grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Archives for 2012

Every Dog Needs a Girl

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Lucy went to the doctor yesterday morning for her annual doggie checkup. Upon arrival, she appointed herself greeter and welcomed each dog that came inside the waiting room, until it was her time to go back. She was friendly and in charge, tugging as far as her leash would allow, visiting with two pomeranians and a poodle, as well as each human escort. 


As we waited our turn, a lady walked up to the checkout counter opposite the waiting room. Her distress was evident as she sobbed while waiting for her bill. The mood in the waiting room immediately changed as everyone became sympathetic, remembering the raw pain of losing a beloved pet. We all sat there with that awful lump in our throats – I think even the dogs knew the atmosphere had changed. By the time she left, nearly everyone in the waiting room was teary. I thought about that lady later in the day and remembered all too well being on that awful side of the counter.

Kelsey and Belle

Kelsey was not quite 4 when she carefully picked Belle up out of a big box at the SPCA where she had been left. She was a tiny black ball of fluff – and she looked scared. She was part of our family for many years and died a few weeks before Kelsey left for college. It was devastating. The pain absolutely knocked us to our knees.


Pets bring such unhindered joy to our lives. They have no idea it’s a bad thing to toilet paper the entire downstairs, but fully understand when we are sick. Taking hold of our hearts, they wiggle their way into the family pretty quickly. Annabelle was absolutely gleeful to see us when we returned from Lucy’s doctor appointment – I thought her tail might shake right off. It was her first experience home alone and in dog time, we had been gone forever. 

Lucy and Lucy
Last night our friend Lynn – who lives a few houses over – called to tell us that her Schnauzer – also named Lucy – had been hit by a car the day before. We adopted our Lucy’s almost at the same time. They were the same color. They were friends. My heart breaks for their loss. Losing a pet is the gut wrenching downside of loving a pet.
talya

Musical Pairings:

Cat Stevens, “I Love My Dog”
Elvis Presley, “Old Shep”

Spanx Interrupted

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Ok all you normal girls, now would be an excellent time to search around in the bottom of your panty drawer for that one Spanx support garment you bought a few years back when you had that exciting event to attend. You know, it was either the wedding of the summer or that all important high school reunion. You exercised for an entire week, loofahed and freshened your highlights to look your most radiant in that incredibly amazing yet snug dress that you couldn’t wait to wear. Everyone would be there – old boyfriends, besties, mean girls, everyone… Then, against your better judgment, you dropped a Benjamin on the Slim Cognito Super Higher Power Shape Slip to smooth away those last subborn ten pounds.

After prying yourself in, you realize those remaining pigheaded ten pounds must go somewhere – there is no magic to this girdle. It simply squished the flab and fat around until it relocated into new rolls on your thighs where none previously existed. Once zipped inside the fantasy dress though, a near-washboard mid-section appeared. Nice. Until it was time to speak. Or inhale.

About half past the pasta buffet line you began to feel a bit faint. Retreating to the toilet, you hid in a stall, prying and peeling the molded polyurethane from your hot skin. Did it melt? Stuffing the horrid thing in your tiny purse like a wad of silly putty, you continued on through dessert, totally commando, yet completely comfortable as each bulge happily returned to home position. 

The extravagant, useless spandex went on to live secretively in the dark depths of your underwear drawer with your black strapless bra. You sometimes think about it – you know it is there, but you can’t possibly donate it. It was expensive! And what if you need it again? Maybe for Halloween?

The time is now. All the California Spanx attended the Oscars Sunday night. There was enough spandex in that venue to keep the moon in orbit. The women of LA are now slowly sobering up to the panicked reality of a Spanx shortage. During the wee morning hours following the awards, as everyone turned back into pumpkins, those perfectly polished Hollywood darlings stuffed their Spanx in the garbage at some fancy after-party or simply sling-shotted their super panties across Hollywood Boulevard. We practical real-life girls could easily turn a buck on Ebay with our barely worn undergarments, now suddenly a commodity. Supply and demand – works like a charm.

I do believe the only female at the Oscars sans Spanx was Angelina Jolie. I really can’t picture her saying, “Brad, does this size double negative zero dress with the hoo-hoo high slit showcasing my thigh bone make my non-butt look fat?” Much has been made about the way she awkwardly struck a pose, thrusting out her skeletor leg while award presenting –  I maintain she was only trying to keep herself upright. She has totally wasted away to the size of a small strange willow twig. Is she starving herself in support of the malnourished Unicef kids in Angola? And was it just me or did her bony leg sparkle a bit like the strange Twilight vampires?


talya


Musical Pairings:


Amy Winehouse, “Hey Little Rich Girl”
Cindi Lauper, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”

Land spreading out so far and wide….

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Daddy was a John Deere man. Never did he fritter away money on blue or red equipment – no Case or International Harvesters and certainly no Kobotas. Our lawn mower – which the Tate girls commandeered every weekend – was a John Deere. We even had John Deere bicycles. Fancy schmancy. We were green and yellow John Deere people all the way. Other brands and colors were only much slower imitations.

Tate Farm

My sister and I grew up on that equipment, spending entire days climbing on the gargantuan combines and dirty tractors out at the shop on the home place. If a piece of farm equipment sat idle, maybe because the fields were too muddy to plow or it was just the wrong season, we would claim that cotton picker or combine as our own for the entire afternoon. It became our submarine. Always a submarine – never an airplane or boat or tractor. We climbed all over the surface, up into the rafters of the shop, swinging from one side to the top. Amazingly, we never broke any bones or farm implements. But, if we could have figured out how to actually start our submarine, we would have driven it over to Little River. 


Daddy hired several families from south Texas each summer to chop cotton. One summer, Dallas equipped us with hoes, and we chopped with them. We were hoe’rs.  I know they must have been absolutely thrilled to have us in their midst. They were serious about their work, and quick. Speaking no English – at least not to us –  they were covered head to toe in long sleeve work shirts, boots, jeans and wide brimmed straw hats. It was freakin hot, and we thought that was idiotic. Laughing and singing to our portable radio, we wore our bikini tops and Daisy Dukes. We didn’t even wear hats – we wanted those natural highlights you only get from the sun.

We quickly identified the low spot with standing water at mid-field as our natural turning around spot. It certainly wasn’t our fault there was a huge area in the field with standing water – that was totally an act of God. So my sister and I chopped to the water, turned around and chopped back to the highway. The crazy farm hands went around the water and then continued chopping all the way to the ditch. We could barely see that ditch on the horizon! Daddy was not too thrilled with our progress – evidently we were slow hoe’rs. He should have paid us per row instead of per hour, but a deal was a deal. I’m pretty sure we never got that deal again. 

Mississippi County Cotton
The cotton that survived was harvested in the fall. This was one of our absolute favorite times because we loved to tromp cotton. We parked our submarines and spent every moment in the cotton trailers. There was nothing like seeing a full John Deere picker opening along side a trailer and dumping a giant load of freshly picked warm cotton. Sometimes we stood underneath the basket while the cotton was emptied on us like popcorn, then we climbed into the basket high up in the air to make sure there was no cotton clinging inside. Once it was dumped, our ‘job’ was to tromp it. We stomped it down, packing the corners of the trailer so that it would hold more. As soon as the picker returned to the field, we began digging tunnels in the cotton – long, deep, hot tunnels – totally un-tromping it. At dark, we went home exhausted, with cotton lint covering our clothes and burs in our hair. It was the mark of a great day.

I love the smell of freshly picked cotton. It has a very distinct smell that cannot be duplicated. If you’ve picked it, tromped it, turned head over heels in it, or napped in it, then you know. And you’ll always remember. It’s a sweet, clean, damp smell. It smells like cotton.


talya


Musical Pairings:


Creedance Clearwater Revival, “Cotton Fields”
Buddy Jewell, “Sweet Southern Comfort”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!