grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Storybook Journal

By

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

Adventures with Aunt Virgie

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Aunt Virgie lived at the end of Johnson Road at Carrolls Corner just past Athelstan. The house was tiny, the ceilings slung low, the outside was covered in old asbestos siding—just like our recently purchased Fayetteville house. In fact, our new house reminds me of Aunt Virgie’s house, which is probably one of the reasons I was drawn to it.

Sometimes I think I channel Aunt Virgie…

Fayetteville Cottage
As kids we often slept at her house which was always a great adventure, a bit like camping. Aunt Virgie had no indoor plumbing… even in the 1970s. We thought her back yard outhouse near the chicken coop was THE coolest thing ever.

Using the bathroom outside in the dark was THE coolest thing ever.

I suggested to my husband that we might build an outhouse for our Fayetteville cottage. Since there is only one teeny bathroom (the size of our Dallas shower), an outhouse would be a brilliant time management tool! Especially since we are always working in the yard (no more tracking dirt into the house when we are digging and planting). And especially since I always have to pee.

It would be adorable tucked away in the wisteria beside our bamboo forest, maybe with one of those little half moon cut outs on the door.  Just a one-holer and only used for number one, of course.

I’ll have to check with our friend and real estate agent Paula to see if this would hurt the re-sale value. But, this is the Ozarks… I think it would boost value… a 2 bedroom/1 bath + 1 holer….? Charming. And very eco-friendly. 

Since Aunt Virgie had no running water, she had a pump outside the kitchen door. We took turns pumping buckets of water for her, avoiding the fat rooster that terrorized us and her chickens. That water was always cold and clear—the best tasting water—and we drank it out of a long-handled dipper. After she died, I wondered about that dipper. I hope someone in the family kept it.
In that tiny kitchen with the 50s style formica dinette and authentic tin pie safe, she baked the most fabulous pie crust for us as a special treat. She rolled out her dough, cut it into strips and baked it. We ate those strips of flaky crust straight out of the oven with nothing on it. If I could do one thing over again, I would watch and learn how she made that pie crust. I still haven’t perfected mine, but I’m working on it. 
talya
The original 12 Johnsons
1960’s Johnson reunion.
 Uncle’s- Ervin, Roy, Woody, Grandpa, Earl, JB, Land, Claris. Aunts- Ruby, Essell, Frances (my Nana), Rena and Virgie 
Musical Pairings:

Alison Krauss, “Down to the River to Pray”

    After One Week

    By

    air mattress bed

    After one week in Fayetteville, I think I could be a pretty successful hippie. Like one certain summer during college, I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress with zero furniture other than 4 Target lawn chairs and my yoga mat. Does a yoga mat count as furniture? I think yes. In 900 square feet we have no television, no computer, and no newspaper, but our fridge is stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon and salsa. And we have chips, coffee and green tea. Even Ted Kacsynski had a typewriter and a platform bed.
    After one week of painting and weeding and sanding and trimming and digging and scrubbing, nearly every single thing we brought has been worn at least three times and could likely stand upright unassisted in the corner of the bedroom. Ground-in-filthy…. 

    Eager to do laundry, I ran to the nearby IGA grocery store to grab a box of Tide wearing grubby camo shorts, no makeup, a Texas Rangers t-shirt and my crocs. I was confident the shorts would truly conceal me like an invisibility cloak; however, catching a glimpse of myself in produce, the smear of paint on the side of my face and nearly up my nose was a bit startling. Nice. I was starting to favor the Unabomber, but no one even gave me a second look. I love Fayetteville.
      
    Every muscle in my body screamed for relief. After soaking my achy body in a scalding hot bath in our deep old porcelain tub and scrubbing the paint from my face (and inside my nose), I was resuscitated enough to wash clothes. Cramming a dusty load into the small stackable washer, I quickly discovered it didn’t work. Naturally. No sound whatsoever. Dead. Or maybe it wasn’t hooked up?  I tested out the dryer. The assaulting noise that broke the Ozark silence was like that of a jet taking off at DFW International Airport. Or a freight train. It shimmied and shook, and if I hadn’t immediately turned it off it would have rocked out the back screen door and tumbled onto the fieldstone patio which is where I plan to drag it very soon on the way to the dump. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I went to bed on my sheets peppered with dirty Schnauzer paw prints and left the dirty laundry for hopeful morning light. I couldn’t believe none of my new neighbor hippies came to check on the terrible noise. 
    dirty filthy sheets
    tin roof overhang 
    Although I miss my nice big Duet washer and dryer sitting in Dallas, I do not miss the sirens and traffic noise that drift in and out of Dallas sleep. With only the screen doors between my blowup bed and nature, I slept soundly and awoke to cool air and rain on the tin roof outside the doors. So Incredibly Peaceful.

    Down to one clean pair of gray sweat pants, a clean sports bra, and a semi-clean freebie Baylor t-shirt, which seems totally out of place in Hogland, I loaded my dirty clothes in two pillowcases and headed out to find a Laundromat. Just like college. I quickly decided my sister-in-law’s nice washer/dryer one block over would be a much better scene…
    As I washed clothes, my very entertaining brother-in-law Mark, (picture Thomas Hayden Church from Sideways but with a ponytail) was busy feeding the cardinals, chain smoking and checking on the squirrel he just trapped – which he named Steve. He traps squirrels daily in his huge yard and relocates them by evening. He explained to me the rules of relocation – the behavior of the incarcerated squirrel determines the release point. Some go to the old drive-in, some to the forest, etc. The calmer in the cage, the better the new home. He told me Steve was taking visitors, if I would like to see him… In between his daily morning activities, we discussed inflation, the stock market and privatizing the postal service. Classical music played in the background and the breeze from the open doors and windows was refreshing even with the cigarette smoke. Mark always wears a bandana around his neck. It’s his signature fashion accessory. Even with the forest green robe he wore on my laundry day. 
    It turned out to be such a nice morning and a much needed break from painting. I had my pick of soft comfy chairs to sit in while typing away on my AirMac for the first time in over a week. And Mark made a fresh pot of coffee for me. It’s the simple things. Ahhhh. Family. What a difference a week makes.

    Maybe the Unabomber would have been in better humor had he occasionally washed his sheets?

    talya

    Musical Pairings:

    J. Strauss, “The Blue Danube”
    Oliver, “Good Morning Starshine”

    Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

    THANKS FOR READING!