For my public absence for more than some can stand and others have not yet noticed, the time has come where I need to return to a moment of writing and renewal of my brain’s chess peices. I’ve grown quite fond of drawing and accessing rare collections through the internet, so that has publicly been my publicity stunt for the past few months. Sincerly, both internally and externally I apologize for the delay in reference to common tomfoolery and my gaited walk through the past few months.
The perspacacity of one’s concentration when thinking on Glenwood, Arkansas can be of that of Utopia. Mountains of blue in the morning and red in the evening, sifting horizontal piques of what the sun could most likely call its seasonal song. The apples were plentiful and the children took books on the ready. Schools were a daily hustle, organizing those once messy thoughts of a youth into a perfect cuff and crease. The wives and husbands were whistling tunes from other lands and honestly sharing truths with one another, not like is seen in the apertures of circus events; the illusionment dances off the coats of Bengal tigers, this itchiness is their cry for help. ROAR! ROAR! This is beginning to sound a little too apt for misunderstanding and underdeveloped dinner talk. May we begin?
In a quiet town, where quiet people loudly think, a man by the name of Solomon was begot. The rhyming of the first sentence was of Solomon’s own devices. He asked that I start off with something easy and intriguing for the little ones. The little one’s will enjoy this story. Solomon worked as a man is supposed to work, long and without complaint. He never cursed the stars for his whereabouts or stepped on rattlesnakes in envy of another man’s fortunes.He always seemed to find a woman dropping fruit or being pushed by a tonsil tucker and always was there with a helping hand. He was what you call a good samaritan. I just called him Sol. I never really liked those tiny labels we place on people, they add up over the years and then you can’t really see much of them anymore. So, Sol was…
One evening in 1924 when Sol had been counting up the fees he owed for the upkeep of his farm, he noticed that prices were rising and debt was it’s passenger. Their was a inopportune sound in the air that night. The trees were darting back and forth against the rooftop. Sol was never one for embracing nature, so he usually went to bed early on nights where ferocity in the environment took full swing and carried out a plan much like that in Heaven on days where harps were being polished, but tonight was different. He ran outside, wait, it was slower than that, he moved with the familiarity of a crab nebulon on the outstrech of a neverending cosmos; a fright night in tenacious radicalism. Just slow enough and big enough for our scientists to recognize. Sol wasn’t in the mood for fear, slightness of confidence or irratable moments in history so he took all of this storm in, breathing in so deeply, he seemed to curve the path of the rain onto his porch. I remember this night very well because I was there. Sol asked that I keep my name secret for my protection in the future tense of things, therefore I will falsely indentify myself by noms de plume as Earl Lay Birdgets Theworm. But you fine people can just refer to me as Earl. Keep things simple. I had watched Sol from the corner of his cabin, breathing in heavily, almost as hard as when he was fencing in his stock or bailing hay. I guess you don’t really need to get all worked up by doing actual “work”. I have found through careful reasoning and observance, mostly through Solomon, that sometimes you don’t need to be physically labored to get all huffy and puffy. I wonder if there will be a label for that in years to come? Oh, I just know there will be.
As I sat there in the corner, Sol lifted up his hands but crouched down on the creaky boards that made his porch. I could see that he was praying. Even with his back to me and the storm blocking out the sound of his voice, I could tell that’s what he was doing. Any man who ever sank down in such desperation was sharing a moment with God. We all do it, Sol, never stopped and I liked that. I got up and walked slowly towards him. His head bowed towards the soil that he had taken so many years to keep fresh and healthy. I could tell he was in a bad way. I wanted to help him but I felt small within his bubble of prayer. I felt like there was nothing I could do so I just laughed. Sol turned around after I did this random event, his eyes wet, I couldn’t tell if he was crying or he just never blinked and the rain just flooded up his whole eye socket or maybe he was experiancing one of those sweat attacks like from when you’re having a bad nightmare and it was just all coming through his eyes. I felt I’d never know so I stopped thinking about it. Sol stood up and smiled. I smiled back. My heart kind of jumped a little bit. It felt like when you were going down a slide but it must have been reverse day because that feeling shot straight into my throat, I kid you not. A lot of the heart is a strange matter. I felt alone in that tiny moment but suddenly I was okay again. Sol grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. He stared, his eyes beginning to squint. He said to me,
“Earl, I have an idea. While I sat there praying, I couldn’t help but think of lightning shooting straight through a potato. I thought about it blowing all every which way and lying there burnt and hot. What if we make skinny potato food? We’ll call it a French fry. What do you say?”
I was so excited whenever he developed new ideas or came up with inventions for the betterment of the future. I yelled out a happy tone but it was blocked out by the thunder. I ducked under the firewood slouched up against the wall to the house. Sol laughed and he started walking off the porch. I laughed too, following him. He grabbed a couple sacks of potatoes and brought them to the center of the field. We layed each one of them out, musta taken us half an hour. By the time we were done, we were tired. We both went to bed that night hoping we’d have some lightning cooked potatos ready for the eating.
Next morning we woke up and there in the field, almost as golden as the sun were the potatoes burnt crispy as my cereal. We packed all of them up in halve crates and brought them into town. They were so successful the first day we had fifty dollars by the end of the day. So, that’s where the French fry came to be, well, at least thats how it began. I’m sure they’ll find some other way of doing it in the future, something that can respond to increased population and the need for an on-the-go person. You see a couple of those types every now and again out here but I have a feeling they’ll be catching up like a cold pretty soon.