grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

for the birds

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Boogee (hard “g”) lives around the corner from our Fayetteville cottage.  How do you spell your name, I asked? I don’t really know, she laughed. That’s just what everyone calls me.
One corner of Boogee’s dry-stacked rock wall is a shrine to Found Objects—lost or discarded sidewalk treasures discovered and relocated by neighbors strolling with sleepy headed toddlers, dedicated power walkers, Razorbacks headed to English class.
Partially hidden within fall leaves—a like-new pacifier, a purple plastic Easter egg, a man’s red and black striped necktie.
I contributed a red string with tiny black beads found on Dickson Street—nothing fancy or nice— oddly interesting. With my offering, I felt part of the neighborhood.
Near Boogee’s inviting front porch, she grows cotton! A single stalk , a specimen celebrated like a rare Japanese Maple. The cotton hangs white and heavy, ready to be picked. Beyond ready but still soft and beautiful.
When are you planning to pick your cotton, I asked? Oh I never pick it. I grow it every year for the birds. The birds take bits for their nests. 
One of the reasons I lovelovelove Fayetteville…
talya

Musical Pairing:

White Bird, K T Tunstall

Hello Autumn!

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Autumn is the time we begin to wind down the year, rebalancing our bodies and minds as the days begin to shorten and cool. We breathe a sigh of relief at having survived another hot southern summer.
Into storage go those summer decorations, the bowl of seashells collected during annual treks to Destin, the sunflower door wreath. Into the back of the closet go the white linen pants and summer sundresses. Bring on cowboy boots and sweater weather!

Thoughts turn to family and football, chili and pumpkin spice lattes. Fall is a time for thanksgiving.
Surprise lilies bloom where none stood the night before. The air is filled with defoliant and the smell of cotton.
 
I wait for the Great Pumpkin.
The roadsides and ditch banks around our farm are tangled with tiny wild flowers and colorful foliage perfect for gathering into fall decorations. What better way to honor nature’s blessings than with vegetation growing wild near the fields? These fields which provide for us all spring…every spring, year after year.
 

ditchbank decor

ditchbank decor

Our rice field is peaceful now, resting, and nearly bare after harvest. The remaining dry stalks, interesting only to dove and duck, are in sharp contrast to the brilliant colors along the turn row and ditches. Cockleburs hang in clumps on scarlet stems. Peeking through the weeds, purple morning glories creep along the dark soil like ground cover. Silvery Johnson grass waves in the breeze. Growing wild, pink spiky flowers are unfamiliar to me, similar to salvia.
decorating with Autumn's offerings

decorating with Autumn’s offerings

 
You can easily transform your home at no cost with only a pair of scissors. A rusty bucket or tarnished silver bowl provides the ideal container. Any found object will do.
 
As poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox observed, a weed is but an unloved flower.
The beauty is all around.
decorate with cotton and wildflowers

decorate with cotton and wildflowers

 
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
 
This post is Day 1 of the BLOGtober Fest at Arkansas Women Bloggers…

 


The Unloved

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I am cultivating the largest Johnsongrass I’ve ever seen. It sprouted up in our Fayetteville flower bed between visits and is so impressive I feel compelled to watch it grow. It wants to live.
It’s my personal 4-H project. I wonder if I could enter it in the State Fair of Arkansas? 
Daddy would be mortified. Thomas Tate had some of the cleanest fields in Mississippi County. Driving anywhere with him meant factoring in lots of extra time. Like all great farmers, he drove slow enough to watch cotton bolls open from the highway. And he stopped unannounced to chop the errant Johnsongrass growing mid-field.  On our way to anywhere, like playing a game of I Spy, we scanned the fields looking for offensive weeds standing taller than the crops, a slightly different shade of green, showing off, teasing Daddy, testing him. He stopped the truck, grabbed his trusty hoe from the back, walked to the annoying thing and whacked it down.  No matter how muddy the field. No matter where we were going. To a basketball game or wedding or funeral… 
We patiently sat inside the musty truck watching and waiting. We had no Iphone entertainment. No Angry Birds to pass the time. Just conversation and maybe a Barbie in tow.
Growing up that way, I am naturally drawn to weeding pulling and flower deadheading. Even at a friend’s house or restaurant, I can barely restrain myself. I’m surprised that I drove back to Dallas and left that mammoth Johnsongrass free to grow in Fayetteville. A weed is but an unloved flower.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Song Sung Blue – Neil Diamond

A weed is but an unloved flower. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!