grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

the smallest decision

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Last week I joined a blogging group that provides a weekly writing prompt. This week’s prompt is Decision…


It took me all week to decide what decision to write about…

Yes, there are those huge life-altering decisions such as saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to will you marry me? Or the decision to change jobs or buy a home. The decision whether or not to have children.


But sometimes the smallest decisions have the most profound results.

Like the decision to attend a creative writing retreat in Piggott, Arkansas—knowing no one, yet connecting with two ladies who have become friends and writing mentors. 
Pat, Dorothy, Me
Spending an hour wandering through an antique store, looking at Fiestaware and vintage earrings and hand embroidered linens, I barely noticed an old Nancy Drew book. The blue tweed cover had a stain much like candle wax on the front which added to the character. The Ghost of Blackwood Hall. 


I shouldn’t buy any more old books. But it needed me. And I needed it.
This $5 purchase of an old Nancy Drew book led me to its original owner, May ‘Babe’ Brightwell who lives in Maryland. This spur-of-the-moment purchase opened a different door leading to a path with new folks. A family with new stories. (For the original blog story, click HERE.)
Sometimes the smallest decisions…

On That Night

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Before reading, click here for the first part of the story—> You Send Me
my real life Nancy Drew mystery!
Last summer when I happened upon Long Ago Antiques in Fayetteville, I purchased an old, musty book—On That Night by Elizabeth Yates. I was drawn to it by the well-loved cover and Christmas subject matter. Setting the book aside, I decided to save it for Christmas reading. 
My next trip into the same antique store, I bought the Nancy Drew book that led me to my prior blog post, You Send Me. Based on notations inside The Ghost of Blackwood Hall, it was owned in 1959 by May “Babe” Brightwell when she was a teenager living in Maryland. I wondered what became of her, and decided I would try to contact her after the holidays.

I placed the book on my bookcase. It stared at me each time I walked through my bedroom. Yes.I.Was.Putting.It.Off. But, what if I couldn’t locate her? What if there wasn’t more to this story? 

Sometimes the idea of something is better than reality…

Friday night I received two emails from Brightwell family members who discovered my blog post completely by accident. May Brightwell is alive and well, still living in Maryland. She was thrilled to read my blog and see the pictures of her handwriting.

I was as thrilled as she. 

Would she like her book back? 
Yes, she would LOVE her book back! 

Additional emails revealed Ms. Brightwell has always had a love for books and reading and for Nancy Drew in particular. She has no recollection of how she parted ways with this book, nor any idea how it came to be located in Arkansas. (part 3 of the story?)
For a few months, I was merely a caretaker of The Ghost of Blackwell Hall. I considered writing my name and address inside the book underneath hers before returning it, but this didn’t seem appropriate.

my real life Nancy Drew mystery

On Saturday, my neighborhood post office was crammed, packed with harried people mailing last minute Christmas cards and gifts. The parking lot was filled to capacity. Mailing this book was my priority for the day, more important than holiday baking or present wrapping. And, I was surprised to learn she would receive her book on Christmas Eve. Perfect!

Last night I began reading On That Night, my other antique store treasure. I studied the inside flap, then flipped the book over to see the back cover which revealed the following…

“Among the many legends that have to do with Christmas Eve, there is one that says on that night, lost things are found again.”

On That Night

Indeed!

talya

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

Musical Pairing:

burning down the house!

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Two months ago, our house nearly burned.

In the spirit of fiction writing, I exaggerate a bit, but it was a close call. I was in Arkansas and therefore not responsible nor a suspect. John returned from work to a smoke-filled downstairs. Dallas fire fighters paid us a visit with sirens blaring—it was that bad.

A basket of napkins smoldered atop the microwave, too close to a hot halogen light. 
basket o’ cloth napkins

What if John had worked late or gone to happy hour?
bottom of cabinet. nice.

The underside of our cabinet is extra crispy. Inside the cabinet smells of a rump roast grilling on a Weber. For hours I washed glasses, doors and shelves. 

I heated lemon slices which I thought might eliminate the odor.
With the kitchen door ajar and ceiling fan whirring for hours, a swarm of mosquitoes moved into our home, hiding in corners and underneath furniture. Yes, DallasHasMosquitoesYearRound!

I burned my favorite candle to a nub, almost starting another fire.
The citrus and rosemary chicken baked for dinner masked the smell for one episode of Mad Men. 
An open sack of Dunkin Donut coffee absorbed a touch of the odor, but smoked my favorite coffee.

I ignored it. I packed my car, locked the back door and drove to Dairy Hollow for a writer’s retreat. I became a witch for Eureka Springs’ Halloween, the streets filled with zombies and ghosts. Real or imagined?

In Fayetteville, purple and orange pansies grow where weeds once lived. I painted the last louver door! Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s—I only baked a pecan pie and potato casserole, a major departure for me.

Fearlessly, I wrote in the Ozarks, making new friends, thinking fresh thoughts.

Never once did I think about my Dallas kitchen, 350 miles southwest, smelling of forest fire mixed with Pine Sol. Yet,

ItStillStinks.

I suppose I shall be forced to paint. Ideas, anyone? anyone?

talya

Burning Down the House, Talking Heads

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!