Northeast Arkansas - grace grits and gardening

feel of the farm

July 19, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

In the next field beyond the ditch, a crop duster hums and glides like a dragonfly. Two lemony butterflies flit and dart between soybean plants, keeping pace with my morning walk. Kildeer spring from the rice field then circle overhead warbling a high-pitched tune.

The road is rough and uneven, clotted with chunks of earth mixed with stalks as dry as autumn wheat. I smell the musty aroma of our soil, the great bridge between past and future, life and death, the place where all living things return.

Although the sun has only begun to peep through the trees lining the far ditch bank, a sultry day builds.

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Climb the day, Drop your dreams, Possess the day.”
― Gail Carson Levine

Cottonwood Corner

May 6, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

J. Montrell-Stark Photography – Cottonwood Corner

Once upon a time there was a race track on the corner. Only a mile from our home, the weekend racing noises filtered into our bedroom window making sleep difficult. Daddy and Arthur Bullion took me with them one muggy summer night. Seeing cars crash and smash was thrilling.

Across the street, an outdoor auction house hummed. People came from near and far to buy and sell junk. Buying and selling junk made folks hungry, so we peddled homemade chocolate cupcakes to raise money for the Halloween carnival. We always sold out.

One magical week a year, the Ferris wheel and bright carnival lights were visible across the field. We watched and waited and pleaded, listening to muffled laughter and music late after suppertime. At last we went. Momma puked as soon as the Tilt a Whirl stopped whirling.

We each have one of these places, a wide spot in the road unnoticed by most, a place vibrant only in our memories.

When the whistle blows, factory workers drive past, thankful another shift has ended. Farmers haul grain to the river without a glance to the rubble where the grocery story stood—the grocery store where Daddy sent me off driving, alone, to buy cartons of Camel, before I was old enough to have a license.

Wrong on so many levels…but oh so right.

Although there’s nothing much to look at now, the weary sign marking the empty spot is a historical marker to me.

talya

“This is what happened when one left one’s home – pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place ever completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the place left behind.” ― Tatjana Soli, The Lotus Eaters

Musical Pairing:

Hometown Glory, Adele

N is for Nana ❤❤❤

April 16, 2013 By Talya Tate Boerner

Nana and Me

“Do you have any gum, Nana?” The pew was hard, the sermon dull, my right foot dead asleep.

Digging in her pocketbook, Nana pulled out sticks of Spearmint gum to occupy my sister and me for a few moments. I tried not to smack.

“Draw.A.Duck.” I mouthed the words silently and handed her an offering envelope from the pew in front of me. Offering envelopes were stored beside the hymnals and made good scrap paper in a pinch.

With one sweep of a pencil, Nana had this silly way of drawing a duck. Her signature artwork looked more swan or turkey-like than duck-like, which amplified the funny factor ten-fold during preaching, or during any serious occasion when laughing was frowned upon.

“That doesn’t look like a duck, Nana,” my sister murmured, trying to stifle her laugh which sent us, Nana included, head first into a fit of silent giggles, shoulder-shaking giggles, the sort often mistaken for sobbing—as though we could be wholly moved by Brother Brown’s boring message…

From the piano bench, Momma shot us the stink-eye, but she wanted to laugh too. Nana had that effect on everyone.