Gumption: noun informal
resourceful, initiative; aggressiveness; innovation; courage; spunk; guts
I made it to the Fayetteville Farmer’s Market yesterday, but I was too tuckered at day’s end to even think about blogging. (Bad little competitor, eh?) I guess you could say I lacked the gumption for digging down and making it to the finish line.
Lots happened yesterday that dazzled my senses and emptied my bank account, but the best part of was having a new friend with me for the day, and the half-hour journey outside of Fayetteville to visit her aging aunt and uncle. They’re Arkansas born and raised, and as my friend said, “real country.”
After traveling in a direction I didn’t know existed, which included crossing a one-car bridge that looked centuries old, we reached their house, set in the midst of cleared land stretching as far as the eye could see. We passed their old barn that was buckled and leaning under the weight of its years, a small building constructed of stone and intended for storage of “put up” fruits and vegetables, several ponds, trees, hills and creeks. At the modest house, we were met by Aunt Tilley, her cane shaking unsteadily in one hand, the other stretched out to pull her niece in for a hug. A big grin rumpled her face, and that grin didn’t ease one bit when she was introduced to me, a stranger.
Aunt Tilley told us to come on in, come on in, and my friend pulled two chairs up close to the one Aunt Tilley eased down into. She doesn’t hear much these days, so you’ve got to shout and sit close to be heard. But then Aunt Tilley quickly forgets whatever it is you’ve said and asks the same questions many times over, mostly about spring gardens. It was easy thinking how sad it was to see the deterioration of this spunky woman’s memory, but she wasn’t bothered by it at all. Each time the re-telling of spring gardens was told, her smile freshed up a bit because everything was new again.
Aunt Tilley may di-remember things in her recent memory, but once something sparked her memory of long ago, she was off telling tales from 50 years passed with a clarity for detail that brought you right in there with her memories, living it all over again with her.
“We came in across the bridge,” my friend shouted to Aunt Tilley, describing our journey to the house.
“Oh, I don’t cross those bridges,” Aunt Tilley said, giving her head a shake. “Not since we was almost washed away.”
“Washed away?” my friend said in alarm.
“That’s right. We’s goin’ ‘cross it and there was a crackin’ and down we went into the water. It’s been a wet winter that year and the water was a rushin’ real fast. Cold, too. My daddy got mother and sister up to the banks and safe, but I’s the last one he could git. Never worried. Knew he’d get me.” Her smile stayed fixed and genuine. “No, don’t go cross those bridges since then.”
I wondered if she’d been up in this remote part of the Arkansas mountains her entire life.
“Got your garden goin’ yet?” she asked my friend.
As stories of peas, onions, and potatoes were told yet again, a hulk of camouflage approached the screen door of the house. The door was opened and an immediate nod of acknowledgment was given to me, a hello to my friend, and then a gentle but loud voice was directed towards Aunt Tilley.
“Heard that tom cluck fifty-tooooo times, Tilley.” The camo hat came off and a long, blond pony tail cascaded down the back of the camo outfit.
“This here’s Corine,” Aunt Tilley explained to me. “Just like one of us, one of our own.”
Corine shrugged herself out of her camo backpack, camo jacket and placed them carefully on the sofa. “Fifty-tooooo times,” she repeated to Aunt Tilley. “Then about 15 minutes later he yelled out thirty-fooooor times.” She sat on the couch and quickly stood up again. “I figure I’ll get him tomorrow,” Corine said as she removed the holstered .45 from her waistband, the object that had caused her discomfort when she first sat down.
“Oh, she’s got her gun,” Aunt Tilley said with amusement.
“I was tempted to shoot one of them crows,” Corine said, resting her elbows on her knees, leaning forward to look intently at Aunt Tilley. Then she turned and looked at me. “It’s such a sorrow seeing her slip away like this,” and I got a look at her soft green eyes, flawless complexion of rosewater and country cream, and slender hands bunched into fists that she rested her chin on.
“You going to shoot wild turkey with a pistol?” I asked her.
“Oh, no. I’ll have my rifle when the time’s ready.”
“She hunts wild hog, too,” Aunt Tilley said, her eyes more lively with adoration. “One of our own.”
A short conversation continued from that point on to Lewis and Uncle Vernon out bass fishing and how they’d be back soon. Corine said she’d better get home and take care of some things before it was time to start frying fish.”
“I must be getting lazy,” Aunt Tilley said. “I don’t like guttin’ and cleanin’ what they catch.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Corine said, her .45 now tucked into her backpack and headed for the door. She bent down and gave her aunt a long kiss on the cheek, gave a nod to both me and my friend, then headed out the door.
“Don’t like cleanin’ fish anymore,” Aunt Tilley repeated after she’d told Corine she loved her.
Two steps out of the door and Corine stopped, turned back and motioned for me to follow her outside.
If I hadn’t been mesmerized by the landscape and the people, I might have had my city sense about me and been scared. As it was, I felt as safe as a puppy tucked up close to a warm belly and followed Corine without thought.
“See that there,” she said, pointing to a four wheel ATV parked close to the front door. I nodded that I did. “That’s Uncle Vernon’s. He rides it every day all over these 60 acres.” I figured Tilley must’ve married a younger man when I heard that. “Yep,” Corine continued. “The man’s 98 years old and still out every day tending his land. But today’s bass fishing. I suspect he’ll bring home some good ones.” She planted a square and kindly look directly in my eye, smiled, and said it was nice meeting me, then headed off towards her car.
Ninety-eight?
My friend finished her visit with Aunt Tilley, then asked if she’d mind if I took some photos while she gathered poke salad from around the fences. Tilley told her to go ahead and help herself, then rose from her chair with a big, warm hug for my friend. She straightened up and pulled back a bit before extending a hand for a goodbye shake in my direction. Everything about her said she was glad to meet me, I was always welcome, but there would be no hug for an outsider just yet. Maybe next time, and she hoped that was soon.
As my friend wandered off to pick poke salad, I took a few photos and hated my camera. There was no way my miserable little piece of expensive electronics could capture the beauty, solitude, and fresh aroma of the people and land around me.
“You get some good pictures,” Tilley’s strong voice came from behind me, causing me to jump, “would you mind sending some up some?” She’d made her way out of the house and to the fence faster than I could have imagined. I told her I certainly would, but said I couldn’t promise to capture the beauty of the place.
“Beauty?” she said with a crisp chuckle. “This was my father’s land and used to be was nothing but trees everywhere so’s you couldn’t see a thing. We cleared it all away.”
“You mean these fields and pastures used to be forest?”
Guess I hadn’t spoken loudly enough because she turned and pointed to a large piece of land that was level and especially lush.”
“Used to be my garden there, every last bit of it. Don’t have a garden this year. You got a garden goin’? How’s it doin’?”
Before I could answer my friend came up the hill with two shopping bags overflowing with poke salad and suddenly everybody became a fluster of hands waving goodbye. I fluttered along with them and hit the road.
Once safely across the one-car bridge, I asked my friend if her uncle Vernon was really 98 years old. I was assured that he was, and that he took good care of his young wife Tilley, who was only 86.
“And they live up here all alone?” I asked, followed by a squeal as I nearly came out from behind the driver’s seat. “That’s a buffalo!” I said, pointing to a big hunk of humped back bovine.
“Yes,” my friend said calmly. “There’s some up here. Over there’s a long horn steer.”
“Wow,” I said. “Ted Turner would come out of his skin if he knew there were buffalo up here in the hills of Arkansas.”
Then I settled down a bit and paid attention to feeling the dirt road under my tires and guiding the car like I was sitting saddle on a horse.
No, Ted Turner wouldn’t come out of his skin because he’d never make it up this far. This was the land where hearty people who’d never heard of self-pity carved out their lives.
These were people made of the kind of love and acceptance only bitter struggle and the grace of survival create, the stuff that no amount of money or fame can ever claim.
This was pure gumption.
