Southern Comfort

~Tales From The Deep South~

 She was a Southern cat, born a few miles south of I-10, just below the Mason-Dixon line. She was Pesky by name, and most certainly pesky by nature. This cat, one of the orange tabby tiger-striped variety, was aggressive and outgoing, living up to her reputation in more ways than one. Take doors for instance. No matter how tight you closed the screen doors, wanting in or out, if she couldn't open the door, she would shred the screen with claws honed razor-sharp, and prance on through in the most nonchalant way. She was fiercely independent, determined, but never hesitated to throw herself tummy side up for a good belly rub.

Pesky came to us courtesy of a couple of friends; he studying Lord knows what at a religious institute of Higher Learning, located in a small Florida town, which shall remain unnamed, I for one preferring to live to tell another tale. This institution was presided over by a President whose wife spent many a hot sultry night in the Emergency Room of the tiny country hospital, her body covered with bruises; coming, alas, from Lord knows where. It was a small town, only once removed from the swamps; located a few watermelon stands south of Alabama. Walk half a mile in any direction and you're in the country, surrounded by rivers, 'gators, spiders as big as your hands, mysterious swamp ponds, and even more mysterious swamp people.

Just bear with me for a while, I promise this is a cat story. It is joked for every mile you travel inland in Florida, the IQ of the general population goes down one point. But, I'm talking about good honest folk who live in humble tin-roofed dwellings, two room shacks, each one with the mandatory rickety front porch. The rooms have no ceilings, and bare light bulbs dangle 'longside a twisted up fly paper or two. Drive by fast (although on the one track roads leading into the swamp, this might prove a mite tricky) and through the bare board cracks, you can almost see what the occupants are having for dinner. In the lingering heat of the evening, you can spot a couple of dogs hunkered down under the front porch cooling off in the shade. Above, at porch level, a mess of cats dines on leftovers of corn pone, red beans and rice, always to the accompaniment of the steady hum-buzz of flies, and never without a swarm of gnats. You go nowhere in Florida without your halo of gnats.
These families most often lived off the swamp. There was 'gator when no one was looking. Barbecued, succulent; sauteed, or roasted...a real culinary treat. 'Possum can be fixed in more ways than you or I could ever dream up. They even have festivals to honor this dinner time staple. "Trot" lines weaving their way across the limpid swamp ponds are tended daily to "ketch a chicken' or two for dinner." (Snapping turtles, able to take off your arm with one bite!). And, of course, the staple of swamp cuisine, catfish, or crappy, fried crispy or blackened in true 'cajun style, served with hush puppies to mop up the juices. Turnip greens is the vegetable of the week, and no one makes biscuits like those who live in the swamps... except maybe Popeye's.

Back to the Cat! The limit for shooting deer in Florida is one a day, but calling them deer is pushing the bounds of literary fantasy. Due to adaptation, climate, or just plain cussedness, Florida deer, although plentiful, don't grow up to be much bigger than dogs. Hunting in swamp country could consist of walking out your backdoor yard, crossing the farmer's dormant soybean field and traipsing into the nearby woods. Now as a general rule, Pesky sure did like to hunt. It's said that cats only ever play one game, and that's hunting, and they are not far wrong on that one.

In the chill of a winter morning, Jay, the boy hunter, in the manner of his swamp buddies, would rise before dawn to prepare himself to hunt in the woods across the field. Dressed warmly against the crisp December morning (we are talking Northern Florida here), he would steal quietly away from the warmth of the sleeping household. In his wake, marching briskly, tail up, with paws lifted high as she tiptoed across the frost-bitten stubble, Pesky hurried to match his stride, criss-crossing over to run alongside. She was always the reliable hunting companion, ready to go. Jay, about 11 at the time, small and lithe, bundled up against the cold, a red hunting cap pulled down over his head to protect his ears, Dad's 50 caliber muzzle loader slung across his shoulder, would stride toward the woods with a purpose, a bobbing orange shadow always in his wake. Together, they disappeared in the thin hoary mist rising from the fields in the pale, early morning light.
Crossing into the trees, Pesky running ahead, they searched for that special tree chosen earlier that fall in which to build a deer stand. Moments later, Jay climbed up the familiar tree and settled into his comfy perch, followed quickly by his small tabby companion. The next few hours would be spent in silence, eyes narrowed, peering deeply into the mist, ears pricked and strained, listening for movement in the dense thickets surrounding them? Pesky would cuddle up, and Jay rubbing her neck, appreciated the warmth she willingly shared as they sat in the chill silence of the pre-dawn hours. Cat ears, sharp as they are, pricked at the slightest sound, her elegant golden head raised, eyes narrow slits, ears all a'twitch. What was that! They looked, peering, seeing only shadows in the mist. They listened, sounds frozen in the icy air. Nothing ventured across their path in the early dawn. Finally, the sun crept higher in the sky, bathing the woods in a warm ruddy glow, rising above the trees; a dazzling display of golden shards of light, dispersing the mists like magic, releasing its glowing warmth into their chilled bones.

In the long silence, they had waited for their prey, neither one had seen or heard anything larger than a covey of quail, flushed out by a fat dark cottonmouth slithering silently down to the nearest swamp pond. Pesky stretched, yawned, questioning. Wasn't it about time to leave? Birds began to chirp, their talk shrill and clear, announcing another day of foraging and feeding. Stomachs rumbled, both cat and boy felt the pangs, and having nothing to show for their endeavors, breakfast sounded like an awful good idea. Descending from the tree the pair hurried back to the warmth of the house.

After breakfast had eased the discomfort that comes with not eating for a few hours, a light bang of the screen door, a muffled dull thud caught Jay's attention. He opened the back door to find on the porch, not a rabbit, not a possum, and certainly not deer meat, but a large squirrel, still warm, feet awry, head askew, tail straight out. A calling card of condolence... perhaps? Of a cat, flaunting her prowess, letting us know who was the real hunter in this family!

 A HOOT 'N A HOLLER


One stormy afternoon in the Northern Florida panhandle, I found myself making tempting tidbits for the baby screech owl perched on my son's shoulder as they sprawled on the floor in front of the TV. Chop Chop ruffled his mottled feathers and with a shudder, gulped down meatball after meatball. Uttering a throaty "chop chop" - the sound from whence he got his name - he demanded more.

This particular owl was found in a primordial swamp pond, about 75 miles up from the Gulf of Mexico. He'd spent his first hours screeching forlornly, as spiders as big as your hand made their scritchy scratching way over the trunks of tall Cypress trees as they bathed their knobby knees in the cool green-gold waters of the bayou.

Now, you might ask, what was a baby screech owl doing with a boy for a playmate, and TV for entertainment? Holmes County, Florida, is a world away from Palm Beach, and the only Cadillacs here are likely to be covered in Kudzu. Paid employment is hard to come by if you're not related to the good 'ole boy who does the hiring. This fact has a way of persuading folks to turn to the swamps to fill the freezer.

Now you won't find this kind of swamp pond sitting by the side of the road easy like. They are usually down the sorriest excuse ever made for a road. As you slowly pick your way in, bucking over humps and dipping deep into axle-swallowing pot holes, scrub pines line the pathway, set so close they reach into your car windows to snatch out an eyeball at the first opportunity.

You might spot a few tin roofed shacks scattered here and there. Shacks inhabited by swamp people. Passing by you wonder how people manage in such humble surroundings; no ceilings, carpets or wall coverings; playing out their roles in dimly lit rooms, light bulbs dangling forlornly from wrinkled dried up wires.

 But the heart of these simple dwellings, is the kitchen with its massive wood stove, a basket of "lighter'd" wood set by the hearth, and in the center, an oilcloth covered kitchen table.
Here, game is butchered, fish cleaned, vegetables canned, biscuits beat, babies changed, and friendships formed, as girls from eight to eighty chatter over coffee; love, guidance, and know-how trickling down from generation to generation. The only running water is the kind you run out and pump yourself, and an outhouse is a reality, not just a faded memory. If you take time to stop and visit, you'll become friends with those fiercely independent but God-fearing folks who have a canny way of stretching out a dollar, and by listening closely, learn how you too can gather sustenance from the larder of the Lord.

It was in just such a way we determined most anything living in the swamp and not protected by law, could legally be eaten, or sold to the Snake Man down Caryville way. We spent balmy evenings drifting lazily around on isolated swamps and waterways catching thick powerful water moccasins, lithe and wary rattlers, and the beautifully decked out king and corn snakes. We searched for box turtles, and mud turtles. We even ran catfish "trot" lines for lightning fast alligator turtles whose snapping jaws could amputate your finger quicker than you can blink, but fried up better than chicken from the local Piggly Wiggly. We caught frogs; giant croaking bullfrogs, iridescent green tree frogs, and warty old toady frogs who seemed to fall from the sky like pennies from heaven with every summer rain.
But back to the owl. It was on such a foraging expedition on an early summer evening, that Jay and his Dad heard the screeching way down the bayou well before they even came close to the pond. When they came upon him, he was slap dab in the middle of the swamp pond. There he sat, sturdy talons clinging fiercely to a lofty cypress branch. His mother hung limply beneath him, snarled and tangled in a catfish line left by some careless fisherman.

Jay, being the more agile of the two, was elected to do the climbing, and with much hopping from limb to limb, with the aid of a little cussing and a long-handled fish net, the little fellow was snagged, dropped safely into the boat, and popped into the cooler. As he still didn't know diddly about flying, there wasn't much one could do but pack him up and bring him home.


Having outlived four kids, "Look Ma, can we keep it?" was a question I reckon I'd heard once or twice before in my lifetime, and providing it didn't slither, have eight legs, and wasn't too much bigger than a bread box, it was okay by me. He was a pretty little thing, sporting soft speckled grey and tan feathers, slender legs cloaked in a silvery velvet fuzz. Circles of tan, black, and grey surrounded his large trusting heavy lidded eyes. Learning to live with an owl wasn't that much of a chore. We built him a perch, gave him a water dish, dug out a stack of old newspaper, then consulted with the closest zoo to learn more about the care and feeding of baby owls. He dined on fish, hamburger balls, pieces of chicken, and other carnivorous treats, and if you weren't quite fast enough, with his powerful beak, he'd occasionally try a finger on for size.

Pesky, our hunting cat - but that's another story - consistently generous about leaving dead rodents on the back stoop, provided a steady supply of owl snacks. Although, I must say, watching an owl devour a mouse in one gulp tends to curb one's own appetite some.
Cute as he was, and as surely as he had snuck his way into our hearts, we had to remember he was a creature of the wild, and we knew we couldn't keep him very long. He had to learn to fly, to hunt his own food, in order to fulfill his role as a bird of prey and take his rightful place in the general scheme of things in the steamy swamp ponds from whence he came.

By the time the finger snacking habit had begun to get a little "out of hand" it was time to say goodbye, and too soon, the sad day arrived.
Tucked safely in the arms of a kindly gentleman who worked with rescued wildlife, Chop Chop was taken off to "Bird School." Here he would slowly but surely learn to make the complex transition from the relative safety of captivity, to once more face the perils and hazards that go hand in hand with the freedom of life deep in the dark mystery of the Florida swamps.