Ethyl Surmises: Summer Fruit

Yesterday I prepared some peaches from my back yard tree, and in the process came face to face with a memory. The summer my mother died the peaches on this tree begin to ripen. When my husband cut the back yard grass, he couldn't stand to see them go to waste, so he picked up two five gallon buckets and set them in the kitchen to be 'worked up'.
When I came home from Mississippi after her death and saw the peaches sitting there, I went to pieces. Part of it was pure exhaustion and grief over what I no longer had, but a big part of the problem was dealing with a memory I wasn't prepared to deal with right then. The last thing I wanted to do in that particular frame of mind was peel peaches, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.
You see, peeling summer fruit always made me think of her. Growing up on the farm there was always fruit to be worked up in the summer. Apples and peaches grew on the trees around the home place, grapes grew on the garden fence, blackberries abounded in the pasture, a wild plumb thicket yielded it's fruit in abundance, the spring hollow had a wild huckleberry bush, there was a strawberry patch, and an old worn out pear tree that had seem better days usually managed to produce a little fruit. So summers were always busy. When I was a little girl my job was to wash the canning jars. She would fill a wash tub full of soapy water and submerge the jars and I would wash them because my hands were small enough to go inside the jar. When I grew older and could handle a knife, my job changed to peeling and paring, and packing fruit in the hot jars, waiting to be put in the pressure cooker.
I remember the summer we got a freezer. She wanted the biggest one they had in the store, so it stretched from the kitchen door all the way to the refrigerator. Thus began a new chapter in preserving summer's bounty. We still canned but now we could also freeze, and every summer the freezer was filled to the hilt.
Every year a part of the ritual was what we termed 'corn day'. It was a day we sit aside just to put up corn, and we usually had at least a couple of such days a year. The corn that grew in the spring hollow and in the garden was cooked and eaten as it matured, but the corn we canned and froze came from the field. Daddy's old pickup truck had a hole in the floor board that you could see day light through, but it always came in handy when gathering the corn from the field. It never got out of first gear as we made our journey down the field road, up and down over the red clay gullies, and then back home again loaded with at least a hundred and fifty ears of corn at a time. The rest of the day would be spend shucking and removing corn silks and cutting the corn off the cob, being sure to leave enough to scrape and extract the corn milk.
I let the peaches sit on the floor in the cans for a couple of days and then I decided it just wasn't in me to let them rot, so I peeled them and put them in the freezer. The following winter I was glad I had. We enjoyed the peach cobblers and peach chutney I made from them. Almost two years to the day, I took the last bag out and made a peach pie. And I thought of my mother and smiled.
They say time helps when you are grieving over a loved one, and that is so true. Yesterday as I stood at the kitchen sink peeling peaches, her memory was so vivid it was almost like she was there, but the pain had subsided. I could think about our summers long ago and smile.

Ethyl Remembers: Creeks and Childhood

For as long as I can remember I have had a love affair with creeks. Oceans are wonderful, full of power and life. Rivers are swift and deep and a great means for navigating the country. Lakes are great for boating and fishing and swimming. Ponds are nice for cattle and frogs and even snakes. But nothing is quite as splendid as a creek.

When I was a child we had a small creek that ran down through our pasture, but it was too small to contain more than a few craw fish and little tiny minnows. Where it flowed off our property and into the neighbor's pasture there was another little branch that converged with it, forming a rather nice stream. At certain places along the creek the water would back up into rather large pools and in these were fish. Not huge fish, mind you, like you would find in a lake or the ocean, or even a river, but small perch and brim.. My daddy used to laugh and say we caught some as long as our index finger and then some little ones.

On lazy summer afternoons we would take an old tin can with the top cut off and fill it about half full with rich soil from the barnyard and then turn over old planks and boards looking for fishing worms. When we had gathered enough to supply us for a full afternoon, we would strike off across our pasture, through the barbed wire fence that separated the two farms, with our cane fishing poles equipped with sinker and bobber in tack, thrown lazily across our shoulders, on our way to make the great catch of the summer.

Under the shade of a massive oak tree, we would plop down on the soft green moss that covered the creek bank and drop our line in the dark pool of bracken water, certain that in no time at all our fishing line would begin to bob up and down with the weight of a humongous fish, twisting and squirming in his effort to get away. We would be just as determined to hold on tight with all our might, and at last drag him onto the creek bank and into our bucket. When the bucket contained enough fish Mama would describe as 'a mess' we would end our adventure and head home, happy in the knowledge that in a short while, after our catch had been cleaned and scaled, they would be swizzling and frying in Mama's giant iron skillet.

What I remember most about those hot Mississippi summer afternoons is the coolness of the shade under the oak, the softness of the moss under our feet, the thrill of capturing our trophy, and the smile on my mother's face when we delighted in our great catch. If I had to describe the scene in color, the color would be green. Dark green pools of still water, soft green moss, summer green trees; lovely cool greens, peaceful and restful. Only childhood could produce such simple delights or such vivid memories of being extremely happy doing something so utterly simple as fishing in a pasture creek.

In a way, I feel so sorry for the majority of children living today who will never know the joy of such a simple pleasure. They are constantly bombarded with the latest gadget they simply must possess, their greatest thrill comes from some electronic video apparatus that consumes both their imagination and their time. In my opinion, such modern inventions are in many ways the thieves of childhood. How sad. It is the greatest paradox that in our modern world of cells phones and ipods and laptop computers, we have never been so connected with fellow humans and yet so terribly isolated from the human race.

How blessed we were to grow up in a time when we could experience the simple joy of creeks. Creeks to wade in, fish in, and at times, swim in. Creeks to watch with delight as they meandered through pastures, tumbled over rocks, ran clear and cold through the center of our childhood. Tishomingo County was a special place, possessor of many creeks. How fortunate we were to have lived there during that long forgotten time.

Ethyl comments: The Tennessee River and Tishomingo County.

The Tennessee is the wild child of America's rivers. She begins her life in the mountains of East Tennessee, east of Knoxville and from that point on she flows where she pleases and does as she likes. She is unique in that she is one of the few rivers that leaves a state at one point and then enters it again at a totally different local, flowing across the state of Tennessee and dividing the eastern and western parts of the state. Eventually she enters Kentucky.

Another case in point is the fact she is one of the few rivers in the country that flows north instead of south. She refuses to flow directly into the Mississippi, the great river that drains the eastern half of the United States. She does her own thing one more time and flows into the Ohio River at Paducah, Kentucky, which ultimately flows into the Mississippi.

The only way this delinquent daughter could be controlled at all was with a series of lock downs known as dams that traverse the states of Tennessee, Alabama and Kentucky. The formation of a United States agency to control this wild child was know as the Tennessee Valley Authority, which was formed after the great depression of the nineteen thirties. It had a duel role. It's primary purpose was to control the river and the great flooding that took place every spring, but it also provided an opportunity for young men to find employment in a country that desperately needed to put much of it's half starved and desperate population back to work. It accomplished it purpose on both accounts and also in the bargain provided some of the lowest utility rates in the county because of the hydro-electric power generated by the various dams along the river.

Tishomingo County would benefit much from this agency. Cheap electricity would be available to her citizens, but she would also reap a secondary benefit. The area would receive lakes and recreations areas that would make her popular to the entire surrounding areas.

The waters that were formed when the Tennessee was dammed at Pickwick were called backwaters, and Tishomingo County was perfectly located to receive those in the form of lakes and reservoirs. One of the primary ones formed the lake at J.P. Coleman State Park. Another was known as Eastport and still another was called Yellow Creek. These lakes provided wonderful boating and fishing and picnicking opportunities for Tishomingo County, but not for the county alone. It wasn't long before the city stifled inhabitants of Memphis who had money and boats would discover Tishomingo County, many of them building cabins and summer homes on her lakes and country vistas. Any given Sunday if you were traveling late in the afternoon on Highway Seventy Two, heading out of Mississippi into Tennessee, you would be surrounded on that narrow, hilly two lane highway by large pickup trucks and vans pulling boats going home to Memphis. When it came to those who had time and the means to stay the summer, entire communities grew up around such places as Eastport and Mill Creek. Down a narrow county road one would mistake for perhaps a field road at it's beginning, in the backwoods on the lake at Eastport, an entire community of beautiful summer homes existed, completely separate and totally undetected from the ordinary citizens of Tishomingo County.

My dad's grandparents on his mother's side had owned and farmed land in the area where J.P. Coleman State Park is located today. When the government stepped in and bought the land they were dispossessed and had to move, so what was progress for the county as a whole was totally unsettling for a few.*

My dad used to tell the story of his uncle and his mother having to hoe corn in what was then the river bottom. My dad's uncle stood up on his hoe handle and said, "Pa, what do you have to do to be President".

According to the story, Great Grandpa had said, "President, my foot. You ain't ever gonna amount to nothing. Get off that hoe handle and go back to work".

"No, Pa, I'm going to be President".

He never did make it to President but he did become a United States Congressman from Tishomingo County during the nineteen thirties. During his first term he put forth the legislation to have the Natchez Trace made into a National Parkway, and during his second term the legislation was passed. He was rewarded with a State Park on the Parkway that bears his name. In large part, the county owes a debt of gratitude to him for this National Treasure.

The Tennessee and her tributaries remind me of the scripture at Ecclesiastes 1:7 which states "all the rivers run to the sea and yet the sea is not full. To the place the rivers go to they go over again". What a great truth! The water cycle was explained in the Bible thousands of years before man became aware of just exactly what happens. The rivers do run, ebb and flow, end up in the sea, and then return by means of the rain, to the place where they begin. How blessed are those of us who grew up in Tishomingo County, being intimately acquainted with a great river like the Tennessee.

*some may enjoy an old movie, 'Wild River,' starring Montgomery Cliff and Lee Remick. It is the story of a government agent who comes to a small Tennessee town to relocate the people when the Tennessee Valley Authority plans to build a dam.

**The picture above is the Tennessee River cliffs at J.P. Coleman State Park.

Ethyl remembers: Summer Heat

They are called the dog days of summer and I can certainly understand why. These are days when dogs even have trouble coping. They just lie around on the ground with their tongues hanging out, trying to catch any breeze that comes by. Too hot and tired and lazy to move.

I remember growing up in Mississippi on a gravel road, and with every car that came down the road you consumed enough dust to suffocate a camel, but you didn't complain. After all, school was out. No more classes, no more books, no more teacher's dirty looks. That is until September. Then it started all over again.

I remember one summer when I was ten going through drawers and pockets and every thing else until I found five pennies, and then I asked my mama if I could walk up to the little country store on the corner and get a Baby Ruth candy bar. Permission granted, I skipped up the road as happy as a little barefoot county girl with five pennies in her pocket could be. Little did I imagine what excitement awaited me.

Once inside the store I stood pondering over whether I should buy the Zero or Baby Ruth bar. One of the local county ner-do-well had also stopped by the store that day. He was a fellow my parents knew well, and he showed up at our house often. I ran up and gave him a hug, happy to see him. Suddenly there was a loud squealing of tires and a dust cloud totally surrounded another car that had pulled into the yard where the little store was located. Another neighbor of ours, just not as close and further down the road, stomped into the store, and pointed a loaded revolver at my buddy. I was totally dumb founded. Who on earth would want to hurt my friend.

The lady who owned the store was a close neighbor and a cousin to my mama and she immediately reached out and grabbed me and positioned me behind her back. I peeked out from behind her and watched the drama unfolding in total disbelief. "You bring that no good ****so and so out here so I can kill him", the gun wielding farmer shouted.

"Now, Farmer, you just go on home", said Miss Mary. "You don't want to go to jail, you don't want to hurt anybody".

"I aim to kill him", the farmer said.

"No, you just leave before you do something you will regret for a long time", she counseled in a very controlled voice.

Eventually he did regain control and leave, after which everyone in the store fell apart. I went home and told Mama and she likewise fell apart.

"Why, Mama, why, I don't understand". Still no one would give me answers. It just didn't make sense. What would cause grown people to act like that. When we got mad and wanted to kill someone, we got in terrible trouble. Why, Why, Why. Still, no one would give me answers.

It was years later when I was grown that I heard my parents discussing 'the affair'. Apparently my good friend had been caught in bed with the farmer's wife. Caught red handed, or maybe bare butted would be a better way to phrase it. Mr Farmer had tried to kill him then and he had managed to escape, but he bought the gun and had been waiting for an opportunity to finish the job. My Mama thought this was too much for a ten year old to understand so I was left to wonder for the next ten years.

Sometimes fifty years later when it's hot like today I think about 'the incident' and wonder. How many people are involved in things that could get them shot. And how often do children have a totally different perspective of situations than grownups. How much goes on that is talked about but never really explained. Why is it so easy for a child to love someone that someone else hates enough to kill. Even after five decades I'm still asking why. And why was the farmer so mad at the other man and not his wife. After all, she was an equal player. As far as I know, he never tried to kill her and he continued to live with her until he died.

All the players in that particular drama are now dead, and thankfully, as far as I know, they all died of old age. The eternal triangle. I would venture to say it goes on far more than most of us imagine, even in sleepy little hot dusty farm towns.

Ethyl remembers. Blackberry time in Tishomingo County

In June Tishomingo county is abundant in wonderful delicious blackberries. The vines bloom around the first of May with very pretty little white blossoms. In Mississippi we usually have a cold snap around the same time the blackberries bloom, and the local people always refer to that unseasonal weather event as blackberry winter. Then the fruit forms. Tiny green balls at first, then they turn red right before they become black and sweet and ready to eat. The fields and pastures are filled with vines hanging full with the ripe, succulent fruit. Every summer since I was a child, blackberry picking in June was a yearly event. We would dress in long sleeve shirts, heavy work boots, thick socks, and most of the time we wore overalls, and head out across the fields to pick berries. There are three hazards to berry picking.

The one that most readily comes to mind are the snakes. You learn very young to never step into tall grass or weeds where you can't see where your feet will land. You watch carefully and make sure you always know what is close by.

The second hazard is the briers. The vines don't give up their bounty without a fight. Be as careful as you can, you are going to come away with scratches and briers in your fingers and sometimes even up your arms and on your legs. It is just an occupational hazard. Deal with it. The berries are well worth the fight.

And the third hazard is the chiggers. Chiggers are tiny insects that live in the grass and no matter how you try to protect yourself, the chiggers are gonna get you. You can wear long pants tucked into your boots, you can tie little strips of cloth soaked in kerosene around your ankles, you can take all the precautions you can think of, in the end the chiggers will win. They will find their way through every mine field you can devise and crawl onto your skin. And when they do, they will bite and bite and bite and you will end up covered with a multitude of little red lesions that itch like crazy.

Which brings me to the next part of my story. One summer when I was young and newly married our neighbor's pasture was totally saturated with blackberry vines loaded to the max with huge, ripe, falling off the vine berries. The pasture had been mowed so most of the tall grass had been removed, but the berries were growing along the ditch banks and in certain open places in the pasture. She had given me permission to pick, so early one June morning I set out across the pasture with my two gallon bucket to pick berries. It was about nine o'clock when I started and by around noon, my bucket was filled to the brim with shiny blackberries. It was terribly hot that day, a condition made worse by the great amount of clothing I was wearing.

There was a beautiful little creek that ran down through the middle of the pasture, clear as crystal with a rocky bottom. We had to wade the creek to get to the part of the pasture where the berries grew, and as I crossed it with my bucket of berries, it suddenly occurred to me how good that cool creek water would feel on my skin. And then there was the matter of the chiggers. If I waited until I got to the other side of the pasture and climbed the hill to my house, those pesky little critters would have an opportunity to lodge themselves firmly in my flesh. I weighted my options carefully. Which was the greater risk? Some old farmer coming puttering along on his tractor and seeing me or the chiggers firmly lodging themselves into my flesh. After considering both sides of the issue and carefully pondering the outcome, sixty second later I made a decision. I took off every stitch of clothing I had on and lay down in the gently meandering stream.. As hot as it was that June day, in just a few minutes I was shivering to beat the band. The water was so cold and crisp it almost took my breath away, but at the same time it also took away the vast majority of the chiggers. Climbing out and getting dressed, I contemplated what my husband was going to say about my little adventure. He reacted very much as I expected.

"You did what", he exclaimed! "You were naked down in that pasture. What would you have done if some old farmer had come along on his tractor, and you were out there in the creek naked as a jay bird".

"Nothing", I said. "I would have done nothing. Look, I had to choose between the chiggers, which were a very real and present threat, and the very remote possibility that Farmer John was going to venture by, and I figured John was far less of a treat than the chiggers. And anyway, if he had happened by, the problem would have been his, not mind. He might very well have lost his bearing and fell off his tractor, but I figured there was not much of a possibility I would drown in less than a foot of water. And I reckon he would have eventually gotten over the shock. Might have been the most excitement the old man had for years".

Aah!! Summers in the rural South. Such a sweet memory.

Ethyl relates : an egg traordinary story.

I once heard the story of this elderly couple who liked to go out to breakfast at least once a week, and they always chose a restaurant that had a daily special. They noticed this particular restaurant advertised a special with two eggs, biscuits, gravy and sausage or bacon for $3.99. They both decided they would get the special but the wife did not like eggs so she asked the waitress if she could just leave the eggs off her plate.
"Well, in that case I will have to charge you $5.99 since that will be a special order".
"Well, in that case, I will have the eggs", the old lady said.
"And how would you like them", the waitress asked.
"Raw and in the shell", she said.
And then she took her two eggs home and baked a cake.
Sometimes it just takes a little ingenuity, but most obstacles can turn out to our benefit if we just take a little time and figure out a way around our problems.

My daddy used to tell this story, and he swore it was true, of an old man he knew from Tishomingo county who had never eaten in a restaurant before. On a certain trip they stopped at a restaurant for breakfast. The waitress asked him how he liked his eggs.
"Oh, I like them fine", he said.
"No, no sir, I mean how do you like them cooked", she asked.
"Oh, I like them a whole lot better that way", he replied.

I can't help but wonder who the first person was who said 'I think I will eat what comes out of this chicken's rear end'. Such thought perplexing questions confront us every day.

Aborigine Wisdom

The advice the old Australian Aborigine gave to his young son was be careful what kind of sticks you throw at people. The just might be boomerangs.