Sunday, July 5, 2009
So, Hollywood, that's what they called me. At least towards the end of season two and thereafter. It was May and we moved from the Mobile area down into the peninsula in the area of Cross City. The weather was hot for the intensely physical demands of hoeing the row. Gravy and I in usual fashion would hit the row early and hard, slam in a bag, approximately 1000-1500 loblollys. While the rest of the crew was still afield we figured it was too f***ing hot to go back out while the sun was directly overhead. So like any adventurous wild men we decided we'd hit town for a while. Town was a pretty small affair with little to offer, but there was a bar, with a drive through window, a guy on a horse rode up and got a six-pack while we were there, pool tables and simple fare. We had lunch more than a few beers and shot a few games. Around 3 PM we figured we should head back to get another bagful in the ground. Charlie saw our sorry state and wouldn't let us back on the row so I went back to town to prowl around the thrift stores to find some row threads. Our crew had developed an interesting habit of dressing up or down or maybe sideways for the row. This helped to lighten things up and infuse a bit of humor to the hard work and long days. I found a bright yellow shirt with quarter sized blue polka dots and a pair of red white and blue skiers sunglasses. Deciding a little more overhaul was in order I stepped into the back of my home on wheels and shaved off a six months beard exposing some very white flesh comparing to the tan the rest of my skin sported. Getting back to the site decked out and feeling pretty good, I emerged from my vehicle in stealth circumnavigated a few other interesting rolling dwellings and was greeted by Johnny Z's loud exclamation "who's that Hollywood dude?" and there you have it and so did I.