grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig.

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The view from our sleeping porch

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig. I’m back home after spending five days with Momma and my sister, Staci, at home-home in Mississippi County, Arkansas. (I’ve said this before, but home-home is where I’m from, and home [singular] is where I live now.)

When we were kids, Momma always said, “Home again, home again, jiggety jig,” every time we pulling into the carport. After a trip to the lake. After a trip to Big Star. After a trip anywhere.

You remember that nursery rhyme, don’t you? There are lots of versions. The jingle has been quoted in many television shows, movies, and books. (Stephen King, I’m looking at you and It.)

The version I know:

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.
(Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes)

Now I say it. Not always, but sometimes. Because I’ve turned into Momma.Continue Reading

On Christmas Eve night…

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on christmas eve night...It was a short drive we’d made hundreds of times before, yet on Christmas Eve night of my seventh year, the gravel road felt different beneath the car. From my spot in the backseat, I gazed at the glittery night. Snow-covered fields stretched beneath a moon so full it nearly swallowed the land. Momma turned up the radio when Bing Crosby dreamed of a white Christmas and for once, for us, a white Christmas would be real.

And I wondered if every seventh Christmas brought snow.Continue Reading

Farm Pics from my Farm Weekend

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Sunset on Tate Farms

After five fruitful days at Hemingway-Pfeiffer, I crashed at home-home (Cottonwood Corner), as opposed to home (Fayetteville) and wrote and wrote and wrote, slept in my “own” bed, walked around the farm, and wrote some more. And I took lots of farm pics from my farm weekend.

Do you know what I mean by home-home? For me, it’s the specific place I grew up. Not everyone has the strong pull of place, as some folks moved all over the world, military families and whatnot. But the roots of my family grow in Mississippi County, Arkansas, the place, the house, the soil. That part of Arkansas always tugs me back. There’s a light for me at home, a truth, a consistency I need.

I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and the dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of one’s eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe. Maya Angelou said that, and I agree.

I carry home with me like baggage—the good, the heavy, more than I sometimes need— and return to recharge, repack, remember.

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