grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

A long, long time ago, I can still remember…

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Buddy Holly

February 3, 1959. Every year at this time, we pause to reflect and remember the sad, cold, day the music suddenly died.

Buddy Holly, only a year and a half into his promising career (he opened for Elvis in 1955!), was top billing on a 24 day tour through the Midwest with the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens. On an early morning flight flown by a very young pilot, the music died in an Iowa cornfield in a blizzard. Holly was 22 years old. His bass player, Waylon Jennings, was scheduled to fly on that plane, but he gave his seat up to the Big Bopper who was under the weather. His guitarist, Tommy Allsup, flipped a coin with Valens for the last seat. Valens ‘won’.  This turn of events and the short musical career of Holly impacted music worldwide. In ways we can’t imagine.

Buddy Holly’s records influenced both John Lennon and George Harrison. The cover of the first Rollin Stones’ single released in the United States was the cover of Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away”.  And if Waylon Jennings had been on that plane??? My life would have been decidedly different. I was raised on Willie and Waylon…

In the early seventies, my sister and I practiced cheers and cartwheels for hours at a time in the front yard with the radio blaring. American Pie was our favorite cartwheel and herkie practicing song.  We sang it off key and loudly as we ran from one end of the yard to the other trying to get up the speed and nerve to flip. We didn’t really understand the song’s meaning —most of the phrases were mysterious, almost like a riddle. And back then we couldn’t google the lyrics or press the back button on the iPod, we had to wait until the next time it played on the radio. Fortunately it was regularly played.

Bye-Bye Miss American Pie. We liked pie. Papa Homer made the best fried peach pies! And, we loved the Miss America pageant, so therefore it was a good song. One of the highlights of the year was watching the Miss America pageant with Nana. We stayed up late, each picked our favorite contestant, cheered like crazy for Miss Arkansas even though she rarely won, and fell asleep on the floor right before it was over.

Drove My Chevy to the Levee. We knew all about driving ‘chevys to the levees’. Daddy drove a chevy. It always smelled dusty inside, from driving up and down the turnrows. And we lived only a couple of miles from the Mississippi River. A huge levee kept our mighty river in check. We often drove over the levee in Osceola or Wilson just to make sure the river was still there.

Drinking Whiskey and Rye. My sister and I knew what  ‘drinking whiskey’ was. Daddy had a whole liquor cabinet full of the stuff.  I wasn’t so sure about what rye was though…

And While the King was Looking Down. Obviously the King was Elvis. Everyone knew that. We drove by Graceland all the time. We practically knew Elvis.

Helter Skelter in a Summer Swelter. – Okay this was where the song started to get a little freaky. Charles Manson had murdered that poor Sharon Tate.  SameLastNameAsUs!!  That was a little too close to home for me. The song was reeeaaalllly long, and I thought Mr. McLean could have left this part out altogether.

A Generation Lost in Space. Easy peesy. We saw the moon landing at school. In first grade. Plus, my mother nearly got us kicked out of the Pink Palace Museum in Memphis for taking a picture of the moon rock. They tried to take her camera but she wasn’t about to let that happen. It was embarrassing, and on my birthday…  Just this once, couldn’t she not draw attention to us?

No Angel Born in Hell Could Break that Satan’s Spell. Well that was scary. I was a good little Baptist girl. No one had to explain the devil to me.

The last verse was just plain sad. The tempo was slower, and I wanted to cry when I thought about how the music wouldn’t play. But overall, it was the best song I’d ever heard. It gave me much to think about while practicing my cartwheels.

Grace Grits and Gardening
Musical Pairing:
Don McLean, American Pie

 

You Want Fries with that Trophy? Mais Oui!

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There is a hot new book out that has American moms in a tizzy. I overheard a brief discussion about this book on GMA yesterday morning, while trying to shape my eyebrows. Pamela Druckerman, an American living in Paris, wrote Bringing Up Bébé to help American mothers raise their children the French way. After observing her French counterparts, she felt they excelled over the American moms who tended to spoil their babies. The discussion nearly turned into a cat fight while I was still on my first cup of French roast.

Now, I haven’t read this book nor shall I (unless dog training tips are included). I’ve brought up my kids as best I could. My nest is newly, happily empty. No more rainy Friday nights for me, sitting on the those hard bleachers dreaming of top shelf Mambo Taxis at Mi Cocina. So far, my bébés are productive, independent and happy young adults (knock-on-wood), and I managed to accomplish this child-rearing feat having never visited Versailles and with only two years of high school French, merci beaucoup. 

Madame Nutt

Madame Nutt was my French teacher. We all loved her and the class. When I walked into that classroom everyday, I was no longer boring Talya Tate. I was Brigette. Madame Nutt gave each of us a French name. This would undoubtedly help us master the language and be one with the culture. I adored my name. So French! Brigette Tate. Like Brigette Bardot. Ooo-la-la! It had a certain je ne sais quoi to it, as if my mother may have been a French socialite and my father a handsome Englishman. In my imaginary perfect French existence, they met on holiday in Toulouse, fell madly in love and lived happily ever after. In reality, they were high school sweethearts from Keiser, Arkansas. She was the daughter of a cotton farmer, and he worked his way through college shooting pool. They married, had a baby girl, and thought up the strangest name to ever come out of Mississippi County in 1962 – – – Talya. Beer may have been involved.


Brigette, Georgine and Suzette
Rivercrest H.S. 1978
French Club
“Embrassez-moi je parle français”

French class knocked me down a notch. It was my first ever class that wasn’t easy. It came with homework and included practice labs. For heaven sakes, it wasn’t even taught in English! I learned pronto that I would never speak French. I was not good at it. No matter how much I repeated “Où est la bibliothèque?” wearing those awkward headphones that messed up my feathered wings, I was NOT going to be Brigette, and I would never find the bibliothèque speaking this clumsy language! I knew that I would not receive the French award at the year end assembly. And the thing is, my mother made no assurance to the contrary – no efforts to boost my fragile ego – nor did she march up to the school in protest, demanding each classmate receive at least a participation certificate. Oh Non. It was a fact of life. Some people are better at certain things than others. Some people are just meant to speak Arkansan, with a touch of sarcasm. And that’s ok. This is how we should teach our children. It’s the good old-fashioned way to bring up bébé.

Today, every single kid gets a two foot trophy on the 4-year-old soccer team for simply buying a cheap shirt and bringing snacks. Seriously, can a kid not make it home from the Saturday sunrise soccer game without a berry razzle boo blitz fruit roll-up and an apple juice box? And then afterward, the harried parents are peer-pressured into driving to Ci-Ci’s Pizza for lunch with the entire team afterwards – plus all extended family members. Like it’s a major celebration. Is this really a good thing? Wouldn’t it be better to just take a water bottle from home, eat a turkey sandwich afterward, and read a book? 


Growing up, we ate what was served, and it was never pizza. It was cooked at home and sometimes grown in our garden. We actually liked what was served. Except on liver night – that was our only night to opt out. Today’s kids negotiate, holding their breath until they receive chicken nuggets, french fries and diet Coke. Do we really think diet Coke is a good choice for kids with developing growth plates? My husband nearly killed himself one night running all around Dallas trying to get the exact freaking fast food demanded for a 5th grade sleepover. One kid would only eat hamburgers from Burger King, and one would eat pizza but only cheese and only from Pizza Hut, not Pizza Inn. I’m sure these 5th graders have a closet full of soccer trophies in their dorm rooms.

Being a parent is the hardest job in the world whether you are bringing up bébé in Paris, France or Paris, Arkansas. I’m thankful to have reached this stage of my life without having been reported to child welfare for ignoring my son’s broken foot for an entire week. I really thought it was a sprain. I’m relieved the pressure of learning spelling words is in the rearview mirror. There are way more outside influences and choices. My sister and I learned to take turns watching our favorite shows – they came on at the same time on different channels…. We couldn’t DVR five reality shows a night, pause the program to run in the kitchen to get more potato chips, re-wind if we fell asleep, or watch it later online at school. We had one television, one “clicker” and 4 channels – ABC(8), NBC(5), CBS(3) and PBS(13). When the electricity went out – and it did, ALOT, – we just sat in the dark and flat missed our favorite show. Or went to bed. 

Is it really any wonder these soccer “stars” graduate from college, expecting their 4 bed/4.5bath/3 car garage starter McMansion to come complete with a theatre room and first time homeowner rebate from Uncle Sam? With no money down. It’s the American Dream. And they will need this dream to compensate for the shock of not going off 1st in the NFL draft, or the disappointment in not marrying a supermodel…. or not becoming a supermodel.
I don’t know if I’ll ever travel to France.  I’m a homebody. I prefer to sleep in my bed in my own home. It’s just too much trouble to travel now that everyone is a potential terrorist. And honestly, I have way too many gels and liquids to travel much farther than Little Rock. But I might consider it for a trophy of some sort. Or a blue ribbon. Or to eat real creme brûlée. Bien sur!


Merci,
Brigette Tate

P.S. Becky Parks’ French name was Suzette. I think Norma Stracener’s was Georgine, but no one could confirm. How does one forget her French name???

Musical Pairings:
Patti LaBelle, “Lady Marmalade”  🙂

don’t make me run!

By

I don’t run.  I hate to run.  Running hurts my boobs. My best friend, Becky, lovelovesloves to run. She cranks up Keith Urban on her iPod, sucks down a tube of espresso love energy gel and jogs off in her cute little running skort looking so toned and in her zone. It’s the combination of Keith and espresso love that gives her that extra sparkle.  

Last year, Becky ran her first half marathon in Dallas – what an awesome accomplishment. I was so proud and excited for her! Judy (my other BFF) and I watched her cross the line, snapping pictures and screaming like we were at a Donny Osmond concert in 1972. Yay Becky! Good for her!
See Becky Run!
I wouldn’t run a half marathon if Keith Urban was standing at the finish line naked, waiting to sing a brand new song he had written and recorded especially for me. I just wouldn’t. Not for Keith or anyone else. Ok, well, except maybe for Coach Graham.  There was actually a time I ran for Coach Graham. He was the Keiser Jr. High girl’s basketball and track coach. All the silly, giggly, goofball teenage girls in Keiser were C-RAZY about him. He was our Keith Urban. He motivated us to run even as he tortured us daily! But, we didn’t care. We would have jumped off the Keiser water tower for Coach Graham. And still would.
As part of our basketball practice, we “jumped benches” – hard, wooden benches – with both feet, at the same time. If you mis-jumped, you dragged your tired butt home with a purple goose egg on your shin. (I can no longer jump benches. I am certain of this, because I tried during bootcamp last year. I even envisioned Coach standing there, swinging that whistle like always he did, but I still could not get both feet to work together.  One jumped and the other lagged behind like a delayed reaction.) We also ran suicides and bleacher laps and held the chair pose against the gym wall until our thighs screamed for mercy. Then, at the very end of practice, as we were sweating out Coca-cola (we didn’t know about GU gel) and very near tears, Coach made us run from the school gym to the Keiser Experiment Station (pronounced “spearmint” station for you non-townspeople).

Keiser, Arkansas is a small town – there were only about 600 residents when I was in junior high and probably about the same now.  It’s surrounded by soybean and cotton fields, right between Sandy Bayou and Hall Town. The Keiser Experiment Station was a big deal I guess, like something from the Dharma Initiative. As a kid I wondered, “Just what exactly were they experimenting on at the edge of town?” It was somewhat of a cool mystery, intriguing but not enough so to quiz my mother on it, just something to ponder now and then. Were there dead bodies there? Dead chickens? In junior high, I came to understand “they” were performing research for the University of Arkansas – research on crop production and pesticides. (woo pig sooie!) Although I was a farmer’s daughter, and those crops put cornbread in my mouth, I didn’t think that was all too interesting. For me, the experiment station meant one thing – the absolute worst part of my teenage day.
Even though the road was flat and it probably wasn’t a mile round trip, it was exta-long with Coach tailing behind us, very slowing, in his truck. He always had his window rolled down to shout out words of “motivation”. Why didn’t he get out of that truck and run with us? That was one of the biggest debates in 7th grade. By the time I passed by Mrs. Mills’ house, I had painful stitches in my side. I could hide behind Mrs. Mills’ house, catch my breath, and fall back in line when my girlfriends came running back from the spearmint station. But NO, helicopter Coach was on to me, back there following with his trust issues. By the time I made it to the big tree where we looped back, I was seriously considering hiding out behind the cotton trailers at the spearmint station – I would stay there until high school. I didn’t care what the hell kind of odd things they were doing. I would volunteer to be experimented on, if it meant not having to run back to school. It wasn’t until we were a bit older that we learned, not only was crop research happening there, but at night, when it was dark, especially on the weekends, the experiment station was the place teenagers made out – a whole different sort of spearminting.
Becky never ran to the Experiment Station. She didn’t play basketball or run track. I have no idea how she weaseled out of it, but obviously that strategy boosted her long-term running career while mine was completely stunted. When Becky planned to run her half, Judy and I reluctantly decided to participate in the 5-K. Best friends since elementary school, we did want to be supportive of Becky. We wanted to be there cheering her on when she crossed that finish line, just not sweaty. Plus we really wanted one of those cute Big D Marathon t-shirts.
The night before the big event, Becky educated us on proper running attire. Judy and I were none too happy to discover that you NEVER wear your new shirt for the actual event referenced on the shirt. It’s too new and not broken in yet, and people who do that are total novices. She said we couldn’t wear it until the next event, or maybe the Big D run the following year.  What? Judy and I looked at each other but did not speak. There was going to be a next event? 
On the day of the run, the serious marathoners started first. And they were an intimidating bunch sporting state of the art, water-wicking, coconut-infused, anti-chafing, UVA-protecting technological running gear with tubes of gel and energy packs wrapped around their waist like gun holsters. Heck, even I might be able to run if I had all that groovy crap! Suddenly I was very self-conscious of the getup I was wearing: hand-me-down gray sweat pants from the floor of my son’s closet and my faded yellow “Life Is Good” t-shirt. And Becky was so right – thank God she saved us! No one except a family of dorks wore those cute baby blue Big D Marathon t-shirts we received in the registration packets.  How uncool were they? Ha!
Judy and I totally missed Becky out of the gate.  We were standing in line at the nasty port-a-potties.  But finally, it was our turn. Our crowd was pretty respectable as well. We politely cued up in the very, very back of the crowd, certainly not wanting to slow down anyone. Plus part of my strategy was to draft off some over-achieving quick chick who should have been running with Becky, instead of us. (I learned about drafting running to the spearmint station behind Carrie Jones.) I was carrying both a water bottle and my iPhone, so clearly this was not an activity in which I anticipated breaking a sweat, but more of a social event for Judy and me – time to catch up while we walked. The announcer was speaking over the loudspeaker, but we couldn’t hear him very well – they had a poor sound system. I took a picture of Judy, and she took one of me. How fun! Evidence for Facebook:) The announcer continued to babble on like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Suddenly, and without warning, the entire crowd of runners, except us, turned 180 degrees around to face the opposite direction, and Judy and I were in the very front of the crowd! OMG-OMG-OMG. Apparently our route was different from the marathoners, and we were soon to be trampled to death, never getting to wear our cute new t-shirts… Quickly, we scurried to the sideline so the true runners would not have to hurtle over us as we lay dying on the asphalt. I reminded myself, I would never see these people again.
Coach Graham. He’s still got it!
Once the crowd began to thin a bit, we disappeared into a group of Asians jogging in jeans.  Ok, seriously? Jeans? We could not let these people in JEANS cross the finish line before us. Really? Did they just suddenly decide to register for the run on their Sunday morning field trip to the Science Place across the way? Sensing Coach Graham in his truck behind us, we picked up the pace.  He would be so proud.

talya


Musical Pairings:
Peter Frampton, “Do You Feel Like We Do”


Becky’s Medal

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!