Happy merry.

Dear friend,        

This week my lovely Bride asked me why a pile of lumber had appeared in our driveway, thinking maybe I had some Christmas project in store.

“That’s for the garden beds,” I said.

 “You do know it’s December, yes?” she replied. Which, from her perspective, was probably a perfectly rational thing to ask.

“Yes. But one day, it will be warm again. And I want to be ready.”

 Every once in a while, someone asks me where I’m from. I’m always mildly surprised that my liberal usage of words like “Y’all,” “Ma’am,” and “It’s not breakfast without gravy” don’t give it away.

 The guys in the local feed store know where I’m from. I’m the guy buying packs of vegetable seeds in March, a full two months before the locals put away their snow shovels. It’s the South in me that’s in an ongoing struggle with the length of a Maine growing season. Which is rather shorter than my Georgia roots feel is appropriate for anything called “summer.”  I’ve come to love all the New England seasons (except maybe that six-week interval between Winter and Spring, which locals call “Mud”). However, calling the two and a half weeks of mild heat we get in Maine ‘Summer’ is more of a polite euphemism than accurate description.

 This is not the South, where you can lazily decide to put in a tomato plant or thirty any weekend between April and June, and expect to harvest a bumper crop of red awesomeness to top your sandwiches with for months to come. You have got to be *ready* in Maine, or you’ve missed your opportunity and you’ll have to wait for at least one more Mud to come and go before you get to plant again. And like any good child of Appalachia, I like my winter pantry stocked full of the bounty of summer. My Bride will pickle and can corn, zucchini, beans, watermelon rind, and pretty much anything else that used to be tethered to a bit of dirt.

 Last year, I managed to get a little early spinach in the ground, and some lettuce that was worth eating. But I got so busy that even the zucchini I managed to eventually get out into the garden struggled to grow.

When you’re struggling to grow zucchini, either you’re from Los Angeles, or you’ve something seriously wrong.  I’m pretty sure there are Inuit families that can grow enough squash to get sick of zucchini bread before the 4 hours of Barrow, Alaska summer is over.

So yes. Garden beds in December.

It’s snowing outside at the moment. But I’m going to ignore that white crap falling from the sky and go build me some raised beds. Screw winter. And screw Mud.  

Maybe I’ll plant a Christmas tree.

When you come visit, bring seeds.

The Gradys   

The old woman and her pig

My new endeavor with pigs has some rather deep and well-seated roots in my past. 

There was that time that my father, The Surgeon performed backyard surgery on a pair of pigs, just to see if we could prove his theory about meat tenderizer, BBQ and the efficiency of the vascular system. 

And then there was my adopted grandmother and my daughter's namesake, Nanny White.  I don't know why both my grandmothers were called 'Nanny,' except that they always were. We were from the Blue Ridge mountains. Some things just didn't call for explanation. 

Every time I saw Nanny White as a child, I asked her to tell me the same story. She had been a teacher and a librarian; she had plenty of stories, and a knack for telling them. But one stuck out in my young mind, and if she ever tired of telling it, she never let on.

I found out later that it came from one of the books she had gotten some time into her librarian career - a collection of children's literature put out in the first part of the 1950's titled The Arbuthnot Anthology.  I've still got her copy - it is much loved. 

This story came out of the English folk tales sections. But my grandmother always told it in her soft, north Georgia mountains accent, finishing each round with "...and I shan't get home tonight."

I still hear it when I read it through to my children, and it probably influences the inflection I give to each of the animals and objects that speak to the frustrated little woman in the story.  

The Old Woman & Her Pig

 An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. "What," said she, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market and buy a little pig."

 As she was coming home, she came to a stile: but the piggy wouldn't go over the stile. [EN - I'm pretty sure that Nanny said "fence" here, which is what I say to my kids when I read the story, and what I'll say from now on].

 She went a little further, and she met a dog. So she said to him, "Dog! dog! bite pig: piggy won't go over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the dog wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a stick. So she said: "Stick! stick! beat dog! dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the stick wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a fire. So she said: "Fire! fire! burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the fire wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met some water. So she said: "Water! water! quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the water wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met an ox. So she said: "Ox! ox! drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the ox wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a butcher. So she said: "Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the butcher wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a rope. So she said: "Rope! rope! hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the rope wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a rat. So she said: "Rat! rat! gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the rat wouldn't. 

 She went a little further, and she met a cat. So she said: "Cat! cat! kill rat; rat won't gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the fence, and I shan't get home tonight." But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow. 

 But the cow said to her: "If you will go to yonder hay-stack, and fetch me a handful of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the hay-stack; and she brought the hay to the cow.

 As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. 

 As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick begna to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the fence. 

 And so the old woman got home that night.