January, February 1978

This picture will be 40 years old in a few days.  Or nearly so.  The winter of 1977-1978 was almost equal to its predecessor '76-'77.  Cold, lots of snow, freezing temperatures, and wind.  We have had bad weeks or months in the years that followed.  But this was one for the record books in my memory.

We had just moved to Gainesville in May of '77.  We were working on the Grandma Harlin house on Harlin Drive and living across the street, on the corner, in what was called the Jim Hale house.  It was small, but fine for us.  It had all the comforts of home...plus a woodstove in the middle of the living room.

I think we spent Christmas in Bethesda, Maryland with Andy's folks that year.  And when we were headed back through Memphis the bad weather met us full blast.  Always a challenge when you are traveling that time of year.  An ice storm came up, or down, from some unknown region...we made it home, but barely.  

School was called off, of course.  And we settled in to wait it out.  Living in town made it easier to get to the grocery store.  When we lived in the Wilderness we were pretty far from the nearest town, but our local store carried milk and bread and we made it fine, when we were able to get out to the main road.  But here in Gainesville it was all downhill...or uphill...depending on which direction you needed to head.  We didn't get the truck out very much.  And we had my mother's Saab parked in the front yard.  For a Swedish car it was useless in ice or snow.

After the first week of snow and blustery weather, we were looking for a  break.  But it didn't come.  No.  Each day brought more snow, more freezing temperatures, no melting on the roads.  

I do remember that at night the kids in town would bring their sleds up to the corner of Harlin and Fair, where our house sat, and make that hill a little more slick than Mother Nature had.  They hauled up tires and set them on fire to keep them warm in between runs down the hill.  And that went on until late in the evening.  In the morning we would go out and pick up the remains of the tires...wire, tire scrap, and try not to track the black remains into the house.

School was cancelled day after day.  I wondered if we would have to extend the school year into June.  That would be bad since none of the schools were air-conditioned and, as you know, the old Elementary was hot as could be when the weather warmed up.  

However the powers that be in Jeff City saw our plight and responded in a logical fashion.  They forgave all the days we were out of session.  They set the end date in May.  And put into law the Snow Day Policy, which said that each district would add so many Snow Days to the school year to be used for bad weather when the buses couldn't run.  And after the Snow Days were used up, there was a forgiveness area that would not cause schools to be in session very much longer than mid May.

I think we finally came back to school in late February.  And how happy all the kids were to see their friends and share the stories about what they did during the Big Snow. 

Oh... you might be wondering about the picture.  Andy was always creative when it came to making snow fun for Nina.  He  took a plastic storage box and made snow blocks.  He built an snow cabin for her to play in in our side yard.  A sheet covered the top. I don't know if she remembers that winter.  She was about grandson Gus's age then.  But her parents do.  And we hope we don't have to endure another one like it anytime soon.  

December Peace

Tis the season.  Ready or not.  Here it comes.  I stepped outside this morning to do some chores.  The sun was just starting to come up in the east.  Slanting light sparkled in a million blades of frozen grass...leaves became jewels reflecting tiny rays of golden sunshine.  And no wind.  No wind at all.  

The last few weeks have been full of wind.  Whenever I went out there was a breeze stirring or the wind was blowing hard, in gusts, whipping the clothes on the line, making it hard to see at times.

But this morning was different.  Frigid air.  Bright light.  And absolutely not a weed or leaf moving.

I stood for quite some time, just soaking up the wonder of it all.  The quietness of the early day surrounded me.  I didn't see a bird or animal.  No rustling in the trees or grass.  Just complete and utter silence.  Often times in the last few weeks we have had a flock of turkey hens feeding in the pasture.  Or a doe and this year's fawn will be eating grass out behind the back of the house, never stirring until we surprise them with the closing of the door.

I closed my eyes.  I could hear the echoes of the music I heard yesterday.  My favorite tune for this time of year...The Carol of the Bells.  Ringing, ringing.  First softly..one bell, then another joining in...until the air is full of sound.  And then quietly softening until only one bell is heard.

There is magic in a quiet December sunrise.  All the world is waiting.  Can you hear the message in the silence of the early day?  Can you feel the hope rising in your heart?  Can you imagine a world where only the sound of souls in harmony and peace, full of  grace and mercy will break the great stillness of our age?  

You can.  If you step outside and feel the quiet beauty of a  December early morning.

Merry Christmas to all of you...near and far, and always close to my heart.

Short in the straddle

It's that time of year.  I know I should be writing about Thanksgiving.  And I am.

Azure hills.  Squinting my eyes against the strong November morning sun I turn to the west and see my beloved Caney peaks in one of my favorite hues.  I ask Andy, the painter in my family, what color is that?  He answers, Azure.  Ahhhhh----Azure.  Not quite purple.  Not quite blue.  Something in between.

We are loading wood in the pickup.  Climbing down out of the truck, I carefully make my way to the woodpile.  Branches and limbs from our timber harvest still block the way, but Andy has been busy splitting and sorting until several good sized mounds of firewood are arrayed along the edge of the field.  Loading the truck bed reminds me of many other times I helped get the winter's wood in.  I was younger then and my muscles were stronger, but I can still lug and toss and pile it high, being careful not to break the back glass of the truck.

Loaded up we get ready to drive over to where the wood is stacked.  But there is a problem.  The truck is parked on a "sidelin'" hill...and my door is on the higher side.  As usual, I am too short in the straddle to make it into the passenger side.  Andy circles the truck around until I can get into the high seat comfortably.  

I have admired women who can give themselves a little bounce and hike themselves into a truck with grace and ease.  It seems so effortless.  In fact I saw a lady at Battlefield Mall, dressed in a short and rather tight outfit, give a little leap and settle right into her perch with very little effort.  Of course, she was several years younger than me.  But even when I was her age I had to struggle to get into the pickup.  Because I am a little too short in the straddle.

Making it over to the woodpile we begin the task of stacking.  As anyone knows, there is an art to stacking firewood.  And I am pretty good at it.  My short straddle doesn't interfere with my ability to stack wood.  But my short arms do make it harder to reach over the truck bed and grab the right size  log to stack in the proper place.  With some grunting and a little tip-toe work I can usually keep up with Andy in the stacking game.

You are probably wondering how this is going to lead into Thanksgiving.  And here it is.  Yesterday, loading wood, driving all over my beautiful farm, the sunshine, the wondrous view of  the hills in the distance, brings tears to my eyes.  Even though I may be a little short in the straddle, and perhaps not able to do all I used to do, I am thankful.  

Thankful I have the privilege to live in a quiet and peaceful place.  Thankful for sunshine.  Thankful for trucks that run.  Thankful for a husband who takes good care of me.  And thankful for wood that will keep me warm this winter.  

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Geese

One of my favorite sights and sounds of fall is the flocks of geese flying over head...going south for the winter.  This morning on my walk I could hear their call before I saw them.  It always amuses me when I look up and have to circle around before I see that familiar V-formation up above me.

It was fairly cloudy early and they were hid from sight for a few minutes.  The clouds broke away and there they were...a thin, ragged line but headed to their new destination...following the leader.

If you pay close attention you will see that the leader changes almost minute by minute.  I have read articles...and a few inspirational quotes and anecdotes about the flight of geese.  As I watched I became aware of something else.  Not only did the leader change, but sometimes there was a smaller V inside the larger one.  The arms of the formation are not equal.  It is almost like a ballet how they swerve and sway as they fly.  First this way, and then another direction.  All in the plan.

And they may vary in their path south.  Headed for the river, they may suddenly turn west and head for the hills of Arkansas.  Amazing.  That inner compass keeps them on track.  They know where they are going.  They might get side-tracked once in a while.  But not very often.

I love to hear them calling to each other.  "A little to the right there, Bill.  Now a little to the left, Marge. "   All in the plan.

Too bad we don't have an inner compass like that.  Oh..wait...yes, we do!  Too bad we don't follow it as faithfully as the geese as they fly on their long journey south.

Teasing

Here it is.  The end of October, or nearly so.  I finally broke down and got out the coats and heavier jackets, washed my winter clothes, bought some new winter shoes, located the caps and scarves.  And all for naught.

Temperatures in the high seventies do not require much more than what I usually wear for late spring and summer. Even the plants and flowers are getting fooled by this fluctuating thermometer.  A friend showed me a lawn full of crocuses yesterday.  Even the blue birds are confused.  I saw our next-to-the-house pair looking anxiously into their abandoned box the other day.  Then they chased each other through and around the porch in the semblance of a mating dance.  

I am getting impatient.  I do not like cold weather.  I don't look forward to ice and snow and the miserable north wind blowing furiously outside my windows.  But this unseasonable warmth has the effect of putting me off my stride.

We have cleaned the wood stove, checked the flue. Wood is piled in the garage ready to bring in and warm our house to a cozy temperature, if needed.  We wait...and wait...and wait.

Almost holding our collective breath, we anticipate those crisp frosty mornings when the sky is clear and cloudless. When you step outside to check the weather, you quickly come back in to grab your sweatshirt.

Squirrels are not fooled by this on-again, off-again weather.  They scurry from field to tree to hiding place carrying walnuts and hickory nuts to store for the coming cold.  The spiders are doing their usual fall weaving of webs in every nook and cranny of the porch.  The cicadas have stopped their song.  The night music of the crickets has slowed and the frogs in the pond have made themselves scarce.  

Each sunrise beams honey-colored light into my house, reaching farther and farther into the north-most corner.  All the signs of fall are there.

This teasing has to end.  And it will.  Patience will have its reward.  Finally, one morning, I will get up, go to my east-facing door and see that it has finally come.  I will be glad.  Welcome fall. You are here at last.   

D.F.W.

I live 10 miles exactly from my supermarket.  Ten miles is ten miles.  But it is ten miles back home.  I don't go to town everyday.  And I certainly don't go to town more than once a day when I do go.

Today we were up in Cabool at the Older Iron confab.  Lots of fun, lots of old tractors, lots of noise and action.  When we left we decided to take the back roads home...or nearly home, since we had a date night in mind.  But that is a whole 'nother story as they say.

We ended up driving through Mountain Grove and heading down 95 toward Vanzant.  Andy mentioned that he just wanted to know how far this little excursion was going to take us to our destination.  So he set the odometer at zero where the road crosses the railroad tracks in Mountain Grove.  

We remarked on the fact that it had been some time since we traveled this section of 95 highway.  As we passed familiar and unfamiliar places we reminisced about all the people we knew from the area...and what fond memories we had of them and the times we had shared.

And then the question arose.  Just how far are we from WalMart?  Just how far would these people have to drive to shop at that Mecca of Merchandise that we mostly all frequent at least once a week..if not more?

13 miles, thirteen miles to WalMart.  That's not too bad.  Grab a bite to eat on your way out of town, gas up the car, maybe pick something up at another place or two.  

20 miles, twenty miles to WalMart.  Now that is a fer piece, as my neighbor would say.  Twenty miles is a forty mile round trip....and forty miles on winding roads with the probability of a livestock trailer negotiating the curves ahead of you makes it much more of a task.

When we got to 30 miles D.F.W (distance from WalMart) I realized that we were actually a little bit closer to the WalMart Mecca in Ava than we were from that store in Mountain Grove.  Aha...and a little light appeared to come on in that thing I call my brain.  

No Wonder.  No Wonder the movers and shakers in Bentonville, AR put those familiar must-go-to places to shop just about 20 to 25 miles apart in rural areas.

Is it that critical measurement that may mean where you choose to live?  That D.F.W.?( I truly doubt that) . No, I am familiar enough with the back roads and side roads  of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas to understand that it doesn't take a marketing genius to figure out that at least once a week, almost everyone in a 30 mile radius is going to need something that they can "only get at WalMart."

So as we journeyed down W hiway, which by the way is a lovely sidetrip as you leave Vanzant,  I admired the farms that stretched from here to there.  Pastures are dry but the cattle still look good.  Lovely homes, some old, some new.  Trees are still mostly green and the slanting light of late afternoon make them seem more beautiful.  

And you know in your heart that D.F.W. doesn't really make all that much difference when you live in such a peaceful, wonderful place.  Dora, Caulfield, Romance, and even Brixey.

As we neared our destination... my favorite place to eat a steak dinner on Friday night...I got to thinking about another amazing retail fact. 

What about that latest phenomena in our area?  What about D.F.D.G?  Distance from Dollar General?  But that will have to wait for another day.

   

Spiders, spiders everywhere....

A moist, cloudy morning.  No wind.  As I opened my kitchen door to review the day I saw a line of dew drops.  It stretched from half-way down my west-facing porch to the southwest corner.  A single thread of silver.  A spider's masterpiece.

I have often marveled at the way a spider can make a web that wanders and sways and finally ends in a far-from its beginning place.  How do they do it?  I know the why...they need to eat.  And the way they capture their prey is by putting an invisible net in a bug's flight path.  Not always successfully.  But anything to make sure you have breakfast...lunch...and probably dinner for a few days.

Fascinating.  We are blessed with spiders up here on the hill.  I love to see the diamond-studded lace they weave on cool mornings...right there beside the road as I take my walk.  But often they visit my porch.  Truthfully, I sometimes sweep them away so I can hang up the clothes.  And often, just plain blunder into their masterpieces when I open the door or step down the stairs toward the garage.

But sometimes, like this morning, I have the chance to mark a spider's night time work when the day is still new.  I marvel at how that little being can laboriously climb and swing and weave a small, small thread all through the dark hours while I am sleeping, tucked into my comfortable bed.

Do spiders ever sleep?  I doubt it.  Always working.  Always planning where to place that trap.  Always finding the perfect area, out of the wind, and elements.  

Well, maybe not always.  But they are persevering little critters.  When you wreck their masterpiece that has taken hours to make, what do they do?  Why, just pull up their teeny, tiny socks, hitch up their minuscule britches and get back to work.

They may not be your favorite but they take the prize for sticking to the job..and never giving up.

Spiders, spiders everywhere....and amazing workers they are.  

I, for one, am thankful for their handiwork, even when it gets in my way.  

What a wonderful part of Creation....so tiny, yet a lesson to us all.  Just keep on keeping on.  You might just make a masterpiece one day.