Growing up in “the city”, any time I was able to go somewhere that was a little more off the grid, I loved it. One such place was my grandparents’ farm. If I ever need to “go to my happy place”, well, this would be it.
The drink? Water. It was gym night again.
The Artist and The Song: Drive-By Truckers – Sinkhole
“He thinks I ain’t got a lick of sense, ’cause I talk slow and my money’s spent”
Despite the negative reception by some fans to their recent work, DBT has ALWAYS been a protest band at heart. If folks didn’t realize that, they weren’t paying attention. Their songs often put a light on the struggles most of us “normal” people have to deal with. The difference may be bet that some folks see common antagonists in the older songs vs the uncomfortable topics some of the new songs deal with. This song is about a bank trying to take away a family farm and that family’s unwillingness to let it happen without a fight. Just don’t go lookin’ in that Sinkhole.
A few nights ago, I wrote a little bit about how my time at field camp made a huge impact on my life. From the people I met to the experiences I had, those 6 weeks changed me in ways that are still with me today. I had originally planned to write a little bit more about that, but with only a few more of these 50th Birthday posts left, I decided instead to come back to that at another time.
There are a few other things that I want to write about…things that I often reflect on…things that have for sure made a big impact on my life. One of those things is my mammaw and pappaw’s farm.
As a kid, nearly every Sunday was spent at the farm where my dad and his siblings grew up, and I looked forward to it every single week. We’d get ourselves ready, I’d grab whatever toys I figured I’d need for the day, and we’d load up in dad’s van and go.
Sometimes, the journey TO the farm might be as exciting as the day itself. On the way up the holler to their house, if dad happened to spot a groundhog out in one of the hay fields, he might take the opportunity to work on his marksmanship a little. He’d slow the van to a stop, eaaaase his rifle out the window, tell us to cover our ears, and…well…mammaw got a groundhog.
It would vary a little each week as to which aunts and uncles and cousins might be there, but for the most part, it was usually dad’s sister and 2 of his brothers and their kids, some of whom didn’t live all that close to us for a while, so it was always exciting for all of us to be there together.
From the moment that van engine cut off in the driveway, I was out the door and running towards the house. The VERY first order of business was giving mammaw and pappaw a hug. I can still remember the feel of my pappaw’s stubble on my face when he hugged me and how he always smelled like Irish Spring. And my mammaw would usually be in her chair in their living room, breaking beans or doing something. She had snow white hair, and she always gave the best and sweetest hugs.
Next might be a side trip into the kitchen to lift the clown head off of the animal crackers cookie jar and see what goodies they had tucked away in there. When that lid came off, there was always the faintest smell of molasses cookies or some other treat. And those big 16 ounce returnable bottles of RC were usually right there beside the fridge, and of course each one of us thought we were big enough to have a whole one of our own.
The rest of the day would be some assortment of the kind of fun things we might not usually get to do as kids who lived in town. Playing in a creek and catching “crawdeds”, never thinking once about getting snake bit. Shooting guns…climbing in the barn…sword fighting with tobacco sticks…riding on a tractor. We might even play a little baseball with the grown-ups, or some lawn jarts…the one with them metal tips…not them plastic safety ones. I think we stopped that, though, after my cousin nearly put my eye out with one.
Sometimes, the men would work on some sort of farm project most of the day with pappaw, and the women would be inside assisting mammaw getting supper ready. And oh man…those suppers. Her friend chicken…her dumplings…and lord have mercy if she made a stack cake. I swear I think it always tasted better sitting on the porch in one of them sea-foam green wooden rockers that had 8 layers of paint peeling. And of course, you had to wash your hands first in the metal bowl of water someone would set out on the porch.
At some point, the adults might bring a folding card table outside later in the day and the games of Rook would begin. I never knew how to play it, but boy did I love watching them play…just the carrying on. I loved it.
And that’s the thing. As much as it was the fun things we got to do when we were there, it was also the experiences. Drawing water up out of a well and drinking it from a dipper in a metal bucket. Seeing a team of mules work. PETTING a mule. Feeding scraps to the chickens. SEEING CHICKENS!
It seemed like there wasn’t a thing we did over there that wasn’t memorable in some way or another, and when I think back to my happiest times growing up, so many of those memories were made on that farm in Wolfe County. I don’t know what I’d give to have another day on that farm with all of those people again. To have one of those hugs. To dip that cool water from that bucket and sit on that porch.
As is the case with so many things, I know I didn’t appreciate those moments enough at the time. “Old people” sitting around telling stories isn’t nearly as fun as digging around for treasure in an old shed, but I sure would love to hear those stories now.
I think I took for granted that everyone had a mammaw and pappaw with a country farm where they got to go and do fun stuff on the weekends, but as I got older, I realized that wasn’t the case. I also learned that keeping a family together could be an awfully hard thing to do, let alone continuing to get all of those families together every Sunday, and so the weekly visits become a lot less weekly. I was sad to see the Sunday visits end, but it made me cherish every visit after that even more.
I can still recall the last Christmas I spent in that little house, with a deep snow on the ground… the former little ones now with little ones of their own We gathered in that tiny living room…the front door open because the coal burning in that potbelly stove made the room hotter than the surface of the sun. Silver icicles draped ALL OVER the little cedar tree that was cut from somewhere on the farm…and everyone yelling, “Christmas Gift!” any time they had to answer a phone call.
We ate and then my dad handed out presents, like he did every year…calling out each gift tag…”From…mammaw and pappaw…to…Shannon”. I sat there and tried my best to soak it all in…pay attention to the stories this time…to be there in the moment, because I knew there would never be another Christmas quite like that one. Every year now, when we put up a tree, I think about that day. I think about a lot of Christmases, but I linger on that memory in particular for just a little longer. I’m thinking about it a lot as I write this tonight.
Even though I sometimes wish I’d taken the time to linger in each moment I had on that farm just a bit longer, like I did on that Christmas…or spent a little time asking more questions or paying attention to those old stories…I know that means I likely would have missed out on so many of the fun and meaningful things that made that place so memorable to begin with.
So for all of the things I may have missed out on, I know I managed to get a LOT out of that place on every visit, and in return, that place and those visits gave me a lifetime of memories, and I will treasure those always.