grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Bat Cave

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I’ve been visiting Northeast Arkansas for the past week and a half. Northeast Arkansas replenishes my soul with peace and quiet, soil and wide open spaces, memories. Northeast Arkansas is a great place to write.
While here I’m staying at my mother’s house, our childhood home, known as the Bat Cave.  We nicknamed the house after my mother, Barbara Ann Tate whose initials spell BAT.

The name is fitting for both the cave and my mother…

Our old farmhouse rambles and meanders much like the nearby mighty Mississippi River. Every seven years or so, when Daddy had a particularly good crop, rooms were added on here and there by local construction workers, who may or may not have been qualified, resulting in oddly placed windows and rooms with no windows at all. Although I’ve not yet noticed a stalactite or a real, live bat, I would not be surprised.
Growling and moaning deep underneath the Bat Cave lies one of the largest seismic zones on the planet. The New Madrid Fault cuts through the middle of the carport, zigzagging under Mississippi County and into Missouri and Illinois. Like a beast, it burps and sighs as everyone in Northeast Arkansas waits for The Big One. 
Bat Cave Car Port…
I’m pretty sure I felt a tremor a few night’s ago. 
The constant earth movement has resulted in wall cracks allowing easy access for mice and squirrels and frogs and giant bull snakes (plural) that slither on the fireplace mantle…
Despite all this, the Bat Cave provides good sleeping with a extra helping of adventure.

The Spanish tile in the back game room is riddled with bullet holes from the hostage shootout. There is an entire wall of cheesy pictures marking the Yellow Corvette Days. And, like Elvis’ Graceland, we have our own jungle room.

Papa Creecy’s wild boar
I’ll be here a bit longer. Stop by if you would like a free tour.

talya

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

Musical Pairing:

I Feel the Earth Move, Carole King

a Full Head of Hair

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My handsome husband has great hair. His thick, dark hair is often the topic of conversation.
On more than one occasion, I’ve heard my sister-in-law say, “John got the good hair.” (She refers to the fact that at age fifty-five he has very little gray.)

One of our best friends, also named John, is convinced that my John uses Just For Men. When the Johns are together, their conversation always revolves back to his hair in an attempt to finagle some sort of accidental confession. Of course, since he doesn’t dye, these traps haven’t worked even after a bottle of red wine truth serum. 
The last time my husband had a physical (a few years ago)—a fancy, all-day, spa-like ‘executive’ physical through his employer—the results were mailed home in an impressively bound book as large as a commercial office building appraisal report.  
The introduction paragraph began with…

John Boerner, a 50-something-year-old male, was alert, cheerful, overweight, and with a full head of hair.

To which I replied, “You Are NOT Cheerful.”
But I’ll give him the full head of hair.

talya

Musical Pairing:

I’m A Believer, The Monkees

Only Twelve Days Off the Hoof

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GBE 2: Blog-on Week #95 Writing Prompt – In The Freezer

Drugged on a cocktail of Nyquil and spring pollen, I was rousted from my coma by growling and barking.  Was our porch furniture being stolen again? Unable to focus beyond the end of the couch, I uprighted myself and peeped out the window into stark sunlight. There on my front porch, waving a silly half-wave, stood Eb from Green Acres. And parked on the street in front of my house, Mr. Haney’s truck.

Had I been transported to Hooterville?

By the time I realized Eb was atraveling meat man, it was too late to hide. I slowly opened the door to emphasize the severity of my condition,but cautiously left the screen shut.  

Like a skilled auctioneer, he spewed forth his spielthrough the screen door and into my dilated pupils. My tongue was thick. Were my teeth green? I walked outonto the porch to shoo him away, leaving Lucy and Annabelle snarling inside. Maybein the harsh light, pale and zombielike, I would successfully scare him away.

“I don’t want to buy anything. I’m contagious,” I moaned. 

“Just today I can give you 25% off.” Like a magician, hewhipped out a three-fold pamphlet likely detailing the foodstuff he waspeddling had I been able to see. Did he pull that thing from behind myear?  “I’ve got shrimp and chicken andsteak and even vegetables.”

“Must.Lie.Down…,” I mumbled weakly. With those words he jumpedfrom the porch like a jackrabbit and raced toward his truck. Thank goodness, he was leaving.


I turned to shut the door, barely maintaining my balance, but ina flash he reappeared with a magic box of Angus beef.  “I can sell you this entire case for only$150.00.  It’s just twelve days off the hoof!” He crowed.

“Ewwwwww! Off the hoof?” Did I hear him correctly? “What?  No!  Wewouldn’t eat a case of anything in two years!”

“1,2,3,4,5,6…” he quickly starting counting and spreading variouscuts of beef all over the floor of my porch. Today’s dead cow is brought to you by the letter “C” and by the number25!  My head was spinning. I thoughtI might faint.

“Oh my God NO!  I’m NOT paying$150.00 for meat from your truck. You need to leave. NOW.”

“Harry Gibson buys our meat,” he beamed and pointed down the street to our neighbor’s house.

“Good for Harry Gibson! Go sell him this meat and get it off myporch.”

“So how much could youpay?” he asked.  What!? Was I buying aChevy now? Was it really possible to make easy monthly payments on a side of beef?


“Nothing. ZERO. I don’t have any room in my freezer.” This was avery true statement.  It was small and unorganized.I had drawers of frozen pecans from our farm in Arkansas, and the other shelves were filled with frozen lasagne  and ice cream. “Really, my freezer is full.” 

My energy waned.

As the room spun, he teleported into my kitchen!  I had no idea how he popped inside my house. WhenEb tried to kill me, would anyone hear me scream? Or would he simply steal all my frozen pizzas bought from a real grocery store and peddle my food in his clowntruck?

Lucy was having a fit trying to protect her delusional mistress. Annabellewas now best friends with Eb. 

By the time I staggered into the kitchen, Eb had rearranged twoshelves in my freezer, filling it with stacks of individually shrink-wrappedunmarked hunks of beef.   “Where are mypepperoni pizzas?” 

“I moved the pizzas down here and put your frozen corn and brusselsprouts here. I made room for a wholecase of New York Strips, but there’s no room for this ice cream.”  He pointed to my half-empty half gallon ofHomemade Vanilla Blue Bell relegated to the side counter near the coffeepot. Itwas melting… 


“What? No! I’m not buying a case of meat. We would never in a millionyears eat that much meat. I’m practically a vegetarian anyway. Put my ice creamback!” By this time I thought I might pass out. “I’m sick.  You need to leave.” Iwas about to cry, and I don’t cry.

“What about lobster?” Hewas wearing me down, and he sensed it.

“If I buy something will you please leave?” 

The next morning I felt much better even with my Nyquilhangover.  After a dreamless sleep, Istood under the hot shower, somewhat revived. As the cobwebs began to clear frommy head, the prior days’ events came into focus… Was my Eb nightmare real?

“When you go downstairs to get the newspaper,” I mentioned to John, “you should probably check the freezer. I might haveaccidentally bought some steaks yesterday.”

“Accidentally?” Hestopped, turned, looked at me, and I knew exactlywhat he was thinking—you are turninginto your mother.

Sure enough, I had bought 8 steaks—4 tenderloinand 4 New York Strips. According to my checkbook, they cost $75. I spent $75 to make Ebleave my house.

“Oh but John,” I added, “the meat is only twelve days off the hoof.” 

talya

Musical Pairing:

Mack the Knife, Bobby Darin

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!