Dining Out - HIcks Style

Well, Memorial Weekend is here again, bringing with it my husband’s birthday, Stars and Stripes displayed proudly on the front porch and hot dogs on the grill… oh, and blackberry cobbler!

The upright blackberry bushes that Dale and Patrick rescued from a friend’s farm have taken hold and flourished along the white picket fence in front of our house. We have a bumper crop this year. The trailing vines filled with the sweet dark berries in our pasture have kept the children busy again this year. The trailing vines ripen earlier than the upright bushes along the fence. This bodes well for actually getting enough to use to make cobblers or preserves.

The children have discovered that for the price of a little poking around in the brambles, they can fill their bellies with as many of the ripe little nuggets as they can find. Even my three year-old knows how to tell ripe berries from those that are “not ready yet,” as she turns earnest green eyes up at me and tells me in all seriousness. Though while in the pasture, they have to be mindful of the 1200 pound Irish Setter following them around, nosing them and hunting for his cut of the take. Topper, my elderly Tennessee Walking Horse, loves blackberry picking with the family. He knows there will always be someone willing to dole out a handful of berries to him.

The figs are also ripe, and the children have decimated the first crop with the kind of single-minded determination one would expect from a swarm of locusts. For the first time, we have a substantial crop of plums and peaches… if the children will leave them on the trees long enough to ripen. Dale informed me with a twinkle in his eye that it was doubtful I’d get enough plums to make any jam.

The pears won’t be ready until the children start back to school, thus ensuring that the crop is more than adequate for canning – but I’ll be too busy with the back-to-school bustle to put them up in a timely manner. Topper the horse and Tika the dog appreciate that fact every year.

The muscadine grapes are loaded again, but I doubt that by the time the tiny little grapes ripen that I have enough to put up. Again, the children have figured out how to tell when they get ripe, and we’ve also noticed the clever little Tika cropping grapes from the vine when she thinks no one is looking.

This year we have a single mulberry on the young tree, and one of our young apple trees has finally borne fruit – two tiny green apples growing slowly bigger week by week.

We usually find pecans scattered across the property in November, just in time for pies for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And last of all, the Satsuma orange tree is full. I can only hope the children leave those on the tree until the first frost has the chance to sweeten the fruit – this past year, we ended up with a bumper crop of sour Satsumas picked the day before the freeze that would have performed Nature’s magic and brought out the sweetness of the fruit.

You see, every time my children set foot out the door, they look for something somewhere they can eat. It’s our version of ‘dining out.’ During the summer months, there aren’t a lot of store bought cookies or sweets. My children snack on Nature’s bounty and they wouldn’t have it any other way. When their friends confide that they have no fruit trees or berry bushes, my children feel sorry for them, as though they are somehow deprived. Perhaps, in a way, they are.

My great-uncle Don spoke to me of growing up on the farm he owns and still works to this day. “We always took fresh fruit and fresh baked bread in our lunches at school. The city kids thought we were rich because of that. I guess, looking back, that we were richer than we realized.”

I hope when my children are older, they will feel the same.

That Time of Year Again

It’s easy to tell that Spring is about to explode in Southwest Georgia. First, you notice more traffic on the back country roads as farm machinery rumbles along just after sunrise and the dormant rolling fields are tilled into rich black velvet sheets that drape the countryside.

That’s when it occurs to you that the gnarled old pear trees have gained a little bit of fiery color from the rusty buds of new leaves exploding along the twisted branches. Small white flowers dance in counterpoint to the reds and greens, promising a good fruit harvest in the coming Summer. You might not have noticed it at all because of the nights that are still below freezing, but the fast darting robins flitting in and among the branches drew your attention to it. Cardinals swoop in and out of the camellias, leaving you to wonder if the japonicas have taken flight. The mockingbird has returned to sing in the evenings, sitting high up in the holly tree, knocking the last of the red berries onto the pavement.

Everywhere you look, the world is starting to show signs of renewal. Already the brown lawns are starting to show signs of life again. Redbud trees reveal their dainty purplish flowers against the backdrop of bare limbs. It’s only a matter of time before the azaleas put on their show. In fact, some early bloomers have already started with their pink and fuscia buds. Soon the dogwoods will join the display, as will the pink magnolia, the spirea, and the ever-present roses.

Here in Southwest Georgia, Spring comes with great fanfare, like a Grand Dame parading her plumage slowly down the catwalk for all to see and admire. With measured strides, she gradually assumes her best pose. It takes weeks of preparation for her to reach her pinnacle, then she graciously takes her time accepting the admiration of her adoring public before taking several curtain calls on her way off stage.

That’s one of the things I love the most about living in the True South. Spring is truly a time for celebration. It may even be considered an event in its own right. It is a glorious time of year in which it is still cool enough for sweaters and jackets, yet warm enough to enjoy Iced Tea (always served so sweet that it makes your teeth ache.)

This Spring is particularly special to me. It was on an early Spring morning last year that my little daughter, Beth, was born. I will never forget the drive to the hospital. The whole world looked like it had put on its finest garments to welcome her. Spring was at her peak. Dogwoods, azaleas, more flowers than I could name lined the streets, dropping colorful petals in front of us like adoring throngs of well-wishers. I thought rather fancifully that this corner of the world had become an enchanted garden out of some fairy tale just to welcome my baby into its embrace.

In her honor, I have planted tulips and bulbs in pinks and reds and purples. I check each morning to see if the azaleas outside of her window have popped out in their bright pinks and magentas. I impatiently wait for my roses to bloom, urging them to hurry. You see, last year, I saw this enchanted world through my own jaded eyes. This year, I will see it all for the first time through hers. I can scarcely wait.