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Triple Thirteen |
| Written by wesley d. marner | |
| Monday, 17 March 2008 | |
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Share it:      March 5, 2008
....13/13/13...TRIPLE THIRTEEN!
When the fresh aroma of Jonquils and Buttercups floated upon the smells of grass wet with dew in the early morning hours at dawn, it awakened a time clock on the old dirt road in backwoods Mississippi. Very soon after, I recall the Robins hopping aimlessly around heralding an end to the barren idols of winter and a new icon of rejuvenation automatically followed. That was a time when the old codgers would venture to the front porch swing about mid-morning, since once again it was the climate rheumatic joints could enjoy. Joints made happier, knowing a few months would follow much the same. A younger man making it home in the evening could look to Gramps and take a clue, after working all day trying to feed the family and just know it's time to break ground. Kids in the house, anxious for spring had already ventured to the yard in the afternoons and basked on the afternoon sunshine before the coolness of eve approached, many days. Sometime similar, the women folk cleaned out the pantries and started doing all that ‘spring cleaning' stuff when the last of the canned goods of last year's harvest made for wonderful culinary on the evening table. As if in unison, the time clock seemed a wake up call for all. Recalling the bark, not only of ol' Tippy, the squirrels still had to look out for the pump shotgun I toted that could spread lead their way dependent on the year. Squirrel season didn't end until the end of February and often Winter would cut itself short. Grudgingly, oil changes in the push mower and a trip to Mrs. Pickerd's Country Store up on Highway 45 for 25 cent a gallon gas for the tiller and the mower would occur. I had to walk the one and a half miles both ways since Dad wasn't home yet. That walk, well known to me, was always fun and even got better after the J.C. Higgins bike showed up one year at Christmas. Besides, I knew if I got it all done before late evening, that was the best time at a chance for squirrel stew and I didn't mind cleaning ‘em, heads and all! Mom's brown gravy and sucking squirrel heads drove my sisters berserk and believe me I didn't miss a slurp. A nine year old in the third grade of elementary, wearing horned rims could have had a set of parents jailed today for what he learned way back in 1964 in the metal seat of that 8000 Powermaster Ford with the plows hitched to the back. By God, the dirt did smell good! I learned when I made the rows straight I even had more chances to drive. Remembering to place the breeze at an angle to the exhaust pipe in front caused me less of a headache and less smut in the blowing from the nose when I finished. More then once the old tractor had pulled a ‘wheelie' as the lightweight on the clutch couldn't let it out easy. Those wheelies weren't as graceful as the ones learned on the banana seat bicycle later on. I was a "Big" man then. Daddy inevitably would polish off the job of the unlearned son and I'm sure smile once or twice at Mom's heart skipping a beat as I pulled out of the driveway on the big tractor. She always worried, Dad didn't show it. Mess something up and he teach it better the next time. Scrape a knee, it was Mom's turn! She'd always clean up the mess, the pain, the blood, or the success; she was the master of it all. Making sure the tater rows were spaced and straight was his job. Earning my keep at the supper table being a "Big" man was mine. It all happened so easy, just like simple songs whistled in tune with the rhythms that still play in my head. The early peas hardy in the left over frosts, if any occurred would spring through the rich dirt first and sure made the garden salads sweet and crunchy. As early spring turned spring, all the other vegetables hit the ground and just as quickly the family brigade except my oldest sister who was learning Mom's role, always showed up with the hoes and rakes to the evening duty at the garden. The luscious Big Boy tomatoes, if we kept the worms off, went off well on white bread and mayonnaise. They always had to be planted to specs. A ten inch deep hole, a half cup of triple 13, three handsw of dirt, a half gallon of water, in goes the seedling tomato plant, then all is filled with dirt. God, that dirt smelled good. All the other vegetables followed in time; the corn, the butterbeans, the black-eyed peas, the green beans, the watermelon and even a few fun things like strawberries and cantaloupe. If the time clock was set right then July 4th always saw us getting belly aches on the melons. That was alright ‘cause I was turning 10 on the 7th! As time moved so slowly, the big green tomato worms got picked off daily. It was as if gnomes of the night would intentionally place them on each plant while I slept. Their wicked games didn't particularly please me ‘cause while I was correcting their games, my brim pole was sitting idle. When I wasn't picking worms, I was picking or pulling vegetables and Mom's nimble hands could always outwork mine. How she did it I didn't know and still remember in amazement. The pantry would end up full, the bellies satisfied and the family conversations never ended after supper time. Memories of "Angel wings, winnowing the air as supper time is called. Come home, Come home, it's suppertime!" the tune often sang or hummed by our family. How wonderful the memories that springtime brings. I can't wait to smell the dirt, mow the grass, taste the veggies and just daydream the memories that sunshine today is starting to stir.
.....ol' doc wes Copyright 2008 wesley d. marner |
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