Ethyl Remembers the Tarzan Swing.

· 

When I woke up this morning I found I was lost in a childhood memory. There were several acres of woods behind our house and, as a child, I used to wander endlessly in those woods. A spring flowed out from the roots of a giant oak tree, and from that water source came a little creek. Not really big enough to play in, but just enough water to flow through the woods and water some trees and make a lovely little glen in which the banks were covered with the lushest, softest, greenest moss. Shady and cool, and the perfect place to spend a hot Mississippi summer afternoon lying on the bank and getting totally lost in a good book. Shaded glens have always been a love of mine and if you throw in some cool moss, it's even better.
Those woods were the source of many a long afternoon of delightful fun, not the least of which was our own homemade 'Tarzan' swing. It consisted of a single piece of sea-grass rope tied on the outstretched limb of an ancient dogwood tree. The tree was an oddity itself as it grew uphill. By that I mean the root source was near the bottom of a big hill and the tree had grown in the same direction as the hill itself. Not straight and tall like the trees around it but straight up the hill, so that at the top, it leaned in the same direction as the hill itself. Out from that old gnarled tree grew a single sturdy limb and on that limb my brothers had tied the old rope about midway out. How they managed to get that far out without breaking their necks never really occurred to me. The rope hung down to arm's length and at the end, they had tied a single stick, so that you could hold each end of it in your hands. If you grasped the cross stick with your hands and climbed to the top of the hill then let go, you literally went flying. You had to hold your feet up on top of the hill but once in midair, you stretched them out for the ride down the hillside. Out over the creek and through the air you flew. Just like Tarzan! Swinging on the wild grapevine. Except ours wasn't a vine. It was a seagrass rope....but oh, you could imagine. Imagine you were in the wilds of the jungle. At any moment you might hear the sound of a mighty elephant or the roar of a hungry lion. Such fun was never had by kids in a city park swinging on a swing with a bottom in it. Oh no! Ours was the real thing. In the middle of the woods. Over the creek. Down the hillside. How many times we flew down that hill as kids I will never know. What I do know is that it was almost a daily occurrence during the summer. We would sometimes take other kids to our secret swing, deep in our private jungle, and show them our own personal wonder. And they never failed to be impressed. After watching so many Saturday afternoon jungle movies with the real Tarzan our little piece of rope hung high on a tree was the nearest thing to the real thing they would ever encounter......
Once after I married I walked back down our little path through the woods just to see if our swing was still there. The path had almost grown up with underbrush since our anxious little bare feet had stopped tearing down it to our secret place.
What I found was the tattered remains of the rope, the bottom half had completely gone. The stick at the end had long since rotted and the top half of the rope was all that remained. It was frayed and tattered, the weather had done it's job of sending our beloved swing back to the earth. All that remained was the memory. Memory of long hot summer afternoons spent deep in the Mississippi woods, swinging high above the ground, out over the little creek, and back up the hill. Again and again. What we didn't realize then as children was the fact we would never again be this free. Free to hold our feet up and go flying through the air on our Tarzan swing.

Ethyl Remembers the Library.

Books, those wonderful things we remember from our childhood, are slowly going the way of the horse and buggy.  They are being replaced with all kinds of digital devices. Devices that display words on a computer screen and shine light in our eyes.  The Nook and the Kindle, the I Pad and the I Phone,  are slowly doing away with those wonderful vehicles we held in our hands, curled up with in a chair, went to sleep with on our pillows, and laughed out loud at in study hall.
Nothing feels like paper and ink, or smells like it, for that matter.  That musty smell of cellulose slowly decomposing, of paper becoming brittle, and finally going back to the dust.  For wood will do that, unlike in ancient times when books were made of linen or cotton.
I remember the little library of my childhood.  It was a little cinder block building with a bandstand on top,  I think.  If my memory serves me right, it was located down the hill from Front Street in Iuka, under some trees, in a little place called Jay Bird Park.  When you entered the door the smell would invite you in.  That musty smell of the books.  Waiting for me to pick one up, take it home, and devour it in a night or two.  For once I started reading, I couldn't put off seeing how it would end.  Crying over the sad parts, laughing out loud at the funny ones.  To a young Mississippi farm girl who had never been more than a few hundred miles from home in her entire life, a book was the means by which she could travel to far away places, dream of knights in shining armor, fall in love with the heroine, swash buckle with the hero, explore the wilds of an African jungle or float over the watery streets of Venice in her gondola.
Saturday was usually the day the farmers in and around Iuka went to town.  My daddy always took his corn to the crusher to have feed made for the cows on Saturday and I would often ride with him in his old beat up pickup truck and while he waited at the crusher for his burlap bags of feed, I would steal away to the library and spend an hour or more pondering over which great adventure I was going to have that week.  Would I be shipwrecked with Robinson Crusoe, endure the horrors of war with Scarlet O'Hara, or maybe just try and figure out Mr. Darcy with Elizabeth Bennett.  I loved Dame Daphne's Rebecca or Jamaica Inn or My Cousin Rachel, although I always hated how that one ended.
When the town of Iuka built the new library and did away with the small one in Jay Bird Park it was progress.  But there was something sad about seeing it go.  I had long since married and moved away but one day I took my niece, who was a junior in high school, to the new library to do some research and I missed the smell.  The new library was much bigger and everything in it smelled new.  The musty, dank smell of the old one was missing.  And with it a time in my life when I traveled to far away places, had wonderful adventures, and dreamed of all the doors that would someday open in my life.  And many of those doors opened because of a small little library in a small little park in a small little town in Tishomingo County.

May Days

April's over. So now it's May. Get to look forward to hot weather beginning in a couple of weeks. The garden right now is at it's loveliest, but not for long. The hot weather will work it's toll on the flowers and things will start to dry up. And so it is with life as we know it right now. Every morning I take my coffee which my husband so faithfully brews and brings to me every morning and I go sit on a bench in the garden and listen to the birds and watch the squirrels jumping around in the trees. And I think how wonderful it is that the world contains flowers and birds and squirrels for our delight and amusement. I know mornings like this won't last long. When it's too hot I won't go out there. And the plants will start to droop and lose so much of their color. The birds won't sing as much once they get busy with the task of rearing their young, and the mosquitoes will make it harder to be outside. And I can't help but reflect on how that cycle relates to us. When we are busy with rearing kids and working at jobs most of us don't really like, it's harder to sit and soak in the beauty around us. We become preoccupied with the business at hand, and we hardly have time to stop and smell the roses. But right now, my roses are starting to bloom. So while I have this brief window, I intend to sit on my bench in the morning and soak them in....have a good day, all of you. And may you take some time today to smell the roses!

Ethyl Remebers: The Great Speech

Tishomingo County, Mississippi, is at present a dry county. By that I mean the sale of alcohol is prohibited. Does that prevent the citizens from the county from drinking. By no means! After all, it's only a short drive to the Tennessee border, and some smart dude made sure he had a liquor store placed most advantageously right near the line.. So Tennessee gets the money from the liquor tax and sales and Mississippi gets the beer cans and the drunks. Doesn't seem like much of a fair trade, does it....
But that may be in for a change. Tishomingo County citizens are set to vote, I may add, one more time on this thorny issue...Will that vile brew at last be allowed into the homes of the good citizens of Tishomingo, County. We shall see!
In the 1950's a judge from Tishomingo County was asked at a meeting where this age old issue was being discussed to give his slant on the subject. What follows is one for the books. This is the most amazing example of political doublespeak you will ever find anywhere. This crafty old judge name was Noah S. Sweat, but he was known around the county by the nickname 'Soggy" and this is what he had to say on the subject.

"My friends,

"I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject at this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey.

"If when you say whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it.

"But;

"If when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman's step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life's great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it.

"This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise."

Whether you agree with him or not, you do have to admire his way with words.  

Ethyl  Surmises:
Spring Awakening
It was chilly today.  Not cold, just a little chilly, just enough to need a light sweater.  I took a short walk outside and looked at the tulip trees.  OK.. so they are technically Japanese Magnolias, but to everyone else around here they are tulip trees.  And daffodils.  All colors and sizes, light and dark yellow, yellow with orange centers, white.  To everyone around here the are buttercups.  Still not correct, I know.  The buttercup is a small yellow flower native to England.  But so what.  As Shakespeare said, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
What impressed me was the way this season makes you feel.  Someone once said in the spring a young man's fancy turns to love. And that brings me to my next question.  Why?  Why do we begin to think with our emotions instead of our heads.  What is it about all this awakening the earth seems to be doing that affects us so dramatically.  And we are affected, no doubt about that.  Is it because the weather is warmer.  Is it because we are happier to at last be outside without needing layers of clothes.  Or is just watching and feeling what it's like for something that has lain dormant all winter suddenly to come to life.  The leaves grow what seems to be an inch every few days.  The grass springs up fresh and sweet.  The flowers open and our allergies go wild.  But never mind that.  We are happy.
There is no doubt about it.  Our emotions are definitely at their highest.  By the time summer has arrived we have already started to complain about the heat and humidity and to take all the planting and growing and watering for granted.  Gardening has, for the most part,  become a chore.  We are enjoying the fruits of our labors in many cases.  Our gardens are producing and our tomatoes are ripening and we are busy, busy, busy.  But the emotional high brought on by the first few springs days is over.  Now it's work, and sweat, and more work, and more sweat.  Having to go outside on a hot summer evening and stand with a water hose for what seems an eternity and water everything just to keep it alive-well, who needs it.  We had all rather be inside watching Wheel of Fortune...
But there is just something about the soil in the spring.  The way it smells when you first turn it over with your tiller or hoe and you watch the little earth worms scramble, then to be followed closely by a robin, gobbling up all the worms that didn't hide in time.
I've always associated spring gardening with growing potatoes and English peas and onions and cabbages.  Those are cool weather crops.  They have to be gotten out early so they can make before the heat sets in.  They will not grow in hot weather.  I remember one time being in Alaska in August and walking past a house with a little garden to the side and seeing potatoes growing.  And that stuck me as quite strange.  To see potatoes growing in August...but then I had forgotten I was in Alaska...
So soon I am going to be turning the soil, hopefully in the next week or so.  And I will be putting tiny little onions sets in the ground, along with pea seeds and seed potatoes.  And then we will wait...for what seems much too long.  Wait until I can run outside my kitchen door early in the morning and snatch some green onions to put in my breakfast omelet.  And another spring will have come and gone.  And much too swiftly, I might add...

Morning on the Gulf..

My husband and I are planning a trip to Florida in January for a trade show.. It is business with a little bit of family and pleasure mixed in.. The kind of trip that serves two purposes, or so you hope.
When I started shopping for lodging I looked at several different sites on the web and finally went back to an old favorite, Marriott... Marriott is good for business travelers.  They cater to them, with high speed Internet, a good business center, and free parking, for the most part.  And they have several different brands for all kinds of different budgets.  I have, at one point or another, stayed in most of them.  The Renaissance , the Courtyard, the Marriott brand, Springhill Suites, and Fairfield Inns.  My favorite is either the Springhill or the Fairfield..so for this trip I picked the Fairfield.
When I woke up this morning I was thinking about the trip and my choice of lodging and I realized why I like that hotel.  It is on the bottom of the list of all their brands, and by that I mean the least expensive.  You tend to get more for your money there.  Free breakfast, free Internet, free parking, a suite usually with a small kitchen so you can prepare some of your meals in house, a separate place for you to work if you need to, a comfortable bed and usually a very good television, not that there is ever anything on it that I care to watch, but just in case there might be, I want one in the room.   It is true you bypass what some people would call luxuries, such as having valet service, someone to carry your luggage for you, some one to come to your room and pick up your laundry and so on and so on.
And I realized that is exactly why I like it.  I like to carry my own luggage, especially since I have a husband with me who is always willing to lug it for me.  I like to cook in the room and eat there, too.  I like to park my own car.  I don't want someone to wait on me.  I didn't grow up with people doing that.  I grew up working.  Doing whatever had to be done on the farm.  Feeding cows and pigs and chicken. Gathering eggs.  Canning fruit.  You name it, we did it.. So I am uncomfortable when people want to fuss over me.  I like to independently take care of myself and my husband.  And when my kids were at home I felt the same way about them. I didn't want to drop them off at the baby sitter and let someone else watch them while I went off to pursue a career. I must admit,  if I'm being completely honest,  there were times I would have given a king's ransom to just leave them somewhere for a week or maybe two, and then come back and pick them up when I was totally rested up and starting to miss them.   But that didn't happen.  Come what may, I  had them with me, day in and day out.  And now that they are grown up I am so happy that's the way things worked out.  I'm not knocking working mothers.  I realize many women have to work to make ends meet and I admire them for their hard work and sacrifice.  But I was thankful that I had a husband who worked hard so I could stay home and raise our family.  The bonding that takes place as your child grows up is irreplaceable, and I got to accomplish that with mine.  They no longer need me to look after them, but they are all still a big part of my life.
And so we are off.  Off to the beach.  Off on an adventure.  Off to watch the sunrise together as it comes up over the Gulf of Mexico..After many years and many sunrises, I never grow tire of watching the day break on the horizon.  And to be able to watch it over the ocean, over white sand beaches and sea birds flying, and sea oats swaying gently in the ocean breeze, with the person I love more than anyone else on earth, well, it just doesn't get much better than this..

Ordinary Days

Recently I was talking to my father in law on the phone and he asked how my day had been.
"Oh, it's just been an ordinary day," I said.  "Just routine, doing ordinary things at work and around the house."
And then I got to thinking about all the years in the past when I spent what I would term ordinary days.  Grocery shopping, cleaning house, getting the kids off to school, picking them up in the afternoon, cooking dinner and then waiting for their father to come home so we could eat together.
He usually arrived home between five thirty and six, and then we would all set down around the table. Everyone had their assigned place and each one set in the same chair night after night.  Daddy at the head, me on his left,  The boys in their spots around the table. We all just naturally went to our place at the table. After the evening prayer we would commence our meal, and in those days I usually always cooked a lot.  An entree, a salad, at least two vegetables, a green and a yellow one, and then dessert.  When I picked our middle son up from school the first question he usually always asked was, 'what's for dessert'.  When I picked up the youngest one his first question usually was, 'what's for dinner.'
Now it seems to me those years flew by, although at the time it seemed like they would never end.  One day I turned around and those times around the dinner table were over.  Recently I tried to get everybody together for a family cookout and it took me three months to come up with a time that would work with everyone's schedule.  I no longer had to pick up kids from school, there was no need to stop whatever I was doing at four o'clock and start thinking about what I would cook that evening.  My husband and I found if we ate a large meal at night we didn't sleep too well, so in the evening we usually just had something light.  Those ordinary days that went for so long were now only memories.  I had to figure out who I was all over again.
When I stopped to think about it after that conversation with Pappa, I realized how thankful I was for ordinary days.  It was always a sense of relief in the evening when everyone arrived home safely.  Days when all the kids were well and being their usual 'pick at your brother' selves were really good days.  The conversations at the table were about what happened at school that day or what they wanted to get with their allowances when they could manage to save the money, and there was always the opportunity for which ever parent so felt inclined to offer to make up the difference if the afore mentioned child should have a shortage of funds.  It usually didn't happen, but the child usually made sure we had the opportunity to contribute if we felt the urge.
Sometimes the talk would be about Dad's work and what he had encountered as he set out to make a living for his brood.  And I always felt so thankful for the fact we never had a shortage of food.  Once my husband made the comment that a king two hundred years ago probably would not have been able to eat as well as we did.  Due to refrigeration and modern transportation there was an abundant of food from all over the world.  Bananas and pineapples, tomatoes and watermelons from Florida, green produce even in the winter, spices and herbs and good things, all taken for granted because they were, for the most part, ordinary things.
And so it seems, now as I look back on it, that the things I remember the most and the fondest are everyday things.  Ordinary things, things that made up the fabric of our lives.  And I realized you should never take those small ordinary things for granted, for some day they will become the big important things you remember.