The Storm

“Now, try the grits,” Henry said. I was silent, stunned, and became dumb. That was the most beautiful prayer that I had ever heard, and from an old, rough swamp man. I sat in silence just thinking about it. Henry spoke up again and woke me out of my contemplation. “Come on, Son, try the grits and tell me what you think it is." I dipped my fork in the bowl and tasted the gruel. “Cream of wheat," I said. “Nope. Try again.” “Gopher guts,” I responded. Henry just laughed and explained to me in gentle terms that grits was a staple to the folks in the South, like beans and rice in Mexico and hamburgers and fries to the folks in Brooklyn. He was kidding on the last part but was seriously close. Henry continued the explanation. “Grits are a porridge made from cornmeal, but what you're eating is Gopher guts! Seriously, Zach, what you are eating is hominy grits, that's made from hominy corn that's been ground up and cooked to southern perfection. Have you ever seen hominy in cans at the supermarket in Brooklyn?” “Yes Sir, I have, an d I had no idea that something called grits came from it.” “Well, now you know.” And we continued our fine, southern meal. We talked about the day and the events, and upon finishing our meal he leaned forward in his chair and said, “Now showme what you have that has you all stirred up, Son.” I reached for my camera and spun it around for Henry to see. “What’s that?” I asked. “That building?” Henry responded. “Yeah, the building?” I almost shouted. “Don’t know,” was his response, “You took that picture out there at the trash lake?” “Yep, and I don’t have a clue what it is," I responded. "What do you think it is, Henry?” Henry responded, “Still don’t know. I've never been that far inland. Most folks around her stay pretty much put and venture out only to hunt or fish and to get supplies, but not that far out, 'cause nothin' is really out there.”

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