Yankee eats dove, enjoys it.

The last little bit of this journey was by far the most fun in terms of the amount of serious cultural education you can receive in a limited amount of time. Our last afternoon in Greenville, and the night before we would make the long-haul drive from Mississippi to Austin, we had a fish fry. Rosemary, Susan's friend, had called the other day saying she had a whole lot of catfish lying around and would we like to fry it up Saturday night. Paul then got the idea to feed me every Southern oddity possible before I left so it became his plan to shoot some doves for the feast. When the night was over, I had tried dove, fried deer meat, fried frog legs, fried catfish, and crawfish. Around 6, Mack and Penny, Rosemary and her husband (Jim, maybe?), Paul and Jamie, Dad and I, and Susan and Buddy were standing outside the garage drinking beer and waiting for the oil to get hot. Paul and Jamie brought the dog and it wasn't long before Paul was lighting a fire just for the heck of it. (My earliest and one of few memories I have of Greenville is sitting in the driveway when I was about 8 burning ants with a magnifying glass. Paul wasn't there with us- it was his little brother Justin, but he too has been known to set things on fire). The dove sat on the grill wrapped in bacon until Paul gave me the go-ahead to try it. It was good, a little like chicken and a little like duck. A little tough, but good. I mused that I couldn't believe I was eating something that had been alive that day, which first made Paul laugh, then look at his watch to let me know it was more like 4 hours ago. Apparently, Jamie was ready to leave to come over to Susan's when Paul was making her wait so he could shoot one more. Next on the agenda was washers, which Susan described as, "the redneck game". It's sort of a cross between skee ball and horse shoes. There are two rectangular boxes, on on each end with three circular holes cut in the top. The first is in the center and large, the next two decrease in diameter and are further back on the box. There is a portion of the box nearest the opposing team that is left untouched. The short side of the boxes face each other. One member from each team stands on either side and you throw metal washers that are about 5 inches wide, aiming for the three holes. The holes are valued at 1 point, 3 points, and 5 points. The game is to 21, which you have to hit exactly. Go over 21 and your points decrease to 13. Once you are at 21 you have to hit the top of the box with each remaining washer in order to win. Jamie and I played against Paul and Buddy for round 1. I was pretty terrible at first but immediately after Paul pointed this out to me, I hit three for five. The ladies went on to win, much to my cousin's dismay. This went on for a while, Michael Phelps won his 8th gold medal and we kept playings washers. I was getting eaten alive by the 'skeeters' despite having reapplied Off twice. Eventually we went inside to watch home movies of my sister Camille when she was about two. Taken on an old Super 8 by my father, we saw my grandparents, Aunt Susan and others circa 1973.

Sarah Fisher said, via text, that she was glad I was embracing my southern side after I let her know I was about to eat freshly dead dove. I'm glad I got to embrace that too, but even more, I'm happy to have been able to spend some time with family.