The Cookout: Memories of a farm boy.

I grew up on a family farm in a rural area of Tennessee. This is the kind of place that mostly goes unknown to the rest of the world. A place where everyone you pass still waves at you as you go along down the road. A place where the old folk still sit rocking on their covered porches, enjoying the fresh, crisp, clean night air and sipping on their sweet tea. A place of peace, serenity, nostalgia. A no-red light town, unincorporated. A place where you could pee off your back porch and no-one would see you. Where everyone knows your family and at the drop of a hat would be there in a time of need. You get the idea.

This is the most special place in the world to me. Steeped in my family history, I’m the 7th generation of Howards to be on this land. In most aspects, people would describe it as God’s country. You know, the kind of place with serine rolling hills that overlook the Tennessee River with a picture perfect view of the Smokey Mountains on a clear day. Where the fog gently kisses the hillside in the morning and dew rolls off the wild flowers giving them a first place stage in expressing God’s creative beauty. The sun beaming down through the tree leaves and branches, the crisp morning air filled with the songs of the morning birds going about their day. A rooster in the distance performing his morning wake up calls.

My family was and is a large one. When I was growing up, we did almost every major holiday together. This one particular 4th of July we were having one of our famous fish fry’s. All the grandkids were running around with their sparklers and fireworks while the grown ups sitting around outside leaning back in their chairs were solving the worlds problems. It was filled with the evening sounds of the crickets chirping, birds singing their evening songs, and an occasional mooing from the cows in the pastures. The herd dogs running amongst our feet, barking and playing with us, and sometimes I think intentionally trying to trip us. The air filled with the laughter of a family enjoying their fellowship together and the giggles of mischievous children.

We had a plethora of food, and not just any food. You see, this wasn’t store bought food. This was food that was created by the artisan hands of what only aged, experienced, country women could make. Women whom made everything from scratch and had been doing it all their lives. The angelic tasting food, known only as Good Ol’ Country Cooking. If you ever had the privilege of tasting such a gourmet, it would never leave your pallet and have you dreaming and wishing for the next time you encountered it. I’m pretty sure I committed the 5th deadly sin of gluttony each time my lips tasted my grandmother’s meatloaf. My mouth waters even now at the thought of it.

After our bellies were full it was time to break out the horseshoes. For those of you who don’t know what the game of horseshoes is, well, its a country must. A game steeped in rich southern history where only the bravest of the country people fold and type dare to play, showing off their mastery skill of slinging a horseshoe several paces away to ring a steel pin protruding from the ground. If you center the shoe around the pin that’s called a ringer and gives you the most points. If you land near the pin within the distance width of the horseshoe then you get a point as well. Many a horseshoe was slung on this farm, thousands across a normal lifespan. One of the self proclaimed best slingers was my father, granted that a few of my aunts would challenge this self proclamation, and they did, most often at every get-together we had. I believe the true champion among the family till this day is still undecided.

The air was filled with laughter, warmth, and smiles. The cool country evening air nestling your skin providing a sense on contentment. When night fell we would adjourn toward where the fireworks were placed. Under a vast, star-speckled sky, with the faint outline of the big barn in the distance, Dad would light the fuse and step back quickly as we all watched the rocket whistle skyward leaving it’s glowing trail. As vibrant reds and blues exploded like blooming flowers, laughter and clapping would erupt from the crowd. The fiery petals dissipating into shimmering gold dust that gently drifted towards the earth. But then there was that one rocket that, well lets just say was “lead astray” when it went off… I still remember my cousin diving for his life into the ground. I almost peed my pants laughing so hard. The German sheep dog, Sally, barking wildly at the site.

There wasn’t anything like those moments. Captured in what seemed like, on the outside, mundane, nothing special type of a regular family get-together. However if you’re not able to practice the art of resting in the silence of the moment, you’ll miss the subtle blessings God grants us in our every day lives. We just have to be still enough to see them.