grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Morning Mockingbird

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The loudest bird in all of Fayetteville roosts in our backyard. He mimics a car alarm. The first time he woke me, I was still dozing and thought someone was prying the radio from my dashboard. For a moment, I thought I was back in Dallas.

A mockingbird, perhaps?

The scout for all birds, he is the messenger for morning. Once he gives his signal, our trees are flooded with chirping, tweeting birds. 
All night, the rain pounded against the tin roof, and the wind howled. I slept peacefully. Until the car alarm bird sounded.

talya

Musical Pairing:

Mockingbird, Carly Simon & James Taylor

for the birds

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Boogee (hard “g”) lives around the corner from our Fayetteville cottage.  How do you spell your name, I asked? I don’t really know, she laughed. That’s just what everyone calls me.
One corner of Boogee’s dry-stacked rock wall is a shrine to Found Objects—lost or discarded sidewalk treasures discovered and relocated by neighbors strolling with sleepy headed toddlers, dedicated power walkers, Razorbacks headed to English class.
Partially hidden within fall leaves—a like-new pacifier, a purple plastic Easter egg, a man’s red and black striped necktie.
I contributed a red string with tiny black beads found on Dickson Street—nothing fancy or nice— oddly interesting. With my offering, I felt part of the neighborhood.
Near Boogee’s inviting front porch, she grows cotton! A single stalk , a specimen celebrated like a rare Japanese Maple. The cotton hangs white and heavy, ready to be picked. Beyond ready but still soft and beautiful.
When are you planning to pick your cotton, I asked? Oh I never pick it. I grow it every year for the birds. The birds take bits for their nests. 
One of the reasons I lovelovelove Fayetteville…
talya

Musical Pairing:

White Bird, K T Tunstall

Storybook Journal

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jour·nal a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept regularly for private use. (Merriam-Webster definition 1c)


On the afternoon of my last full day at Dairy Hollow, I opened the middle section of an antique bookcase to reveal a drop-down desk. Inside, I found journals provided to guests when the property was a bed-and-breakfast. For an hour (or more) I became lost in the entries dated 1988-1995. Hundreds of thoughts and reflections, along with detailed sketches and poems.

The stories were similar. This peaceful spot in the Ozarks affected each guest in the same manner. People were drawn from across the country, all with different circumstances–newlyweds, lost souls, stressed out families. Some folks were simply passing through. Each with different issues and lives, all leaving with a common bond.

Connecting randomly selected sentences from five journals–a letter to Dairy Hollow…

Dear Dairy Hollow— 

My bride and I arrived late on January 4 all decked out in glorious wedding attire. She was beautiful… I didn’t know a woman could change so much from one night to the next morning! Just kidding! (1992). This can’t be real life…we have stepped into the pages of a storybook and like Goldilocks, everything was “just right.” (1988) 
I have traveled many miles visiting hundreds of inns…fine, stately mansions with exquisite furnishings….others are cute little places. Each is a reflection of the innkeeper’s soul. Some have no soul…Dairy Hollow stands out…there is a mystical quality.  (1990) Our last night in particular I felt and understood the power of this place. (1993)

This has been a pleasant way to start a life together. (1991)  No phones, no television. It is so sweet to remember how less is always more. (1988) We love this place. (1995)

Home Sweet Home (1988)

Love… 

talya

More than a Feeling, Boston

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” 
― Roald Dahl

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!