Saturday, June 27, 2009
I Heard My First Cicada Today
I heard my first cicada today. It seems early in the summer for them, but, as I've gotten older time slips by much faster than it did when I was a child. When I saw my first Junebug this year I knew they'd not be around long, relatively speaking, and that the cicadas weren't far behind.
It's strange how, as children, summer seemed to go on forever, I remember sitting outside at night with friends and watching junebugs cling to the screen doors, trying their best to get inside the house.
But this year the junebugs seemed to come and go faster than I could turn around. Things just moved slower when we were children, or they seemed to. Now, as adults each season seems to rush by faster than we can tend to all the things we are attempting to fit into it. There's no time to sit and think, mull things over, we have to strike while the iron is hot as they used to say.
It seems like just days ago that the cucumber seeds were planted in the garden, and today I have a large pile of them awaiting pickling jars. This must be done tomorrow or they'll be inedible. Then there will be the tomatos to can, and the peas and beans will follow. I just don't know how my grandmother did it all with nine children during the depression. But she did, and with that knowing smile on her face that I always loved.
At least these days we have freezers and that's such a blessing, now because I also have a large pile of squash calling my name.
Tomorrow I'll cut it into slices, cook it with some black pepper and butter, and let it simmer until the squash is limp. We'll save some of it for Sunday dinner, but the rest will be divided into portions for two, and put into the freezer for winter.
I remember when we'd go visit grandmama and the uncles and aunts when we were kids in the summertime. We'd always come home with bushels of black-eyed peas, or butterbeans, or corn.
We'd spend the next few days shelling peas, or beans, or shucking that corn, then mama would put it all in the freezer. The corn she'd cut off the cob and cook a bit with some butter, like I do my squash, and then it'd go into the freezer.
My sister and brother ALWAYS complained about helping with this, but I enjoyed it, although I never told anyone that I did. It's the repetition...the flow of the process that I enjoyed. It was fun to get a black eyed pea pod open enough so that I could stick my thumb into the end and just zip down and have a dozen peas fall into the pie pan I had in my lap. When my pan was full I liked to stick my fingers into the peas and feel their coolness on my hands, then let them fall, once again, back into the pan. Butter beans took a little longer to get the rhythm going but once I did I was a bean shellin' fool!
I remember one summer when daddy had brought home a pick up truck load of corn. We weren't as young that summer and we all had other things we'd rather be doing. But I still liked working with them to get the food put up, so while my sister and brother acted like babies about having to help, I kept quiet and shucked ear after ear trying to clean as much of the cornsilks off as I could. Mama was working the hardest, standing over a hot stove and watching several pots at one time. She had the knack for cutting the corn off the cobs and wouldn't let any of us try for fear we'd cut too deeply and get cob into the corn. When I grew up and had my own kitchen I found a gadget in a hardware store that was made for cutting the corn off the cob and thought I'd struck gold! I sort of wished I could go back in time and give one to my mama.
I'm looking forward to using it again this summer.
Next summer we're going to have double the size of garden we have now. The raised beds just didn't get started on soon enough to be assembled this year. Life kind of has a way of stalling us on projects like that. But thankfully we're both determined to grow enough organic food for the two of us, as we're doing our best to help both the planet and our own health.
It's strange how, as children, summer seemed to go on forever, I remember sitting outside at night with friends and watching junebugs cling to the screen doors, trying their best to get inside the house.
But this year the junebugs seemed to come and go faster than I could turn around. Things just moved slower when we were children, or they seemed to. Now, as adults each season seems to rush by faster than we can tend to all the things we are attempting to fit into it. There's no time to sit and think, mull things over, we have to strike while the iron is hot as they used to say.
It seems like just days ago that the cucumber seeds were planted in the garden, and today I have a large pile of them awaiting pickling jars. This must be done tomorrow or they'll be inedible. Then there will be the tomatos to can, and the peas and beans will follow. I just don't know how my grandmother did it all with nine children during the depression. But she did, and with that knowing smile on her face that I always loved.
At least these days we have freezers and that's such a blessing, now because I also have a large pile of squash calling my name.
Tomorrow I'll cut it into slices, cook it with some black pepper and butter, and let it simmer until the squash is limp. We'll save some of it for Sunday dinner, but the rest will be divided into portions for two, and put into the freezer for winter.
I remember when we'd go visit grandmama and the uncles and aunts when we were kids in the summertime. We'd always come home with bushels of black-eyed peas, or butterbeans, or corn.
We'd spend the next few days shelling peas, or beans, or shucking that corn, then mama would put it all in the freezer. The corn she'd cut off the cob and cook a bit with some butter, like I do my squash, and then it'd go into the freezer.
My sister and brother ALWAYS complained about helping with this, but I enjoyed it, although I never told anyone that I did. It's the repetition...the flow of the process that I enjoyed. It was fun to get a black eyed pea pod open enough so that I could stick my thumb into the end and just zip down and have a dozen peas fall into the pie pan I had in my lap. When my pan was full I liked to stick my fingers into the peas and feel their coolness on my hands, then let them fall, once again, back into the pan. Butter beans took a little longer to get the rhythm going but once I did I was a bean shellin' fool!
I remember one summer when daddy had brought home a pick up truck load of corn. We weren't as young that summer and we all had other things we'd rather be doing. But I still liked working with them to get the food put up, so while my sister and brother acted like babies about having to help, I kept quiet and shucked ear after ear trying to clean as much of the cornsilks off as I could. Mama was working the hardest, standing over a hot stove and watching several pots at one time. She had the knack for cutting the corn off the cobs and wouldn't let any of us try for fear we'd cut too deeply and get cob into the corn. When I grew up and had my own kitchen I found a gadget in a hardware store that was made for cutting the corn off the cob and thought I'd struck gold! I sort of wished I could go back in time and give one to my mama.
I'm looking forward to using it again this summer.
Next summer we're going to have double the size of garden we have now. The raised beds just didn't get started on soon enough to be assembled this year. Life kind of has a way of stalling us on projects like that. But thankfully we're both determined to grow enough organic food for the two of us, as we're doing our best to help both the planet and our own health.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
"Something The Lord Made"
The title of this post is also the title of a movie that stars Mos Def as Vivien Thomas, and Alan Rickman as Dr. Alfred Blaylock. The subject of the movie is the early days of heart surgery, in a time when suspicions about it being the home of the soul and off limits to medicine are still discussed. It also takes place in the 1940's when the dividing line between white and black americans is still as wide and deep as a chasm.
While you can rent the movie and see the amazing and true story it tells, the reason I wanted to post about it is the depiction of the two different worlds in which the two main characters live in the deep south of the time.
One would expect at least some changes between the '40's and the '50's, but I wanted to write that, while growing up in the fifties (I was born in 1952) I observed how the paths crossed and the unspoken demands of expressions of humility by the whites of the blacks was evident everywhere.
There is one scene in the movie, when Vivien Thomas is walking a sidewalk on the teaching hospital campus and having a converstation with another black man. They are dressed as nicely if not moreso that any of the white people in the film. But, when white people are coming down the same sidewalk, these men step aside, and bow their heads to assure they have no intent of making eye contact with these people - especially the women.
Vivien Thomas is the first and only lab assistant ever hired at this school. And allowing him to perform surgery on dogs causes trouble for Dr Blaylock, who is revealed to be a rebel who stands up to all his superiors.
In those days in was unheard of for a white man to defend a black man. The black community was expected to 'know their place' and stay there. And this is 100 years or so following the Emancipation Proclamation.
As a child I saw signs telling blacks that their entrance to a building was in the back.
I saw two water fountains in the JC Penny store where my mother took us to shop. I once asked her why two were needed. Was their water different that ours? Was it dirty? Why did they have to drink dirty water? She just told me to be quiet.
My daddy used to steal eggs from his mama's hens to give to the elderly black woman who lived on their farm. I'm sure she helped, over the years with raising babies, or doing laundry, which was a nice way for her to make some money or be given food from their farm. This was during the Great Depression, afterall. But, even though he got spanked, for some reason, my daddy had a soft place in his heart for her and continued to sneak eggs to her. I love that story, but it was quite unusual for the times. Later in his life his feelings changed and be became a bitter old man, but that's another post.
I cannot imagine having to live the way African American's were expected to live in the south in those days. It's no wonder that entire families uprooted and went north to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and New York.
These days I enjoy films made by people like Spike Lee who told the true story of the 9th Ward in New Orleans. Why? Because, people like him showed me, that we've not made much progress since the 1950's. Only now, the children of the southern African American community are starting to get angry and demand the respect they deserve as citizens of this country.
While you can rent the movie and see the amazing and true story it tells, the reason I wanted to post about it is the depiction of the two different worlds in which the two main characters live in the deep south of the time.
One would expect at least some changes between the '40's and the '50's, but I wanted to write that, while growing up in the fifties (I was born in 1952) I observed how the paths crossed and the unspoken demands of expressions of humility by the whites of the blacks was evident everywhere.
There is one scene in the movie, when Vivien Thomas is walking a sidewalk on the teaching hospital campus and having a converstation with another black man. They are dressed as nicely if not moreso that any of the white people in the film. But, when white people are coming down the same sidewalk, these men step aside, and bow their heads to assure they have no intent of making eye contact with these people - especially the women.
Vivien Thomas is the first and only lab assistant ever hired at this school. And allowing him to perform surgery on dogs causes trouble for Dr Blaylock, who is revealed to be a rebel who stands up to all his superiors.
In those days in was unheard of for a white man to defend a black man. The black community was expected to 'know their place' and stay there. And this is 100 years or so following the Emancipation Proclamation.
As a child I saw signs telling blacks that their entrance to a building was in the back.
I saw two water fountains in the JC Penny store where my mother took us to shop. I once asked her why two were needed. Was their water different that ours? Was it dirty? Why did they have to drink dirty water? She just told me to be quiet.
My daddy used to steal eggs from his mama's hens to give to the elderly black woman who lived on their farm. I'm sure she helped, over the years with raising babies, or doing laundry, which was a nice way for her to make some money or be given food from their farm. This was during the Great Depression, afterall. But, even though he got spanked, for some reason, my daddy had a soft place in his heart for her and continued to sneak eggs to her. I love that story, but it was quite unusual for the times. Later in his life his feelings changed and be became a bitter old man, but that's another post.
I cannot imagine having to live the way African American's were expected to live in the south in those days. It's no wonder that entire families uprooted and went north to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and New York.
These days I enjoy films made by people like Spike Lee who told the true story of the 9th Ward in New Orleans. Why? Because, people like him showed me, that we've not made much progress since the 1950's. Only now, the children of the southern African American community are starting to get angry and demand the respect they deserve as citizens of this country.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Summer Nights
I've been sleeping with the vents on the AC closed, the ceiling fan turning, and my windows open. This brings on the best sleep - the kind that babies enjoy. In fact I remember tent camping when our sons were babies and seeing the happy look on their faces as they crawled out of their tangle of blankets eager for the buckwheat pancakes their daddy was already preparing over the old rusty campstove.
The delicious sleep I will be enjoying til the summer heat starts to invade my dreams is reminding me of spending summers with my grandmother. We'd arise early in the morning to find clouds of morning mist floating above the groud in her front yard and in the fields across the road. By the time we'd finished breakfast and were heading outside to either plant some peas in her garden, or to harvest something else there, the mist was but a memory.
My grandmother always had the most kind smile on her face, and time I got to spend alone with her was so precious to me. Afterall she had, I think 17 grandchildren, and more great grandchildren than I can recall. I didn't even like sharing her with my brother and sister.
But dear sweet Emma, had a heart big enough for all of us, and I doubt that we realized how blessed we were to have had her in our lives.
I don't have much else to add to this post, honestly, I just have my grandmother on my mind lately and wanted to share this memory of her before it slipped my mind.
I hope those of you who read here are enjoying my memories, and my opinions, because I have plenty of both, that's for sure.
The delicious sleep I will be enjoying til the summer heat starts to invade my dreams is reminding me of spending summers with my grandmother. We'd arise early in the morning to find clouds of morning mist floating above the groud in her front yard and in the fields across the road. By the time we'd finished breakfast and were heading outside to either plant some peas in her garden, or to harvest something else there, the mist was but a memory.
My grandmother always had the most kind smile on her face, and time I got to spend alone with her was so precious to me. Afterall she had, I think 17 grandchildren, and more great grandchildren than I can recall. I didn't even like sharing her with my brother and sister.
But dear sweet Emma, had a heart big enough for all of us, and I doubt that we realized how blessed we were to have had her in our lives.
I don't have much else to add to this post, honestly, I just have my grandmother on my mind lately and wanted to share this memory of her before it slipped my mind.
I hope those of you who read here are enjoying my memories, and my opinions, because I have plenty of both, that's for sure.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Levels Of Polite Society
This entry has been deleted...for the second time, I hope it stays deleted from now on.
Me
Me
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Well, Bless Her Heart
Sharing gossip in the south is like walking a tightrope between the manners your mama taught you about never repeating unkind words saif about another, and the fear that by repeating gossip you will gain a reputation for being a tale bearer.
So when your neighbor walks over to your house unannounced and bearing a plate of her very special tea cakes covered with a delicate linen napkin you know it's time to brew up a pot of tea and ask her to sit a spell, because her tea cakes always come with a price.
Eventually her reason for stopping by will come out in the form of a sad and sorrowful expression on her face that announces what is to follow. After a sip of tea to clear her throat she will usually begin with something like this:
"Did you hear about the candy drive that the PTA had going over at the junior high school?"
"No, I haven't heard a word." you say, while pouring a bit more tea in her cup.
And trying to hide the ghost of a smug smile on her face, your neighbor will reset her face into an expression of sorrowfulness and say,
"After all that money they raised for new gym equipment the PTA president Marlene's older boy, you know, the one who never graduated 8th grade? Well, he stole that money from under his mama's dresser and before he could run off to Memphis and spend it drinkin' and gamblin' the police caught him and locked him up!"
"Oh MY!" You moan. "How IS poor Marlene handling such a disgrace?"
"Well, what I heard is that she's blaming her husband for having been a neglectful father in raising their children, and then locked herself in her room crying with a migraine headache. You know how she always gets those bad headaches when trouble comes her way."
"I do know that, " you say, and then comes that definitive Southern reply to any and all bad news,
"Well, bless her heart." You add, shaking your head while wondering if your neighbor has shared her news with everyone or will there be anyone left for you to tell.
You see, we do our best to hide scorn, and we do our best not to sound judgemental or preachy, but those three words say it all and each every one of us knows it. The thing is, though, it comes to us so naturally to say, "Bless her (or 'your' or 'his') heart", that we actually believe we mean it in the most sincere and genuine way at the time we're saying it. It's only after we've given the news some thought that we realize we know several reasons for how or why the recently 'blessed' sufferer brought their own unhappiness down upon themselves, and all our concern leaves us as fast as our neighbor left our kitchen carrying her mama's heirloom china plate covered in cookie crumbs and her linen napkin.
So when your neighbor walks over to your house unannounced and bearing a plate of her very special tea cakes covered with a delicate linen napkin you know it's time to brew up a pot of tea and ask her to sit a spell, because her tea cakes always come with a price.
Eventually her reason for stopping by will come out in the form of a sad and sorrowful expression on her face that announces what is to follow. After a sip of tea to clear her throat she will usually begin with something like this:
"Did you hear about the candy drive that the PTA had going over at the junior high school?"
"No, I haven't heard a word." you say, while pouring a bit more tea in her cup.
And trying to hide the ghost of a smug smile on her face, your neighbor will reset her face into an expression of sorrowfulness and say,
"After all that money they raised for new gym equipment the PTA president Marlene's older boy, you know, the one who never graduated 8th grade? Well, he stole that money from under his mama's dresser and before he could run off to Memphis and spend it drinkin' and gamblin' the police caught him and locked him up!"
"Oh MY!" You moan. "How IS poor Marlene handling such a disgrace?"
"Well, what I heard is that she's blaming her husband for having been a neglectful father in raising their children, and then locked herself in her room crying with a migraine headache. You know how she always gets those bad headaches when trouble comes her way."
"I do know that, " you say, and then comes that definitive Southern reply to any and all bad news,
"Well, bless her heart." You add, shaking your head while wondering if your neighbor has shared her news with everyone or will there be anyone left for you to tell.
You see, we do our best to hide scorn, and we do our best not to sound judgemental or preachy, but those three words say it all and each every one of us knows it. The thing is, though, it comes to us so naturally to say, "Bless her (or 'your' or 'his') heart", that we actually believe we mean it in the most sincere and genuine way at the time we're saying it. It's only after we've given the news some thought that we realize we know several reasons for how or why the recently 'blessed' sufferer brought their own unhappiness down upon themselves, and all our concern leaves us as fast as our neighbor left our kitchen carrying her mama's heirloom china plate covered in cookie crumbs and her linen napkin.
Monday, June 1, 2009
There's Respect for History and Heritage, And Then There's Just Plain Silliness, In My Opinion
It is my personal opinion, that here in these southern United States the end of the Civil War has, for some, yet to be recognized. I give you the big old muddy pick up trucks that zoom up and down the highway near my new home. These vehicles carry overfed 'good ol' boys' who've placed Rebel flags in their rear windows, or attached to the front of their trucks in lieu of a front license plate.
When I was in High School our mascot was Colonel Reb, and our fight song was "Dixie".
"Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixieland. I wish I was in Dixie, away, away, in Dixieland I'll take my stand, to live and die, in Dixie. Look away, look away, look away Dixieland".
What any of that had to do with Football escapes me, but I was, then, just happy that I knew the words to 'Dixie' so I could feel I belonged.
It was a tradition at our school to celebrate our senior year with a Senior Luncheon at the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis. The Peabody has a long and rich history and I wll write about it another time. But for now, back to high school graduation traditions. Each female member of the graduating class was expected to wear a hat to this luncheon. And each year there was a program/popularity contest to select "Colonel Reb and his Lady". There were candidate couples from each class and there was a well rehearsed dance on the auditorium stage to "The Tennessee Waltz". This extravaganza was, naturally, done in replica Civil War costumes complete with hoop skirts on the girls, and sword bearing uniforms for the boys.
The year my brother was a senior he and his girlfriend actually were elected Colonel Reb and his Lady. But then, my brother is alway the most sought out man in most rooms of people who didn't grow up with him. For me he was just an annoying pill of a little brother, but as an adult, he actually turned out alright.
On a less pleasant note about southerners, I have to add that I have perfectly mannered southern female friends who, for some reason, even today do not like black people. When one of my friends told me that when her sons were young and the black children (of successful parents) in their school class would come to play with her children at her house she'd make everyone stay outside. None of these children were allowed in her home. As a matter of fact, I am the only person in our group who voted for Barak Obama for president. And guess what, they still love me! I hope that one day they will be able to see that they voted for the wrong candidate. But, until then, I will love them because Jesus told me to, and drink sweaty glasses of iced tea and share lemon bars with them, and enjoy the stories of the lastest links between their families and history, because afterall, our past has a great deal to with with our future, don't you agree?
Now, when you go home, don't forget to tell your mama I said hello, and asked about her, y'hear?
When I was in High School our mascot was Colonel Reb, and our fight song was "Dixie".
"Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixieland. I wish I was in Dixie, away, away, in Dixieland I'll take my stand, to live and die, in Dixie. Look away, look away, look away Dixieland".
What any of that had to do with Football escapes me, but I was, then, just happy that I knew the words to 'Dixie' so I could feel I belonged.
It was a tradition at our school to celebrate our senior year with a Senior Luncheon at the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis. The Peabody has a long and rich history and I wll write about it another time. But for now, back to high school graduation traditions. Each female member of the graduating class was expected to wear a hat to this luncheon. And each year there was a program/popularity contest to select "Colonel Reb and his Lady". There were candidate couples from each class and there was a well rehearsed dance on the auditorium stage to "The Tennessee Waltz". This extravaganza was, naturally, done in replica Civil War costumes complete with hoop skirts on the girls, and sword bearing uniforms for the boys.
The year my brother was a senior he and his girlfriend actually were elected Colonel Reb and his Lady. But then, my brother is alway the most sought out man in most rooms of people who didn't grow up with him. For me he was just an annoying pill of a little brother, but as an adult, he actually turned out alright.
On a less pleasant note about southerners, I have to add that I have perfectly mannered southern female friends who, for some reason, even today do not like black people. When one of my friends told me that when her sons were young and the black children (of successful parents) in their school class would come to play with her children at her house she'd make everyone stay outside. None of these children were allowed in her home. As a matter of fact, I am the only person in our group who voted for Barak Obama for president. And guess what, they still love me! I hope that one day they will be able to see that they voted for the wrong candidate. But, until then, I will love them because Jesus told me to, and drink sweaty glasses of iced tea and share lemon bars with them, and enjoy the stories of the lastest links between their families and history, because afterall, our past has a great deal to with with our future, don't you agree?
Now, when you go home, don't forget to tell your mama I said hello, and asked about her, y'hear?
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