grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Ol’ Man

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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.

Port of Osceola August 2012

talya

Musical Pairings:

Ol’ Man River – Paul Robeson

River in the Rain – Roger Miller

“The poetry of the earth is never dead.” 
― John Keats

Imagine

By

This morning I am enjoying my first cup of coffee outside. Two days after the city aerial bombed us with poison, there are no mosquitoes. I am skeptical, still waiting for a sting, and worried the war on mosquitoes has destroyed all life in my back yard.


Thankfully I see a dragon fly buzzing around the pool seemingly unaffected.

The temperature, still warm, has a hint of fall tucked within the slight breeze. Is it my imagination? I watch the clouds overhead. They watch me.

As kids, we spent hours flat on our backs in the front yard studying the clouds. Our grass blanket itched and stuck to our sweaty legs, but we didn’t mind. Cloud gazing, an impromptu cool down from cartwheels or freeze tag, wasn’t planned in advance, so a quilt was never considered. 

We called out the shapes of animals and objects like a game of I Spy. A dog. A rabbit. A donut. A boat. White and fluffy, the clouds adding color to sunset. I wondered where the clouds ended up after drifting over Mississippi County. 

Overhead, thin airplane vapors were always exciting to see. At the top of the sky, curving, never stopping in Arkansas. I imagined where the lucky people were going. I imagined where I would go.


Today I see the remains of jet vapor – a straight line with hash marks. A white picket fence. A railroad track. I imagine where the busy people are going. I am content to be drinking coffee. I imagine I am not the only one. Just watching.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Imagine – John Lennon

You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds. Henry Thoreau

Cruel Summer

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Here we are again. Sitting smack dab in the middle of another sweltering summer. Another obscenely hot and cruel summer. Motionless and glaring. Water droplets from sprinklers evaporate before touching the parched grass. Mother Nature sends no rain for the crops.  Evidently she holds a grudge.

Yesterday I fried an egg in the backyard by the swimming pool. The pavement burned my feet and the skillet handle scalded my hand, as hot as the oven. The pool water is probably hot enough to poach an egg. Even the kitchen tap water is warm. 


Every night the super enthusiastic weathermen of Dallas try to inject a new twist into the forecast. Something to justify their time slot before sports. Before the Olympic news and Dallas Cowboys training camp. But there is nothing new. There won’t be anything different until that first cold snap on Halloween, if we are lucky. The high’s and lo’s are fancifully displayed and the heat index is thrown in for effect as the entire Dallas-Ft. Worth Metroplex collectively gasps. As if there is a distinct difference between 110 and 112.

No matter how high the mercury soars each day this summer, the record high temperatures hold firmly in place. From 1980. Nothing compares to the summer of 1980. The summer I graduated from Rivercrest High School. The summer we did rain dances in the front yard in air that cloaked our bodies like gauze.  The summer daddy had a scorched crop yet forked over college tuition. The summer we nearly had to bury him on the banks of Little River.

In 1980, thousands of lives were lost and crop damage totaled in the billions. Beer sales in Texas were at an all time high.
Irrigation. Rice. Tate Farm.
Thank goodness we irrigate the crops now. 

Only 51 days until Autumn….

talya

Musical Pairings:

Long Hot Summer Days, Sara Watkins
Cruel Summer, Bananarama

“The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.” Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting.

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!