Last Train Out ... The Sweet Taste of Home
With this column, we welcome Megan Koon to the TALK Greenville family as one of a treasure trove of new creative writers for our Last Train Out column. We asked her to introduce herself.
"Originally from Naples, Florida, I was raised on a farm in northwest Georgia and moved to Greenville for college. I worked as a high school English teacher for 19 years before publishing my first novel, Sweet Divinity, in 2019. I'm married to a proud native South Carolinian and mom to two lively kids. In my fleeting free time I love to read, hike, go to the theatre or a concert, and plot ways to add to our family's 'Disney Fund.' You can find me at a local coffee shop, the farmer's market, or any local festival serving homemade baked goods!"
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Plop. Plop. Plop.
The soundtrack of my childhood summers was the sound of berries falling into a bucket. People referred to our house as “the produce section” because there were buckets of berries on every air conditioning vent and fresh vegetables we’d bartered for lined up on the kitchen counters ready to be chopped and served.
While my friends were taking their beach vacations to Panama City and Myrtle Beach, I spent my summers at home, on the farm where I lived with my mom and Nana.
No frozen beverages by the pool for us; we had ice cold cans of Coke in the pump house by the river.
No trek to the beach with a cute little wagon in tow; we rode a four-wheeler down the dusty gravel driveway to the tent and picnic tables where we made our living.
No smell of sunscreen or the salty ocean breeze; we smelled like bug spray and earthy people who had spent the entire day outdoors.
No sound of waves crashing or gulls screeching; we awoke to the sound of a tractor.
No fireworks extravaganza on the Fourth of July; we watched as my relatives shot off their own fireworks, the police dispatch radio nearby so there were no unexpected visitors.
Yet while there were certainly some drawbacks to summer at home on the farm (not the least of which were the pesky birds whose gifts left on the car were a distinctly berry purple hue), summer was always an adventure.
If you got to the berry fields early, you could pick berries alongside a deer who was no longer afraid of the human with whom she shared a breakfast table.
During the day, I’d lie in my hammock and read or sneak away from “berry central” and run through the woods like Tom Sawyer, or fish from my homemade raft.
At the end of the day, we’d patch up our war wounds from reaching deep into the thorns for the perfect blackberry.
I’d run through the sprinklers on a hot evening, up and down the rows of blueberries, both dodging and hoping to get struck by a stream of cold river water that had been pumped up to the fields.
And the food: not only the bologna sandwiches and potato chips for lunch and the quick fried pork chop dinners, but the blueberry pie and blackberry cobbler made fresh from berries picked that day. Staples on the kitchen counter all summer long.
I met so many fascinating folks over the years: encyclopedia salesmen, an old man who once drove Bette Davis to her film set in Hollywood, babies who we watched grow into teenagers, Claude with his wooden leg (who would sometimes pass out drunk in the field, but we were prepared for that), and the Amish who came to pick our berries and paid us in homemade jellies.
But my favorite of the regulars was Miss Mildred.
Mildred was an ancient woman who showed up to pick berries every year in her regular uniform: long-sleeved flannel shirt, overalls, a bandana tied around her neck, and a floppy, tattered straw hat. The long sleeves and jean pants initially confused me as it was about one thousand degrees outside, but she claimed that not only did it protect her skin from thorns and sun, but caught her own sweat and used it to cool her.
Once in a while after closing, I’d be sitting on the porch with Mom and Nana and hear the sound of our driveway bell and the grind of tires on gravel.
“It’s just Mildred,” Nana would say, taking another drag on her cigarette.
Mildred told us that she liked to drive out to the farm, roll the windows down, and sit alone in her car. She said it brought her peace. It was her favorite place. I guess there is something about the fireflies lighting up the evening sky against a chorus of frogs and crickets that does put one in the mind of simple peace. The casual plop of a turtle sliding into the lake. The occasional call of a goose. The sight of a family of deer or a slew of wild turkeys making their way across the fields at dusk. Mildred was definitely on to something.
These days, my family takes a summer vacation to the beach. My grandmother has passed, and the farm has been sold. But even from my own back porch here in the suburbs, on a summer evening I watch the fireflies and listen for the critters in the trees between our house and the neighbors out back. I take a sip of ice cold Coke and close my eyes. And there it is. I find it again and again: the simple, sweet taste of home.
This article originally appeared on Greenville News: Last Train Out ... The Sweet Taste of Home
