grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

No Robots!

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Just a friendly announcement – I changed my settings (thanks Pat!) so now there should be no need to enter crazy letters and numbers to prove you aren’t a robot… Hopefully it will be easier to comment on the actual blog. Yay.


If a bunch of robots start commenting, I will need to reconsider.

The picture above has nothing to do with anything. Just thought everyone needed some chocolate pie this Sunday morning:)

T.

One Story

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Family names in concrete
we make a mark
 on each other, families, neighborhoods, the world
actions and words
a smile or thought
 affect someone
something else
unknowingly
we leave behind a piece of ourselves
 everyday
handprints pressed into wet concrete
names proudly written for passersby to see
 even years later
the marks remain
only lightly faded
 long after the hands are grown and gone
monuments erected
ribbons cut
tributes made
a time
a place
a person
honored
remembered
forgotten
the last stone is laid
acts are not random
life is interconnected
full of stories
the stories are all one

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

 

Musical Pairings:

Dust in the Wind – Kansas

Youtube video

“How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it.
 How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it.
 How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live ’em.
 How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give ’em.” 
― Shel Silverstein

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)

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!