grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

I’ll have what IOWA’s having!

By

So the Iowa Caucus is over. After all the coffee drinking and hand shaking and slobbering on cutie patootie babies, seems like it was a wasted effort. First Mitt Romney was declared the winner – wait just a minute! NotSoFastMittens. Someone in the back room recounted, or found some more ballots on the floor, or forgot some ballots were left on the copier and suddenly Rick Santorum was ahead by 34 whopping votes. Then, the party confessed that maybe some votes went missing. Left in the bathroom and accidentally thrown out? Hmmmm.


So now it’s being touted as a three way tie – everyone won! – yippee! – trophies and pizza all around! – a triple header – sounds as American as apple pie if you use baseball lingo to describe the confusion. Triple losers. What’s a nation to do?

Iowa sets the tone for the entire election. Iowa goes first. Apparently no one can decide who to vote for until the normal regular people in Iowa decide for us. Kinda like ordering dinner at a restaurant. Sometimes you just can’t pick something off the menu until you hear what your best friend is having. Sometimes you don’t understand the menu – it’s written in Spanish or very fancy words – so you need someone to translate or even order for you. Sometimes you order something that you saw advertised – it sounded really good at the time but later it gave you serious indigestion. Or diarrhea. Sometimes you just can’t see the menu because you forgot your cute Kate Spade readers – you accidentally left them in your other purse. Or, maybe you think you want the Chicken Caesar Salad, hold the croutons, with the dressing on the side (you have been going to yoga and really trying to shrink the burrito that has formed around your waistline), BUT then your husband orders sour cream chicken enchiladas with chopped onions and a side of white queso. Suddenly you change your order. And you order iced tea with lime until you realize everyone else at the table is ordering a top shelf margarita. So you change your order. You don’t want to be different. Sometimes you aren’t even hungry.

Everyone, across the nation, is hoping and praying that someone – anyone – just a normal regular girl with business sense and common sense will throw her hat into the ring. Someone who would never ever tie her Schnauzers to the roof to drive to the dog park, much less to Canada. Someone who doesn’t need an exploratory committee to know we can’t afford a 51st state on the moon – we can’t take care of the 50 states we have. Someone who knows that people will be bored to tears by a man in a Mr. Rogers sweater vest. 

I don’t know that much about caucusing. I’ve never caucused – I just go vote when the polls are open. But, just to satisfy my own curiosity, I did conduct my own exit poll after the last democratic caucus in 2008 –  among my co-workers. As I suspected, no one who participated knew the first thing about what they were doing. I admit, my poll was in no way scientific – more of an SNL kind of thing. The answers confirmed to me that Iowa should decide for us – at least for my co-workers. Iowa’s been doing it a long time. They seem really into it. And, they probably don’t have much going on in the wintertime, so they can adequately prepare. The question posed was: “Did anyone at the bank participate in the caucus yesterday? If so, how was it?” 

Results: (direct quotes – some names changed):

  • I tried to caucus in Grand Prairie, but it was too crowded, so I went home;
  • My momma did. She didn’t get home til 11 pm;
  • I bet Johnny likes him a big ole caucus;
  • No, I didn’t know anything about the candidates. But I know it’s a secret ballot.
  • Yes, Laurie made me do it. I voted early and Laurie told me if I didn’t caucus, my early vote wouldn’t count. I just followed the instructions of some lady. I was confused. I just voted on who I wanted on the ballot… unless they gave me something else, because I had to tell them I was already in for the early voting…so I hope I did it right.     (omg)
  • Well, I can tell you one thing, you don’t get home til midnight. I caucused in Mesquite. We didn’t start until 9:30 and had to stand in a line outside in the dark and in the cold. We got in two lines, one for McCain and one for Huckabee. You had to print legibly your name, phone, and address so they could verify you were legal. You put your hat in the ring if you wanted to be a delegate – I didn’t want to do that so I just stayed in the back. Then later you go to state to the big thing. They didn’t start this caucusing thing until the John Kerry thing because they didn’t count right or do right. I wanted to vote for McCain but couldn’t because it was only between Hillary and Obama.
  • No, is it too late? 
Seriously OMG. 

Sometimes you just lose your appetite altogether. 
Oops….

talya

Musical Pairings:
Gnarls Barkley, “Crazy”

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




That Bookstore in Blytheville

By

Mary Gay Shipley has my dream job. She is the proprietor of That Bookstore in Blytheville near my hometown.  I recall in the mid-1970s when she first opened the store, it was The Book Rack.  At that time, it was more of a used book exchange.  Nearly every week, my mother walked into The Book Rack with a stack of paperbacks to trade and walked out with a new stack of volumes to read, fueling my addiction at a very early age. Of course, this was after an hour of browsing and chatting with the ladies there, who could always make wonderful reading recommendations over a cup of coffee. The book exchange idea proved to be a great recycling program, if you are one of those people who can let go of a book. I cannot.

For years, everyone simply referred to The Book Rack as “that bookstore in Blytheville“. I suppose Mary Gay decided to go with the flow, as eventually she officially renamed it. I doubt I have ever been to Blytheville without stopping there. It’s actually the reason to go to Blytheville. It’s a destination, not just a quick side trip on the way home from someplace else.

A few of my signed first editions.

Shiny, Clean, Aligned, Happy 

Mary Gay has attracted many impressive southern authors to book signings and readings, thus I have amassed quite an impressive collection of signed first editions.  I treasure these books. When our house nearly flooded a few years ago, I was fully prepared to strap a bookcase on my husband’s back, if necessary. I have many, many more autographed books than shoes. It’s not even close. 

If I ever move back home to Mississippi County, I plan to occupy the storefront until Mary Gay agrees to hire me. I have thought this through and feel certain that it would be to her advantage. She needs an understudy.  She has earned an understudy – someone who appreciates all things southern like whipping up the perfectly balanced pitcher of mint juleps or executing a successful late evening snipe hunt among friends.  
Most of my shoes.
Faded, Dirty, Jumbled, Sad
I would cheerfully fetch John Grisham from the airport for his book signing events, engage him in clever conversation about soybean futures and discuss his latest protagonist during the drive to Blytheville. 

One day I hope to see my own book for sale on the shelves at That Bookstore in Blytheville complete with an endearing quote from Mary Gay Shipley on the back cover. That is on the very TOP of my bucket list. (The understudy position is a teeny bit further down.) But honestly, I’m not a stalker, just a fan. I swear.

talya

Grace Grits & Gardening

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!