Frozen

Waking up to a sky that is barely light, I peer out the eastern window.  A fairyland of wintry magic is out there.  In a hurry, I grab a few bites of breakfast washed down with scalding coffee, bundle up in layers, tie a scarf around my neck, and with my camera in my hand rush out to record this magical landscape before the warmth of the sun melts its frosty wonder.

It is so amazing what a little moisture on plants and buildings and fence posts can do.  Each tiny drop immediately becomes a frozen masterpiece when the temperature is just right.  I don't understand why some mornings are like this.  I imagine it has something to do with how saturated the night air is.  Our hilltop is often 'dewy' in the morning.  And when we have a night when the thermometer goes below freezing we awake to a sparkling new world.

Each common weed is clothed in fabric fit for a king or queen,  Tree branches bear frosty outlines that are something out of Currier and Ives print.  And the whole field full of gently swaying plumes of grass has become a symphony of dazzling light and glory. 

You can almost hear the angels singing.  Welcome to heaven.  Here on earth. 

...and good-bye....

I closed the door the final time.

But before I did I touched the lintel and said a prayer.

Dear God, keep this place safe and warm and full of love.

Let all who pass into these rooms feel welcomed and safe and free from worry and care.

Just as I have known love and laughter and endless blessing here within these walls of home, may others reap that same reward surrounded by loved ones and happy memories.

Heavenly Father, you know the pleasure and joy that has filled this house for many years.  Bring rivers and streams of blessings here so that everyone who dwells in this place may know Your Presence, not only here, but in their hearts as well.

Amen.

Snowed in

We knew this would happen when we built our new home out here on the hill.  We knew for a fact that, eventually, we would be snowed in.  We just didn't count on it happening quite this soon.

But we are doing well.  I notice that my munching habit is alive and well.  And I am trying to reach for an apple or carrot sticks instead of candy or cookies.

Last night I gave in and made waffles.  And they were so good.  I love my little waffle  iron, a gift from Andy's sister and brother-in-law a few Christmases ago.  It is small and makes single waffles that are just right for my plate.  I like mine a little on the soft side whereas Andy prefers his a little more done.  And with the handy control, we each get what we want.  Add a little fruit salad and a little ham and we are good to go.

I have put off making too many cookies yet.  I know that the time is coming but I just don't want to put so much out there where we will be tempted to eat them all before we give them away for Christmas.  That is my plan anyway.  Hopefully the weather will co-operate and I will make it to town before the cookie plate is bare.

The day before yesterday I made leibkuchen.  They are a tradition in Andy's father's family.  His great-grandmother was German.  And leibkuchen, or honey cookies, were a treat at Christmas.  I use Andy's mother's recipe.  They are much better if they age for a week or two.   They may not last that long.  I stored some away when I finished up the last  batch, but somehow the cookie-eater in the house sniffed them out and took a few.  They are pretty labor intensive and involve a lot of chopping and mixing and rolling.  And they are wonderful with a hot cup of tea on a snowy afternoon.

In fact, I hear a voice from the cookie jar calling me right now.  And who am I to ignore such a sweet request?

First Snow

The weatherman was right-on the other day when he issued a winter storm warning.  We rushed around and got prepared for ice, snow and freezing temperatures.  It seems early in the season for us to have snow, but it has happened before.

I am always amazed at the tons of people who flood the supermarkets and stores when bad weather is forecast.  When I lived in town I was also amazed to see those very same people who had cleared the dairy case out of milk and decimated the bread in the bread aisle back the very next day to shop some more.

I was feeling so smug this morning when I went to get the brown sugar for my oatmeal.  When I reached for the familiar plastic bag my heart did a little flip-flop.  Yes, you guessed it.  I had enough for my oatmeal...and for a few more oatmeals, but not enough for cookie baking and muffins.  I wrote it down on my grocery list.  Brown sugar.  And made a vow to check the cupboards carefully before I make another trip into town. But....I am not going tomorrow.  At least I don't plan on it!

Gray Sky

Today was one of those warming-up days that happen after a cold snap.  The first day of December.  A thick gray-wool sky with patches of blue shining through.  A dampness in the air that had a hint of moisture.  Heading off toward the southeast, we walked to get the cobwebs out of our brains before we cleaned up to go to church.  Last spring we decided to plant pine trees in some fairly steep patches of our field.  Rocky and inhospitable, it grows scrubby brush, sparse grass, and cedar trees.  We bought some seedlings from the Missouri Conservation Department and planted them down the more fertile looking part of the sloping field.  We check on them regularly and note that they have grown some, even with the drought this summer.  Moving on down toward the neighbor's fence line we checked on the cherry and holly bushes that had not fared so well.  A few of them have survived, but not many.

I looked over to the neighbor's pasture.  His cows looked back at me, placidly chewing their cud.  As we walked back up the hill we found a new den where some varmint has his home.  Armadillo?  Ground hog?  Fox?  Who knows. 

Making our way across the winter pasture we could see a marsh hawk swooping on ahead of us, ever vigilant, looking for the unwary mouse or rabbit to dine on.  Crows cawing.  No wind.  Just gray sky and silent nature. 

It is good to take a walk every now and then and check out what is happening.  Or not happening.  In the spring we look for budding plants.  In the summer we try to find the thistles and other weeds that we don't want to spread.  In fall we plan what we will plant in the spring after taking an inventory of what survived the summer heat.  But a walk in early December is just a walk.  Nothing spectacular.  Nothing noteworthy.  Just a gray sky with a promise of moisture in it.  Just a time to let your mind rest.  Just a chance to be.   

Nothing more...and nothing less.

Frosty morning

Over the last few months I have neglected my daily exercise routine.  After stepping on the scales a few weeks ago, I was not surprised, nor delighted to see that the pounds I had so diligently shed in the last year are slowly creeping back.  The one thing I knew I had to do was...hit the trail again, and make it a priority.

I waited until gun season was over and started the next morning bright and early.

Some observations.  It takes quite a few layers of clothing when I start my routine as the sun is peeping over the southeast horizon.  But as the minutes up and down the hill pass by, the layers come off one by one until I am striding along in sweatshirt and gloves.  Quite a sizable pile has grown in that spot where I leave my water bottle and pause to take a deep breath or two before I resume my walk.

Frost is everywhere.  It covers the grass, the weeds, the road.  And the rising sun adds to the beauty of it all.  Nothing like a diamond strewn net of frost on the pasture grass to bring a smile to your heart.

Sometimes the wind is fierce.  It feels good on my face when I warm up climbing the steeper part of the hill.  My fingers, that were basically freezing, even begin to thaw as I walk a little faster.  I really relish moving against the wind.  When I move into the shelter of the tree-lined road the contrast is remarkable.

I am glad that I can take this time early in the day to walk.  I see so many things that are new to me.  What is the name of that plant?  What kind of hawk is that, soaring high and then dropping low just beyond the walnut tree?  Where does the squirrel that just hopped over that nearby branch have his nest?

I welcome each new day.   It is truly a gift to me.  Thankfully, I walk on. 

Frost Flowers

It came a few nights ago.  We had been expecting it for some time now.  The first hard frost of the season.  Putting on  long underwear and heavy coat, and pulling on thick woolen socks to wear under  heavy boots, I was prepared.

Bright morning sun glinted with a million diamonds shining in the grass as I went down to the southeast corner to see this wonderful sight.

Frost flowers, rabbit butter, various names for the same thing.  I had scouted out the area in the weeks before the hard frost.  I saw where the frost weed grew in abundance with thick stems and space around them.  It had rained a few days before and I knew what would happen when the temperature fell below freezing.

It is hard to capture such lovely, delicate works of nature.  The frozen sap curls out from the broken stems in fantastic shapes.  It is so very fragile that you are almost afraid to step near it lest you shatter it into a thousand pieces.

Early morning sees the best examples of this art by Nature.  The sun soon warms the ground and leaves around the frozen beauty and it doesn't last long.

I never tire of looking at frost flowers.  No two are alike.  Some are tall and thin.  Others squat and fat.  But all are a miracle. 

It is truly amazing what Nature can do with a little cold snap and weeds that burst to form an exquisite sculpture that no man could ever make.

  

November Thoughts

The colder temperatures that November brings send me to the closet to get my heavier coat.  I sit on the porch, first finding the place where the sun will warm me as I look out over the hill.

My constant companion, the oak tree, now wears little of its autumn finery.  A few bronze leaves hang on it lower branches.  But all below are piles of crumpled,crinkled leaves where birds hunt and find seeds and other things to eat.  A bluebird perches on a limb, high up and lofty.  I don't know what he is looking for, but soon he swoops and flies away seeking a more worthwhile place to hunt for food perhaps.

Silence.  Silence is what I hear.  Gone is the nesting chatter of the spring and early summer.  Even the hawks and buzzards have forsaken my hill for greener pastures and climes. 

The grass lies thick and verdant below me.  And under it I know the mice and little voles are scampering around finding places to hide from the sharp eyes of the hawks.  Pale remains of beautiful summer and fall flowers stand stark and ebon against the blue sky.  The frost of the past nights has put an end to their blooming beauty.  And all that remains are the memories of flaming color and scent.

Deer roam at will at dusk and early dawn.  They bed down in the far reaches, down where the pasture is remote from human eyes.  They venture forth, timidly at times, and sniff the air.  If we stand very still they do not know that we are looking at them.  And then they gracefully walk away, down to the timber where they find food in abundance.

Even the air has the feeling of expectation in it.  The wind blows fitfully at times.  It tears at the scarf around my neck and then moves on  to eddy the leaves that pile around the hickory tree.  Squirrels seem to have found their nests now.  They venture forth every now and then and pick a walnut up, peel it with their teeth, and rush to bury it under the soft and yielding ground.  Will they find it this winter, under snow and rime of frost?  Sometimes they do and then they run back to the cover of the trees to feast on their buried treasure. 

Melancholy seems to tint my horizon at this time of year.  Winter is coming.  Am I ready?  Am I ready to give up the warm comfort of glowing fall days when a sweatshirt was all I needed to keep away the chill of the wind?  Am I ready to see the last glimmer of daylight flee from the slope of the hill, bringing night so soon?  I am such a creature of habit.  I love the longer twilights.  I miss the sweet scent of ripe grass and flowering trees.

November is here.  I mourn the passing of summer and fall.  And still in me there is the sense that winter will bring its own rewards.  Hopefully I look to the tree and know that it will be there in spring, ready to put on  fresh greenery again.  Always there is the promise of better days ahead.  And I am content with that thought. 

Contemplation

This is my spot.  I sit here in the sunny corner of my porch and look out over the nearby hills and let my mind wander.  Sometimes I pray.  Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I just sit.

I remember a story that was in one of the reading books that I taught from long ago.  The story was about a little boy who lived in an apartment with his parents and several brothers and sisters.  He didn't have any place to go where he could be alone.  His mother wisely showed him a corner of one of the rooms that had a window in it.  She invited him to make that corner his own.  And he did.  He sat there at his little table and drew pictures, wrote stories, read books.  But sometimes he just sat there.  His brothers and sisters knew to leave him alone when he was there in his own corner.  

I guess this little story reminds me of my situation.  I am not a solitary person.  I love being around people.  But sometimes I enjoy a little solitude.  So I have my very own little corner.

It is amazing the things that I can accomplish just sitting there in my chair for a half hour or so.  I usually don't bring my computer or book or sewing with me.  It is a time when I can reflect and plan and dream of what I want to do in the next hour, day, or year.  But mainly I try to switch off my brain and just soak up the beauty I see right there before me.  It is hard to put into words.  Mainly because there are no words that fit this kind of reverie.

When we planned our house we didn't know we were going to have a porch that went all the way around four sides.  Something in my being spoke to me and told me that I would need that space to really enjoy life up here on the hill.

And so I made my very own little corner, where I can be alone.  With the world stretched out before me.  Wouldn't trade it for anything.

 

 

Log House

This picture was taken a long, long time ago.  Andy and I made the six-hour trip from Rushville Illinois to the Irish Wilderness several times a year.  We were building a house to live in.  The wonderful part was that it was already there when we bought the property.  We just didn't know it.  The logs for our house were enclosed in the old barn on the place.  And when we asked Clyde Simpson, who sold us the place, where they came from he told us they were from a house that was down by Brawley Spring near the Eleven Point River.  How excited we were to have some history to go with them.  We spent most of one summer taking down the old barn and carefully hauling the logs, mostly balanced on a wheelbarrow, up the hill to the house site.  We made poles to slide the logs up into position.  It took a lot of work but by November of that year we were able to pose in front of the shell of our new home.

We camped in an old Army tent during the summer.  But when November came we put a very small shelter made with barn wood together, moved a small wood stove in there and were toasty and warm. 

By the next summer we were ready to put on the roof and neighbors came for the day to help us.  Don't know what we would have done without them. Windows and a door came next.  And before long, we had a house.

We moved to the Wilderness in early summer the next year.  With a six-month old baby.  And all of our possessions in the back of a blue and white GMC truck.

Even though my new house is not logs and doesn't have the history that the log house did, I have that same happy feeling when I drive up the lane.  It looks familiar to me.  Home is home.  Wherever it may be. 

Keyless

My mailbox is a one mile round trip from my front door.  What a change from my town mailbox.  It was half a block away.  Just a hop, skip and a jump.  Not a 20 minute walk down and then up a hill.

Another difference.  My mailbox in town was opened with a key.  This one is keyless!

For the first week when we walked down the hill to get the mail, I would check my pocket to see if I had my key...to my keyless mailbox!  That made me laugh.

Old habits are hard to break.  But now when I start down the hill to check the mail, I don't grab my keys.  Keyless is the way to go!

 

A Jewel of the Ozarks

Today I visited one of my favorite places.  Caney Mountain Refuge is just a few miles north of my new home.  I can see it from my west porch and today we went for a walk to see what fall had brought to us.

First stop was the Leopold cabin where Starker Leopold and his family stayed while he helped with the planning and execution of the program which helped restore the wild turkey population in our country.  So proud to be a part of this.

These are the steep stone steps down to the spring where the water for the Leopold cabin was drawn.

Leaf covered and rough, you need to be careful on these stairs.

Walking on down the main road we see this magnificent sycamore with an arching branch that reaches over us.

Caney Mountain Refuge is full of fields rimmed with trees.  We are starting to see a little bit of color...late for us this year.  Love the shadows on this stretch of green.

Food plots are full of wheat and these turnips.  Quite a good crop this year.  Deer and other animals should have plenty to eat this winter.

We have watched this field of cane grow over the years.  It started out the size of a large washtub....and now it almost fills the area.  Nice to see the plant that gives its name to Caney Creek and Caney Mountain.

The road leads us from field to forest.  Shadows are getting longer as the afternoon sun slides to the west.

The dogwood blazes in the woods.  Beautiful trees in the spring with their white blossoms.  And magnificent in the fall with red leaves.

Caney Creek in all its stony beauty.  Time to turn around and head back to the car.

The path to Spout Springs is covered with shadow and light.  We will hike that trail another day.

The road home.  This is a scene that Andy painted a few years ago.  A friend has it hanging in his home.  You can see the cane in the background.

   These fall daisies are my favorites. 
Another great hike in my favorite place....Caney Mt. Refuge.

October Song

I sing a song of October.  I sing of mist-covered mornings when trees and grass drip with crystal dew.  Diamonds glisten on spider webs and wispy weeds long gone dry.

I walk the hill and  hear plain-song melody echoing through the cathedral of oaks arching over me.  Sunlight adds a note with honeyed-colored beams.  And all around me October sings.

At noontide I hear the birds calling to each other.  Here is a flock of meadowlarks.  They miss their friends who have traveled south with the season.  An eagle soars over the far hickory, now turning yellow in the waning light of autumn.  Far off maples are red.  Already bare branches of the walnut sway to the almost silent breath of wind singing softly through thin twigs that move with  dancer's grace.

Evening brings the strum of crickets in the brown grass.  The setting sun touches oak and pine with orange fire.  I can hear the wind moving through the trees down in the valley, a song that is old yet new.  The moon is rising in the east.  Clouds move across it's shining face and throw a net of shadow, catching and seeming to hold it in their grasp.  Finally it breaks free and soars above in velvet sky.  If I close my eyes I can hear the moon and stars singing in unison.  It is an ancient song.  It is the song of changing season.

And my heart joins in, singing that October song. 

...and evening's gathering light....

The day is winding down.  I sit on my westerly porch looking out over the darkening valley.   Headlights on the road below are winking on.  People coming home from work.  The hour of twilight comes sooner these days.  Gone are the long and languid evenings of late July and August.  Night sounds echo from the grassy brown field.  Crickets and katydids in chorus.

It has been three years since we fell in love.  Three years since we knew this would be our home.  Three years of hard work and planning.  And what a reward we have.

I knew on that September afternoon when I first saw this tree that it was where I wanted to be forever.  My eyes still fill with tears remembering the peace that came just standing on that hill and looking out over the hills beyond.

How could we not fall in love with it? 

And now I am here, watching dusk creep up the hill.  I have work to do.  Tonight.  In the morning.  And still I sit, not wanting to break the spell.  First stars twinkle in the golden sky.  The moon's crescent swings above.  Night wind stirs the leaves on our beloved oak.  Peace, blessed peace....in evening's gathering light....  

Two are better than one.....

My daughter was married this weekend.  Guests came from all over to wish her and her new husband well.  The bride was beautiful.  The groom was everything a groom should be...attentive, charming, smiling, good-natured. 

The day was one of those heaven-sent days of early autumn that showcases that certain rock-bound and rolling charm of our Ozark hills.  Bright sun, blue sky, wispy clouds, and delightfully cool temperatures.  A perfect day.

We ate barbeque.  We listened to fiddle tunes played by a talented young woman who is our friend.  We talked and laughed and raised our glasses to toast the newlyweds.

As the long afternoon moved into dusk a hush came up with the shadows from the valley below.  That magical time between light and dark brought chairs out to the field and porch where guests sat and gazed at the stars and conversation faded from whispers gradually into peaceful silence.

Today the couple left to go home by way of Cape Cod where they will honeymoon for a few days.  And as I watched the truck go down the road I remembered the verses from Ecclesiastes that were read during the ceremony on that perfect wedding day.  "Two are better than one," it begins.  Yes, and these two have a wonderful start to a life filled with joy and laughter and love.

Long life and happiness always, Matt and Nina.  We love you.

 

 

  

 

 

Upon rising early....

It is still dark outside my window.  But there is something about greeting the new day that makes me throw off the warm cover of slumber and still half dazed with dreams, make my way to the porch that faces east.

I stand there, leaning forward to look first to the eastern sky and seek Orion's sparking belt.  He is still there, as he has been since time began.  I wonder how many of us have counted the stars and marveled at their beauty.

Huddled against the cold, bare arms crossed against the chill that comes with the quickening wind, I close my eyes.  And when I open them with cleared vision I smile.  For I can see a faint glow of softest pink kissing the mist covered river hills. 

The sun.  The sun is rising.  And with its brightening orb I whisper thanks again and again.  Another day.  Another day to live.  Another day to embrace.  Another day to spend as I see fit.  And all of this, because I took the time to rise early. 

Just a question for my friends who left Xanga and came over here.  I just tried to get on Xanga and check out my old site.  I did keep it there, just in case someone wanted to find me here....Anyway...I can not navigate that thing.  Is anyone else having trouble.  Please let me know.  Thanks

Dancing fool....

I am a dancing fool.  I readily admit to it.  Whenever you play a little fiddle music with a driving beat, I am on the floor  trying to keep up with it.  Play a little Liberty, or Fort Smith, or better yet, Soldier's Joy and I will be in dance heaven.

I love old time square dancing.  The above picture was taken several years ago when Andy and I started to learn how it is done here in extreme southern Missouri.  The fiddlers play at 140 beats a minute and the pace is fast and furious.  Each area of Missouri has a little different style of dancing and a few differences in fiddle music.  We dance hard and fast and when you are done with a set, you are usually drenched in sweat and breathing hard.

My favorite fiddle player once told me that he keyed on our set when he played a tune.  He claimed that the harder we danced the harder he played.  And I believe it is true.  The fiddle sets the tempo and the dancers keep it  going.

The dances I love are ones that have everyone going at once.  Some of them are Right Hand Lady, Chinese Puzzle, Whirl Like Thunder, and the ever popular Grandpa's Baby. 

It is amazing to me how the music can get you up and moving in nothing flat.  We danced in a nearby county at least twice a month.  The hall was full of people who were in their 60's, 70's and 80's.  You would look around and wonder how in the world some of these people could even make it in the door.  They walked slowly, stooped over and you could almost hear their bones creaking.  But they were there to dance.  And, by golly, when the fiddle started in, they would jump up like teenagers and move through the set with a smoothness and agility most 20-year-olds would envy.

I think the secret is in the music.  It just makes you feel good.  When I square dance all my troubles leave me.  I feel good.  My aches and pains, if I had any, are gone.  And I literally could dance all night.

We dance all three nights of Hootin an Hollarin.  We begin at 9 and are still here on the platform when the clock strikes midnight.  If the band could, we would ask them to play just one more.  Such dancing is good for you.  It gets your blood moving.  It gets your heart beating.  It is good for your soul.

And that is why I am a dancing fool.

Under the spell.....

I went shopping the other day.  First I visited a big store that had a special sale going on for senior citizens.  I was very good.  I brought a list and a copy of the sale bill so I could get JUST what I needed.  As I was filling my basket I had a thought.  I wondered if a nearby discount store could do better on the price of some of the things I usually get at the store I was in.

I needed no other excuse than that.  Off I went...merrily, merrily heading toward my ultimate Waterloo.  Yes, that is a bag from the discount store.  As you see, I have blocked out the name so I will not be accused of infringing on anyone's rights to free enterprise and making a quick buck.

I should have known better.  As soon as I entered the door, my mind left me.  I had no list.  I had no goal.  Of course, my reason for going there was to do a little comparison shopping.  Now that is a joke.

I wandered the aisles with my shopping cart gradually filling with all sorts of things.  Everything was something I really,  really needed and could not live without.  The more I had, the more I wanted.  I was Under The Spell.

What spell, you might ask.  I firmly believe that this huge discount store has a special machine that is installed near its entrance.  When shoppers walk in, they are sprayed with an invisible and odorless substance that enters their blood stream, blocking out all common sense, replacing it with the overwhelming desire to buy, Buy, BUY.

How do I know this?  When I went to check out I looked at my basket.  Where in the world did those cookies come from?  And three T-shirts with sayings such as "I'm with him because he appreciates the finer things in Life"?  How about ten copies of the latest TV magazines?   And I don't even watch TV.  Yarn for projects I will never do.  Shoes I can't even get on my feet.  Socks, underwear, swim suits?  When was the last time I wore a swim suit?  I couldn't remember.

And so I contend that this super seller of a store has a secret weapon that they use each and every day.  Regardless of how determined you are to only  get what you need, you will not emerge unscathed.

Oh no.  Because you are under the spell....... 

Emancipated

Freedom.  That is a wonderful word.  I know it doesn't seem like much to those of you who are not technologically challenged.  I bought a laptop a few years ago....I knew I would be moving to smaller quarters eventually and decided I needed to ditch the desktop and its cumbersome entourage.  Besides...it was really out of date.

I admired people in public places, people even my age and older, who were merrily tap-tap-tapping on their tablets and laptops and other devices..wireless.  What a dream!

But since I am basically a coward when it comes to change, I resisted even thinking about undoing my link to the trusty phoneline that brings my internet to town.

The moment of truth came, as it so often does, with the sneaking suspicion that my phone company would not send DSL to the further reaches of the county where I live.  Even though the beautiful lady in Georgia who was in charge of changing my phone service to the new house, assured me that Oh yes....I see several people in your neighborhood have our DSL......

Our phone guy, Chris just stood there and laughed when I told him that story.  He knows better.

Enter my local computer guru Jerry.  He had just signed on with a new/old company that provides DSL out in the sticks.  I did some research and called him right away.  I was his third installation.  And when I said I wanted to go wireless, he said No problem. 

Anxious moments yesterday when I couldn't get it to work.  Jerry and Butch's solution: Don't follow the directions.  Now that was a biggy for me.  I am basically a "follow-the-book" kind of person.  Sometimes I wing it, but that is when I feel confident that I can figure things out.

So here I am.  Wireless.  Great feeling.  A feeling of freedom.  I can be typing on my computer and then pause and look out over the green fields and hollows of my much-loved new home. 

Bliss.  Emancipation.

Change

After the ample rains and cooler temperatures of the last week or so, I have noticed a definite change in the air.  While I was walking in the pasture today, the light seemed to be more golden, bringing out the green blades of grass in bolder relief.  The breeze felt some cooler than the days a month ago, when July was blazing over the field and the ground was crying out in dusty dismay, Send us some rain!

 

Are we going to have an early fall?  The cicadas and katydids are still chirping loudly, not at all in their early fall mode.  Birds that migrate are gathering together in flocks, but seem in no hurry to travel to their winter homes.  No leaves are turning and the only ones that have fallen are from trees that could no longer support them during the weeks of drought.  Perhaps we will have one of those times of changing season when the best of both summer and fall prevail.
Cool nights warming into sun-kissed days.  Gardens continuing to grow well into mid-fall and later without the threat of early frost.  Rivers flowing full and clear below sapphire skies. 
Oh yes, such promises this golden day brings with it.  And we can hold on to that hope.  Change.....and welcome it will be.

Reunion 2

If memories are a flowing stream, I took a trip down that river a few days ago.

Sitting peacefully as the water ripples past me, my fingers trail through the coolness of yesterday.

Here I am walking down my childhood avenue.  Each little step I take moves me back in time.

Trees arch over the sidewalk.  People greet me with smiles and affectionate glances.  Do they know me?  Do I look familiar to them?

My homeplace is different, but the same.  The road that passes by is different but the same.  I can hear the echoes of  games played in the field across the street.  There are my childhood friends in dim array waiting in the green and summery yard.  I reach out and they hold me in their warm embrace.  I breathe the sweet smell of summer and recollection.

It is a warm and lovely feeling to be in my hometown.  Houses where I spent happy times with friends and family still call to me.  Peace covers the evening scape.  Flowers of all sorts are blooming in colorful array in gardens.  Neighbors sitting on porches wave as I pass.

And now I move to another part of my past.  This is more difficult.  These are faces I should know. I look into the eyes of my childhood friends, grownup and far from young.  And, joy of joys, I know who they are.  We have been separated for many years.  But we know each other.  Years fall away and we are young again.  We visit and spend our time in happy recollection.  For a time we live in the past. 

And when we part, my heart is glad that I came to spend some time with them. The river of memory has been kind to me.  I don't recall the hard times.  Pain doesn't mar my pleasure.

A wonderful time.  A time of reunion.  A time of renewal.  I wish I could go back and trail my hand through that stream one more time.

Life goes on.  But I am truly molded by my past.  I see the distant faces again.  And I smile.   

Reunion

Next weekend will be a trip down memory lane.  I am returning to my Illinois hometown for my 50th high school reunion.

Since I technically did not graduate from this high school, I will be seeing many people whom I haven't laid eyes on in over 53 years.  That is a long time.

This is my sixth grade picture.  We were top of the heap at F.U. White Elementary that year.  You will notice the stylish skirts and neck scarves that we girls were wearing.  And the boys were looking very grown-up with shirt sleeves rolled up and biceps(?) showing. 

I sent my old yearbooks to the local historical society last year so I can't do any last minute cramming.  But I do have one or two class pictures which will give me some names to go with faces.

But, and it is a big one, ......how do you recognize a face after 53 years?  Teenaged freshness becomes refined as we grow older.  In my mind, my girlfriends are all still 14 and glowing.  Will I know them when I see them?  Will they know me?

I remember going  to Andy's 20th High School reunion in Kirkwood, MO.  He wore a badge with his senior picture on it so people would know who he was.  And I thought back then, "Gee, how old everyone looks!"  Guess I hadn't looked in the mirror that day!

I think it is an exercise in courage to go back and meet your classmates from the past.  I truly do not remember a lot about those early years.  Some people have total recall.  Thankfully, as the years have gone by, only the happy memories stand out.  I don't think I will be the one who stands up and recites all the 'better left in the past' incidents that we all want to forget. 

It will be fun.  It will be informative.  Who will I know without looking at their nametag?  Who will smile at me as soon as I come in the door?

Check back here next week and I will give you the report on how it went.  It should  be interesting.

(By the way, I am in the second row, fourth from the left) 

Limbo

It is hard living in limbo.  Half of me stays up there in my new house.  The other half lives down here in town, ten miles to the west.  Half of me forgets that I have left half of my stuff up there on the hill.  The other half has a hard time remembering just what I have packed up to move and what still remains in the back of the closet.

One foot in the country.  One foot in town.  The car and the truck run the road from dawn to dark.  Many of my new neighbors can testify to that.  They see us headed out in the morning.  Then they see me heading back fifteen or twenty minutes later to get something I have forgotten.  "Will it ever be so?", I wonder ruefully.

Walking back to my home in town this morning with two bags of groceries in my hands, I happened to think, "Wonder if I'll miss living just a half block from the store  when I live out in the country?"  That almost made me stop in my tracks and laugh and laugh and laugh.  Miss it?  You better believe it!  I will probably end up coming into town several times a week, hopefully not every day, for something I need.  I have lived in town  going on thirty-six years.  I am spoiled rotten.

But in time I will learn how to stock up and make do.  After all, when I was the mother of a six-month old, I moved to a house that was at least fourteen miles from the nearest town.  We had a country store that was three miles away where we could get milk and  bread if we ran out.  But we very rarely had to do that.

Yes, I am in limbo now.  But soon I will be all together in one place.  Hopefully, my car and truck will stay parked up there.  Not running the roads. Just at home.  Not in limbo anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Home

We said good-bye to him the other day.  The services were in his home church.  As I waited, sitting  there, looking out the window at the rows of graves, my mind saw a different picture.  I have visited his birthplace many times.  It is one of my favorite haunts when I hike in the Refuge.  A tall chimney with an open fire place beneath stands guarding the few remaining logs that were the walls of his first home.  There is something intriguing about visiting an old house site.  You can feel the memories crowding around you.  The road that curves around in front of the house seems to echo with sounds of wagon wheels and horses and eager footsteps as the family returned home at the end of the day.

Was there snow on the ground that Christmas Day when he was born?  Did he open his baby eyes and see the fire burning bright in the fireplace?  Did his brothers and sisters get to hold him and welcome him to their already large family?  I am always amazed at how our small Ozark cabins seem to have sheltered and fed and nurtured so many at one time.

His wife left us a few months ago.  It was in the fall.  But still he was able to continue to live in their home, just down the mountain from where he was born. 

And now, here we were, ready to say good-bye again.  It seems only fitting that he lies now near where it all began over 95 years ago.  What a long and fruitful life he led.

I wonder too, how it would be to live my life within a few miles of where I was born.  Even though we yearn to travel and see new places, the siren song of home is strong.  We all want to come home.  And that is where he is. 

Welcome home.

Company

I always loved it when we had company.  Especially if it was my cousins.  And extra special if it was family from far away that I didn't get to see very often.  I can remember hurrying home from church on Sunday mornings.  I would hold my breath as I got closer to my house.  Closing my eyes, I would wish and wish.  Oh, please, please let there be company, a familiar car pulled up in front, with people spilling out, laughing and hugging and talking all at once.

Sometimes my wish came true.

This picture was taken when I was six.  How do I know that?  Because my cousin Danny Stimpert is sitting in my brand-new doll buggy.  And I was gifted with that buggy on my sixth birthday.

There in the very back, standing tall and very pretty in her summer dress, is my cousin Shirley, Danny's oldest sister.  Next to her, with the beautiful long braids and sweet smile is my cousin Ann Willibrand all the way from Norman, Oklahoma.  She is closest in age to Shirley of all the cousins.

Her little sister Mary is sitting on the sidewalk, there to the left of the picture.  Look at her long braids.  I can't imagine how long it took them to  braid their hair in the morning.  I am next to Mary.  And the king of the day must be little Danny.  And,oh my gosh, he has my doll on his lap!  How I ever allowed that I will never know.  Danny was so young then and I'm sure the aunts and my mom said, "Oh Janey, just let him sit there for the picture."  And of course I did.  Next to Danny is my cousin from ElPaso, Illinois, Kaylene Bowman.  And my brother Paul is there in the back.

Pictures were taken in our family on very special occasions.  We didn't have many of those, but when company came, the trusty Kodak box camera came out and we had to stop playing and smile for everyone.

I had such wonderful cousins.  We all got along well and never fought.  And that is the truth.  Our visits were too far apart and we knew we might not get to see each other for months.  Many of my relatives lived a good hour or two away, over narrow Illinois roads and we couldn't just hop in the car and go and see them.

I got to spend time in ElPaso with Kay and her little sisters and my aunt and uncle.  Grandma Stimpert lived there with them and she always took that opportunity to teach Kay and me the finer points of housekeeping and peeling potatoes and washing dishes.  I don't think she trusted her daughters to teach us what we might need to know when we grew up and had a home of our own. 

  I am thinking about cousins and Illinois now because, in a few weeks,  I am going back to my hometown  to visit.  Andy and I will walk  down the familiar streets.  Some things will be the same.  Some will be different.  But when I stop in front of 711 North Center Avenue, I will close my eyes and see my lovely and loving cousins and remember how much fun it was when they came to call.  

July

July lies heavy on my hill.  Cooler nights and warm days have followed a period of humidity and heat.  And now the see-saw of the season is tilting back toward steamy and scalding again. 

I don't mind.  Just the pleasure of sitting here in the shade of my porch gives me such a feeling of peace and well-being.  Working out in the bright sun and then coming in to rest with a cool drink and a nibble of something sweet is enough to revive my sagging spirits.

How could I not love this place of mine?  Shadows fall across the far hills, throwing the valley into deep, dark emerald green.  Then the clouds pass by and suddenly bright light spotlights a single tree, where leaves move in unison with the sighing wind.

Precious time alone with my thoughts.  Far away my mind wanders and I can almost see what lies ahead.  But I do not want to go there.

I am content to sit here with half-closed eyes, savoring the sights and smells of July.  Deepening summer has come to my home.  And it is time to dream.

The picture I missed.....

About a week ago I started out early on my daily walk.  My camera is always with me these days since I find myself stopping and admiring all the flowers and bushes that are putting on their early summer show.  I am especially fond of black-eyed Susans, those wonderful yellow flowers with chocolate-brown centers.  They stand proud and tall along roadsides and always seem to  look fresh and cool in spite of the blazing sun that beats down on them all day long.

The morning held a hint of what was sure to be a high humidity day.  My face was wet with sweat before I'd done my warm-up mile.  Taking a quick drink of already tepid water from my bottle, I took off down the shady hill to the road below.  I knew I needed to keep on going and not stop.  Heat drains my energy quickly and I wanted to be sure and finish before my body yelled, "Quit!  I've had enough!"

I took a rapid visual check as I turned on my upward climb.  Roses, daisies, black-eyed Susans and other smaller flowers were still blooming on the rocky banks.  On the last pull up the hill I allowed myself to stop, catch my breath, and take out my camera for a few quick pictures.

Being careful, I stepped across the ditch and started looking for a good angle to get some shots of the black-eyed Susans that looked so inviting, peeping out of the rocks and leaves on the roadside.  Engrossed in getting the perfect lighting, I didn't pay any attention to what was happening about three yards up the road from me.

A still-spotted fawn had ventured out from the deep woods and was timidly making its way on pipe stem legs toward the other side of the road and the safety of its mother.  If someone was watching, they would have seen a rather clumsy looking older woman, bending over some flowers with her camera, grunting and groaning as she tried to get the light just right.  And right there, just a stone's throw away, a timid little fawn, staring at this strange creature.  And in that little deer's brain there must have been an immediate signal that flashed, "Danger! Danger!"

 Just as I turned to make my way back over the ditch to the road, I looked up to see the west end of an east bound fawn, bounding up the hill ahead of me, its little tooth pick legs moving at a rapid rate, trying to escape from that stranger with the camera.  The fawn paused a moment.  I raised my camera for a shot.   It disappeared before I could even click the shutter.

And that's the story of the picture I missed.

Consider the lilies of the field.....

Not a lily, but still something to consider.  A wild rose growing in the rocks by the side of my county road.

Impossibly pink.  Golden yellow center.  Leaves that give a wonderful contrast to the pale rosy beauty of the flower.

If I were designing a flower that spoke of late spring it would be the wild rose.

Its glowing color and simple form speak of shimmering days and star-spangled nights that lie ahead.

Summer.  Can you hear the flower whisper?  If you listen carefully you will hear it say," Summer.  It's just around the corner!"

Family

Here is my family in the early 50's.  It is the only picture I have where all of us are together.  Mother's Day and Father's Day always bring along with them memories of the time we were together. 

This occasion was my cousin Betty's wedding.  I can't remember much about that day except I know it was in June and this photo was taken in the side yard of my aunt and uncle's home.

My dad was thirteen years older than my mom.  He was born in 1897 and my mom was born in 1910.  When they first met he shaved a few years off his age so my mom wouldn't think he was an 'old man'.  When they married in 1936, he was nearly forty. 

My brother Derek arrived nearly a year later.  Dad was very proud of  his first born.  He and his cousin Hazel took off work when Derry turned one so they could celebrate the day in style.

Next came Paul.  I have a picture of him and Dad in the backyard of our house, shelling peas.  Paul was probably about three years old and he is paying close attention to what Dad is doing.  We all did.  Because we knew he'd expect us to remember what he had shown us the next time we were asked to help him out.

About three years later, I arrived on the scene.  My dad really wanted a daughter.  And when I was born he must have been very happy.  There is something special about a dad and daughter relationship.  And I felt that closeness many times.

I remember when I first went to school.  He would come home from work and before dinner we would sit  down and talk about my day.  "Did you learn to spell 'yeller ball'?", he would ask and laugh and laugh.  That was a real mystery to me but it still made me smile.

He worked very hard every work day but when he came home he always had time to play with us.  He would get his old baseball glove out of the front closet and take the boys out back and play catch.  Spending long hours in his vegetable garden gave him great  pleasure.  He loved his home and his family.

Sadly, we did not get to grow up much before he was taken from us.  I was only twelve, Paul was fifteen and Derek was in his second year of college.  We all felt our loss in different ways.

The boys are gone now too.  I am the only child remaining.  And so this Father's Day I remember my dad and how much he loved all of us.

Happy Father's Day Dad.  Happy Father's Day to you.   

River Days

Here Andy is with our daughter Nina, down at the river on a hot July day.  There is nothing quite as refreshing as a quick dip in a spring-fed stream such as the Eleven Point.  A wonderfully clear, swiftly moving river , it is a treat to sit on the bank and watch the ripples flow by.  The thing that I remember most about my days on the Eleven Point is just how very cold it was, even in the heat of summer.  You would stay in just as long as you could stand it.  Your skin would feel as if it had a rind of cold flesh on the outside when you finally got out of the water and grabbed your towel.  Sitting in the baking sun felt good.  We took Nina down to the river on this day, when the sun was blazing above.  Andy stuck her little toes in the water.  We knew better than to give her a complete dunking.  Even just a little taste of it on her feet was enough for her.  She is smiling.  And I think it is just because she is glad her dad didn't make her take a bath in that icy water!!!

....in the hay......

"Hi Ann.  Is Bob there?"  "No he's not.  He's in the hay."

This is a common phone conversation these days in Ozark County.  Hay is being cut.  Balers are working overtime.  And everyone who can is hauling hay.

What a difference from last year.  I traveled to central Missouri in mid-May of 2012.  I couldn't believe what I saw.  Cattle were shoulder-deep in grass.  And the drying hay laid in thick windrows in the fields.  How I wish I could have transported that wonderful harvest south to our friends down here.  It rained in March of last year.  And that was it.  April turned off dry...and hot.  And that was that. 

This year is better.  A neighbor cut our hay.  Since we don't have any animals or livestock to feed we did it on the halves.  Win, win situation.

Where I was raised in central Illinois hay was not a big crop.  Corn, soybeans, maybe a little bit of milo.  The family farmer might put up some hay for the horses and a few cows, but cropland up there is too valuable to leave to hay.  It wasn't until I moved to southern Missouri that I became aware of just how much farmers depend on their pastures.  Andy worked for several neighbors putting up hay in our first years down here.  Hard work.  Round bales were not at all common then and there was a lot of stacking and restacking when you got to the barn.  Tired men.  Tiring work.  And always it seemed as if something broke down and someone had to run to town for a part or to fetch someone who could repair a machine.  Or find one to borrow.

My grandfather owned a section of land in Illinois at the turn of the last century.  And he raised oats and corn.  Farming was so different back then.  My mom said that he wouldn't let them ride the horses that lived in the big barn.  The animals were for work, not pleasure.  And in the fall he would hire out to the neighbors and take his threshing crew and do custom work getting the crop in.  Different kind of farming.  But still hard work.  

Today's farmer doesn't have it any easier.   Even though the machinery looks streamlined and slick, long hours and days are spent in the fields gleaning the crop and cutting hay for the animals. 

So when I see a friend on his tractor, out working early in the morning until late at night, I say a silent prayer of thanks.  Without them, where would we be?  Thank you all, for 'being in the hay'. 

My New Blog Site

This will be a new blog site for me.  I hope my friends will find me here.  Need to go fix supper.  Will post something later.  Today.  Tomorrow....or sometime when I have time.  :-)