Poor.

I grew up poor. 

Dirt poor.

Poverty stricken, really.

Interestingly enough, I didn't know it.

Nearly everyone I knew in our small rural community was not much better off, or worse off, than we were.

I always had plenty of food to eat and clothes to keep me warm.  Mama always dropped something in the collection plate at church when it came around.  When there was a holiday food drive for the three or four families who I thought of at the time as "poor" we always donated. 

When something came up at school that required money, Mama came up with it, and I had plenty of gifts at Christmas and on my birthday, although looking back to that now I have no real concept of where my parents might have gotten the money for all those things.

Me on my first Christmas. It looks like I got quite a haul.

We were tobacco farmers.  Our main cash crop was totally dependent on something called "the market" which I didn't understand, and we sold only once a year, in the winter.  That was the bulk of our cash for the coming year.  I remember times that Mama would work waitressing jobs for a few months here and there, and Daddy sold firewood all year long, so there was some cash coming in at other times, but mostly we were dependent on that one influx of cash when that year's tobacco crop sold.

When I was around nine or ten, something must have given me a clue as to our circumstances, so I asked, "Mama, are we... poor?"

Mama laughed, a short sharp sound and answered, "Yes.  Yes. We are poor."

But still, I don't think I ever quite believed it.  I had all the things I needed and most of the things I wanted, and if that was poor, then I guess I didn't really understand what the word meant.

Fast forward thirty years or so, and my boys have already broken or lost more toys than most kids get in a lifetime.  They have every iGadget, electronic and video game on the market.  They have closets full of clothes, many which are never worn.  We take them on expensive and elaborate vacations.  We do it because we want to, and because we can, but I worry that the constant influx of stuff into their lives will make them be unable to appreciate what they have.

The way they are growing up is so far removed from the way I grew up that I'm fearful they will feel entitled.  That they will be spoiled.  That they will think we are rich.

How can they appreciate something when it's covered up with and overshadowed by 15 other things?

I'm really not sure how we got here.  I'm really not sure how to change it, or if I even should.  I want them to have things.  Cool things.  Fun things.

But I NEED them to know it's not the things that will make them happy.  It's the people, the places, the experiences, the moments that will mold them into who they are, and who they will become.  How can I teach that from amidst a pile of forgotten THINGS that mean nothing?  

How can I teach them that RICH means having people who love you and who would do anything - ANYTHING - to ensure their happiness?

I don't know how we got here.  And I don't know what to do about it. 

Zombies are coming!

So I mentioned a couple weeks ago that RJ had made our tv into a magic box so that we could watch shows at will.

Abracadabra!  Let's watch The Walking Dead! (Which, by the way, is totally NOT my kind of show.  But RJ wants to watch it, so I can make a sacrifice... OMG is she sleeping with HIM?  Did you see that?!?!?!?  Wow, that guy is a grade-A asshole, I hope he gets zombie-bit.  Hmm, that dude is kinda cute, in a totally Sawyer-from-Lost-but-rednecky-kind-of-way.  NUH-UH.  WHO got killed?)


Well, anyway, marriage is all about compromise, isn't it?  So since we've been watching it, I have become just a little bit of a zombie expert.  A zombert, if you will, and I like to work my newfound zombie knowledge into casual conversations with friends and family.

"Hey, I just got a great deal on AA batteries, which is awesome, because we will need all that we can get when the zombies come."


"I'm not sure you saw the Kroger sale circular this week, but bottled water is dirt cheap.  You might want to stock up.  You know, for the zombie apocalypse."

"I'm so glad we know how to can fresh vegetables.  I think farm girls like us will have a HUGE advantage when the zombies come."

"I read a really interesting article about superbugs and it turns out that it's really awesome for me that I avoid doctors and haven't had a round of antibiotics since 1991.  See, the CDC is predicting a mutant strain of gonorrhea that I believe will turn everyone into zombies, but one Z-Pak should clear that right up for me, since I'm not antibiotic resistant."


"I've really been working on my distance running lately.  I think it will come in handy when the zombies come.  They're not fast, but they can run FOREVER, you know."


"Hey, that's an awesome sale on shovels.  Those flat ones are great for smashing in zombie heads!  How much are baseball bats here?"


However, it seems that many of my loved ones are not nearly as concerned about this possibility as I am.  When I asked Natalie what her zombie apocalypse plans were, she said "Well, I have two spare water bottles and a roll of duct tape in the basement.  Am I prepared?"

Clearly, not everyone is taking this seriously.

Finally I just told her, "Look, when the zombies attack, just get in your car and come to my house.  Bring all your guns.  And bullets.  Don't stop along the way.  Got it?"

I'm thinking I may need to go into business getting people ready for impending zombies.  I know there's a book out there, but since it seems like nobody's actually taking the advice in it, that's where I would come in.

I could help people gather necessary supplies, train them on how to evade zombies, spar with them so they are ready to fight off the ones who get close, and help them ready their homes (NOTE: cities are bad.  Stick to rural areas, and find yourself a two story house, then live upstairs.)

Ok, I'm on this.  I'm off to write my business plan.  Or maybe to watch another episode of The Walking Dead.

I'm going to call it research.

Really, really good green beans.

I grew up on a farm.

Every year we had a big garden with potatoes and green beans and tomatoes and corn and squash and all kinds of good yumminess.  When I think about comfort food, these are the kinds the things I think about.

Now when winter is in full swing and I'm tired of paying $4 for a shriveled tomato at Kroger I make grand plans to plant a vegetable garden in the spring, but every year some combination of not enough resources (like money and ground space) and not enough time keep me from actually fulfilling this plan.  I do usually manage to plant a couple tomato plants here and there, but it's just not the same.

Anyway, I've come to depend on the kindness of strangers (or friends, whatever) for my fresh vegetables every year, and this year a co-worker of RJ's came through for me and gave us tons of tomatoes (green and red), potatoes, radishes, and my personal favorite, green beans.

I cooked half of them in what I consider to be the "traditional" way - boiled with potatoes - and then came up with this recipe for the other half.  It's a keeper.

[Printable Recipe]

WHAT YOU NEED:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 small package button mushrooms, sliced
1 small onion, diced
1 red pepper, diced
4-6 cups fresh green beans, stems removed
Water
fresh ground black pepper and sea salt to taste

WHAT YOU DO:
Saute the mushrooms, onion and red pepper in the olive oil and butter.  Use a pan big enough for green beans.  When the onions begin to be translucent, toss in the green beans and just cover them with water.  Season with salt and pepper to your liking.  Bring the water to a boil, then cover and reduce the heat to low for 10 minutes or until your beans begin to soften.  Then remove the lid and turn up the heat until the water boils away, stirring frequently.

Oh. My. Yum.

Perfect Fried Green Tomatoes. You're Welcome.

When I was a kid, we always had a garden.

I grew up on a farm, and I remember the rows and rows and rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, watermelons, green beans, onions, lettuce...

A typical meal might be green beans and new potatoes, corn on the cob, fried green tomatoes, and cornbread.

Yum.

I could still eat like that every day of my life and be perfectly happy.

Well, except for the days I want Hibachi.  We didn't have that on the farm.

Since I made the transition from farm girl to full-fledged SUV driving, capri-pant wearing, cookie-baking suburban Mama, I've tried a couple times to grow some vegetables.

The first time I planted two tomato plants that were promptly eaten by squirrels.

The second time I tried to create my own version of raised beds in some old tires and thought I might have something going on there until wild blackberry bushes grew up all around them and I couldn't get to them for several months and forgot all about them till the fall when the bushes died and I found one giant mutant squash that was bigger than the tire it was growing out of.

Suburbia, my ass.  It's a jungle out there.

I've given up - for now.

Now I buy my fresh vegetables from an old guy with no teeth and no shirt who sets up a stand on the side of the road and charges $5 for three tomatoes but it's totally worth it and I forgive him because he always has mums for cheap in the fall, and since I kill plant several of those every year it's a fair trade-off.

Well, except the part where he doesn't wear a shirt.  Ain't nothin' fair about old-guy belly.

Anyway, I stopped the other day and got some green tomatoes, and came home ready to cook and eat them all.

Except I'm apparently a failure in the kitchen.  I was out of flour.  And cornmeal.  Both of which I needed.

So anyway, I embraced my inner farm girl and did what we do best - I improvised, I used what I had, and I succeeded.

These were by far the best fried green tomatoes I had ever made.

WHAT YOU NEED:
2-3 green tomatoes
1 box Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix
1/2 cup Bisquick
1 1/2 teaspoon salt, divided
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
a couple dashes paprika (ok, you don't really need this, but it gives the whole recipe a certain "I have lived in the world and met a spice that is not salt" flair, doncha think?)
Canola oil for frying

WHAT YOU DO:
Slice the tomatoes and put them into a bowl.   There is a definite art form to this.  I prefer my green tomatoes sliced somewhere in the 1/4 inch thick range.  Any thinner, they burn.  Any thicker, they don't soften enough in the middle.  Use a ruler if you have to.  Or not.  After your tomatoes are sliced, cover them with water and add 1 teaspoon of salt.  Let them sit for at least 30 minutes to an hour.  Sometimes I do this step a day ahead.  You can cover them and put them in the fridge, then they're ready whenever you want.

After your tomatoes are finished soaking in the salt water, mix the corn muffin mix, Bisquick, salt, pepper and paprika in a gallon sized ziplock bag.  Drain the tomatoes and shake off the excess water, then toss 'em all in the bag and give 'em a good shake or three, till they are all coated.   Take them out and lay them on a baking sheet or similar, and let them sit for at least 20 minutes.  There is probably some scientific reaction happening at this point, but all I know is if you skip this step and go straight to frying, all your breading will fall off in the oil.

After at least 20 minutes, heat your 1/2 inch of oil over medium heat in a deep skillet, then fry them up, a single layer at a time, until they are golden brown.

Drain on paper towels.

Eat them, fresh out of the skillet while standing over the sink, between two slices of white bread like God intended.

No, really. I'm pretty sure it's in the Bible somewhere.

The one where I almost got accidentally famous.

A few weeks ago, Angie at The Jammie Girl wrote this post, which I took as the challenge it was meant to be.

So in response, I wrote this post.

In case you can't be bothered to click all those links, the posts were about our redneck roots and families.

Pretty funny stuff.

All true.

Anyway, that was weeks ago.  I went on with my life and gave it not too much more thought at all.

Until yesterday.

Apparently, you never know who might stumble across your blog while Googling "redneck family stories."

I got a Facebook message from my cousin Deb late yesterday afternoon.  Apparently, all my cousins were burning up Facebook and text messaging trying to find out about the new reality show I was going to be on.

Wha?

I forwarded the message to my Sis B, asking her if she could help me decipher.

She called me immediately.   The surprise had been ruined, and my chance at fame, shot to hell with a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun.

My sis B and several of my cousins had been approached by a production company who had run across Angie's post, then read my post, and determined that my redneck family might make for good reality tv.

Why of course it would.

Here is part of the message my Sis B received:

"I am contacting you beacause I am with CMT Television casting and I am trying to cast MJ in a new reality show that documents a family reunion. Please do not tell MJ that I have contacted you because this reunion should be a surprise. The shows description is below.

The hour-long special, hosted by Tom Arnold, will reunite one redneck family with a big-city slicker relative for a family reunion they’ll NEVER forget. If you and your family would like to reconnect Mary Jo with her country roots we can help! 

I would love to chat with you, I am reaching out to your family on Facebook."

Um, yeah.

A whole bunch of my family got the same message.  So did several of my Facebook friends who share my fairly common maiden name, but who were no relation to me or my redneck family.  Bet they were confused.

The funny part, really, is that I was pegged as the city slicker in the family.  My Sis B and I got a good laugh at that, until we tried to think of a more citified relation.  Sadly, none could be found.

 

My Sis B contact the nice CMT lady and let her know that the cat was out of the bag, and my chances of being a reality show star washed away, just like that.

Oh well.  I'd really hate to give up Moon Pies, anyway.  Even for fame and fortune.

Changing Channels.

I know that I've been going all Laura Ingalls up in here lately with all my nostalgic I'm-a-farmgirl posts, but  really, this is a good story.

Bear with me.  Really.  It's pretty good.

So, there was no cable tv where I grew up, and only the rich-ish families had a satellite dish.  My friend Karen had a satellite dish, but aside from that, most of the people I know had tv antennas.  And two channels.  Three if the weather was clear.

The entire process of changing the channel was a pretty intense one where we lived.  See, we lived down in a valley, which going forward in this post will be referred to as a "holler."  Down in the holler, tv reception was not great, and the tv antenna had to be turned a particular way in order to get the best reception for each individual channel.  Are you following me?    Due to the arrangement of our living room, it took no less than three people to turn the antenna and have it stop in the correct place.  Here's how it played out.

PLACEMENT:

Person 1: In front of the tv
Person 2: Across the room by the picture window.
Person 3: Outside the house by the antenna.  Has a view of Person 2 through the window.

Here, let me draw you a picture.

I'm sure that cleared everything right up, eh?

Anyway, changing the channel was a dance that had to be perfectly synchronized.  If P3 was turning the antenna too quickly, it was impossible for P1 and P2 to relay the information in time.  If P1 was too slow in telling P2 to tell P3 to stop turning the antenna, the sweet spot would be overshot.  P2 had to balance  a fine line between the two.

It was quite hard, and explains why I spent many of my childhood evening watching T.J. Hooker instead of Moonlighting, which was clearly a better show.  Clearly.

I was thinking about this the other day, and it made me realize that my kids would probably never ever see a tv that did not have 100+ stations, a remote control and some sort of built in guide mechanism.

 By the time they're teenagers, our televisions (and all our other appliances as well) might be voice activated, like "TV, turn on Dukes of Hazard," or whatever your preference is.  That just happens to be my preference.  So there.  Anyway, there are a lot of things my kids won't ever know about, like rotary telephones that actually had to be plugged into a phone line, or a car with crank windows, or air that you can actually breathe.

There are times when I get nostalgic for things from my childhood.  But then I just Google them on my iPad, and all is good again.

Oh dear. I can't think of a thing to say.

So, it appears that I've become Muse-less lately (Damn Muse.  Where are ya when I need ya?).  Apparently, my life has become rather boring, my kids have ceased to be funny and/or cute, and there is no news fit to report at 154 Hidden Court.  For a while I resorted to writing stories about my childhood, but I can only go all Laura Ingalls up in here for a little while before it starts to get a bit stale.  Plus, my inner farm girl is also hiding at the moment, presumably under the extra 20 pounds I'm carrying and have no hope of ever losing since my treadmill tried to kill me.

Anyway, I did what all good bloggers do when stumped for an idea.  I Googled "blog post ideas" and decided that I would pick the least worst one.  After wading through ideas like "write about what your definition of love is" and "write a blog post about your most recent date" and "write a blog post about that one time that you got abducted by aliens" I found an idea that wasn't too terrible.  The suggestion was "write a blog post on current news happenings."  I'm informed.  I'm well read.  I can surely do this.

So...

I pull up CNN.  Here is just a smattering of the current news making headlines around the world.

Gunman to 911: Wish I shot more -  This is a terrible story about a gunman who shot up a bunch of people, called 911, and said he wished he had been able to shoot more people.  Uplifting.


State Dept.: Al Qaeda still No. 1 threat - Oh really?  I thought maybe that was all better now.  Thanks for the update.


19 states warned about deadly heat - well, it was 109 degrees yesterday...


Zakaria: Iraq war wasn't worth it - No. Shit.


Ovulating women buy sexier clothes - that's good to know.  Remind me NOT to go shopping then.  


7 water bottles found in dead gator - Really?  Who's the schmuck who checked?


Born to be fat? - Oh good.  It's not my fault.  Where are my Cheetos?


Obama celebrates birthday with Oprah - But of course.  Where else would he be?


The phone with the most apps wins - My iphone has been ordered and will arrive next week.  I could have told you that.



So, now we're all more enlightened.

Thank goodness.

And I promise, I'll take some pics of the kids doing cute stuff to post next time.

Party Lines.

As I mentioned in my last post, I come from a very small, rural community where gossip was a way of life and a favored pastime of most of my neighbors.

One of the best ways to keep up on community gossip was through the party telephone line.  I'm not talking about 1-977-HOT-BABE kind of party lines, I mean the ones where you shared a phone line with your 3-5 closest neighbors.

And... dead silence, since most of you probably don't have a clue what I'm talking about, right?

I Wiki'd it just to make sure I hadn't created a backwoods backstory that didn't really exist, and sure enough, there it was.  Since we lived in a very rural area with few actual lines running to some of the more outlying areas, it was much cheaper to share a telephone line with several neighbors, which was referred to as a party line.  Here's how it worked.  Somewhere between two to six houses would be on the same line.  Only one person out of all these houses could actually have a phone conversation at a time, since the line was actually being shared among the household.  But here's the kicker.  Say I'm on the phone at my house and my party line neighbor picks up the phone at his house.  Well, he can then hear and even join into my conversation.  It was understood that when you heard someone pick up once it was time to wrap up your conversation, and if they picked up two times, you usually just told them to hold on and you'd be off in a minute.

Really.

I promise.

That's really the way it was.

It was always Big Conversation at out house when someone might move on or off our line.  It was possible to pay for and to obtain an private line, but it was deemed an unnecessary expense by most of the folks who were my neighbors.  Occasionally someone would move into or out of the area, and that would also result in a party line change.  Big News.  Always.

I had a bad experience once with a party line call.  I was maybe ten or eleven, and I was talking to my friend Amy.  We were likely talking about boys, and school, and boys, and hair, and boys, and clothes, and boys...  Anyway, I don't remember exactly what we were supposed to have said, but at eleven it couldn't have been too terrible considering there was no cable tv in those days.  But Ms. Peg, who was on Amy's line, not mine (see how complicated and rumor-breeding this is?) decided that whatever we had said was dirty and proceeded to pray for our immortal souls out loud in church the next week.  That was, of course, AFTER she had told the whole community what dirty little sluts we were.

It was quite the talk of the community, at least until something better came along, but it always left a bad taste in my mouth for gossip of any sort.

Anyone else remember (or ever heard of) a party line?

Krauthead*. A love story in two parts.

*I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone with this term.  I like German people, and I especially German food.  They make the best fried potatoes.  And those little dumpling things are to die for.  Anyway...  I also mean no disrespect to anyone out there who may be named Krauthead.  I feel bad for you, but I don's disrespect you.  This is a name I came up with at the tender age of nine when I was sad that I couldn't have a "real" Cabbage Patch Doll.  Nine year olds are not generally known for their creativity, and to me, kraut was just rotten cabbage.  So there.

Part One:
I grew up in the 80's, and around the time I was eight or so, Cabbage Patch Dolls exploded onto the scene.  Actually, they probably exploded years before that, but growing up on a farm in the middle of nowhere with few neighbors and no stores and two channels does not lend itself to being on the cutting edge of toy acquisition.  My friend Karen was the first person who I actually knew who had one.  And actually, she had - GASP! - two of them.  I wanted one.  Bad.  I begged and begged and begged for one for my upcoming ninth birthday.  Of course, and the time, I really had no concept of money, and I didn't realize that we were dirt poor.  Like the Clampetts, before the oil incident.

Around the same time, a lady in our community began to make a homemade version of these dolls that she sold for a fraction of the cost of the real ones.  So ninth birthday comes, and voila! Krauthead came to me, in all her stuffed glory.

I loved her.  I really did.  But it was a grudging sort of love, given only because she was MINE.  Over time, I came to love her completely, sort of like an arranged marriage gone right scenario.  At one point, in  bit of pre-teen angst, I cut her hair in a spike and pierced her ears 17 times.  Madonna and Cyndi Lauper were my heroes, and Krauthead came along for the ride.  K and I, we understood each other.  Finally.

When I went out into the world to seek my fortune, I brought Krauthead along.  I had removed the many earrings by then, and dressed her in a dress  that was mine when I was a baby.  She lived on my bed, or occasionally under it, until she finally found a permanent home in our guest room.



Part Two:
Fast forward a few dozen years or so.  I am a respectable stay at home Mama with two adorable children, one of whom had taken up in an unnatural and uncomfortable relationship with my slipper.  Cj was spending WAY too much time loving it, hugging it, kissing it - you get the picture.  Weird, huh?  Until one day, in a fit of brilliance, I grabbed Krauthead and pried the slipper out of his mouth exchanged it for the slipper.

It was love at first sight.

They immediately became inseparable, and has all but forgotten his unhealthy obsession with my slipper.  I've even been able to wear them again without fear of molestation.

I am seeing a joy here that I have never before seen on my Buddha-baby's face.  

He is completely, utterly, totally smitten.

I am hesitant to be too forward-thinking about this, but an occasional vision of toting Krauthead to the doctor's office, or the sitter's house, or to middle school graduation crosses my mind.

But I can't think about it too much.  

Because my baby has found his soulmate, and Krauthead is finally getting the love she deserves.

Mama Makes Dinner.

On this Mother's Day, I have struggled with writing an appropriate post.

I have a ton to say about my Mama, and about RJ's Mother (but we won't go there) and about being a Mama, but nothing felt right, until I remembered this story and decided to share it, so here goes.

My Mama was always one of the hardest working people I have ever known.  All of my memories of her, from my earliest until my most recent, have her somehow in motion, doing something, cleaning something, cooking something, wiping something...

I grew up on a farm.  It was by no means a fancy farm, and when I look back on it, I wonder how we actually survived sometimes because we were poor.  Real poor.  Like... dirt poor.  But don't worry, I 'm not going to go all Laura Ingalls up in here, I just want to tell this story about the time Mama made dinner.

So anyway, here's how I remember it.

I was maybe eight or nine at the time.  Probably.  At least in that range.

We ( and I use that term VERY loosely) had spent the day working in tobacco.  I can't really remember what season we were in - setting, chopping, topping, cutting, housing, stripping, whatever, but I remember it was after dark when we got home.

See, here's how it always worked.  Mama would go out and do whatever the menfolk were doing, and do it just as well, then when we got home for the evening, Mama would begin her second job as housekeeper, laundress, cook, Mama, and everyone would get to rest because they had all put in such a long day already.

At least that's how I remember it, anyway.

So this one time, we got home, and everyone wandered off to take a bath, rest, relax, and to wait on Mama to make dinner.  Then we'd all get to eat, and Mama would get to clean up.

Hey, I didn't say it was fair, it just... was.

I was walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I see Mama open the refrigerator and rummage around.  Our typical dinner fare was beans & cornbread, or chicken, or gravy & biscuits, or pork chops, or something equally delightful, and that's what I expected to see come out.

Instead, I saw a pound of bologna fly, and I do mean FLY, across the kitchen and land on the table, where it slid across and almost off the table top.  At that exact same moment, Mama yelled "Supper's ready!"

For this one day, this one dinner, this one time, she had had ENOUGH.

It was the first and last time I ever saw her cut a corner, or let herself off easy.

I have a lot of those same tendencies, and as a Mama, I'm exceptionally hard on myself.

I feel a lot of guilt when I feel too tired to play, or when I serve chicken nuggets for the fourth time in a week.

And then I remember the bologna flying across the kitchen, and I remember that it's ok to give myself a break.

Once in a while.

Happy Mother's Day.