grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Piggott Arkansas -The Breakfast Table at Downtown Inn

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The Downtown Inn B&B
Piggott, Arkansas
Everyone brings something different to the table. Literally. For the past week we have gathered each morning around the antique table in the dining room at the Downtown Inn in Piggott, Arkansas.  We came to the writer’s retreat from various places with different levels of writing experience, assorted backgrounds and unique viewpoints. We leave as friends.

Brenda, our amicable host, provides an amazing breakfast each morning – scrambled eggs with bacon, breakfast casseroles and breads, fresh fruit with cream, biscuits and gravy, hot coffee and orange juice – something different every day. She wears a red toile apron and is the organized sister who makes certain we start each day with the most important meal. And a prayer. And a laugh. In only one week, we are a family.  

Brenda
We discuss the prior day’s writings, our plans for the next day and the train that runs beside the Inn, so near the bed vibrates like a New Madrid earthquake several times each night. The whistles disrupt sleep, but less so as the week passes. Brenda says a first timer guest reports the train passed by “twenty-two times in the night” but a few days later only twice. We acclimate. 
Families don’t eat together anymore, not regularly. When I think about the conversations we have had over a few days at the table in Piggott with complete strangers, I realize all the conversations missed not eating as a family because of working late or soccer practice or Dancing with the Stars. 
I’ve met seven wonderful ladies this week at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Creative Writer’s Retreat along with a few good men. Each person brought something a little different to share. I will miss these ladies and the uninterrupted time I’ve had to write. 
Today is our last day. Tomorrow I return to eating power bars for breakfast. We came to the table as strangers. We leave as friends. 
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Pat, Dorothy, Me, Judy (standing), Mary (pink curlers)

Remembering Large Marge (shudder)

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July is National Hitchhiker’s Month. When was the last time you saw a hitchhiker? Like pay phones, they are no longer commonplace. As kids, we always saw hitchhikers as we drove to Memphis looking for Elvis. We pointed them out like VW Beetles. Although we are not yet zipping around in personal bubble-lidded aerocars like the uber-cool Jetsons, travel is more accessible today, even for the man with no wheels.  Have hitchhikers somehow become charmingly vintage? Is it really necessary to draw attention to thumbing rides by dedicating an entire month? A broiling hot month?
I would never ever pick up a hitchhiker, especially after Pee Wee Herman hitched a ride to San Antonio with Large Marge. As frightening as Pee Wee was, the thought of Large Marge still makes me shudder. “On this very night, ten years ago, along this very stretch of road in a dense fog just like this…” I imagine she is behind the wheel of every eighteen wheeler I pass on the highway, especially in dense fog.
Driving through Oklahoma a few days ago I saw 4 separate hitchhikers (!) which was a bit unnerving considering the Department of Corrections is located in McAlester. The ominous sign on the highway warns, “Hitchhikers May be Escaped Prisoners.” This begs the question – just how often do these prisoners break out of this huge correctional fortress surrounded by tons of reinforced loopy nasty barbed wire? It obviously happens on occasion to warrant such a roadside warning. Government signs are only made after the fact, after a loss, after a lawsuit, after an escape. A reaction. I don’t stop to go to the bathroom around there. Oklahoma doesn’t seem OK to me. 
I bet no one celebrates National Hitchhiker’s Month in Oklahoma. 
Daddy always reminded us we would be murdered if we stopped at a rest area driving from Baylor to Osceola. This was his regular advice offered each spring break and Christmas holiday season. Never did he say, “don’t speed” or “study hard” or “buy low sell high, but always “don’t get murdered at a rest stop”. I considered his rest stop advice to be ridiculous until I learned of Large Marge. There are lots of big trucks at those places with motors eerily idling. 
Tomorrow I will be starting my big adventure driving from Dallas to Piggott – 10 hours – alone. I plan to leave super early, listen to a book on tape, avoid hitchhikers and murderers, and only use the bathroom at well lit McDonalds. I hope there is no fog.
talya
Musical Pairings:
The Champs, “Tequila”

Stirring the Soul

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What do these famous people have in common? George Washington, Elvis Presley, Ernest Hemingway…

…They all lived in historic homes:-)

Historic places are fascinating, particularly historic homes. Seeing how people lived and thrived over a hundred years ago while successfully changing the course of history without wi-fi and air conditioning is riveting. Historical voyeurism. But just like you and me, these folks worried about their country, the well-being of their children, their personal circumstances. They existed, survived, hoped to make a difference, prayed for rain and mourned the deceased. Walking along the beautiful Potomac exploring the grounds of Mount Vernon is akin to a religious experience. Strolling in George Washington’s footsteps, seeing his view from the lawn, his stuff, things he touched and held dear, his graveside tomb – how could every American citizen not feel a bit more united?

Mt. Vernon

We have toured old homes in New Orleans with incredible architecture and rich histories. Jefferson Davis’ home in Biloxi is a true southern treasure, nearly destroyed by Katrina. I dare say everyone already knows how I feel about amazing Graceland…And Johnny Cash’s home, across the ditch from our cotton field, is currently being restored bringing a welcomed flurry of activity to Northeast Arkansas. 

The Man in Black’s House

One of my favorite things about Key West, ranking right up there with deep fried conch fritters, is Ernest Hemingway’s house where he wrote poems and stories in the early morning hours and explored Old Town in the afternoons. Antiques from his travels fill the home, and exotic hunting trophies line the walls. Inspiration is palpable, wrapped in warm breezes off the island’s turquoise waters. His desk is there. I had a sudden urge to casually limbo underneath the velvet rope and lightly touch it, but I resisted.

Turns out there is commonality between Hemingway and me. His passion was writing, and I enjoy reading what he wrote. We both like(d) wine. And surprisingly, his second wife was originally from Northeast Arkansas, just like John’s second wife (me). They met and married in Paris, France, but she was an Arkansas girl from Piggott. Hemingway spent long periods of time there visiting her family and writing. Next week I will be attending a creative writer’s retreat in the Hemingway-Pfeiffer House studying and writing in this holy place. Somebody pinch me.

Hemingway-Pfeiffer House, Piggott, Ar

I’m excited to tour the house and the barn and see the furnishings inside. I love objects with a past – old dishes, picture frames, vintage jewelry… Last week we happened upon two antique leather club chairs from a little French antique shop in Fayetteville. They are perfect for our new cottage. The well-worn brown leather is buttery soft and frayed and I wouldn’t dare change a thing about them. Circa 1930s, they were purchased by the shop owners from travels in Paris. I imagine all the interesting Parisians who once sat in these chairs, maybe drinking coffee or writing poems. Maybe Ernest Hemingway?

Hemingway wrote part of A Farewell to Arms while in Arkansas. For whatever reason, creative juices seem to flow in this unremarkable corner of the state – maybe it’s the pull of the mighty Mississippi which heavily influenced Mark Twain or the impoverished working man who impacted Johnny Cash’s bare-bones music. Or maybe sheer boredom stirs the soul. The quickly approaching writer’s retreat is a bit intimidating, pushing me completely beyond my comfort zone of blogging in familiar silence. How do I react if after ten minutes I’m advised, “Really? A writer? Bless your heart you should just return to your banking job…” What if I’m not good enough? What if I’m not good?

talya
“The first draft of anything is shit.” Ernest Hemingway

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.


Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

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