by Stephen Castagneto
Arkansas. Summer. 1962. Five-thirty in the morning and the sun is already blistering the paint on the tractors. I awake to the smell of coffee, biscuits, gravy and fresh eggs from the hen house cooking in the kitchen. Mother Grant would be standing at that monster of an iron stove in the kitchen pulling out the latest batch of soda biscuits and ladling thick rich portions of speckled-white heaven over the top. No one ate small helpings. Three biscuits, a pint of gravy and 3-4 eggs was standard. My Uncle Alton in his 'boss man's' uniform of black slacks and short-sleeved white shirt, would be finishing his coffee while the foremen in crisp blue shirts would be finishing second portions. This was the meal that would sustain you for that 7 to 8 hours until the hot mid-day sun chased everyone into the shade for lunch. This was the working-mans meal.
Thanks for the memory.
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