Mississippi County - grace grits and gardening

The Unloved

September 13, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I am cultivating the largest Johnsongrass I’ve ever seen. It sprouted up in our Fayetteville flower bed between visits and is so impressive I feel compelled to watch it grow. It wants to live.

It’s my personal 4-H project. I wonder if I could enter it in the State Fair of Arkansas?

Daddy would be mortified. Thomas Tate had some of the cleanest fields in Mississippi County. Driving anywhere with him meant factoring in lots of extra time. Like all great farmers, he drove slow enough to watch cotton bolls open from the highway. And he stopped unannounced to chop the errant Johnsongrass growing mid-field. On our way to anywhere, like playing a game of I Spy, we scanned the fields looking for offensive weeds standing taller than the crops, a slightly different shade of green, showing off, teasing Daddy, testing him. He stopped the truck, grabbed his trusty hoe from the back, walked to the annoying thing and whacked it down. No matter how muddy the field. No matter where we were going. To a basketball game or wedding or funeral…

We patiently sat inside the musty truck watching and waiting. We had no Iphone entertainment. No Angry Birds to pass the time. Just conversation and maybe a Barbie in tow.

Growing up that way, I am naturally drawn to weeding pulling and flower deadheading. Even at a friend’s house or restaurant, I can barely restrain myself. I’m surprised that I drove back to Dallas and left that mammoth Johnsongrass free to grow in Fayetteville. A weed is but an unloved flower.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Song Sung Blue – Neil Diamond

A weed is but an unloved flower. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Arkansas Girl

August 29, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

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

Ol’ Man

August 27, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Where I come from, ‘the river‘ means only one thing – The Mighty Mississippi. Only a few miles away from my home, he is the life source for the entire delta region, the reason our little towns even exist. These towns that are so important to us. Old Man River connects us to the gulf, to the rest of the world. Our grand highway to export soybeans and rice and corn. Our livelihood.

Our soul.

America’s mightiest river.

Have you seen how low the river is lately?

NO ONE asks, which river?

When mentioned in passing, no one confuses him with the White River or the St. Francis River or the Buffalo River, although all amazing waterways.

Like Elvis, no one asks which Elvis?
Which Madonna?
Which Cher?
Which Jesus?

For those of us born on his riverbanks, his water courses through our veins. A source of inspiration and energy, a vigilant Father. Part of us.

As kids we often drove behind the levees to make sure the river was still there, like visiting an old relative. Often taken for granted, yet always needed. Driving into Memphis, we held our breath on the bridge spanning the river. A game we played in route to the Zoo or Goldsmith’s or the Mid-South Fair. It was a l-o-n-g way over. My lungs were never strong enough.

We weren’t allowed to swim in the river. But I waded in to my knees once. In high school. The only time in my life I was afraid of water, the undertow wicked.

He commands respect, capable of bestowing great wealth or catastrophic misfortune. Doing as he pleases, meandering where he will, like a stubborn cotton farmer. Misunderstood, quiet, strong. Sometimes appearing calm but always churning, roiling underneath the surface. Muddy and brown then golden and light, flowing. Seeking the ocean. Controlled by no one.

Providing for all of us.

Generations have witnessed his greatness, forever looking the same but never the same water. And the amazing things he has witnessed… abundant undisturbed wilderness, slavery and bloodshed, milk and honey, gambling and thieving, pirates and voodoo, jazz and blues, sacrifice and dreams.

He mus’ know sumpin’, but don’t say nuthin’, he jes’ keeps rollin’, he keeps on rollin’ along…

2011 The River from Memphis Bridge

Last year the river water levels were at an all time high, threatening crops and animals, people and history. Today a record low, tired from drought and dry with sediment.

Still mighty and majestic. Our soul.