grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Memories of Summer

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Bicycle riding. Cloud gazing. Tree climbing.

Off to summer camp in a hot, bumpy bus. Seeing old friends, making new ones. Do you want the top bunk? 

Counting down to family lake trips, heaven on earth, our happiest place. Sad, sad, sad for the week to end.

Mornings lost in the cool, quiet library, my nose buried inside The Bungalow Mystery.

Chopping cotton with my sister, slow and steady, sun streaming across the field. See the blister on my hand?

Sleepovers with cousins, scary movies, giggling til dawn.

Church revival, the pew hard, would the sermon never end?

Trapping lightning bugs in mayonnaise jars. Pork ribs smoking on the grill. Can we eat yet?

Hunting down the perfect stick for late night marshmallow roasts. Shooting Roman candles from the dock. Oh beautiful, for spacious skies…

Days were long. Nights were sultry. By the first fall football game, summer had evaporated in a blur of laughter, a sweet memory recorded in my diary, recorded in my mind.

What memories will you make this summer?

talya

Follow Grace Grits and Gardening for heartfelt stories of food, farm, family and life. Talya blogs for the East-Dallas Lakewood Advocate and is a monthly contributor to Inspiration Cafe. A farm girl from Northeast Arkansas, she splits time between Dallas and Arkansas.

Hello Summer!

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wordless wednesday…


The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart, and not to be mentioned with common things. It is chief of this world’s luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented. – Mark Twain

talya

Musical Pairing:

Watermelon Song, Dave Matthews Band

Imagine

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This morning I am enjoying my first cup of coffee outside. Two days after the city aerial bombed us with poison, there are no mosquitoes. I am skeptical, still waiting for a sting, and worried the war on mosquitoes has destroyed all life in my back yard.


Thankfully I see a dragon fly buzzing around the pool seemingly unaffected.

The temperature, still warm, has a hint of fall tucked within the slight breeze. Is it my imagination? I watch the clouds overhead. They watch me.

As kids, we spent hours flat on our backs in the front yard studying the clouds. Our grass blanket itched and stuck to our sweaty legs, but we didn’t mind. Cloud gazing, an impromptu cool down from cartwheels or freeze tag, wasn’t planned in advance, so a quilt was never considered. 

We called out the shapes of animals and objects like a game of I Spy. A dog. A rabbit. A donut. A boat. White and fluffy, the clouds adding color to sunset. I wondered where the clouds ended up after drifting over Mississippi County. 

Overhead, thin airplane vapors were always exciting to see. At the top of the sky, curving, never stopping in Arkansas. I imagined where the lucky people were going. I imagined where I would go.


Today I see the remains of jet vapor – a straight line with hash marks. A white picket fence. A railroad track. I imagine where the busy people are going. I am content to be drinking coffee. I imagine I am not the only one. Just watching.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Imagine – John Lennon

You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds. Henry Thoreau

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!