Memoir - grace grits and gardening

Riding with a Farmer

June 8, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

We were driving to church for my cousin’s wedding when Daddy pulled off the highway and stopped the truck. “What are you doing?” Momma asked, even though she knew the answer. Riding anywhere with a farmer meant factoring in lots of extra time. Daddy drove slow enough to watch cotton bolls open from the highway.

“We’re gonna be late,” I moaned and applied another coat of strawberry lip gloss. I hated to be late for anything, plus I was in charge of the guest book.

Daddy grabbed his hoe from the back of the truck, ambled across the shallow ditch, and waded through rows of knee-high cotton. He wacked down the annoying weed wearing his new sport coat from Westbrook’s.

Momma sighed.

All the Tate girls had been trained to scan the horizon for johnsongrass. Teasing and waving in the breeze, the offensive plants were easy to spot, a different shade of green standing taller than the crop.

Daddy had some of the cleanest fields in Mississippi County. Everyone agreed.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Lord I Hope this Day is Good, Don Williams

the chores of Summer

May 8, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

courtesy of morgueFile

You take yellow, I’ll take green, I say.

My sister and I race into the backyard.

Wet grass sticks between my toes,

but I know it hasn’t rained.

Not in months.

Tugging bath mats from the line,

wooden clothespins pop and fly

in all directions landing

like grasshoppers in the lawn.

I wrap myself in a fluffy cotton rug

and breathe in summer.

My sister wears a yellow toilet seat cover

on her head like a silly french beret.

We giggle and collapse,

rolling in the dew.

Girls!

Stop!

Momma shouts from the back porch.

I know we’re in trouble.

But not really.

In her arms she carries

a bowl of purple hull peas

picked fresh from the garden.

Our next chore awaits.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

“Play is the highest form of research.”
― Albert Einstein

Aunt Rena’s Store

March 24, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

Beyond the cotton field and over the steep ditch, we could see Aunt Rena’s store from my cousin Lesa’s front yard. On summer afternoons, we walked over for a visit. Aunt Lavern (Lesa’s momma) watched us from their carport to make sure we didn’t get run over on the highway by the big trucks hauling grain. We never did.

Even though Aunt Rena was always busy piddling around the store, she seemed happy to see us and greeted us with big hugs and glasses of sweet tea served in Mason jars. Since her store was dimly lit and crammed packed with stuff, it was our favorite place to play hide-and-go-seek. The creaky wooden floors and musty air that sometimes made us sneeze, added an extra challenge to our game.

I liked to hide behind the large cardboard boxes shoved underneath the dry good shelves.

One day I peeked inside and discovered the boxes were filled with scraps of fabric—different colors and patterns—all folded and stacked in little squares.

Six whole boxes!

“Aunt Rena, what are you planning to do with all this fabric?” I held up a stack of cotton pieces.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said.

I thought she might use the cloth for quilts and blankets. Or maybe she was just a collector of things that were too good to throw away. I never really knew for sure. I never saw any customers in the store either.

Grace Grits and Gardening