grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Are We THERE Yet???

By

Me.
Lake Norfork, Arkansas
Bathing Beauty

I’m ready to start counting down the days – only about 160 more sleeps. I may even make one of those paper chains – the kind my sister and I made in December, when we were kids counting down the days to Santa Claus. Only this time I’ll make it from coordinating cool scrapbooking paper and recycled gift wrap, with a bit of vintage card stock thrown in. I’ll weave it tastefully down the stair railing like my red berry Christmas garland, removing one link a day. Naturally, I’ll snap a picture of it for my Facebook timeline. It will be clever and crafty and someone will ‘Pin It’ to one of their style boards. Only 160 days until THE LAKE!  


My grandparents started going to Lake Norfork when my mother was a kid, so our tradition runs deep. My parents honeymooned there. I was 6 months old the first time I crossed on the ferry. This summer will be my 50th year at Lake Norfork. I’ve missed a couple of years here and there for some bad reason, but when I did, my heart hurt.  It’s what we do.

As kids, my sister and I absolutely pestered my mother to death, “When are we going to the lake?” AllSummerLong. I’m surprised she didn’t find someone there to take us in, for the entire summer break, just to get us out of her hair. It’s where we wanted to be. We were fish. We were one with the lake. The anticipation of the lake was a close second to Christmas morning excitement. Throwing all our shorts and bathing suits into the car, we had no trouble waking up super early for that loooong drive to Mountain Home. The journey was 4+ hours, if you hit the ferry just right. It took much longer behind a rock hauler. There was no sense of urgency up in those mountains, and sometimes impossible to pass. This was before all the smooth, new multi-lane highways were built, efficiently bypassing drivers around all the cute little towns and scenic lookouts along the way.

The drive was part of the adventure. We usually stopped for lunch in Lake City, just past the cool old bridge. We held our breath while crossing that bridge. We always held our breath crossing bridges – our favorite was the ‘old’ Memphis bridge that spanned the Mississippi River. I have no idea why we did this – our mother probably trained us as toddlers to allow herself a few seconds of much needed peace and quiet while wondering, “How did my life come to this??” I’ve heard the old superstition – you should hold your breath while crossing a bridge to keep from breathing in the spirits of men who died while building it… I don’t know about that but it probably wasn’t very smart. If we suddenly plunged in to the water below for whatever reason – accident, earthquake, weak infrastructure – we would be wishing to have that breath back as we tried to untangle ourselves from all the junk in the car, underwater. I always got a butterscotch malt at a little diner in Lake City, just like Uncle Rex.

Once we left the flat delta farmland and entered into the Ozark Mountains, we started looking for the lake. I’m sure my mother was looking for more bridges…The first person to see the lake ‘won’. No trophy or anything, just the honor of that first sighting which was big. We had waited the entire long cold winter for that moment. As the cars in the opposite lane began to pass us spaced more closely together, we could barely contain ourselves. When four or five cars passed us practically tailing each other – it only meant one thing! The ferry had just unloaded! We were almost to the ferry. At last.

Ferry @ Lake Norfork
Sometimes we cued up in line to board the ferry only to watch it pull away from the shore. When this happened, Staci and I would escape from the hot car and run to the edge of the water for that first magical toe dip as we waited for the ferry to return for us. On holiday weekends, we sometimes waited hours to cross. Once on the ferry, we stood along the rail and watched the entire crossing unfold. We were headed back to our favorite place.

We spent many a day out on that beautiful lake, in our groovy bright orange Cheetah ski boat, late ’70s vintage, with Johnny Rodriguez and Linda Ronstadt blasting on the 8 track player.  (The Cheetah was christened the “Miss Stalya” the year my grandfather bought it. Very original… Sometimes our aunts and cousins were with us, sometimes girlfriends, and later boyfriends. Sometimes my parents took a very odd assortment of misfits, as if Daddy just dragged the last person he saw in Etowah the night before.  One year when we arrived at the cabin, we found Lulu from Hee Haw sitting on the front porch with her tiny little husband. Daddy had apparently invited them, and they were so enthusiastic about going, they beat us there. Pretty impressive, considering our cabin was waaaay off the beaten path on gravel roads with limited signage. This large lady purported to be a former playboy bunny… She sat on the porch for a week and ate that squirty cheese from a can on Triscuits. Now, even at the ripe old age of 12, I didn’t buy that playboy bunny story for one second. I was, however, fascinated by that silly string cheese. To this day, I think of that woman when I see Triscuits at the grocery store. After that trip, we never saw that playgirl again. 

One summer Daddy brought his friend, Thomas Harrington. Ugh. That man laughed like a freakin hyena. And you know how sound travels over water…. Now we take our husbands and children. And we STILL have that same groovy Cheetah ski boat. If you’ve been anywhere around Lake Norfork in the past 30 years, you’ve seen us. We were those crazy people stranded in every cove and towed all over the lake. Miss Stalya was totaled by Farm Bureau years ago after a storm that smashed the bow into the dock. There’s a big hole in the front that detracts a bit from her natural beauty. We don’t care – we still love her. And we prefer to travel like the Clampetts. There’s less pressure to look good in a bathing suit.

Tate driving Miss Stalya
(and channeling Thomas Tate)
As kids, we jumped off the cliffs every summer, all day long – this continues to be a necessary initiation ritual for any lake newbie who wants to hang with us. We think Kelsey has found her soulmate, but we really won’t know until Andy takes that plunge. Strangely, he avoided us last summer. I’m sure he’s nervous, John barely made the cut preferring to hide out in the cabin, golf and grill. And that’s fine – the only rule at the lake is “There are No Rules”. 

 Bluffs

One of our favorite places on the lake is “The Island”. Near Jordan Marina, it has white sugary sand like the beaches of the Gulf Coast. It’s a glorious spot on this Earth. We always pick one day during our week to spend on the island – usually toward the end of our stay when we are good and sunburned. We load up the Miss Stalya with floats and chips and coolers of iced down water and wine coolers and head out. It’s on the other side of the lake and takes Miss Stalya a while to get there. (This is the only time and place we EVER drink wine coolers. It just fits. Our favorite is the Berry, but in a pinch we will drink those Smirnoff ones that sorta taste like colonoscopy prep. Everything tastes better on the lake.) Tate, our resident Eagle Scout and certified lifeguard, is charged with building the fire for our annual hot dog roast. Actually, Tate is in charge of everything now – driving, hauling Nana in and out of the boat, anchoring the boat, retrieving the boat when it floats off, and making sure no one drowns. It’s good to have an Eagle Scout. The island hot dogs are perfection – unevenly charred, juicy and fat, smothered in yellow French’s mustard – none of that fancy brown spicy stuff on the island. Oh and they have that perfect sprinkling of obligatory sandy grit that only comes from authentic island grilling. Delish!


The early morning lake sounds are peaceful, a cup of coffee on the dock with the mist coming off the lake, and the water like glass. The dock creaks rhymically. An occasional fish jumps and ripples the water. I have a favorite hammock at the lake – it’s the perfect spot for listening to the mourning doves. And napping. I’ve rearranged my life on that hammock.  And at the late night lake is amazing as well. The water is black as ink. Spiders spin silver webs in every corner of the dock. The stars are incredible – millions of stars, shooting stars, falling stars. Lots of wishes made there. It’s my happy place.

Lake Norfork

We recently discovered that our mother has never jumped off those cliffs. We figure she’s grandfathered at this point, plus she wants her ashes sprinkled off that cliff someday – the ultimate jump. We’ll have to modify our plans. We were already planning a viking funeral for her in the Miss Stalya. 


talya

musical pairing:
Johnny Rodriguez, “That’s the Way Love Goes”
Linda Ronstadt, “You’re No Good”

Early Morning




Welcome to Jurassic Park.

By

This morning I found a tampon on the stairs. UNUSED, thank God! But still, a tampon on the stairs! It was open and lying midway up like a dead albino mouse, with the ‘tail’ dangling off the step. I have lost all control. The schnauzers are running the zoo.  

Thirteen weeks and six days ago, I had a cleaning lady. I was gainfully employed at the bank dressed everyday in my favorite peep toe heels, pencil skirt and non-sports-team-related blouses. This allowed me a part-time house elf. Her name was Debbie. During these peep toe years, Debbie came twice a month and cleaned the house from top to bottom, whether needed or not.

It was needed.

She cleaned toilets and made the house sparkle. Debbie Day made the entire work day better. No matter how many irate customers I encountered or how much second hand smoke I inhaled during the day, being greeted by fabulous CLEAN in the evening made everything worthwhile. Clean, buffed floors and lemony furniture. A fresh, peaceful house that smelled of comet mixed with bleach. Never mind that it was an environmental chemical site. Even our old stained sink looked brand spanking new after Debbie Day.

Now I am trying to perform these household duties with two schnauzers under my laceless worn-out converse sneakers. And evidently not very well.

Annabelle. The Schnauzers are running the zoo…
I never much liked this plant
anyway.

Annabelle is still a puppy with recessive billy goat genes. Last Christmas (her first), she destroyed two vintage Shiny Brite ornaments while I frosted cupcakes. The ornaments, displayed in a bowl on the coffee table to keep them safe, were oh too shiny and sparkly with flecks of silver glitter. Near Annabelle’s eye level—they were a schnauzer siren song.  She left behind tiny shards of glass scattered in front of the fireplace, along with the little rusty metal cap and hook that, up until that point, had survived sixty-plus years…. Annabelle does her best work in front of that warm fireplace. 

A few weeks later, as I stored away my Christmas decorations, I noticed there was not a single trace of the decorative moss that had lain all around my manger scene, cradling baby Jesus. Did the camels and donkeys eat it? Or, the Christmas Schnauzer? My nativity was displayed on the small chest beside the loveseat, waaaaay on the far side of the room next to the window. A few days later, I discovered one of the wisemen under the buffet. (By process of elimination, I decided he was the myrrh-carrying wiseman.) 
So now with the tampon incident, Annabelle can open cabinets?

She has further evolved from goat to velociraptor?

Does she have a sickle-shaped claw hidden somewhere in that curly matted coat, allowing her to open the bathroom cabinet and snag a Tampax?

Of course with no squeaker inside, she tired of it quickly, and abandoned it on the stairs. It was too plain for her…  It laid there, beneath my wall of tastefully displayed black and white family photographs. Right below Nana’s portrait. WhatWouldNanaDo?

Nana would laugh, but in that moment I was horrified. A new high low. Was there nothing sacred? 

Annabelle
Yes? You called for me?
In addition to munching family heirlooms, someone occasionally has accidents in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. I never catch anyone in the act, but when I discover the puddle, grumble and grab the cleaning supplies, both dogs stare at John like he is responsible. They look completely shocked. They are conniving. I drag out my new best friend – the self wringing twisty mop – to disinfect and eliminate the awful pee smell.  Because our house is ancient and the floors are unlevel, the pee flows freely from one end of the room to the other, pooling underneath the bed, completely out of reach. This is not your regular, standing on your feet, normal-people mopping. This is on-your-knees, stuck-under-the-bed, pulling-a-hamstring, crazy-people mopping. With Annabelle licking my face. 
If I’m not mistaken, by now shouldn’t we be living high above the city in a uber-cool sky pad apartment with push-button, space age conveniences? Hanna-Barbera promised as much on Saturday mornings forty years ago. My housekeeping should be seen to by Rosey. And, I’m pretty sure Astro never ate a tampon. Where is my futuristic utopia? The closest thing I have to a robot maid is Siri who lives in my smartphone and sometimes randomly speaks to me from deep inside my purse at the grocery store.

Siri is no Rosey.

While John is in Atlanta this week creating sprockets, I have four whole days to get this house in shape. But, I don’t want to start too soon as it will be a completely wasted effort and back to zoo-like conditions by Wednesday. Of course I could summon Siri to dial up Debbie. Maybe she could secretively squeeze us in. I’m sure she misses us. How could she not?
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Baha Men, Who Let The Dogs Out?




Musical Pairings:
Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”
Baha Men, “Who Let the Dogs Out”

You Want Fries with that Trophy? Mais Oui!

By

There is a hot new book out that has American moms in a tizzy. I overheard a brief discussion about this book on GMA yesterday morning, while trying to shape my eyebrows. Pamela Druckerman, an American living in Paris, wrote Bringing Up Bébé to help American mothers raise their children the French way. After observing her French counterparts, she felt they excelled over the American moms who tended to spoil their babies. The discussion nearly turned into a cat fight while I was still on my first cup of French roast.

Now, I haven’t read this book nor shall I (unless dog training tips are included). I’ve brought up my kids as best I could. My nest is newly, happily empty. No more rainy Friday nights for me, sitting on the those hard bleachers dreaming of top shelf Mambo Taxis at Mi Cocina. So far, my bébés are productive, independent and happy young adults (knock-on-wood), and I managed to accomplish this child-rearing feat having never visited Versailles and with only two years of high school French, merci beaucoup. 

Madame Nutt

Madame Nutt was my French teacher. We all loved her and the class. When I walked into that classroom everyday, I was no longer boring Talya Tate. I was Brigette. Madame Nutt gave each of us a French name. This would undoubtedly help us master the language and be one with the culture. I adored my name. So French! Brigette Tate. Like Brigette Bardot. Ooo-la-la! It had a certain je ne sais quoi to it, as if my mother may have been a French socialite and my father a handsome Englishman. In my imaginary perfect French existence, they met on holiday in Toulouse, fell madly in love and lived happily ever after. In reality, they were high school sweethearts from Keiser, Arkansas. She was the daughter of a cotton farmer, and he worked his way through college shooting pool. They married, had a baby girl, and thought up the strangest name to ever come out of Mississippi County in 1962 – – – Talya. Beer may have been involved.


Brigette, Georgine and Suzette
Rivercrest H.S. 1978
French Club
“Embrassez-moi je parle français”

French class knocked me down a notch. It was my first ever class that wasn’t easy. It came with homework and included practice labs. For heaven sakes, it wasn’t even taught in English! I learned pronto that I would never speak French. I was not good at it. No matter how much I repeated “Où est la bibliothèque?” wearing those awkward headphones that messed up my feathered wings, I was NOT going to be Brigette, and I would never find the bibliothèque speaking this clumsy language! I knew that I would not receive the French award at the year end assembly. And the thing is, my mother made no assurance to the contrary – no efforts to boost my fragile ego – nor did she march up to the school in protest, demanding each classmate receive at least a participation certificate. Oh Non. It was a fact of life. Some people are better at certain things than others. Some people are just meant to speak Arkansan, with a touch of sarcasm. And that’s ok. This is how we should teach our children. It’s the good old-fashioned way to bring up bébé.

Today, every single kid gets a two foot trophy on the 4-year-old soccer team for simply buying a cheap shirt and bringing snacks. Seriously, can a kid not make it home from the Saturday sunrise soccer game without a berry razzle boo blitz fruit roll-up and an apple juice box? And then afterward, the harried parents are peer-pressured into driving to Ci-Ci’s Pizza for lunch with the entire team afterwards – plus all extended family members. Like it’s a major celebration. Is this really a good thing? Wouldn’t it be better to just take a water bottle from home, eat a turkey sandwich afterward, and read a book? 


Growing up, we ate what was served, and it was never pizza. It was cooked at home and sometimes grown in our garden. We actually liked what was served. Except on liver night – that was our only night to opt out. Today’s kids negotiate, holding their breath until they receive chicken nuggets, french fries and diet Coke. Do we really think diet Coke is a good choice for kids with developing growth plates? My husband nearly killed himself one night running all around Dallas trying to get the exact freaking fast food demanded for a 5th grade sleepover. One kid would only eat hamburgers from Burger King, and one would eat pizza but only cheese and only from Pizza Hut, not Pizza Inn. I’m sure these 5th graders have a closet full of soccer trophies in their dorm rooms.

Being a parent is the hardest job in the world whether you are bringing up bébé in Paris, France or Paris, Arkansas. I’m thankful to have reached this stage of my life without having been reported to child welfare for ignoring my son’s broken foot for an entire week. I really thought it was a sprain. I’m relieved the pressure of learning spelling words is in the rearview mirror. There are way more outside influences and choices. My sister and I learned to take turns watching our favorite shows – they came on at the same time on different channels…. We couldn’t DVR five reality shows a night, pause the program to run in the kitchen to get more potato chips, re-wind if we fell asleep, or watch it later online at school. We had one television, one “clicker” and 4 channels – ABC(8), NBC(5), CBS(3) and PBS(13). When the electricity went out – and it did, ALOT, – we just sat in the dark and flat missed our favorite show. Or went to bed. 

Is it really any wonder these soccer “stars” graduate from college, expecting their 4 bed/4.5bath/3 car garage starter McMansion to come complete with a theatre room and first time homeowner rebate from Uncle Sam? With no money down. It’s the American Dream. And they will need this dream to compensate for the shock of not going off 1st in the NFL draft, or the disappointment in not marrying a supermodel…. or not becoming a supermodel.
I don’t know if I’ll ever travel to France.  I’m a homebody. I prefer to sleep in my bed in my own home. It’s just too much trouble to travel now that everyone is a potential terrorist. And honestly, I have way too many gels and liquids to travel much farther than Little Rock. But I might consider it for a trophy of some sort. Or a blue ribbon. Or to eat real creme brûlée. Bien sur!


Merci,
Brigette Tate

P.S. Becky Parks’ French name was Suzette. I think Norma Stracener’s was Georgine, but no one could confirm. How does one forget her French name???

Musical Pairings:
Patti LaBelle, “Lady Marmalade”  🙂

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!