grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Don’t Mess with Texas

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Punxsutawney Phil may be all super important and reliable up North, but clearly, his power does not extend to Dallas. It’s high time we had our own prairie dog or badger. We need a critter more in touch with Texas extreme temperatures. With 80 degree temperatures this week, its Easter-like. I’ve resigned myself that we have been totally gypped out of even one bowl of yummy snow cream this winter. I may go ahead and break out the spring wreath, but I hate to jinx it.  

Lucy and Annabelle have been taking me on extra long walks this week. On Wednesday it was even warm enough for a short sleeve Dallas Mavericks t-shirt (of which I have a large collection), even at 8 a.m. We strolled along the neighborhood, with the dogs straining on their leashes, optimistically trying to catch those pesty birds. As a fun bonus, every house in this neighborhood comes with a cat on each wrap around porch, whether wanted or not. They loll about on the sidewalks in front of their respective homes, stretching and cleaning themselves, just teasing and taunting two little Schnauzers. Overhead the trees are already budding out. Those elusive squirrels who live high above seem to realize they have stored way too much inventory this season as pecans coincidentally fall near us like heat seeking missiles as we walk. There is no sign of winter hidden anywhere in the neighborhood. We did, although, get a double dose last year, so it evens out I suppose. In the distance I heard the unmistakeable screech of brakes – that terrible sound signaling someone ran a stop sign and then slammed on the brakes mid-intersection with their arm no doubt extended across the passenger’s side, whether or not there is a passenger or a phantom bag of groceries in that seat. I waited for the crash but thankfully, there was not one.


John was rear-ended last week sitting at a red light on Live Oak in our neighborhood. He was on his way to an early morning dentist appointment before work. I’m sure in his mind he was already at work when the driver smashed into his bumper, jolting him back to reality. Fortunately, the driver produced insurance information and provided his name. In East Dallas, this is a favorable sign. A few days later, of course, John was informed by our insurance agent that this person does not exist, there is no such insurance and all the information provided was fraudulent. According to the Dallas Morning News, of the 17 million licensed drivers in Dallas, 25% are uninsured, making our roads extra-hazardous. And I’m certain 50% of the 25% pass through our neighborhood daily on the way to the border. It’s more than slightly annoying. 

As we continued walking, I thought about doing some yard work later in the afternoon or maybe taking Lucy and Annabelle to the dog park… Just as we turned the corner, making our way back home,  Annabelle spied something nestled in the thick grass between the sidewalk and the street. She stopped in her tracks like a Pointer with her nose down hot on the trail of something. Her friend Dora must have taught her this trick… The item that caught her eye was partially hidden but glistening in the overgrown grass – almost sparkling. I bent down to see it more closely. Oh very nice. It was a condom. Obviously used and totally disgusting. Fortunately, I quickly identified it before Annabelle could claim it for herself, smuggle it home and hide it behind the sofa pillow for John to discover later. Lucy once hid an entire package of frozen corn behind the pillow on the love seat….That was interesting, but finding a nasty used condom one night while lying on the couch watching Modern Family might be a bit too interesting. We aren’t that modern.

Nastiness! On such a glorious Ash Wednesday. 

Who is having car sex in our neighborhood and being a litterbug at the same time? Now, I have nothing against a little something-something wherever/whenever, and kudos for wearing a raincoat, but I hate litterbugs. Maybe that non-existent person who smashed into John’s car was distracted because he had just had vehicular sex on the way to work, tossing the evidence out the window in our neighborhood. That could just be distracting enough to run a red light. On the bright side, at least someone in the hood was practicing safe sex which could potentially keep one future uninsured motorist off the Dallas streets in 16 years. But please, in the spirit of the boy scouts, leave no trace.


talya


Musical Pairings:


Eagles, “Victim of Love”
Bruce Springsteen, “Pink Cadillac”


George Washington Slept Here. Sorta.

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Mt. Vernon
On this President’s Day, it’s only fitting that I mention George Washington, the Father of our Country. We visited his amazing home, Mt. Vernon, a few years ago. Mt. Vernon is one of the most fascinating places I’ve ever toured. Walking in his footsteps, the ground is hallowed along the banks of the Potomac, the home is decorated with family furniture and heirlooms, the property is  surrounded by historic gardens and orchards. His first love was farming. I bet he too would have blogged had Al Gore invented the internet by that time. 

It was even more special to us because, John and I are connected to George Washington – just like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. George’s last known relative lived in our house. 

1) George Washington’s first cousin was Reade Macon Washington;
2) Reade Macon Washington’s son was Captain Edward C. Washington; (as a side note for you history buffs, Captain Ed fought at Gettysburg & was killed in Vicksburg in 1863)
3) Captain Edward C. Washington’s son was Reade Macon Washington (named after his grandfather with the same name);
4) Reade Macon lived in our house in the early 1920s.
5) We own the house now. 

See? 

Reade Macon Washington was born Jan 1, 1848, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He died in our house in Dallas on July 12, 1922. It was his house then. He was taking care of it for us. At the time of his death, the Dallas Morning News reported he was the last known member of George Washington’s bloodline. I discovered this while researching and preparing for home tour a few years ago. Now we had a name to go along with the bumps in the night – Mr. Washington still lives here… if you know what I mean.

We bought this home in 2002, when Tate was 8 and Kelsey was 12. We hadn’t been here long, when I was awakened in the middle of the night from a deep sleep by the smell of brownies cooking downstairs in the kitchen. It was as if the vent in our bedroom was pumping in the chocolate smell. It was wonderful, but at 1:30 a.m.?! I was a bit annoyed that Kelsey would be baking brownies at such an hour! She did love brownies, and she had perfected the recipe… But some of us had to work tomorrow! I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and trudged downstairs. SeRioUsLy, the hair on the back of my neck stood up when I found the kitchen to be completely dark, the oven cold, the counters clean, and no midnight snack for me. But the smell of chocolate filled the kitchen. I cannot tell a lie. Kelsey was tucked away, sound asleep and falsely accused. This has happened several times since, but I have learned to just enjoy the smell and drift back off to sleep. Reade Macon must have loved brownies. Or maybe his wife was cooking for him? – she died here too, years later.

This is just one example of the goings on in our happily haunted house. 

Similar to Mt. Vernon, our neighborhood is hallowed ground too. Munger Place was developed in the early 1900s to be the “city man’s home”- only minutes from downtown by carriage. It was home to some of Dallas’ biggest movers and shakers before the community fell into complete despair. By the 1960s most homes were condemned by the city and falling apart. Fortunately, an ambitious group of dedicated families saved the neighborhood from demolition, pushing for historic designation in the 1970s. Many camped out in their homes with no heat or air or even windows for years, with rats inside and drug dealers and prostitutes next door. But amazingly and thankfully, they saved it. 

We newbies are simply the lucky caretakers of a tiny piece of history. Our home has had many owners through the years – they come and go. Some just come and never want to leave I guess. It features a fabulous wrap-around porch and the ghost of George Washington’s first cousin’s great-grandson… We should plant a cherry tree.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Sir Walter Scott, “Hail to the Chief”
K T Tunstall, “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree”

One ringy-dingy…Two ringy-dingy…

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Harold Green butt dialed me at 12:30 am this morning. It startled me. Anytime the phone rings in the middle of the night, you immediately think someone’s in jail or dead. Or both. I was completely delirious – sick with a cold – dozing from warm bourbon & lemon juice (medicinal). I couldn’t seem to answer my cell phone, even with a dreadfully loud Adam Ant ringtone blasting directly beside my head.  I knew it was Harold Green. He left no voice mail, but as my smart phone rang, his picture brightly lit the dark bedroom, as if he were the one bellowing out Desperate but not Serious. How on earth had I changed my ring to Adam Ant? 
Maybe it was Chester calling for Lucy? Chester, Harold’s dog, lives in the neighborhood and has a thing for our oldest schnauzer. They like to hang out down the street on Harry’s porch. (Harry is not to be confused with Harold – two separate neighbors…) Harry is without a doubt Munger Place’s most interesting neighbor. He generously hosts a daily happy hour, weather permitting, for anyone who wants to partake, complete with true life tales of the union business and mafia entanglements. Oftentimes there are more dogs than people present. Chester and Lucy have a standing date nearly daily around 5:00 on Harry’s porch. Even so, he should know better than to call her at such a godawful hour.
Smart phones and caller id have certainly eliminated prank phone calling which was a favorite pastime of certain bored little kids in Arkansas. Terrible I know. We loved to randomly call people in the phone book, identify ourselves as disc jockeys with WHBQ, and ask the person who answered to sing the Campbell Soup song. They ALWAYS sang. Now, there is no way we sounded remotely mature enough to be radio personalities, but they always sang, hoping to win chicken noodle soup for life or something. Then we would giggle and hang up. Crazy hoodlum children. 
When Mam-maw Tate died, we got the call in the middle of the night. “We lost Ruby,” Papa Homer said. What? How did you lose her? Why would you let a nearly 90 year old wander off in the middle of the night? It took us a minute to realize what he meant. Wee hour phone calls are almost always bad news.
Although we have become pretty good ‘acquaintances’, I don’t think I’m Harold’s emergency contact person. I don’t think I rank that high on his list. Not yet anyway. When I cleared my head, I texted him. 
Me:       Harold, did you call me just now?
Harold: No, but it seems my phone did. I don’t know why my phone felt the need to call you so late.
:)) Butt dialing. It happens sometimes. Stupid smart phones.
talya

Musical Pairings:


Adam Ant, “Desperate but not Serious”
Peggy Lee, “He’s a Tramp”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!