grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

The Tortoise and the Hare (with a modern-day twist)

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At long last I had successfully removed all the oil-based paint embedded underneath my ragged cuticles and was ready for more quality time with my trusty paintbrush. Apparently the planets were in perfect alignment as Tate and I planned to drive back to Fayetteville the same morning. With both vehicles packed to the max, this was ideal timing. I was not looking forward to a 5+ hour drive with two schnauzers. Annabelle tends to get carsick, and Lucy likes to make frequent puppy stops. But convoying with Tate, things would be much easier. 

In my mind, I pictured a nice little lunch stop at a shady rest area table – maybe around Lake Eufaula – while the dogs stretched their legs and we chatted about my writing and his upcoming internship. Maybe I should even make veggie wraps or turkey sandwiches for the road. Plus, with all the fruit stands along the way, I could buy a sack of home grown tomatoes and peaches. An old-fashioned picnic! Who doesn’t treasure a picnic? Just like old times.

When Tate was younger we convoyed every summer to boy scout camps scattered throughout Arkansas and Oklahoma, stopping on the way to eat lunch at a picturesque dot on the map. Mr. McCullar, scout master extraordinaire, always had icy coolers of cold drinks and made certain we ‘left no trace’ in the boy scout tradition. Fun times. Just yesterday…
When Staci and I were kids, Momma fried a chicken and packed it for our annual summer trip to the Memphis Zoo. That lunch was woofed down before we made it inside the huge entrance gates. We needed fried chicken before we saw monkey island, our absolute favorite exhibit. Picnics are just good ole’ summer fun. And so was monkey island.
Suddenly, a sharp JOLT  back to reality…
Tate: I need to get gas and stop by the bank so I’ll just catch up with you on the road somewhere.
Me: What!? On the road? Where? Don’t you want to follow each other?
Tate: No, I’ll just catch you. I won’t have any problem catching you.
Me: Stunned. Silent. Shocked. Speechless. 
And just like that he drove off before I could even explain the details of my peaceful roadside picnic. Fine. We would catch up on the road. I felt pressure to drive more rabbit-like and less turtle-y so Tate didn’t catch up to me in Plano.
The dogs slept soundly as I sang aloud to my favorite tunes, mostly from my college days. Nearly three hours down the road, the pups and I stopped at a gas station somewhere in Oklahoma to stretch. Although a far cry from the scenic lookout I envisioned, there was a vacant grassy lot next door perfect for dog walking. I watched for Tate sure he would see us and stop, ready to eat lunch. Not.
I also kept a sharp lookout for the Eufaula prisoner chain gang we lunched with a few months back at Ken’s Pizza. I didn’t see any of those guys either. Oddly enough this too was disappointing.
Less than 10 minutes later I saw Tate approaching in my rearview mirror. Yay! My stomach was reminding me of the promised picnic. Although I had not brought veggie wraps, there was a Sonic up ahead. We could exit and….. then in a split second he zipped around me without so much as a wave or smile. Objects really are closer than they appear. Did he even notice me? Evidently he wanted me to follow him….

I watched him up ahead, so handsome and independent driving along in his Xterra. Then just like the lightning fast Roadrunner, he disappeared on the horizon in a flash. I totally lost sight of him within five minutes flat. I hope he didn’t think Nana’s honorary deputy badge would get him out of an Oklahoma speeding ticket? I doubt it would even help him in Arkansas. What happened to my rule follower? 

Hmphf! Well, I didn’t need help with Lucy and Annabelle anyway. I had driven all over the country with Tate and Kelsey when they were mere babies, and they weren’t even crated!! No matter how hungry I became, I would NOT stop for food. I had raw almonds and dried prunes in a sack beside me that became my “picnic” and would easily sustain me for days should I plunge into an Ozark ravine. Later, when I am discovered and interviewed on Good Morning America, he will feel bad for ditching me. 

I thought he would stop at McDonalds. He still likes to eat. I would zip pass him and be in the lead. Not.
I expected to see him on the side of the road getting his first speeding ticket. I will casually wave at him. Not.
As I pulled into our drive in Fayetteville, I thought he would be there waiting to help me unload. Not.
Text from Tate: “I’m back.”
I’m not sure he even remembered I was driving on the same road. It was understandable. He was ready to be back in Fayetteville in his new apartment with his friends. 
Text from Me: “So am I.” He probably wondered where I had been. I realized at that moment the odds of his helping me paint were slim.
The moral of this story: Don’t expect the hare to be a mind-reader.

talya

Musical Pairings:

“Speed Racer Theme Song”, Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass
“Drive”, The Cars

those random odd little things

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Do you ever see something totally out of place and wonder what the heck happened? How did it get there? Why is that object in the tree? I just craft a plausible explanation in my mind so I can move forward with my day. 

What about shoes hanging from power lines? I see them everywhere and always wonder the significance. Is it some type of gang symbol? The mark of a crack house? Bully behavior? Or is shoe flinging just an odd sport like midget tossing? Some of those shoes look new and nice and EXPENSIVE!

On Mother’s Day I saw a beautiful long-stemmed red rose lying on the street in front of a driveway in my neighborhood beside an empty bottle of motor oil. Mother’s Day gone bad? 

Yesterday I saw a Little Mermaid paper plate with a half eaten piece of white cake lying in the street at Worth and Fitzhugh. Birthday party gone bad?

Of course most things I attribute to litter bugs, but the most random objects I realize are portkeys. For all you uninformed Muggles who have somehow been living totally in the dark for the past thirteen years, portkeys are everyday objects enchanted so those touching it will be transported to another place. The magical world uses common objects to avoid the attention of non-magical people (us). The portkey used by Harry, Hermoine and the Weasleys to travel to the Quidditch World Cup was an old boot. I see those all the time on Gaston Avenue.


Ever wake up after over-indulging at George’s and not remember how you got wherever you are? Maybe that Big O at Georges was really a portkey? That could be your story anyway.
The BAT and her Big O @ George’s, Waco, Tx
Portkey?
In our hood, even with all the crazy daily occurrences, people carry disposable bags and pick up after their dogs. It’s the neighborly, environmentally friendly thing to do. I scoop a lot of poop. A few weeks ago I attempted to toss a used bag into a garbage bin behind one of the apartments. Throwing with my left arm while attempting to restrain two ill-behaved schnauzers, my wild pitch ended up dangling from an overhanging tree limb. I couldn’t reach it. It was there for days, like one of those random things you see and wonder about. Finally, with a broken tree branch I managed to snag it yesterday and properly dispose of it before someone mistook it for a portkey.

Tree with dangling bag ‘o poo. Portkey?

Today I’m heading back to Fayetteville. I wish I could travel by a charmed portkey. It would be so quick and convenient, especially since Muggles aren’t yet allowed on the floo network. 


Later!

talya

Musical Pairings:

“25 Random Things”, Claude Prez

“And remember, a portkey can be a seemingly harmless object, like… a football, or… a dolphin.” Professor Snape

Our Painted House

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laugh lines?
Until you paint every nook and cranny of a house, repairing cracks and spackling hundreds of nail holes in the most peculiar places, I don’t think you really get to know her. Standing on a rickety ladder looking at the top of the never-before-painted dusty door moldings or lying on the kitchen floor painting the floor trim underneath the built-in shelving, you become pretty cozy with one another. Until then, I’m not sure you can really claim her.
We’ve painted every square inch inside our Munger Place home. And because of this, we can confirm there are no square inches in this house. Her floors slope and creak and doors shift from time to time resulting in the reappearance of certain hairline cracks. Like wrinkles. After 102 years, she’s allowed. 
Years ago, I worked with a strange girl who bought a 60’s ranch style home near Ft. Worth. Once she was settled into the home with her furniture and children arranged to her liking, only then did she paint around the furniture. The trim behind the couch was stained dark brown but on either side the trim was white.  If a chair was slightly budged from position, the dark trim behind it would shine like a rotten spot. HOW did she sleep at night? I could barely even go inside, just knowing this. 
When my mother turned 40, she decided to paint the outside of our home in Arkansas. After years and years of living in a boring white house, she thought it was high time for a color change – beige. Willing to tackle the project single-handedly, she explained her plan to Daddy who was completely against it. He felt sure she would get one side painted and quit. He feared her painting work ethic would be much like her cotton-chopping work ethic. The Tate girls weren’t his best cotton choppers. 
She ignored his advice, didn’t mention it again, and patiently waited a few weeks until he started picking cotton. Now, if you weren’t raised on a cotton farm, you may not be aware of the delicate art of picking cotton. When the bolls burst open, there are only a few weeks to harvest before the yields begin to decline. So there’s no lollygagging around during this time. No sleeping or eating, no laughing or vacation days, no television watching or smiling. It’s an amazing race against Mother Nature, and not for the light-hearted. To keep things interesting, this all happens just at that time when vast tropical storms are lined up back to back in the Gulf of Mexico.
Daddy left the house before daylight and dragged home well after dark. And he worked 7 days a week until all the cotton was out. The first day he started picking, Momma started painting. High up on a ladder, she painted the eaves, the side, around the windows, all day every day. She cleaned up or hid all evidence before he lugged himself home late each night, dog-tired. She collapsed each night as exhausted as he, sore and achy. For a couple of weeks he unknowingly snored in a two-toned house. The next morning, she started back again right after he left. She too was in a race. 
Tate Farm House
aka BAT cave
Perfectly timing the entire project, she was finishing her last day of painting on his last day of picking. And that’s the day he decided to come home for lunch. Driving into the driveway, he saw her atop a ladder painting the last section of the house. He must have been shocked. He must have laughed to himself. The entire house was a different color. And the shutters were brown. She washed her hands, made him a sandwich, and he never said a word about it. Ever.
While he was busy picking cotton, he had no idea what had been going on under his roof. Of course, he never really did.
talya
Musical Pairings
Johnny Cash, “I Never Picked Cotton”
Miranda Lambert, “The House that Built Me”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!