Living Off the Grid
In the Deep South, the dirt is red. It’s dark clay that’s thick and slippery when it rains. And if you attempt to drive a car on a dirt road after it’s rained you’ll be sliding all over the road, just like if you were riding on black ice.
My aunt Sally Mae live out in “the sticks” in Georgia, in a wooden house, with no electricity and an outhouse for a bathroom, and a huge wooden front porch where, on sweltering hot summer days, my cousins and I would eat watermelons. Spitting the seeds off the porch down onto the dirt below, my favorite cousin Raymond told me “don’ eat the seeds, they’ll grow a watermelon in yer’ stomach if ya’ do”. He seemed so certain of this that I believed him.
I had thirteen cousins from this one aunt, alone. Visiting their house out in the forest was an adventure in itself. And just getting there was half the fun. For my cousins lived so far off the beaten path, that the tiny little town they resided in wasn’t even on the map. And it still isn’t. They were living “off the grid”. Their house was about an hour drive off the main rural route way, way back. You had to drive on a narrow dirt road that was flanked by gigantic trees. The trees got taller and the forest got thicker as you progressed down that red dirt road.
They made moonshine whiskey and grew marijuana for a living. Moonshine is also called “white lightening”, named for the way it just slides down your gullet so fast. And before you know what hit you, you’re toasted. This alcoholic beverage is made from potatoes. The Scotch Irish perfected this many, many years ago, when they migrated here from Scotland to get away from the English. And they’ve been doing it this way since before Colonial times. The whiskey is produced in something called a “Still”. Stills are always hidden way, way back in the woods, so far back that the “law” can’t find it. So far out of sight that we had to walk miles back into the forest. Moonshine is kept in mayonnaise jars and preserved that way.
Not all of my cousins made moonshine. But the ones that did were always the most fun to visit. Their lives were so rural and sort of wild, that as a small child I wanted to stay there and live there. I even began speaking with an accent while there. And I can switch back over to a southern drawl in an instant. It’s surprisingly easy to pick up for a child of six or seven like I was.
All of Sally Mae’s kids ran around in overall, jeans and no shirts or shoes. I remember feeling envious of them because I couldn’t just take off my shirt and run around like them that way, all rough and ready.
They had chickens and coon hounds and grew their own food. I remember eating a lot of tomatoes too. All my aunts could really cook. They made corn bread, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and black-eyed peas. Lard was used in everything they cooked, except grits. I loved their grits. “Shit on the shingle” too was a dish they made. It’s basically chipped beef on toast with a white gravy and pepper over it. My mother learned to make that shit on the shingle too.
I had another cousin, Michael. He isn’t alive now. But he was another character. He was a tall, loud, big boned, flamboyant guy. He had a wild laugh that sounded exactly like a hyena, a wild hyena. When we were small children I remember playing in a plastic pool with him. He and his mother Fay would come out to visit us. He’d always expose himself to me when we were outside in the pool in our bathing suits. As a young innocent girl, I had no idea what I was looking at hanging there between his legs. I remember thinking that he had several of whatever it was supposed to be. I’d usually say something like “you have two?” My reaction wasn’t what he was used to getting I suppose. I remember he got yelled at a lot by his mother, for exposing himself like that. He’d cry and then just do it again.
When Michael came to live with us during what I think were his late teens, it was very entertaining. Instead of shaving the regular way, he used Nair hair remover on his face. He wore polyester, nylon, tight underwear, in all colors of the rainbow. He hand washed then in Woolite and then dry them on the delicate cycle in our dryer. He’d use an entire half hour for drying what my brother called his “ball-huggers”. If my brother caught him doing this, he’s have hell to pay. My brother jay opened the dryer, yanked out a pair of his ball-huggers (preferably the purple pair) and ran through the house waving and whipping the tiny piece of polyester underwear around in the air, around his head and flailing his arm wildly, screaming “Michael’s ball-huggers” over and over. Michael would literally chase my brother all over the house, screaming curse words. My favorite one was, “stankin’ gnat’s twat!” I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded good. I’d laugh hysterically.