandals and took Della to the beach. Once we were on the soft sand, I kicked off my sandals, and we walked to the edge of the ocean to dip our feet in the cool water. I wiggled some sand up between my toes, and we started our walk. You would have thought it was the middle of summer. A light breeze was blowing from the south, and the beach was crowded with colorful umbrellas, under which sat people of all stripes, from toddlers to old folks. There were stickball games, Frisbee exchanges and Happy New Year greetings etched in the sand. Small children in floppy hats splashed and squealed in the water as we passed. Three catamarans were parked in the surf, ready to skim across the water, and bright kites sailed above it all. Optimistic fishermen anchored their rods in PVC pipe pounded into the sand and waited for a bite. 

And there were dogs, lots of dogs, reminding me of all the times I read P. D. Eastman’s Big Dog, Little Dog to Parrish when he was a small child. Della was in heaven. Except for a cranky old woman who were afraid my 12-pound dog was going to somehow harm their large, coifed and bejeweled darling, Della was welcomed by all when she swooped in to see who wanted to play. Okay, okay. There is a leash law. And we routinely break it—but we’re not the only ones. Della is trained to return to my heel after venturing off and whenever she hears the command, “Here!” 

Yes, that’s a rationalization, but don’t forget what the character Michael said in The Big Chill: “I don't know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They're more important than sex.” 

When we encountered a four-month-old black and white Boxer puppy it was a match, to unabashedly use a cliché, made in heaven. We humans stood around and watched as the pups took turns chasing one another, in circles, in and out of the water, their muzzles bearded with sea foam and sand. It was something to see. 

We walked for nearly an hour before we made it back to my Yukon. I even got a tiny blister on the bottom of my heel. After we rinsed off, Della jumped into the back of the truck and we came home. I was putting her towel in the laundry room when my phone rang.

  “Miss Claudia! I got some big blue crabs! I know you want some of these bad boys!” Crab Man pretty much speaks in exclamations, and yesterday was no exception.

  “I don’t know, Crab Man. It’s late in the day. I just got back from the beach and I’m not sure I want to fool with crabs.”

  “Now, Miss Claudia!”
  “All right, fine. I’ll be down to pick them up in about 15 minutes.”

  Crab Man saw me pull up in front of the Village Pier and came walking up the dock, swinging a ten gallon bucket teeming with some of the biggest blue crabs I have ever seen. He used my big tongs to transfer ten of them into my bucket. I usually don’t want to cook fewer than a dozen, but they were so large, I was afraid my pot wouldn’t hold them all.

  When I got home, I poured water and seasonings into the jumbo-sized aluminum pot I bought myself for Christmas and turned up the heat. My back was to the stove when I first heard the banging. No, the crabs weren’t in the water yet. I was waiting for it to boil. The “boiler” I bought didn’t have a flat bottom, and on my confounded ceramic cooktop, it was throbbing back and forth, more rapidly as the water got hotter. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. I tried to true it up, reposition it so it would sit flat, but nothing worked. Rat-a-tat. I finally decided the pot was not designed for the stove but instead was to be used with a propane-fueled fish cooker—outside. Great. Can’t really return it after boiling water in it laced with Tony Chacheres Creole Seasoning. So, I dragged out the big cast iron pot with a porcelain glaze I’ve been using for years but had decided to retire because of its weight. I transferred the seasoned water, brought the whole thing to a boil and poured in the crabs, which filled it to the brim. Twenty minutes later, they were done and cooling in the sink. 

  I snapped off the flippers and claws, then pulled off the backs, broke the bodies in two and cleaned out the innards and gills. Crabs are easier to pick if they’ve been in the fridge overnight, so I boxed them in a plastic tub with a tight fitting lid and stowed them to pick later. I'll be making crab and sweet corn soup this afternoon.

  Happy New Year, everyone. May you have many days of your version of beach-walking and crab-cooking in 2019.  

© 2019 cj Schlottman