Carolina in my Cooler

I threw out the cantaloupe when we were in Arkansas.

If I had thought of it, I would have tossed it as we went over the mighty Mississippi river, to be poetic about it and all. But I didn’t, so the cantaloupe went down the sink in our hotel room in Little Rock. Maybe this doesn’t sound like such a big deal, it just being a few pieces of fruit and all. But it was my last link to the Carolinas, my last link to home.

Over the last several years in Greensboro I had really started changing the way I thought about food. I wouldn’t really consider myself a locavore, herbavore, omnivore, or any other “vores” that have lately become associated with ways of relating to one’s food. But I have become more thoughtful about the purchasing, consuming, and preparing of my food. Largely due to the books I’d read (see the list on my blog) and the composition courses I’d taught themed around food, but also due to the readily accessible farmers markets, Earth Fares, Fresh Markets, and other food-conscientious stores in Greensboro.

This small food revolution in my life made it very important to me to have some fresh fruit on the long road trip. And, like I said, it was the last remnants of home to take with me. A few days prior to leaving I visited Rudd Farm, the local farmer just the down the road from whom I bought most of my fruits and veggies. I cut up the cantaloupe and peaches and put them into the tupperware I had saved for this purpose. After two days in a semi-cool cooler, the cantaloupe had soured a bit and needed to be tossed.

I thought this would be a difficult task, but in the days leading up to our departure, and along the route, I kept reminding myself to stop looking behind and start looking ahead. This became easier once we left. For one thing, I literally had to look ahead, down the road, watching the signs declare “welcome to Tennessee” or “welcome to Alabama.” It wasn’t so hard, after-all, to throw out the cantaloupe, and I had a rather silly self-congratulatory feeling about my ability to look ahead.

Except that looking ahead no longer matters, because we’re here – now. When we crossed the Texas state line I had a sinking feeling that my earlier bravado about looking ahead no longer sufficed. I suppose this is something like what they call “living in the moment.” And I must say, it was a good moment walking the two short blocks from my house to the English department and turning the keys of my office door for the first time this morning. Here’s to more good moments, now and ahead.