When I was a kid growing up in Nashville, Tennessee, our Vidalia onions arrived in April, sometimes May. Mom grabbed the delivery boy by his shirt collar and held on until she checked the boxes for damage. Satisfied, she sent the startled kid on his way, yelling as he left that her onions required careful handling—a little something for him to remember.

Mom ooh’d and aah’d over the pink grapefruit Aunt Wiese sent us at Christmas. The grapefruit came from Texas. She ooh’d and ahh’d over the tomatoes Uncle Pete delivered in August. They came from his farm in Jackson, Tennessee. But she saved her longest oooooh’s and aaaaah’s for the Vidalia onions Uncle Buck and Aunt Tilde sent us every spring from Georgia.

Unlike pink grapefruit or tomatoes, Vidalia onions were something of a prize. With modern transportation, they’re widely available these days, but back in the ’50s Vidalias were tough to come by. Their scarcity supported a ladder-like hierarchy of onion aficionados across the South.

Those who lived in Vidalia, Georgia and had access locally sat on the top rung. Those fortunate enough to live elsewhere in the great state of Georgia and know somebody in Vidalia sat one rung down. We, who lived outside the great state of Georgia but were related by blood to second-rungers, occupied the third rung down.

We were in a precarious position. We got our Vidalias because we knew somebody who knew somebody. We relied heavily on staying in the good graces of our Georgia relatives. Without their beneficence we risked falling in among the truly unfortunate who didn’t live in the great state of Georgia and weren’t related by blood to one of the somebodies. Those poor folks were way down on the ladder and rarely got their hands on Vidalias.

Every year, our four boxes of onions came with a short note from Uncle Buck saying how delighted he was to be able to send us onions again. Vidalias were tough to come by, he always said. We were lucky to be getting them, he said.
Uncle Buck’s note prompted Dad’s annual rant about uppity Georgia people looking down their noses at Tennesseans just because somebody grew some damn onion that tasted like every other onion as far as he was concerned. But Mom, knowing full well who buttered her onions, just smiled and wrote Uncle Buck back a nice note saying how lucky we were to have such wonderful Georgia relatives who favored us with some of their bounty.

It was an insurance policy she took out every year.

Well, the years passed. Annie and I moved to Seattle. Even so, Uncle Buck and Aunt Tilde kept up with us and sent us a big box of Vidalias. We parceled them out in brown paper bags and proudly went off to visit the neighbors—to share our Vidalia bounty with uninitiated Northwest people, to help them understand that there were differences among onions and Vidalias from our quadrant of the country sat atop the heap, so to speak.

Like the good Northwest people they were, the neighbors listened politely to our story about Vidalias, but with skeptical looks on their faces. They opened up their bags of Vidalias and peered in, carefully-like the onions might bite them. Then they asked, “You think these are as good as Walla Walla Sweets?”

What?

Walla Walla Sweets?

As fate would have it, we were the uninitiated. Thus began our education on the truly superb Walla Walla Sweet Onion. And now we live here and are Walla Walla Sweet converts.

So, a few weeks ago, I sent a big box of Walla Walla Sweets to Uncle Buck and Aunt Tilde, along with a little note saying how delighted we were to share our Walla Walla Sweet Onion bounty with them. Walla Walla Sweets are hard to come by, I said. You two are lucky to be related to people who live in Walla Walla, Washington, I said.

I still haven’t gotten a thank you note, but I’m guessing it’s just held up in the mail somewhere.

I’m taking a brief hiatus–fishing in Montana and Wyoming.

“Hiatus” is replacing “vacation” in our vocabulary.  At least, that’s what I’m told.

It occurred to me that a true hiatus would involve little or no blogging. I don’t have very good internet access here anyway. So I’ve decided to take a hiatus from my blog. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, fully refreshed and ready to write more fascinating stuff.

Well, BIG is a wonderful dog—very affectionate, obedient, a good companion—but a guard dog, he’s not. In fact, at 5 months it’s pretty clear he’s not the Great Pyrenees we thought we were buying. At the hint of danger, BIG cowers by the screen door barking as if his life depends on it. We know what he’s trying to say: “There’s something scary and somebody needs to come out here and deal with it so I don’t have to.” He’s a BIG chicken.

So, we have acquired yet another dog. I’m calling him ER. He is a Great Pyrenees and, at age 4 months, is already showing the right guard dog instincts. And he’s pretty cute.

I have now moved into the 21st century with the rest of you. If you’re interested in being my friend…and I’m not suggesting that you should be…but if you are, please let me know on Facebook or Twitter. Or you can contact me through the sammcleod.net website. (Follow the “Contact Me” tab.)

And here’s a quick update on the new book: My agent… I actually have one now. Hard to believe, huh?… My book agent will start sending the manuscript to publishers this coming week—a process that’ll take several months. With a bit of luck, the book will be out sometime next year…I hope…I hope.

And whatever happens, I’m learning a lot and maybe that’s what it’s all about anyway. At least that’s what Annie says and she is, as you may know, a very wise person.

A couple of months after my Aunt Wiese died, I got a call from my mother. (I call her Mom or Coco.) Her call was unusual. Even in this day of cell phones and unlimited minutes, Coco is reluctant to call long distance. She can’t quite believe she’s not paying something extra.

“Must be 2,000 miles between here and Walla Walla,” she’ll say. “Gotta be some up-charge.”

Anyway, she called and asked how things were at the farm. She wanted to know about Double (Annie’s filly) and the alpaca babies (Frank and Hope). “And how is BIG the Dog doing?” she asked.

“Come on, Coco,” I said. “What gives? You never call unless you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Well, I’m not the kind to stick my nose in,” she said. “And you know I’m not the pushy type.”

“You are none of those things, Mom. So what’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been wondering…you know…not all the time, mind you…but occasionally wondering.”

“About what, Mom?”

“Well, about that dern book of yours—when it’ll be finished. Beebe’s been asking about it, you know. So has Irma. Of course, I told ‘em it’d be done when it was ready to be done. But they’re wondering whether you’ve got some estimate for us. I told ‘em I’d ask.”

Now Mom, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know. I know. I don’t mean to be a bother.”

You’re not a bother but I don’t rightly know when it’ll be finished. Most of it’s in New York with my editor…”

“Editor!” Coco snipped. “What do you mean, editor? You don’t need a dern editor. She’s not gonna try to change your writing, is she? Your writing is excellent. Don’t you be letting some fancy big-city editor get her handprints all over it.”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “She’s helping me with the book because I asked her to and she’s got a lot of experience I don’t have. And she’ll tell me the truth. I can’t get anybody I know to tell me straight what they think—what they like and don’t like. My editor won’t pull any punches…”

“Your writing is fine, Sam. You don’t need any know-it-all New York City editor to tell you anything. I’ve read your books. So have Irma and Beebe. They liked ‘em fine. So did Barbara…”

“Who’s Barbara?” I asked.

“My hairdresser. She liked ‘em too.”

“Coco,” I said. “I know you and Beebe and Irma and Barbara like my writing. And I’m delighted you do. But I don’t think you have the kind of objectivity my editor does.”

“Well, you listen here,” she said. “Your Aunt Wiese died without getting a chance to read that book.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“And I know it takes the time it takes. Lord knows you’ve told me that a thousand times. But it’s taking a long time and I don’t know how much longer I’ve got. And what about Irma and Beebe?” Coco asked.

“Good point, Mom. I’ll try to move it along but a lot of this is out of my hands and whatever’s meant to be will be.”

“Well,” said Coco, a bit of resignation in her voice, “Don’t you be letting any fancy pants New York missy mess up your writing or slow you down. Your writing is just fine.”

“I know, Mom. Thank you. I’ll do what I can. I promise.”

Good ol’ Coco.

Last Friday, July 3, I realized that I didn’t have wood pellets for my Traeger smoker. I’d planned to cook a beef brisket for July 4th.I was staring at something of a problem.

As far as I know, Tumac on Rose Street is the only place to buy those pellets in Walla Walla. It occurred to me that they might be closed the day before a holiday weekend—like a lot of other local businesses. So I called the store to find out. A nice lady answered the phone. I asked if the store was open.

“No,” she said. “But Mike’ll be right back. He’s at the neighbors helping fix a tractor.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize I’d called Mike’s cell phone. Thought I was calling the store. No need to bother him on his day off.”

“Not a problem,” she said. “What did you need?”

Well, I explained about my pellet problem and asked if she knew of another place that sold them.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “But I’ll tell Mike. He’ll call you when he gets back.”

About an hour later, Mike called.

“Went by the store. Got a few bags of pellets for you. Hope applewood is okay. They’re by the front door,” Mike said.

“Goodness, Mike,” I said. “You didn’t need to go to that trouble, but many thanks.”

“No trouble at all. Enjoy your Fourth of July,” he said.

Nice fella…

We’re taking it easy today. Here’s a picture of Yoda resting up before a big night of hot dogs on the grill and fireworks…

You all know Yoda. He’s my dog—a low-slung Corgi with giganto ears.

Almost every night Yoda and I sit on the porch together. We’re sedentary soul mates. I tap away on my laptop, or read the newspaper, or watch mule deer eat the saplings we planted along the riverbank. Yoda lies flat on his back, legs akimbo, taking in the scenery upside down—”airing out” we call it.

That’s the way it is most nights, but recently I’ve done a bit of traveling, trying to hornswoggle some New York people into publishing my new book. They’re a tough crowd. The hornswoggling is taking more time than I thought it would. So I spent most of last week out of town.

I’d explained to Yoda where I was going and when I’d be back. I told him I was counting on him to watch out for things at the farm and take care of Annie. I said I’d be thinking of him. We’d sit on the porch when I got back.

He followed me to the car and tried to jump in, but I told him he couldn’t go. “You wouldn’t enjoy the flying part,” I said. So he sat in the middle of the driveway and watched me drive off. I could see him in the rearview mirror, looking at me with his moist, unblinking eyes.

I got back late Friday night. The Walla Walla sky was full of stars and a sliver of moon.

The big dogs, Sam and BIG, met me at the gate, just like they’re supposed to, and slobbered on my shorts while I scratched behind their ears. (It’s the way they show affection.) I picked up BC the Barn Cat. She sunk her claws into my arm and purred for a minute before jumping down and retreating into the darkness. My horse Bo whinnied from his stall. Annie’s alpacas lay in their pens in the moonlight munching on hay.

But where was Yoda? I knew Annie would be dead asleep, but I figured Yoda would greet me. He always does.

Not this time.

I found my way in the dark to our bedroom. Annie roused enough to acknowledge my return and went back to sleep. That’s when I saw Yoda, on his doggie bed in the corner, head up under my gray pullover fleece—the one that had fallen on the floor.

I bent to pat him on the head and tell him I’d missed him. He didn’t move except to stick his head further up under the fleece. He was sulking.

So I decided I’d pet him a while longer and he’d snap out of it like he always does. But not this time. He wasn’t just sulking. He was pissed.

Next morning, he still had his head up under the fleece.

“Hmmm,” I said. (That’s what I say when my brain’s not generating anything useful. It happens a lot.)

And then I thought, “What does Annie do when I’m a little miffed? To put me in a better mood?”

And then I said, “Aha!” (That’s what I say when my brain generates a promising thought. It doesn’t happen a lot.)

I went into the kitchen and got a hot dog out of the refrigerator. I went back to the bedroom and stuck one end of the wiener up under the edge of the fleece, right under Yoda’s nose. He snatched it and bolted the whole thing down. He went still. I could tell he was thinking. And then he rolled onto his back so I could scratch his belly. I was forgiven and all was right with the world again.

So, against the odds, I learned something useful: like me, my dog’s a soft touch around wieners.