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Neil Turner, raconteur and web guru, is based in Annapolis. He provides the technical expertise that keeps The Chickasaw Plum online. If that weren’t enough, he is one of those creature we should revere above all, a teacher. We appreciate his two Mother’s Day shorts below and look forward to publishing his father’s day piece next month. Jrg.

I. Collards

by Neil Turner

Tonight I was reading Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. Inman, the protagonist, met an old crone on his journey home. One way in which she made a little money was by selling or trading tracts in the nearby town. She showed one to Inman that had a topic The Collard: Tonic for the Spirit. I am sure that referred to some old wives' tale attributing to collards medicinal and psychological qualities somewhat akin to today's popular St. John's Wort. The title gave me an instant emotional hug for it reminded me of my mother, Bessie, who was called Boppa by her sons - my brother and myself.

Boppa cooked collards in the fashion of the Old South which renders all vegetables unrecognizable to any Damn Yankee or modern-day nutritionist. Oh, how glorious were Boppa's collards pressure cooked to the color of a bluish bruise and flavored liberally with a big piece of fatback and an aptitude of salt and pepper that would make any cardiologist faint. It must be at least thirty years since I last tasted Boppa's collards, but I can taste them in my mind so acutely that I might have eaten them for this evening's meal.

How can it be that something that smells so wretched can make one's mouth water with anticipation? To walk into the house and inhale that unmistakable pungency was a gratifying experience of my youth. To me, the smell of collards cooking was an engulfing cloak of security and nurture - the feelings given only by a mother's love and devotion. A father loves, protects, provides, but a mother - and mothers from the beginning of time - nurtures, feeds, sustains. That odor that so many attribute to what surely must be the foul stench of Hell was a message to me that Boppa was there, and all was well.

Maryland, my geographical position in the United States for practically all of my adult life, traps me in that limbo area between the Old South and the Old North. In Maryland, collards are almost unknown. They have a green here called kale that many swear "is just like collards," but it isn't. There is nothing to which one can compare collards.

Collards are unique and stand alone in the pantheon of vegetables unappreciated by today's masses desiring vegetables that are nutritious, green, and crunchy even after having been cooked. Collards belong to an era of dusty roads, bare-footed children, men in overalls, and women in thin cotton housedresses. Collards belong to poor people - especially the poor people of the South. Today's affluent movers and shakers don't really deserve collards because their souls are lost to modern sensibilities, and collards are Soul Food.

Soul food, in today's world, has assumed almost mystical qualities, but those of us who grew up poor in the South are the only ones who truly understand the source of the mysticism. All soul food is a true "tonic for the spirit" because it represents a cocoon of love provided by our mothers which helped us to survive when survival seemed impossible for didn't they do the impossible by taking something as wretched and common as collards and transforming them into ambrosia?

I was recently in my local supermarket, and collards were actually offered amongst the fresh vegetables. I began stuffing the huge leaves into an equally huge plastic bag provided by the store for it takes practically a bushel of collards to make one good serving. Another man - similar in age to myself - was also gathering the leaves into a bag, and I struck up a conversation. Anyone who knows me can testify that I am not wont to conversations with strangers, but the sight of collards had so lifted my spirits that I had the courage to do so. I cannot tell you how long the two of us talked about how to cook collards and our memories of eating them in childhood. You see, my mother - long dead - was there making me a brave little boy. She was there to give me a gentle push and assure me that I had something worthwhile and interesting to say. Her spirit and soul were there - in those collards. Her spirit and soul were there - in me.

So why don't collards taste as my mother's when I cook them? Why doesn't anything taste as my mother's when I cook it? Boppa taught me how to cook collards and crispy fried chicken and peach cobblers and fried okra and field peas and those heavenly biscuits, but I can't make any of them taste the same as she. The answer is incredibly simple. I cannot add the most important ingredients to any of Boppa's recipes for I cannot add the soul and the spirit. They are the mystical spices that only mothers can add to the pot. Mothers can cook authentic soul food. The rest of us merely cook imitations.

Please do not draw the conclusion that soul food is the exclusive province of African Americans for it is not. It cannot be denied that the struggle of the African American mother is far greater than her Asian, Native American, or Caucasian counterparts. Credit must be awarded when due for those African American mothers surely deserve a special place in Heaven. Mothers of all races fed our bodies and our souls, and we became better for it. Some have become so modern, so successful that they would not think of eating collards ever again. Most of us, though, wallow in that peace and warmth provided by the recollections of our mothers' cooking be it ever so non-trendy and unhealthy. Those remembrances are so potent. Can't you smell it; can't you taste it - right now? Can't you feel your mother's warm hug? Can't you feel the touch of her hand? Tonic for the Spirit! Tonic for the Soul!

II. Peach Cobbler

by Neil Turner

My father's mother was a tiny bird-like woman who was, appropriately, known as Snowbird. Snowbird was not her given name but a nickname she acquired at a very young age. She had been out playing in the snow, and one of her siblings commented that she looked as a snowbird would look in the snow. After that, she was no longer Fanny Victoria Johnson but Snowbird. She was never called Granny, Grandma, or Grams by her grandchildren. Snowbird or Snowdy was our grandmother. This petite, sturdy woman was the loving, supportive mother to eight children - six daughters and two sons. Those eight children gave Snowbird fifteen grandchildren who adored her.

To me, Snowbird was a Norman Rockwell grandmother, and someone who exuded feelings of love, peace, and contentment. She was always quiet, kind, and loving, and I always felt secure whenever I was with her. Perhaps my feelings toward her were out of proportion because of my other grandmother, Mamaw, my mother's mother. Whereas Snowbird might have been a creation of Norman Rockwell, my other grandmother might have been a creation of Charles Addams. It was my misfortune as a young child to live near Mamaw who was rearing my discarded cousin Pugsley - I mean Eddie. I was, therefore, foist upon them throughout the year to be terrorized and tortured by Eddie and ignored or disbelieved by Mamaw. Summers were the best because I got to stay with Snowbird.

Snowbird lived on "The Hill" which was the family home in Armuchee, Georgia. Every summer we would make the long drive from Florida to The Hill, and in those times, it was a long drive because there was no Interstate 75 and usually only two-lane highways. We surely must have spent the night somewhere between Tampa and Arumchee, but I cannot recall a single memory of doing so. I do, however, remember that we would always eat in country restaurants in which they served delicious southern food at bargain prices. The main course, three farm-fresh vegetables, dessert, and sweet, sweet, sweet iced tea could all be had for about a dollar and a quarter. Those restaurants were always a precursor to the wonderful meals to be had on The Hill. After hours of travel, we would finally arrive in Armuchee. It needs to be understood that the "town" of Arumchee was a post office where one country road met another. We would then proceed to The Hill which, in my youth, was an unbearably long distance from the post office. In reality, it is probably less than a quarter of a mile. When we finally did arrive at The Hill, the last arduous part of the trip was the drive up the long, steep driveway - a driveway so steep that I was never sure our car would be able to pull itself, its load of Turners, and all of the various items my mother always managed to cram into every nook and cranny in our car to the crest. We had finally, after a journey, in my young heart, of heroic magnitude, arrived at Turner's Hill, Armuchee, Georgia. The first time I returned to The Hill as an adult after not having been there for many years, I was astounded to find that the driveway is just a normal driveway not at all steep or long. Youth provides such grand adventures from ordinary things.

The food served on The Hill was usually directly from the farm because four of my six aunts had stayed in the area and married men who farmed - two as their vocation and two as an active sideline. And, of course, The Hill had a garden in which grew the reddest, sweetest tomatoes and scores of other vegetables.

During my youth, The Hill was a women's domain because my grandfather had died leaving Snowbird to live there with my widowed Aunt Elsie, and my Aunt Ellen. I think that by that time, Ellen and her husband, Bill, had actually purchased The Hill, but it remained Snowbird's home until her death. During the times that I visited, Bill was usually away at his military duties. Ellen, as I perceived, never really liked or approved of me so she became, to me, my scary, dark aunt. Because I was always afraid of Ellen, she was given a wide berth which must have pleased her as much as it comforted me.

I never knew a time when Elsie was not living with and taking care of Snowbird. In my immediate family, they were usually thought of and referred to as a couple. It was never Snowbird this or Elsie that, but Snowbird and Elsie. So, when I visited The Hill, the visit was to Snowbird and Elsie. The Hill was the home of my Grandmother Snowbird and my Aunt Elsie. From them, especially Snowbird, come all of my warm, cozy feelings whenever my thoughts turn to summers at The Hill.

The Hill was the center of the family, and clustered in hamlets short distances from The Hill were the homes of my aunts and uncles. In all of these homes, I was welcomed with the warmth of family and treated to unique experiences provided by the diverse couplings of my aunts to the various men of the community. There was my Aunt Rosa who married the factory worker and part-time farmer, my Aunts Frankie and Hazel who married working farmers, and my Aunt Dora who married an educator. Most of my childhood memories of Georgia, aside from those of Snowbird, are connected to visits with either my Aunt Hazel or my Aunt Dora.

Hazel married Fred Davis who was a witty, strong tree of a man - a farmer throughout most of his life. When I think of the movie Grapes of Wrath, it reminds me of Fred in that he had that thin, sinewy look of a man who had labored outdoors for the better part of his life. The difference in Fred was that, rather than having that gaunt, vacant look of the actors in the film, Fred had a chiseled, strong, sunburned face with a sly twinkle in his lively eyes. He always spoke with an intelligent wit born of keen observations of the people and events he encountered. Fred worked his farm until his aged body forsook his lively mind. The last time I saw him his body was that of an old, feeble man, but his mind - oh, that glorious mind - was as sharp as ever. How cruel was the treatment of nature to that strong, rock of a man!

Hazel was Fred's companion and support through all the many years of their marriage. She, too, was gifted with a wry sense of humor and an infectious laugh which, rather than being any form of a guffaw, was more of a gentle exclamation of bemusement. Everyday of Hazel's married life as a farmer's wife she baked an iron skillet of cornbread for each meal. Imagine how many skillets of cornbread she must have baked at three a day for the fifty-plus years of their marriage. Do not form the impression that Hazel was subjugated or meek. She was, and remains, a strong-minded, stylish woman who yields to no one. She was Fred's partner in marriage and in life.

My first memories of visiting Hazel and Fred are associated with their little house at the foot of Turkey Mountain - somewhat of a misnomer, but in North Georgia it is a mountain. This was a house, mind you, that did not have indoor plumbing. I know the feeling of having to go to the outhouse on a cold morning and having to make my way there in the dark where, Heaven only knows, there might be some devilish, horrible monster waiting to gobble up such a little boy as I. Imagine how much the air-conditioned, porcelained, sanitized, disinfected, child-locked children of today miss because they never, ever have to make their way to the outhouse. All of the results of our modern technology are wonderful, but oh, the memories evoked by those times of lesser conveniences.

Hazel and Fred's little house was always filled with the grand smells that came from Hazel's kitchen where she prepared all of her meals on an iron, wood-burning stove. No matter how intriguing the aroma of gourmet food prepared in a modern kitchen of today might be, it can in no way compare with the aromatic pleasures of good, basic, fresh food directly from the fields being cooked by a loving mother in her kitchen at that iron stove which mixes the smells of the food with the smoky smell of burning wood. And, always at every meal, was that iron skillet of cornbread so sweet, so delicious. After the death of Fred's parents, they moved to the family home a short distance away. This is a grand old Georgia farmhouse with a porch most way around. It was still always wonderful to visit Hazel and Fred after they moved to that house, but that little house at the foot of Turkey Mountain will always remain at the center of my memories.

My cousins, Kay and Clark, who are years older than I, always took care of me whenever we visited Hazel and Fred. Unlike Cousin Eddie, they always treated me royally and kept my little city-boy self from falling prey to the wilds of farm life. I remember them showing me the animals and machinery and, one time, carrying me a long distance back to the house in a chair made with crossed arms after I had gotten my legs all scratched up by briars. I was a sissy little city boy, but Kay and Clark never showed disdain, only kindness and love. They both grew up to be brilliant scientists who have added to the betterment of the world - wonderful, kind adults grown from wonderful, kind children derived from the union of two extraordinary people.

Dora, Snowbird's youngest child, married Jim White. Dora and Jim's home was as different as night is from day from that of Hazel's and Fred's. Dora and Jim were teachers and, I suppose, were able to afford a little nicer place with more modern conveniences - at least, that is the way it seemed to me as a child.

My Aunt Dora had been born with an incomplete arm which ended right below the elbow joint. Of course, as it is with many born with a birth defect, her incomplete arm never appeared to be a disability. It was as if, every once and a while, you would realize that Dora's arm was different, and then you would forget about it. It is strange because I have been able to visit with Dora several times in the past few years after many years absence, and she now, at times, wears a prosthesis which I had never seen before, and it is that "arm" which appears unnatural to me. Dora possesses that amazing Turner wit and a smooth southern accent which make all of her spoken words a unique pleasure.

Jim White was a charming, intelligent man with the looks of a gentleman farmer. Because his profession was an educator, farming was a well-loved sideline. As a child, I remember him doing chores wearing a shirt and tie. How times have changed. I only knew Jim as a child for he died not long after he had retired as an administrator of one of the local schools. A death that came way too soon for this man who was ready to begin an active second life with his beloved wife. It is to my great regret that I never knew Jim as an adult for there were many years during my twenties and thirties that I did not visit in Georgia. It is to my detriment that I never knew Jim White as a fellow adult.

The very best summer of my entire childhood was spent at Dora and Jim's. My parents had gone off somewhere and had dumped me upon them. The times I spent with my cousin Jimmy that summer were examples of the very best that can be had by two boys free to be themselves in the country. We explored, we collect various items that only boys would collect, we swan in the creek, and we ended the summer with a birthday party for we share the same birth date with Jimmy two years my junior. Two of the things I collected were a cow skull and an old rusted flintlock shotgun. I don't know what happened to the skull, but the shotgun hangs in my house today.

The only bad memory I have of that glorious summer was at the birthday party. Jim had a John Deere tractor on which he would take Jimmy and me for rides. Being a farm boy, Jimmy could even drive the tractor. John Deere, at that time and probably today, sold models of their tractors at the dealership. I wanted a model of a tractor which was the same as my uncle's real tractor for my birthday . I believe they were fairly costly for those times. Never-the-less, I got the tractor as my present and was playing with it at the party. I remember one of my aunts making the comment that I was such a baby compared to Jimmy even though he was two years younger. I cannot remember what major gift Jimmy received, but it was deemed far more mature than mine. I truly cannot remember which aunt made the comment, but I will attribute it to my dark Aunt Ellen. It has been almost forty-five years since that party, and that comment still hurts today. Our grapes have tender vines!

The times with my aunts, uncles, and cousins give me memories that warm my heart, but there is a special glow to my whole being when I think of Snowbird. What was it about that woman who caused such feelings in her grandson? Of course, it is that undefined bond that love and acceptance gives to humans. It is that bond that comes whenever the child is being taught by a parent or grandparent - not through lecture but through sharing experiences in which the older nurtures and guides the younger.

Of all of the times I experienced with Snowbird, the one that glows in my memory is making peach cobbler. I don't know why it is not the times Snowbird showed me about quilts, told me about family, or walked with me outdoors for they were all extraordinary. It's that peach cobbler that stands out. Perhaps it is that I love food - especially food of the southern style. Perhaps it is that the experience of eating Snowbird's cobbler was a grand treat. No, it was that it was a special time where just Snowbird and I were together with no one else around - a rare time in which I had Snowbird to myself. It was very special to me then and remains special almost fifty years later. I remember how to make peach cobbler, but I can't make it taste as good as Snowbird's. It's really very simple. She made it in a porcelain pot with a layer of dough, a layer of peaches, and a layer of sugar added layer after layer until it reached the top with a final layer of dough. Maybe it's that the dough isn't the same. Maybe it's that the peaches aren't as fresh or as tart. Maybe it's that the sugar isn't as sweet. Maybe it's that I don't own a porcelain pot. No, it's that Snowbird didn't make it, and it therefore, doesn't have that intrinsic quality of love transferred from Snowbird's touch.

Oh how wonderful it is that we Turners, Davises, Whites, Beardens, Holts, and all have the memories of Snowbird and her peach cobbler.

The Chickasaw Plum - Volume III - Number 5 - May 2006

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