grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Chiggers and Bigfoot

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Lake Norfork
Spring break is here! The best thing about spring break is this officially marks the countdown to our annual family Norfork Lake trip. Only about 130 sleeps and that’s chump change. Perhaps I should consider a diet? Nah.
 
I’ve been spending summers at the lake since I was 6 months old. It’s my second home. I could build a shelter and live happily ever after on the sandy island near Jordan, surrounded by clear smooth waters – its like Gilligan’s Island minus the coconuts and bananas. And we have no Professor in our group which might come in handy, especially when the Miss Stalya breaks down. Even when the island is underwater, we motor over there tying up to a tree limb, longing for a gritty island hot dog, but settling for a soggy turkey sandwich. 
 
As kids, sometimes our family went to the lake at Easter. Even though the lake water was icy cold, we wrapped up in beach towels like mummies with our swimsuits underneath jeans and sweatshirts, just in case a tropical front wafted through. We sped around on the lake all day, chilled to the bone but loving every minute. There was no other place we would have rather been. Instead of having a raccoon eyed glow like those cool spring break snow skiers, we had a Norfork Lake wind burn.
 
One year, our cousin Freddie Joe climbed a steep rocky bluff near Henderson and dove into the frosty Easter waters. I didn’t really think he would do it – it was blustery and cold and the sky was overcast. But he was so crazy and fun and full of life – he never even hesitated. Of course after climbing to the top of those bluffs, there’s really only one way down. Geronimo! He climbed back into the boat shivering, his dark mop of wet curls spraying cold water all over us, as we raced back to the warmth of the cabin. Not long after that infamous plunge from the cliff, he died in a tragic car wreck on the interstate near our home. His life was cut much too short, but it was filled to capacity. I always think of him when I see that cliff.
 
Our cabin in the woods

Our little cabin was situated way back in the woods off Tracey Road. You had to know where you were going to find it. In the early morning hours, my sister and I spent hours hiking through those woods surrounding the cabin, picking Black-eyed Susans along with chiggers, while all the adults lingered over breakfast. How they feasted on scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy before donning a bathing suit, we could not understand. And walking through the dense forest, we always kept an eye out for Bigfoot, surprised yet relieved we never found him. If I was Bigfoot, I would live there for sure. 

A few nights ago, I stumbled upon Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet. I was completely mesmerized by this show. The team was in Kentucky near a Bigfoot ‘hot spot’. The suspense grew as farmers gave testimonies of recent roadside sightings, complete with re-enactments. Sadly the team never found him, but I was totally hooked. It was silly and mindless but more interesting than the other reality tv choices. I don’t care who Ben chooses, which Idol wins or where Khloe is shopping. I wonder if this Bigfoot tracking team has ever traveled to Mountain Home, Arkansas?  
 
In the 1970s when Friday the 13th came out, those dark woods and roads leading to our cabin became a bit scary late at night. Norfork Lake resembled Crystal Lake. Instead of looking for Bigfoot, we avoided Jason. Thank goodness we never found him there. He would certainly mess up our little corner of Heaven.
 
Only 130 sleeps.  Blink of an eye.
 
talya
 
 
Musical Pairings:


Rascal Flatts, “Summer Nights”
War, “Summer”
 

Frog Legs? Yes, please.

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Had any good frog legs lately? Deep fried with white cream gravy?

When I was in high school, the Wilson Tavern in Wilson, Arkansas had the best all-you-can-eat frog leg buffet on Friday nights. They were slap yo’ momma good.

Frog legs are a true southern delicacy, and my boyfriend, Steve, could make an impressive dent in that buffet. Sadly, The Wilson Tavern closed, but maybe someone in Wilson still has that recipe?

The Wilson Tavern
During the hot steamy Arkansas summers, hours after sunset, Steve taught me to frog gig. We spent many a hot date trolling ditch banks in a john boat looking for frogs. Romantic, no?

Steve wore a flashlight strapped around his head like a coal miner. It takes two hands to properly gig a frog. The victims were thrown into a burlap sack in the belly of the boat where they jumped and twitched sporadically. With my feet holding down the bag-o-frogs, I watched for water moccasins in the low, overhanging tree branches. Mississippi County ditches were tangled with brush and twisty vines, the perfect hiding place for snakes, and each came with an intricately crafted beaver dam.

Frog gigging was not a sport for the faint hearted. 

Recently at my neighborhood Dallas grocery store, I asked one of the workers to point me in the direction of the frog legs. She responded with a blank stare on her young tree-hugger face, as if I hailed from a far away galaxy.

After a pause she replied, “We have organic fruit from Frog Hollow Farm.”

I returned her stare knowing she wasn’t yet born when Yoda trained Luke Skywalker in that frog pond. Then she added, “And we sell organic wine from Frog Pond Winery.”

OhNeverYouMindHippieGirl. 

Apparently this particular grocery store was a big annual supporter of Save the Frogs Day. I didn’t have the heart to explain to the young grocery clerk that the cute little bright green and yellow tree frogs disappearing from the rain forests in Belize, with zero leg meat, aren’t the same ones we gigged in the swampy ditches of Keiser, Arkansas or ate at The Wilson Tavern. I kept this information to myself, paid for a bag of organic asparagus and politely left.

Soon I’ll be back in Arkansas for a visit. Maybe while I’m there, I will eat a platter of frog legs. They taste just like chicken. Only better.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Kermit, “It Ain’t Easy Being Green”
Brad Paisley, “Mud on the Tires”

99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall

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It’s interesting being home in the middle of a “work day”. The neighborhood is totally different between 8-5. Until recently, I was at the bank during these hours and missed this time slot at home – unless I was sick in which case I was drugged on Nyquil. I love Nyquil. Although it makes me do crazy things sometimes…

Until I left my banking job, I never realized a yellow school bus drives down our street around 3:30 every afternoon. I find this strange in the inner city where we live, but I suppose this is very necessary – kids in Dallas are bussed all over the city in over 1,700 yellow school buses. I just never much thought about it. I always equate school buses to little rural schools out in the country – like where I grew up. 

Did you ride a school bus? I’m not referring to weekly basketball games with the team or the annual field trip to the zoo, but EverySingleDay in Elementary School? Because you lived out in the boonies? I was envious of those kids who lived in town. They were so lucky to walk to school.  I wanted to move into town to the new Keiser housing project and walk with my friends. Not fair!

Sandy Robinson
My bus driver:)
Riding the bus was traumatic. On the first day of school, my mother and I followed along in her car behind the bus the entire route, so that I would know exactly where Mr. Robinson was taking me each afternoon, before dropping me off at home. My mother was a saint to do this. Driving all over Mississippi County gravel roads eating bus dust for at least an hour and a half, while I’m sure I was begging to be home schooled. Had I only known about home schooling… After that first day – or maybe she did it for a week – I was forced to grit my teeth and ride the bus. 

My bus route changed slightly from year to year. Why, I’m not sure? Maybe a ditch flooded and a road was completely washed away changing the school district boundaries?? There were several years that I was the first person picked up – before sunrise. I watched for the bus from the back porch off the kitchen. I stood there and scribbled on the door frame in No. 2 pencil, “I am so sleepy”. My mother left my mark there for a long time before re-painting. I waited and watched each morning, nauseous the entire time, silently praying that Mr. Robinson had flipped the bus into Clide Barnett’s wheat field in the 7 minutes between school and my house. I didn’t want him to be injured or anything – I really liked Mr. Robinson – but I hated that school bus. But it always showed up, driving down Highway 140 in the dark, those unmistakeable bus lights glowing in the distance. I walked as slowly as possibly down our lonnnngggg driveway like it was a death march with my mother standing on the carport in her robe yelling, “Hurry! You’re gonna miss the bus!” I knew I couldn’t be that lucky. I just knew it was a matter of time before one of those rickety bridges we crossed would collapse with me inside. It was simple math. 
These kids were late for school.

After school, the route was reversed, and I was the very last child to leave the bus, well after dark, getting home after the evening news. It sucked. Never mind that the bus turned north onto Highway 101 ten yards from my house! I could see my house. I could practically touch my house! I was not allowed to get off until we circled the entire county and looped back on Highway 140 directly in front of my driveway. I wanted to scream every afternoon “Let me off!!! My house is right there!” as we turned in the opposite direction. I could have an extra hour and a half to watch I Dream of Jeannie or Gilligan or read. I considered opening that emergency door in the back of the bus but would an alarm sound?

WHAT, pray tell, was my mother doing during this time? Why couldn’t she drive me to school? A mere 7 minute drive – 14 round trip – compared to 3 hours per day I was spending in that dusty bus!!! I knew very well that she drove to Keiser every single day for groceries and gossip… She could easily do that in the morning after dropping me off. I was totally on to her. Later, when I became a mother of two small children, I understood that this was, of course, extra free baby sitting time for my mother, courtesy of the MissCo School District. But I’m still just a tad bitter. 

Some years for whatever reason, I was the last person picked up in the morning. This allowed me more time to sleep, which was a nice perk; however, by the time I boarded, the bus was crammed packed with wild kids – some had been on the bus for nearly 2 hours – and there was no place to even think about sitting. For a shy kid like me, this was distressing.  I only had to brace my legs and hold on to the back of a seat for 7 minutes, trying my best not to fall into the nasty aisle. Add to this, the certain group of mean girls (who shall remain nameless), who rifled through my purse every single morning and stole my milk money. Sometimes I just handed over my milk money each morning as I boarded – like bus fare. I hated milk anyway. But I hid my lunch  money in my saddle oxford so the mean girls would not know. I loved lunch. Mr. Robinson, our bus driver, had to know this was going on, but he let us deal with our own issues. Kids fought their own battles then…not that I ever fought.

With this LIFO bus route, they finally let me get off first in the afternoon at that Highway 101 intersection. I walked through the ditch and over into our yard, adding months and possibly years to my life. I would gladly let the mean girls have my purse each morning to get home by 4:00 instead of 6:00.

Today, as that bus drives by my house each afternoon I wonder about those kids inside. The buses are probably different now with cameras for the driver to maintain control. Those kids probably each have an iPhone which keeps them busy playing Angry Birds and texting. Or maybe they too are traumatized trying to keep their seat mate from stealing their $250 Livestrong Air Max Nikes. 

talya

Musical Pairings:

Brownsville Station, “Smokin’ in the Boy’s Room”
Cat Stevens, “Old Schoolyard”

“Even to this day, when I see a school bus it’s just depressing to me. The poor little kids.” Dolly Parton

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!