grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

The Tortoise and the Hare (with a modern-day twist)

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At long last I had successfully removed all the oil-based paint embedded underneath my ragged cuticles and was ready for more quality time with my trusty paintbrush. Apparently the planets were in perfect alignment as Tate and I planned to drive back to Fayetteville the same morning. With both vehicles packed to the max, this was ideal timing. I was not looking forward to a 5+ hour drive with two schnauzers. Annabelle tends to get carsick, and Lucy likes to make frequent puppy stops. But convoying with Tate, things would be much easier. 

In my mind, I pictured a nice little lunch stop at a shady rest area table – maybe around Lake Eufaula – while the dogs stretched their legs and we chatted about my writing and his upcoming internship. Maybe I should even make veggie wraps or turkey sandwiches for the road. Plus, with all the fruit stands along the way, I could buy a sack of home grown tomatoes and peaches. An old-fashioned picnic! Who doesn’t treasure a picnic? Just like old times.

When Tate was younger we convoyed every summer to boy scout camps scattered throughout Arkansas and Oklahoma, stopping on the way to eat lunch at a picturesque dot on the map. Mr. McCullar, scout master extraordinaire, always had icy coolers of cold drinks and made certain we ‘left no trace’ in the boy scout tradition. Fun times. Just yesterday…
When Staci and I were kids, Momma fried a chicken and packed it for our annual summer trip to the Memphis Zoo. That lunch was woofed down before we made it inside the huge entrance gates. We needed fried chicken before we saw monkey island, our absolute favorite exhibit. Picnics are just good ole’ summer fun. And so was monkey island.
Suddenly, a sharp JOLT  back to reality…
Tate: I need to get gas and stop by the bank so I’ll just catch up with you on the road somewhere.
Me: What!? On the road? Where? Don’t you want to follow each other?
Tate: No, I’ll just catch you. I won’t have any problem catching you.
Me: Stunned. Silent. Shocked. Speechless. 
And just like that he drove off before I could even explain the details of my peaceful roadside picnic. Fine. We would catch up on the road. I felt pressure to drive more rabbit-like and less turtle-y so Tate didn’t catch up to me in Plano.
The dogs slept soundly as I sang aloud to my favorite tunes, mostly from my college days. Nearly three hours down the road, the pups and I stopped at a gas station somewhere in Oklahoma to stretch. Although a far cry from the scenic lookout I envisioned, there was a vacant grassy lot next door perfect for dog walking. I watched for Tate sure he would see us and stop, ready to eat lunch. Not.
I also kept a sharp lookout for the Eufaula prisoner chain gang we lunched with a few months back at Ken’s Pizza. I didn’t see any of those guys either. Oddly enough this too was disappointing.
Less than 10 minutes later I saw Tate approaching in my rearview mirror. Yay! My stomach was reminding me of the promised picnic. Although I had not brought veggie wraps, there was a Sonic up ahead. We could exit and….. then in a split second he zipped around me without so much as a wave or smile. Objects really are closer than they appear. Did he even notice me? Evidently he wanted me to follow him….

I watched him up ahead, so handsome and independent driving along in his Xterra. Then just like the lightning fast Roadrunner, he disappeared on the horizon in a flash. I totally lost sight of him within five minutes flat. I hope he didn’t think Nana’s honorary deputy badge would get him out of an Oklahoma speeding ticket? I doubt it would even help him in Arkansas. What happened to my rule follower? 

Hmphf! Well, I didn’t need help with Lucy and Annabelle anyway. I had driven all over the country with Tate and Kelsey when they were mere babies, and they weren’t even crated!! No matter how hungry I became, I would NOT stop for food. I had raw almonds and dried prunes in a sack beside me that became my “picnic” and would easily sustain me for days should I plunge into an Ozark ravine. Later, when I am discovered and interviewed on Good Morning America, he will feel bad for ditching me. 

I thought he would stop at McDonalds. He still likes to eat. I would zip pass him and be in the lead. Not.
I expected to see him on the side of the road getting his first speeding ticket. I will casually wave at him. Not.
As I pulled into our drive in Fayetteville, I thought he would be there waiting to help me unload. Not.
Text from Tate: “I’m back.”
I’m not sure he even remembered I was driving on the same road. It was understandable. He was ready to be back in Fayetteville in his new apartment with his friends. 
Text from Me: “So am I.” He probably wondered where I had been. I realized at that moment the odds of his helping me paint were slim.
The moral of this story: Don’t expect the hare to be a mind-reader.

talya

Musical Pairings:

“Speed Racer Theme Song”, Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass
“Drive”, The Cars

You Can’t Take it With You

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Friday I went estate sale shopping with my friend Marcia. Not the plain-ole-run-of-the-mill-clean-all-the-crap-out-of-the-garage-type yard sale, but true estate sales handled by licensed companies, organized and advertised because someone died or went bankrupt or maybe just came to their senses and realized they were drowning in vintage tupperware. Marcia is great at picking the sales and mapping out our route for the day. Although we rarely buy anything, there’s always that remote possibility of uncovering a brilliant diamond in the rough laying at the bottom of a musty box somewhere in Garland, Texas.
The first house we hit was a hoarder home. It was obvious. Every room was filled to the rafters with dusty stuff including multiple identical unopened boxes containing every late night Ronco Popeil product offered since 1965. Every inch of the large back yard was filled with heaping piles of clothes – most still with price tags – and cartons of everything under the sun. In 1972 our house was robbed while we were vacationing in Mexico. Somehow, our stolen things ended up in this woman’s back yard graveyard. Anything ever gone missing was in this woman’s back yard.
I started feeling much better about the state of our garage.
Walking through the homes, you can almost imagine the people who lived there, especially those with family photos left behind. One house in Highland Park had large photos of their children for sale still above the mantle, expensively framed and lit from above with spotlights. Entire photo albums were available for anyone who recently joined the witness protection program in need of instant cousins.


Another cute little house which was clean and orderly seemed particularly bittersweet. The lady’s Christmas decorations were spread out on a table, available for anyone off the street to pick through. Those items, some homemade, were likely very important to her. I wanted to scoop them all up and take them home with me. Abandoned homeless Christmas decorations are sad. Her kitchen, once the hub of the house, was silent with coffee cups no longer used. Her husband’s handsome desk looked as if he just went down to the corner to buy a newspaper – his briefcase sat on the floor nearby and diplomas hung on the wall. His box of ties were $1 each. I hope he didn’t work too hard his whole life. 
And every house had one of those anniversary clocks. There is no need to ever pay full price for those, just stop at an estate sale on the way to the 50th anniversary party.
Later that same night, I was reminded at Hunter’s graduation ceremony we are left with four things at the end of our lives – memories, awards, souvenirs, and a legacy. Memories will fade over time. Awards and souvenirs are left behind in those crazy estate sales. All that really matters is your legacy. 
Maybe someday if I’m lucky I will publish a story that will be  loved. But I know my legacy will be Kelsey and Tate who know right from wrong and have grown up to be productive citizens. They don’t expect a handout and aren’t afraid to work hard and get dirty in the process. And hopefully they will clean out all our junk before it is thrown out on the lawn for the curious pickers. 
talya

Musical Pairings:

“Can’t Take it With You”, Eric Church
“Homeward Bound”, Paul Simon

Best Tip of the Day

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We groomed Kelsey and Tate to be Razorbacks from birth. Growing up, we took them to football and basketball games, hoping that someday they would choose to go to college there. It didn’t work on Kelsey – we weren’t really surprised. She was too much of a Texas girl, actually preferring 115 degree days, flip flops and burnt orange. It was a good fit for her, and once John got over the initial shock, I think he agreed. John is a Razorback alumnus who still has childhood memories of tough Hog-Horn games from the ’60s. Kelsey brought John a huge longhorn flag, during her first trip home as a freshman. He was speechless. “What do I do with that?” He asked me. We flew it off the front porch on Texas-OU weekends. She seemed ok with that. We continued to hold out hope for Tate. Red was his color.

Tate toured several colleges his senior year before making his decision – Oklahoma, Oklahoma State, University of Colorado, Colorado State. He had already ruled out all Texas schools – he wanted to escape the heat. He wanted a smaller city. He wanted to see trees and nature. We never pushed or threatened or begged. There were no tears. We just silently prayed. For years. We wasted no prayers on health – we were dedicated to the college decision. We thought his entire weekly laundry load of red Razorback wear was a good sign. We crossed our fingers. 

He loved the State of Arkansas. Since birth he had vacationed at Norfork Lake in Mountain Home, as well as Hot Springs. It was his second home. Even though most of his friends were headed to Texas Tech, we held out hope. Finally, after weighing all his choices, he announced he had decided to go to the University of Arkansas. We were cool. We didn’t act as thrilled as we felt. When the acceptance letter came, we didn’t call the hogs or skip and go naked or anything. We were cool. John and I didn’t chest bump or high five or express our sheer joy – at least not in front of Tate. We did not want to do anything to jinx ourselves. Not until we moved in his few boxes and drove off – then I may have done a cartwheel outside Maple Hill East. It was one of the happiest moments of our lives. Tate was a Razorback.

He jumped right in, met lots of new friends, memorized the Fight Song, learned to drive to Target and found a place to get his hair cut. Pinch me… John was walking a bit taller.

The nest was clean and quiet which was bit strange, but really pretty nice. Why did my friends mope about? Isn’t this the goal? Don’t you want your kids to leave? I’ll never understand. I knew plenty of people who couldn’t pry their kids out of the house. Or, they showed back up with grandkids in tow. All that hard parenting work had led to this peaceful moment in time. Nice. 

Within one month, Tate called home and said, “Mom, I have some news…”, he sounded strange. “Oh, no, no, no.” What could it be? He’s wrecked his SUV or he hates school… I felt a bit nauseous. There was a pause.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

WHAT??? SERIOUSLY??? At Arkansas? “Did you secretively transfer to UT? AreYouInAustin???!!! 

How does that happen? I had completely trusted this school and the people of this state with my only son, and within thirty days he had lost all core food values??

Kids don’t go off to Arkansas and become vegetarians! They just don’t! They go off to college and gain the Freshman 15 eating pizza all night. Tate was a full-time-red-meat-eating-carnivore. What about Herman’s Ribhouse? He loved that place! That gigantic plate o’ribs with the Texas toast??? And his regular diet of Chipotle burritos as big as my head stuffed with brisket and chicken? This was bad.

Kelsey had been a vegetarian for years now – since she was in junior high. She gave up meat for Lent one year and never looked back. But she attended the University of Texas – in Austin. It was a prerequisite. Everyone in Austin was a vegetarian. The food was organic and local and blessed by tree huggers. They try to keep Austin weird. It’s the city motto. But in Arkansas???? WhereHadWeGoneWrong??? John and I sulked around all night, as if we had found out he was making meth on a hot plate in his dorm room.

Tate had his reasons for this drastic lifestyle redesign, one of which was his Anthropology teacher had ‘challenged’ the class to do this. And apparently that’s all it took for him to jump on board with both feet. Totally committed. Do not pass Go, do not collect $100. His teacher suggested it, and he was in. I needed this professor’s phone number. She must be hot. I would just start feeding suggestions to Tate via his Anthropology teacher.  We had worked for 18 years to make him a Razorback. Carefully, nonchalantly, tiptoeing around the Hogs, knowing full well if we even pointed north up Central Expressway toward the Red River, there would be no way it would happen. Also, apparently, he felt Tyson Chicken was not treating its animals humanely. What were they teaching him at that school?! My child who LIVED on bags of buffalo wing flavored frozen Tyson Chicken strips in high school? And, he went on and on about how the cows in South America ate better than the people there. I didn’t care about those people or cows! We don’t get our beef from South America! Let them worry about their own people. I was concerned about myself and my son and how this particular decision was going to change my holiday meal planning! Who WAS this person and what had happened to Tate? I did not recognize his voice on the telephone. He was worried about international beef grazing? When he came home for his Thanksgiving portabella mushroom, he actually made his bed.

Sadly, our turkey that Thanksgiving was the smallest one yet. But I treated it with the utmost respect in case the kids were watching me brine it. Kelsey and Tate both ate only side dishes, which I was forced to make with water and air instead of cream of chicken soup and bacon fat. All delicious holiday sides include cream of chicken soup. Everyone knows that. Still a vegetarian on Christmas Eve, he passed on John’s fabulous beef tenderloin, smoked on the Green Egg. His best tenderloin yet. We enjoyed lots of leftovers while Tate ate vegetarian beans all month. He looked gaunt.
In a month, Tate will be off a week for his first college Spring Break. While everyone else goes snow skiing or enjoys a caribbean cruise, our spring break tradition is Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs. We always go to the horse races. One year – when Tate was in elementary school – we discussed changing up our routine and possibly going somewhere else. Tate was distraught. “No, I want to go to Hot Springs. It’s the only place I can earn any money.” We raised this child right. Staci and I went to the track as children with our parents. Daddy was skilled at picking the horses, and he tried to share his knowledge with us. He gave us a small ‘allowance’ for the track, teaching us to gamble at an early age. And then we passed this skill down to our kids.  Even as young child, Tate studied the racing program and tip sheets the entire night before the race, ranked the jockeys for each race, selected all his horses and budgeted his money. He never spent this sort of time on his homework. Now I just wait and see who Tate likes before placing my bets.

Tate’s money was always for picking horses and placing bets. My money, or John’s money, or Nana’s money, was for ice cream, (mistreated) chicken strips and everyone’s favorite – the Oaklawn reuben sandwich. At $6.50, the reuben sandwich at the track is the best bet of the day. By a long shot. At the end of the trip, Tate always left with more money than he started. He was little Thomas Tate. Still is. Daddy would be proud. 

For the first time, Tate will actually be old enough to place his own bets this year. In our family, this is a proud rite of passage – like voting for the first time, graduating from high school, or making that first paycheck. Placing a bet! It’s a big thing. 

Tate called last week to discuss a dentist appointment and his housing for next year. He sounded happy and mature and totally together. At the very end of our conversation, as we began to hang up the phone, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Oh yeah, mom. By the way, I’m eating meat again.” Oh yay oh yay oh yay!! I knew he couldn’t resist those Reuben Sandwiches! Of course, I didn’t act excited. I was cool. I didn’t want to jinx it.


Tate’s Mom

Musical Pairings:

Dan Fogelberg, “Run for the Roses”
William Edwin Douglas, “Arkansas Fight Song”




Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

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