Piggott - grace grits and gardening

Stories that waited for paper now wait for me.

With so much to say, I search for a worthy beginning. Thoughts that swirled and drifted through dreams, now hide just out of reach.

Inside this barn, I am filled with something greater. I am filled with possible.

Through the windowpane, I gaze into a towering matt of dark green leaves. Trees inspire and shade and watch over me, the same trees that watched him too.

My thoughts are safe inside this space. I am free to explore, free to wonder and wander. The air is full of potential.

A ray of sunshine splits the canopy and brightens my writing table.

Dust motes dance.

In the distance, a train rumbles, then and now.

He said there is nothing to writing. Just sit down at the typewriter and bleed.

And so I bleed.

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Hemingway’s Barn won 2nd place in the 2013 White County Creative Writer’s competition for the category “Favorite Writing Place”.

For information on Hemingway’s Barn and the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum and Educational Center, click HERE.

Waiting to board the plane, we stood nearly touching. Everyone queued up in typical Southwest Airlines kindergarten style, according to boarding pass number order.

I was B1.

He was B2.

B3 and B4 stood directly behind us wearing matching orange travel pillows around their necks like life preservers.

Is Little Rock your home? B2 asked B3.

Yes, thank goodness. We will never ever EVER go back to Austin. It was just too weird!

Yes too weird. B4 echoed.

B2 glanced at me and shrugged.

I rolled my eyes and noticed the time. The flight was already thirty minutes late leaving Dallas.

The Austin haters yammered on oblivious to other B-numbered boarders standing single-file. They clutched paper sacks of Dunkin Donuts like carry on bags. Sugary sweetness mixed with the awkward closeness and made me nauseous. Plus I had consumed too much coffee.

Is Little Rock your final destination? B2 asked while scanning his iPhone for text messages. Scruffy facial hair, maybe two days’ growth, gave him a relaxed yet cool appearance.

No, I’m headed to Piggott.

Piggott? He had dimples.

Yes, Piggott.

What’s in Piggott?

The Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum. I’m going to a writer’s retreat.

As in Ernest Hemingway?

Yes. Ernest Hemingway’s second wife was from Piggott, Arkansas. After they married, he spent time there and even wrote a portion of A Farewell to Arms in his barn studio.

Really?

Yes, really.