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Tales from the garden


Labor Day weekend, tis. This time last year we were in preparations for Hurricane Ike to come to town. It also reminds me of the blackberry wine which was started after we lost power. The wine has been working the entire year now and it’s still working; might end up knocking your socks off.

The blackberry patch is No Mas (that’s Spanish for No More) as it has been cut to the ground being nearly dried up. That is good soil where the blackberry patch was, been thinking of getting some thornless blackberries or maybe something else we can eat to plant in its place. Should be a rule, nothing is planted that you cannot eat.

Only have five things in and around the yard besides grass (weeds) that you cannot eat. A Confederate Rose, a Seven Sisters Rose, a Tuberose (has the fragrance of the Gods), a Red Apple Ice plant and a palm type plant that is leftover from my father-in-law’s funeral, not sure what it is so it is called Don McAninch. The two rain containers under the back roof and porch contained a bit of water but not enough to amount to anything. It is used mostly to sustain the Tuberose lately.

Out on Liberty Hill Road at the little house on the hill there were three large washtubs that gathered water as it came off the side of the tool shed. The water was used to wash the clothes and all. Out from the edge of the tool shed past the water tubs was the artichoke patch.

A Jerusalem artichoke is one that you dig and not like the globe shaped artichoke one sees in the stores nowadays. The roots are knobby and Ma Pearl used to make pickles known for their sweet, nutty crispness in turmeric spiced pickles. A South of the Mason Dixon line recipe with onion and red pepper. Makes me wonder how the artichoke would do in the old blackberry patch. If the plant is ordered now, it will not be shipped until spring. Time will tell as they are ordered.

Memories of the wash day chore out in the country come back then – laborious as all get out with the ringer type washer. It was fun to put the water soaked clothes up and into the ringer only it was not so much fun when my hand went up into it. I squealed like a cut hog and my grandma came running and set me free. No longer did I think it was so much fun ‘cause that hurt. No Mas.