Ant Farm Journal, Issue 8 by bellumcreative

IN YOUR STATE

IN YOUR TOWN

IN YOUR HOME

Floating Planning the Perfect “Staycation” Coffee Culture: Refuge Coffee

Benefits of Saltwater Fisher’s The Gulf

Homemade Snowcones Pie Baking Season Cannin’

Issue EIGHT RETREAT

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CREATED BY ELEANOR HILLEY & HEATH VESTER

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CONTENTS ISSUE EIGHT: RETREAT IN YOUR STATE

IN YOUR TOWN

IN YOUR HOME

Three Things Kristen Bledsoe 8-9

Intro to Orange Beach Anna Page 40-41

Hermit Audrey Birkhimer 62-67

Swim Christian Springer 10-15

Underwater Jake Carnley 42-45

Homemade Snowcones Samantha Moats 68-69

Benefits of Saltwater Eleanor Hilley 46-47

Ache for Home Mary Kate McCray 70-71

Beach Blanket Danielle Dillenschneider 48-49

Pie Baking Season Ladies of Ant Farm Journal 72-73

The Gulf Heath Vester 50-53 -

Cannin' Aeryn Connolly 74-75

Old 27 Grill Lake Westbury 18-19 Floating Alex Lazzari 20-25 Planning the Perfect "Staycation" Audrey Birkhimer 26-27 Summer Style Eleanor Hilley, Jennifer Rexrode 28-31 Coffee Culture: Refuge Coffee Christian Hilley, Eleanor Hilley 32-35 -

A Current Temptation Rachael Fowler 56-57 City Donut Samantha Moats 58-59

Homer and Orange Boy Rachael Fowler 76-77 -

Fisher's Eleanor Hilley 60-63

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OUR

FA M I L Y

ELEANOR HILLEY

HEATH VESTER

Co-Founder, Senior Editor

Co-Founder, Senior Designer

Satsuma, AL

Saraland, AL

AUDREY BIRKHIMER

Kristen Bledsoe

Story Telling/Business Intern

Story Telling

Chambersburg, PA

Mobile, AL

AERYN CONNOLLY

RACHAEL FOWLER

Story Telling

Story Telling, Photography

Mobile, AL

JENNIFER REXRODE

Christian Springer

Photography

Mobile, AL

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CHRISTIAN HILLEY

CHRISTIAN MOTT

Director of Photography

Co-Editor

Montgomery, AL

Mobile, AL

Aubrie Ribolla

SAMANTHA MOATS

Advertising & Public Relations Manager

Co-Editor

Fairhope, AL

Mobile, AL

Jake carnley

DANIELLE DILLENSCHNEIDER

Poetry, Photography

Story Telling

Birmingham, AL

Daphne, AL

ALEX LAZZARI

MARY KATE MCCRAY

Visual Art

Story Telling

Birmingham, AL

Mobile, AL

LAKE WESTBURY Story Telling, Photography Traveling Contributor

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IN YOUR STATE

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THREE THINGS Words by Kristen Bledsoe

important: gulls wheeling in the sunlight and Eliot’s white hair of the waves blown back, loving the gentle feet of children in the sun. sweet-salty smells, like caramel, like ribbons ‘round the brim of your hat through which the many-varying sunlight enfolds your eyelashes. syrupy sleep as bronze settles into your skin and worry evaporates through the tips of your fingers, which lightly brush someone else’s. never mind the sand. important: dust caught hazily in a ray. ten years old, held captive indulging lettered dreams, pressed between pages. you envy ancient egyptians for the library of alexandria. but then again there is nothing better than the old plush chair that is swallowing you and the sweet lullaby murmur of highways outside and the knowledge that returning home, there are strawberry popsicles to drip onto your dirty white sneakers (kids’ size 5), your mother to fuss at you, pillows and good night. important: the laughter of your best friends echoing across purpling water, across the unrealized arias of crickets. though it is evening, the air is still warm. everything will change very soon but for now nothing moves. safety in stillness. later will be the snapping of a small fire until you each drift off to where you will sleep. you will sleep and your heart is still. never mind time.

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Swim Photography by ChrIStian Springer

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Learning Haiku #1 by Jake Carnley

when nothing else works a streamer is a sure catch. I came to do more

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Old 27 Grill Words and Photos by Lake Westbury

I pulled in with a satisfying nod in response to the light-turquoise vintage pickup parked out front. I was welcomed by Mary, my server and host, as though I’d stepped up to a friend's door, and invited in for a meal. I chose a wooden table on the patio by the bar. Across from me sat a benched table with a large tree growing right beside it. As an avid traveler, going on thirty years now, sometimes I just miss the simplicity of where and how I was raised. A place where I have roots, a place where I feel deep soul there and yet deep in my soul while there. There are only a few places I’ve ever experienced that: my dad's home now and the home my dad came from. There, the Delta soil of Mississippi produced roses for my 107-year-old great aunt as large as my face. The natural peace gave me enough pause to hear the music we all have in our spirit—songs heard if we only listen. It's as real a feeling as you can get, and let me tell you: that feeling does not succeed when imitated. That's what makes the South so rich and why so many flock there once they get a taste of it. That's why after a lifetime of travel and looking to "go back home" in my spirit for some time, I came to Fairhope, Alabama. And boy, have I gotten a taste of what I have been looking for: Old 27 Grill. Restaurant, bar, and soon-to-be grocery. The voluminous and curious finds throughout the interior, including homemade birdhouses and a wind chime created from kitchen utensils—and other interesting "artifacts," if you will—fit right in with the expectation of the place to draw interesting staff and clientele into its rural expression. The bar also makes its own Old 27 brew and dynamic Bloody Mary mix, and the frozen drinks are made with homemade ice cream from a local ice cream shop. But what's so amazing about this family-friendly local gem, with the rustic artistry per its eclectic homemade interior and decor, is that it lacks what many imitators seem to encourage: a rowdy clientele. How refreshing to be in a real, down-home environment and not be bothered by people who want everyone to know their hair has been let down. True soul is what makes this restaurant wonderful and the Deep South feel like you are home again. For me Old 27 Grill is easy to enjoy. It’s a great place to be and be satisfied, the Southern way.

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FLOATING Art by Alex Lazzari

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Planning THE PERFECT “staycation” Words by Audrey Birkhimer

For a number of reasons, it is not always practical to disappear for a week to an exotic destination. Perhaps it isn’t in the budget or schedule. Asking off work to sit in the house does not seem appealing to most people. However, staying home and being a local tourist can not only save money and time, it can also provide the necessary rest and retreat you need. The first step in planning a staycation is to ask time off from work. Be honest that you are staying in town, but be explicitly clear that you cannot come into work. Make ground rules for yourself and your employer that you are taking time off. It can be easy to justify working when you are 10 miles away, but that will not give you a break from the stress. Next, clean your house. This may be something people forget to do before their staycation. For some it can be stress therapy to clean, for others it only adds to the overwhelming to-do list. It’s acceptable to do home projects, but cleaning the house tends to be more work than fun. Relaxing will be easier in a tidy house, and you won’t have to worry about vacuuming or the heap of dirty dishes. Clear your schedule and to-do list. Friends are always supportive when you are away on vacation, and they will respect your privacy if you want to stay at home to rest. Move appointments if necessary, and pay bills before your time off. Doing this will free you from the daunting feeling of obligations you may normally have. A staycation should be a total break from the regular schedule.

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Next comes the fun part: find things to do. You can do as much or as little planning as you would like. Be a tourist in your hometown. Go on a day-trip to a new or less-familiar city. Spend a little time shopping downtown, or visit a new restaurant. Visiting small businesses not only supports the local economy, but it also helps you discover the soul of the area. Most of the time, people forget what the local scene looks like until they stumble upon a gem of a restaurant or shop. The most important thing is to do something relaxing that you enjoy. But you don’t have to go out on the town each day; other activities suitable for a staycation include going for a hike, painting, or reading a book. Whatever you enjoy doing, now is the time to do it. Staycations are meant to relax and rejuvenate you without the hassle of traveling. Being a tourist in your own town helps you find local flavor. Wherever you are, you can be on vacation by resting from daily schedules and taking time for the little things you enjoy.

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SUMMER STYLE words by eleanor hilley Photos by Jennifer Rexrode

At this time of year, you should be able to feel the warmth on your shoulders and let the breeze run its fingers through your hair. Loose, simple pieces will help you feel free from constriction and rested in mind and body. Be at ease in your clothes because this is a blissful season, not one of confinement.

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Coffee Culture: Refuge Coffee Words by Eleanor Hilley Photos by ChrIStian Hilley In Downtown Fairhope, right around the back corner at Fairhope avenue and Bancroft, sits a coffee shop that Mobile Bay coffee connoisseurs have been awaiting for quite some time. Finally, finding a quality single-origin pour over in this area is not only possible in our homes. Jim Mclean, owner and visionary behind Refuge coffee, is a passionate and humble individual, full of genuine interest for his community and his customers. The shop, open 6:30am6pm, specializes in espresso and a variety of method brew options, including pour over and cold brew. Customers will only find one flavor on the menu at refuge, being mocha—and that is something that we at Ant Farm can really get behind. Starting as a roasting company in Guatemala, this shop has seen the entire process through, “from cherry to cup” as we say, and has positioned itself to enlighten the Fairhope area with its delicious skill. Jim: “There was a vision, that when people leave their house for work, or whatever it is that they do, the world can bring such a cacophony their way—our way— and we have no escape. We are, in a way, stuck between work and home. We wanted to be a place of refreshing; a second living room in the urban center for people.There are certainly other places as such, but we wanted to be one focused on a striving to hit the sweet-spot of fine coffees.

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“The art and science of coffee being such a non-linear process demands complete attention to detail all day long. We enjoy the process of raising up baristas passionate about trying to perfect every drink they create, all the while focusing on being a people committed to loving and fostering community. "Most baristas’ dream is to origin, or the farm where their coffee was grown. We felt led to start at origin, in Antigua, Guatemala, and to then bring origin to south Alabama. Part of our goal is that our customers would get excited about tasting origin coffee, as it is, with no additives. We believe that when you begin with a class A bean, roast it correctly to highlight where it’s from, then put it in the hands of a well trained barista who is striving to pull the perfect shot of espresso, no sugar or flavored syrups are needed.” With a story like that of Refuge, no article can do justice to the hard work and diligence put into making their product. However, we’re sure that if you ask him, Jim would love to share a little with you, while you sit and refresh.

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Home Haiku #2 by Jake Carnley

Mobile Bay is home. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be remembered as, a son of her shore

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IN YOUR TOWN

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WELCOME TO ORANGE BEACH Words by Anna PAGE

Once the salty air fills your nostrils, the worries leave your mind. Vacation has begun, and work can wait. Natives and tourists alike wear more smiles and less clothes, freckled shoulders and noses, and lighter hearts. Here, everyone is smaller everyone is calmer everyone is darker. We are your family, and you are our own, watching the children play near the water, and their mother as she picks up shells. This is a place you can come, and rest a while.

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Underwater Photos by Jake CaRnley

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Benefits of Saltwater Words by Eleanor Hilley

The ocean shares a beautiful dialogue with the human body, both physically and emotionally. It renovates your mind and thoughts, and cleanses your skin and hair. A dip every now and then in natural saltwater has multiple benefits to our bodies physically, and in some cases brings healing to our skin that expensive cleansers only attempt to simulate.

For our hair Have you ever noticed your hair feeling extra soft and boasting a new sheen after a day at the beach? Once rinsed, it becomes clear the wonderful condition that the ocean leaves our hair in. Saltwater acts as a natural shampoo, removing excess oils and adding volume and body to our manes. It is also known to exfoliate the scalp and skin, helping rid signs of dandruff. As plants thrive being watered with rain water, so does our hair when washed naturally in the ocean.

For our skin Saltwater is a healing water. It extracts toxins and dirt from our pores, bringing all impurities to the surface and leaving skin soft and tight. Among the many minerals found in saltwater is magnesium, which can hydrate and give moisture to dry or rough skin types. Additionally, saltwater is a curing agent, able to heal cuts and sores quickly. Many of us have seen a wound heal over the period of a day swimming and playing in the ocean.

For our health As salt is a cleansing agent, it also has been proven to minimize mild acne as well as clear nasal passageways, allowing those with sinus issues to find relief. In breathing the mist of saltwater, our immune system also sees benefits. The minerals in the ocean are absorbed through our skin while swimming, as the components of seawater are similar to that of our blood plasma. The levels of natural magnesium found in the water not only help our skin but also release tension, loosening tight muscles and helping relieve pain that stress puts on our bodies. Whether your need for healing is physical or mental, the ocean is calling.

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Beach Blanket Words by Danielle Dillenschneider

Infinitesimal grains of sand cling to your folds, your seems. Once shaken, you teach us the art of loss— As these grains fling out, you will not fear privation, for soon you’ll find Plenty itself. As this union is attained, you give us a place to settle, and to likewise lose— As I lay me down to bathe, the sun does come with its waves, and as particles seep into skin, my worries weep and dry like gin. Then in this pure inebriate state, we wander in our newfound deliverance— But if lost, we’ll discover you again, oh patchwork quilt, and you’ll remind us of our multifarious hues and histories, the wide welded world as seen from on high. Finding our place, we lose ourselves amongst the infinities of salt and sand.

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The Gulf Words by Heath Vester Photos by ChrIStian Hilley

Orange Beach is a coastal town with a lot to offer, from the high-rise resorts to the local seafood restaurants. All supply a great place to retreat from the bustle of everyday life, but there is one in particular that stands out among the rest: The Gulf. The Gulf is a spot like no other on the Gulf Coast. The building is made entirely out of shipping containers—something we have a surplus of here in the Port City—painted royal-blue. In the parking lot is an electric car charging station and multiple welcoming entryways leading you "inside" the outdoor restaurant. Set on the beach, the Gulf has an open-air layout that receives a constant breeze from the Gulf of Mexico. Reclaimed furniture mixed in with modern elements provide ample shade and give the space a unique, relaxed feel.

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Each shipping container offers something special. The grill provides classic dishes like The Gulf Burger, Mahi Mahi Tacos, Blackened Swordfish, and Seared Ahi Tuna Salad. You can also order fresh made-to-order tacos or local oysters from one of the two bars, which offer local beers from across the Gulf Coast as well as a diverse wine and cocktail menu. Another great element of The Gulf is the marketplace, comprised of an array of merchandise from local brands, unique trinkets, and a selection of The Gulf brand items from t-shirts and dog collars to coozies. The Gulf is a perfect little oasis among hot sands and bustling tourism. Its atmosphere is welcoming and comfortable, whether you’re looking for a retreat from the sunshine or simply a place to get away from the not-so-relaxing sides of life.

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Josh (Pt. 2) Haiku #3 by Jake Carnley

twins should never be in cities so far away from one another

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A CURRENT TEMPTATION Words by Rachael Fowler

My dad told me this story when I was ten years old. In 1973, there was a twelve year old boy in Orange Beach, Alabama. He was stocky. He had blonde hair that turned white in the summer then green from chlorine. He had blue eyes and a few freckles on his shoulders. Running barefoot through woods made his feet indefinitely dirty and his skin abnormally tan. His name was Alan. He played in the soft sand on a beach near Cotton Bayou. It was around 10 AM, and it was June. June in Alabama means the sun is angry; June in Alabama means miserable, humid heat. It was the kind of hot that makes a person wonder why he’s outside at all, the kind of hot that makes him think free chilled water at a catfish restaurant is God’s gift to Earth. That day, the sun’s heat streaked through the atmosphere and seeped through thin clouds as Little Alan kept playing in the soft sand. Alan was always been a bit wary of the Gulf because fluid never drained from his ears quickly. But that day, he decided, was hot enough for the risk. He stuck his fingers in his ears and marched toward the waves. His brother, who was four years his senior, yelled, “Don’t get sucked out to sea.” His mother, who made homemade tuna salad sandwiches, told him, “Please be careful.” What happened next was never in the papers. What happened next was never on the news. Nineteen seventy-three was the year The Godfather won best picture, the year of Watergate and Roe v. Wade. Elvis broadcasted a performance from Hawaii. A volcano erupted on an island called Heimaey. The Sears Tower was the tallest building in the world, and Vietnam released the last American POW. Little Alan with the white hair was just a little part of the world that year. I’ve been to that same beach; I go there frequently to relax. I don’t bring tuna sandwiches or fruit, but I do bring a friend or two and some cheap beer. I sit on an oversized towel that has bleach stains in one corner. I play Pandora Radio on my

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phone; station: Fitz and the Tantrums. I think about teaching composition, about writing a thesis, about Moby Dick. I think about weddings and Islamaphobia and an old friend who has cancer. I think about a French proficiency test and the lack of academic jobs. I think about too much, take a sip of beer, and decide to get in the water. As soon as my feet touch the waves, I am calm. The Gulf rolls into me, fluid curves of saltwater. And I like it. Then I feel the current. It tugs at me, circles around my ankles and coaxes me to sea. I fight against it instinctually. My cousin used to tell me, “Undertow will drag you along the sea floor and scratch your legs against crab claws and broken shells.” I believed him. Most people on the Gulf Coast have felt the undertow in one way or another. Everyone knows it’s dangerous. When Alan plunged into the waves, he was fine at first. He wondered if the salt in the Gulf was the same salt that was on Fritos. As his skin cooled, he imagined a ssshhhh sound as though a fire was being put out. He waded around the shallows for five whole minutes before he felt the current. He faced land, his back to the breaking waves, and thought about eating some of the watermelon his mom put in the ice chest along with the tuna sandwiches. He thought about how sweet and moist the ripe fruit would taste. He knew a watermelon wouldn’t grow in his belly if he swallowed a seed. He knew because he swallowed one a month ago, and no fruit had sprouted inside him. He thought about what it would feel like to have a watermelon in his tummy. And then a wave broke on him; he went under, white hair and all. The Gulf of Mexico slurped his body right up. And he let it. I bet he scraped against some crab claws and sea shells, too. There are plenty of stories about undertow on the internet, just none about Alan. All kinds of people get slurped up. A forty year old woman from Michigan. An elderly man from Colorado. Children of people who aren’t from the area. Lots of buckets and pails get left on the shore and watch the people get pulled away.

When I stayed in Mississippi, I heard about eddies in the Pascagoula River. Eddies are swirling currents that whip around river bends and twirl across the river’s surface; eddies are nature’s whirlpools. People sometimes float into them then go spinning down and down until their lungs get too wet. Eventually they stop spinning, but the eddies don’t. Undertow is the same way, except you can’t see it. It’s just there: rushing beneath the surf, ready to get some lungs too wet. People don’t really think about dry lungs. I’ve never spun down an eddy or been slurped up by the Gulf, but sometimes the undertow is tempting. It’s harder to fight the current than go with it. And miles of water seem better than miles of land sometimes. Miles of water don’t care about a thesis or weddings or jobs. Nobody has to have insurance in miles of water. Nobody answers emails or pays bills or patches a hole in a car tire. Miles of water are just miles of water, and undertow is a fast track to getting there. Some people say that nothing compares to how they feel underwater. Some people say that water is where they are most comfortable. Water can be serene. People need to feel weightless every once in a while. Water can make that happen. And though people can’t breathe water and don’t have gills, there’s something to being surrounded by fluid, like a baby in a womb. I wonder if that is how dolphins feel all the time. Is that what Little Alan felt like? I was ten when my dad first told me the story of how he was caught in undertow in 1973. At the time, I didn’t think to ask him if he felt like a dolphin, I just wanted to know how he survived.

“You just swim with it,” he said. “Hold your breath and swim with it. Eventually, you’ll pop up.” “Then what?” I asked. “Then you have to swim back to shore. But you gotta swim diagonal. You can’t fight the current head on.” “How long does it take to swim back?” I asked. “Depends,” he said, “on how far you got pulled out.” “How long did it take you?” “A long long time. But I made it. And got to have my watermelon.” Little Alan was Big Alan when I heard his story. I never met the white haired boy, but I know the man he grew up to be. I’m glad he got to have watermelon that day. If he didn’t swim back to shore, I wouldn’t be here to worry about a thesis, babies, or PhD programs. I know undertow isn’t a good thing. I shouldn’t want to fall victim to it. But I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t tempt me sometimes. I don’t want to be violently thrashed around beneath the surface of the Gulf. That would be a tragedy; that would be newsworthy. But sometimes when I first touch the waves, when I first feel the current tugging at my ankles, I want to just let go. I want to release myself into the womb, let the current pull me away. I want to hold my breath and swim with it. And then I’ll pop up somewhere different. Cuba. Maybe I’ll end up in Cuba. Or maybe the temptation is enough to soothe me. Maybe I’ll keep wading in the shallows, fighting against the current instinctually.

City Donuts Words by Samantha Moats Photos by Christian Hilley

It was bright and windy, and the line was long, but all were at ease when we arrived at City Donut. At 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning, I hardly expected to see so many packed into a single donut shop. I glanced at the line and then to Adam: “This must be a good sign.” Young and old couples, families, and friends gathered to sample a breakfast treat before hitting the beach or going to church. It was loud and the excitement almost tangible. I stared into the display and thought Can I have one of everything? Each case was packed with bright colors, traditional favorites, and those donuts you-just-have-to-try-once. Customers and donuts came and went in rhythm. Behind the counter was owner Mike Kelly, unfazed by the masses, filling boxes with varieties of donuts, fritters, and kolaches. “It’s good you got here pretty early. We run out of the good stuff!” noted Mike when he finally had a chance to talk to our team. We took turns getting acquainted with Mike and also getting acquainted with the donuts, chatting about his life while tearing off bite size portions from our assorted dozen. My personal favorites are tied between the coconut cream and the chocolate icing with slivered almonds – and I am not what you would consider a chocolate person. City Donut opened in 2013 and has drawn a crowd since day one. Its popularity increases with each tourist season, prompting Orange Beach frequenters to recognize Mike outside the shop: “I never thought I’d become ‘the donut guy,’ but I’ll take it.” Amid the chains and corporate businesses that tend to collect around beaches for the sake of convenience, City Donut easily stands out in all its rarified local color. The next time you are in Orange Beach: stop in, grab an assorted dozen for the beach, and say hello to Mike before you leave. The Ant Farm Dozen: Chocolate Icing with Slivered Almond, Coconut Cream, Blueberry Cake, Chocolate Icing with Sprinkles, Red Velvet, Sour Cream Glaze, Butterfinger, Blueberry Filled, Blueberry Kolache, Regular Glaze, Chocolate with Peanuts, and Old Fashioned Powdered.

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Fisher's Words by eleanor hilley Photos by christian hilley At Ant Farm, we love good design, and we love good food. Down the winding little road through an Orange Beach residential area, and around the corner at the docks, Fisher’s at Orange Beach Marina is a city gem well hidden, but widely talked about. Two dining experiences under the same roof, Fisher’s is a must-stop whilst in the area, whether you’re looking for an unforgettably delicious brunch with family, or an upscale and beautiful dinner with friends. This beautifully designed space is the home of Fisher’s Dockside and Fisher’s Upstairs, both being run as separate restaurants. Fisher’s Dockside opens at 11:00pm every day other than Sunday, on which it offers a mouthwatering brunch at 10:00am. The thoughtful design of the place will keep your eyes entertained as it features open garage doors, a green courtyard surrounded by herbs and citrus trees, and overlooks the marina. It also includes a gentleman's bar, splashed with beautiful green tile, where the staff knows how to make a great cocktail. It’s decorated with a more nautical beach style, in the way that it should be done, and the food delivered to your table will be just as beautifully and thoughtfully styled as your surroundings. This is all thanks to the award winning Executive Chef, Bill Briand, who spent seven years with Emeril Lagasse and nine with Donald Link. Their brunch menu offers delicious and exclusive southern dishes such as smoked brisket hash, fried oyster benedict, and a wonderful creme brulee battered french toast. And for those who want to truly indulge (you're on vacation, after all), the black eyed pea hummus with fried pita is a must for an appetizer, as well as the white chocolate coconut bread pudding for dessert. The ground floor is entirely pleasant; however, if you follow the stairs located near the side entrance of the building, you’ll find yourself in Fisher’s Upstairs— and you’ll never want to leave. Following a similar aesthetic to the Dockside, Upstairs accomplishes a sense of luxury that is difficult to match locally. Though very upscale, it feels entirely comfortable and welcoming; from the eye-catching stark white outdoor lounge area, to the indoor living and dining room-esque decor, you feel as though you are dining on a modern day Titanic. Portholes act as windows down the hall, allowing visitors to peek into the kitchen as they watch their delicious meals being prepared by the unmatchably talented culinary staff. Fisher’s upstairs opens every afternoon at 5:00pm, and requires a reservation. Fisher's offers the experience we all desire from a restaurant at the beach, but in a way that is untainted by the tacky tourist culture that has permeated so many establishments. Their menu reminds us of the words of Jacques Yves Cousteau, "The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever." The same could be said of Fisher's.

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IN YOUR home

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Hermit Words by Audrey Birkhimer

Shadow pulls me into its arms In the corners of my home. The door is closed and bolted shut, Admission limited to one. The stillness is pervasive In the quiet I cannot hear. There are only inhales, exhalesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; My pulse thumping loud and clear. I melt into subconsciousness To the corners of my mind. My hair is pulled like curtains closed, And my brain becomes a shrine. A prelude opens in a chill, But the finale is serene. I once was haunted by loneliness . . . Now I yearn for it like codeine.

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Homemade Snowcones Words by Samantha Moats Photos by ChrIStian Hilley

As I sat in my sunroom one afternoon, I caught myself craving lavender simple syrup. My first taste of lavender simple syrup was two years ago; my friend Mallory gifted her bridesmaids with a homemade batch. It was love at first taste, and I began adding it to cocktails, black tea, or anything else that fit my mood. But this particular craving was for the syrup alone. Puzzled, and without justification for fixing myself a glass of flavored sugar water, I remembered snow cones. The summers of my childhood are colored by stains around my mouth and the neck of my softball uniforms. Snow cones made team victories sweeter and somehow softened the blow of loss. I am not the child I once was, and things like “Tiger’s Blood” and “Razzle Dazzle” have lost their appeal. Of late I find conventional syrup too thick, its flavor overwhelming, and become nauseated from the mingling of sugar and summer heat. With lavender in mind, I set out to reinvent snow cones that connected childhood sweetness with lighter fare, justified my lavender simple syrup craving, and still drew a crowd of young friends from the neighborhood to enjoy them with me.

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Suggested Flavors Lavender Lemonade (lavender and lemon simple syrups, garnished with rosemary) Blueberry Limeade (blueberry and lime simple syrups, garnished with basil) Ginger Peach (ginger and peach simple syrups, garnished with thyme) Virgin Mojito (lemon and lime simple syrups, garnish with crushed mint) Mixed Melons (cantaloupe, honeydew, and watermelon simple syrups, garnished with mint) Nectarine Dream (nectarine simple syrup with homemade whipped cream)

Simple Syrup Method Simple syrups are fantastically true to name. My method is generally as follows: 1 cup of water 1 cup of sugar 1 ½ cups of fruit* *Naturally there are exceptions to rules. Because their flavors are distinct, lavender and ginger require much less than 1 ½ cups. Use 3 tablespoons of dried lavender and 5-7 pieces of ginger root, sliced about a ¼ inch thin. Bring all ingredients to a boil. Turn down the heat, and allow mixture to simmer for 20-25 minutes; the fruit should begin to fall apart. Remove from heat and pour through a fine mesh strainer. Allow to fully cool, and store in the refrigerator overnight.

Snow Cones Recipe You will need: Ice A blender with an ice crush setting or an ice shaver Your homemade simple syrups Small cups to eat from Blend the ice; I chose bagged ice because it produced a better “snow” consistency. Add the simple syrups to taste. Enjoy this treat before it melts away.

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Ache for Home Words by Mary Kate McCray

“Today I’m going straight home after work, cause yesterday I didn’t. Yesterday I collected my $200.00 and went past go and kept on going. Today though, I ain’t going past go; today I’m going home. My old man didn’t appreciate it yesterday.” Laurie had been listening silently nearby as the boisterous woman told everyone in the break room her life story. This was the daily routine. Between forkfuls of funky smelling leftovers, or bites of various kinds of chicken salad, the lady would talk. Laurie thought the lady’s life was like an odd house full of doors, but every door led straight to a story about what she’d done the night before. Whatever last line the woman left them with, it always led to laughter and snide comments. Each time Laurie smiled meekly and rolled her eyes when no one was looking. Laurie knew what it was like to go past go. She knew because she had done it last week and planned to do it again today; going past go until it was forgotten. Leaving go behind was simple, especially since it was close. Birmingham was only 45 minutes up the road; she already worked on the bypass, so it took no time at all before she was away from the fields. Nashville was where she wanted to go, but Howard always noticed she wasn’t home before she could get out of cell service. Laurie was too empathetic and caring to ignore a phone call from Howard; she was a good wife, all things considered. Along with the boisterous woman and her listeners, Laurie worked in a toll booth on the Hwy 65 bypass. They met a lot of truckers and various others all constantly moving from place to place. A man named Jeb had once stopped before the toll to check on some casing he was hauling. Intrigued, Laurie walked over and asked him if he liked getting to see so many places; if he liked not being stuck. He told Laurie constantly moving from place to place was exciting at first, but then he realized the movement was a lie. He said, “Truckin’ is the same as staying at home, e’cept I’m even more alone. I’m still plastered to that same seat, those same pedals, looking at those same splotches on the window that never rub off. Everything around me is what’s moving and free. You ain’t not better off than me an’ I ain’t no better off than you. We both sit in metal cartons watching cars go by” Today is the kind of day that let the breeze blow just enough so that the ends of your hair and your trousers would blow up and down with an intentional rhythm. As Laurie walked back to her tollbooth, she noticed the tree line was more defined than it had been in months; summer must have gotten into the woods, but it hadn’t reached the highway yet.

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The steps up to her booth were rusted straight into the ground and always made a loud screech that scraped straight through and up her spine into her ears. The sound would spring her body into a line as narrow as her booth. Everyone who worked with Laurie broadcasted that they had the cheapest tolls on I-65. This declaration was a tiny lie, because all tolls on I-65 were the same. The workers, however, were more expensive. The ad that drew Laurie into the job after high school had read: “At 200 a week the girls and boys of the cut-through toll are the ones with the biggest smiles; the most well paid. They’re just happy to be there! AND they get a room with a view in their nice little break station off to the left of their jobsite.” The hiring manager had also added, “The fields below the toll are filled with sunflowers in the summer; you can see them right out of your back window.” Laurie accepted the job, knowing, like everyone, that $200 wasn’t enough. She had been in too much of a hurry to care; the hiring manager had talked for far too long. “Plans were funny when they didn’t work out, but they were even funnier when I saw someone else living the plan I’d never thought of.” Laurie’s mom had always said this to her when she was a little kid. Knees stained with Alabama mud and her face smeared with the same, she’d listen intently to her mom, thinking she was taking it all in: the words and the always clean scent of mom blown into her face as they drove home from school. Mom had a good job, Dad did too, and they were happy. Laurie was happy too until she realized one day she had never really heard anything Mom had said. She tried to recall, but she had already taken in too much. $200.00 a week and a way to get past go: that was all she ever thought about anymore. It was too late to ask Mom what she used to say. Since then she’d seen a lot of people take her plan and use it; they didn’t know it was her plan, but she did. George was 17 when he started at the tollbooth. He had big brown eyes and a stalk of brown hair that fell a little bit too far over his shoulders, reaching for his feet. The dusty color of his hair seemed to seep into his eyes and look right out at you. He was the kind of boy who knew something no one else did, but liked to pretend everyone knew too. He was kind, but he was stuck. Laurie liked him; he gave her a nod in the morning and a smile at night. George listened to music that was so loud it shook everyone around with the beat. When customers came he’d yell over the noise, “A dollar fifty for saved time.”

Sometimes people would giggle and sometimes people would just toss out the money and keep driving, Laurie thought the rude people were just preoccupied. No one was ever purely mean in her eyes, just distracted. George eventually left one day and never came back. Apparently, he had given the boss notice, but he hadn’t given Laurie any; she missed the music. As Laurie walked from the break room over to her booth she was startled out of her memories by a glimmer on the ground. It was in the middle of the lane, however, and she would never stop there. Normally cars were lined up, sometimes for what she thought had to be a mile, but today was slow and uncongested. All the toll booth workers would often talk about how much power came with their job. The flimsy arms of the toll blockades were the only structures holding people back from where they wanted to be; the push of a button, a swoop upwards, and a quicker route, all for six quarters. Laurie always thought of herself as some kind of key to their days; the turn of a hand. It was her choice to let them through. A woman named Lucille once worked at the toll booth for three days. However, she had a snap of power in her head, and she began only letting people through her toll if they smiled back at her. One night she was working alone and let the line of cars go on for miles as she sat and waited for a man to smile. She explained to the boss that she wouldn’t stand for a life without smiles. He promptly fired her saying, “We don’t work for ourselves, Lucy.”

Laurie stepped up into her booth, but couldn’t get the shimmering she’d seen out of her mind. It hung there for hours right behind her eye lids as she blinked in and out of her task; opening and closing the gate, taking the money and placing it in the cash box, again, again, again. Suddenly, Laurie sprang up from her seat, reached out for the door, and walked out onto the steaming pavement. She left the door hanging open, and a co-worker was fervently yelling at her to close it, but she kept walking to where the shining spot had been, and leaned down slowly to see what it was. A loud crash from where she had just left thrust her forward, startled. Turning quickly with her glossy prize in hand, she saw a car had plowed through her toll booth lane, taking the bright orange arm with them. All of the workers ran over to make sure Laurie was okay, and then called the boss to see what they should do. It was several minutes before anyone noticed the small tokens sitting scattered on the ground next to the ruined lane. The tokens were from an arcade called the Arcadian City. All the toll booth workers had heard the advertisements blaring on the radios repeatedly. “The only limit is you!” was the familiar catch phrase, and it was also inscribed onto the dust-covered coins. In the confusion of the crash a single car slowly pulled out of employee parking lot and through the ruined lane. Laurie drove with the windows down; small token in hand. She was going. Going past go. Gone.

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Pie Baking Season Ladies of Ant Farm Journal

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Peace pie recipe by samantha moats My primary goal in following a blog is to learn something new; therefore, most of the blogs I follow are not reflections of me personally. I have followed Kirsten Rickert’s blog Magnesium Blue for almost a year now. Kirsten and I have very little in common, but I deeply respect for her lifestyle and her aesthetic. In February, Kirsten made a Peace Pie with her daughters Maya and Elle. I never was the sort to tote peace signs about, but Kirsten has an inspiring effect. As I read her post, I knew if I ever got around to baking a homemade pie, it would most assuredly be a Peace Pie. And thanks to the Ant Farm ladies, I finally gave myself an opportunity to attempt it. Basic Pie Crust 2/3 cups of butter 2 cups of unbleached white flour 5-6 tablespoons of cold water Rub the butter into the flour using your fingertips. Once the mixture is evenly grainy, blend water into the dough and form a ball. Let the dough sit in the refrigerator for 30 minutes to an hour. Next, divide the ball into two equal parts: top and bottom. Roll one of the parts onto parchment paper – naturally, you may need some additional flour to prevent sticking. Prep your pie plate by greasing it with a little coconut oil; transfer the dough and trim any excess. Roll out the rest of the dough on parchment paper, then enjoy decorating the top as you please. You can use cookie cutters or try free-handing your designs. Filling 3-4 cups of fruit ¼ cup of sugar 1 tablespoon of butter 1 teaspoon cinnamon 2 tablespoons of water* *If using berries, omit water. Use a seasonal fruit, be they berries or otherwise. If you are using apples or pears, be sure to slice the fruit thin. Combine fruit, sugar, butter, cinnamon, and water; then fill the pie with mixture. Top the pie with your decoration and pinch the edges. Bake at 425 degrees for a total of 20 minutes, then savor each piece.

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Garden Blackberry Pie Filling: 4 cups of fresh blackberries 1 cup of sugar Dash of nutmeg 1 teaspoon of lemon juice 3 tablespoons of flour Crust: 2 cups of all-purpose flour 2/3 cup of shortening 6-7 tablespoons of cold water To begin making the crust, stir together flour and a Â˝ teaspoon salt. Using a pastry blender or a fork, cut in shortening until all pieces are pea-sized. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the water over part of the mixture, and gently toss with a fork. Push moistened dough to the side of the bowl. Repeat using 1 tablespoon of water at a time until all the dough is moistened. Then divide the dough in half, forming each half into a ball. On a lightly floured surface, flatten one dough ball. Roll from center to edges into 12-inch circle. To transfer the pastry, wrap it around the rolling pin, unrolling into a 9-inch pie plate. Ease the pastry into the pie plate, being careful not to stretch the pastry. Gently mix filling ingredients together, generously coating the blackberries. Transfer the filling to pastry-lined pie plate. Trim the pastry even with the rim of the pie plate. Roll the remaining dough into a circle about 12 inches in diameter. Place the remaining pastry over filling; trim Â˝ inch beyond edge of plate. Fold the top pastry under the bottom pastry, and crimp the edge as desired. Cut slits into the pie, allowing steam to escape; then brush with milk and sprinkle with sugar. Cover the edges of pie with foil for the first half of baking time. Bake at 425 degrees for 45 minutes.

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Pear Pie Recipe RECIPE BY eleanor hilley While sand pears arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t available in our area until July, this delicious homemade treat is worth the wait. Ingredients: Filling 1/3 cup of granulated sugar 6 cups of sliced pears 3 tbsp all-purpose flour Crust: 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 8 tbsp cold, salted butter a pinch of sugar 4 - 5 tbsp ice water Crumb Topping 1/3 cup all-purpose topping 4 tbsp brown sugar 2 tbsp cold butter Directions: Preheat oven to 400 degrees, and mix the sugar and flour for the filling in a large bowl. Add pear slices and toss until completely covered. In a separate bowl, knead together pie crust ingredients and roll out flat with a rolling pin. Cover pie dish with flattened crust, and form into the crevices of the dish. Take a fork and poke small holes in the crust, all around the dish. Spoon pear filling into the newly made pastry shell. For the crumb topping, toss flour, brown sugar, salt and cold butter with hands until mixed together and crumbly. Sprinkle over pie, and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until pears are tender and top is golden. For the last ten minutes, cover edges of pie crust with aluminum foil, to keep from over-browning (or burning). After removing, let the pie cool on a wire rack or pot holder. Eat alongside a scoop of vanilla bean ice-cream.

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CANNIN' Words by Aeryn Connolly photos by caleb birkhimer

An acre of land with an old barn in the center separated our house from Grandma Helen’s, and the old barn belonged to Grandpa Jack. I should mention that Grandma Helen is not my grandmother, and Grandpa Jack is not my grandfather. Everyone probably thought it was an accident the first time I called Helen “Grandma Helen” until I kept going and started calling Jack “Grandpa Jack,” more or less adopting them. Grandma Helen and Grandpa Jack owned our house, our land, the land between, the land around, and I think they owned the street, too. Their last name was McCoy, and we lived on McCoy Road. No one told me otherwise, so I assumed they owned everything except the bamboo forest, which bordered one side of the house across the street. To this day, bamboo is the only thing I heard Grandpa Jack complain about.

It was much smaller than the one we had in Birmingham; so much so Momma couldn’t park her car in the garage for all the boxes left still packed. But it had a real yard with no fences, lots of climbing trees, and a creek running through the back.

My family moved in next door to the McCoys in mid-February that year. I would be nine years old in April, and my younger brother Dillon was five until December. We moved because Dad took a new job opening a store in town, so we left Birmingham and found ourselves in the countryside of Sand Mountain. It was quite a change, but Dad and Momma called it our fresh start. They were happy, I was content, and Dillon was too young to know the difference.

Two stepped down from the bus and into the rain, one boy and one girl. Together they trudged through mud and arrived at Grandma Helen’s front door, kicking off their shoes before going inside.

Dad and Momma let me “get adjusted” before putting me in school again, so I was free and out for two weeks. During that time, I took in everything and I guess I got adjusted. I liked our new house.

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My two weeks of freedom passed quickly and somewhat uneventfully. It rained a lot because it was still winter, and Momma used to say Hell freezes over faster than Alabama in February. One afternoon, I sat on the front porch rail lamenting the rain when I saw an old yellow school bus pass our driveway and stop at the McCoys’ house. I glanced back into the house and made sure Momma was occupied before jumping from the railing and ran barefoot into the woods to get a peek.

Excitement swelled within me as I wandered back to our house. Momma was no longer occupied, so I was scolded and ordered to a warm shower. Later I told Dillon about the other boy and girl; he was so excited he danced around the room. It was a wild sort of dance that made me laugh myself into the floor.

I started school the following week, and life developed a cycle again. More rainy weeks passed before the sunny summer weeks arrived. March became April which disappeared into May, and it was June when we finally met the boy and girl from the old yellow school bus: Cody and Jessie. That hot Saturday morning, Dillon and I woke early and finished breakfast quickly. We ran across the street and into the bamboo forest Uncle Jack hated, gathering broken pieces of bamboo. Back at our house we fashioned them into spears. It was barely 9 o’clock, and already we were soaked in sweat. With homemade weapons in hand, we set out for our secret hideaway in Grandpa Jack’s old barn. Cody and Jessie must have seen us from Grandma Helen’s as we ran from our house, to the bamboo forest, and toward the barn because they were waiting for us in the secret hideaway. I suppose the heat of the morning finally caught me because my emotions leapt from surprise to a selfish defense of property: “What are you doing here?” Cody was the older of the two and the first to respond, “I was gonna ask you the same thing. Who are you?” “Not tellin’,” tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. Really, I was glad to meet them, but my temper had already won. Unaffected by the unnecessary older-sibling tension Cody and I created, Dillon introduced everyone to each other – harmony was his way. We learned that Cody and Jessie were Grandma Helen and Grandpa Jack’s real grandkids, and soon we were friends fighting off pretend villains and imagined dangers with bamboo spears. Meanwhile, sweat continued to pour from each of us, causing dirt and dust to collect anywhere it landed on our bodies. We were defiant to the summer heat, but we surrendered after an hour or so. It was mid-morning when Dillon and I followed Cody and Jessie from the barn to Grandma Helen’s front steps, where she met us before we could even say hello. “I saw you comin’, so I went ahead and called your momma – told her you were here,” she remarked. “But none of you is steppin’ a foot in my house the way you are right now. Jack is gonna hose you off here in a minute.” As she spoke we surveyed each other. Now in the sunlight, it appeared as though we hadn’t bathed in weeks. Dirt had caked our elbows and knees, smudged our faces, and clumped bits of our hair. Grandpa Jack rounded the house; having been in the fields all morning, he too was covered in dirt and dust.

The sun cast a shadow beneath the bill of his John Deere cap and made it difficult to see his face from farther away, but the bill of his cap moved from us to Grandma Helen and then to her garden, where a wild array grew up from the earth. “Helen, I think it’s time we did some cannin’,” said Grandpa Jack in his low hum of a voice. She turned toward the garden and her hands settled on her hips, “Well…I suppose you’re right. Think we can find any help at the last minute?” She grinned, but Cody and Jessie sighed – they seemed to know what was coming. Dillon’s curiosity forced him to ask, “What’s cannin’?” “It’s preservin’ some of Helen’s garden, so we can eat from it all year long. You ever snapped green beans before?” replied Grandpa Jack. Dillon shook his head slowly, while I conjured a mental image of someone snapping green beans between their fingers. Grandma Helen nodded her head toward Cody and Jessie who made their way toward the back of the house while she went inside. Then Grandpa Jack put his hand on Dillon’s back and guided him toward the garden while I tagged along in wonder. Grandpa Jack knelt down by a leafy row of plants, lifting the foliage to reveal its green beans underneath. He then pinched one off the plant and handed it to Dillon. “Simple enough, huh?” he asked looking up at me; I nodded in agreement and Dillon concurred. When I turned back toward the house, I noticed Grandma Helen had brought out sun hats and ball caps for each of us, as well as a huge pitcher of ice water with a few glasses. “Drink a glass or two before y’all get started,” she instructed, “Nobody needs to get sick in this heat.” Dillon and I guzzled our water, then Grandma Helen presented us with sliced apples and homemade bread to munch on. As we snacked, Cody and Jessie returned from the back of the house with six massive buckets. They handed the buckets to Grandpa Jack. He rinsed the buckets off while Cody and Jessie joined us in finishing off the water, apples, and bread. When Grandpa Jack finished the buckets he handed one to each of us, one to Grandma Helen, and kept one for himself. The McCoys led us out to the garden, and so the picking began. There was a rhythm to the pinching and tossing. All across the yard you could hear the soft thud as we dropped green beans into the buckets. About halfway through picking Dillon struggled to move his bucket along, so he left it behind and ran back and forth from plant to bucket – adding to the rhythm of things.

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There were three rows of green beans, which were finished off easily between all six of us. After the picking was done, we made our way to the porch where we dropped off our buckets. Cody carried Dillon’s for him, which I was grateful for as I struggled carrying mine. We removed our shoes and took turns letting Grandpa Jack hose us off, and the cool water revived our spirits. Then Grandpa Jack handed us each a towel to pat ourselves dry. Meanwhile, Grandma Helen moved the buckets inside. Finally, we were dry enough to come inside. Through the screen door I saw Grandma Helen had laid out quilts across the floor of her living room. Atop each quilt were the green bean buckets and various colanders. As we entered, Cody and Jessie sprawled out on the quilts to catch a breather; Dillon and I followed their lead. After a minute or two, Jessie sat up and lazily exhaled, “We better get started.” She claimed one of the buckets, reached in, and grabbing a green bean said, “Snap them like this,” Jessie pinched off each end and tossed the green bean into the colander, then repeated the process. “Give it a go!” she encouraged, more lively now. Cody, Dillon, and I sat up and imitated Jessie’s snapping. Grandma Helen came into the living room while we worked and picked up full colanders before leaving again. “She’s rinsing off beans in the kitchen,” Cody told me when he saw my confused expression. Sure enough, she returned each time with an empty colander, ready to be filled again. At last the buckets and colanders were empty, so the four of us wandered into the kitchen where we found Grandma Helen and Grandpa Jack filling jars. The jars covered what seemed like every surface of the kitchen, most of which were already filled.

“See those bubbles?” Cody asked me, and I nodded. “Tap the jar on the counter, but be gentle. Make sure you get all of the bubbles to disappear.” I did as he said, and the bubbles started disappearing. I could see why this was his favorite part; popping the bubbles was a game of sorts. Grandpa Jack came behind me, wiping the rim of each jar I finished tapping; then Jessie and Grandma Helen came behind him to seal each jar. Dillon watched us all, amused. When we finished, Grandpa Jack pulled a giant pot from one of the cabinets and set it on the stove. Cody handed me a sealed jar, and I followed him to the giant pot. Cody placed our jars inside it. Grandma Helen poured water over them, then sealed the giant pot itself. “What’s she doing to them?” I asked Cody. “That’s how cannin’ works. We fill ‘em up, then that big pot seals ‘em tight. It preserves the green beans,” he said matter-of-factly. Grandma Helen and Grandpa Jack dismissed us from the kitchen. There was nothing left for us to do. So we returned to the living room, where through the screen door I saw the sun begin to set while fireflies came out. “Look! Lightnin’ bugs!” Dillon exclaimed. He ran out the door, down the porch, and into the yard barefoot – passionately chasing the poor fireflies. He leapt forward to catch one but tumbled into a roll, causing us all to explode with laughter. “I still caught it!” Dillon said, standing with pride - which only made us laugh more as we put on our shoes and joined him in the chase.

Cody leaned down and whispered to Dillon, “This is my favorite part,” before washing his hands at the sink. When he finished, Cody grabbed a jar, added a scoop of salt, and topped it with handfuls of snapped green beans. Then he shook the jar, making sure the green beans were tightly packed. Dillon, Jessie, and I followed his lead, when suddenly I noticed tea kettles whistling on the stove.

Soon my stomach gurgled, and I noticed how hungry I was. At the same moment, Grandma Helen announced herself from the porch with a jar in each hand: “It’s time for y’all to go home. Your momma called and told me your dinner is ready.” Dillon and I went to thank her for letting us help. But when we reached the porch, Grandma Helen extended a jar to both us and said, “Now you both have your own canned green beans.” We grinned, thanking her even more for these new treasures. “If you run, you’ll have plenty of light to make it home without a flashlight,” Grandma Helen said, winking.

Grandma Helen rushed to turn off each burner and placed the kettles on pot holders. The kettles cooled for a few minutes before Cody picked one up and poured water over one jar, then another. Dillon followed him around the kitchen as he poured, wide-eyed watching him fill each one.

So, waving goodbye to Cody and Jessie with the promise of more adventures tomorrow, we ran down the steps and dashed into the woods clutching our green beans. We raced alongside the creek, past Grandpa Jack’s old barn, and safely arrived at home with light to spare and dinner waiting.

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HOmer and Orange Boy Words by Rachael Fowler

My name is Lane. Not as in bowling alleys, as in green. Let me explain. I was born in Orange Beach, Alabama seventeen years ago. And I didn’t come from no hospital; I came straight out of my Momma. She wasn’t happy about it either. She spent nine months lugging me around before she even met me. I’d probably be pretty angry, too. One day, somewhere around the nine month marker, I punched my way out of her. At the time, Momma was strolling through some woods that were a five minute walk from our house. It was in the morning to be exact, and Momma was walking under pines with her sister. Well, Momma was waddling. Her sister walked. Momma liked trees. Pine trees were her favorite. She saw a magnolia once and decided it wasn’t quite to her liking, so she always stuck with pines. They were simple and numerous, and she could walk beneath them anytime she wanted Momma grabbed her sister’s arm when she realized I was busting out. My Auntie knew just then that I was coming for sure. “Let’s get you down to the hospital,” she said. “No,” Momma replied. “I ain’t doing nothing like that.” And she sure didn’t. Momma never planned to birth me in a hospital bed. Now she would never tell you this, but I’m certain she knew I was coming out that day. I’m certain she went to those woods to have me beneath her trees. Momma was like that. She did only what she wanted. And if you were there when she did it, like my poor Auntie, you had to go right along with her. Momma descended from Creek indians. She said that gave her strength; I think it gave her stubborness. I guess I got some of that, too.

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By the time Auntie realized Momma was on a mission to expel me under trees, she already knew she had to go along with it. Auntie never won an argument with her sister. The only thing she could do better than Momma was grow herbs. She had a green thumb, and she pulled me out of my Momma with that green thumb. I was all sticky when I came out. Because we were in the woods, some pine needles attached to me real quick. That’s when Momma named me Lane, which means “green” in Muscogee language. I was born a little, green girl: gooey and covered in pine prickles. I used to think my name was just a name until Auntie told me about how I was born. Once I realized I was a color, I started seeing everything real different. Did you know that Homer couldn’t see blue? It’s true. I read The Odyssey when my teacher made me in the ninth grade. I hated the story, but I thought the colors in it were strange. Nothing is described as blue. I wrote my essay on the part of The Odyssey that talks about a “wine-dark sea.” Mostly I rewrote a bunch of scenes as though all the men in the story were actually sailing on wine instead of a sea. And because the wine-sea was always splashing up on the boat, they got some in their mouths and were constantly drunk and wobbly. My teacher didn’t like my essay very much. “Lane, this is supposed to be a book report,” she said. I thought it was real creative of myself. She just wasn’t aware of how important color is to people’s understanding of the world. But it didn’t matter too much because Davis liked my essay. “It’s pretty good,” he told me. Davis is my best friend. He’s colorblind, which means he only sees in black and white. He sees like old TV shows. No, I’m just kidding.

He can see some colors, just not real good. It’s a crucial part of our relationship. In kindergarten he colored a lion green, and that’s how we met. “Hey, kid,” I said, grabbing the green crayon out of his hand. “This crayon is green like me. And that thing you got on your paper looks like a lion.” “Lions aren’t green?” he asked. I instantly felt sorry for him. I wonder sometimes if he sees sunsets the same way I do. My most favorite part of living in Orange Beach is the sunsets. It’s hard to distinguish all the different colors in a sunset. I’ve seen purple, lilac, violet, and lavender in a single part of one sunset . . . I’ve seen orange, melon, and shrimp streaks . . . I’ve seen gold, yellow, and mustard . . . Pinks are always pretty exciting. And I like that sunsets are rarely blue. Makes me think I’m seeing like Homer, like we have some stuff in common. Davis couldn’t possibly see the sunset how I do. He can’t even color a lion. We were friends all through grade school. Best friends. When we got to high school, I liked him a little more. We’re seniors now, and he can’t see that I like him a lot. I’ve been trying to force him into liking me a lot, too. You know how people say everyone has “their color”? You know how you look real good in one specific color because of how it mixes with your skin and eyes and hair? Well, my best color is pink. It makes my brown eyes pop. I spent a long time trying to figure out what color would look pink to Davis, so I could wear it, and he could see my eyes pop. But I never could figure out which color that would be. So I just kept wearing pink. Then Davis asked me, “Why do you wear brown so much?” “I don’t,” I said. “This is pink. It’s my color.” “Pink looks brown to me,” he said. “You’re a brown.” “ I’m a green,” I said. “You know what my name means.” It’s sad to think about though. To him, Valentine’s Day is a cluster of red and brown. To my mind, that’s not a good pairing.

Anyway, he must like me at least a little more than friends because he still hangs around with me. We go walking down the beach all that time. The best time you can have is playing the “What color is this?” game. On weekends, I point stuff out: Seashell. What color is this? Hermit crab. What color is this? He’s usually wrong. But it’s okay. He has a good attitude about it. We once saw an alligator in the marshy area near the state park. That whole day I was gonna try and grab his hand. It kept swinging right by mine, and it even brushed mine a few times. We walked down the nature trail for an hour and a half, an hour and a half of me failing to intertwine our fingers. I’d just about given up. I stopped talking and everything. Momma wouldn’t have been proud; she tells me to speak my mind all the time. Then he saw the gator. He grabbed my arm, yanking me back a bit. He pointed at the gator. “That’s green like you isn’t it?” he asked. The gator surprised me, but the arm grabbing surprised me more. It took me too long to answer him. “ Nope,” I said. He let go of my arm, and I wished I would’ve just told him he was right. Then the nervous talking started. “People are always coloring alligators green,” I said. “But they aren’t green if you actually look real close at them. They’re a dark gray….maybe kinda brown, too, so they can blend in with the water.” I put a hand on Davis’s shoulder. “But you’re getting better. Alligators are more green than lions.” I was really proud of my hand on the shoulder move. He sat down right by the marsh before I could do anything further. Orange Boy looked flustered, so I just sat down beside him. “You okay?” I asked. No answer. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Davis’s family used to own orange groves here, way back when we still had orange groves. I think it’s pretty funny that he lives in a place with a color in the name and comes from a family that grew a fruit called “orange.” Does he even know what orange is? I told him he should wear more orange clothing since his eyes are blue and those two colors are complementary. But it’s useless. He just doesn’t get it.

“I’m trying to figure out what color you are, Lane,” he answered. “Huh?”

He comes from oranges like I come from pine needles. Orange and green. I’m okay with that pairing.

“You don’t have to see the color,” I said. “Homer couldn’t even see blue.” He intertwined his fingers with mine. I think he likes me.

“I wanna see green right, so I can really know what your name means.” And that’s when he grabbed my hand.

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Grace Haiku #4 by Jake Carnley

He said forgive them not force them to qualify. for his gift is free

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SPECIAL THANKS KATHERINE ABERNATHY FISHER'S FLY CREEK MARINA THE SCHULERS

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Ant Farm A new generation of Mobile creatives is rising. These artists, musicians, visionaries and makers are propelling our community into a new era. We at Ant Farm believe that a generationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s art, traditions, and what they leave behind have the power to communicate to future generations what they valued as important. We aim to peel away the stereotypes of southern living, and showcase truly what makes us known nationally as the warmer half of America. By spotlighting the little things around us, we hope to encourage notice of traditions in our homes and in our communities, and celebrate the local normality that makes us so unique.

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Work with us Writing & Editing Eleanor Hilley | eleanorhilley@gmail.com Photography Christian Hilley | christianhilley@gmail.com Advertising Aubrie Ribolla | antfarmads@gmail.com Distribution Heath Vester | antfarmads@gmail.com

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Ant Farm Journal 1204 Shelton Beach Rd. Suite 3 PO Box 337, Saraland, AL 36571

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www.antfarmmobile.com

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Ant Farm Journal, Issue 8

Articles inside

Homer and Orange Boy

CANNIN'

Pie Baking Season

Fisher's

A CURRENT TEMPTATION

Beach Blanket

Underwater

Coffee Culture: Refuge Coffee

Summer Style Photo Essay

Floating: by Alex Lazzari

Swim Photo Essay

THREE THINGS