Grits...or Once Upon a Band Trip

I remember the first time I tried grits. Growing up in the North, there was really no reason to try grits. We never went out to eat and if we had done so, I doubt anywhere in my hometown would have served grits. Not only had I never tried grits, but I had never even heard of them. No kidding. It wasn’t until high school, and a senior year band trip to Fl. that I had even heard the word ‘grits’.

There we were a bunch of hormonal teens, far from home. Not only were we far from home, but our trip had been one of stress and tragedy. We had all been loaded into coach buses up north, about 3 or 4 of them, I can’t be sure. Ahead of us, a band parent family in an RV pulled along a closed trailer full of instruments and equipment needed for our really big show. We were to be in a drum and bugle corps style competition (add the woodwinds of course), one that included a parade or two. One band from each state-we were thrilled to be chosen. Our community pulled for us and there were several newspaper articles tracking our preparations for the competition, including the making of our summer band uniforms. Those wool embroidered and corded uniforms for football season would never do for hot days in Florida. Soon we were off, headed for competition.

The plan was to stop once along the way, and drivers were changed a couple of times before the stop and again after. This was an incredibly long time for us to spend on a bus, but hey- we were young. Then it happened. The RV traveling about a day ahead of us was in a horrific accident. The trailer they were pulling somehow caused the RV, during a lane change, to flip. The kids in the band, a pair of cousins, were thrown and landed on I-75. The girls back was broken, though she did eventually recover. The boy was okay, just hurt. No one perished, but the instruments and the trailer were damaged, the RV was a total loss.

We got the news through the bussing company, and in the dark of the night, pulled into Chattanooga to pick up and salvage what we could. We crammed instruments of all sizes and shapes into every available area we could. Everyone was hushed, we all got off the bus and into an eerie tow truck yard and we collected what we could. The rest of the trip was quiet, and we were very serious throughout the experience. News of our calamity had made it to the officials, and we became the sweethearts of St. Pete that week.

‘What about the grits?’ the reader may be wondering (this would mean I would actually have to have readers…hmmm). Well, after our first night in St. Pete we were ready for a huge buffet breakfast. Then I started hearing the banter go something like this…”Are you going to try them?”, “I will if you do!”, “Well, I already know what they are and I don’t like ‘em.” Finally, I asked “What? Try what?” “Grits!” “What are grits?” “Corn I think.” “You know, kind of like Malt o’ Meal.” Oh, well I’d had Malt o’ Meal plenty, though I preferred the chocolate kind. “Okay, I’ll try them!”

I did, and my first try was just not what I thought it would be. I didn’t get it! What could be so great about these things? So, after that no grits until I moved South. Then before I knew it, I was addicted to sweet tea and grits. Not to mention ham and sweet potatoes, and greens with red eye gravy. Sigh. This is why after returning North, I just have to eat at least once a month at a Cracker Barrel. I love all foods, but a breakfast that includes grits, with a nice bit of real butter on top just can’t be beat.

She's Gone Country

Here are my own lazy pasture horses, in a rather unintended artsy exposure. Misty and Mickey spend many summer days munching about the grasses, and gobbling apples from the trees in autumn down the hill. They run up from down below many a fall day with apple breath-perfect for horse kisses.

I grew up in a port city on one of the Great Lakes. It was surrounded by farm land, but I was a city girl, houses only feet from each other. City life means the smells and sounds from your neighbors become mingled with your homes smells, however unique. Comings and goings are known well, and habits are familiar. Neighborhood kids are more like siblings, though thankfully not true relations, as that ‘first kiss’ most likely came from one of them. Proximity meant that when an adult was having a crisis, it was well known by all. We knew what each house was having for supper, when parents were having a fight, and which of our friends were currently grounded for whatever transgression our parents deemed inappropriate.

From an early age, I knew country life was really what I wanted. I had an aunt who lived just 20 miles or so ‘from town’, and though they owned only three acres, that was space with some to grow on for me. My aunt had a huge garden, composted all kitchen scraps, and loved to watch the deer in the back grass field. She ate raw vegetables, had a chicken coop and lived right next to her in-laws, who had a couple of lazy pasture horses. A shelf in the back room was filled with her canned fruits and vegetables. Tree lines separated the other country neighbors from each other, and her road was dirt. I wanted to be her when I grew up.

When we visited there our days were spent outdoors, running and hiding in the grass field, venturing into the woods, and trying to scare ourselves by going ever farther into the darkened musky thick- knowing how easy it would be to get lost in there. We were allowed to run about without shirts on, since no one would be able to see us unless we were too close to the road. In mid and late summer, we could pick vegetables from the garden, wipe away the dirt, and eat them right there. As the summer deepened, the grass field grew taller, over our heads. You could stretch out your arms, and fall backward, and lay there and look at the sky, listen to the summer sounds, and dream girl dreams in total privacy.

Turns out, now that I have a place in the country, it isn’t as ideal as the memories of youth. It entails grown up worries and work. We are still terrifically tied to city life by jobs, and some days the drive home and back to the city may need to be made more than once. However, this Sunday morning, ahh, a break from the cares and woes of city life-a tiny one. My husband, after spending a lazy time together watching the Sunday morning fodder on television, whipped up omelets, and we took them along with our dining room chairs (no summer furniture outdoors yet) out on the back deck to munch in a brisk but sunny morning. Snow is still about but melting and the temperature was comfortable without needing jackets. Out back is a lovely downhill view, and we watched three deer take their time languishing in the sunny morning as they made their way from neighbor to neighbor’s property.

Now, I have ten acres instead of those three my aunt had. Ten acres seems small to me now, though it shouldn’t be. It affords privacy in certain locations, and plenty of wildlife. There are a few things I can do from those youthful days out here in the country…and then some. Occasionally, I think back to the city days, with their sounds and smells. I’m sure we are really meant to live more in that fashion, and less separated by space. Then we wouldn’t deny our own children’s choices for that first kiss. I think kissing a horse instead of a boy that first time would be fine. Then you wouldn’t have had to worry about what to do with your tongue.