grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

My Hunger Games

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Am I the only person who hasn’t read The Hunger Games? I am so out of the loop on this book. The movie, opening this month, stars Jennifer Lawrence who was fantastic in Winter’s Bone – a great movie even though it hit a bit too close to home…  I don’t know much about the storyline or the plot, but The Hunger Games is first in a series which peaks my interest. Who doesn’t love a good series? I so miss Harry Potter and Hagrid and Professor Dumbledore. Don’t you wonder what the Weasleys have been doing with themselves? 

Based on the tiny bit I’ve heard about the book, it reminds me of Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery”, which I read in Mrs. Ashley’s 7th grade English class. Mrs. Ashley was one of those life-changing teachers, introducing me to exciting new authors and clearly explaining the difference between to, too and two. Reading the short story, the class was fascinated to discover the twists and turns of the tale. The villagers offered up a human sacrifice each June to ensure a bountiful harvest. It was an annual event, a civic duty, like voting! Hmmmm, the setting was a small farm village, just like Keiser… The unfortunate ‘winner’, chosen at random by a crude lottery, was stoned to death by friends and family. Even the kids made a game of choosing the largest stones – stones they could barely lift. It was riveting in a horrifying sort of way. It made an impression on junior high students who thrived on scary movies, and the parallels were eerie. Could this ever happen in our bucolic farming community… The farmers would probably cut off an arm for a good crop. Mrs. Ashley assured us that would never happen, but I wasn’t so sure. I knew a lot of interesting farmers. I lived with one.

Even the final storyline in Dark Shadows – scariest soap opera ever (which I realize is redundant) – was based on “The Lottery”. That’s how creepy it was. Will a lottery be celebrated in The Hunger Games? And I’m guessing the protagonists are hungry? Perhaps there is no food in their world? Or they must compete for food? A bit of a reality-show-fight-to-the-death-game? Lord knows we all apparently LOVE reality television shows. Like The Biggest Loser where the starved contestants are forced to survive on air, water and nasty sugar free gum. Is Jillian in this book? She annoys me.

I’m dedicating this week to my own hunger game. After eating our way through Fayetteville last weekend with slabs of delicious ribs at Herman’s and yummy gooey pizza at Geraldi’s, I have declared a one week detox game. Rules of the game: eat only veggies, fruit, beans, rice and drink green tea and water. No wine at least until Friday night’s porch party. Last night’s dinner consisted of a basic green cheese-less salad with roasted okra and brown rice. It was a nice change, although my stomach is growling in protest as I type. 
I bought a copy of The Hunger Games at Target yesterday morning along with celery and lettuce. I’m excited to read it. If its half as good as  any of the Harry Potter books, I’ll be thrilled. I’m optimistic it will at least keep my wandering mind off my hunger pains. Let the games begin!
talya


Musical Pairings:


John Lennon, “Mind Games”
Duran Duran, “Hungry like the Wolf”

“Be a good sport, Tessie….we all took the same chance.”  (The Lottery)

“At last darkness has come…I might have loved you, I might have spared you, but now you must die.” Barnabas Collins, Dark Shadows

Johnny Cash: Restoration of Childhood Home, Dyess, Arkansas

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An amazing number of famous people came from the tiny little corner of Northeast Arkansas that I call home. Parhaps Mark Twain’s mighty Mississippi was an inspiration. Or maybe the smell of crop defoliant whips up the creative juices. Possibly the most notable resident of Mississippi County was Johnny Cash who rose from modest roots to become one of the most influential musicians of the twentieth century.

Arkansas State University now owns the Cash home, and restoration efforts are underway. Fans will soon be able to visit his childhood home in Dyess, Arkansas, a small town located along the Arkansas Delta Byways. 
The community of Dyess itself is history lesson, planned as part of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal Program. Five hundred poverty-stricken farm families were given a new start with a twenty or forty acre farm, a five-room, white-washed farmhouse, adjacent barn, outhouse, and chicken coop. Only white families of “good moral background” were selected. Each farmer drew an initial advance to purchase the property along with a mule, cow, groceries and supplies until the first year’s crop came in, at which time it was paid back. In three years’ time, the farmer received the deed to the house and land. The Cash family got in on this new deal.

The forty acre farm immediately adjacent to the Johnny Cash place is owned by my good moral farm family (on the other side of Johnny Cash’s temporary chain link fence). We didn’t get the land from President Roosevelt. Daddy bought it outright years ago from an attorney who took the land in trade for legal fees. 

In addition to the home restoration, Arkansas State has plans to construct a museum and renovate much of the town of Dyess. The restoration buzz continues to grow. I imagine convoys of people making this pilgrimage to a place we Mississippi County residents knew was special all along.

These are exciting times for Northeast Arkansas!

talya
Grace Grits & Gardening

Land spreading out so far and wide….

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Daddy was a John Deere man. Never did he fritter away money on blue or red equipment – no Case or International Harvesters and certainly no Kobotas. Our lawn mower – which the Tate girls commandeered every weekend – was a John Deere. We even had John Deere bicycles. Fancy schmancy. We were green and yellow John Deere people all the way. Other brands and colors were only much slower imitations.

Tate Farm

My sister and I grew up on that equipment, spending entire days climbing on the gargantuan combines and dirty tractors out at the shop on the home place. If a piece of farm equipment sat idle, maybe because the fields were too muddy to plow or it was just the wrong season, we would claim that cotton picker or combine as our own for the entire afternoon. It became our submarine. Always a submarine – never an airplane or boat or tractor. We climbed all over the surface, up into the rafters of the shop, swinging from one side to the top. Amazingly, we never broke any bones or farm implements. But, if we could have figured out how to actually start our submarine, we would have driven it over to Little River. 


Daddy hired several families from south Texas each summer to chop cotton. One summer, Dallas equipped us with hoes, and we chopped with them. We were hoe’rs.  I know they must have been absolutely thrilled to have us in their midst. They were serious about their work, and quick. Speaking no English – at least not to us –  they were covered head to toe in long sleeve work shirts, boots, jeans and wide brimmed straw hats. It was freakin hot, and we thought that was idiotic. Laughing and singing to our portable radio, we wore our bikini tops and Daisy Dukes. We didn’t even wear hats – we wanted those natural highlights you only get from the sun.

We quickly identified the low spot with standing water at mid-field as our natural turning around spot. It certainly wasn’t our fault there was a huge area in the field with standing water – that was totally an act of God. So my sister and I chopped to the water, turned around and chopped back to the highway. The crazy farm hands went around the water and then continued chopping all the way to the ditch. We could barely see that ditch on the horizon! Daddy was not too thrilled with our progress – evidently we were slow hoe’rs. He should have paid us per row instead of per hour, but a deal was a deal. I’m pretty sure we never got that deal again. 

Mississippi County Cotton
The cotton that survived was harvested in the fall. This was one of our absolute favorite times because we loved to tromp cotton. We parked our submarines and spent every moment in the cotton trailers. There was nothing like seeing a full John Deere picker opening along side a trailer and dumping a giant load of freshly picked warm cotton. Sometimes we stood underneath the basket while the cotton was emptied on us like popcorn, then we climbed into the basket high up in the air to make sure there was no cotton clinging inside. Once it was dumped, our ‘job’ was to tromp it. We stomped it down, packing the corners of the trailer so that it would hold more. As soon as the picker returned to the field, we began digging tunnels in the cotton – long, deep, hot tunnels – totally un-tromping it. At dark, we went home exhausted, with cotton lint covering our clothes and burs in our hair. It was the mark of a great day.

I love the smell of freshly picked cotton. It has a very distinct smell that cannot be duplicated. If you’ve picked it, tromped it, turned head over heels in it, or napped in it, then you know. And you’ll always remember. It’s a sweet, clean, damp smell. It smells like cotton.


talya


Musical Pairings:


Creedance Clearwater Revival, “Cotton Fields”
Buddy Jewell, “Sweet Southern Comfort”

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!