grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

I Was a Soul Train Dancer.

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This week I am attending a one-week writer’s residency program at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. During this time I will re-post some of my favorite blogs from the prior year. Maybe you missed one? 

originally published 02/03/12…


Say it ain’t so! Don Cornelius, conductor of Soul Train, the ‘hippest trip in America’, DEAD? From a gunshot wound to the head? Self-inflicted? And on the first day of Black History Month? Oh the humanity. 

Daisy Mae introduced us to Soul Train in the early 1970s. She babysat my little sister and me nearly every Saturday night. She was our Aibileen, one of the principal characters in Kathryn Stockett’s, The Help. Daisy was nurturing and funny and sassy, but that’s where the similarities to the book ended. I don’t know about Mississippi, but in Arkansas, at our house, Daisy was plenty welcome to use our cramped, avocado green bathroom. She was one of our family. She came to our house every Saturday night right after Hee Haw and stayed until after we dozed off. Those few hours, once a week, ushered in a groove factor completely new and exciting to two little white girls on a farm in Arkansas. 


As kids, we LOVED to perform. We were destined to be famous entertainers like Sonny and Cher. Daisy, our biggest fan and captive audience, sat trapped in our bedroom for hours on end, patiently watching our gig du jour – a cappella musical performances complete with costumes and lipstick, skits we had written, and re-enactments of Frog and Toad Together. We specialized in Tony Orlando and Dawn songs. I was always Tony Orlando. Apparently I was totally comfortable with cross-dressing… We ran around the orange shagged carpeted bedroom singing “Tie A Yellow Ribbon”. Daisy clapped enthusiastically. Daisy was a SAINT. 

Growing worried about our future and no doubt extremely tired of Tony Orlando and Dawn, she took us under her sympathetic wing, refocused our attention while we were still impressionable, and saved us from a life of total and complete embarrassment. Late one night, in early 1972, Daisy introduced us to Don Cornelius and Soul Train. Desperately in need of actual entertainment, we were immediately hooked/saved. She schooled us in the proper way to announce, “SOOOOOOOOOUL TRAAAAAIN!” mimicking Mr. Cornelius’ high-pitched, drawn-out words, keeping us engaged so we would not relapse into another bad rendition of Donny and Marie.

This quickly became our Saturday night tradition. Daisy and Mr. C changed the beat and pulse in our house. She opened our eyes to a different type of music. Each week we eagerly studied the TV Guide like a horse racing program, excited to see who was appearing on the next show. We met Marvin Gaye and Barry White, who sang THE sexiest song ever. Oh, the way he talked at the beginning, “We got it together, didn’t we?” Smoking Hot Monkey Love Music. Mr. White knew he didn’t have to put Lil’ or P in front of his name to get and keep my attention. And ‘oh girl’ we laughed and danced and to The Chi-Lites and sang with Kool & the Gang. We sat in the den each Saturday night with a bowl of jiffy pop, waiting for the show to begin. And when it did, we all stood (including Daisy of course) and yelled “SOOOOOOOOOUL TRAAAAAIN!” together, with Mr. Cornelius, as loud and spirited as possible. Then we fell out on the shag carpet laughing. It was way more exciting than boring, stale, square American Band Stand. I felt sorry for plain vanilla, white toast, Dick Clark. Did he even know about Soul Train?

BUT, we were NOT allowed to watch Soul Train if Sammy Davis, Jr., was appearing. Daisy despised Sammy Davis, Jr. She crumpled her nose and made a face with just the mention of his name. His fake eye creeped her out and, in Daisy’s opinion, he couldn’t sing or dance “no better than her Old Pair of Pants!” (aka her husband). BestNicknameEver. So we never watched if Sammy Davis, Jr., was scheduled. She would rather listen to us sing “Knock Three Times” – that’s how much she hated Sammy Davis, Jr. Occasionally, just for fun, we played “The Candy Man” on our record player, to see her hilarious reaction.

Years later, whenever we went home to Arkansas for a visit, Daisy was to first to stop by to see us, running up the driveway squealing, “There’s my B-AAAAAA-B-IEEEEEEES!,” and giving us big, warm, bear hugs. She had a large family with lots of babies of her own, but she always called us her white babies. And she was our black momma. And, she said B-AAAAAA-B-IEEEEEEES just like Don Cornelius announced “Soul Train”. 

Daisy died a little over a year ago. I know she is missed by many, many people, including her two white babies. She was Kind. She was Smart. She was VERY Important. 
“They say it’s like true love, good help. You only get one in a lifetime.” 

RIP Don Cornelius and Daisy Mae Stevenson 


talya

Musical Pairings:
You’re the First, the Last, My Everything, Barry White


Red Cowboy Boots

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This week I am attending a one-week writer’s residency program at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. During this time I will re-post some of my favorite blogs from the prior year. Maybe you missed one? 

originally published 02/09/12…


I could have lived in Nashville. I almost had a date with Buddy Jewell, Osceola’s current claim to fame -the FIRST ever Nashville Star winner! Seriously. I have a love note from Buddy Jewell. He passed it to me after my biology class at Arkansas State, the fall of 1980. He had a class in that same classroom immediately following mine. As I walked out, he was sitting there waiting to go inside, actually playing his guitar. Just kinda messing around on it. Clearly, he was meant to be in Nashville.

I didn’t know him that well – he graduated a couple of years before me – from rival high school Osceola. I was a Rivercrest Colt. Anytime we wanted to irritate “our” boys, or just get their attention, we dated a boy from Osceola… It worked pretty well.
The note was folded up very tightly into a little square. Why would Buddy Jewell be handing me a note? I stuck it in my jeans to save for later. In private. In my dorm room. I couldn’t imagine what it was about. Maybe he wanted to hook up with my roommate? After reading it, I was very surprised. Wow, the first Nashville Star! No, wait, I’m getting ahead of myself….
Apparently it was for real, but we never went out. Way too complicated – I was dating Mark Wooten and transferring to Baylor... he was headed to Nashville – someday. Even so, I stuck the note in my bedroom drawer with all my letters and cards and junk – treasures I had collected throughout my life to that point. Years later, my mother called me to tell me that someone from Osceola was on Nashville Star. Nashville Star? Never heard of it… 

She said, “I think his name is Jewell…?”

Buddy Jewell? Yeah, I know him! I have a love letter from him.

Later, after Buddy won, I dug it out of that drawer and flaunted it to all of my cousins who were duly impressed. (Always hold on to things like that – you just never know.)

Buddy was handsome – no doubt about it. He looked like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. And that guitar was hot. He carried it everywhere. Obviously he was headed for bigger things. And he was observant – he certainly recognized that I was a Nashville kinda girl. I could have been.

It was probably those Razorback Red Justin cowboy boots I wore – nearly every day – to classes. After I transferred to Baylor, I traded those in for more appropriate ‘Texas-looking’ boots, bought at The Western Fair in Lott – a quick side trip from Waco. All the Baylor freshmen saved their money to buy boots there – a necessity for the Cotton-Eye Joe which we practiced at the fraternal hall in West. The Western Fair smelled of leather and oil, and Lucchese boots were lined up for blocks and blocks. My new boots were brown – a bit more subdued. I couldn’t very well walk around the Baylor campus in Razorback red – the schools weren’t that chummy. I wish I still had those red Justins.

A couple of years ago, right before Christmas, my friend Becky and I, along with her daughter Christie, planned a girl’s trip to Nashville. This was my first trip to Nashville – very exciting for a girl brought up with Conway Twitty and George Jones. I couldn’t contain myself – all those historical sites – the Grand Ole Opry – wow! – Country Music Hall of Fame – I could cross another item off my bucket list. Becky and Christie, on the other hand, seemed to be a bit more interested in visiting all the Nashville malls. We went to at least 3 malls and purchased NOTHING. Only a week before Christmas, parking was horrendous and Christie was determined to park by the front door – very odd for someone with a dedicated workout practice who eats only paleo….

Unless it’s a bookstore or nursery, I don’t like to shop. Secondly, I live in Dallas, 5 minutes from the power of Northpark Mall, with 1.9 million square feet of gross leasable area. It’s probably one of the top 5 malls in the nation based on sales per square foot. Northpark has everything. It’s an incredible place, and I try my best to avoid it at all costs. Becky and Christie were understandably bored with Jonesboro’s retail options – the city only recently got its first escalator.

Becky’s primary goal on this trip was to spot Keith Urban, preferably without Nicole. Honestly, I thought our chances of spotting Keith lunching at Panera on baked potato soup were slim. But we looked. I’m not sure Becky even ate.

We did shop and sightsee – something for everyone… We even worked in a line dance lesson. The absolute highlight for me was seeing Porter Wagoner’s rhinestone jacket and Bocephus’ boots! Buddy Jewell’s college guitar wasn’t exhibited at the Hall of Fame yet, but maybe in time. I don’t remember if any Keith artifacts were there, but I’m sure Becky knows.

the grass grows

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Yesterday I parked in Daddy’s parking spot. The place where he always parked his dusty farm truck, not in the carport but along the gravel road beside the field. Grass now grows through the gravel, nearly covering it. I guess he really isn’t coming back.

I still expect to see him dragging through the back door for supper, hungry yet too exhausted to eat, his jeans hanging loose and tired. I still hear him grumble about the rain shower today. Such terrible timing during cotton harvest…
On the porch, wheat from his last harvest still fills a vase. Eighteen years later.
At the Corral diner in Keiser … Are you Thomas Tate’s girl? I remember seeing your daddy drive up and down the road in front of my house at Coleman Lateral. Seems like I saw his truck ten times a day when they were pickin’ cotton… He’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?
Yes ma’am.
In eighteen years, most everything changes.

The tree Daddy planted my senior year of high school soars over the back yard. Only a twig at the time, he transplanted it from the banks of Little River.

Grass now grows through the gravel, nearly covering his parking spot. 
I still feel the same. 
talya
Musical Pairings:

I Miss You a Little, John Michael Montgomery

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!