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Grady T. Kirbo

Grady T. Kirbo is a native southerner born in Albertville, Alabama in 1948. He is currently working in Alabama as a freelance journalist and writer and is pursuing a doctorate in communications at the University of Colorado. He lives with his family in Alabama and in Boulder, Colorado.

Mud Between My Toes

Us yougin's just loved to run around barefoot on the farm. The soft red clay didn't hurt our feet none and Grandmother didn't mind at all except when we tracked dirt on our feet and mud between our toes onto her clean floors.

On hot summer evenings, Granddaddy decided that in order to cool off, we should make some ice cream. The custard, the essential ingredients to making the ice cream was a closely guarded secret. The recipe called for nine eggs, milk, sugar, and vanilla extract and a few other things I have forgotten. Then commenced the cooking of the custard. While it was a cooking, someone had to stand there with a wood spoon and stir it constantly so's the eggs wouldn't just cook up and make a mess. Naturally my sister and I got the honors of standing in the sweltering kitchen stirring and stirring while everyone else enjoyed the breeze on the front porch. When Sister Kate, my grandmother came to check on us, Archie would sneak a little drink he kept hidden in the hollow of his cane.

After about an hour of this, we were tired of cranking our old hand crank ice cream machine. Naturally us youngins did all the turning and putting in ice and rock salt to make the ice melt and melt the new ice we put in the ice cream maker.

Finally the torture stopped. The ice cream was done! Let's eat! And eat we did. There was over a gallon of ice cream to be et' up and we all meant to get our fair share. Sometimes when blueberries or blackberries and strawberries were in season, we'd get some fresh off the vine and pour them over the ice cream. Ah, heaven never had it so good.

This ice cream was so good that the mixture was a top secret, never written down, just past by word of mouth. It was cold and smooth and slid down your throat giving you the chills. Life didn't get any better than this in Omaha. We didn't care about any of that. With full stomachs we ran off to catch fireflies in the twilight, and listen to the last of the mockingbirds sing. Then the whooperills joined in as did the Poor Bob Whites. We even enjoyed cleaning up cause you got to lick the bowl and scoop out what was left around the edges of the ice cream maker.

Nothing lasts forever. Pretty soon Archie ordered us to milk the cows and do some churning. But on this wonderful evening, nothing mattered at all. We had enjoyed the family secret and our big bellies looked like we had swallowed a basketball. Now, after some 100 years of family secrecy, (as Sergeant Schultz would say), "I know nothing...nothing."