grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Late Confession

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Now that a few days have passed and I haven’t been punted from the Boerner family, a true confession…

I was late for my mother-in-law’s FUNERAL. 
NEVER am I late for anything. In fact, I’m usually annoyingly twenty minutes early.
I have 3 lame excuses.
 
  1. I felt the need to iron my shirt. I rarely iron and I am slow. While I ironed I worked on a blog that percolated in my head. This added a few minutes to my routine.
  2. While ironing, Lucy and Annabelle slopped around like pigs in their own back yard mud run, returning with muck up to their collars. I washed eight nasty paws/legs to save the furniture. This seemed unavoidable and added a few more minutes to my routine.
  3. I had a complete underwear meltdown. This panty debacle was the true pre-funeral time waster.
I packed haphazardly bringing an odd assortment of clothing, underwear and shoes with no thought to matching up anything. My nice gray slacks seemed a bit tighter than the last time I wore them (dry cleaners) making panty pairing crucial. 
I tried on every pair of panties with my gray slacks, each time assessing my rear view in the full length mirror. Panty lines glared as the dogs stared. 

Where can I buy one of those skinny mirrors found in every mall dressing room? The ones that make you fork over too much money only to find you look just like your lumpy self once back home in front of a normal non-carny mirror… I want one. 

I even tried on my slacks commando. NOT a good option for many, many reasons. 
Finally, I went with my best ill-fitting pair and made it to the funeral 5 minutes late. Teetering into the chapel on heels I had forgotten how to wear (since leaving my real job) and flashing panty lines like neon, I was duly mortified. I know my mother-in-law was laughing…
talya
Musical Pairing:

I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date. No time to say “Hello, Goodbye”. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late! –  White Rabbit, Alice in Wonderland

I haven’t had a decent pair of panties since Mammaw Tate died… – Staci Tate Sandquist 

Pauline’s Iron

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“Take anything you want,” my sister-in-law told me. Last year, my in-laws moved into assisted care living. We walked through John’s childhood home taking a few things, but it seemed strange. Although the house was being readied for sale, they still lived around the corner.
I took Pauline’s iron. Heavy and sturdy, it’s one of those they-just-don’t-make-them-like-that-anymore irons.

Always practical and thrifty, she probably used that iron her entire married life, over sixty years. I rarely iron but was happy to take it since we don’t have one in our Fayetteville cottage. This substantial iron makes the whole chore seem more important.

This morning I ironed. My shirt was too wrinkled to ignore. As I ironed, I considered the many times she must have used it through the years, maybe even ironing John’s clothes when he was a kid. Somehow using her iron made me feel a bit better. I felt calmer, a bit closer to her.
This afternoon we buried my mother-in-law. It was a perfect fall day, a chill in the air, the sky cornflower blue, the trees between Fayetteville and Fort Smith brilliant. Fall was her favorite season.
As I sat in the tiny stone chapel, I gazed into the rafters and wondered if she could see all the people who filled the sanctuary, friends and loved ones saddened by her death. 
I wondered if she saw John’s sister do the reading, her voice amazingly steady and unwavering. 
I wondered if she saw her husband in his wheelchair, handsome and brave yet broken and lost without her.
I wondered if she heard Ave Maria fill the air, giving everyone goosebumps.
I wonder if she knows how many lives she touched in 92 years.
I wonder if she knows the void she leaves behind.
Pauline Boerner
09/03/1920 – 10/13/2012

talya

Do not let your heart be troubled… John 14:1

The Unloved

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I am cultivating the largest Johnsongrass I’ve ever seen. It sprouted up in our Fayetteville flower bed between visits and is so impressive I feel compelled to watch it grow. It wants to live.
It’s my personal 4-H project. I wonder if I could enter it in the State Fair of Arkansas? 
Daddy would be mortified. Thomas Tate had some of the cleanest fields in Mississippi County. Driving anywhere with him meant factoring in lots of extra time. Like all great farmers, he drove slow enough to watch cotton bolls open from the highway. And he stopped unannounced to chop the errant Johnsongrass growing mid-field.  On our way to anywhere, like playing a game of I Spy, we scanned the fields looking for offensive weeds standing taller than the crops, a slightly different shade of green, showing off, teasing Daddy, testing him. He stopped the truck, grabbed his trusty hoe from the back, walked to the annoying thing and whacked it down.  No matter how muddy the field. No matter where we were going. To a basketball game or wedding or funeral… 
We patiently sat inside the musty truck watching and waiting. We had no Iphone entertainment. No Angry Birds to pass the time. Just conversation and maybe a Barbie in tow.
Growing up that way, I am naturally drawn to weeding pulling and flower deadheading. Even at a friend’s house or restaurant, I can barely restrain myself. I’m surprised that I drove back to Dallas and left that mammoth Johnsongrass free to grow in Fayetteville. A weed is but an unloved flower.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Song Sung Blue – Neil Diamond

A weed is but an unloved flower. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!