
Just a few weeks ago, I went to a family reunion at my grandparents' farm in Mississippi. It was one of those reunions with long tables full of food and third cousins you've never met, lots of iced sweet tea and babies on blankets in the yard and your great-aunt asking about a sibling you don't have... "No, really, Great Aunt Tillie, I just have
one brother. I promise."
My grandparents - all four of them - grew up in the Depression, worked hard, and made comfortable lives for themselves. My mother's parents are the ones with the farm. My Grandpa started out small and farmed cotton and soybeans. He worked hard, saved money, and now he has a 1000-acre farm that he rents out while he sits in his air-conditioned antique shop and sips his Diet Coke.
At the farm, they keep a bucket with a wooden spoon in it in the cabinet underneath the sink. Every uneaten scrap of food goes in that bucket, and at the end of the day two or three or four eager farm dogs consume it. They like it lots better than their dog food, which they still get, but it's never enough to make them sick.