Northeast Arkansas - grace grits and gardening

Stirring the Soul

June 1, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

What do these famous people have in common? George Washington, Elvis Presley, Ernest Hemingway…

…They all lived in historic homes:-)

Historic places are fascinating, particularly historic homes. Seeing how people lived and thrived over a hundred years ago while successfully changing the course of history without wi-fi and air conditioning is riveting. Historical voyeurism. But just like you and me, these folks worried about their country, the well-being of their children, their personal circumstances. They existed, survived, hoped to make a difference, prayed for rain and mourned the deceased. Walking along the beautiful Potomac exploring the grounds of Mount Vernon is akin to a religious experience. Strolling in George Washington’s footsteps, seeing his view from the lawn, his stuff, things he touched and held dear, his graveside tomb – how could every American citizen not feel a bit more united?

Mt. Vernon

We have toured old homes in New Orleans with incredible architecture and rich histories. Jefferson Davis’ home in Biloxi is a true southern treasure, nearly destroyed by Katrina. I dare say everyone already knows how I feel about amazing Graceland…And Johnny Cash’s home, across the ditch from our cotton field, is currently being restored bringing a welcomed flurry of activity to Northeast Arkansas.

The Man in Black’s House

One of my favorite things about Key West, ranking right up there with deep fried conch fritters, is Ernest Hemingway’s house where he wrote poems and stories in the early morning hours and explored Old Town in the afternoons. Antiques from his travels fill the home, and exotic hunting trophies line the walls. Inspiration is palpable, wrapped in warm breezes off the island’s turquoise waters. His desk is there. I had a sudden urge to casually limbo underneath the velvet rope and lightly touch it, but I resisted.

Turns out there is commonality between Hemingway and me. His passion was writing, and I enjoy reading what he wrote. We both like(d) wine. And surprisingly, his second wife was originally from Northeast Arkansas, just like John’s second wife (me). They met and married in Paris, France, but she was an Arkansas girl from Piggott. Hemingway spent long periods of time there visiting her family and writing. Next week I will be attending a creative writer’s retreat in the Hemingway-Pfeiffer House studying and writing in this holy place. Somebody pinch me.

Hemingway-Pfeiffer House, Piggott, Ar

I’m excited to tour the house and the barn and see the furnishings inside. I love objects with a past – old dishes, picture frames, vintage jewelry… Last week we happened upon two antique leather club chairs from a little French antique shop in Fayetteville. They are perfect for our new cottage. The well-worn brown leather is buttery soft and frayed and I wouldn’t dare change a thing about them. Circa 1930s, they were purchased by the shop owners from travels in Paris. I imagine all the interesting Parisians who once sat in these chairs, maybe drinking coffee or writing poems. Maybe Ernest Hemingway?

Hemingway wrote part of A Farewell to Arms while in Arkansas. For whatever reason, creative juices seem to flow in this unremarkable corner of the state – maybe it’s the pull of the mighty Mississippi which heavily influenced Mark Twain or the impoverished working man who impacted Johnny Cash’s bare-bones music. Or maybe sheer boredom stirs the soul. The quickly approaching writer’s retreat is a bit intimidating, pushing me completely beyond my comfort zone of blogging in familiar silence. How do I react if after ten minutes I’m advised, “Really? A writer? Bless your heart you should just return to your banking job…” What if I’m not good enough? What if I’m not good?

talya

“The first draft of anything is shit.” Ernest Hemingway

talya

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

Our Painted House

May 15, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

laugh lines?

Until you paint every nook and cranny of a house, repairing cracks and spackling hundreds of nail holes in the most peculiar places, I don’t think you really get to know her. Standing on a rickety ladder looking at the top of the never-before-painted dusty door moldings or lying on the kitchen floor painting the floor trim underneath the built-in shelving, you become pretty cozy with one another. Until then, I’m not sure you can really claim her.

We’ve painted every square inch inside our Munger Place home. And because of this, we can confirm there are no square inches in this house. Her floors slope and creak and doors shift from time to time resulting in the reappearance of certain hairline cracks. Like wrinkles. After 102 years, she’s allowed.

Years ago, I worked with a strange girl who bought a 60’s ranch style home near Ft. Worth. Once she was settled into the home with her furniture and children arranged to her liking, only then did she paint around the furniture. The trim behind the couch was stained dark brown but on either side the trim was white. If a chair was slightly budged from position, the dark trim behind it would shine like a rotten spot. HOW did she sleep at night? I could barely even go inside, just knowing this.

When my mother turned 40, she decided to paint the outside of our home in Arkansas. After years and years of living in a boring white house, she thought it was high time for a color change – beige. Willing to tackle the project single-handedly, she explained her plan to Daddy who was completely against it. He felt sure she would get one side painted and quit. He feared her painting work ethic would be much like her cotton-chopping work ethic. The Tate girls weren’t his best cotton choppers.

She ignored his advice, didn’t mention it again, and patiently waited a few weeks until he started picking cotton. Now, if you weren’t raised on a cotton farm, you may not be aware of the delicate art of picking cotton. When the bolls burst open, there are only a few weeks to harvest before the yields begin to decline. So there’s no lollygagging around during this time. No sleeping or eating, no laughing or vacation days, no television watching or smiling. It’s an amazing race against Mother Nature, and not for the light-hearted. To keep things interesting, this all happens just at that time when vast tropical storms are lined up back to back in the Gulf of Mexico.

Daddy left the house before daylight and dragged home well after dark. And he worked 7 days a week until all the cotton was out. The first day he started picking, Momma started painting. High up on a ladder, she painted the eaves, the side, around the windows, all day every day. She cleaned up or hid all evidence before he lugged himself home late each night, dog-tired. She collapsed each night as exhausted as he, sore and achy. For a couple of weeks he unknowingly snored in a two-toned house. The next morning, she started back again right after he left. She too was in a race.

Tate Farm House
aka BAT cave

Perfectly timing the entire project, she was finishing her last day of painting on his last day of picking. And that’s the day he decided to come home for lunch. Driving into the driveway, he saw her atop a ladder painting the last section of the house. He must have been shocked. He must have laughed to himself. The entire house was a different color. And the shutters were brown. She washed her hands, made him a sandwich, and he never said a word about it. Ever.

While he was busy picking cotton, he had no idea what had been going on under his roof. Of course, he never really did.

talya

Musical Pairings

Johnny Cash, “I Never Picked Cotton”

Miranda Lambert, “The House that Built Me”

from a pew away…

May 13, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

At Brinkley Chapel we all wore roses pinned to our dresses on Mother’s Day Sunday – white if our mother had already passed away and pink or red if our mother was still alive. I really don’t know if this is a tradition everywhere or just at our little church in Arkansas. We had lots of unique traditions there.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Momma ordered a corsage for Nana from the flower shop in Osceola. It was always a white Gardenia, her favorite, the most fragrant of all flowers. I could smell it from a pew away.

Momma wore a red or pink rose corsage with a bit of baby’s breath, but Staci and I were too little to wear big, fancy, store-bought corsages. We ran outside on Sunday morning, getting our shoes wet in the grass, and clipped a tiny pink rose from the bush beside the driveway. Luckily the rosebush was always in full bloom on Mother’s Day, as if it understood the importance of its job.

Momma always told us to pick one of the buds not fully open. If we wore one of the pretty big roses already in full bloom, the petals fell apart before the invitational hymn leaving only a pin and a thorny stem on your dress. No telling what the significance of that might have been.