The Rearview Mirror

As we roll into 2019 today, like always, I take a look back and remember all the ones in my family that are missing and aren't rolling ahead with us. We had our first Christmas and first New Year without Nikki and the moment my thoughts turn to her or her picture pops up on my computer, I begin to cry again. The memory of the last look she gave me is burned into my soul and Bob and I both miss the routine and her constant companionship. She took a piece of our hearts with her and I sometimes wake up late at night, thinking I heard her tag from her collar clinking on the heating vent in our bedroom.

Nikki - December, 2012

I had a reprieve from her memories during the Christmas holidays while my Grandsons were here and keeping me busy for 5 days. For some reason, thinking of her today, has made me vulnerable to a flood of memories of other lost loved ones in my family. Listening to this song doesn't help matters either.

I used to think life was so hard when I was a kid, but of course hindsight being what it is, it really wasn't. The older I get, the more my heart tries to drag me back down those old, dusty country roads and while teaching our Grandsons to drive our 4-wheelers, the memories of my own driving lessons by my Grandfather washed over me like a soft, warm cloak wrapping itself around me.
I was Pawpaw's favorite grandchild - not because I was the best-behaved (I wasn't), but because my father (his son), Jack Pippin was a drunk, philandering, physically and verbally abusive man who had no clue how to be a father. So Pawpaw stepped in and took myself (the oldest of the three), Karen & Clint into his large comforting arms and protected us from my father's demented psychosis. Pawpaw made it his mission to teach us everything a real father should teach his children. And he didn't just teach us the educational stuff - A,B,C's, math, reading & writing - he taught us the very practical stuff too, such as learning to drive a vehicle.
When I was 5, 6, & 7 years old, Pawpaw would put me in his lap and patiently teach me to drive both the old John Deere tractor and our old standard-shift Chevy pickup. The tractor was fun, but it became boring, going back & forth across the same field - never really going anywhere. But in the truck it was a different story; now we're talkin' - now I'm going places!
At that age, I had to spread my arms wide, wrap my little fingers around the huge steering wheel and pull myself up so I could see over the hood of the truck. My feet still couldn't reach the pedals and I wasn't strong enough to pull the shift into the proper gear, but Pawpaw operated the clutch, gas pedal and shifted for me. It was a thrill for me - such a little kid - to be allowed to control such a huge piece of machinery, but the best part of this was knowing that the adults recognized that I was growing up and there was a bit of implied trust with this new responsibility.

Kathy-6 years, Karen-5 years, & Clint-2 years (l to r - Circa 1967).

He only let me drive on the back dirt roads my first couple of years, where I'm sure he had to grab the wheel more than a few times to ensure we stayed out of the ditch. As my skills improved, he eventually let me drive on the pavement, with him still operating the pedals. I would become terrified and start to shake when we met an oncoming vehicle, but Pawpaw somehow knew of my terror and would put his right hand on my back, providing comfort and steadying me through his touch. He would place his left hand on his knee close to the wheel, ready to grab it if needed, until they were past us. Eventually, it was no big deal to meet someone, and I even learned the finger-wave /greeting - lift the right index finger to greet the oncoming vehicle. Back then, it was pretty common to see kids in their parent's / grandparent's laps while learning to drive, so there was never any concern about getting in trouble with the law.

David-4 years, Kathy-10 years, Karen-9 years, Jack Jr.-2 years old

Eventually, my legs grew long enough so that my feet could reach the pedals with the assistance of a few pillows at my back, instead of Pawpaw. I'm sure he had mixed feelings about my new abilities. He had no idea at the time just how much of his energy it was going to take to corral me after introducing me to a gas pedal. After many trials and errors and hearing, "do NOT pop the clutch, do NOT grind the gears and back off the gas when shifting" over & over, I was finally allowed to drive the truck in the hay field. My first work assignment was to pull the hay trailer around the fields as the hired hands, some of them only a few years older than me, loaded the hay bales. I was paid $1.00 per hour for driving.
Most of the time, I could keep the truck in first gear and idle along as the men walked along and tossed the hay on. Not only did I feel like I was the most important part of that operation, but I also had the best seat in the house so I could watch the tanned, handsome young mens' muscles glistening and rippling as they loaded hay in the hot sun.
Still, I was prone to mistakes and while not in any danger in a big hay field, the men were not amused when I would accidentally pop the clutch and the hay would go rolling off the trailer. I learned a lot of different cuss words back then as they would stomp back to the trailer and reload the hay.
It took awhile, but I was determined to learn to control the clutch better; part of my determination might have come from having to spend some time on that trailer, dragging & stacking too, and learning just how frustrating it is to have to reload and stack if the driver is too busy admiring the handsome loaders. Back then, they were the smaller, rectangular bales - and I started to appreciate why you don't want to have to pick them up twice. That's when I started earning $2.00 per hour.
After a few years in the hay fields, a few more inches of growth, and maybe too much admiring of the handsome hired hands, the pillows were removed and Pawpaw let me start driving the roads, always with his accompaniment. I sometimes wonder how Pawpaw didn't have a stroke while I was driving.
I was an adrenaline junky and I loved pressing the gas pedal to the floor and flying down the road with the wind blowing in the side window vent and the dust roiling up behind us. I graduated once again to the pavement and to this day, I distinctly recall Pawpaw's stern warning, "Girl, I'll pay the overweight ticket, but you'll pay the other'un". That was his way of warning me to slow down.

Kathy-13/14 years, Clint-9/10 years, Jack Jr.-4/5 years, & Karen-12/13 years - (l to r - Circa 1975)

Out of all the driving training, getting me slow down was the biggest challenge for him. Except when people loaded up into the bed of the truck and we headed to our camp on the river. Even at the age of 12, I knew it was extremely dangerous to hit a pot hole going too fast when my younger siblings were in the back. I loved riding in the back too. It's funny - today, I can't stand all the dust from the back country roads, but back then, we didn't have a care in the world about it. Sand & dust flying all around us - the gritty stuff in our eyes and teeth - because who doesn't smile when they're riding in the back of a truck? Sometimes, if he was going slow, Pawpaw would let us ride on the tail gate - he rarely dropped one of us kids, but if he did he would stop and wait for offender to catch up - the one who obviously hadn't been listening when they were told to hang on in the first place.
Pawpaw was loving, but at the same time he was tough - he would tell you once, sometimes even twice, but after that, you suffered the consequences of your pride.
To this day, I can still drive any vehicle with a stick shift and a tractor.

April, 2014- plowing the field, preparing for clover planting.

I still have the problem of driving too fast, but I pay my dues when I do - or at least when I get caught. We had the best Christmas, as Bob and I taught our two grandsons how to drive our 4-wheelers. The labels on the bikes state, "no operators under the age of 16". We scoffed at that. As our Grandsons begged & pleaded to be allowed to push the bike from low to high gear for more speed, and wanted more control of the throttle so we could go airborne over the whoop-di-dooes, I laughed to myself as I imagined Pawpaw had probably experienced all the same thoughts now spinning in my head; "not an ice-cube's chance in hell, kid" & "I have no desire to die today".
I can't wait until my Grandsons visit again, so I can continue to teach and play with them. My son told me they're still talking about all the fun they had with Gramma and Grandpa. I hope they cherish these memories we are making long into their own adulthood, as I cherish my memories of my own Grandparents today.

In a Coon's Age

This year I planted purple hull peas in my garden.  I had used the last of the fresh-frozen bags that my stepfather had given me a few years ago and, after trying the canned peas, I decided I wanted to grow my own fresh peas.  But, I wasn't sure if the climate was right to grow them here in Missouri.
Apparently though, climate change has impacted Missouri in only one positive way - it is now hot enough to indeed grow purple hull peas here...at least as hot as Louisiana. My Mother brought the 'seeds' to me earlier this year and I anxiously waited for the day when I could plant them in our raised beds.  To my surprise, they grew quickly.
This picture was taken on July 2nd. 

By July 16th, they had already put on many, many pea pods.  But as Paw-Paw always instructed, they're not ready until they turn purple!

After a few days of having to focus on my German Shepherd's hip issues, multiple vet visits and totally ignoring my garden, my check on July 22nd surprised me - the purple hull peas were ready, baby!
As I prepared to pick the purple pea pods on Wednesday, July 25th, I remembered what Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw used to tell us - "hold on to that plant stem, girl, when yankin' that pea off".  After all, you didn't want to break the plant when it could still yield more crop!  I brought out a large bowl and surveyed the crop.  As I started to pick them, I thought, "it's been a long time since I shelled and cooked purple hull peas - I wonder if I remember how?" and a flood of long-buried memories welled-up and flooded through my brain, like waves building and crashing over rocks.

I always associate purple hull peas (and okra) with my grandparents - they always had huge - yes, HUGE gardens.  My Grandfather's favorite welcome to infrequent visitors came to the forefront of my mind; "it's been a coon's age since I've seen you"! - and I laughed because - it's been a coon's age since I shelled and cooked these peas too! But I knew I loved them and that's why I grew them this year.  As I picked and picked, I thought of the many hours my sister, brother and I spent as kids in the huge fields alongside Maw-Maw & Paw-Paw, complaining & whining about picking ACRES - yes, ACRES of those peas, okra and all kinds of garden goodies, which we didn't call "goodies" at the time - we were kids and didn't think the same way then.

Kathy, Karen and Clint - 3 troublemakers

No one could shell peas like Maw-Maw.  Even Paw-Paw held second place to her shelling skills.  Maw-Maw would gather everyone in a circle with their own bowl and set the foot-tub, full of peas, in the middle.  Even if you were just visiting, you got a bowl and you helped shell peas.  Maw-Maw always had food on the table or in the fridge and she loved to cook.  But people weren't allowed to be free-loaders.  Somehow, in her own kind way, she let people know they had to contribute and they always did.  I never learned to shell peas as well as she did - her fingers could move ten times faster than mine and still carry on a conversation with whomever was in the shelling circle; "Sister Savada", she'd say, "how's uncle so-&-so", or "did you hear about so-&-so", etc., etc.  And she never missed a beat and always ended up shelling more peas than the rest of us.

Maw-Maw & Paw-Paw

My bowl of peas was small in comparison to the harvests we used to get out of their fields, but still, I hadn't done this in a long time.

As I began to tear them open though, to my surprise, muscle memory took over and even though my brain hadn't caught up yet, my fingers knew exactly what to do and working together, we shelled & shelled as the peas plinked in a satisfying rhythm into my bowl.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought of all the times I complained about doing this very thing, when I'd much rather be out riding my horse or jumping out of the hay barn. I didn't realize then how valuable that time with my Grandparents really was.  I ended up with 7 cups of shelled peas for my first harvest, and along with a pone of cornbread, Mr. Freeze also enjoyed them, although, I think the cornbread is his most favorite part.
Funny how a garden vegetable can bring back so many memories. Memories that I hadn't thought of in years.  I thought I had forgotten a lot of things that my Grandparents had taught me, but it turns out, your ancestors have influenced a lot more than you realized - and there's a lot more ingrained in your muscles, your personality and your brain than we know....until one day you go out to pick the peas that your grandparents grew on their farm a long, long time ago.