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they did not know about country living. They lived in a house built about the time of the Civil War. There were no nails used in it's construction, only wooden pegs. Somehow it suited them.

Momma taught me how to make biscuits, showing me that the secret was to not just squeeze the dough through a fist but to gently rub it between your thumb and the three middle fingers. She also taught me how to pick and cook wild greens and how to quilt.

She allowed me the use of her old pedal sewing machine, where I learned to sew making Barbie doll clothes. She would tell me, "Every stitch you sew on Sunday, God will make you pick out with your nose before letting you into heaven." She cooked on a wood burning stove and drew water from a well encircled by the front porch. I thought this was life at its best.

Though Momma may have taught me about what I called the inside, my Poppa Joe taught me about the outside. I was a very liberated girl, a long time before the bra burning started. He taught me how to fish from the bank of a creek that meandered through our farm, how to catch crayfish for bait and turtles for eating. He also taught me how to make a worm farm and how to climb a tree. When the time came to put a garden in he taught me about that too. He was one who believed in allowing you to learn from your own mistakes.

He always said, "The first step for anything is getting ready." This turned out to mean clearing the garden plot I had selected to be mine and digging it up. It was hard, hot, dirty work, and now I had something I never had before. Blisters! Still, I lost none of my anticipation of that first bite of okra that I had grown myself.

We eventually put the seeds in the ground and waited for rain. It came, as I was sure it would, because I felt God smiling on me for wanting to be a farm girl. Oh, how wholesome this thought felt! After about two weeks the first little leaf emerged. Then the row became a solid line of green. In my zeal to have a lot of okra, I planted three times what I was told to plant. Poppa Joe shook his head, but only said, "Girl you have a lot of thinning ahead of you."

I had to wait until the plants were a little larger to thin them, and by then they had nice, dark leaves. I noticed some strange leaves in their midst and ask Poppa Joe about them. He chuckled and said, "That is a cocklebur and you don't want any of those in your garden." Each one had to be pulled by hand and discarded, or it would use up the nutrients needed by the okra.

So, early one morning I set about weeding the okra rows. My sister-in-law, who was even more of a city girl than I was, went along to help. It took us hours, because we were so careful not to disturb the okra seedlings. Also, we were not use to such back breaking work and had to stop often to rest.

When we finished I went in search of Poppa Joe to show him what we had done. He came at once to see, and after only a brief look, he burst into laughter. He took his old hat off and slapped it across his leg and laughed some more. He laughed until he doubled over and cried.

Then just when I thought he would compose himself, he burst again into the gut wrenching laughter. I was completely bewildered. When he was finally able to talk, he told me that I had the best-tended crop of cockleburs he had ever seen. We had weeded out the okra!

I did learn from this first misadventure into the world of gardening. Actually, I got pretty good, but I never forgot those long, green, straight rows of cockleburs.

While reflecting on this I realized that if given the chance I would not change anything about the okra incident. Because of it, I have the memory of my Poppa Joe lost in hysterical laughter.

Oh, the sweet things that grew on our farm that first year.

Learn more about this author, Pamela Kay.
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