Thomas Tate - grace grits and gardening

Do you believe in signs?

March 22, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Do you believe in signs?

Years ago, I worked with a lady who believed when something fell from the grocery shelf as she passed by, she had no choice but to purchase that item. “It was a sign from above not to be ignored. That head of lettuce had reasoning skills and wanted to go home with her. It chose to be part of her dinner salad. Without a second thought or regret, she purchased a bruised apple or box of Fruit Loops.

Many folks imagine pennies on the parking lot are little signs from Heaven, messages from a departed loved one who still keeps watch. I like this idea, and what can it hurt? We could all use someone watching over us. But how do we know who it is?

At the horse track last week, we were convinced Daddy was sending us a very clear sign. A beautiful horse named T.Thomas was scheduled to run. With blinders on, we made our largest bet of the weekend, and backed that horse up with other smaller bets. Daddy would be so proud! He taught us everything we knew about gambling…

Anticipating that particular race all day, we toasted Daddy at post time. The starter pistol fired and “They’re offfff!”

I never saw T.Thomas again. Did he go across the finish line? Did he fall down? Did he race at all? Crap!! He came in 5th, but may as well have been dead last. It was definitely a sign from Thomas —a sure sign we needed to stop farting away money at the horse track. That was so just like him.

That night as I rinsed my bra in the sink at the Arlington Hotel and realized my only remaining clean article of clothing was a Graceland t-shirt, I decided I needed to go home to Dallas. Being down to only an Elvis shirt is a clear sign the vacation is beyond over.

I know my tight jeans are a sign of too much food and not enough exercise. Yes, I can pretend to blame the dryer or the unbearable Texas humidity which makes my body bloat like Veruca Salt, but it’s a sign of too much queso flameado. There is nothing powerful or deep about it.

After a 2 week absence, I finally made it back to my yoga core class. As I rolled out my yoga mat, there rolled tightly inside was a big dead fly. It was a sign and not a good one. The fly was symbolic of my recent lack of yoga practice. And after the ab work we did, I felt like a big dead fly. Walking to my car, a bright shiny penny sparkled on the sidewalk. I smiled.

talya

Musical Pairings:

The Sign, Ace of Base

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” –Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Land spreading out so far and wide….

February 27, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Daddy was a John Deere man. Never did he fritter away money on blue or red equipment – no Case or International Harvesters and certainly no Kobotas. Our lawn mower – which the Tate girls commandeered every weekend – was a John Deere. We even had John Deere bicycles. Fancy schmancy. We were green and yellow John Deere people all the way. Other brands and colors were only much slower imitations.

Tate Farm

My sister and I grew up on that equipment, spending entire days climbing on the gargantuan combines and dirty tractors out at the shop on the home place. If a piece of farm equipment sat idle, maybe because the fields were too muddy to plow or it was just the wrong season, we would claim that cotton picker or combine as our own for the entire afternoon. It became our submarine. Always a submarine – never an airplane or boat or tractor. We climbed all over the surface, up into the rafters of the shop, swinging from one side to the top. Amazingly, we never broke any bones or farm implements. But, if we could have figured out how to actually start our submarine, we would have driven it over to Little River.

Daddy hired several families from south Texas each summer to chop cotton. One summer, Dallas equipped us with hoes, and we chopped with them. We were hoe’rs. I know they must have been absolutely thrilled to have us in their midst. They were serious about their work, and quick. Speaking no English – at least not to us – they were covered head to toe in long sleeve work shirts, boots, jeans and wide brimmed straw hats. It was freakin hot, and we thought that was idiotic. Laughing and singing to our portable radio, we wore our bikini tops and Daisy Dukes. We didn’t even wear hats – we wanted those natural highlights you only get from the sun.

We quickly identified the low spot with standing water at mid-field as our natural turning around spot. It certainly wasn’t our fault there was a huge area in the field with standing water – that was totally an act of God. So my sister and I chopped to the water, turned around and chopped back to the highway. The crazy farm hands went around the water and then continued chopping all the way to the ditch. We could barely see that ditch on the horizon! Daddy was not too thrilled with our progress – evidently we were slow hoe’rs. He should have paid us per row instead of per hour, but a deal was a deal. I’m pretty sure we never got that deal again.

Mississippi County Cotton

The cotton that survived was harvested in the fall. This was one of our absolute favorite times because we loved to tromp cotton. We parked our submarines and spent every moment in the cotton trailers. There was nothing like seeing a full John Deere picker opening along side a trailer and dumping a giant load of freshly picked warm cotton. Sometimes we stood underneath the basket while the cotton was emptied on us like popcorn, then we climbed into the basket high up in the air to make sure there was no cotton clinging inside. Once it was dumped, our ‘job’ was to tromp it. We stomped it down, packing the corners of the trailer so that it would hold more. As soon as the picker returned to the field, we began digging tunnels in the cotton – long, deep, hot tunnels – totally un-tromping it. At dark, we went home exhausted, with cotton lint covering our clothes and burs in our hair. It was the mark of a great day.

I love the smell of freshly picked cotton. It has a very distinct smell that cannot be duplicated. If you’ve picked it, tromped it, turned head over heels in it, or napped in it, then you know. And you’ll always remember. It’s a sweet, clean, damp smell. It smells like cotton.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Creedance Clearwater Revival, “Cotton Fields”
Buddy Jewell, “Sweet Southern Comfort”

Channeling Thomas Tate

January 31, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I slowly try to push through the fog and cobwebs to a state of semi-consciousness. My scratchy, sticky eyes will not open quite yet. I hear rain in the distance. Once my still sleepy brain clears a bit, I recognize the rain is not rain at all – it’s actually the bathroom shower. Slowly the day begins to come into focus. Ready or not, John has an early morning flight to Pittsburgh.

I try to roll over but Annabelle has pinned my leg. It is numb. Carefully extricating myself, I shift to the other side, re-establishing blood flow to that dying limb. Without warning, I am jolted wide awake with one whiff of my pungent pillowcase. Ugh! Eau de Schnauzer! During the day, if Annabelle is not up to some type of puppy shenanigan, she can be found recharging on my pillow. It is 4:30 a.m.

John flips on the television and overhead lights, and begins to open and close drawers. He is packing. He packs the morning of his trip, no matter how early the flight. I feign sleep and dare not breathe so that Lucy and Annabelle do not decide to begin their day as well. I shall not walk dogs at 4:30 a.m. I am quiet and still. I listen to the sounds of this morning.

The news reporters apparently have misplaced their script. Or perhaps the early bird newscast is just a time for improvisation practice while reporting on North Texas fluff? Who watches at 4:30 anyhow? Joe Biden will be in town today – yippee! A man in Plano was caught “cloning” Walmart gift cards. Now I’m no scientist, but doesn’t cloning involve genes and DNA and tissue and embryonic cells and biological stuff? Interesting word choice for a piece of hard plastic used to buy toilet paper. Other breaking news: Kim Kardashian was spotted at the Galleria with Khloe. I will never understand the world’s fascination with the Kardashian Klan. I cannot fathom it. Who cares if Kris is in Miami? Or if Khloe was adopted? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn the whole gaggle of sisters had been cloned. Nor would I care. And who knew there were two younger daughters, Kylie and Kendall? (I didn’t until I googled them, no doubt adding to their popularity.) No one keeps up with poor Kylie and Kendall because their last name is Jenner. There is just no alliteration there. Bor–r-r-ring.

John plops t-shirts on the window seat cushion, somehow managing to make this sound noisy. He stacks and re-stacks these shirts as if arranging a display table at The Gap. I am very familiar with his packing routine. Although I do not open my eyes – I can feel Annabelle staring at me – I know John is contemplating what to take with him. He checks his iPad for the weather in Pittsburgh. He is talking to himself. He opens the drawer in the nightstand right beside my head which startles me a bit. He doesn’t visit that drawer very often – it is home to his winter things, rarely needed in Dallas. The hardwood floors creaked under his heavy steps. Is he stomping on purpose or has he decided to wear his heavy Halloween Frankenstein shoes today? Not the best shoes for airport security. And, isn’t he only staying 2 days! From my spot in bed, it sounded as if he was packing for Europe. Would he go to Europe without me!? Or, did he pick this very moment in time to organize his drawers? As he walks back into his closet again, it hits me – he is like my dad. He’s up – we should all be up….? He was channeling Thomas Tate!

So it’s true. Girls turn into their mothers and marry someone just like their fathers. We resist it, we deny it, but then suddenly it has happened. Just like that. There were a few similarities: work hard, provide well, grumble a bit, take care of business and family, vacation when forced, avoid doctors:)

Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday, but he died of colon cancer when he was only 57. So Incredibly Young. Daddy was a farmer. He awoke before the chickens no matter the season/weather and blasted us all out of bed to the melodic tunes of Willie Nelson. In a 1970s renovation, my clever, hip mother installed groovy stereo speakers in all the rooms throughout the house. In the ceiling, above the beds. He wrote the check for them, but the Tate girls paid the price every single morning.

Although I was blasted out of bed this morning by doggie smelling salts, the television and harsh overhead lights, I think I heard “Good Hearted Woman” in the back of my head. As soon as he returns from Europe, I’m going to make sure John gets a colonoscopy. But first I am going to wash my sheets.