Wee, Wee, Wee; All the Way Home!

In a couple months my family will celebrate five years of living in our current house.  We basically moved from one side of the family land (where our first home was located) to the other (with a house or two outside the confines of the farm thrown in for good measure).  I really do enjoy living here.  I love our home and, even though I gripe about it each and every time I mow, I’m quite fond of our yard. Truthfully, there are times it feels as if we’re living in a state park.  We are surrounded by beautiful farmland which I can admire from the comfort, safety and convenience of my porches with nary a worry about foul smelling cow patties or those other offensive items of a like nature mentioned in a previous post.  

One thing I have become fond of over the years is the semi-privacy that is afforded when you live on a larger tract of land.  We have few neighbors.  People are close enough they can be of help if needed, but not so close I can’t walk out onto my front porch to water some ferns wearing a bathrobe and some Crocs (Note: wearing Crocs on wet concrete can be hazardous to your health and could lead to very humiliating poses).

Don’t get me wrong, I love the neighbors we have.  They are truly wonderful. It’s just that I am way too lazy to always be on guard, worried about the state of my appearance or that of my children should we be seen up close on a daily basis - especially in the summer.

Now speaking of neighbors, I probably don’t have to tell you that they are not all created equal.  Some are known for the awesome chicken salad they bring to get-togethers, some are known for inviting your children over to play, while others are known for being ever ready to lend a helping hand, which could include helping out with a mechanical issue or even driving your very shaky teenage daughter home after she runs off the road and nearly flips your SUV into the creek.  

However, every once in awhile you may encounter a different species of neighbor - one that you hope someday moves and takes with him/her all the reasons you’re wanting them to move in the first place.  We once shared a stretch of road with just such a person.

This man wasn’t from here originally.  I think he may have even come from up North.  Gasp!  A Yankee!  Anyway, he wasn’t much on yard work or picking up his trash each week after he would set it out and his dogs (which were kept unleashed and would visit us quite often) would tear the bags to shreds and scatter the contents of said bags to the four winds, even when one wind crossed onto our land.  And though I believe he fancied himself a farmer on some level, there was much left to be desired when it came to his farming know-how, particularly in the department of building/maintaining fences.  We probably would never have known about this deficiency if it weren’t for the horses we would routinely find grazing in our front yard and the dozens of hoofprints left behind.  Ahhhhh.  Good times.  Good times.

Well, one day “Crawl” felt the need to expand his non-farming skills and he bought him some pigs.  He even built a pen for his new pets.  It didn’t take long, though, for him to realize he may have made a mistake and that a call for help needed to be made.  Scott, another of our neighbors, was the lucky recipient of that very call.  

When he arrived, Scott found the pigs wandering about the man’s yard.  Turns out, our former neighbor’s flaw had been this...when unloading his piggies he failed to back his truck up to the pen and, instead, just pulled his truck into the drive and let them out right then and there.  I guess he thought they would react like dogs and obediently follow him into their new home.  However, pigs are not dogs.  Indeed, they are not.  Maybe it’s that they realized on some level their new pad was just a temporary stop on the way to ending up as the B in someone’s BLT, but they were not budging.  So, he sought help.

Upon assessing the situation Scott knew immediately what could be done to lure the little piggies all the way home. Corn.  

“Do you have any corn”, he asked the man.  “Corn?  You bet.  I have lots of corn.”  “Well, go get some and we’ll lead them in with that.”

Dutifully following his deliverer’s suggestion, the man returned a minute later carrying the corn...CANNED CORN!  I kid you not.  Like Green Giant or something.

Now, friends, even yours truly here would have known better than that.  I think.

 

Image via

Down on the Farm

If you’ve visited with me much at all here at Tire Swings (or wandered in by accident while doing a Google search for swing set and play fort companies and stayed at least long enough to read the “about me” blurb) you know that I live in a small Southern town - the same town I have always lived in, and let me go ahead and say there are both pros and cons to doing such.  

Now, even though my mail is stamped with the same zip code as it was when I was younger, my surroundings are quite a bit different.  You see, I was raised in town.  I could practically reach out my bedroom window and into the window of my neighbor to change the channel on his bedside television.  In fact, such close proximity supplied my room with free cable for years, which was great for a kid growing up during the early years of MTV.

Upon marrying, though, I moved to the country - a whopping 5 minute drive away during high traffic times - to live within the boundaries of my husband’s family farm.  Initially (and by initially I mean 15 years or so), it was not such a good fit.  Think of me as a much less glamorous version of Lisa Douglas from Green Acres.  I knew almost nothing about farm life.  In fact, so little did I know that my father-n-law, who was not known for his soft, kind demeanor, upon his first time in asking me to lend him a hand with something in the barnyard, said - and I quote - “I ought to kick your momma’s a_ _.  You don’t know anything.”  So, I thought it might be best to learn something. *Insert sigh here*

I would look through magazines and see some picture of a fresh looking farm wife handing her handsome husband a glass of iced tea with a sprig of mint as he set on a tractor and think How sweet!  I can do that.  

Unfortunately, those pictures left out a few teeny, tiny details.  Unshown in the romanticized, Southern Living version of farm life was the cow crap one would have to bypass along the way (dried, wet, and/or oh so super fresh and green) OR the dozens of huge flies swarming around  - the likes of which would have been enough to weaken the resolve of even the most stubborn of pharaohs - OR the snakes (both real and imagined) OR the very large cows (hellooo...some with horns).  

So,  I came to a few conclusions early on...1.) John should always take a thermos with him when leaving to to do any work on the farm  2.) Lisa Douglas could run circles around me and 3.) I am okay with that.

Let's hope they don't take after their mom.

Decoration (plus a recipe)

New Hope Cemetery - the 1969 on the arch refers, I think, to when the gate was built. The cemetery itself was around long before then. The white table-like structure just inside the gate is the pulpit from which some outdoor sermons have been preached. Don't you just love the oak tree?

My grandparents.

Yesterday was decoration at the cemetery in which my mother’s father and his wife - Pa Vernon and Mama Beatrice - are buried. In case you are not from the south, “decoration“ is the day set aside each year at a particular cemetery when family members of folks buried there come out to adorn the graves with fresh flowers and spend time visiting with others who have come out to do the same. And usually on these days there is a meal.

Now some decorations include dinner on the ground, in which there is a potluck meal served on the grounds of the cemetery. This is not to say that the food is actually placed on the ground. Usually there are folding tables and chairs. My brother-n-law thinks this is waayyy too creepy and refuses to participate in such meals held at cemeteries. He’s a New Yorker by birth, so we'll forgive him this stubborness.

My mother’s family traditionally gets together at someone’s house for just such a meal after church. These past several years it has been held at my Aunt Carol’s. She recently remodeled and has a very nice garage and sun room in which to set up tables. In fact, her garage seems nicer than some of the rooms in my house.

Everyone brings a little something to contribute to the meal. But most of the cooking (the good cooking, at least) is done by the ladies from the more, umm how should I say this, mature generation. Someone remarked yesterday that when these ladies are gone our meal will most likely consist of Kentucky Fried Chicken and side dishes from some deli. And, it’s sad to say, this is probably true. Does anyone from my generation cook like my mom’s generation? I know I don’t.

It was a yummy meal and I know I was not the only one who was stuffed to the point of being miserable. We had turkey and dressing, ham, mashed potatoes, scalloped potatoes, pinto beans, green beans, corn, deviled eggs, and about 13 different casseroles. Then to top it all off there was chocolate pie, coconut cake, banana pudding, fudge pie, pecan pie, and ice cream. We were taking bets on who would fall into a diabetic shock afterwards.

I think I might try to start compiling some of my mom’s, sister’s, and aunts’ recipes one here. I guess I should start with what I took to yesterday’s lunch. This is a little recipe that my sister gave me a long time ago. It’s super easy and is a nice dessert alternative for those who want something a little less rich than chocolate pies or oooey gooey caramel brownies.

Easy Fruit Salad

You will need:

2 29 oz. cans light fruit cocktail
1 15 oz. can mandarin oranges
Apples (red and green)
Bananas
Fresh grapes, if desired
Instant vanilla pudding
Chopped walnuts, if desired


Cut up apples (leaving the skins on). Peel and slice the bananas. Dip the apples and bananas in lemon juice to keep them from turning brown.

In a large bowl, mix the fruit cocktail with the DRAINED can of mandarin oranges. Sprinkle on as much of the instant vanilla pudding as you need to make it the consistency you prefer (If you want it really thick and “puddiny” you will want to add a lot. My family doesn’t like it that way so I add just a light coating of the pudding mix). Stir.

Add the desired amount of apples and bananas to the mix.

Chill.

Just before serving sprinkle on a few chopped walnuts.

From this...

...to this in less than 15 minutes.

P.S. Don't forget...we'll be having a little giveaway on our 100th post. Be sure to stop back by. Just so you'll know today's post is #97.

I See London, I See France...

This post is being linked up to Kevin and Layla's Favorite Posts of 2010 over @ the Lettered Cottage. Oh, by the way, it's a true story - unfortunately.

Sashay. It's what we Southern girls are bred to do since birth. It is part of our chromosomal makeup. As small girls we do it in our Martha's Miniature dresses, all ruffles and bells down the center aisle each Sunday at church. We do this as students when we enter the hallways of learning each day. Yes, I am here. I have arrived. Why, thank you. As a matter of fact it is new. We train to do it in pageants. Any Miss Tennessee Moon Pie Festival queen worth her weight in salt mastered it years ago. And we, of course, do it on our wedding day, walking toward our groom satisfied to our core in knowing that we are, at this moment, the absolute center of the universe. My sister was born with this trait. My niece works it quite nicely, and has several pretty little tiaras to back it up. I, on the other hand, never felt a need for it in my youth. I didn't dress fashionably ("comfort first" was my motto) or over worry about hair and makeup, so why would I go to the trouble to act prissy in any other way? Then it happened. I was in my late 20s. And for some unknown reason one night I was bitten by the sashay-bug. A distant cousin had died and I had gone to the funeral home one evening to pay my respects. It just so happened that the place was packed that night, as each viewing room was occupied. My cousin's viewing was in the very back. But before heading in to where my family was seated, I needed to stop off at the restroom.

After taking care of business in the bathroom, I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I did look good. I had actually taken pains in my presentation that night...hair styled just so, flawless makeup, and a dark floral jacket and white blouse with a fairly plunging neckline over the most elegant, feminine skirt in my wardrobe - long, black, and sheer it was a skirt made for sashaying. And with every fiber in my being I realized that I had not been skipped when the flirt fairy sprinkled her magic dust on girls at birth. I had had it all along. And that night, albeit in a most unlikely place, I could exhibit it like every other female. Stepping out of the restroom into the hallway, I felt more confidence than I had known in a long time, if ever. At one point I think I even felt one shoulder pop up a little, just as Scarlett's had when she entered Melanie Wilke's home for Ashley's birthday party. Chin tilted ever so slightly (not too much, though - one wants to look confident but not conceited) I headed toward the parlor, smiling and nodding at people along the way. Finally, I was sashaying. Me. Tyla. The non-sashayer of the family was sashaying. A few steps from the door a kindly, elderly lady - a belle in her day, for sure - gingerly took my arm to speak to me. Her words live with me to this day... "My dear, I don't mean to embarrass you, but you have the back of your dress stuck in your panties."