The Pen

The Organics of a Hill William ©
(hillbilleeus sophisticatus)
by Rebecca Case

I can still see mom walking down the narrow gravel driveway in pursuit of her goal. Let’s call it her mission. She was foraging, if you will, for a dressed-down alternative akin to a tasty morel. The hems of her skirt swished around her as she walked with determination. My brothers and I knew that whatever she was after, beyond the woods across from the long gravel driveway, had no chance of escaping. After a diligent half hour she’d come walking towards the house with triumphant energy in her steps. We understood the smile that greeted us. We were in for what she considered to be a treat. We responded with closed-mouth smiles accompanied with short sighs of resignation.

We weren’t escaping either. The cast iron skillet sizzled with the fruits of her labor, each one golden and warm, rested on a bed of dandelion greens within minutes. A meal proudly served in what she referred to as “no time flat.” Along with our active childhood imaginations we took our seats. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of bug might be closed inside of that fried daylily bud. Never did these salads make us sick, yet each time they were served, mental images of creepy crawly visions danced on the plate in front of me.

Her kitchen garden overflowed with colorful edibles running the spectrum of reds, greens, yellows, purples from early spring into late fall. Occasionally we would notice an inchworm traveling across our spinach salad. We would not lose this opportunity to make faces reflecting phrases of surprise, disgust. I think deep-down we held a small glimmer of hope that if we made enough faces then maybe she’d stop. In the end all we accomplished was testing a proud mother’s patience. Mom cheerfully insisted inchworms were a super source of protein as she’d encourage the worm to crawl onto her finger. She’d then provide careful transport for the rejected creature back to her garden.

Cucumber and Nasturtium sandwiches were regular packed ‘to go’ lunches. My older brother would say half smirking and half apologetically “Becky, our mom is a little different.” I would have never admitted it then and especially not to my brothers but I secretly looked forward to those sandwiches. Mom would whip up softened cream cheese into a mixture of assorted veggies, layer it on homemade bread, pop them into the fridge to, as in her words, “chill em.” They looked a lot better than most of the cafeteria food.

My older brother was right about mom. She was a little different and I had no reason to doubt his word on account of what I considered to be the obvious. He’d known her longer than I had. Besides, he and I were in this thing called family together. Our Appalachian mom never entertained the idea that she was a “hillbilly”. She would correct those who remotely associated her with that label, even if it meant interrupting in mid-sentence, to interject “Hill William.”

My brother and I laughed about all that amused us. Yet we knew that the aromas surrounding mom’s kitchen came from a good place. We gathered there to share countless meals—whether they included the quiches mom baked up, her oatmeal honey bread or greens and tomatoes from her garden so good that an inchworm would invite itself into the kitchen.

She raced us through shopping malls as if they held something evil inside of them. “Convention” she’d call it--including them in a category of a slightly disdainable and occasional necessity. If I ever did feel like I missed out on frequent trips to fashion malls she made up for all of it by presenting something far more interesting.

The excursions with her artsy friends were some of the best experiences I remember. If my mom was interesting, the people she exposed us to were—well, compelling. I loved their relaxed confidence and friendliness which rarely if ever bordered on arrogance. They all seemed to have the attitude that they were never done learning, never done experiencing, and never done living. The contagion was wonderful.

We were once invited to attend a party at an artist’s house. Our family was having a great time. Then “log on the water races” started. All participants stripped naked and I gasped as dumb luck would find us walking towards the water, that in my 8 year-old imagination, I was just sure they were walking on. I just knew that they had never missed a church service. I halfway got the word “Mom” out. Sort of like “Mawwwww” without completion. Mom, in startled surprise, slapped a cupped hand over my eyes and in sing-song-y voice sang out “Oooooh it’s time to go home now!” We were home lightning quick. I can’t tell you much about the ride back into the land of dandelion greens and nasturtiums.

This was where the garden met the kitchen and the kitchen met the culture which defined us. It was a place where we would have swung on the green bean vines if we could. When autumn breezes blew against spent tomato plants it sounded like crinkling paper. We were writing planted memories from our garden and growing them into tales among the surrounding hills. We grew and life unfolded. Seasons passed into years until I found my own kitchen, and grew my own spectrum of colors. Occasionally an inchworm tags along unseen and my children make faces at me.

Just the other day Dad phoned to take care of a small detail about mom’s surprise birthday party. In a whispery voice said “Beck you gotta make a cake for your mom’s party cause if anyone comes here with a store-bought cake (a bluk sound was made), “well-I just ain’t eatin’ that bleep (not printable).” “No problem, Dad,” I said, “I’ll find the daylily buds for garnish as soon as we hang up.”

Rebecca Case (copyright 2013—all rights reserved)