On Neff Road: The grill is lit


By Pamela Loxley Drake - Contributing columnist



Jackets tucked away. Heat turned off. Screens exposed once more. Hm, feels like spring. Bought a Mason bee house for the backyard. New flowers waiting to be planted. Daffodils wanting to come in and brighten the house.

The family has battled flu, colds and pneumonia for the last few weeks. We are all exhausted and in need of change. The sunshine seems to be a miracle cure. I threw off my jackets and howled at the sun. Oops, I think that’s the moon. Not up yet. I bought books. Went to the grocery. Bought foods that are fattening and those that speak of warm weather. It has been a good day.

The first sign of spring on Neff Road was definitely when the robins returned. Here, the robins stay wondering why, when it snows, they didn’t go south as well. Mom was always looking for those first bulbs to pop through the winter soil. How do they do that? Little green shoots shoving and pushing their way toward the sun that THEY CANNOT SEE. What’s with that? Dad was sharpening plows and animals were giving birth all over the place. I guess when winter comes so too does the cuddling.

I can honestly say that I have seen more births on the farm than I ever did in my own delivery room or in my with my grandchildren. Lambs, calves and more lambs, more calves. Mom sent me to the field to learn the facts of life and indeed I did. Little did she know how much more I learned during those years.

While waiting for Mom’s flowers to pierce their way toward the illusive sun, Dad was getting the garden ready as well as the tobacco beds. However, that is a long boring story that I have told before. Spring meant change.

I realize more and more as I age that we had a rare growing up. When many farm people think that suburban people think they are naive, the truth is that urban folks have no idea what it is to live on a farm. They are just clueless. It seems to be a two-way street in learning about one another and embracing our difference. I am a hybrid of both. I am now a city girl with country roots that go deep. I embrace both with fervor, because I have had the best of both. One cannot thrive without the other.

A story came to my attention this weekend. I asked my son’s father-in-law Joe, age 83, what it was like growing up in the south. A southern boy all of his life growing up in North Carolina, he lived such a different life. “You have to understand,” he said. “I was 30 before I knew that the Civil War was over slavery.” What?!?!?! What?!?!?! The history books in the south did not mention slavery in context with the Civil War. The kids didn’t know. They thought it was all about states’ rights. “Didn’t it bother you that the blacks were separated from whites?” I asked. “We had always lived that way. Again, we had nothing to compare it with. We didn’t know it was wrong.”

Perhaps this is a little like the little green spikes trying to find that darn sun that keeps calling to them. They are in the dark until the light shines on them, and they bloom. Spring has a new meaning for me. Now I know there is an understanding that must take place between those raised in darkness and those who had all the information they needed without it being hidden from them. It has to do with city and rural finding that they have much in common and much to learn. Just like the south seeing the day of light and perhaps feeling manipulated.

“So, want to sit on the porch with a glass of wine?” my husband asked. We had finished with our hibernation. “Only if we can toss dinner on the grill,” I answered.

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By Pamela Loxley Drake

Contributing columnist

Pamela Loxley Drake is a former resident of Darke County and is the author of Neff Road and A Grandparent Voice blog. She can be reached at pamldrake@gmail.com. Viewpoints expressed in the article are the work of the author.

Pamela Loxley Drake is a former resident of Darke County and is the author of Neff Road and A Grandparent Voice blog. She can be reached at pamldrake@gmail.com. Viewpoints expressed in the article are the work of the author.