grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Going on a Snake Hunt.

By

While home on the farm one of my favorite things to do is to walk around the rice field. My sister and I spent many a summer day at the back of our field messing with tadpoles in the ditch. Tadpoles were fun.

Saturday my goal was to find a snake. Now, just to be crystal clear, I am not a parcel mouth. I am no fan of the snake.

Not.At.All.

But, several of my Northeast Arkansas Facebook friends have recently posted snake photos. Lots of snake photos. Clearly, this is the year of the snake. As a writer, I try to be observant—listening, smelling, tasting, feeling so that my writing is believable. If I were truly observant, I would see a snake on my walk, right?

So off I went on my first snake hunt.

my snake hunt

Right off I found “farm glass”, which I like to compare to beach glass.

farm glass

The killdeer were downright noisy. “Kill-deer, kill-deer, kill-deer!” they chanted.

“Shhhh! You’ll scare the snakes,” I said. Their track patterns were as wild as the jabbering overhead.

Killdeer tracks on the farm

Vibrant wildflowers filled the edge of a shallow ditch.

wildflowers Arkansas ditchbanks

But no snake.

I stopped in the far corner at my favorite spot and waited. Watched. Listened. Could the sky be any more clear?

clear blue sky above Tate Farms, Miss Co, Ark

Then finally, there he was. Sunning. At least three feet long. My snake.

going on a snake hunt

I leaned in close and snapped a picture. He slithered down the ditch bank. A successful farm walk. And yes, I had the heebie-jeebies until I made it safely back to the house.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Musical Pairing:

Heebie Jeebies, Ladies in Tune

Riding with a Farmer

By

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.

riding with a farmer...

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Lord I Hope this Day is Good, Don Williams

 

the chores of Summer

By

clothespins - morgueFile

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

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!