PAMINNA CHEESE TIME!

 

IT'S JULY, FOLKS!!   And I let THE FOURTH get on past without a mention of that Summertime Staple:    Pimiento Cheese. Pim-eee-en-toe is what that looks like. Perhaps pim-yen-toe.   No Fourth is the same without it. No outdoor celebration, picnic, cookout, Coleman-in-a-boat, campside or Lawn Tea can be complete until a plate of dainty little sandwiches, fine hearty ones, or a whompin' big bowl with a matching bowl of RITZ or Premiums beside is on that picnic check or white-tent Battenberg, as big as you please.    

But Paminna Cheese, the good old Grandma of all Southern spreads, is not of those pronunciations or provenance. It's not entered into lightly, not if you want the REAL stuff.

It's not my Mother's version, with mild or American cheese, little flecks of smushed-into-pulp pimiento, and chopped sweet pickles (in our case LIME pickles, a family standby since Mother tasted the canned version made by my first MIL, made one "making," and claimed it for her own).

And it's certainly not that pink Velveeta paste with a little mayo, served up and lurking in every Dairy Case in every Safeway, Sunflower, Winn-Dixie and Food Club below the Mason/Dixon. Those clear little round cartons, how they woo the unwary, how they call to the quick-minded hostess, the gotta-make-a-snack, the hasty-sandwich-platter people. That lifeless goo has appeared soft and comfy on Wonder Bread, on Ritz, and painstakingly stuffed into Bugles at more Bridal Teas, Preacher Poundings, Coke Parties, afternoon socials and garden club meetings than the most sociable of guests.

That stuff is a comfort food, of sorts; it is squishy and mild and bland, and a white-bread sandwich made with it is the Movie Extra of foods: there, and useful in its way, but just hovering in the background while the real action takes place.

REAL Paminna Cheese (always capitalized, and spelled like it sounds) is a lusty, tangy, splendid mouthful of bright flavors which delight your tastebuds and make you smile. It's the easy-to-put-together quick spread of all time---no eggs to boil, no creamcheese to bring to room temp and smoosh around, nothing to chop or measure (though I've become addicted to making it with just-minced whole roasted red peppers, usually Trader Joe's, as we always have them in the fridge, and I even throw in a little pour of the juice from the jar).

And I DO wish Kraft would catch on to grating the SHARP cheese into those little fine threads like they do some of the other flavors---I grew a great fondness for the PC of my first MIL, who ground the whole shebang through the finest little holes in her big ole clamp-it-on-the-counter sausage grinder---hers came out a bit like clay, and we probably coulda made little fruit and pink piggies out of the stuff, like marzipan.

The ingredients are simple, and can be changed according to anyone's taste; ramping up the tang is easy, with more mustard, more L&P; it can be rosier with all the peppers you like---two minced makes a fine combo with a six-cup pack of the cheese.

And this is a please-yourself recipe---get yourself several teaspoons out of the drawer before you start, and take a wee taste as you go. I always envision that people making this recipe take a spoontip and taste it, making that little tip-tip-tip sound, then clanging the spoon into the sink before adjusting the quantities and dimensions, grabbing another spoon for another smick, until the proper perfection is reached.

Lo, and BEHOLD!!! I just went to the fridge to verify the size of the package in the drawer, and it's FINELY shredded. Sometimes you can find it. It's the two-cup size (I buy whatever size is the best price total, even if I have to buy three small to make one big---that's Southern Kitchen math. Or perhaps just my own. Oh. Well).

Recipe:

A Two-Cup pack of Kraft SHARP, finely grated
One jar of pimiento, buy chopped or whole---cut them as you see fit
Squirt of French's Yellow
Coupla glugs of Lea & Perrins
Big spoondig out of the cute little Durkee's Sauce jar

Good-sized clop of Mayo---Duke's or Blue Plate for the REAL experience, but Kraft's OK
Several good grinds of the Pepper Mill

Stir it all up in a medium-sized bowl, and taste a teensy bite. Adjust any and all quantities to suit yourself. A lot of L&P will make it kinda tan, but still delicious. This fits perfectly into one of the flat Glad-Boxes, and seems to benefit from the close confinement, sorta all soaking up everything else's good natures and making the whole thing WAY good. Like a close-knit Sunday School Class or maybe Group Therapy.

For the authentic experience, serve it with Premium saltines, or Ritz crackers.

Makes a KILLER grilled cheese, especially on Sourdough or rye. It's also SPLENDIFEROUS on those asparagus roll-up things that were so popular about twenty years ago. And spooned over a fresh-off-the-grill sirloin burger, enclosed inside a buttered-skillet-sizzled bun---the Bleu Cheese proponents have no idea.

And ANYTHING served surrounded by Devilled Eggs is sure to be a hit.

Add on to mention:  There's a New Kid in Town.

If you're lucky enough to have an Aldi nearby, grab a couple of sticks of EMPORIUM White Cheddar---the size of a jumbo stick of butter, with the black label.   It takes Paminna cheese to a whole new elegant level, with only the addition of pimiento and mayo.   Classy and Fabulous.  

ASIAN MARKETS

 

I love shopping at the Asian markets, coming home laden with boxes and jars and frozen items, as well as quite a few fresh vegetables. The white mushrooms (can't find a pic online, and clerk couldn't name them for me) were a huge tender stem, with just a small blossoming top. We'll be having those as a little side dish, just to try their own flavor before mixing with other items another time.

We watched the busy shoppers bagging up burdock---I've seen it grow down South, but these were yard-long thin shoots, apparently limited only by the dimensions of their shipping box. There were greens aplenty, and several that I wanted to ask if they were for cooking as a dish, or herbs for flavoring another dish. The great stacks of boxes held baby bok choy, broccoli rabe, tiny pickling cucumbers, the shiniest of scallions whose ROOTS were even white and thick and pretty.

There were the fanleaves of all sorts of greens, and I was struck by the jewelly loveliness of the tiny turnips and daikons still attached to the neat sheaves, like dangly earrings on a deb. The slenderest of lavender eggplants, others of a mottled stripey pale green; small melons and limes and bunches of what looked like the daffodil sprouts punctuating our back garden---all were just sitting there, no refrigeration, just being gathered up as a daily fresh-shopping excursion which must occur for more families here than I realized.

We loaded up on a gallon of soy sauce, which I decant into a bottle for storing in the fridge door; big can goes into the cool storeroom. Jars and bottles of oyster sauce, aji mirin, sambal oolek, rice wine vinegar, coconut milk; fresh udon, a couple of packs of VERY firm tofu for the mapo another evening, bean sprouts, bamboo shoots and water chestnuts, a half gallon of medium Kimchi, and a pack of frozen squid as a treat for Leah, who likes them dusted with cornstarch and sizzled just a few seconds in peanut oil.

 I've never actually CLEANED any, but I figure it can't be harder than catfish. And these looked so nice, just 2" little fellows, lined up so symmetrically in their little styrofoam bed with their wee grabbers all curled up like pink babytoes.

No wonder so many Asian cooks seem to live ZEN. 

GOOSE CAVORTS

 

The "Toast" as we came to call it, began WAY in the Nineties, when we were first here on a Military base for "a few months" and has extended into 36 years because we loved it here, and had not such call to return to the HOT SOUTH.   We came for five months, with his coming in October of 1990, to begin, with plans to come home for Christmas and bring me back for the further three months.   Then came Desert Storm, and he could not "get leave," so he had a talk with his Colonel about going to bring me back---My silver-tongued sweetie could get gold from a stump.   Colonel said, "We're on Lockdown.  Have your A-- in a chair in the room on Monday.   That's all I've got to say."

So we had Christmas on Christmas Eve, with all seven of our children gathering down on the coast, and woke Christmas morning at four to kiss lots of sleeping faces and drive all day to get here.  His children had gone home after dinner to be with their Mother for the actual Eve and Day, and Leah and her brothers planned a nice dinner to cook together for the actual day.    

 He'd taken a tiny apartment in a nice complex, for such a short duration, and we were at the very back, with a whole parking lot and vast lawn of picnic tables.   Our Ground Floor windows, wide open to that Spring breeze, first became the target of a pair of mallards.  There were also DUCKS and GEESE in the central lake, and soon they caught on that there were goodies to be had around at #13.   They brought their kin and neighbors and babies, and finally we were visiting the "used bread store" twice a week.  

But before those little dinner visits turned into the Avian Tearoom, we began with a little couple, named Maurice and Velveeta.   They came to the bedroom window at 5 a.m., better than reveille, and chatted away til we brought breakfast.     THEN, they brought a Third Wheel---and MY, did she SQUEAK---not murmuring a bit til we woke, but with the abrupt WAAAAAAIKKK of a Klaxon on a clown's suit---we named HER Miranda, because we SO wished she'd remain silent.

And so it went, with the wee three becoming crowds, then flocks, then a drove of thirty or more, with the lake-scenery geese soon getting in on the action.   THEY were even louder than the ducks with their honking blares, and when two or several tied up out on the lawn---it was like a bar-room fight with a Pep Squad.   Not to mention their unmentionables---mating season was a surprise to our ears, with quite a lot of goose music day and night, and when one guest asked about the noise, Chris just said, "That's just the geese cavorting."

And so it became Goose Cavorts, which my sharp-wit sweetheart immediately proposed as a toast at our next gathering.    He raised his glass and said, "GOOSE CAVORTS!" and party-goers followed suit, to whatever inflection they thought they'd heard.    So many of them had served in Germany and all over Europe, lots thought it was one of those languages.    And still we say it from time to time, that long-ago silly misnomer of a TOAST:   GOOSE CAVORTS!!    and never explain.   Do say you'll propose it with no explanation!!  (never on a serious, somber occasion)  See if it will catch on.

MRS. COPPER'S 100TH

                   Mrs. Copper, our upstairs sitting room, June 17, 2023, back from her new home for our final celebration together on her 97th.  One daughter taught ESL for several years in I believe Dubai, and the necklace spells her name in Arabic.  

Today would be the Hundredth birthday of my dearest friend and neighbor, a sweet and humble lady born in Germany and married to a handsome young G.I. in the late Forties.   She came to a strange land, raised four wonderful, successful daughters, and lived a simple life of home and family.   Our small houses in this 1959 subdivision are little Ranches, both with a big finished basement---ours with two bedrooms, a BIG party/dining/TV room, another kitchen, and bath.

Hers was divided into dormitory-type rooms, with SIX twin beds, for his two daughters lived with them part of the time.   Eventually they took in his Mother, then brought hers over from Germany for her last years.    I cannot fathom the mornings in that little house, with six off to school, and the three older ladies settling in for the day.   That kind, gentle man lived with NINE females for about five years there, and all sorts of numbers from time to time.   He DID work nights---a long career at the daily newspaper, and they had their dinner before 5 p.m. so Dad could eat one meal with the girls.  

And Mrs. Copper---so named because our first Granddaughter called her after their magnificent Chocolate Lab, Copper---the noblest, most companionable dog I've ever met.   Mrs. Copper worked with a "survey company," driving all over the city and county to stores and banks and corporations to stand in the door or outside with a clipboard, asking folks to rate the business, or what ice cream flavors, or clothes colors, or which insurance.   

Way back in the 00s, I longed to have a LAWN TEA---named this blog for that kind of event---I planned a party every year, jotting tablecloths and punchbowls and all sorts of trivial bits, and something would always hinder, always delay.   So twenty years ago, I gave Mrs. Copper a Strawberry Breakfast on our patio for her 80th birthday,  with just the house of us. She had mentioned several times that during WWII she and her mother had a little pear tree in the backyard, and that was the only sweet they would have some years, and she longed for just one strawberry.  She rose at 5:30 every day of her life, and so we made it a BREAKFAST party, and we'd meet and celebrate in the early June sunshine.

This one is ca. 2012, and most of the goodies were delivered at dawn by Leah, coming home from  the Bakery she managed for twenty years.   The donut holes and raspberry filled holes, and the neat round ball of Irish soda bread with its delightful crisp sugar coating to crunch between your teeth---those were her contributions, fresh from her oven, and she selected and brought the three cheeses on the bread plate.    See the little red candle in the top of the snowballs?   That's the birthday candle in Hannelore's favorite treat.

That went on, every June, and after she moved away two years ago, she came for one last celebration with us.   I MISS my friend, my over-the-fence pal, our history-teller and sweet confidante.   She, the eighty-foot hackberry tree and the second kitchen were what decided us on buying this house back in 1997.   

And NOW---fate and prayers and CENTURY 21 have brought me a new little companion, a quicksilver little sprite turning SEVEN tomorrow, so I've just Amazoned a tiny sun-dress, some unspillable glitter nail polish, a set of Unicorn Academy books, and some strawberry-strewn paper plates, for our celebration at eight on Sunday morning.   Time goes on, and brings the loveliest things down that long stream of friendship.

Happy Birthday, Hannelore!   Happy Birthday, Rebekah!  And 93 more.

DRAW AGAIN, PLEASE

 

Yesterday was a FUN DAY---Sweetpea's Graduation Party, with a whole crowd of friendly folks at a local Masonic lodge ours for the afternoon and festooned by her Mom in absolutely perfect mementos, colors, hundreds of pictures of her life-so-far, her awards, her travels with the band to ten countries at their invitation to play concerts, family and friends and pets and other such loving miscellania of Life.

It was just a perfect afternoon, with a good number of her classmates there for the whole afternoon, up at the big balloon-festooned photo corner, at the big buffet of ordered-in fried chicken and lots of family dishes set down at the most perfectly-decorated tables and counters I've ever seen for a graduation.   I walked in to be ushered straight back to a table of her classmates, who welcomed me as warmly as another teenager, and asked, "Do you like SCRABBLE?   I brought a board."    And indeed I do.   

Much moire non about the party itself, but Leah insisted I post about the game, for it was too funny to waste.   I'm not a one to use naughty words in any inappropriate setting, but I've met with most of those now-grown graduates quite a few times---in our home for tea or dinner, taking a group to brunch, etc., and I know them pretty well---especially their humor.

So begins the Scrabble game:  the passing around of the tile-trays, then the the little black velvet bag from which we drew our letters.  I know that Sweetpea had warned them that I was a pretty good player, and they were sharp for the match---watching every motion of my hands as I hid the tiles as they went onto the tray.    And I must have had a weird expression on my face, for the first three spelled a word already.   And the next two spelled another, littler word, which combined with the first----well I'd never actually put down such a daring word before, ever.   And I had fleeting thoughts that they had RIGGED the bag, for a joke on me.

Sweetpea, not in the game because of her hostessing and hugging and introducing and such, came over to our table and walked around behind each of us.   At mine, she fell out hold-your-sides laughing, causing everybody to jump up and come see.   Wait til you're the cause of such levity it calls half the guests to flock toward the fun---six teenagers, each smart as a whip and with wits like a ninja knife--and all enjoying Grandma's laughing at herself to the fullest.

Of course, I had to put all my tiles back and re-draw, since everyone had seen my "hand."   It was a fabulous game of Scrabble, with lots of doubles and triples and add-ons to victorious yells.   And you know, you've never had such a compliment as your own GRAND gloating that you won the game (never adding on "at your age," just the facts, ma'am).    I heard her telling it to folks all over the hall, over and over, "ganjin WON the Game!"

(And as for the first draw I exchanged:   I would have settled for     S-P-I-N-E.)

SUMMER IN A SPOON, REDUX

A comment from Jeanie on the last Caffay post spurred a longing to post again the wonderful moment we discovered a magical little diner between here and Cincinnati on a Sunday afternoon outing.  I think we were meant to be there, that day, that moment that they opened the oven and brought forth that fabulous delicacy known to not as many as it should be---that scrumptious, sumptuous bowl of golden crust and almost fruit dumplings afloat in an undescribably luscious blackberry sauce, buttery and sweet and perfect.  

Blackberries are a Summer thought, of course, almost forgotten in the rarity here in the Heartland of a Blackberry Bramble, awaiting the wary souls with small buckets to hold the delicate fruit, a big hat to keep off the sun, and long sleeves to fend off the thorns protecting the tender prizes sitting on the limbs like fat, delicious purple gems.  It's odd to taste blackberries except for a spoonful from that preciously-hoarded pint of blackberry preserves from last year’s crop grown by friends Lil and Ben, and brought to us on their travels.   The very thought conjures steamy mornings, both outside braving the brambles for those elusive globules of colour and sweet, and inside over the canning kettles as the blub and simmer turn the fruit into such a lively, lovely mass of remembered moments: fresh-opened biscuits with butter melting within, or a piece of slumpy-toast with a smear of purple sweetness cuddled into the warmth.

A church supper with Aunt Bessie setting down her perfectly-latticed 9x13 of Blackberry Cobbler was a moment in time that I’d love to recapture.

  And Auntie Bingham made the most wonderfully-memorable cobblers with “Sankers” in them---a crust laid into the bottom of the big blue-and-white roaster-pan, a great sluice of sugared berries and juice poured in, then a smaller top crust laid on atop the filling.  As the cobbler baked, the top crust cooked for a while, then was pushed down into the berries, with more of the filling poured in, then another larger crust sealed on top and baked til golden. 

When you cut down through those differing layers with that big old spoon, you got layers of crisp top and firm bottom crust, with a great cascade of the filling and melty middle crust, which had simmered into the most delightful soft bits like the fruitiest dumplings swirled in.

 And I never fail to think of a memorable dish that we stumbled upon on the way to Cincinnati several years ago.  On a back-road meander through a little town, we found a little country diner---a rustic, comfy one of the Kafe'-with-a-K sort, and the walls covered with the proprietor's paintings of birdhouses and barns, each with a little Post-It pennant announcing the price.

We partook of unimportant hamburgers, and asked what kind of pie. That's what you DO in a diner. Even though CAKE is our favorite, and there WAS a pretty white one sitting under the flat-topped dome on the counter, there's just something about a DINER that says "Pie." And sometimes you order some of every kind, just to be friendly.   Haven’t you always wanted to order “two slices of every kind of pie you’ve got” for the table, like in the MICHAEL movie?  

This time the choices were apple and pecan, neither of which appealed at the moment. We were about to pass on dessert, when the hostess (and owner) tilted her head slightly toward the kitchen-cutout and said, "Let me see if that Blackberry Cobbler has come out of the oven yet." (I remember her face and demeanor as much like the lady who recommended the Dutch Apple Pie to Starman in the diner---his first taste of Earthfood, and I loved the waitress' pleasure at the total enjoyment on his cream-smeared face). 

Our server hostess returned with a shallow bowl the size of a dinnerplate, two long iced-tea spoons---the better to share it with, My Dear---and a quite visible trail of fragrant steam. She set it down with a little flourish, and stepped back a step as we admired.   In the bowl was a BIG river of beautiful purple, little rivulets of lavender and mauve spreading as it melted the two huge scoops of vanilla atop the sugar-crusted lattice. 

It was too hot to eat at first, but we were determined to dig in before it melted the ice cream into liquid, so we did. Spoon after spoon, it was the essence and life and vitality and round dark sweetness of every blackberry that ever swelled on the bramble. It was the most delicious cobbler I've ever tasted, big ole whole blackberries with their shapes altered just enough to let free all those pent-up Summer juices. I hope we can find that little out-of-the-way place again.

Blackberry Cobbler, in all its forms and fashions---whether crusted, latticed, Sankered, with biscuits or crescent rolls baked on, or with that CuppaCuppaCuppa thing stirred up in the bottom, to magically rise into a cloud of crisp doughy sweetness like floating teacakes---it conjures other times, other climes, in the way no other fruit pie can.

CAFFAYS WHERE I COME FROM

 

Part of the South's reputation for good cooking has been built upon the delicious offerings in the restaurants, cafes, buffets, eating places, holes-in-the-wall, fish shacks and barbecue joints which populate the area like lightpoles. Places that promise little and deliver grandly are not hard to find, and the elite cuisinical Meccas of such as Keller and Dufresne and Ripert and Boulud have not so fervent a following of dedicated patrons and admirers as do the small, known-mostly-to-locals places dotted all over the South.

Doe's Eat Place in Greenville is one well worth mentioning, a shabby old building with black skillets turning out heavenly steaks and takeout tamales delivered in coffeecans and tables close enough to the stove to get singed. The steaks there ARE world-famous, with Zagat and Michelin and the Sterns pointing the hordes to the door. Quite a few others come to mind, of lifelong popularity and a steady, loyal clientele who make Friday night at the Hollywood (fried dill pickles!) or lunch at Stitt's or a special celebration at Mary Mac's traditions in their areas.

But there are also very small places, principally patronized by locals, and word-of-mouth is their only advertising. They're also well worth a word, and a visit. There are small formica-tabled diner types, with divided crockery plates and plastic menus needing a good wipe from a wet rag. Hamburgers and meatloaf and liver-and-onions abound, with fried chicken and catfish prominent in the bill of fare, and you see the why of the diked plates when the overflowing chicken-fried steak and gravy and mashed potatoes are set before you.

And the Meat 'n' Threes!!! Lines go around the block, even at the shacky ones with creaky floors, mismatched furniture, and oilcloth from the Seventies on the tables.

Dishes required for all self-respecting Southern Meat'n'Threes (rotating basis, Meatloaf Tuesday, etc., quite acceptable):

Fried Chicken,
Chicken Livers
Chicken and Dumplins
Meatloaf
Country Fried Steak
A big ole pink ham for Sunday Dinner, cloves optional
Whole Turkey Breast, sliced into the gravy
Mashed Potatoes
Mac N Cheese
Butterbeans
Fried Okra
Snap Beans w or w/o Baby Potatoes
Sweet potatoes, usually canned, with sugar and butter simmered with the juices to almost caramel

Kidney Bean Salad with boiled eggs and celery and a good clop of Blue Plate or Duke's

Pea Salad, ditto, with the addition of sweet pickles
Devilled Eggs
Three Bean
Five Cup
Jello

Combination Salad (Iceberg, tomato chunks, cucumber, bell pepper) with choice of 1000 or Ranch, or sometimes already tossed and wilting into the bowl, with just mayo and salt

Congealed Salad--Any flavor, with crushed pineapple and KoolWhip stirred in before jelling

Cornbread; any version, including jalapeno; sticks, wedges, squares or muffins, but they'd better not APPROACH it with the sugar bowl unless they're north of the Tennessee/Kentucky line

Rolls
Light Bread
Biscuits
Coconut Cake---creamcheese icing is good, Seven Minute is perfection
Chocolate Cake
Chess Pie--the addition of a tablespoon of cornmeal gives it the perfect texture

Chocolate Pie

Lemon Icebox, made with Eagle Brand, egg yolks and fresh-squeezed lemons, and the orphaned whites whipped into a downy cushion, swirled atop, and just barely kissed into golden peaks by the oven

Karo Pecan---everybody's Mama's recipe
Peach Cobbler (No cinnamon---just butter, sugar, vanilla---pure and perfect)
Nanna Pudding

Nobody would expect all of the above every day, but the assortment and variety and good cooking is astounding.

And our good fortune: though we live in what Chris calls the "Northernmost Southern State," we have at least three places very close by which serve exactly the above menu, done in exactly the way you'd find it in Natchez or Clarksdale or Greenwood.

Here, you’d have to specify: Sweet Tea. Down there, they just bring it.

And moire non re: Hollywood, Round Tables, and Miss Flossie's Caffay

MEMORIAL WEEKEND, 2026

It's not quite holiday weather here today, with the warmth of the sun and bright skies and the snap of flags in the sunshine, the smoke of a thousand backyard grills raising delicious scents into the Spring air. There were no sunbeams to wake to, but the damp skies will not dim the services and celebrations of this long Spring weekend.

But weather hasn't much to do with the feelings that surround this special day, this day of remembrance and honoring and taking stock of our nation's blessings. The placing of wreaths, the little flags stuck into the earth of countless graves, the floral tributes, the handful of limp posies clutch-wilted in a child's hand, the tears of remembrance---those will quietly and reverently go on even as the scent of charcoal drifts up and the promised rain comes down.

I have a deep-imprinted vignette in my memory-collection, of sitting there in a hot scratchy dress several years ago, to see my Mother-in-Law receive the folded flag "With the thanks of a Grateful Nation." And so we remember GrandDaddy, in all his twenty-something years of service. 

I still have a secret, heartfelt gleam of pride for my own Sailor/Soldier whose twenty six years of service was oddly commemorated with the presentation of the folded flag in our back garden during that strange, closed-in time when the World changed in 2020.  We had just rung the big plantation bell seventy-three times to honor the years of Chris' life, in a small moment rather improvised as his Marine Colonel brother presented me the flag after we all took a turn of ringing the bell. That upright, stiff-chinned Marine had bought, ironed, and perfect-folded the flag himself to bring the thirteen hours to our house for the small, important ceremony unwitnessed by anyone save us beneath the trees and our family members on a Face-Time call all over the country.  

 We'll always be grateful to all the other servicemen and women, and those we'll never know of as we sleep safely on their watch.     And just looking at the flowers in the picture above, the two tall, stalwart reds and the smaller, just-as-strong pink, I think of all our sisters and daughters in uniform, especially the one determined young woman who left for training the day after graduation nine years ago with the tiny tremolo of our long-ago bedtime “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” echoing in my heart.   I gratefully salute the strong, brave women who step up to the mark, who serve standing proud beside the men whose strength and bravery have stood true for centuries.

We feel a surge of gratitude, of pride, of thankful praise for all the ones who take our well-being and our freedom so seriously that they live and die for it, and us.

And so I say "Thank you," to each and every one, and give a prayer of thanks for all of our service-people, past and present---those standing proud in uniform today, those who have served, no matter what the term, those who have retired from their service, but remain ever soldiers, those lying beneath the brave small flags, and those in unsung graves around the world, known only to the angels and remembered in the hearts of those who loved them.

124 years with two still serving.

TALK ABOUT A DERBY!!

I've long loved the Kentucky Derby---the sunshine, the roses, the infectious humor/style of the those hats-to-challenge-Ascot, the scent-of-the-mint in those sweaty julep cups, camaraderie  and the great energy and thunder of those muscles and hooves.   I still watch that sweet video from decades ago, of the baby colt and his Mama already discussing the ROSES---I usually have a few sweet tears for that one.   

Today, I ventured into a blog heretofore unknown to me from Linda's Link Party and to me, it has some of what blogging should be about---Home, Family History, Hospitality, and an evocative hand on the pen to set the stage so beautifully.   I'd missed looking in on the Derby on Saturday, and my first glimpse of a new site this morning  was mesmerizing  and captivating and I hope you'll look in on this wonderful telling of a FIRST in racing history, and the lovely hospitality of the writer.   

SALT PRAIRIE

LETTER FROM A GRANDDAUGHTER

 

I've been asked recently about my outlook on Life, and why I'm interested and take Joy in so many small things, and I think that it's the company I keep.    For example, a Granddaughter with the sharpest wit, a tender soul, and intellect way beyond her years.   I just sent a copy of one of her e-mails to NANA DIANA, who had just sent me a profoundly great compliment, to illustrate the small things that BRIGHT me, every day.    From a 21-year-old Jane Austen fan with her own magnificent library, eloquent writer, and magical touch with the knitting needles. 

She works in a jewelry store, with her exquisite manicure modeling rings for bashful swains and their sweethearts, and a letter from her is a wonderful gift:

 From last August, when I NEEDED a lift, as we were in the midst of four weeks of a hot, dusty, messy, EXPENSIVE re-wiring of the whole house:

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Happy August, Ganjin!! I’m practically sizzling with excitement for this approaching fall. One of my many philosophies is that since Christmas is allowed November, December and January, then we should grant my hearts most fondest holiday and season the last two weeks of August, the first belonging to the dog days of summer naturally.  I’m so excited that I’ve already begun window shopping for new decorations. I have little reason these days for costumes, seeing as I’m not much of a party goer nor do I have parties to attend, but that opportunity may present itself at my local renaissance faire’s new fall festival. 

I'm sorry my replies have been so few and far between. I’ve accidentally made myself quite useful at my job and I’ve taken as many hours as they can possibly give me. The shop is turning into something of a winter wonderland (my manager gets a bit ahead of herself when it comes to Christmas festivities). Every year we receive boxes upon boxes of stuffed animals for charity. The proceeds of them are donated to Saint Jude’s children’s hospital and the stuffed animals are either kept or donated to children or elderly in the surrounding area. I’ve enclosed a picture of our two variations this year. We’ve also put up this massive beautiful arch in front of our door that has inflicted a torrent of glitter upon the whole store and my person. 

I had a woman come in the other day that reminded me so much of you. She had these lovely iridescent dragonfly wing earrings and was remarkably kind. She ended up buying on a whim a citizen watch that came with an extra bangle she swore to give to her daughter. Sometimes I think people are put in our path to remind us of loved ones so that we might love them even better and miss them even more. 

Today is a lovely, breezy, overcast day. It’s a welcome break in the streak of 100 or more degree days. It makes me think of a Taylor Swift song I play obsessively once August shows its face. It’s a rather sad song (titled “August” aptly enough) but the opening lines “Salt air, and the rust on your door. I never needed anything more,” is a breath of fresh air every time I hear it. A reminder that every Summer closes with the relief of Autumn. That every sunburn heals and every humid inhale is one closer to the first fogged exhale of winter. That isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy my summer though. It was filled with new opportunities and excitement; long drives giggling over the ill fortune of a broken AC in 120° weather; cheering on friends from afar during brave, once in a lifetime kind of moves; and as always pages turned on a well loved book and stitches knit on a much anticipated project. 

My current read is “The Invisible Man” but H.G. Wells and my current knitting project is a bag as a present for K’s birthday. You may know universal studios in Orlando has opened up a new park, and in it they have a whole land dedicated to the classic universal monsters I love so dearly. Amongst them is a character who hasn’t wandered the parks in many many years, the Invisible Man himself, and I was so utterly thrilled at his return that I just had to order the book in and read his story again. I’ve collected a handful of pictures I thought you’d might like to see of new jewelry, bookshelfs and trinkets, yarn and their subsequent end results, my newest silly bumper sticker, and critters and the like. I love you, I hope the last vestiges of summer ‘25 treat you well."xxxxxxxxxxxxxx\

ISN'T SHE A MARVEL?  I'M SO BLESSED.     THESE sweet young folks are  whence springs my JOY.

    

TRACKS, PART II

 

Image from the Internet---my home clothesline is long a thing of the past, except for heavies being aired out for storage.   I DID notice in the search, that only one out of perhaps every fifty scenes DID have the proper way to pin things on the line---every single item took up TWO pins, with little spaces between.   

We lived four houses down from a railroad track---my most delightful time of day was when the Illinois Central stopped to take on fuel. I would run down the block, climb the enormous, swooping trails of wisteria vine in the last neighbor's yard about six feet up, and peer into the dining cars, all alight and bright with white napery, ladies in their nicest hats, and the coats of the smiling waiters.

But my daytime relationship with the train-tracks was a more personal one, born of years of time-between-trains---we knew the schedules and the whistles and the times of every arrival and departure. During my early childhood, before the engines switched from coal to other fuel, the close-to-the-tracks houses had a whisper of fallout from that coal-smoke. I’d be sent out on washing-day with a damp rag, to reach up high, grasp the heavy wire clothesline in that dampened cloth, and walk one-end-to-the-other, tightly clutching the line as the residue from several-days’ train-passings was gathered into a grimy blackness in the center. And when we took in the fresh-dried clothes, my Mother would “look the corners” for any telltale misses which had been folded beneath the clothespins into her fresh-washed laundry. We ran out in a frenzy many a washday, when the far-down-the-turn whistle reminded us that the train was due. We’d gather armfuls of the whites helter-skelter, holding them in great loose swags as we snatched the pins loose and ran for the back door with hems dragging and socks spilling in our wake.

Those hurried-frantic day-moments of grabbing damp clothes were SO worth the nights---I thought it the most wonderful, the most romantic, the most elegant thing in the world to be able to sit there in that small space, with lovely shining silverware and china, and be one of those happy, beautifully-dressed passengers enjoying their meal. I never saw beneath shoulder-height, but having seen train dining cars in the movies, my child’s mind converted those images into glorious colors and gleams, with flowers in vases and a silvery coffeepot wielded by the white-coated waiter.

I've told several times of the darkened evenings of watching the colorful displays of the people in the train windows, just their shoulders-and-heads view, reduced to small soundless color TV portrayals in those rectangular windows, kindling a travel-longing in my soul. I'd have been content just to sit there, sidelined on that switch-track forever, living that soundless life of gracious warmth and genial company over the china cups.

Moire non of my own fabulous trip-on-a-train, with every one of the wonderful experiences I'd dreamt of.

TRACKS PART I

 

PHOTO BY MISSISSIPPI'S MARTY KITTRELL

Beneath the wild melodies of the wind chimes at night, I can hear the low moan of the trains passin’ through a few blocks from our house, especially in this lovely weather, with the windows open, and the sound wends its way in through those shady windows, down the long hall, and flows down these narrow stairs like oil down a drain. To my ears that oh-so-familiar old woooooooaaan is an echo of past train-sounds of decades, from those hot Delta days whose clock was the train-times; they stopped for water, for coal, to offload and take on passengers, and the mail was unloaded as swiftly as tossing out the bags.

The strong-as-iron mailbags with their leather-belt straps and their old-penny locks had the grinds of cinder-landings and underfoot stompings and dusty-concrete-draggings branded into their indestructible fabric. Not even years of being hung in all weather from the T-frame, feet from the tracks, to be snagged by the hook of the fast-passing express, could pierce the armor of those magical mailbags.

We loved that conjuring trick, and gathered to watch, every time we could---the depot worker would squint his way out into the sunshine, holding or dragging the gray-brown canvas lump, manhandle its weight up the several feet onto its iron gallows, and step back toward the door of that “railroad-colored” building---a sort of blacky-grayish-grunge color which marked every small-town depot I’d ever seen.

Smalltown "Postmistress" hanging out the day's mail with her hair and slip blowing in the wind.

The fast-approaching train would shudder past, the clicks of the pin-width gaps between the rails causing those flying silver wheels to give off their trademark ca-CHUNK ca-CHUNK as the open door neared the swinging mailbag. In a move fast as a blink, the hook swung, the bag disappeared into that big maw, and the train was gone, in a diminishing clamor and whoossshhhh that left us breathless ourselves, and again amazed by the magic.

And of more Train Magic from the past, moire non.