happy fifth anniversary, rosewater

Music: The Tear Garden: To Be An Angel Blind, The Crippled Soul Divide (1996)

I have returned from a lovely holiday in Wimberly, Texas, where Brooke and I lounged and toured. Details about Wimberly, and the uber-creepy Pioneer Town, in a future post. Now life is about catching up on email and trying to keep promises before school duties bury me alive.

Saturday was the fifth anniversary of the Rosewater Chronicles. I have been blogging since 1998. I began this dubious practice on livejournal, then moved to blogger for this journal's debut in 2002. Now this blog is housed on my friend's server and uses wordpress software.

To commemorate this monumental achievement, I thought I would paste in my first Rosewater Chronicles post. The post answers a common question ("how did your blog get its name?") and also details my nervous jitters as a newly minted assistant professor. Egad. It's fun and disturbing to read.

Also, to help celebrate and to get my inner-Narcissus aroused, I'd invite readers to rummage around in the archives and share with us their favorite post (or three) from the past five years in the comment section. I'm curious to know what kind of things folks have enjoyed reading the most. I might create a "Rosewater Chronicles Greatest Hits" page or something.

Anyhoo, without further ado, the first post of the Rosewater Chronicles:

Sunday, August 18, 2002

I thought it was time for an update on my whereabouts, my state of mind, and my thoughts about the meaning of life in general, as well as the price of grits in New Orleans per pound (generic, $1.00; brand name, $1.35 to $2.39).

I begin with a perfect, representative peroration from Lieutenant General Simon Bolivar Buckner Jr. to Major General William D. Connor, superintendent of the United States Military Academy at West Point, dated March 30, 1937:

"My Dear General Connor:

"Your letter requesting my formula for mixing mint juleps leaves me in the same position in which Captain Barber found himself when asked how he was able to carve the image of an elephant from a block of wood. He said that it was a simple process consisting merely of whittling off the part that didn't look like an elephant. The preparation of the quintessence of gentlemanly beverages can be described only in like terms. A mint julep is not a product of a formula. It is a ceremony and must be performed by a gentleman possessing a true sense of the artistic, a deep reverence for the ingredients and a proper appreciation of the occasion. It is a rite that must not be entrusted to a novice, a statistician nor a Yankee. It is a heritage of the Old South, an emblem of hospitality, and a vehicle in which noble minds can travel together upon the flower-strewn paths of a happy and congenial though. So far as the mere mechanics of the operation are concerned, the procedure, stripped of its ceremonial embellishments, can be described as follows:

"Go to a spring where cool, crystal clear water bubbles from under a bank of dew-washed ferns. In a consecrated vessel, dip up a little water at the source. Follow the stream through its banks of green moss and wild flowers until it broadens and trickles through beds of mind growing in aromatic profusion and waving softly in the summer breeze. Gather the sweetest and tenderest shoots and gently carry them home.

"Go to the sideboard and select a decanter of Kentucky Bourbon distilled by a master hand, mellowed with age, yet still vigorous and inspiring. An ancestral sugar bowl, a row of silver goblets, some spoons and some ice and you are ready to start.

"Into a canvas bag pound twice as much ice as you think you will need. Make it as fine as snow, keep it dry and do not allow it to degenerate into slush. Into each goblet put a slightly heaping teaspoonful of granulated sugar, barely cover this with spring water and slightly bruise one mind leaf into this, leaving the spoon in the goblet. Then pour elixir from the decanter until the goblets are about one-fourth full. Fill the goblets with snowy ice, sprinkling in a small amount of sugar as you fill. Wipe the outside of the goblets dry, and embellish copiously with mint.

"Then comes the delicate and important operation of frosting. By proper manipulation of the spoon, the ingredients are circulated and blended until nature, wishing to take a further hand and add another of its beautiful phenomena, encrusts the whole in a glistening coat of white frost. Thus harmoniously blended by the deft touches of a skilled hand, you have a beverage eminently appropriate for honorable men and beautiful women.

"When all is ready, assemble your guests on the porch or in the garden where the aroma of the juleps will rise heavenward and make the birds sing. Propose a worthy toast, raise the goblets to your lips, bury your nose in the wind, inhale a deep breath of its fragrance and sip the nectar of the gods.

"Being overcome with thirst, I can write no further.

"Sincerely, Lt. Gen. S.B. Buckner, Jr., VMI Class of 1906.

If you read Buckner's letter without skimming and enjoyed it, Baton Rouge is a great place for you to relocate. Please come join me, and we will frost goblets and partake in the nectar of the gods.

The length of Buckner's recipe for a julep (which is only three lines long in the New York rendition) is a good analog for the pace of life here. From highway commutes to lines at even the largest of grocery chains (including Super Target), haste is of no concern to anyone whatsoever. "Leisurely" is the perfect adjective for the pace of life in Baton Rouge. Slow and traditional, Baton Rouge remains an Old Southern city in *almost* every way one could imagine (I say "almost" because the Spanish, French, and Canadian [cajun] influences have given rise to a number of baffling, quasi-southern practices and expressions that are very foreign to this Georgia native, about which more shortly). In other words, this is not necessarily the best place to be a feminist, nor is it an ideal place to find oneself in a hurry. However, the people in general are friendly, interesting, and willing to chatter endlessly about nothing. Diversity is not an issue, which is refreshing. For longwinded people like myself, the locals here are a good bunch of listeners. One can ramble on endlessly about one's lusty desire for a Vespa scooter or need for decent set of bookshelves, and strangers listen and smile and nod as if they have had the very same lusts and needs. Even better, my southern accent (or what remains of it) is welcomed! I have been mistaken for a native on a number of occasions, which has been oddly refreshing.

The move south went fairly smoothly. For $80 two overworked, underpaid electrical engineers emptied the truck in an hour flat on a hot, summer day (heat index: 110). My apartment--or rather, house--is a two bedroom shotgun duplex in a historic section of downtown Baton Rouge called "Spanish Town." The house has been gutted and refurbished; with hardwood floors and Jacuzzi in the master bathroom, I ain't complaining. The cats seem to like all the extra room and have found the long hallway delightfully skiddable. Two blocks down my Cyprus-shaded street is a small grocery store where the retired locals gather daily for morning coffee. Although a small can of Tang is $7.50, the company gathered outside is cheering. I make it a point to travel down there every Sunday morning for the newspaper. People are beginning to recognize me.

Indeed, the neighbors in Spanish Town, for the most part, are very friendly. My neighbor Maimee, just two doors down, offered to pick me up a hamburger on her way to the store not too long ago.

I live approximately three and a half miles from the LSU campus, a short and pleasant commute. Parking, as is likely with every state university, is a bit of a problem, but I am assured that in seven short years I will have a spot right in front of my building. My office in Coates Hall, however, is worth the hike from the outer limits: With a ten foot window overlooking a large, squirrel-infested live oak in the university quad, I worry about getting work done in my office (in fact, I should not neglect to mention that LSU has one of the most beautiful campuses I've seen. It is quite a lovely place to go to work). Mine is a nice office with many bookshelves and an old wooden desk; after six years in a graduate corral, it is a good thing. At least I can hang up my Jane's Addiction poster without the requisite "censored" bars over the paper-mache private parts. I take the space with some sense of sadness, however, as its former occupant, Harold Mixon, is retiring and will be missed.

School has not started yet, but I am looking forward to teaching two courses in the fall. I am teaching one course in contemporary rhetorical theory, and another in the rhetoric of popular culture. Both courses are right up my alley, of course, and I look forward to engendering a new generation of socialists.

As for the nightlife, I'm afraid I must admit it is nonexistent. Apparently, there used to be a thriving gothadustrial scene here that has since dwindled. I attended one of the last "gothic" nights at a downtown bar here; ten were in attendance (although everyone was frightfully nice and chummy--something that strikes me as odd compared to the usual Minnesota gruftie chill, my buddies excepted, of course). Bit acts do come to town, however. At the club Spanish Moon, not five minutes drive from my door, many notable acts come. Meg Lee Chin and Chris Connelly will be here next month. Even better, The Mission UK will be in New Orleans next month too, an act I do not plan to miss (call it the nostalgic, crustie goth in me).

Most of my time here has been spent unpacking and organizing. I have only recently started working on the projects I left half-finished in Minnesota. I have been cooking a good bit, however, trying out new Cajun and Creole recipes (the food here at local joints is unquestionably delicious). Although my gumbo still needs some work, I must say I have been able to create the most delicious Smothered Greens and Red Beans and Rice ;-) I even picked up a recipe for fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches in Memphis that I hope to try out here real soon; after all, THERE IS A BANANA TREE IN MY YARD.

So far, the hardest part of adjusting to Louisiana culture has been the tropical heat and the used car salespeople.

The weather is, well, simply unbelievable. Hurricane and storm warnings are the norm on television, and the heat index is frequently above 100. The humidity is the most remarkable aspect of Baton Rouge, and days are spent literally, moving as quickly as possible from one air-conditioned space to the next. The winters are, apparently, delightful, and you can be sure I will be advertising that in February when most of you are in sweaters.

The most unexpected adjustment, by far, is coming to terms with the used car television commercials here as "normal. They almost seem like some kind of noir-ish joke concocted by David Lynch and whoever Kevin Spacey's language coach was for *Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil*. Of course, they all begin with someone screaming about unbelievable financing and model clearances and so forth; yet every one of these salespeople end their speeches with a strange coda that, while intended as endearing, is just plain bizarre. One of the most memorable commercials is of a bald man in his late 60s in a motorized wheelchair who urges folks to "come on down and see his wheels." Between his urging he pants in staccato, and moves his arms up and down in awkward, punctuating gestures. At the end of his pitch, his urgent tone softens and he whispers, "Dahlin!" The softly whispered "dahlin" thing is ubiquitous in these local car commercials. And when someone doesn't end with "dahlin'," it is phrase or word even more bizarre. One used car saleswomen, usually dressed in a tank-top and skimpy shorts with a whiney voice that sends my cats into the bathroom in fear (horrid flashbacks of Catherine Lanford of MPR fame), screams "Cha!" at the end of her pitch. Apparently, this is the Louisiana rendition of "Cher," translated as "darling," I'm told.

Well. "Sweetie," "Darlin'," "Cha!" or whatever, these commercials take some getting used to. For some reason, they are much harder for me to accept than serial killers or killer mosquitoes.

Nevertheless, all is well. I am happy to be here. And I miss my friends. If you ever make it to New Orleans, please do look me up. I'll drive down to share a pint or two.

More updates after recovery.