Gardening - grace grits and gardening

A Place to Remember

June 7, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I don’t think you see a town until you spend time walking around. Every place has hidden treasures to uncover, even those nearly invisible communities tucked among the corn fields hours away from the closest Dillard’s. You may need to squint to clearly see.

Presbyterian Church, Piggott, Ar

Flying down Main Street in a cool car driving somewhere better, the old church cornerstone is a blur, the cemetery overgrown, the dilapidated house with gingerbread trim faded. The town appears abandoned, a ghostly whistle-stop off the interstate. Small-town stereotypes come to mind leaving an empty feeling, a who-on-earth-lives-here feeling. Stopping at the single red light seems ridiculous with not a soul in sight. You have some place to be. Some place exciting. Some other place. But walking the neighborhood, studying the building design and reading the historical markers bring back life. A life. A history. Every place is someone’s home, someone’s place to remember. It crosses someone’s mind.

Faded mural on side of building

Last night I walked for hours taking pictures of this little town that at first glance appeared forlorn, forgotten, faded. A passerby waved and an old man said hello from his porch swing. A stone cottage surrounded by a sizable garden with rows and rows of vegetables and apple trees caught my eye. It was framed by a rock wall, crooked yet perfect. I coveted it. I considered knocking on the door to ask permission to walk beyond the stone wall. Tomatoes already grew heavy on the vine. Could I have garden tour and learn the secret to this abundance? Would the gardeners who live within those walls consider me crazy? Do I care? It was late so I thought better of it.

Piggott reminds me of Keiser where I attended grade school, trick-or-treated on Halloween and hung out with my friends on weekends. I’m sure travelers blow through thinking it to be a sad, depressing place. They didn’t know Vic and Bobby Don who always hung out at the gas station guarding the entrance into town, or Howard Ray who road his bicycle affectionately named Trigger, or the Shake Shack with slap-yo-momma Pizza Burgers. But we do. We were part of it. We remember cotton trailers lined up at the gin, Edwina’s Beauty Shop always smelling of perms, and Spin-the-Bottle in Nana’s dimly lit attic. We remember cheering on the Keiser Yellow Jackets. We remember.

talya

“Living in a small town…is like living in a large family of rather uncongenial relations. Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s perfectly awful, but it’s always good for you. People in large towns are like only-children.” Joyce Dennys, Henrietta Sees It Through

Just a Girl

June 4, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Today. At the writer’s retreat… Tell us a bit about yourself….This is a huge question. How do I convey what I want these folks, these soon to be new friends, these writers, to know about me in 3 minutes? Who am I?

Last night I thought about the words I threw together describing myself on the “About Me” section of my Grace Grits & Gardening blog, strung together simply off the top of my head with very little thought. Words to fill that blank spot on my intro blog page. Truthful but quickly written.

I am a wife. John thinks its cool that I put this first. Maybe all that subliminal southern Baptist rearing stuck back in my head that teaches subservient wifely things? Nah. John describes me as a hard-headed woman, assuring me this is a compliment. I think he is trying to convince himself…
I am a mom. These words, this short simple sentence, form the badge I wear most proudly. If I never do anything else, my life has been productive. I know I have contributed. This allows me to sleep at night.
I am a farmer’s daughter. Huge influence. In this life I learned to wake before sunrise, do what I say, reap what I sow, and memorize the words to every classic country song, skills all southern girl should master.
I love to dig in the dirt. Yes, I started making mud pies at an early age. I do my best thinking wearing my worn gardening gloves and would spend my last five bucks on a perennial rather than food or water, unless my Black Eyed-Susans were thirsty of course.
I am a book junkie. Oh the places I’ve been within the pages of a book – through the doors of musty wardrobes, behind secret garden walls, into the dark forbidden forest and journeying across cold mountains. Real books that you can see and smell and touch and hold. Books you fall asleep with like a favorite feather pillow that leave imprints and lines on the side of your face and within your heart.
I am a beginning yogi. Yoga has opened my eyes to the possibilities. If you practice you know.
I am a beginning writer. This brings me here, to this moment in time, sitting in the very barn where Ernest Hemingway wrote portions of A Farewell to Arms. I am in awe.
I try to do something creative every day. See all of the above.

I’m just a girl from Arkansas.

talya

“Write drunk, edit sober.” Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway Barn

my secret garden

March 28, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

my well-worn copy

Santa knew I was a voracious reader. He fed my addiction, always bringing me a stack of books for Christmas which I devoured more quickly than the chocolate candy in my stocking. One year he gave me The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was magical and life-changing as I became completely lost within the pages, on the moors at Misselthwaite Manor. Mary Lennox and I were both ten years old, and I somehow related to her. Living in the country surrounded by bare winter fields could be a bit dull.

It was the first book I read that I simply could not put down. Although I wanted it to last forever, I quickly inhaled it. Wrapped in my blue and white polka dot sleeping bag and hidden underneath the dining room table, I found myself behind the stone garden wall, reading cover to cover one cold, Sunday afternoon, after church. It was a quiet spot to read as long as my little sister didn’t search for me. And it was cozy with the wall furnace nearby. Everyone needs a place to hide sometime. By the time the thistles turned to roses at the end of the story, I was designing my own secret garden. Someday.

Our secret garden

Forty years and hundreds of books later, The Secret Garden is still one of my top 10 books. It may even be in my top 5. I re-read it every few years and discover new things each time. And it continues to inspire me as John and I plant and trim and weed our tiny, postage stamp sized yard near downtown Dallas. It was a challenge from the beginning with no fence, bad dirt, a dying trash tree, and an oddly shaped deck. Slowly, we are transforming our bit of earth, hidden behind an iron fence and a few Japanese maple trees.

Along the way, we’ve discovered our garden has a few secrets of its own. Underneath the garage lies an old root cellar. It was filled in years ago, but we discovered its massive concrete doors during pool excavation. UpCharge…. And each time we dig a hole to plant a flower, we find a brick. Through research we discovered several apartment units were built onto the back of the house for returning soldiers after WWII. After demolition, these bricks were buried over time. So far, we’ve found no gold bricks, jars of silver coins, or a secret garden gate key buried in a badger hole. Although John thinks we might have a badger…

Within the tangle of oregano lives a yellow plastic army man – he guards the plants with his rifle drawn. I stationed him there after digging him up in the yard, evidently forgotten by a child who played here years ago. That army man is doing a great job – we have enough oregano to open a pizza restaurant. And to say my cactus is thriving is an understatement. What began as a small cutting from my Nana’s cactus is taking over our side yard. Some people inherit jewels or antiques, but I have a family heirloom cactus.

For such a small space, the life within it is pretty phenomenal. Along with bright green geckos, varieties of butterflies and a giant orange dragonfly that hovers and darts over the pool like the enchanted golden Snitch, we also have entertaining birds. A cardinal family built a nest on one side of the yard and the blue jay family moved in to the adjacent nest. They reluctantly coexist, but occasionally like the Bloods and Crips, there’s a confrontation.

Last weekend, a baby screech owl tried to move into the garden as well. Like nosey neighbors, the cardinals and blue jays lined up along the back fence protesting and gossiping as John fished the fledgling from the pool. Owls can’t swim, and this one was just learning to fly. I suspect the Angry Birds pushed the baby owl into the water.

The owl has been relocated to a nearby bird sanctuary, the cardinals and blue jays are now settled back into their respective nests and two busy schnauzers are diligently patrolling the perimeter this morning. All is calm, all is bright in our garden refuge.