Smokey and the garden

As mentioned before, my grandmother always planted a garden.  Each spring, after Good Friday, the garden would be planted.  Of course, I think some of you know that you can always plant your garden after Good Friday.  This is the way the “country folk” always planted their gardens.  Those same “some of you” will know that you could always plant your root crops before Good Friday.

I think this tradition started because “generally” it was safe to assume that there would be no more heavy frosts after Good Friday.  So, country folk felt safe to put in the rest of the garden.  Any way, this was how all of our gardens were planted.

My grandmother was a wealth of information. Not only was she at one time a “School Marm” in a one room school house (That was how she met and fell in love with my grandfather.  But, that is another story.) but she was also a huge believer in “signs” from nature.  She and my grandfather would share information about when it was time to grow “what” and how to plant it.

I should say that my gradmother in these stories was my father’s mother.  My grandfather, unless otherwise noted, was my mother’s father.  My grandparents actually lived about two miles apart.  That is how my parents met.  They all grew up in the same small community.  Everyone knew everyone.  Children were “raised” by the “community” and there were extended families.  I grew up in this type of “family” and would not trade one moment of it with the way children are “usually” raised today.

Family histories and stories were passed down to the younger generation during family gatherings.  We always got together on Sunday’s after church for dinner.  And, all of the holidays meant that aunts, uncles and cousins came from all around to “home” for one huge family meal.  After the meals, the adults would sit and reminence about past times.  Those children lucky enough to be within earshot, got to hear lots and lots of family history.  I happened to love to sit and listen and I would often beg to hear stories over and over to commit them to my memory.  The “adventures” of my ancestors were very interesting and exciting.  I love to think about them today.  And, they will probably appear at some time in this blog to be shared with others.

The food at these family gatherings was always good.  It would be now what they call a “throw down”.  We would have a spread that was all lovingly prepared by parents and grandparents.  It smelled so good that your mouth watered just like Pavlov’s dog.  Some times, we were allowed a taste before the meal.  Most of the time though, until meal time we were out “running around like fools” outside building up an healthy appitite.  That table always held something that each one of us loved to eat (macaroni and cheese, potato salad, banana pudding, pound cake…. you get the idea.  People don’t eat like that now!)

Again, I digress.  My memories come fludding back and I just get started.  I can see those family gatherings in my mind.  They were some of the best times of my life.  I did not know that then but I certainly kown that now.  People don’t know what they are missing by not having extended families or living close to their grandparents.

Back to the story….  I mentioned Smokey before too.  Well, he plays an important part in this story.  He was a German shepard.  He was always into something.  And, most of all he was one of our constant companions on the farm. 

Well, my grandmother had cut the eyes out of the potato(es) and had planted them in the garden.  People plant potato(es) by allowing the potato to grow “eyes”.  You cut them out and plant the eye and voila you have a potato plant (if it grows)

Anyway, my grandmother had planted the eyes in the garden and was wondering why she had not seen any green plantlets growing up from the said eyes.  She puzzled over this for several days until one day when she was outside feeding the dog and she saw these blackened things that looked like little pebbles.  Upon further inspection, she discovered that these “pebbles” were in fact the potato eyes she had planted a few weeks before. 

My grandmother very seldom got angry.  She would dole out punishement to us kids if needed.  Generally though, she was pretty easy going and never one to anger easily.  She could usually laugh off most things.  So, imagine our surprise when she got really angry about the potato eyes she found that were no longer planted in the garden. 

It seems that Smokey and “unplanted” each and every eye and had brought his “prizes” up to the house for all to see.  Needless to say, my grandmother who had lovingly planted each and every eye was upset.  She fussed (all Southerners fuss) and fumed and yelled at the dog.  Then she decided to teach the dog a lesson by beating him (all Southerners beat things when they are angry). (Again, no animals were harmed in the telling of this story.)

Remember, my grandmother was a petite woman who looked a lot like Grann Clampett?  Well imagine this tiny woman chasing a huge German shepard!.  She got something to beat the dog with and began the chase.  Smokey thought it was a game and stayed just ahead of her so she could not catch him. 

Around and around the house they went.  The dog was just ahead of my granmother, loping along with his tounge hanging out enjoying the exercise.  My grandmother was chasing behind just a “fussin” and saying “Come here! Don’t you run from me!”  (She would say those same words to us if we decided to run for it when she got after us.  Usually we would just stand and take the punishment.)  This went on for quite a while.  We were runing from window to window watching the show.

The funniest part of the whole thing was that my grandmother would get winded and stop to catch her breath.  When she would stop, the dog would stop and wait for her.  Well, this made her mad all over again because it was as if he was mocking her.  So, she would catch her breath and off she would go chasing the dog again.  (Can you see this…. give it a try…I bet it brings a smile to your lips)

After a little while, my grandmother decided to call the game and threw in the towel and gave up the chase.  She eventually planted more eyes and we did get the desired results on the second try.  I really don’t know if Smokey ever got the “message” though.

Since I seem to be on a roll

Since I seem to be on a roll talking about farming and animals, I might as well continue in that vein.  As I said before, I grew up on a farm.  We lived with my grandmother.  And, my grandmother loved animals.

I grew up in the South Carolina Lowcountry.  The farm was 148 acres.  My father, and his father before him, and his farther before him, used a mule and a plow to cultivate the fields.  It was a wonderful life in some respects.  We weren’t rich but we had plenty on the table to eat.  And us kids ran and played all over.  No place was really off limits.  We were told to watch for snakes and stingy things like spiders and wasps.  But, most of the time, we were left to our own devices.

I digress though.  My story today is about my grandmother and our dog, Smokey (whom she called Wilbur after our neighbor whose name was Wilbur Smoak) and a cat named Kit.

My grandmother was a firm believer in hanging out clothes on the line to dry.  I can remember seeing her outside on sunny days even in the dead of winter hanging out clothes.  Of course some times the clothes froze before they would dry but eventually they would thaw in the direct sunlight and dry.  (Frozen clothes will be topic of another story.)

I will try and give you a mental picture of my grandmother.  She was a very small little lady but she packed a powerful punch.  He usual dress for outside was a cotton dress, cotton stockings held up by garters, an old work shirt and a hat.  The hats varied in type. Usually, most of them were straw.  Ever so often she would have a man’s hat that would be too large.  What the hats were used for was protection from the direct sunlight from working in the yard or the garden. 

My grandmother kind of looked like Granny Clampet from the Beverly Hillbillies.  If you aren’t old enough to remember that show, then just Google up a picture or watch it on TVLand.  She acted like Granny Clampet too.  Her size did not keep her from doing anything she really wanted to do.  She was very industrious and taught us all how to “make do” with what we have to get what you want. I attribute some of my better qualities to her today.

Anyway, it was cold.  My grandmother was outside hanging out the clothes on the line.  Smokey the Germanshepard was on the the job chasing cats.  (At this time we had 2 dogs and 21 cats.  So, there were always cats to be herded and chased back to the barn where they belonged.)  Kit, the cat, a huge black and white tom cat, loved to follow my grandmother around.  Sometimes, he would ride on her shoulders as she went about her day.  So, Kit was in the yard, where Smokey felt like he did not belong.

Smokey took off after the cat.  The cat ran around in the yard for a while dodging the dog, hissing and slapping at him.  (This is all a game between the dogs and the cats, you understand.  Animals were not harmed in the telling of this story.)  Well Kit takes off across the yard, runs up my grandmothers back and sits on top of the hat on top of her head.

This is one of those times that my grandmother had on a hat that was a little too large for her head.  When the cat sat down on the top of the hat, the hat slid down over my grandmother’s eyes blinding her.  The dog has stopped short of knocking my granmother down, but is vigorously barking and jumping to catch the cat.  The cat is holding on for dear life on top of the hat which is over my grandmothers eyes.  My granmother is trying to lift the brim of the hat above eye level in order to see. She is reeling around.  She knocks over the laundry.  The dog is yipping.  The cat is hissing.  My grandmother looks like someone who has had too much to drink and cannot stand. (If only we had video cameras at the time!)

The above was pretty much a normal day at our house.  There was always some episode going on.  Hopefully, I will be able to share some of them with you.  Looking back, now, they were funny.  Some were even funny then. 

Let me know if you want to read more.

My Husband, the cats and the Vet

As I mentioned in my first Blog, I grew up on a farm.  I have this “thing”with animals.  They like me and I like them.  It’s always been that way.  My best friend when I was a child was a bull dog named Buster.  We shared everything.

I think I get the animal “thing” from my grandmother.  She had the same affection for animals and they absolutely loved her.  If she could have figured out a way for the cow to come in the house, it would have lived in the house with us.  She just had this “way”.  Every living thing on the farm followed her around as if they we being led by the Pied Pipper.

So, when we decided to leave corporate life and move to the farm, I started a campaign to have cats on the farm.  I should say that my husband had stated on more than one occasion that he disliked cats.  So, the campaign went that we should have cats to keep away mice and snakes and other creepy crawlies.  He agreed on some level when the cats were a “future” addition to our family but “not right now”.   I agreed they would live outside and not be “house cats”.  They would be “tools” to meet an end rather than pets. 

Finally, I wore him down enough that he said I could go to the Pound and get “a” kitten.  I said I thought we needed more than one so they could keep each other company and hunt together.  He said “How many?”  I said six, knowing full well that he would not go for that number.  We finally agreed on two.

So I went to the Pound and found Harry and Agnes.  They are brother and sister and are black and grey tabby cats.  These little kitties were about 5 months old.  They were huddled together with another sibling in a cage in a tent at the Cornelius Pound (seriously they need to build a facility).  I wanted to bring home all three of the tabby cats but being sent “on my honor” to come back with only two, I left one sibling behind.

When I got the cats home, I opened the carrier and off they went.  They spent the next week under the house only coming out for food and water.  Ever so often you could find them sunning themselves on the porch.  But, you could not touch them or pet them in any way.

My husband decided we should not contribute to the population increase of unwanted pets.  So he suggested we get them “fixed” so we would have no “unwanted children”.  Myself, I love little baby kitties.  They are so cute!  However, I agreed because I did not want any incest going on.

We called the Vet and set up a date and time for the “fixing” to be done.  My husband agreed to get up and help me get the cats in the carrier to take to the Vet.  So, on the appointed day, we got up to execute the plan. 

We put out some “good food” and call the kitties.  By this time they would come out to eat with us standing there as long as we weren’t too close.  Harry and Agnes came running to find out what was on the “breakfast” menu.  I know you are not suppose to feed them before they are drugged for the “fixing” but that was the only way to get them out from under the house.

I prepared the carrier  by setting is on it’s end.  My husband was to grab one cat and I was to grab the other.  We had not conferred on how this task was to be completed.  I, being an old hand at “cat catching” knew to grab the kitty at the base of the head and “snatch” it up much like a mother cat picks up a kitten.  So, when they started eating, I grabbed Agnes, no problem.  Her feet curled up and I dropped her in the carrier without an issue at all.

My husband, being unschooled in “cat catching 101″ grabbed Harry in the middle of his back.  OH NO!  Big mistake!  Harry quickly flipped around, let out a “battle cry” and attached himself to my husband’s arm.  There was biting, there was scratching and a whole lot of yelling, some from the cat and some from my husband.  Before long, the two got separated.  I am not sure which one was the happiest for the separation.

Harry flew back under the house.  My husband flew in the house for first aid.  Agnes and I were left on the porch.  I was trying to control my laughter and trying to show the appropriate concern for my now injured husband.  It was all over in just a few seconds but the “scars” lasted for a while.

Harry refused to be coaxed out from under the house.  My husband refused to “touch another cat”.  So, Agnes and I left for the Vet.  Harry’s appointment was cancelled.  And, to add insult to injury, when Agnes came home, because she smelled like the Vet’s office, Harry would have nothing to do with her until she started smelling like herself again.  He thought we had brought home and imposter.

Harry did eventually go to the Vet for his appointment.  On the appointed day, I got up early went out and sat on the steps and waited for Harry to make and appearance.  My husband was on the other side of the French doors with bandaids waiting to render first aid if needed.  I simply talked to the kitties, patted them a little and when the moment was right, snatched Harry up by the scruff of his neck, deposited him the carrier and off we went.  My husband was totally amazed.

Agnes got her vengence against Harry too.  When Harry came home, she treated him like an outcast for several days before welcoming him back.

Just thought I would give this a try.

I have read a few Blogs from friends and figure that I might like to try this myself.  So, here goes.

I live on a farm in Iron Station, NC.  The occupants besides myself are my husband, my dog (Ranger) and two cats (Harry and Agnes).  We decided to move to a farm in order to “get connedted” back to the earth.  My husband wants to grow enough crops to sell at the Farmer’s Market or perhaps to some of the restaurants around here.  However, my husband is not really all that familiar with farming

When I grew up, I lived on a farm  We had cows and chickens and cats and dogs.  My grandmother always had a garden.  She used a little push plow to plow the ground.  She added some of what she called Uanna (not sure of the spelling) and lots of chicken poop.  Then, she would add the seeds or the tomato plants or the potato eyes and grow a garden.  We always had plenty of good vegetables all summer long.  Still enough to sell door to door. (I am from a very small area in South Carolina where we would take produce to town to sell or peddle door to door.)  And, enough to put up for the winter

Well, my husband, he has a different idea on how to farm.  The Fed Ex and the UPS guys are arriving daily to bring the next new thing to get this garden going.  Here I thought we were doing gardening right all these years just to find out you have to have all of this “stuff” to germinate and grow and start the seeds in a greenhouse environment before they go in to the ground.  I swear you would think we are starting plants for “wacky tobaccy” than ones for vegetables.

I knew I was in trouble when he asked how do you tell a vegatable from a weed?  Just how do you answer that question when Mister Greenhouse has all of these seeds trying to germinate with heat lamps and warming trays and fans blowing to simulate a breeze?

As long as the Deputy Sherrif does not come by and want to know “Whatcha growing in there son?”  I guess we will be doing fine.