Mississippi Delta - grace grits and gardening

Going on a Snake Hunt.

June 15, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

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.

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

Vibrant wildflowers filled the edge of a shallow ditch.

But no snake.

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

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

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

How High’s the Water Mammaw Ruby?

June 13, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

Most of Mammaw Ruby’s customers lived in Victoria and Luxora. She even sold Avon to the gypsies living on the edge of Osceola. On Saturday, I helped her with deliveries. Her car was crammed with white sacks filled with lipsticks and lotions and rose-scented perfume. She said while we were out, we needed to see how high the Mississippi River had risen with all the recent rain, in case Papa Homer needed to build an ark.

morgueFile

Mammaw Ruby wasn’t known for her driving abilities.

Driving to the top of the levee, she hogged the entire road. I held my breath and prayed no one was speeding up the other side.

As her car straddled the levee, the river roiled only inches away lapping against the asphalt.

A tree floated by.

“I’ll swanee! We’re stuck!” Mammaw said in a panic. “I can’t turn around.”

“Let me out. I’ll walk.” There was no way I was going to drown in Mammaw’s car when she plunged over the edge. Even though I was a good swimmer, the current was dangerous. Daddy said if we EVER swam in the Mississippi River, we would surely drown.

Before I could escape, Mammaw reversed the car and backed down the levee the way we had come. The motor moaned. My knuckles cramped and clutched the door handle as I prepared to jump.

Later that night, I relayed the story to Momma at the supper table. Momma promised we would never again ride with Mammaw Ruby. Momma forgot all about that promise the next time she needed a free babysitter.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Johnny Cash – Five Feet High and Rising

Thrill Hill in the Delta

May 31, 2014 By Talya Tate Boerner

As we approached Thrill Hill, we braced our legs against each other and firmly planted our bare feet in the bed of the Chevy. Gripping the side, the truck felt hot against my cramped knuckles.

“Faster, faster!” we giggled.

Although Uncle Woody drove with his windows down, he couldn’t hear through the wind.

There was no reason for such a steep hill to exist in the asphalt. Jutting up in the flat Delta, it was the only hill in a county surrounded by miles of cotton and soybean fields. I was certain it must have been an Indian burial mound. No one ever confirmed my suspicion.

I counted telephone poles stringing along the ditch bank and anticipated the sensation without watching the road ahead.

Uncle Woody’s truck rattled louder the closer we got.

Side by side we perched inside a windstorm of whipping hair and teary eyes.

As the truck soared over the top, we sailed airborne. My stomach flip-flopped with a falling sensation as the truck bounced on the other side.

“Do it again, Uncle Woody!” we begged.

We did it again.

And again.