Early 90’s Mom’s night out – allow me to set the scene. It culminated in me (solo), my mom jeans, some Keds, an above the shoulder pageboy WITH a perm, a la Dirty Dancing’s Jennifer Gray, and some sort of Rugby shirt from Old Navy. Also, it usually involved the Mesquite Public Library. In one specific recollection of such an event, I recall hauling an infant carrier + baby along with me for any sudden, impromptu nursing requirements, as the newly reno’d library had a very nice lady’s restroom. We’ve come a long way. And, on that particular night, the subject was of utmost interest to me: a presentation about children’s personalities as they pertained to birth order. While I was hoping to learn about the personality traits in multi-child families, I wound up learning much more about me. Because, while I had older half-brothers, I was raised as an only child. Sure, I learned some uncannily accurate facts about my own children, but I also learned about the quagmire that was me, a country kid raised completely alone. Take, for instance, my reading habits.
When I was in the 2nd grade, a 3rd grade teacher pulled me out of Mrs. Katner’s class one afternoon. Mrs. Craig informed me that I’d been deemed “a really promising reader” who she’d be pleased to have in her class the next year. She also wanted to let me know that, with that designation, some things would be required. I would need to be on my best behavior. This was odd, since I rarely spoke and was even less likely to make eye contact with anyone, child or teacher. Also, I would need to read certain books on an as needed basis, as a 3rd grader. Years later I would realize this sweet woman’s feeble attempt to bring a painfully shy only child out of her shell. It worked. Like a tiny, awkward secret agent, I was Mrs. Craig’s reading pawn that next year. Where the Red Fern Grows – read it. Sounder – done. Julie of the Wolves – check. Island of the Blue Dolphins – read it twice. But the book that haunts me to this day, the one that left the sharpest mark, was a book about hardships and herbs and poultices and adult decisions that kids should never have to make. It’s the one book my mom had to sign a release for, due to its adult theme. I remember my mom saying no, at first. I remember me pleading with her, citing the fact that I’d already read Elizabeth Taylor’s autobiography – the unauthorized version. Why, I knew about marriage AND divorce, for crying out loud. Finally, at some point in the spring of 1976ish – I still stink at math – I sunk into my favorite book of all time, Where the Lilies Bloom by Vera Cleaver, a story about Mary Call, a young Appalachian girl with the fate of an entire family resting on her shoulders.
In August of 2020, journalist Faith Durand – of kitchn, the partner site of internet home guru Apartment Therapy – met self-proclaimed urban foraging expert & TikTok/Instagram phenom Alexis Nelson (@blackforager), whose lifelong obsession for all things wildly procured reached a pinnacle during the pandemic, when stores were over shopped and under stocked. Her predilection for harvesting mugwort, making caperlike delicacies from elder-berries and matcha subs from mulberry leaves, all within a stone’s throw from downtown Columbus, has spiked the interest in the eternal gatherer within us all. Alexis has encyclopedic knowledge of what is edible and what is, well, not so edible. Her animated, comedic timing and predisposition to jump in and out of video frame make her snippets impossible not to watch. Alexis credits her mother’s intense gardening hobby, and the books that came along with that, for her early interest in all things plants. She’s committed to educating the children in her King Lincoln neighborhood regarding potentially readily available edible resources while rallying for gathering permits in urban areas and national forests/ parks. In a time where food insecurity is too common, the irony of plentiful but unknown plants at the ready is something Alexis cannot ignore. Plus, her dandelion coffee is the stuff of dreams, I hear. But, back to the lilies.
Mary Call was a 14-yearold precocious Appalachian matriarch – yes, 14. With an 18-year-old sister deemed incompatible for education by a school system that seemed heck bent on non-inclusion for the economically disadvantaged, and a mother long dead, the fate of the family is up to her. As her stepfather, Roy Luther, prepares to die from an apparent stroke, he stresses the importance of secrecy to Mary Call. Should she alert anyone of his death, the family would be dismembered and placed into the foster system. Mary Call does what her mother taught her to do. Placing young brother Romey in the fields to do the sharecropping, she takes to the mountains, harvesting herbs and edible greens and berries, both to eat and to sell. Her poultices are sought after among the mountain people. Through a gift for plant identification and pure mountain gumption, she attempts to do the impossible, survive in the mountains without an adult to cushion her fall.
Today, I looked at the empty spot between the upper cabinets above my kitchen sink. I wished for an old ladder, or even a stripped branch, where bouquets of flowers or bundles of mint, lemon balm, and catnip – the herbs that have taken over my garden – could hang to cure. I thought about Alexis Nelson and Mary Call. Out loud, I hoped that the urban foraging class in downtown Dallas, the one I always meant to take but never did, would be offered again soon. In the city or in the mountains, may we never tire of the miracles of what grows green.
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