NEWS FROM THE HILLS
Dear Cousin,
In the midst of wars and rumors of wars, bloody conflicts and the horrid devastation, worry, grief and heartache of these present times, life goes on. There is a certain comfort in performing the routine, everyday tasks that lie at hand. As we cut seed potatoes for planting, in the same manner that our fathers and grandfathers did before us, I thought of how some things never change.
Living in a high-tech world, the common gardening tasks are done each spring in the same manner of generations ago. Of course commercial gardening is done on a large scale, with modern equipment and up-to-date methods. Here in the hills, we follow the age-old pattern of doing planting by hand.
The horse has given way to a tractor, and the soil is better prepared. Still, the actual planting is done the same way Grandpa and Grandma did it. The furrows are made (we call them furries) and fertilizer is scattered by hand through the rows. Then a heavy chain or garden plow is run over the fertilizer, in order to cover it.
The potatoes have been “cut” in advance. Each potato is inspected carefully for “eyes” and then cut in pieces containing two or three eyes each. Sprouts will grow from the eyes and make the potato plants.
Dropping the cut potatoes is a backbreaking job.
The potatoes are placed eight or ten inches apart in the furrow, while someone comes along behind and covers them up with a hoe. I like to place the potatoes carefully, and I hate for the fellow behind me to dig too closely to my nearly always-bare feet. I wonder if Grandma got as irritated at Grandpa as I do at Criss?
Planting the potatoes is just the beginning. After they begin to grow, they must be hoed a couple of times, eliminating the weeds, and then hilled up — or dirt hoed up around the plants. The worst job is fighting the potato bugs. They seem to get worse every year. My brother Larry told me that as soon as the little plant pokes through the ground, there is a bug on each side just waiting to pounce on them.
The striped, hard-shelled potato beetle does come up out of the ground. They seem to have grown resistant to bug dust, lime and even wood ashes that are sometimes used in desperation. A lot of folks have resorted to the time-honored method we used as kids. Carrying a can of used motor oil or crude oil, the mature bugs and their fat, orange larvae are picked off by hand and dropped into the lethal oil. I have picked off my share of these pests.
When the developing potato grows as big as a large marble, or a little bigger, I can’t resist graveling a few for creamed potatoes. You can insert a fork or a couple of fingers into a crack in the hill and carefully lift out a potato without disturbing the rest. Boiled tender and thickened in a cream sauce with milk and butter, it is a country dish to remember.
Served with fresh leaf lettuce and tender green onions wilted in hot bacon-vinegar dressing, it brings back memories of childhood and home.
Children who grow up in the country and help raise the garden have a greater appreciation for their food. They know the labor involved in producing it. On the contrary, there are city kids who never dreamed that milk comes from a cow, and not just a plastic jug.
My cousin Kay was one such kid raised in the city, but she loved coming to the farm to visit. She would devour corn on the cob (we called them roastin’ ears) with gusto, but was especially fond of macaroni and cheese. One day Daddy told her to go to the garden and pick some macaroni and Mom would fix it for supper. She spent several minutes wandering around the garden, and then came back in with a bewildered look. “I couldn’t find any!” she said sadly. I am afraid that she endured a lot of teasing from us.
It seems to be the simple things that we miss. My grandson Joseph, who is in the Air National Guard in Texas, tells me that he misses my hot biscuits. He longs for sassafras tea, morel mushrooms, trout fishing, and the simple things of home.
While our armed forces are far away from home, enduring terrible hardships and facing constant danger, we go through the familiar routine of everyday living. They are fighting for our country, and for the liberty that we too often take for granted. We are praying that God will keep His hand of protection over them, and bring them safely back to the simple things of home.
Love,
Cousin Alyce Faye
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