grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

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

Arkansas Girl

By

Home
I don’t know no town,
like the old town
Even when the miles are many,
I feel like I’m still around….

The road I travel always brings me home. To the history inside me. Just a girl from Arkansas.

Where people are not perfect, but real. These people who shaped me and call me one of their own. We speak as if in mid-conversation, even though it’s been years.

These do-anything-for you-no-matter-what people.

The junior high sits empty but the memories remain. Takes me back to those autumn nights. Hometown bleachers packed real tight…

The town seems small, the trees huge, grown up around the stories imprinted on our hearts. Memories of first grade, first kiss, first everything. 
The place I’m reminded of what’s important and good, unnoticed at the time, lost and forgotten by the wider world.

Brinkley Chapel

Those who never left may not understand. Or maybe they knew all along.

I breathe it in, hold it inside and take it with me.

I usually take one last pass through town
Stop the car and touch the ground….
Somethin’ fore I go.

Turning Home – David Nail

In memory everything seems to happen to music.~ Tennessee Williams

Driving Home

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I enjoyed the drive from the lake to my mother’s house, a drive I had not made in years. Since college, I leave the lake driving in the opposite direction to Texas.
Lake City
The trip is much, much faster now, the roads better and wider with turn lanes. Before, you could get stuck behind a rock hauler and spend half the drive going 30 mph, adding hours to the trip. Although portions of the drive were the same, some sections were unrecognizable. New highways dotted with Sonics and Exxons completely bypassed the Kreme Kastles of all the charming small towns. The cool bridge in Lake City has been totally rebuilt, with only a small section of the original structure remaining for historical purposes. My sister and I always held our breath driving over that bridge. Every bridge for that matter.

The memories flooded me. Things I haven’t seen or thought of in years.
I studied the trees, wondering which of the tallest ones watched us drive this route years ago. Years ago in Momma’s pale yellow Cadillac convertible loaded with kids and Samsonite suitcases and groceries and bright orange life jackets. One year the convertible top broke and we were forced to drive all the way home with the top down. Sunburned and windy it was miserable. And took forever.
Abruptly on the other side of Hardy, the hills disappear and miles and miles of farm land stretch from the road to the horizon on both sides. Rows and rows of cotton and soybeans. As a kid this was always a jolt to the heart, knowing the lake was far behind us.
This time the drive was different. I was happy to see farmland. The corn was tall and I was excited to see white and pink cotton blooms signaling cotton bolls tomorrow.
Another season. Another time. New memories.

talya
Musical Pairings:
Who Says You Can’t Go Home, Bon Jovi & Jennifer Nettles

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!