Roots

/This little church and the accompanying graveyard are outside of Baker's Summit, Pennsylvania.  My grandfather was born here in 1860.  His name was Franklin Holsinger Myers.  He and his family moved to Illinois and then Kansas when he was a young boy.  His father died there and his mother remarried and moved back to Baker's Summit.  Somehow...my grandfather Frank moved back to Kansas and then back to Illinois when he was a young man.  A few years ago I was trying to find out what became of my grandfather's family.  I searched the records...and came up with some answers, but not all of them.  

What I did find out is that part of the Myers family is buried here...right across the road.  I had no idea what I was looking for when I stopped by early one morning when we were traveling back home to Missouri.  I had some information, but not a lot. I searched the rows looking for my great-grandmother's name...not knowing that she had remarried two years after my great-grandfather died in Kansas.  Such confusion.

Lucky stroke the following year....I chanced upon some information that told me about her new name, her children with her new husband, and the names of several relatives that lived in an adjoining town.

Early one morning...a year later....I returned to the cemetery across the road...and walked carefully down the rows, looking for her name.  And there she was.  And next to her was her second husband, my grandfather's stepfather.  

My dad's parents both passed away years before I was born.  But I know a lot of stories about them.  Their gentle ways, hard work ethic, and how they managed to raise a family during a difficult time with little work available and not much money coming in.  My aunts both told me that they never heard my grandparents fight or disagree.  They were loving people who always thought the best of others.. How I wish I had known them.

Which brings me back to the picture above.  As I stood there in the silence of that early summer morning, near the resting place of a woman who did not have an easy life, but who raised children that anyone would say were good people.  I looked across the road....her church, my family's church.  And that is how I know what foundation made these people who they were.  What a wonderful gift for me.  It was then and it still is.  

 

Rain, Glorious Rain

Promises, promises.....you know what I mean.  The last few days we have been told, by various sources who will remain nameless to protect their reputations, that we could expect liquid dropping from the sky...in other words...RAIN.  Ha, I said to myself.  So many times they have said this..."rain expected between 6 AM and 6 PM, amounts anywhere from 1/8 of an inch to 3 inches ."  In other words, the lesser amount, which only serves to settle the dust on my dusty road.

Went to town this morning.  It felt like rain.  There were a few drops on my windshield.  Came back home and unpacked the groceries.  Looked out toward Caney Mountain to the west and what did I see...rain coming my way.  But I knew better.  We have a sign..invisible except to rain clouds...which reads  ANY WHERE FROM THIS BOUNDARY TO THAT BOUNDARY...THERE WILL BE NO RAIN. FINAL WORD!  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED! How do I know this?  Everyone else gets rain...but not us, up here on the hill. It has gotten to the point where we don't even bother to replace our rain gauge, which bit the dust many months ago.  What's the use?  I was tired of emptying the dirt and bugs out of it every month or so.

I have learned my lesson today.  I doubted that we would get any rain but....here it is.  I had planned on taking my daily walk down the road after lunch.  Joyfully, I get to sit here at the window and watch the water dripping from the eaves.  The birds are loving it too.  They come and perch on the porch railing for a minute or two, shake out their wings, and take off to find shelter in our oak tree's

 welcoming branches.  Don't you know the grass loves this too.  I can almost hear the ground sighing with pleasure.

And we all say together....RAIN, GLORIOUS RAIN.  

 

At Last

Perfect joy!  That is what I felt when Andy brought me this, my first bouquet of spring, a few weeks ago.  Yes, I have a confession.  I am not a gardener.  Any plant I touch, even for a few seconds, turns black and withers in my hand.  Always has been, always will be this way.  Thankfully, I have a husband who is a plant savant.  He just has that special touch.

But, enough of that.  What gives me true happiness at this time of year is to see the returning of green and every other color that gives my whole outlook on life a boost.  I tire of grey and brown and dull, dreary skies as the days of February and March drag on.  I search for signs of spring on my daily walks.  First the small, tentative sprigs of early flowers....fighting to survive late frosts and beating winds  Daffodils struggling to raise their green shoots amid last autumn's leaves.  I bend down over them and, like a mother with a tottering toddler taking his first small steps, I whisper, "Come on sweetheart.  You can do this."  And the ground warms under my hands and I feel the response...."Yes, yes we can."

Spring makes me feel as if I can do almost anything..  I have to be careful not to overdo....too many climbs up my hill or along the road lead to backsets.  Aching legs and sore knees...well, I don't need to dwell on that.  As I rest after my daily walk, I sit on my porch with a wonderful view of Caney Mountain and all that heavenly land that lies, spread out before me, and breathe fresh, springtime air, saying to myself...At last, at long last, spring has arrived.

 

 

Wild Garlic

I am enjoying the past few cool mornings.  I lace up my boots and head down the road, relishing the cool breeze on my face as the sun rises over the hills in the east.  It gives me a chance to take an inventory of the new flowers and plants up here on the hill.   Nothing out of the ordinary.  But each year I am happy to see the progression of spring to summer.

Wild garlic is a new favorite of mine.  It is not a showy plant.  It doesn't have the pizzazz of the colorful flowers that herald the arrival of spring with vibrant yellow and blue and deep pink,  In fact, it is downright ugly if you want to be truthful about it. It is tall and gangly...kind of like a teenager's legs before their body grows to match them.  The brown nuggets that form the base are a deep purplish brown color.  The pink flowers that grow from the center are a dainty, shy kind of pink.  Not robust at all.

According to my Ozark wildflowers book the wild garlic "has strong antiseptic properties."  It goes on to say early settlers and Native Americans used the juice to treat wounds, burns, bee stings, and snakebites.  The list also includes using it for" fever, blood disorders, lung troubles, internal parasites. skin problems, hemorrhoids, earaches, rheumatism, and arthritis"  It was also a help for early explorers of the area.  When Marquette made his way from Green Bay to the present site of Chicago one of the food staples was wild garlic. 

Everyday I check to see how it is fairing.  Will it wilt in the hot, dry

 summer days to come?  Will it shrivel up and fade into the weeds sure to encroach upon it?   Or will it stand tall, there on the rocky roadside and eventually drop its brown seeds into soil.....resting until another spring brings it back to life. I like to think it will.  

Sort of a metaphor for life as we know it.  We may not be the most beautiful or showy....but even in our plainness we are strong....sure to endure no matter what. 

 

Waiting.....

The last several days have been teasers....cool for a few days, cloudy, windy....and then clear, sunny, almost too hot.  I go for my walk everyday.  I look for signs of spring.  Nothing much for a while...and then the daffodils, springing up in yards and fields.  Swaying in the breeze...lifting their heads to the blue sky.  Picking some from the hill in front of my house, I put them in my favorite vase on the windowsill.  The above picture is crocus that bloom down by the creek where Andy has planted them.  They are doing well, but only last a day.  

Spring here on the hill comes in spurts.  The sunshine in my eastern window at sunrise seems more intense.  The yellow beams move from day to day...marking the sun's movement from south to north. Hope for warmer weather and clearing skies always encourages me to look ahead....waiting, always waiting.

I hear turkey gobbling in the south field.  Birds are flitting from tree to tree....jumping down to peck for food among the greening grass.  Hope...always hope.  Hoping for warmer weather....milder winds...the smell of earth ready to be plowed and sown with this year's seed.

My heart says yes, but my mind says no.  And, yes, I know it tells the truth.  For it is too early to plant....too early to gather my thoughts and eager wishes for what is to come.  The weeks ahead will tell the story.  Snow in March?  Yes.  Buds on flowers and trees nipped by April frost...it happens too.

But these few first precious days of awakening life....I watch them hourly as if I were their mother.  Pleased with each movement...each tiny step of progress.  Feeling that all is not in vain.  

Spring will come.  Maybe not today...or tomorrow.  But it is on its way.

And this brings joy to my heart and a smile to my lips.  Even if I am still waiting.... 

 

At Last!

I don't know about you, but I have been in the dumps about the dry, colorless season we have been enduring for the last eternal weeks......no rain, very little color, high winds, hot, then cold, then hot again.

But then the rain came.  Gently, gently falling on the stiff, dead grass outside my window.  No rushing of water from the sky....just a steady, constant sheet of welcome rain.  We all had been looking forward to it....we knew it would happen soon.  But still, what a relief.

As I traveled today I was amazed at the bright shiny beauty I saw at every turn in the road.  Vistas of the hills clothed in orange and red, and yes....the perennial brown....dotted here and there with yellow and gold.  The color had been there before, but somehow the rain made each leaf and branch glow in the sunlight.

It makes such a difference in my attitude when I am surrounded with glowing autumn colors.  Fall will lead to winter.  The bare, dark limbs of oak and walnut and maple will move with the chilly wind.  Gray clouds will drift on the horizon...blocking out the light of the sun at dawn, noon and dusk.  

But somehow, the redemption of fall color and light makes that future seem at least bearable.  It's not that our winter here in the Ozarks is all dull and drab.  The sun will shine with a different light.  The air will be clear and fresh.  We do enjoy having a chance to walk in the brisk beauty of  a winter afternoon.

But just for today I gloried in the colors of this season.  A memory that will take me through the next months and encourage us all to look forward...to what our ever-changing world will bring us next.

 

No Smile Until December

When I was in my first year at Gainesville Elementary, sixth-grade teacher Susan Ault gave me some advice.  " Don't let them see you smile until December." she said with a straight face.  Of course, she was talking about how one might teach kids who sometimes take advantage of a teacher's lax discipline.  "Wow", I thought.  "That's really a good way to get your bluff in on the first day!"  I tried it, but actually wasn't too successful.  I mainly used my loudest "teacher voice" to quell any disturbance in my class.

Susan, who passed away a few days ago, was a wonderful friend and mentor.  But more than that, she was talented, resourceful, and endlessly creative.  She could look at a mess on the library table at the Historium, which yours truly had created, and smile.  Giving me a gentle pat on the shoulder, she'd say, "That's okay Jane.  You'll figure it out."  And usually I did...with the help of some of the other workers that day.

When we were moving all the books into the Historium before it opened, Susan and her husband John were endlessly optimistic.  The boxes were piled around the tables.  Jean Allen and I were busy, trying to make order out of mayhem.  Keeping track of so many family histories and trying to decide where to file and arrange information so it would be usable seemed a daunting task.  Susan was right there with us through it all.  John gave his advice and then went off to load more stuff off the truck and in the back door.  What a job!  It took awhile, but finally we were able to have some semblance of a library when we opened.

In the short while since I learned of her passing, I've been trying to sum up Susan's secret charm and can-do attitude.  She was not a quitter.  If the mud got deeper, if the papers got higher, if the kids got louder...she would wade in and get it done.  No smiles until December.  No resting until you had a solution.  No short cuts.  No whining.

But we also know the gentle, wonderful friend she was to all of us.  So many remember her smile, her kind words, her unceasing efforts to make Ozark County a place where people felt at home.  It was her place.  She was born and raised here.  And there was no more fitting person to lead us to do our best...whether we were child or adult.  Always that quiet assurance that all would be well.

Thank you Susan.  God give you rest now.  You will always be remembered as one of the best...in anything you chose to do.   

 

Homesick

I am a come-here from Illinois. Hogs and corn and other crops are part of my DNA.  No. I was not raised on a farm. But most of my kin were....and I am proud to claim them.

So then why do I yearn to travel those narrow country blacktop roads that are straight as a string...where corn and soybeans extend in every direction, where you can feel the setting sun beating down on you as you travel west, trying to catch that last glimmer of daylight before you get home?

I look at this picture and I can smell Illinois summer. That hard to identify sweet growing smell of rich soil and dark earth, so fertile that it begs to be turned and plowed and planted. 

Don't get me wrong. I love the Ozarks. I have lived here longer than I ever lived in Illinois. It would take a lot of persuading to make me move from my hilltop home.

Maybe it is a kind of primal genetic urge you feel as you grow old. Maybe it's that homing instinct that brings salmon leaping upstream to lay their eggs in the spring. Maybe it's that call to butterflies and swallow and geese as they make their way north when Nature bids them.

Whatever it is, I feel it especially during this time of year.  I can close my eyes and feel the air as it surrounds me...right then, I'm home. Comfort in memories. Ready to move on.

Remembering My Friend

I should have written this tribute a few weeks ago.  But, somehow, whenever I began, my tears started to flow.  I could not see the screen.  I would give up, but knew I needed to write something.

Jean Allen was one of my first friends in Gainesville.  I knew about her a while before I moved to Gainesville.  I had been teaching at Winona in Shannon County.  We made the decision to move when Nina was about two.  We found a place to buy in Ozark County and prepared to relocate.  Before I left, I had an appointment with my hairdresser in Winona.  I told her of our plans.  She stepped back and said, in a half-joking voice..."Well, those people stole our Jeannie away from us!  Never will forgive that Allen guy who took her with him.!"  She mentioned that I might find the much loved girl working at the local lumberyard, right downtown in that distant place called Gainesville.  

Jeannie was a quiet person.  She spoke softly.  She did not want to call attention to herself.  I am sure  she is probably looking over my shoulder this minute as I write, narrowing those eyes and making a playful grimace as she watches me type.

Jean was my go-to confident.  We shared so many wonderful times, there in the back of the flower shop.  She would stop working on the arrangement she was making, pull up a stool, and I would unburden myself to her.  She would agree, or disagree with me.  We would share various solutions, or lament the fact that there was no solution.  I don't know whether I ever really thanked her for listening to me....but she didn't fail to welcome me back to visit again.

A worker in the background.  Hardly ever noticed she was there.  But, oh boy, we missed her when she went on vacation.  Fishing in Canada, fishing up at the lake.  Things tended to go undone...waiting for her to return.

We were in Sunday School together for years.  First in the all women's class, then in the older adult class, Bible Study, evening Bible Study.  I still remember Jean and I agreeing that the unit about the Book of  Revelation made us more confused than we were to begin with.  But we smiled and agreed that whatever the Lord had in mind....we wouldn't argue with His plan for us.  

Strong in her faith.  That was Jean. We shared so much that helped each of us along our path.

The other day I watched a church member carrying the candles from our church altar to the kitchen.  They had run out of oil.  When Jean was in charge...they never failed to be filled.  

Flowers that she always took care of, taking on committee  duties both in the community and elsewhere, volunteering at The Center, the Historium, .... the list goes on and on. 

 The last time I talked to her...about two weeks before she passed away, I told her about visiting the graveyard at Falling Spring in Shannon County.  I remarked that I had seen the stone with Cap Brawley's name on it.  She shared with me several years ago that she had helped with research for the cemetery where some of her kin are buried.  Brawley was her maiden name.  

I am certain that when she entered Heaven, everyone shouted...."Thank you Lord.  At last Jeannie is here.  She'll fit right in"....An angel.  A helper.  My friend.  Rest in Peace sweet Jeannie.  Until we meet again. 

 

Is It Spring Yet?

This time of year tries my patience.  I don't like being cooped up inside.  It is too treacherous for me to venture out today, just as it was yesterday, and the day before.  I do not enjoy looking out the window and waiting for the ice to melt so I can take a walk down my road and see what might be popping up along the way.

Of course, many people already have jonquils and early blooms trying their best to make it through the on again, off again, beginning of spring.  The teasing days that came before our latest onslaught of ice and snow were just a taste of things to come.  My flower beds are clear and ready for new plants.  I am waiting for that first blush of green on the trees down in the valley.  

Patience is not one of my virtues.  I want to get out and walk down my road, even if I have to slog through the mud.  My eyes long to see the first green leaves peeking up from the  still cool earth.  My ears long to hear that first birdsong that tells me nests are being built, ready for young.

I am a child again.  It seems that looking forward is half the joy of living.  Anticipation.  Wonder.  Just wanting to be part of what is happening.  And if I desire spring, why is it not here?  Why can't it be now?   Is it spring yet? I ask.  And the older me answers, Just be patient.  It will come.   

Home

Back to Caney Mountain Refuge today.  It was a beautiful January afternoon..mild temperatures, sun, and little or no wind.  Perfect for a drive up the North Trail.  We have walked this way many times, in all sorts of weather.  It was good to see the familiar sights and sit and listen to the snow birds and nut hatches as they flew from branch to branch, busy with their winter chores.  After a round or two of the fields where we might find a shed or two, we climbed back in the truck and set off for a favorite place....the Morrison Cabin.

This house site is one of the historic places in the Refuge.  I love to visit it.  We are acquainted with the family who are descendants of the original owners. I love to see the chimney and imagine it aglow with warmth on the chilly days of autumn and winter.  The remaining logs are piled near their original places.  Round logs with notches cut to fit them in place.  There are two rooms it seems, which was common for many homes at that time.  Today we also thought we saw the lintels for doorways, the stones for steps, the logs that might have held a porch on the west side.  

What is so special about this place?  I think it is because I can look back and remember seeing pictures of just such a house while doing research for our local Historium.  So many of the ancestors of Ozark County families lived in houses just like this.  Perhaps their fireplace and chimney weren't built quite the same.  Perhaps they had only one room...or a little shed built on to make a place for a growing family.  The road that runs by this house is narrow and rocky.  We have never found sign of a barn or outbuilding in our search for clues.  But we are sure there must have been some place for animals to stay, or storage for household items or farm equipment.  Of course, this rocky terrain has never been too hospitable for much large scale farming, but most places had a garden spot and fenced in area for hogs and chickens. 

But it was a home.  A place to live.  A place to leave when it was time for you to go.  And a place to come back to when you miss your family.  Don't we all have that yearning?  If we are truthful...we do.  It might not look like this cabin with its fireplace and towering chimney.  But it is home.  And it calls us back...time and time again.  

 

One January Afternoon

Some of you will recognize this view.  We haven't been able to climb up here for about a year, due to various things that have gotten in the way.  But enough of that.

This is one of our favorite places to sit and contemplate the wonders of Ozark County.  It is in the Caney Mountain Refuge, which we always refer to as just The Refuge...or Caney Mountain.  

Far below in the valley is the road we usually use.  But it is closed due to water undermining a low water crossing.  We were brave a few weeks ago and took the truck over it, after Andy got out and inspected the crack that made it all but impassable.

We enjoyed taking the southern route.  It brought back lots of fond memories when we could hike all the way from the Public Hunting Area, through the gate and onto the road that  generally goes downhill toward the main entrance.  Mushroom hunting in the spring, exploring the fields for sheds, looking for frogs and critters in the ponds along the way.  As we drove we told a lot of tales...and some of them were true!

How blessed we are to be able to enjoy this place of solitude.  Looking through the valley that you face when you stand in the picnic area, you can see our barn...and our house.  Just peeking over the ridge where our neighbor's house sits atop a hill, there it is.  You can't see the house, but the barn shines in the sun.  

We had the place to ourselves, as we often do.  That is okay.  Nothing better than a little bit of peace and quiet in a beautiful setting.  Calm thoughts.  Good thoughts.  Carefree feelings of letting the world stand still for awhile.  Not that we live in a hurry up and wait place.  But it is always nice to rest your eyes and spirit, sitting on a rock, watching the birds fly below you.  Thinking of nothing.  Just enjoying the day of sunshine, moving clouds, and shadows on the rocks.

Contentment.  Indeed.

 

Christmas

It is coming fast.  Are you ready?  A few years ago, I would have said yes.  Now I am not so sure.

It seems as if Christmas arrives too soon these days.  When I was little I thought it would never come.  I searched the catalogs for things I knew I had to have.  I made hints to my parents.  I was always on my best behavior.  Really?? Well...to be truthful...most of the time.  After all I had to protect myself from my two big brothers.  A girl needs to know how to do that from an early age.

These days it seems as if Labor Day and Halloween run together.  I am putting away the beach towels and swimsuits, shorts and summer clothes one day and the next we are getting candy ready to give away to spooky ghosts and goblins.  Thanksgiving comes before I have a chance to catch my breath.  Where is that pan I always use for the turkey?  And where is  my mom's recipe for dressing?

Today I looked around my house and realized that somehow, miraculously, a tree had appeared on the table in front of my window.  It was decked out in sparkling finery.  Glowing lights, toys arranged artistically, or so I think, beneath its green boughs.  I love my tree.  It has so many things I cherish.  Sweet memories.  Cards have been written, addressed and mailed.  Gifts have been sent to loved ones far and near.  Can it be true?  Did I actually find that wonderful spirit somewhere amidst all the hub bub and hurry?  How can it be?

I know the secret.  And I will tell you what it is.  Listen carefully.  I will only tell you once.  Or twice if need be.  Well....I might even write it down so you can memorize it.

Life is short.  Take each moment and cherish it.  Time passes too quickly to waste it on minor annoyances and worries.  I must admit I don't always take my own advice. But I took the time this week to put everything else aside and make room for this important part of my life.  Christmas means so much to me.  It is not just a holiday.  It is a holy day.  A day to be honored.  A day to reflect on what it means to be a human.  Reaching out to others.  Expressing my love. 

Merry Christmas to all of you.  And peace to you and yours.  

 

December Benediction

I took a walk today as the sun began to set behind the Caney Mountains.  It has been warm the last few days.  Too warm for this time of year.  We should be wearing coats and mittens, shielding ourselves from the north wind.  After all, it is December.  The final note of the fading year.

Thanksgiving has come and gone.  Christmas is fast approaching.  But then, there is this space of time between these two events.  I strolled at a leisurely pace. There was no hurry in me.

Light wind.  Fading light.  A time to not think at all.  No plans.  No urgency to make a decision.

Just time, and sky, and breeze, and silence.

It is so very quiet up here on my hill this time of year.  The birds are gone.  All the busy life around me has stopped its frantic pace.  Peacefulness.  I can almost hear the earth breathing a sigh of relief.  

I join in.  Smiling, I feel a certain connection with this eternal design.

Long before I lived here.  Long before anyone tilled this field or built this barn.  Long ago, there was a time when the wind blew gently as it does now.  I am just a part of this long history.  

December, the last month of twelve.  The other eleven are gone.  Complete.  Done.  There is no going back.  And what does December say to me? With a soft whisper, it tells the tale that no other time can repeat.  It breathes in measured cadence a blessing. A benediction. A closing note.  The final stanza of the song.  Amen, it says.  So be it, it says.  And it is enough.   

 

October Tales

In case you haven't noticed, Fall of 2021 is here.  The days are still warm with a break now and then when a cold front dares to intrude from the place where cold fronts come from.  I am not a weather guru, so I have the bare rudiments of knowledge about such things.  Highs, lows, approaching storms, high humidity, rain, snow, possibility of snow.  I hope you understand.

Anyway, I am happy to see that October has finally arrived.  How do I know this?  One word..pumpkins.  Everywhere I look someone has pumpkins for sale.  This started way before October first.  In fact, I think I saw pumpkins for sale almost the week after Labor Day.  Not that I am disappointed.  What is there not to love about pumpkins?  They are all sorts of shapes from oblong to round, all sizes from tiny to huge.  They will fill a wheelbarrow.  Or nestle in the largest teacup.  

My experience with pumpkins started when we used to carve them for Halloween.  Most of the time my pumpkin's face was crudely made since all the artistic talent in our family belonged to my dad and my brother Derek.  They made a real production of making sure the faces were original and scary. I was praised for actually trying to make mine look spooky.

I am looking forward to our annual Trunk and Treat on the Square here in Gainesville.  I love seeing all the kids in their masks and costumes.  Sometimes the parents are dressed up too, making it a real family affair.  One year we came up with an idea.  In fact, I think it was the first Trunk and Treat.  Andy dressed me up as a scarecrow.  He loaded me into the back of the pickup and drove me down to the Square.  He unloaded me as if I were a dummy scarecrow.  That was the plan.  I would sit in a chair near the candy.  Andy would greet people.  He would make some excuse why I wasn't there to help him.  I wasn't feeling well, or I had another obligation.  It was fun for a time.  No one could see my eyes blinking but I could see them.  I slumped in my chair and and sat as quietly as possible.  Some people told Andy he had done a good job, making such an amazing thing.  But then it got weird.  A man walked up to us and asked if his little girl, dressed as a princess, could have her picture made standing by the scarecrow.  Thankfully, he didn't ask for her to sit in my lap.  Andy said...Well....sure, that would be okay and led the little one to me.  I held my breath.  The father was so pleased and thanked Andy for letting him snap the picture.  After the pair left, we had a whispered conversation.  I told him that this was not going to end well.  Before we could come up with a plan, a friend of mine approached me in the chair.  I swear, the Devil made me do it.  The person came very close to examine Andy's handiwork.  As soon as they were within whispering distance, I turned my face up to them and said, "Well, it is good to see you too."  And that was that.  I am sure I was the center of many anxious parents'  nightmares for many weeks.  Thankfully there were no children nearby.  I made a quick exit to the truck, took off my mask and hat and emerged to hand out candy too.  I think some people, as they were making their way around the Square again, wondered what had happened.  We did not explain.

Anyway, sometimes you think something will be fun.  But it turns out not to be so.

Don't worry.  I'll look like me when I am handing out candy this year.

Happy Halloween.

 

Fresh Wind Blowing from the West

A fresh wind is blowing from the west.  There were severe storm warnings for us last night but it never got here.  Just a smattering of rain.  On reading the news this morning, I saw there was damage to the west..in Oklahoma and Southwest Missouri.  But here the sun is shining.  The temperature is cool, but not too cold.  I am washing clothes, a usual Monday chore in my household.  The sheets are ready to hang out and then the towels.

There is a fresh wind blowing from the west.  I have decided to quit looking at the news on my phone, other than things I need to know, like the weather and local happenings.  The other news seems to be always the same.  And almost always it has  been hashed and rehashed.  I liked it when the news came once in the morning and once in the evening, thrown on the porch by our paper boy.  It might not have been up to the minute or second, but at least it was short and sweet.....just the facts.  And comics and funny stories and a column or two on the editorial page, a letter to the editor.  Always the good with the bad.  When I am in Mt. Home,  I have the habit of picking up the Sunday Arkansas-Democrat-Gazzette. I throw away the front page and read the inside news. Editorials,well-written and cogent, even if I don't always agree with the writer. A profile or two of worthy individuals who are being lauded for their achievements. And other things....Who were the attendees at the party at the Governor's Mansion?  Who was recently married?  And who were their parents and grandparents?  A lovely picture of the bride in her gown on the lawn of a palatial home.  Also a human interest story about someone who lived a good life, full of interesting details.  I throw away the obituaries since I know no one who lives much beyond Mt. Home.

A fresh wind is blowing from the west. Along those same lines, we do not own a TV.  Haven't for several years.  I listen to St.Louis Cardinals' games on my radio(Go Redbirds...next year!) or local football and basketball games when I know the team and the players.  Sometimes I tune in a MSU Bears' basketball game...women's or men's.  I might disagree with a call and be upset with the outcome, but they will be there to play another day.

A fresh wind is blowing from the west.  Soon I will turn off my computer, after posting this blog.  I will put on my boots, perhaps take my phone to catch a picture of an interesting flower or tree or bush or weed.  We just had our place brush hogged.  We sat on the porch at dusk last night and watched the resident coyotes scavenge a meal from the mowed grass..probably a tasty wood rat that somehow was napping when the mower went over him.  And a few deer who are not bedding down in the tree line came up to nose around.  It is amazing what you see when all that grass is cut...just a whole different world.

Did I mention...a fresh wind is blowing from the west?  And I, for one, am ready to get out and breathe in some clean air.  Try it.  Sure helps my attitude.

  

 

Making 'Lasses

Here is a picture of my friend down in Arkansas, checking out the sorghum patch.  Taken a few years ago, this photo reminds me of the happy days when we would spend the weekend helping make sorghum molasses.  She and her husband would grow the cane.  And Andy and I and several others would gather at their home and pitch in...making 'lasses.

Sometimes we had good cane to work with...and sometimes not.  It might be full of juice and splitting its green sides, just waiting to come out.  Other times it was skinny and selfish, holding on to the sugary pulp until you had to beat it out with the heavy rollers that squeezed it in the mill.

At times we used a tractor to make the mill go around.  One time we had the resident mules do the job. 

Making sorghum is hard work.  The juice needs to flow into the buckets at a good rate, leaving the residue of cane pieces on the filter cloth.  You have to make sure the juice is as clear of trash as possible.  Nothing worse than to have bits and pieces of cane floating around in that green liquid.

We use a stainless steel pan that fits snugly over the fire.  It is a small pan, made especially for heating the green, raw sorghum juice and turning it into dark brown molasses.  Many places I have visited use a pan with baffles that guide the juice from the raw start to the bubbling end over the constant heat of the wood fire. Workers use paddles to move the liquid along, making sure it doesn't stick along on the way. 

We sit across the fire from each other, waving away the smoke as it goes up the chimney.  Using skimmers, we pick up the foam and floating scum, flicking it off into the waste bucket near at hand.  Taking turns, we watch closely, moving the logs in and out of the fire pit to regulate the temperature.  We visit as we skim, talking to the kids nearby who are playing a game of tag and wondering when lunch will be served, because they are starving.

When the molasses turns that deep, rich brown, bubbling gently under the hot steam that rises above it, we take a thermometer and check the temperature.  This is not an exact science.  When is it done?  Don't want it to burn, but we want to make sure that no green tinge or taste remains.

The moment of truth arrives when two strong men lift the pan off the fire and carry it to the table where it is placed among the jars that wait, clean and shining in the sun.  Our friend carefully opens the spigot and fills jar after jar with golden brown goodness.  We are there to help wipe the rims and cap it off.

Everyone stands around to see how it is done.  Meanwhile, the mill keeps on working and the juice keeps on flowing.  The pan is cleaned up and we start the process all over again after a bite to eat.

Sometimes people come to visit the party.  They bring their fiddles and guitars and entertain the crowd with music, Sometimes someone gets out the jig board and dances along to a lively tune.  We encourage them by clapping and yelling.  The kids usually dance in the grass just to show they can do it too.

Back to work. The mill goes around and around, the juice is poured into the pan, we skim and talk and trade places when our backs get tired.  As the evening shade starts to cover the yard, we make our last batch of the day.  Cleaning up is not a problem because many hands make light work. Everyone pitches in.  They grab a jar or two of sorghum, take the empty pots and skillets of what they brought to share for lunch, leaving us with something to eat for our supper.

As twilight falls the four of us that are left sit on the porch, a cool breeze blowing up the valley. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sit in silence.  It is a companionable silence, no need to chat.  We are tired, bone tired.  Feed the animals and get them ready for the night.  Maybe bring the fiddle out again and play a tune or two there in the darkness of the new moon.  Stars begin to wink above us.  Bed beckons.  And tomorrow...joy of joys...we get to make ' lasses again.

  

 

Auction Fever

I thought I had gotten over it.  I thought it was part of my past.  I took the cure.  The desire was gone....or so I thought.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.  I still have auction fever.

It is not an awful disease.  I am able to control myself...most of the time.

It all began a long, long time ago.  My mom took me to auctions when I was a little girl.  In my hometown in Illinois, these sales were called by a notable and famous man, a real fixture in our area.  Unfortunately, I can't remember his name. But he was Swedish, as were many of the people in our county, and he talked with that wonderful lilting cadence so characteristic of that group.  His auction call was unique.  I have never heard it anywhere else.  I still remember it though it has been many years since I stood behind the crowd, looking up, standing on tiptoe to see what he was selling.

I was hooked.  

My backsliding happened today.  Andy and I were visiting a nearby town.  We were going to yard sales, seeing what we might be able to find.  We chanced upon the first minutes of a wonderful one and bought quite a few things to take home.  Bargains we couldn't resist.

We had looked in the local paper and saw that an auction was almost ready to start a few blocks over.  When we arrived the crowd was thin, just a few stragglers, looking with interest at a car, some women rummaging around, looking at the pots and pans and dishes.  We almost left but then realized there was much, much more beyond the few items set out in the front yard.  The entire back yard and garage were full.  I could feel that urge.  The call of the hunt.  Then auction fever took hold of me.

I fought it for awhile.  I stepped back and watched the crew setting up and arranging last minute findings.  A box here, a piece of furniture there.

I rummaged around in a pile of books.  I could almost reconstruct this person's life.  I didn't know them, but I could tell just how talented they were.  Among the piles in the garage were well-worn tools, ancient items I had not seen in years.  Memories flooded in.

I was mesmerized.  I walked in a trance from table to table laden with quilt fabric, two quilting frames, piles of blankets, boxes of this and that. Papers, family pictures, toys left over from long-grown grandchildren, furniture...desks and chairs and sofas, a piano, a rug, two rugs, a whole pile of rugs.  On and on I walked, searching for a reason to stay.

There were many hidden treasures there on those tables.  I just knew it.  But we had an appointment.  We needed to get on the road.

As I walked back to the car, I was very briefly aware of a whisper in my ear.  I could almost hear that long ago Swedish auctioneer calling the sale.  The excitement of finding a desirable antique lurking somewhere in the bottom of a box, the satisfaction of being the winning bidder, the anticipation of carrying my finds home, like a warrior returning from the hunt.  Oh, glorious day.

Yes, auction fever has returned.  And, really, it's not that bad.    

 

The Magic of the Turning Season

First question?  Did you get any rain today?  We did.  And it was most welcome.  The dry and dusty roads, the dead and dying grass, the heat that threatened to overcome you at midday.  All were forgotten with a thunder storm in the early morning, and mist and light rain for a few hours after dawn.  It wasn't enough to jump start the creek  flowing, but that will come later.  Rain, glorious rain.

And the coolness of the day.  I had to search in the closet for my sweatshirt when I went out the door this evening.  It felt good to feel that smooth comfort on my chilled arms.  Driving into town I thought the sun setting in the west had a different glow.  I love  fall sunsets.  The clearer sky.  The light shining through trees soon to turn red and orange and yellow.

There is something special about fall here in the Ozarks.  The air smells different.  Cleaner and full of promise.  Night comes quicker.  Dawn is later. The open road beckons us all.  I love to travel during this time.  To see familiar places in new ways.  I never knew that valley was so deep.  I never saw that river quite so blue.  I never knew the wind could blow the clouds into such wonderful, mystical shapes...

Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox.  Another season.  Another chance to seize what is important to each one of us.  New conversations.  Old friends.  New experiences.  Old tales.  

Welcome fall.  We have been looking for you.  

 

Kindergarten Tears

This is a blog I wrote 11 years ago, August 16, 2010.  The picture above is my daughter, Nina Jane, when she was 3.  I wrote this piece to assure moms everywhere that they are not alone.   

You would have to be deaf and blind to not know that school is ready to start in my hometown, here in the Ozarks.  Everyone is shopping, taking last minute vacations for the day or overnight to theme parks and lakes.  Anything to cram a little more summer into an already hectic schedule.

As the first day of school looms ahead, I remember watching the Kindergarten moms bringing their children to school for that once-in-a-lifetime experience.  The road to the old elementary went right by my house, so my husband and I had a front row seat to the reality show called "I'm so happy, I'm so sad."  Mothers had spent lots of time combing hair, tying in ribbons, picking the perfect outfit for their little ones.  Proud as can be they marched along the street...little mister or miss hanging onto mommy's hand and carrying their new lunchbox in the other.  I know what happened next, even though I wasn't present at the classroom door.  Because, soon, here would come the Kindergarten moms, minus their little ones.  And every face was covered with tears.  Some tried to hide their feelings, but most were openly weeping.  And I felt for them.

I too had that Kindergarten mom experience.  The only trouble was that I was a teacher in the same school and I was expected in my classroom that morning.  My little girl went with me up the stairs to her classroom...new tennis shoes and blue, blue jeans for the first day, and her very own lunchbox.  How proud she was. Thankfully, her teacher was the mother of one of her best friends, so there was already a connection there.  I kissed her good-bye and left her at the door.  Walking through the gym to get to my own classroom, I can remember thinking, "I AM NOT GOING TO CRY!" but the telltale tears would not go away.  Luckily, my principal saw me coming by the office and called me in to speak with her.  I ducked my head and followed her into her office.  Giving me a smile, she closed the door, pulled up a chair and handed me a box of Kleenex.  She didn't have to say a word.  You see...she was a mom too.  After a few minutes, I was able to pull myself together, and with red eyes and a wobbly smile faced the beginning of a new school year.

This is written for all you Kindergarten moms.  That first walk to the classroom is hard, you will cry, but it will be okay in the end.  It's all part of being a mom.