grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Things Change: toys to wine

By

The entrance looks the same. 

Two-toned bright blue paint covers concrete cinderblocks. I look for Geoffrey the Giraffe, but he no longer greets customers. 

The crowd is older and more subdued. 
Couples walk together searching for just the perfect pinot to go with blackened shrimp. Children no longer pull dazed young mothers through aisles stacked with legos and board games. Instead, bourbon bottles line shelves tagged with recommendations written like book reviews.
decisions, decisions
Cases of wine soar into the rafters where bicycles hung. Along the wall once filled with Mario games, a humidor offers cigars imported from Cuba. Yesterday the back of the store was slathered in Barbie pink. Now a cheese and meat deli provides takeout for busy shoppers. 
Grace Grits and Gardening
Spec’s Texas Superstore
A customer opens the beer case, welcomes the blast of refrigerated air, and lingers over choices. He lingers over the cold air.
The bathroom looks the same. 
I stare at familiar floor tiles, searching for my kids’ footprints hidden and embedded among scuff marks and built-up wax.
Barely-twenty-something girls stand in a row offering samples of merlot and vodka on whiskey barrel tables. Ten years ago, the same girls opened Santa gifts purchased from this very spot.
talya
Yesterday Once More, The Carpenters

the kitchen table

By

My sister and I spent entire afternoons at the kitchen table creating paint-by-number masterpieces, dipping the brush into little pots of paint and applying color between the lines. 

While Momma made lunch, we cut paper dolls from the Sears catalog. 

Balls of peanut butter cookie dough were pressed into sugary crisscross patterns with a fork. We waited impatiently at the table for the cookies to bake. 

From the kitchen table, we learned life lessons. Daddy grumbled about the weather. Friends joined Momma for a cup of Folgers. After supper, accidental stains and food crumbs were erased with soapy water and a dishrag. Each day began fresh at the kitchen table. 

Seasons were marked as the center fruit basket was replaced with an evergreen candle Saturday after Thanksgiving. After a deep fresh snow, we made bowls of snow cream with lots of vanilla and sugar. 

Momma cut dress patterns, worked crossword puzzles, called out spelling words. We made vacation plans and counted down to the lake over breakfast bowls of grits. 

Each afternoon, Momma sorted through bills, Columbia House junk mail, a letter from my Australian penpal delivered half a world away straight to our small, sturdy table. 

I studied for the ACT test, trying to block the sound of the television in the den, plotting my escape to college. Later, I couldn’t wait for that first home-cooked meal after fall semester. 

Shocked and numbed, we gathered around the table to select songs for Daddy’s funeral. 

History lives. 

Future plans are laid. 

All from the ordinary kitchen table.
everything happens at the kitchen table
Taylor & Kelsey
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

 

Lake Day!

By

Lake day!

Once we left the flat delta, we studied the trees, searching for the lake. The first one to see the water shimmering through the Ozark trees won. There wasn’t a real prize, the thrill of that first glimpse was prize enough.
“I see it!”
“Girls, it’s still at least an hour away.”
I returned to my book but only read a few paragraphs before looking out the window again. The trees grew denser and taller and shaded the roadway weaving through the mountains. With each flip of the page, Momma drove closer to our favorite place.
“The Lake!” We screamed at the same time. Alice in Wonderland fell to the floorboard.
“Jinx!” We yelled in unison.
“Double jinx!”
We idled behind the long line of cars waiting to board the ferry.
“Staci, let’s run down to the water until it’s our turn…” The ferry unloaded cars on the opposite shore giving us at least twenty minutes to explore.
She poked my arm. “Okay but you owe me a coke.”
“Crap I was so excited, I forgot about the jinx game.”
“Don’t say crap,” Momma reminded.
My sister and I raced to the water’s edge, breathing in the beginning of summer.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!