Half Pint

“I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.”
-Laura Ingalls Wilder

When we moved from the Phoenix Metro area to northeastern Arizona seven years ago, I didn't realize I would transform from City Girl back to my country roots. In fact, I didn't even realize I had country roots. Frankly, I had never thought to try to characterize the life I lived with Grandma and Grandpa Potts, up in Pottsville, all those years ago.  I didn't think it was country life; I thought it was just life with some hard work mixed in.

I didn't even particularly like the hard work -- we did it because Mom told us to help Grandma. By and large, we were pretty obedient kids and we certainly did what Mom told us to. That's just how it worked. So, we gardened, and fed the cow, and strained the milk, and stirred the cottage cheese, and dumped eggshells in compost, and weeded, and put clothes through the wringer, and picked green beans, and canned, and washed dishes. And canned. And washed dishes. And canned. And canned.

I didn't know that one day, when I was fumbling through learning to can by myself --and feeding chickens, and scattering straw, and trying my hand at gardening -- that I would feel connected to my girlhood. That I would pause and stand as still as possible in my garden on summer mornings, because it was as if Grandma was right there with me, and I didn't want to even whisper and lose the feeling.

I had no idea I was so connected to that part of my past. I didn't know how I had loved those years with Grandma and Grandpa. I just happily experienced them at the time, as kids do, and grumbled with my sister Lynda and my cousins when I felt we had just too much to do.

As a grown up now, though, I know there is something about these "close to the earth" ways that make my spirit sing. When I started gardening and canning and keeping chickens and making homemade bread after grinding the wheat fresh, my Aunt Carol told me that my Uncle Rich said something about my practicing "the old ways." I was touched by that statement more than I can ever express. I felt something deep in me stir, and I felt...honored. Like somehow, I was part of some wonderful, respected old tradition of hard working people who knew and passed down "the old ways."  I think I responded that way because I felt that Uncle Rich had meant it as a deep compliment (I don't know that for sure, and I don't think I'll ask, just in case he didn't mean much by it, in which case I'd feel foolish for tearing up every time I think of it, which would just rob the whole sentiment entirely, for heaven's sake.)  The reason I suspect it was a compliment, though, is because it wasn't long after Aunt Carol told me that until Uncle Rich dropped by one day with a quart jar of multi-colored dry beans. My heart actually caught for a moment; I knew immediately what those beans were, and tears sprang to my eyes. These were heirloom beans ... beans Uncle Rich cared for and nurtured each year in his tiny garden, carefully collecting and storing them because they came from our family farm in Kentucky and had been passed down by generations of Fraleys. How many generations, we don't know. When I asked him how long they'd been passed down, he only shrugged and said, "I don't know. I know Daddy said they'd been gathered and saved for years and years, but I don't know how long."

It didn't matter.

What mattered was knowing Grandpa Fraley had collected, and stored, and reseeded the forebears of the beans in Kentucky for decades that were now right there in a quart jar in my front yard, decades later, in northern Arizona.

Uncle Rich and I sat right down on the ground in front of my house as he began sorting through the beans. He pushed them to and fro, nudging them into separate piles that made no sense to me, but I know made perfect sense to him. I kept mostly quiet, letting him decide which ones he'd pass on to me and which ones he'd keep. I knew this hadn't been an easy decision, to let any of these treasured living things go. I know because I'd asked about the beans a time or two over the past few years and he'd looked decidedly reluctant to share, so I didn't push. To have him there, then, willing to part with them...willing to entrust me with our family heirlooms...was a surprisingly sacred moment for me. I don't know if he has any idea how much that little bit of time we spent visiting and sorting beans that day meant to me.

But, what it affirmed to me, was that his assessment of my taking part in "the old ways" had merit in his eyes.

Uncle Rich called it "the old ways"; my sister took an entirely different tack. When I'd tell her of some new venture I was up to...making homemade laundry soap, sitting on a stump watching my chickens for hours, taking in a stubborn goat...she'd roll her eyes and say, "OK, Half Pint."  Yep, she and my Mom had no desire to take part in any of my endeavors, with our industrious -- often messy -- country life having no appeal to them. And that's been just fine...I laugh at their disdain, and they laugh at me for my farminess and we all find each other ridiculous in our positions, which works well for us. There's not a lick of mean spiritedness about any of it.

Plus, for me, Half Pint isn't such a bad thing to be called. After all, it's what Pa called Laura Ingalls in her books, and I LOVED her books. When I read them as a little girl, I remember my tummy getting so excited reading about the bins of flours and dried goods in their pantry; hearing Laura detail all of the preparations they made for the winter -- the foods they would bottle, the meat they would hang to cure, the wood they would stack, their trips for salt and sugar...all of it enthralled me. It should have come as no surprise to me then, as an adult, that my happiest moments would be watching our pantry shelves fill up with the beautiful jars of tomatoes and apples and peaches we'd canned ourselves. Or seeing the rows of cans filled with wheat and flour and sugar and beans that provide security in our shed next to the house. Or knowing our eggs come from happy hens who are allowed to peck around our few acres; and that last year we got to the grapes for the first time, before the birds did. My delight at finding a tiny patch of asparagus left over from the old couple that had lived here, that I continue to nurture every year, should be no surprise at all; or my concern for keeping alive the lilac tree and honeysuckle bush that I believe must have brought Buelah, the old lady who lived here for decades, such joy.

I love that something of my past -- both of childhood and deep ancestry -- is stirred every time I take part in one of "the old ways" or share young Laura Ingalls' excitement at a well- stocked pantry. I'm grateful to be connected to the old traditions and practices and to remember my Grandma Potts here in Arizona, and Grandpa Fraley in Kentucky when I choose to walk in the old ways.

These "sweet, simple things of life" really are the real ones, after all.

Well said, Half Pint.

Love from the farm,
Teri

What time is it?! It's CARPET TIME!!!

So, one time, when I was a teenager, Mom took us on one of our epic shopping adventures in the Valley. (That's Valley of the Sun, Phoenix Metropolitan Area for those of you not up on the Arizona lingo.) I didn't know it then, but I learned as an adult that those week-long shopping trips where we'd throw down bags in a hotel, then shop, eat and watch movies all through the Valley were actually Mom's lifeline while we were living our rustic little life in Pottsville.

You know, the one where we listened to a battery-operated radio, by the light of the Coleman lantern, while reading books or playing Backgammon, gathered around our dining room table, with the rest of the house in darkness, out in the desert, miles from a town, with only two other homes nearby? Belonging to Grandma & Grandpa Potts, and my Aunt Barbara?

Yes, well, apparently the shopping trips offset the hard work of cutting wood, building fires, hauling water from Grandma's occasionally, leaving a warm bed to run outside and start the generator in the morning.... In short, those trips are probably the reason Mom is still with us today.

For us girls, those trips meant shopping, dining out, swimming pools and movies...yes. But, they also meant TV, which we didn't get much of in Pottsville. We'd watch one hour a week of TV while Mom had the generator on to iron Dad's work shirts. And his jeans. Yes, he was THAT guy...the one with pressed jeans. We got exactly one channel on our TV in the boonies, and usually when Mom was ironing our program choice was Little House on the Prairie or Little House on the Prairie.

Which brings me to the purpose of this post.

On one of our shopping trips, I couldn't sleep. No matter what I did one night, I could not sleep. So, I settled in for a night of watching TV. It seemed a wonderful idea except for the fact that in this motel we were picking up very few channels for some reason, and one of them I flipped to had some stuff going on that I couldn't make heads or tails of, all I know is it made my stomach feel funny and I was glimpsing body parts I'd never seen before ...and the noises...Wow. I flipped away from the channel fast and didn't deviate from the remaining channel that was safe and not confusing and weird.

Only that channel, come about 1 a.m. played the same commercial over and over and over again. "What time is it?!?" shouts the announcer. "It's CARPET TIME!!!" shouted the happy crowd. Incessantly. Ad nauseum. Till I thought I would pull out my fingernails. Oh, how I longed for sleep. Alas, sleep did not come. Reruns of Starsky and Hutch, the Rockford Files and Barney Miller were interspersed among the stupid, happy carpet people that long, long night.

It's stayed with me lo these many years.

And do you know why I'm telling you this? Why I took ALL that time and all those words to tell you about it?

It's because around this time of year, every year I think, "What time is it? It's TIME TO PLANT THE GARLIC!!"

And, just as those stupid commercials didn't motivate me to go out and buy carpet, neither does repeating that silly mantra ever motivate me to get out and stick some darned cloves in the ground and get me some garlic overwintering.

And, every spring, I lament that I didn't get the garlic in in the fall.

Here's hoping this year is the year.

I'd really like to have fresh garlic next year.

And that's really all I had to say.

You can thank me later for getting that dang commercial stuck in your head. If that one isn't enough, let's throw in "It's time to make the donuts...." with images of that tired, balding baker for kicks. Remember that one? Is it playing over and over in your head now? Is it all rushing back?

Good. Sleep on that.

Heheheheheheh.....

Love from the farm,
Teri

Don't Tell Uncle Sam

My Uncle Sam is a true blue Georgia boy who traveled the world during his Army career, and eventually landed here in northern Arizona with my Aunt Hazel (my Mom's sister) and their children.

Uncle Sam comes complete with a love for boiled peanuts and a thick, syrupy accent that I can't get enough of. No matter how he's feeling, he always has a big around-the-shoulders-squeeze for me and a "Well, hello, Babygirl," that just melts my butter.

Uncle Sam has always reminded me of Baloo, that lovable bear from the Jungle Book. I don't know why. He doesn't look like him, he doesn't sound all that much like him; still, I've always made the association.

Anyway.

My Uncle Sam is always happy to see me and my family, or at least that's how I like to think of it. In fact, the only time I ever elicited a look of displeasure...OK, an actual frown...from Uncle Sam was when I mentioned something about having only tried grits once, and that when I did try them, I had put sugar on them.

Oh, he was not happy.

Apparently, hominy grits have a sacred place in the Georgian culture and I had sullied, nay, desecrated that sacred place. Uncle Sam harrumphed and waved his hands next to his head and informed me in no uncertain terms that sugar on grits was not allowed. Any self-respecting person knew that no way, no how do you put sugar on grits. Butter and salt - that's the way to eat grits. Only with butter and salt. Actually, he may have mentioned some other non-sweet options but I don't remember them if he did. What I do remember is the loud and clear on no sugar. Ever.

So, please don't tell him that tonight, while I was scouring the cupboards for something fast and comforting after feeling lousy for the past several days, my eyes fell upon the container of grits, and before you could crack a beer tab and have Billy Carter come running, I was enjoying a nice warm bowl of grits with butter and salt...and cream and sugar.

While I may have Southern blood running in my veins, I wasn't raised in the South so I just haven't been steeped in the customs in the way I suppose I ought to have been. I've never been concerned about it because no one was holding me to any kind of Southern standard - I lived in Ohio and Arizona, for Pete's sake. But I sense that disclaimer may not be a good enough one when it comes to a man and his grits.

I hope that my promise to never darken Uncle Sam's doorstep with that perverted concoction will be enough to get me back in his good graces, should someone spill the beans. Maybe if I show up with some boiled peanuts he'll still call me "Babygirl."

Love from the farm,
Teri

Southern Voice

I awoke at 5 a.m. the other day for no good reason, being winter and all and no garden yet to get out to early. I plopped down on the computer for a bit, read a little bit, wrote a little bit, then decided I couldn't stand it anymore and got moving.

I decided to make breakfast for the family before we headed to the White Mountains for a day of errands, hoping full tummies upon leaving would stave off the inevitable requests for drive-thru "dining," if you can call it that.

Upon entering the kitchen, it became fast apparent that breakfast would be a challenge - we were out of milk and eggs. And bread. And bacon. I was at a loss. Then I figured, "Well, what the heck? Who says breakfast has to be breakfast food?"

So, I set about making herb fried chicken and fried potatoes and onions. (In case you didn't know, if the chicken is fried but not breaded, it's not actually worthy of the label "fried chicken." Especially if it's "fried" in olive oil. How about we just think of this as "breakfast chicken," and go on, so as not to offend my Southern readers. Or family.) I resisted the urge to make spinach, too, because as much as I wanted to redeem my good mother badge by rounding out that greasy meal with something green, I didn't know if anyone would be up for morning spinach that wasn't baked in a quiche or folded in an omelet.

Anyway.

While the chicken was frying, at circa 7 a.m., my Dad gave me a call. I don't get many calls from Dad because he lives in town and I see him pretty often and Mom is usually the communications manager for that duo. So, I was treated to a rare call from Dad. He asked, so I told him what I was doing, and he immediately was smitten with the idea of morning fried chicken. He started talking about fried chicken and potatoes and pan gravy (which I did not attempt) and somehow that led to a story about his childhood in Kentucky with his 11 brothers and sisters. When I walked into the kitchen with the phone to my ear to turn the chicken in the pan, he stopped his story and said, "Ahh, I can hear it. Man, that sounds good," then picked right back up on his thread, and went on to talk with me about the book he's been wanting to put together for Mom for years, full of his songs and snapshots from their 44+ years together.

I tried to talk as little as possible during our call because this was one of those rare occasions when I could hear Dad's heritage in his voice. I don't always pick up his soft, Southern drawl because, well, he's my Dad and I don't think we often notice our parents' accents. Sometimes, though, especially when I'm hearing his disembodied voice through a phone line, I hear it. He doesn't have a heavy accent - we're not talking West Virginia or Georgia here (which are some great accents, I'll tell you what.) No, his roots are in the gentle wooded hills of Kentucky, and his voice is low and gentle, too.

I love when I can hear the echoes of his childhood in his voice. At these moments, I'm reminded that he's part of this big, good family full of men and women who speak with the same gentle accent. Who treat each other kindly, but still rib each other and grin in triumph when they bring up some long ago moment that the other person would gladly forget. His Southern voice reminds me of my Aunt Doris and Uncle Hay, who still live down on Grandpa's farm in Kentucky, where the creek runs through the front yard and the expanse of natural lawn (you don't water grass in this part of Kentucky) runs right up to the wooded hills that we know will mean a "check for ticks" if we venture into them.

It was down in Kentucky where I sat on the porch with Grandpa as a little girl and swatted flies; where the attic has that dusty old smell; where Lynda and I would move the crawfish upstream when we feared the creek was too low to keep them alive; where Aunt Doris would serve "dinner" in the middle of the day, complete with real fried chicken, corn on the cob, fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy and blackberry pie. Where the floors creaked and Aunt Doris, with her never-cut, salt & pepper hair piled high on her head, would tell stories of "Mommy," my Grandma who died while Dad was still a teenager; where I'd see my Dad play basketball for the first time with his brothers, using the old hoop nailed to the side of the barn; and where, in the evenings, Mom and Uncle Hay would challenge each other to some serious crossword puzzle competitions.

All this I hear in those moments when something as simple as frying breakfast chicken gets Dad to remembering that even out here in the high desert of Arizona, he is a Kentucky boy, through and through. These rare occasions are precious to me.

Dad's that guy who commands more attention the quieter he speaks. He's the one who let's you know he's worried about you by calling up, talking first about general, safe subjects, then finding just the right pause in conversation to give you that one, succinct piece of advice that you realize was the whole purpose of his phone call.

On September 11, after I had phoned my Mom a few times, frantic with the news of the towers, and the Pentagon and the still unaccounted for plane that eventually crashed in Pennsylvania, I got a call from Dad. We spoke about things for a few minutes, then he said, "Honey, you need to turn off the TV for awhile and just go take care of those kids." I replied, "Daddy, I'm scared." And he simply said, real low, "I know." And with those two words I knew he really did know how frightened I was, how I hated that Adam was a whole mile away from me at his elementary school and that Mike was across the Valley working, and that I have always been afraid of war, and that I felt helpless and vulnerable. He really knew.

When we'd had a particularly uncertain patch with Tanner and tensions had been high and I'd been talking to Mom a lot, and could tell she was worried about whether I was as OK as I tried to pretend to be, I got that phone call from Dad. We talked about nonsense stuff for a few minutes, then he gracefully segued into a place in the conversation where he said, "Now, you know you've got to take care of you, too." He didn't say it, but I knew this was short for, "Your Mom's told me all the things you're contending with Tanner, the uncertainty and fear, the garden, the dang animals, the other 3 kids, financial concerns, Mike working so hard, and the fact that you're not feeling good either, but you aren't saying so to anyone. I know you have a lot on your plate and we're worried about you, and we don't want you to get lost in all this. You need to take care of you and pay attention to your health because there are a lot of people depending on you, but also because we think you're pretty important." I knew that all of that was woven into his 11 words.

These brief little one line directives are always followed by another unrelated comment or anecdote that inevitably elicits a chuckle, then he reaffirms his advice with a simple, "I mean it, now," which I know without him saying refers back to the directive or advice, to which I respond, "I will, Dad, I promise. I love you." And real low he responds, "Love you," and then we're done.

These conversations last about 5 minutes on average, and we don't do a lot of talking in between, even when we're in the same room. But, somehow, there is a whole lot left unspoken that we still hear and it's enough for us.

Dad understands me in ways we've never, ever discussed. I don't talk much about him and Mom, or my sister Lynda, because they are so much of me, and I don't know where to start or stop. But, I cherish them beyond anything I can express. I talk with Mom and Lyn all the time and derive such joy and strength and grounding from them. But it's hearing that low, slow Kentucky drawl over the phone line that will keep me going for weeks.

Dad and I talked the other morning, over chicken, about getting together and writing some silly, over-the-top skits and considering making the kids perform them, like Lyn and I did when we were girls. We promised we'd carve out some time in March, maybe go somewhere pretty to just sit and work out a plan. And get going on Mom's book. And I told him that I'd like to record some oral histories of his life growing up with his family, who are good people, every one of them. What I really want, though, is just to have recordings of that amazing voice that I can play back whenever we go too long between one of our talks.

There really is something about a Southern voice.

Love from the farm,
Teri