Boofa and I pass Bull Hawg's Barbeque early on this damp cold morning. The cooks are sitting at a window ledge eating their breakfasts and waving to us.
I can see young saplings in the now bare woods with vines encircling them, just right for cutting down and making spiral walking sticks or canes.
Men used to whittle objects from wood. In my early childhood, I saw old men sitting and leaning their elbows on their knees whittling with a knife. I have a candlestick my father made in school as a child. He and his sisters went to the Quaker school in North Wales, PA. My grandfather, Papa Welsh even made horns out of the horns of bulls.
An old man with a white beard comes past me pulling a light cart full of great bunches of collard greens.
"Got your collards yet?", he asks.
On the way home, I buy collards and cook them in chicken stock and season them with molasses, vinegar, soy sauce, and red pepper flakes. Eat them with black eyed peas.
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