Circular Tides

Sander Gets Preachy

   It was July, it was hot, which was no surprise to anybody or their cousin. What was surprisin’ was just how hot, hot was. I was drivin’ out Swamp Road to check on my friend, full-time swamp philosopher and part-time moonshiner, Sander Van Okra. I was just about to turn off the pavement onto the hard-packed dirt road that runs on out to the woods, when I spotted a momma skunk and her brood crossing the pavement with dainty, quick steps as they tried to avoid the steaming hot blacktop.
   Not much else was movin’ in the heat. The rearview mirror showed a trail of swirling dust behind me as I tested my axles on the unpaved road. I finally spotted Sander’s mail box and turned up the long, rutted driveway toward the house. I stopped about fifty feet from the house and braced myself for the oven of heat as I got out. The breeze helped, as I waited for Sander to wave me on up to the porch.
   His dogs, usually eager to greet me, stayed in the cool darkness under the porch. Sander stepped outside through the screen door and peered through steel-rim, John Lennon glasses toward me. After a moment of scrutiny he motioned for me to join him.
   I noticed a new ceiling fan hanging from one of the beams. It made the porch tolerable and Sander pointed at one of the cypress chairs as he sat in his rocker.
   “How’s it goin’ Sander,” I asked as I sat down.
   “I’ll tell you how it’s goin’ boy, it’s goin’ poorly. Nary a catfish is bitin’ in this heat, and I’ve seen mosquitos the size of hummin’ birds flyin’ past me. But what really puts me out is my last batch of nerve bracer wasn’t up to standards, it’s too hot for the distillation process to proceed the way it should.”
   “I understand your concern.”
   “Plus, it puts me in a foul mood. It’s hard to be accommodating when it’s a hundred and three in the shade.”
   “Who were you havin’ to be accommodating for?” I asked, before I thought better of doing so.
   “That reporter from Channel 7, she means well, don’t get me wrong, but they’re all kinda pushy.”
   “Reporters or women?”
He hesitated a moment, then answered, “Reporters, of course.”
   “Of course.”
   “She wanted my opinion on the possible impacts of that ginormous chicken house operation upriver in Coffee County. That’s more up your creek, so to speak, than mine.”
   “Just ‘cause I’ve got a piece of paper sayin’ I know something about biology and ecology, doesn’t mean I actually do, you know.”
   “I do know that you know that I know that you really do know.”
   “I may need something to drink to help me figure out what you said, Sander.”
   “Well, you study on it, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
   

   One of the dogs, a short-haired mutt, poked his head out and sniffed the air. I offered one of the treats I’d brought, he jumped onto the porch, grabbed the treat and returned to the coolness beneath the porch.
   Sander returned and gave me a jar of clear liquid. I eyed it cautiously.
   “It’s too hot to drink dark liquor, here’s a G&T. Just the thing for a hot day.”
   “So, about the reporter,” I asked.
   “Well, she wanted to know about the environmental effects of the project.”
   “Did you tell her that industrial chicken houses have significant impacts primarily due to waste management issues and air quality concerns?”
   “I did.”
   “Did you tell her about nitrogen loading and the threat of algal blooms that can devastate the health of a river?”
   “I did that too. I gave her your contact info. Told her you were my best student.”
   “Thanks, I guess.”
   “It is hard to believe that an operation that size has not faced more scrutiny,” Sander said.
   “I agree. Maybe a few newspaper articles will help.”
   “Seems like folks just don’t care how they make a buck these days.”
   “I’d rather not see the Satilla poisoned for future generations.”
   “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. We just dodged one bullet by ending the threat of mining right on top of the swamp. Now this.”
   “It is discouraging.”
A mockingbird scolded everything within earshot, as its raucous cry pierced the heavy heat. Sander sipped his libation, lost in thought. The ceiling fan softly whirred. Finally, Sander broke the silence.
   “The lack of respect for our environment is astounding, from littering to corporate greed. You think we would have learned from Love Canal and Times Beach, but apparently we did not.”
   “I guess it’s up to every generation to be good stewards of the land and waters.”
   “If not for people who voiced their opposition, the Okefenokee would be a parking lot by now,” Sander reminded.
   “You’re preachin’ to the choir.”

   Sander once lobbied for the death penalty for litterers, should anyone doubt his commitment to the environmental cause. When I see trash thrown in the river or up and down the road and washing machines dumped in the creek, it makes me think he was right.
   “It’s always been a shell game,” Sander said, “They show you all the new jobs and additional revenue with one hand, but the other hand is hiding the fact that in ten years, everything within a forty-mile radius will be uninhabitable. I call ‘em, the New Carpetbaggers. Get your profits and leave the train wreck in the rear view mirror.”
   It looked like Sander was headed for a full-scale rant, so I tried to derail it before it got out of the hump yard.
   “We’ve got several groups, like Satilla River Keeper for example, that are making a difference. There may be more tree-hugging,’ dirt lovin’ folks than you think.”
   “You’re right, boy. I should be more optimistic.”
   We talked amicably about several other topics. The recent armadillo races had a bit of a controversy when it was alleged that one of the entrants was using steroids. The tri-county corn shuckin’ contest had ended up a tie between the widow Jones and her former best friend, Layla Lucky. Adding to the intrigue was the rumor that the widow was a widow because her husband had a heart attack and inconveniently died in Layla’s bed.
   I declined a second G&T but did accept a care package Sander quickly prepared for me.
   “I still have a bit of the last good batch of nerve bracer,” he said as he handed me a brown paper bag. “I hope this heat will slack off a bit before December.”
   “Me too.”
   In the distance cumulus clouds built up like a wizard’s keep in the sky. Dark blue-purple on the undersides, fleecy white above, angry with lightning flashing and spidering across the horizon. I left a couple of treats on the porch for the dogs, thanked Sander, and headed for the truck. The muted sound of deep, rumbling thunder rolled across the wire grass as I drove toward Traintown.

REMEMBER if you like these stories of Sander, bookmark my site and revisit soon, as there’s sure to be more a developin’ off Swamp Road at the Sander homestead.