grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Choiring Trees

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My brain hurts. Writing and thinking and revising and listening is exhilarating to the point of exhausting. Especially listening. Listening is the tricky part, listening to my own thoughts and hearing what I have to say. What if there is nothing to hear? A dull ache had been building all morning behind my left eyebrow. I found myself rubbing this spot, trying to get the ideas to flow from behind the throb. After lunch I took a break, disappearing beyond the barn, beyond the trees to a grassy patch, underneath an old tree that has likely kept watch over this property for years. Flat on my back with shut eyes, I felt the warm sun on my arms and face. The birds chattered. A distant train. There was a nice breeze that moved the trees to stir, to sing.

My canvas book bag became my pillow. Inside, a short story I had written. Dr. Lott had edited it this morning, returning the pages to me over lunchtime lasagna. My first feedback at this retreat. I was excited to read his comments, but anxious, like waiting on a big test grade in school. Right off I saw the pages were filled with comments, blue ink scribbled in the margins, his thoughts, his professional opinion. I stuffed it in my book bag, like a note passed in school tucked away to savor later when all was quiet and my head was clear. Afraid to read the suggestions but longing for reaction, I would digest it after the aspirin had a chance to work its magic. These pages, my words, now made the stuffing of my makeshift pillow. I was careful not to crumple them.

Opening my eyes, I studied the leaves, imagining the view to be that of Donald Harrington’s as depicted in his Ozark tales of fictitious Stay More, Arkansas. His tree colors included every shade of green from spring pea to black forest, like crayons in the jumbo box, the box with the sharpener in the back. But more than the shades of green, he described the lilting sound of the trees, the choiring of the trees. I heard the choiring of the trees this afternoon. 

Studying for final exams in college we often joked about sleeping with a book, with our head resting against a bulky economics textbook. As if the sheer nearness of the written theories and definitions and charts inside would seep into our brains allowing us to awake with amazing clarity, with the ability to discuss the Keynesian spending multiplier with the same ease of counting to 100 or making skillet cornbread. Maybe as the trees sang, Dr. Lott’s wisdom would percolate on the pages of my short story, filtering into my head. 
This peaceful moment was interrupted with a bee sting on my arm. It was a sweat bee, more of a nuisance than a sting. I hadn’t thought of a sweat bee in years. Do they only exist in Northeast Arkansas? I gathered my book bag pillow and returned to my writing spot inside the barn. Pulling out the marked up short story, I was thankful Dr. Lott doesn’t use a red pen.

Immediately I noticed, “Perhaps a bit of description here?” My husband begins sentences with ‘perhaps’ when he is attempting to be diplomatic. But I understood this suggestion, and it was easy to add. We had spent time this morning discussing story endings. What makes a good ending or a confusing ending, a strange ending, an ending that makes you wish you had not wasted your time, or an ending that leaves you wanting more? Quickly jumping to the last page of my story he had written, “Good ending… the characterization is very good.”

Nowhere on the paper did he offer, “Perhaps you should return to banking…”

Whew. 

talya
“February came. He imagined the buds were a-swelling. The trees were not going to sing for another month or more, but the buds swole up as if the trees were humming in practice and tune-up.” Donald Harrington, The Choiring of the Trees

Just a Girl

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Today. At the writer’s retreat… Tell us a bit about yourself….This is a huge question. How do I convey what I want these folks, these soon to be new friends, these writers, to know about me in 3 minutes? Who am I? 
Last night I thought about the words I threw together describing myself on the “About Me” section of my Grace Grits & Gardening blog, strung together simply off the top of my head with very little thought. Words to fill that blank spot on my intro blog page. Truthful but quickly written.

  • I am a wife. John thinks its cool that I put this first. Maybe all that subliminal southern Baptist rearing stuck back in my head that teaches subservient wifely things? Nah. John describes me as a hard-headed woman, assuring me this is a compliment. I think he is trying to convince himself…
  • I am a mom. These words, this short simple sentence, form the badge I wear most proudly.  If I never do anything else, my life has been productive. I know I have contributed. This allows me to sleep at night.
  • I am a farmer’s daughter. Huge influence. In this life I learned to wake before sunrise, do what I say, reap what I sow, and memorize the words to every classic country song, skills all southern girl should master. 
  • I love to dig in the dirt. Yes, I started making mud pies at an early age. I do my best thinking wearing my worn gardening gloves and would spend my last five bucks on a perennial rather than food or water, unless my Black Eyed-Susans were thirsty of course.
  • I am a book junkie. Oh the places I’ve been within the pages of a book – through the doors of musty wardrobes, behind secret garden walls, into the dark forbidden forest and journeying across cold mountains. Real books that you can see and smell and touch and hold. Books you fall asleep with like a favorite feather pillow that leave imprints and lines on the side of your face and within your heart. 
  • I am a beginning yogi. Yoga has opened my eyes to the possibilities. If you practice you know.
  • I am a beginning writer. This brings me here, to this moment in time, sitting in the very barn where Ernest Hemingway wrote portions of A Farewell to Arms. I am in awe.
  • I try to do something creative every day. See all of the above. 

I’m just a girl from Arkansas.

talya
“Write drunk, edit sober.” Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway Barn


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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