Swords into Plowshares: An Essay
The pops of a shotgun awakened me. It was a crisp, November morning, squirrel season, too beautiful to stay inside – but too dangerous to walk in the woods. It was our land, but Louisiana country folk don’t cotton to northerners buying up land and posting “no hunting” signs. We’d already had our gas yard-light shot out, and my just-planted winter pansies rolled over by not-so-accidental truck tires.
So my husband and I decided to go to the local wildlife preserve for a walk through the sweet gum and cow oak turning red and gold against the evergreen of loblolly pine. We took the long trail, and when we finished, our stomachs echoed the squawking of overhead migrating geese. We headed to the closest restaurant, The Stumpwater Inn. Sounded inviting. We asked for stumpwater. They didn’t have it. But they had fried catfish and the choice of three veggies. I took black-eyed peas, creamed potatoes, and flat Italian green beans. The customers next to us had pulled two tables together and were having some kind of reunion. We listened. Blanchard’s 100th birthday – town hall dedication – flea market.
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