Starlight. Candle-bright.

Starlight.  Candle-bright.  Evening comes in quiet echoes of times gone by.

Gathered around the table we share our memories of other Christmases.

Loved ones whose faces are missing from our gatherings.  Perhaps for merely days or months, perhaps for many, many years.  Each one remembered fondly, tears glistening in our eyes for a minute and then quickly brushed away.

Starlight. Candle-bright.  Expectation for the day ahead.  Excitement around the tree.  One gift and one gift only to be opened on this night before Christmas.  Which one shall it be?  A small one just to satisfy the child in you.  And leave the rest for the festive celebration tomorrow.

Starlight. Candle-bright.  Put on the jacket to guard against the cool wind blowing from the west.  Walking down into the field and looking up to see twinkling lights above.  How was it on that first Christmas Eve?  Shepherds watching.  Angels appearing.  Glory shouted from the heavens.  But now, here we stand hushed and still, waiting, waiting, waiting....

In the starlight with candles bright shining through the windows.  

Peace.  Peace on earth to men everywhere.  That is what we are waiting for.

Today we cut the Christmas tree....

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  A thin frosty rime still lay in the shadows of the house and barn.  But armed with saw and gloves we climbed down the hill and brought it home, held shoulder high.

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  The red-tailed hawk sat on his accustomed branch, unblinking, but yet approving our choice.

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  It sits unadorned, waiting for lights and decoration.  In the field it still was beautiful, just as it was.

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  I plucked bronze oak leaves from its branches and sent them blowing in the easterly wind, down the hill and far away.

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  A little burrow of some small creature lay exposed where once the cedar branches sheltered it.  What will the dispossessed do now, out there with the snow and cold reaching into its home?

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  It will stand guard by the door, lights shining out into the night. They can't compete with stars twinkling above.  But they will welcome one and all to our hilltop.

Today we cut the Christmas tree.  And after the festive season is done ,we will take it down and carry it, held shoulder high, down the hill where first it grew.  And it will rest there with its brothers, telling stories of when it sat upon the hilltop and shone brightly for all the world to see.

Today we cut the Christmas tree. 

Kids and Christmas Programs

I have been reading the memories that many of our Ozark County citizens have of school programs from their childhood days, especially those from one room schoolhouses.  What fun!  I know something about putting on a Christmas program with young kids.  It is a challenge.

Many of you from Gainesville remember the old Elementary School.  This is where most of my memories come from.  For a month or more before the program the music department, band and vocal, were practicing their pieces.  I could hear most of this from my room up above the cafeteria where the band practiced in the afternoon.  The music room was on the other side of the basement hall so that wasn't so noticeable. 

Every music teacher wanted their program to really be the best there was.  Beccie Farmer McGee really went all out with hers.  I am not forgetting the others, but Beccie's are the ones I really remember.

They were always stories about Christmas things.  From Kindergarten to 6th grade, all of the students were rehearsed and re-rehearsed, as only Beccie could do.  She was a perfectionist.   And elaborate.  Sometimes I wondered how she was going to pull it off, but she did

My job, being in a classroom just off the stage( the old typing room for those of you who attended High School there), was to herd the cats...errr, children.....around and onto the stage. And to get them in place before the curtain opened.   It was a job that got more complicated as time went on.  

First of all, how do you lead 30 or so Kindergarten children dressed as Christmas trees onto a stage that is already crowded with decorations.  The answer?  Very carefully.  I ended up carrying the last two in my arms and depositing them bodily in the back row.  Psst...don't forget to smile for mom and dad!

Other classes were led outside and around the building and put in the cafeteria.  Quiet was of the essence.  Sure.  Let's see.  Put several classrooms of second,third and fourth graders all together, just before Christmas, in a large and may I say, echoing room.  And expect them to be quiet?  I think not.

Anyway, we did our best.  Teachers, aides, and others trying mightily to be in control.

Class by class we would line them up and bring them up the stairs...shh..quietly..and lead them on to the stage at the appropriate time.  A challenge, but we did it to Mrs. McGee's satisfaction, I hope.  

One thing that made it all worth while for me was seeing our kids transformed from jeans and t-shirts, into little princesses in best dresses, with their hair combed and sometimes curled...not to mention the boys in clean pants, sometimes a shirt with a tie, and hair slicked down on their heads.  

After the last song was sung and line was given we were all thankful it was over for the year.  Oh wait...how about the spring concert?  At least that was a few months away.  And we could be glad that the Christmas program was done...at least until next year.  Fun memories to last a lifetime, for sure.

Thanksgiving Ties

Later on this week everyone will gather around the table and feast on turkey, sweet potatoes, stuffing, green beans, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie.

And the significance of that table, at least for me, is the memory connection.

Who doesn't have memories of Thanksgiving Past?  I can't imagine anyone who would admit to not holding a mental picture or two of how it was when they were young.

My memories of Thanksgiving always involved a trip to my grandmother's house.  She lived with my aunt and uncle and cousins.  All of us would travel to Aunt Taty's for the day...some of us from a distance, and some from close by.

The first thing I remember is my grandmother standing at the sink, peeling potatoes.  She would use a common paring knife but the skins came off in almost paper thin strips...you could see through them.  When I peeled potatoes she monitored my every move...making sure that I didn't cut too deep and waste good food.  That was her motto. 

Aunt Taty would make the turkey and dressing.  She always baked a ham too because my Uncle Bill had been raised by a Kentucky mother...and he had ham at Thanksgiving. Period. The end.

Aunt Nettie brought the pumpkin pie and salad.  Cousin Ruth brought the fresh made rolls.  My mom always made her famous cranberry relish.

All in all we had plenty of  food and more than we needed.

But the one constant that comes back to me every Thanksgiving is the tie that binds us all together.  It is a gossamer thread as light as silk, floating through the air, catching light as it passes.  It is the sound of my aunts and uncles and cousins and my mom and dad, laughing, telling stories, sharing news.  It is the smell of food, spicy,savory odors, filling the house with a flavor you can almost taste.  It is the warmth of the stove heating the rooms until you have to open the windows to let in some fresh air.  It is love on all the faces gathered around that table.  It is grace said by my Uncle Henry as he bows his head and folds his work-worn hands in prayer.  It is that scene that will never leave me, no matter how many Thanksgivings I celebrate.

It is the tie that binds us together, past to present, with a firmness that will never let go.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with all sorts of memories...good food, good company, and good times.

East, West, Home is Best

It seems as if the weeks between September 24th, when we left Ozark County and headed east, and October 31st when we finally crossed the county line, after many miles of driving and many happy days of visiting and being shown the sights of Cape Cod and beyond....it seems as if those weeks were a dream.

But home we are.  And hopefully, we will stay here on the hill for a few more weeks before we venture out on a trip again.

Don't get me wrong.  I had a wonderful time.  Fried clams, clam chowder, donuts every morning with good coffee and better company.  Long walks on the ocean beach.  Reading in my lawn chair looking out over the azure blue of  Great Pond reflecting the October sky.  Whale watch.  Ferry ride to Nantucket and spending the night in a garret room overlooking a cobblestone street.  

Cold mornings, warm afternoons, nights when the stars and the moon shone so brightly you could have sworn they were moving down so you could touch them.  Lovely sunsets, spectacular sunrises.

And yet.....when we set out from Paducah that Halloween morning all my heart could say was...I  am going home.  I am  just a few hours away.  And I am going home.

It is good to travel.  It is good to touch base with family and friends.  I always regret that we live so far apart and our time together seems all the more precious because of that distance.

But precious too is seeing those familiar hills rising up to meet me.  Each familiar house.  Each lovely curve in the road.

Calling.  Calling me home. 

Blessed beyond measure...

A little nameless, wordless tune has been singing in my mind today.

This is the season for thanksgiving, as if we needed a special time for that.

I am blessed beyond measure.

Blessed beyond what I deserve.

Blessed to be alive and breathing.  Blessed to see and hear the world around me.

Blessed to see the sun rise in the morning and the stars crowding over my head at night.

Blessed that I have a home to come to when I am tired and hungry.

Blessed with friends and family who love me for who I am, not what they expect from me.

Blessed.  I am blessed beyond measure.

Time....

If I had more time.....if time would just stand still.....if...if...if.

Can you make time stand still?  I wish I could.  Can you go back in time?  Sometimes I wish I could...go back and say I love you....go back and not say those words that hurt....just go back and relive some wonderful day.

But I can't.  In a few days we will return to standard time.  A mixed blessing to me.  We have lived many months enjoying cool sunrise and extended twilight.  When I was small I loved being able to go out and play after supper....night was long in coming and I had so much to do.

But now I have come to appreciate the shortness of the late fall and winter days.  There is something comforting about waking up and getting ready for the day while the sun comes up in the east..knowing that I don't have to race the heat.  The coolness of fall mornings and the pleasure of crisp days makes work easier for me.  Even as I bundle up in my warmer coat, I smile to think how the wind will feel when I face it blowing in on me.  So fresh...not like the humid hot wind of late summer and early fall.

Snow.  Snow will be here before long.  Perhaps it will wait until the new year.  That will be fine.  Heavy frost takes its place.  I love to see the white crystals on brown leaves and twigs as the sun touches them with fire...sparkling like a million diamonds.

As I turn my clock back I will say good-bye to those warm summer memories....and greet the days ahead...shorter they might be....but with memories in the making.

The Pleasures of October

This tenth month of the year is one of my favorites.  Cooler air.  Crisp bright days.  Nights that are clear and full of starlight.  The full moon seems fuller.  The sun shines beams that act as golden strands, knitting morning to noon to twilight in a continuous fabric of changing colors and hues.  Our Ozark hills are sometimes radiant with scarlet and yellow and orange.  It just depends on how nature chooses to clothe the trees in the valleys and atop the hills.

The air.  The air is so fresh and clean.  I like to chug up my hill and then cling to the nearest post and draw my breath deep down into my lungs.  Sweatshirt off.....stocking cap off.....the cool breeze that blows across my face feels like heaven.

Apples.  October apples.  In my Illinois hometown we would travel for miles to pick and buy apples that were grown along the river.  Bringing them home we would tuck them away for future apple pies and apple crisp and save a few for eating right then.  Precious apples, meant to be savored and not wasted.

Walnuts.  My mother always went hunting for black walnuts in the fall.  As they were gathered she would spread them out to dry and then hull them, cracking them open and picking out the nuts inside.  Black walnuts appeared in the fudge and cakes she made.  And they were precious commodities too.  Just like apples.

October.  A month to relish.  A month to savor.  A month to gather in the bounty of nature.  October, a month to prepare and look ahead.  But most of all, rest and enjoy to its fullest.  

  

I Heard Autumn Call My Name

I heard Autumn call my name.  She walked down the hill with measured stride, her robe of scarlet and gold brocade flowing around her, morning mist like smoke trailing behind, her feet in sparkling slippers of sapphire and deep,deep green.  She came along with the western wind blowing her hair around her in a billowing cloud.

She called my name.  And I could hear the echoes of bluebird and robin in her voice, as they made their plans for winter rendezvous.  Crickets cadence changing with the cooler air added their tune to the song.  She called my name and I saw her standing there.

Autumn called my name and beckoned me with slender hands.  She showed me how she touched the apple and grape with cooling air and caused them to blush in vibrant hue.  Her artist's brush touched tree and bush and leaves became orange and red and glowing yellow.

She called my name and bid me follow her from west to east and back again.  Laughing in the breeze, she spoke of vagabond journey's end from sea to sea, azure sky reflected in still pond and river, blazing trees mirrored in lake and stream.  "Come and see my handiwork," she teased.  "Come and smell the fragrant lift of smoke from fires and smoldering chimneys.  No other season bears this mark of mine.  Come, come and follow me.  Shake off your indolence and sleep and see the miracle of turning earth and sky and sea."

Autumn called my name and I replied, "No,no.  I have enough here on my hilltop home to see.  I do not need to follow you down into the valley and to other places and times to see what you have done.  No indeed, I ask you Autumn, stay here with me and gaze upon your handiwork that reveals itself to me in precious days that fly too swiftly by."

Stay, Autumn, stay a little longer.  Let me linger here and fill my soul with all you have to give.

Happy birthday

On September 19th, 1910 Florence Alberta Stimpert came into this world.  Timing was perfect for her birth.  Halley's Comet was soaring through the sky.  And if ever a life was lived at comet speed, it was hers.

She was the third child of my grandfather's third marriage.  His previous wives had died and left him with seven children to raise.  He married my grandmother who quickly took over the family and then added two more sons, followed by my mom.  

She was a very special person.  Of course, I have a slight bias since I am her daughter.  But now on the occasion of her 105th birthday I am thinking of all the things she experienced in her life.

When she was born, women did not have the right to vote.  When she was born, the world was teetering on the edge of the war to end all wars.  She lost a brother to the flu of 1918.  She lost another brother after the Allied Invasion of France in 1944.  She was a young woman during the Great Depression.  And all of her life she fought for what she felt was best for her family.

She never backed down.  When she decided she wanted to teach physical education in the early '30s, she was met with all sorts of resistance.  But she found a way.  Her first job was in what was to become my hometown.  I'm sure several people wondered just what this young woman was doing teaching their daughters to run and jump and play games that were denied them before.

When we were young she went back to work.  Not many wives and mothers did this.  But she knew that she and my dad could never afford to send us to college if she didn't work.  Again, she swam against the current of popular opinion.  She opened a toy and children's clothing store and made it a successful business.  And then she went back to teaching.

Tragedy struck when she was widowed at age 47.  But she forged ahead.  Always, always in her mind was the fact that she needed to give her children the best start that she could provide them.

And most of her dreams came true.  

Shortly after her 95th birthday my niece brought her daughter to visit us from New Jersey.  Holding her first great-grandchild I could almost see the wheels turning in my mother's brain.  This little one is very special.  She will make her mark on the world.  

Always looking forward.  Never letting the past drag her down.  That was my mom.

And the older I get, the more I realize the legacy she left for me.

Happy birthday Mom.  I love you.  And I always will.

Working on a dream

Dreams start as small things.  Think I'd like to take a short trip.  Maybe I'll try to make my garden bigger.  Perhaps I'll write my grandkids a story.  And then they blossom and bloom.

Andy and I have always wanted to live out in the country.  That was our incentive when we moved to Missouri in the early 70's.  Peace and quiet.  A place where we could live and let live.  That was our only goal.

Life intervenes.  And so over five years ago, our dream came knocking again.  Where did we want to build a new house?  Or maybe just sell our 'too big for us' place and find a smaller one?  We looked and looked.  We were disappointed when prime opportunities were snatched out of our hands when someone else made a higher offer.  What could we afford?  What kind of house did we want?

Dreams do come true.  Just out of the blue, when we had almost given up hope, here it was. We grabbed it and started to plan.  We spent many hours working on the new property, up there on the hill overlooking a peaceful valley and neighbors to the north whose houselights twinkled at us in the night.

Finally, with a house plan drawn up and lots of energy we tackled the task of building our first new home.  What a wonderful dream.  Hard at times, but do-able.  Of course, we had help with the things we couldn't do with pick and shovel and hammer and nails.  Our brother-in-law came over and lent us a hand when we needed encouragement.  Hot summers, glorious falls, brutal winters when things came to a standstill and all we could do was put on our boots and slog around trying to imagine what it would be like to live out here.  And then the soft springtime would arrive and all the hard work  was justified with vistas of red bud and dogwood, soft green leaves budding out, birds returning to nest in our oak trees.

It was just two short years ago this weekend that we made the final move from town.  We packed our suitcase, shut and locked the door, and drove out of Gainesville in the gathering dark.  Here we were, climbing this so familiar hill in the dusk and starlight.  Pausing at the door of our new home, ready for this new adventure.  Entering our dream.  

Welcome.  Welcome home.

Fall is in the air

Don't get excited.  This picture was taken last fall on one of our trips to Caney Mountain.  But the past few days have certainly seemed fall-like in temperature and humidity.  Don't you just love it?  And in my current state of limited walking, it is just the incentive I need to do those things that will get me back on the trail again.  Fall is one of my favorite seasons...right up there with spring, and winter,....and summer.  

There is something about the change of season...any season....that just seems right to me.  My mom felt this way too.  She retired to Florida and lived there for many years.  It was better for her health for sure.  But she missed what she called "the change of seasons".  The slight change from hot to mild and the amount of rain didn't seem very satisfying to her central Illinois soul.  So she would make her annual trip up to see us in August and always stayed until the end of October.  It was her favorite time of year.  

As I look from the porch, I can see the slight change in the trees over on the river bluff hill.  Crickets are sounding very autumnal.  There is a difference in the air.  The foggy mornings have even changed minutely, but living day to day as I do, I can sense that the earth is getting ready to cool down and brighten up.....clear nights,  red and gold vistas,  rising harvest moons,  softer sunsets, mild winds that carry a hint of frost.  Our baby blue birds have passed their bug-catching lessons and are ready to find a place to spread their wings and fly. 

Fly.  How I would love to fly over that hill.  Down in the valley.  See the clear water where the fish run in schools, darting after minnows or breaking the surface to catch the unwary bug.  And then soar up again, over the hill and down along the road that curves and wanders around the houses and farms of my neighbors.  See the cattle in the fields.  Watch the horses feeding on the lush green grass on the water's edge.  See the last of the white tails of deer disappearing into the woods.  Smoke rising from the morning fires in nearby homes.  Sounds of tractors starting up, ready for the day.  Roosters crowing.  All to welcome a new season.

Come on Fall.  We're ready and waiting. 

On being an optimist

I can't help it.  It's in my DNA.  I understand that my dad's mother, Ada Belle Myers, had the same trait.  So perhaps I came by it honestly.  I love life.  I love to smile.  I love to laugh.  And I try to find as many times and places as possible to do indulge in it.  Do you remember that song from the musical South Pacific?  Cockeyed Optimist?  That could be my theme song.

Don't get me wrong.  We all have times when we are sad and hurting.  I have had my share.  But I take my lesson from the beautiful roses in the picture above.  A little rain, some sun, a few thorns along the way...but still it thrives even in the worst of conditions.

Every day is something that we can experience.  Not just endure.  It's hard, I understand.  However,  I have always tried to make the best of what is happening and look ahead.  Maybe  tomorrow won't be any better....but, golly, there is next week and next month.  And next year.

I am a morning person.  Many people in my family were  not morning people.  Case 1.  My brothers.  Both of them.  The conversation at the breakfast  table  went something like this: Me: Blah,blah,blah,so happy, blah,blah,blah.  Paul/Derek: murderous stare, no comment, if you don't hush up we will do it for you.  Yes, it is true.  And I soon learned to quiet down and just keep the  AM joy to myself.  Case 2:  My co-worker at the Amerind Foundation, Sonny Jerkic.  (Living in a ranch house in Arizona for 8 months while we mended pots and recorded data from a dig in Mexico)  Me: Good morning.  Beautiful day. What do you want for breakfast?  Do you think we'll get done with Unit 3 today?  etc. etc.   Sonny: blind, blank stare, no comment, familiar sense that I am talking to a stone who is not responding to my chatter.  Finally, after the third or fourth morning we had  a talk.  Rule for mornings:  Take the breakfast order the night before.  No talking to room mate  before 10 AM.  Problem solved.

Don't you know that I was well pleased when  I fell in love and married  a man who was a morning person as well.

My philosophy is this.  God gave me a good life.  My job is to show my appreciation for that in being the happiest, kindest person I can be.  And sometimes it just spills over into uncontrollable joy.  And optimism.  So be it.   

Travels with Flo

My mother was  a seasoned traveler.  She honed her skills during years of traveling door to door in the farmland of western Illinois, selling silverware, books, and infant seats.  You name it.  My mom sold it.  However, this is not what this story is about.  This one is about Florence Myers and how she managed to drive three days - and nights- and get all of us safely from the Midwest to the East Coast in five easy steps.

1.  Always pack enough food for every occasion.  Breakfast?  No problem.  Have a banana.  And some orange juice.  A few sticky buns from the last bakery we stopped  at in Indiana.  Ditto...lunch.  Supper?  Well, we might stop at a HoJo's along the turnpike, but Mom's favorite places were truck stops.  Her motto:  If a man who drove a semi from coast to coast ate there, the food must be good.

2. Always pack as  much stuff as you can in the back seat.  The smallest person rides in the middle.  You pack around her.  And when she needs  to use the bathroom, you unpack her and then re-pack.  Guess who was the smallest person?   Obviously the picture above shows four people...and I notice my brothers are not present.  Where we put the gear on this trip I don't remember.

3.  Drive all night.  Drive all day.   When you get tired let someone else drive.  Take a snooze.  Stop to eat. Gas up the car.  Drain the family.  Head on into the night.  I do not ever remember stopping at a motel, or hotel on these trips.  One time everyone was just too exhausted to go on.  I vaguely remember Mom directing my brother Paul to pull into a place that seemed to resemble a parking lot.  We all fell asleep immediately.  Sometime in the early dawn someone came tapping on the car window.  Mom rolled the window down.  Pennsylvania State Patrolman.  Ma'am, are you okay?   Sure, we are fine.  We just got a little sleepy and had to stop.  Yes, that's fine, but  you see, you are parked in an outdoor movie lot....and you really need to move on.  Evidently, we hadn't noticed the giant screen or speakers when we wheeled in there  at 1 AM.

4.  Always, and I mean always, stop at an antique store.  My mother had a sixth sense when it came  to one of those quaint little places that were tucked around every corner as we made our way through New England toward New  Hampshire.  If she was driving she would immediately turn into the place and we would all have to pile out.  Except me, if I was packed into the back.  Mom would usually find something to buy...and it took some time because she always bargained.  Because of her antique habit, the last day on the road often turned into a day and a half.

5.  Collect as many maps and brochures about places of interest as you can and stuff them in your glove box.  We always stopped at the Tourist Welcome Centers.  Free coffee.  Free juice.  And lots of things to look at.  Mom kept every single piece of information she picked up.  She was always going to make sure we took a side trip the next time we came that way.  Maybe we would add a few days to the journey.  I can remember the teenage me groaning silently, trying to imagine adding a "few more days" to an already too long trip. 

But even with all the hard times I thought I was suffering through as I made those yearly trips with Flo , there were some things I remember.  Just how good a chocolate  milkshake tastes at Howard Johnson's when you've been traveling for miles and miles.  The sunrise over the mountains in Pennsylvania while you brush your teeth at a roadside park in the early morning. (Mom always called it "the bathroom with a view". )  The green hills of summer New England that told  us that we were near our journey's end.  And the sight of our little white house up at the end of the road.  Shuttered and waiting for another exciting summer.  After a long road trip, courtesy of Flo.    

Sidekick

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My new best friend is shy.  She doesn't enjoy having her picture taken.  She is gray, kind of blocky, and moves on wheels and slides.  My new best friend is my sidekick.  A walker.  And I would be lost without her.  

Recovering from total hip replacement is no stroll in the park, let me tell you.  I know that it is easier than knee replacement.  The recovery time is quicker.  The pain is less.  Oh really, the pain is less?   I guess so.  If you could rate your pain from 1 to 10, Mrs. Elder, what would it be?  How about 8 going on 800!!!!  Give me some relief.

Truly, I am doing fine.  I have had lots of phone calls, cards, food, visits from friends.  Everyone is so helpful.  And for them and their concern I am grateful.  I can't thank them enough.

But me and the Sidekick are in it for the long haul.  I have started physical therapy.  I do my home exercises everyday.  I walk.  And walk.  And walk some more.  Me and the Sidekick.   We have become friends.  Very good friends.  Couldn't make it without her.  

Butterfly Wings and Gentle Breezes

Sometimes when hot July days drive me indoors where cool air and soft chairs greet me with a welcoming nod, I think I might like to be a butterfly.  What would that be like?  I have lingered in my flower garden for long minutes waiting for one of these beautiful gifts from Nature to light near enough so I can take its picture.  I observe their long tongues probing into the inner sweetness of the blooms.  Antennae gracefully feeling for purchase on the stem, they move with ease over each blossom, searching for nectar.  Wings folded neatly at rest, and then lifting them to flutter to the next offering nearby.

Gentle breezes make the flowers move in the wind but the butterfly holds on until it has drunk its fill.  If  the wind blows too strong the butterfly just flies away to a protective tree branch and waits until conditions improve.  So fragile.   So light.  What must it be like to be able to float on the gentle breezes and move with butterfly wings?

48

This month marks the 48th year that Andy and I have been married.  A long time.  But a short one too.  Looking through my wedding pictures I laugh as I remember that day.  It was hot for summer in New Hampshire.  I think it might have been 78 or 79 in the shade.  Everyone was fanning and thinking cool thoughts while they waited in the little 1800's church in Eaton Center.  All the windows were open as I recall.  And the minister was sweating too.  It was his first wedding.  

Andy and I were cool as cucumbers.  

Later when the cake had been cut and served, sandwiches eaten and coffee and punch passed around, we retired to the living room of our summer home on Horse Leg Road to open gifts.  Andy and I had surprised our families by deciding to get married that summer after I graduated from college.  He was in Maine, prospecting for asbestos for Johns-Manville.  I was being trained in Tempe, Arizona to be a VISTA volunteer to the Navajo nation...midway through my language training when Andy phoned me and asked me to marry him.  Of course I said yes.  That was in mid-June.  We were married in mid-July.  No problem for us.  But thinking back on it, I can only imagine what a scurry this sent our families into.  A wedding in a month.  Sure, we can do that?

I love this picture.  I am unwrapping what Andy and I fondly call the 'wedding blanket'.  It was pink, thermal weave, light weight.  My Aunt Pearl and Uncle Dave gave it to us.   From JC Penneys, it withstood the test of time.  I think the last I saw it Nina was moving to California and it was packed with her bedding.  You couldn't wear that blanket out.

And isn't that the perfect metaphor for my marriage?  Tough.  Soft.  Made to last.  Forty-eight years and counting.  Couldn't be happier.  

Cooling Off

One of my favorite pictures is this one of my mom and her sisters Rosa, Taty, and two friends taking a dip in Panther Creek near Panola, Illinois.  My mom is in the middle.  Taty is on the right and Rosa is on the left.  Do you see the smiles?  Can you almost imagine the sparkle in their eyes?  Kids are kids.  Water is water.  And hot days in the summer just naturally draw the two together.

I love the handkerchiefs tied in knots on four corners that they have on their heads.  I have another picture of the same crew on the same day....out of the water. It appears as if they are in their bloomers and undershirts, shaking the water out of their eyes and wringing the last drop from their clothes.  I wonder what my Grandmother did when they arrived at the back door, dripping wet and laughing?

I know how hot it is in Illinois in the summer.  And we all know the sizzling days we have here in the Ozarks as the hot and humid weather makes us yearn for cool water and soft shade.  This picture was taken in 1920.  And I do believe I could go down to the creek here at home and find a similar scene any day.  Kids in the water.  They may not have handkerchiefs on their heads or be swimming in their underwear.  But they are laughing and calling and dunking each other under that cool refreshing water.  Some things never change.

Sidelined

This is a picture from long years ago when my hair was mostly brown and I could fit into size 10 jeans.  How I love to dance.  Always have,  Always will.  It is just part of me, like breathing or walking or smiling.

Unfortunately, my dancing days may be over.  It all started last fall with a pesky ache in my right hip.  Went to the doctor.  The MRI showed a considerable amount of fluid in the joint causing pain and aggravation.  The solution was easy.  Fluid drawn off the hip.  Cortisone shot injected in the area.  Good as new.

Well, not quite.  Fast forward to January of this year.  Clearing brush I strained my lower back.  Major pain for some time but nothing I had not experienced before.  I knew it would get better in a few weeks with rest and relaxation.  

And then the hip started to hurt again.  Was it my back?  Was it my hip?  I hobbled around as if I had suddenly added several years to my life.  And as you well know, that is not me.  I tried exercising.  Painful, painful.  Not at all the thing to do, said my body.

Another visit to the doctor.  Another MRI.  More x-rays.  The news was not good.  My hip had developed more fluid.  And the worst was that actually the joint was now practically bone-on-bone.  The fluid was drawn off again.  And I decided to get a second opinion, not liking the recommendation that I needed a hip replacement.  No! my mind screamed.  No!

My appointment with another doctor is in the beginning of July.  I am anxious to see what he says.  Maybe there is an easy fix.  Maybe I won't have to have surgery.

But now the festival in West Plains is coming up.  Jig dance contest, three hours of square dancing for two nights.  Lots of friends that we only get to dance with a few times a year  will be there.

But I can't dance.  I will be sidelined.  Not my idea of a good time.  Sitting and listening to dance music is not what I want to do.  But that is what will happen.  

Tapping my toes, I will pretend that I am dancing, hearing the sound of shoes keeping time with the fiddle.  And I will be sitting there.....waiting for the day when I can dance.  Hopefully.  With fingers crossed.  Waiting to dance....again.

Bears and bees

The night before last all was well with our bees in their new hive.  They were tucking themselves in for the night, humming as they cleaned up after the busy day, making plans for the coming of daybreak, knowing there was much to be done in their constant search for food and water.  Busy bees indeed.

But sometime in the twenty-four hour period between eight p.m. Wednesday and seven p. m. last night, a black bear raided our hive and scattered it across the green grass.  Andy found it first and came to get me to help.  I don't work with the bees but I can be an extra pair of hands on occasion.  I took pictures while he assessed the damage.  Thankfully, bees were clustered on the main hive body and the frames of comb were intact.  After suiting up Andy carefully put things back together.  I stayed in the truck, with the windows rolled up and mourned, trying to get an idea of what we might need to do next.

We have had bees before, in Illinois and in the Irish Wilderness.  It had been nearly forty years since we had fooled with them but we were delighted to take on beekeeping again.  Not so much for the honey but for the pleasure of seeing them work so hard.  They are fascinating creatures.

Andy worked hard last night, moving the hive to a new location and then he was up early this morning getting them settled in.  They are mad.  They are fighting mad.  Andy has been stung many times, but he is used to it.  Fingers crossed that they decide to stay where they are now.  I would be very unhappy if they swarmed and left us.  

But there is one thing we have learned.  Bees make honey.  Bears like honey.  And right there is one of those sad facts of life.  Bears and bees don't mix.  

Taking the back road home.

Today I took the back road home. I had finished all my town chores and was feeling in a mellow mood. On the radio Dolly Parton was singing one of my favorite songs.  So when I came to the junction I turned right instead of traveling straight ahead.

We take the back road when the creek is up.  It is very handy to have an alternate way out when the weather isn't co-operative.  But sometimes we opt to just take a little different way either home or to town.

What is so special about this back road detour?  For one, I enjoy seeing the birds perched on the telephone wires because they are different from our hilltop birds.  Scissor-tailed flycatchers, hawks, and other open grassland birds are always waiting for a meal to dart or crawl by.

I love to see my neighbor's fields full of rich green grass and sleek well-fed cows.  I love his straight fence rows and sturdy gates.  I appreciate all the hard work he does making his farm a pleasure to drive by.

I always look for another friend's home place, now long abandoned but full of memories.  Sometimes the road narrows and crosses close in front of a house or two.  I know most of these people and they know me.  Makes you feel good to be near people who care about you.

But the best thing about taking the back road home is that I can poke along just as slow as I please.  Perhaps I see a flower that I can't identify without pausing a minute and getting a closer look.  Sometimes I just glory in the waving grass and far-off purple shadowed hills.  Sometimes I just like to see the wind turn the leaves in the oak tree this way and that.

Down the road further it narrows into a special spot where you can see the view of Caney Mountain through the trees.  The way is rougher here but taking my time is not a problem.  I can drive and look at the same time.

What a joy it is to have a choice of how to go home.  And sometimes the back road is the best.

38

Thirty-eight.  A nice round number.  Not an extraordinary number, but of sufficient importance in our life to make note of this month of May.  Why?  Because 38 years ago we drove our red pickup into this small Missouri town,unpacked our worldly goods and set up housekeeping.  Andy,  Me.  And little Nina.

We bought the Grandma Harlin house, up on the hill, from Harve and Cora Blisard.  While we were remodeling  we lived across the street, in the old Jim Hale house.  Skeeter and Faye were our neighbors to the west.  Pete and Virginia Klineline lived down from us to the east.  All in all, a nice place to put down roots.

Erna Johnson came down the hill that day and introduced herself.  Said she had heard that a new family with a little girl had moved into town.  Just wanted to say hi and invite us to come and see her sometime.  And we did...many times.  Loved visiting and talking to Erna.  Arles and Ivy Walker lived across the street and up one house.  Arles came over, welcomed us to town, and said that his grandson's family attended church at Center Point, out in the country and he would be sure and tell Sandy, Gerald's wife, that there was a new family needing an invitation to church.  And invite us she did.  We loved that little church, on that windy country road, and all the people who went there.

One warm morning we hiked down to Skeeters for breakfast.  And there sat Pattie Strong in a booster chair, eating pancakes.  Nina and Pattie hit it off right away.  And they are still friends.  Nina was a shy child.  She stayed attached to my knee for at least the first two years we lived in Gainesville.  Try as they might, grownups couldn't get her to talk to them.  But, kids, now that was a different matter.  She would watch them playing for awhile and then walk up and start in with whatever was going on.  For part of the time before she went to school she attended Mother Goose Daycare and made many lifelong friends there.

My first order of business was finding a teaching job.  We had been camping and I didn't have anything close to good interview clothes that were clean or ironed.  Clad in jeans and a  T-shirt, I went to ask Benton Breeding if he might have a job for me.  Sure he did.  And he needed me right away since Joe Cissna was moving up to teach high school special education, taking Mr. Beach's place after his retirement that spring.  Signed a contract that day.

And bingo.  Everyone in town knew us.  But, as usual, we didn't have idea one who they were.  People would come up to me in the the grocery store and introduce themselves.  They were anxious to make us feel at home.

I guess it took.  Here we are 38 years later.  Of course, we no longer live IN Gainesville.  But it is still our town.  Wouldn't change it for the world.

And in comes May....

Sunrise, sunset, noontide and evening.  Green hills clothed in new garments....soft wind blowing the growing leaves.  Mist in the valley.  Bird call at break of day.  Fresh scent of some exotic flower in the air.  What is it?  I search my memory and it finds a blank.  But I enjoy it anyway.  

Full moon lights the night and makes it look like day.  Driving down the road we shut off the headlights.  Can we see the road still?  No, but it is an eerie feeling to see the sky so bright and the earth so dark.

May has come to my hilltop home.  I revel in the beauty of the season.  Spring brings out the best in the Ozarks.  It is a reward for icy winter snows and frigid winds.  If you can make it through the winter, you get to experience Mother Nature in all her glory.

Turkeys are gobbling.  Fish are biting.  Gardens are being readied for planting.  And the constant mowing of grass.....that is the challenge.  It grows overnight.

But I'll not complain.  Each precious day is a jewel to take out and show off to the world.  See what I am blessed to be a part of?  And I promise myself to enjoy each day....for May has come.

And the others....

My Grandfather Stimpert, Dave as he was called, had eleven children.  His first wife died in childbirth.  There were four children in that family, three boys and one girl.  He married his deceased wife's older sister and with her he had two girls and one boy.  And when she passed away, he met and married my grandmother.  They had two girls and two boys.  The picture above is a combination of two "batches" of Stimperts.  My mother was fond of calling them that, just as if they were cookies, or biscuits.  Quite a family.

You have already been introduced to Jenne, on the right, looking very regal in her Sunday best.  She would have been around 15 when this picture was made.  Standing to her right is lovely Rosa, one of my mother's favorite people and also her role model.  Rosa was just one year old when her mother died and she was frail and tiny until she was grown.  Her ambition was to teach.  And travel.  And she did both.  She went to France.  She taught at Kemper Hall, where I went to school, in the 1930's.  She met her husband, my Uncle Tony, and they adopted two sisters, my cousins Mary and Ann.  Their teaching career brought them to the University of Oklahoma where she was a professor of Romance Languages and he was a professor of German.  So interesting to talk to her and Uncle Tony.  They had wonderful stories to tell.

The tall boy to Rosa's right is my Uncle Alfred.  A true blue Illinois farmer.  His farm was part of my grandfather's acreage.  I always enjoyed going to visit Alfred and his family and his wife Clara.  He kept everything just so and he was very successful.  My mother always said that she felt very much at home when she visited Alfred.

Sitting on the sofa next to Jenne is Ernest, the oldest of my mother's brothers.  He ran an implement business in ElPaso until he sold out and retired.  I wasn't around him much until I grew up.  He visited us many times where ever we lived and my mom liked to travel places with him and her cousins.  A favorite place for them to vacation was Florida.  He was not a patient man.  My mom took forever to get ready to go anywhere.  One day she and Ernie were going away for the day.  He got in the station wagon and started it up before she got out the door.  He had to back up so she could get in.  She was aghast.  He explained, "When I say we're leaving, we are leaving."  She believed him then.

At the other end of the sofa is my mother's favorite brother Edward.  They were just about a year and a half apart.  And they competed in everything.  They would try to see who would beat the other one home from school in the afternoon.  Whoever was first drew their initials in the dirt in front of the gate.  My mom was first most of the time and she would draw "F.A.S" Florence Alberta Stimpert.  When Ed would get there he merely put a line under the F. and it read "E.A.S." Edward Albert Stimpert.  My mom would be furious.  And Ed would just grin.  He enlisted in the Army during WW II.  He died fighting the Germans in France in June of 1944 and he is buried there.

And this brings us to that charming little princess seated between her brothers.  The belle of the ball, my mother.  She looks so sweet.  But we all know that there was iron behind that innocent grin.  She was probably 4 when this picture was made.  Her sister Katherine wasn't born yet.  Taty, as we called her, would complete the Stimpert family.

I love learning about my family.  Some the stories I hear are new to me.  But most have been handed down over the years.  Are they true?  Who knows.  But they make a good tale.  And there are plenty of Stimpert stories out there.  With eleven children and all their kin, how could there not be?

 

 

 

 

Jenne

Solid.  Dependable.  Quiet, but always aware of what was going on.  Ready to help in any situation.  These words describe my Aunt Jenne.  My mother's older sister by 11 years, Jenne had to take on responsibility in the Stimpert family at a young age.  I  remember her telling me the story of doing the wash one day with a younger sibling in her arms.  Before she knew it the baby had put his arm in the wringer.  Thinking fast, Jenne was able to turn off the machine before any harm was done.  But that memory stuck with her for as long as she lived.

Jenne was a nurse.  I assume this picture was taken when she was new to her profession.  She worked as an RN at the TB Sanitorium outside of Bloomington, Illinois.  The only time I saw her when I was growing up was when I would visit my Aunt Taty in ElPaso .  Jenne would come there on her day off.  She loved all of us.  And she was good to us.  Books, special candy treats, and always a shiny new quarter(unheard of wealth in our day when we usually were given a dime) were her gifts to us.

But she shared something else with her family.  Unquestioning loyalty.  Persistent love in the face of overwhelming odds.  We had several "thorny" people in our family.  Jenne was the peace-maker.  It might take a while.  One month, a year, several years, and then the errant wanderer would come back into the fold.

After she retired she was the resident nurse for the family.  She stayed with her older brother and helped him until he died.  I know she had some problems with him.  He was cranky and used harsh words on almost all occasions.  Jenne said she had a fool-proof solution to keeping her temper.  "I just go in my room, close the door, kneel down and pray, and generally God gives me the answer.  Anyway, when I feel better, I go back and ask Henry just what it was that he wanted.  And then he is happier too."

Inner strength.   And an unstoppable belief that God would make things right.  That's what Jenne taught us.

She loved to read.  Andy and I gave her a subscription to The Christian Science Monitor one year for Christmas.  She would read through the issue and clip out articles she thought we would like.  And mail them to us.  Along with a box of no-bake cookies.  She was so generous...in all things.

When she passed away in the early 80's we were on vacation and unable to go the services.  But afterward when we went to the cemetery to visit her grave we found out that she wasn't there.  She had written in her will, and kept it from the family, that she wanted her body donated to science after she died.  So there was nothing to bury there in that family plot, near her dad and other family members.

But she lives on.  If I had had another little girl her name would have been Jenne.  She lives in our hearts.  And when good things happen to me, I look skyward and say a little prayer....Thank you Jenne for teaching me how to look beyond myself and see the real reason I am here.

She was truly one of a kind.  

Growing

The older I get, the less certain I am that I have all the answers.  And this is a good thing.  I  can remember being a rash and judgmental teenager.  I knew what was right and I was sure that everyone else should feel the same way.

And then life intervened.

Little by little my prejudices have lessened and my life view has widened.  When you see the world with blinders on, there is not much to see.

To say that it has  been an easy task to be a quiet listener and thoughtful speaker would be a lie.  Inwardly I have seethed and tossed and turned at night over perceived wrongs and what I could do to make them right.  But with time I have learned to wait....and pray...and listen for the Inner Voice that leads me when I make decisions.

Some times I falter and fail.  But I hope that in the end I will find a certain peace and contentment knowing that I have been just a part of what someone was seeking.  A helper, not a stumbling block.  A healer, and not a source of hurt.  A person who shows love and not hate.  A true believer in the good. 

But....I am still growing.  Pray for me.

 

Daffodils

A sure sign of spring is a road bank or walkway lined with these spring beauties.  Daffodils.

I spend my time when riding down our country byways spying patches of daffodils that linger in fields and under towering trees.  They almost always tell of a long-forgotten homestead where some flower-loving farm wife dug the soil and planted spring bulbs to brighten her yard. 

Andy is the gardener in our family.  When we bought our property...in the fall...he ordered bulbs so we would have daffodils in the spring.  We planted them in three small patches, near the place where we thought the house might be.  We covered them with straw and chicken wire and hoped for the best.  The extra protection was to discourage our local herd of armadillos from digging up our plants in their search for grubs and worms.

The next spring we kept an eye out for the green shoots to appear.  And they did.  A few at a time.  And soon we had some blooms.  Not many but enough to know that we had been successful in our daffodil planting.

As the house was built and the yard came into being, we dug up the bulbs in the fall and replanted them on the bank that sits on the edge of our driveway.  Trying to figure the best placement was a chore, but we finally decided on rows that we hoped would fill in with time.

That first spring followed an unusually mild winter.  The daffodils started to bloom long before it was really time for them to show their flowers.  And then we had snow on the first day of spring.  I have pictures of those yellow heads drooping under a cover of white.  But they survived.

This spring they are blooming in profusion.  The wonderful thing about daffodils is that they spread and, as they become settled, more flowers appear each spring.  I walk down to check on them and pick some for a bouquet or two in the house.  But mostly I like to leave them blooming there on the side of the hill.

I like to think that when we are no longer here  perhaps someone will drive up the road, spot those lovely spring blooms and think, "Some body who loved daffodils lived here a long time ago."  And they will smile to see those yellow rays of sunshine, growing on my hill.

Eternal Spring

The last few days have been full of promise.  And to think that a few short weeks ago we were dealing with snow and ice and all sorts of winter weather.  Such a relief to finally stand on the porch and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and hear the turkey's gobble on the far ridge.

This morning was a wonderful sight.  Fog early with the sun rising like a moon over the fog bank.  Bright, bright sunshine pouring like molten gold into my house. And as I sat in my chair I was amazed at how that light seemed to seep into each corner and give it life.

From the porch, as the fog lifted, I could see  blades of grass  festooned with spider webs, crystal strands of diamond dew glistening in the sun.

Yesterday, before the storm arrived with threatening clouds and hail and wind, the sky was that unbelievable springtime blue.  White wisps of cotton were sailing over the hills as I drove into town.  How beautiful spring is here in the Ozarks. 

And it set me to thinking about the eternal nature of change in our world.  All of the trials and troubles, war and mayhem that we live with daily is just temporary.  Years and years ago, before we even set foot here in this wild and rocky land, the spring sky was just as blue.  The wild flowers sprang up to bloom and go to seed.  The turkeys sought their mates.  The deer browsed in field and forest.  And long after you and I are gone it will still be spring.  And some other eyes will grow to love the ever changing and eternal promise of this season of renewed life, and hope for the future.

Pushing spring....

Every day I am looking for signs of spring.  I don't know why I am so impatient this year.  We had a fairly mild winter, just as the weather forecasters said, for all the months up until February.  And then the weather gods decided to teach us a lesson or two.

Cold, bitter cold.  Wind, freezing wind.  Day after dreary day of clouds and gloom and blustery air driving the birds into the woods and all the little animals back into their safe and warm hide-away. 

I tried to find ways to keep my spirits up, but even I was bowing to the pressure and weight of what was happening outside my window.

And then the snow.  And the ice.  And the snow again.  Just when my heart was ready to break out of its winter mode, another Arctic blast from the north would arrive on my doorstep.

Every morning I would get up and see if I could see the sun, just a little ray of pink and yellow peeping over the clouds to the east.  And most mornings there was nothing but grey and more grey.  My heart would groan and ache.  I so wanted winter to end, right then.  But my pleading fell on deaf ears.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the time of late winter dreariness ended.  The sun came out.  The birds started to gather on the tree tops and greet the new day.  Nest building began again.  I even saw a few green shoots coming up through the brown thatch.

And wonder of wonders, ice melted, snow banks disappeared and the sun came back into the sky.  All in the matter of a few days my winter world turned back into a place where I could begin to feel the warmer air pushing up from the south and the breeze softened with the promise of spring.

Now we have rain.  And mud.  And the certain knowledge that winter is over.  We may get a few more cold days.  We may even be visited with a late snow.  But I can feel it in my bones.  Spring is on its way. 

I don't know about you, but I am more than ready for it.  Welcome spring.  

And on to warmer thoughts....

Yes, it is a messy, snowy, blustery day outside.  And, as usual, I am looking around for something to do...inside.  I have lots of family pictures that need to be scanned and organized so that is my job for today.

I came across this picture in a pile of childhood photos.  Yes, indeed, that is me in my hula girl outfit.  I remember it well.  My mom had a dancing school and gave lessons for many years.  And my brother Paul and I were always enrolled.  I loved it.  Paul...not so much.

One year Mom decided to teach me how to do the hula.  And hula I did.  I remember when the hula skirt came in the mail.  It was something else.  Many strands of cellophane fastened to a cloth waistband...it did the trick.  No grass skirt for this little girl.  The rest of the outfit was made by a local friend.  And the paper flowers must have come from Woolworths or Ben Franklin.  I really thought I was something.  You can tell by the smile.

One occasion I remember dancing the hula was for a show in the local gym in Galva, my home town.  It was a freezing cold night in early January.  Snow may have been on the ground.  I really don't recall.  What sticks in my memory is how very, very cold it was out there on the stage in the gym.  Cold on my little bare feet, cold on my arms...and legs.  But when the music started I did my dance and the applause from the audience took care of my shivers.

I really loved that little hula outfit.  My mom kept it for years packed up in a box.  When we moved from our house in Gainesville I debated what to do with it.  The skirt had morphed into dusty plastic shreds, but the rest of the costume was in perfect shape.  I put it in the auction with my other memories.  I hope whoever bought it enjoyed it.

As for me, I get warm all over remembering that cold night when I warmed up the crowd with my hula dance.

Snow Days and Kids

I am enjoying all the pictures my friends and neighbors are posting of their kids and grandkids out in the first snow of this winter.  It is late in the year for snow.  But we will take it anytime.

My picture is of  Nina taken at our little house up on Harlin Drive.  She was probably 3 or 4 at the time.  Not in school yet.  So it would have been one of those snowy winters we had back in the late 70's I think.  We were out of school for weeks I remember.

My Andy is a creative sort.  And he loves the snow.  And, being a carpenter, he loves to build things.  And what do you do with lots of snow?  Why, make a snow house, of course.  He took one of our plastic storage boxes and proceeded to make snow blocks.  Nina helped too.  I think I was in charge of hot cocoa and cookies and dry clothes when they were needed.  I remember this project  practically cleared the yard of snow.  You can see bare ground and lots of leaves in the finished product.  This snow house lasted for days. 

Ruby Robins called us from the Times one day and asked if Wayman King could come up and take a picture of Nina standing in front of  her frozen playhouse.  We of course said yes and the result was her picture in the paper. 

Takes me back in time.  There she stands in her sturdy little boots, holding her life-long companion Tina, the hairless doll.  Warm hat, warm coat, warm mittens.  So happy that her creative dad has helped her make another winter memory.

So, go out there.  Have fun while this snow lasts.  The white stuff will be gone before we know it.  But memories like this last forever.