OMG

 

Lyrics from a song, "You Don't Know Me," because you don't. A couple of people know me but you are not one of them, and even they don't know everything that's in all the deepest crevices of my mind. Some things one hardly surfaces even to oneself.

Why am I willing to confess even this much? For one thing, reading the recent article about Robert Frost highlighted that he was a great deal more and other than the folksy country boy poet whom he made sure we his admirers and crowds saw. And some of it was dark.

There's darkness in all of us; most of us make sure it doesn't show. I've embarrassed myself more than once in my nearly ninety years, the public instances requiring public apology, which I've done. Most were more private and personal apology. Some I'll have to rely on Mitch Albom's testimony about The Five People You Meet In Heaven; they'll be the ones who are sent to greet me. 

A minor fact that you didn't know about me concerns my ability to focus: if there's leftover gumbo in the refrigerator, and if there's also a pint of raw oysters that I can cook into the reheating gumbo at the last simmering minute, I can't focus on anything else. That is to say, until it's sitting steaming hot in front of me. 

With the stove burner on high, pour the oyster liquid into the pot of gumbo and let it cook until it's bubbling. When satisfied that it's cooked, pour the raw oysters into the pot and turn off the heat. Let the pan sit on the still hot burner for a minute, then slide it off the burner and stir the pot until you see that the oysters are crinkling, curling around the edges. Stir bringing the oysters to the surface, checking until every one has curled edges. Pour the entire pot of reheated gumbo into a deep bowl (to keep it hot) and serve to yourself. If you want to, snap a photo to print on your blog post.

Large soup spoon, sit down and commence breakfast. 

I am always thankful for anybody's gumbo tradition, which, for me goes back maybe 85 years, eh? Mama's seafood gumbo that she made by memory from learning to cook as she grew up Louise Gentry at 1317 East Strong Street in East Hill, Pensacola in the nineteen-teens and -twenties into the nineteen-thirties. Every cook's gumbo recipe is personal, I've liked them all.

It's Saturday. I'm in a delicious new place in life where I have no commitments except to fill the gasoline tank on Linda's car. My car, a well-worn hand-me-down from Kristen that I kept when I gave my, better, Cadillac to son Joe a couple years ago, gets driven, maybe 500 miles a year. Timewise but not miles-wise, it's due for an oil change. It's never low on gas. I start it up and drive it maybe once a month to make sure the battery stays charged, and every Time I do that the tires have gone square, or at least they have one flat side from sitting in the garage so long, and I get four thump thump thump thumps every Time the tires roll over on the road.

Okay, boring; so, what else is new? A friend sent a photo of a 1933 Chevrolet Eagle. A four-door sedan, it's a magnificent yellow beauty with a side-mount spare tire. Tires were not dependable in those days, nor were the roads, so the more spare tires the better. Topmost was dual side-mounts.

Anyway, the Chevrolet Eagle. This morning I went online to research it a bit. Turns out that Chevrolet renamed the Chevrolet Confederate 

the Chevrolet Eagle for the 1933 model year: so, why doesn't it show in the online car brochures? Because partway through the 1933 model year, Chevrolet added the cheaper and slightly smaller Chevrolet Standard to their car line, 

and changed "Eagle" to "Master." 

Me, I prefer Eagle, but okay. The Eagle/Master had a three inch longer wheelbase than the Standard, and a slightly larger OHV six as its engine. The Standard had black rubber around the window openings where the Eagle and Master had chrome. My reading this morning included a long article about the Chevy Eagle, including reporting that the easiest way to tell an Eagle from a Master is that the Eagle's front windows rolled down to leave the vent window bare (like Chrysler cars were later), while the Master's vent window left in place the strip of chrome that divided the vent from the roll down side window. That's good to know, because you never know what St Peter will ask when you stand at the pearly gate hoping to get in. 

Me, I'm hoping for questions about cars of the nineteen-thirties.  

My other reading early this morning was a long article about GM's companion car program, Oakland's Pontiac (Oakland's downgrade that stuck when Oakland was dropped), Oldsmobile's Viking (a V8 upgrade that lasted one model year), Buick's Marquette (a downgrade that also lasted one year), and Cadillac's LaSalle, a "junior Cadillac" that lasted from model year 1927 through model year 1940 and was for model year 1941 subsumed into Cadillac as the bottom of the line Cadillac Series 61.

As for St Peter at the Golden Gate, I may challenge him to know as much about cars as I've had stuffed into my brain instead of Bible verses all these years. 

There actually was something else that I meant to blog about this morning, but between cars, and gumbo loaded with oysters, I've lost focus. 

Hoping you are the same.

RSF&PTL

T89&c

pics. 1933 Chevrolet Eagle, gumbo with half a pint of oysters and ready to eat, 1932 Chevrolet Confederate, 1933 Chevrolet Standard. 

Comic from The Far Side online 

typed but not edited so may be nonsensical. May be nonsensical anyway.