the homesteaders daughter

2010-02-18T13:12:00.000-08:00

While visiting some new friends for the first time, I noticed an old rocking chair sitting in the corner near the door. When we were saying our goodbyes later, I asked about the history of the rocker. The friendly couple told me it had been in their family for well over one-hundred years.
Looking at the chair, I saw the original mahogany finish was intact on all but the arms. In those two places it was worn down to the grain of the wood. My hand reached out and rested on one of the arms. With quite an impact, it struck me that the wearing-down had been done my human hands. One-hundred years of hands. Pictures began to ebb and flow in my imagination: The stained -glass quality of home-made quilts; shawls covering tired shoulders; a Bible-reading grandfather; the loud tick of a clock.

Most of those who found comfort in the chair are gone, yet the rocker still stands. What might we hear if it were possible to relive the past through touching the old wood? A child's soft, "coo?" A mother's song? Or, the night winds hissing under closed doors? Would we hear the partings as young men left for war? Leaving only the space they had occupied behind? Then, a woman's tears?--a father's sighs?Would we hear the rhythm of a garden hoe through the open windows, or the ring of an axe, echoing across the fields? The whinny of a work horse, the cranking of a Model T?

I remembered a rocker that was very similar. It was the favorite resting place of my great-grandmother, Allie Moore It sat in front of the window in my great-grandparents home. There was still a spill-over from the old days at their country home. It was there in the muted fire-cracker sounds of the wood stove in the kitchen, the moss-covered well on the back porch, complete with bucket and dipper. It was in the pantry, where the pies were left to cool amidst the shelves of Blue Willow china, and in the oilcloth covered table holding a cut-glas vinegar cruet and matching salt and pepper shakers; in the kerosene lamps, sending dancing, yellow light into shadowy corners. There are hundreds of things in memeory to tell my grandchildren, but all I have are words, and words don't succeed when you want to explain the essence of a feeling. You search the dictionary corners of your mind...how unsatisfactory they are.

The neighbors chair sits silently, keeping its secrets, resting for now with harmony, beauty and gentle people. I, for some reason, cannot do the same. Science has bounded across these last 50 years like a giant kangaroo. Our world appears slick and packaged and jet-propelled. Could be these ARE better days, but it seems a shame to deprive our youth of their heritage as seen through the eyes of someone who experienced at least a part of it. And so, I'll go on trying...with inadequate words.

2010-02-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

When the well runs dry

Or the pump won't work

Christians have a funny quirk

They keep on praising

When jobs are scarce

And the cupboard's almost bare

Believers do a thing that's rare

they keep on praising

When the car has quit

And the payment is overdue

God's children have a different view

They keep on praising

When the house is empty

With no mate to share the days

The Born Again have the queerest ways

They keep on praising

When sicknesss rears its head

And seems to have a hold

The saved are wonderfully bold

they keep on praising

When sorrow presses hard

And distress is everywhere

The Christian says a prayer

And keeps on praising

When the world is watching

To see the slightest stumble

God's own stay blessed but humble

They keep on praising

When the doubters pause

To see why we still stand

We tell them of the Promised Land

And keep on praising

That's a Christian....

That's us....

Isn't it???

Don't Call me Shorty

2010-02-05T16:22:00.000-08:00

Humans have been searching for the Fountain of Youth in one way or another for untold years. Being the impossible-to-please species that we are, it isn't only that we want to live longer, we want to look and feel 17 while we are doing it. Naturally, there are crowds of experts advising us on how to become youthful and good looking. Take hair for instance. On a guy what was a forest of thick locks at 21 has become an almost totally logged-of area at 50. While the experts are selling them the possibility of new growth, somebody else is showing women how to get RID of excess hair. What a world.

Another point regarding hair; more and more women are having their hair cut about the length of an ants back. It's the boyish look; supposedly youthful, but, isn't it ironic that the actual boys are lettin g their own hair grow down to the hem of their shirt? Am I getting old, or what? One thing is for sure, nobody is seeing any more of my bumpy skull than is absolutely necessary.

Most of us have a certain amount of vanity, and like to look as good as we can without resorting to extraordinary methods. However, there are those among us who go the extra mile for, what they consider a pleasant appearance. Case in point is the Body Lift. They showed the whole procedure on TV the other night and I was fascinated. Mind you, there was very little fat to get rid of it was loose skin, what is commonly known as flab.

One of the women had a 12-inch swath of skin taken from around the waist area. (That's right. One foot.) The surgeon then took the lower portion, pulled the top part down to meet it and stitched the two pieces together. I thought about this for a long time and decided it wouldn't work for me. Not that I don't have any excess flab, I do. But, that's just it...if the surgeon was going to have total success, the lower incision would have to be made at my knees and the upper one just below the neck. When the upper and lower pieces were sewn together, I would only be 2 feet tall; barely able to see over the bottom of my truck window. This simply would not do in this drive-up-window kind of a society we live in.

That surgery is definitely not for me. I have very little self-control. That's how I got the extra weight that became the flab in the first place. What if I DID get the Body Lift, with the above mentioned results? I would simply gain more weight, which as years passed, would become more flab and, before you could say, "Thumbelina," I'd have to go back for another tuck, and then another. One day I would just disappear.

There are other changes we can make for contented living. I'm getting a hobby today, a pet tomorrow, and looking for all the hugs I can get along the way. And I'll still be 5'6" or thereabouts

Weather Report Says More Rain

2010-01-25T17:25:00.000-08:00

The Pacific Northwest is God's country, and God has decreed rain for our winters.(and springs, summers and autumn's.) God likes rain. I don't complain. the misty weather contributes to a peaches and cream complexion. I'm still waiting. Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of day-old oatmeal. Still, I enjoy the drizzles and the occasional monsoon.

So what if our clothes get damp and smell only slightly better than the five-year-old blanket in the dog's bed? They can always be dried. (Thus giving off an aroma somewhere between an ancient vinigar barrel and the hold of a fishing boat.)And, what is the big deal about a little moss between our toes? I keep that under control with a shower a day and a pinch of weed killer.

\I suppose the ultimate triumph would be to dash about in the rain with no hair AND no clothes. thus, having nothing whatsoever to worry about except skin. But then, skin, left wet for such long periods of time might develop a somewhat unattractive appearance as our bodies warped into Shar-pei-like wrinkles. (On the unlikely chance you don't know the difference betwween a Shar-pei and a Chinese tea party, they are dogs with Pekinese bodies sloughing around inside of St. Bernard hides.)That might be an improvement if I thought about it long enough. But, I am only supposing and would be the first to tie myself to a rocket and defect to Mars if the idea took hold.

We have an addition to our winters some years; we have El Nino, a weather pattern that has been blamed for everything from a decrease in sea-gull droppings, (who's counting?) to my great-uncle Silas growing hair. The latter is amazing, since from birth, his pate has been as empty of foliage as the herb gardens I keep trying to cultivate in my window sill. Somehow though, I can't quite believe his follicles began to produce because of a big wind. But, as I am constantly inquiring, and hoping no one ever answers--what do I know? If El Swoosho can level a town without half trying, I quess percolating a few hairs from an old guys scalp is El Simplo.

Un-named sources have told me a couple of eccentric scientists on a small Pacific atoll tried to harness El Ninos power and use it for the good of mankind. They were last sighted flying over Pago Pago sans airplane, singing, Fly me to The Moon.

All things considered, that probably IS for the good of humankind.

El Nino will pass. Everything will settle down, including mud slides the size of Rhode Island and the sale of row-boats. Let me give you the good new though...as the song goes, "Gibralter may tumble, the rockies may crumble, they're only made of clay...BUT...our rain is here to stay.

I will admilt to shaking my fist a few times over deflated hair-do's from an unexpected down-power. But even that I may be about to conquer. I am approximately one razor-blade away from total baldness. I only need ten or fifteen year to come to a final decision.

A Plus For Teachers

2010-01-15T19:11:00.000-08:00

The teachers of this country have at least one thing going for them. their students hand them some of the funniest bloopers in the world right along with their homework. I'm not picking on American school kids , however, a few--through the slip of a pen--an unruly computer mouse or, simply ignorance of the facts--are so far off base in regards to history as to be in a whole other ballpark.

One young person wrote the composer, Ludwig Beethoven, "Was deaf so he wrote loud music." Another stated Handel, (also a musical composer)"Was half German, half English and half Italian." Even I can count better than that.

Poor Socrates suffered under student misinformation also. One child explained the old sage as, "A person who gave advise and got killed." Boy, am I living on borrowed time. I'll make sure my daughter-in-law never reads this. And, if that wasn't bad enough, the same young historian reported Mr. Socrates, "Died from an overdose of wedlock."

One girl's interpretation of a certain part of the past concerned Martin Luther, who had an excrutiating time. "He was nailed to a church door and excommunicated by a bull." And he wasn't even wearing a red dress.

Everybody has heard of King Solomon, but did you know that, according to one youth, "He had 500 wives and 500 porcupines." Talk about an overdose of wedlock. Bible characters represented a couple of other startling statements too, "Joseph sold his coat made from a sow's ear and bought a silk purse." While Cain wanted to know, "Am I my brother's father?"

The students wreaked havoc with ancient myths too. i.e.the mother of Achilles, "Dipped him in the river Stynx until he became intolerable." Wow, and some of us are just born that way. But, then, as one student put it, "Myths are merely female moths, after all."

In spite of the preceding errors, there are times when we should listen to young people. One of them penned, "There are no wars in this part of the country because the mountains are so high the inhabitants couldn't climb them to see what their neighbors were doing. " A major problem as we all know.

Speaking of wars, many a general has, "Extinquishing himself on the field of battle." And as for weapons, (it's only a little jump) William Tell shot an arrow through an apple while standing on his son's head." I'll bet you didn't know Miquel Cervantes, "Wrote the best seller, " Donkey Hote, either.

Student bloopers also played fast snd loose with the facts regarding President Lincoln. they say he, "Wore nothing byt a tall silk hat while running the country." I can say with certainty he could never have given the Gettysburg address from the back of a train in that condition. He must have had on a pair of wool socks anyway.
The young learners , (we can but hope that is what they were)also put strange food in Abe's mouth when they quoted him as saying, "In onion their is strength." But, I sure do wish he was running things right now.

*** I'm missing everybody....sick with some kind of "gunk"

A NEW KIND OF NEW YEAR

2010-01-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

The last scrap of fudge has been eaten, the last piece of fruit cake devoured and all the cookies are gone. I'm talking about my place, while hoping my doctor isn 't reading this. She is aware that I live alone surounded by mountains of beckoning, seductive dressed-to-kill calories all through the holidays. She also knows my self-control on a scale of 0 to 10 has never quite reached 1.

Maybe I'll go away for a few months to what is referred to as, "The Fat Farm." That way somebody else can do the hard part, like locking me in my room and sliding the raw rutabagas and hardtack through a hole in the door. Or, administring a lypo-suction treatment or two when my back is turned. What better place to start.

Why do we perform this marathon of baking and cooking anyway? It's the only time of the year that most of us make divinity, fudge, decorated cookies, and all the rest of it. We ladies go at it as if we have to turn everything in sight into something edible. We work feverishily at that end of it for a week, then go into a frenzy trying to make it all disappear and reappear on our hips.

I could, of course, be speaking to females out there who have nol clue as to what I'm taling about; and with their rock-hard ab's, pec's and whatever else has turned to stone through their efforts. I have ab's too, I just can't get to them. However, I'm hopeful there will be a few of you who can relate.

Maybe the whole situation has something to do with the fact that we are beginning another year and feel we should gorge ourselves in case the coming months bring a drought, or a total supermarket failure. We might even be reduced to tearing up our own lettuce, instead of shaking it out of those neat little packages. Facing a new year is always a little scary.

Yes, it's probably the New Year. Now that it'ws over I can admit I never did see anything so great January 1st and I've see quite a few. We never paid much attention to it as kids. Once Christmas was over who cared about Father Time with his scythe and Baby New Year with his diaper. Sure, we would beg to stay up and listen for the neighborhood whistles and howls when the clock struck midnight. All children will promise anything to be able to stay up past their bedtime, including never to utter another syllable until their thirtieth birthday. Dad would have the radio dial turned to New York City so we could hear the reaction of our fellow Americans when midnight came. Guy Lombardo and his band were always there too playing "Auld Lang Syne."

It was many years before we knew that no one really understood more than a word or two of the famous New Years song. As an example, if you care to check on it, two of the last verses go like this: We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine, But seas between us brad hae roar'd, sin auld lang syne. And there's a hand my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand of thine, and, we'll take a right ouid-willie waught, for auld lang syne.

But, you know what? I want to confess that this New Years Day was different to me. Those long-used phrases and strains of the melody of Auld Lang Syne--understood or not--by mind and brain--were clearly known by millions of American hearts this time around. We know the song is full of every ache, pain, yearning, longing desire and hope that we don't know how to put into words. We can only feel them in the unity of one great country.

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

2010-01-01T13:45:00.000-08:00

During the dim, shadowy past in my teens, I never pondered. I was too busy doing the stuff that was making my mother and father ponder. Now, in my so-called Golden Years, which have me in their iron grip, turning to rust as we speak--I not only ponder, I ruminate, meditate and cogitate. One of the subjects causing me to fall into these philosophical states is the incongruous use parents make of certain sentences. A mother is dragging her child from the middle of a busy street where twenty-five cars have come to a screeching halt...causing 2 near-heart attacks and as much foul language as you are ever likely to encounter. "You KNOW better than that," Mom informs the culprit. Ah, but DID he know better?

What do you think? Can a five-year-old have a death wish? Was he sauntering along toward imminent disaster on purpose? Or, was completely in a dream world looking for a playmate amongst the whizzing fenders? My guess is, the 957 times Mom had said, "Don't go in the street" had gone in one ear and speedily out the other, pausing nowhere in between. One of the dire warnings sent out by a parent when their child is about to smack a companion, dump their milk, bite the dog, or fill the bathroom caommode with enough tissue to wrap the earth once around, is, "I'm not in the mood for that today." Doesn't that presuppose that at some later time Mama will throw caution to the winds, kick up her heels and announce she is now IN the mood and her offspring may feel free to smack, dump, bite and reel the tissue off the roll with abandon? The kid could feel justified in trying again tomorrow---several times--and every day thereafter until he turns twenty-one. When we ask a question we expect an answer, but not always, especially in the parent/child relationship. Remember, "How would you like me to give you something to cry about?" (This is not used much anymore as the threat alone may mean jail time.)It is interesting to imagine a possible answer. Here's one I'm glad I didn't have the nerve to use with my own mom who wore her ever present switch in a side-holster. "Oh, I would love it! Be creative! Bring it on! There's nothing I like better than crying." Parents ask unanswerable questions of older children too. Have you ever heard a mother ask, "What am I, a slave around here?" Any response will earn detention in years. The absolute corker of all parental inquiries is, "How many times do I have to tell you?" this is obviously a problem of higher mathematics; so high, in fact that it is unreachable by the brain of any human being that has ever lived. Neither parent nor child has the answer, thus we are doomed to hearing it repeated in every language for all time. A child is fairly sure he isn't suppose to answer these questions, but by the time he is old enough to be certain, he finds himself looking down at a very short person, saying, "You know better than that."

Sound familiar

Seeing Christmas

2009-12-18T12:57:00.000-08:00

For most of us Christmas is photographed and filed, but never left for long to gather dust. We see Christmas in real as well as imaginary albums.

1997's pictures show the first celebration for my youngest grandchild. The stars weren't limited to the tree. As it happens every time we have a new baby in the family, those eyes twinkled in the hearts of all of us, as we relived our own first-remembered Yuletide through the stars in the new child's eyes. I ran back down the years and reached out with little-girl arms to hear again a dear old great-grandmother whispering in my little-girl ear, "Now, don't forget." Before regressing quite so far, I had other, "visions" with not a sugar plum in sight. I saw holidays slipping past, with different, "youngest" grandchildren laughing merrily at some grand, shimmering tandenbaum. And further back to my own babies. How clearly I can see them toddling by in their sailer suits and ruffled dresses.

Through irridescent, wintry clouds of splendor, through times of trouble and hearts we would swear were broken beyond recycling; through falling snow flakes, rain drops and hopes, December 25th keeps coming. A few soft words inhabit northern winds, "Now, don't forget...." I see Christmas when hugging a friend I have had since girlho9od. We did our shopping, "downtown" before malls were anything but big hammers. With fur-lined boots and parka's we walked past store-fronts festooned with greens and colored lights. Carols poured forth from overhead speakers far above us and we talked about "Little Women's" Jo who sold her hair to buy a present for her mother. We couldn't wait to begin purchasing gift with our allowances. It snowed for days that winter, and I foun d a sled under the Christmas tree. But just before I went to sleep on Christmas Eve I heard that whisper, "Now, don't forget..."

I see Christmas when I think of my parents and grandparents...remembering gifts of Nancy Drew myteries, ice skates, bicycles,scooters, dolls and even a small bright red kiddy car when I was four-years old. I see a sweet-faced aunt touch my cheek and say softly, "Now, don't forget..."

Different days with grow-up presents came too quickly, at least in retrospect. Then one December 7th, and for a long few years the world wasn't sure there would be more Christmases. But, of course there were, along with lockets and high-heeled slippers, and Evening in Paris perfumes. I had an uncle in France on one of those holidays, who would have traded his evening in Paris for most anybody. He was carrying a rifle through mud up to his knees and hadn't been able to change his socks for weeks. Still, I heard it yet again, "Now, don't forget..."

Some people say, "That is more than I care to remember." Not me. Every one is a gift to acknowledge and recall.; even the years I made the biggest fool of myself--the most colossal errors in judgement. Christmas is always there at the end to bring about healing when we remember what this day is all about. Sooner or later this season, I will be bending over a small bed, touching a soft cheek and whispering," Now, don't forget...Joy to the world, the Lord is come!"

Old Christmas Carols

2009-12-15T20:13:00.000-08:00

Old age--from my point of view--has one thing going for it this time of year. I have a huge stock pile of Christmases to remember every evening just before falling into a short nap in my recliner. As it stands now, I have much clearer memories of those 30 years ago than I do the one last December. As time rolls on my recollections seem to move further back with each year. If it keeps going this way one of these winters I will experience vivid scenes from my very first Christmas, at age five-months while forgetting to put the lights on the tree THIS year. It just goes that way in life and the longer we are allowed to live, the more there is to forget about yesterday and to recall about the far past. There is that wonderful thing that happens to us oldsters. (I'm 78) we are given the gift of remembering incidents that happened many decades ago. My mom was still recalling songs from the far past just before she went to the Lord at age 94.

To get a bit serious, there are some slow moving, yet relentless machines at work to plow under some of our oldest traditions. The trappings and scenes of Christmas, and some people's attitudes have changed from the times of my youth. I hate to have to say it, but they haven't added anything positive that I can see. The greatest thing about this special day of December 25th is that it doesn't matter what we humans do or don't do about it; it will go right on being celebrated as the birth of the Savior in the hearts of millions. There is an astonishing phenomenon working its way through the country right now--a movement we couldn't have imagined on ly a few short years ago. There are those who would be much more contented if the whole Christmas thing would go away. It seems to worry them a great deal, particularly the spiritual aspects of the season. Even the decorated tree has become forboding enough to cause some of them to change its name to something less threatening than,'The Christmas Tree."

I have heard it said that the more fanatical people become the more ridiculous they become. Maybe so. As far as that goes, there are those who would call me a fanatic because I am a Christian. My Christianity is not just a bi-product of being born in America, and it isn't a religion; it is a relationship with Christ..not to get excited please, my soap-box is nowhere in sight. I am not a, "Bible Thumper." But, I do cringe to hear unbelievers explain what goes on in My heart and mind as a Christian. When they attempt to do so, it is so obvious they haven't a clue as to who we are. And hey; I don't expect them to. After some research of the different movements afoot that would squash all reverences to Christianity. It almost seems silly, but, of course, it isn't.

Perhaps the traditions could be made to disappear from the American scene over time, but I don't believe it would have much of a spiritual impact. They might do away with the Nativity scenes, rename the town-square trees, change the words to "Silent Night" --as one school already has--not allow Christmas songs at the school pageants, let the retailers tell their personnel not to greet their customers with the apparently dangerous statement of, "Merry Christmas" and it woudn't matter one iota to the faith that can move mountains. It isn't often that I splash around in the political pond, and actually don't feel that I am getting my feet wet right now. But, you know what? I just had to say something about the attacks on Christmas.

No one knows the date of Christ's birth. The 25th of December is just the day that was decided on to celebrate what was a wondrous day for believers. But it isn't necessary for our faith. Neither are, "Silent Night" or the stable with the baby in the hay. We can get along nicely without, "O' Tannenbaum, the school programs with no references to Christmas, the carolers, and all the rest. Our faith and worship is based on something immovable and unchangeable. Still, how perilous can it be to be wished a, "Merry Christmas?"

*The picture with this posting is part of the remains of a very old song book I found in a second-hand store. It has all but turned to dust. I love it...MERRY CHRISTMAS

2009-12-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

Mistake in last posting

2009-12-07T20:09:00.000-08:00

I left out an important word in last post. The word, "regret" was left out of last sentence. It should read, "He surely did shiver that night, but there was a warm spot somewhere near the area of his heart that kept REGRET from getting in at all.

I don't know how to correct it....sorry

Audrey

One cold night a stranger came calling

2009-12-07T15:44:00.000-08:00

In 1930 , December came puffing and blowing, dumping immence skies full of snow over Puget Sound. Numbing Arctic winds finger-painted the scene with silvery strokes and on one particular snow-filled morning a Western Washington farming community went about its business. at 10:30 a.m. a mournful, drawn-out whistle led a swaying freight train out of the deep forest to halt at the wooden water tower where it would spend an hour- and-a-half taking on a fresh supply

Thus begins a true-to-life tale.

PART 1

The trains carried the men from one ocean to the other, then back again; men who had taken to the open road for one reasons or another. Some were good men, some maybe not so good, but a large number were husbands and fathers striving to come through for the families waiting at home. Finding even the bare requirements of dood on a daily basis was a challenge. Every day hundreds of down-at-the-heels men app;roached hundreds of back doors across the country hoping for wood to chop or ditches to dig in exchange for a meal.

Women bore their own kind of burden;months taken up with trying to fill children with scanty rations and imaginations.

LIttle old Mrs. Moore had no such worries. The modest farm produced plenty for the two of them. She and her husband Knapp, had raised their one child long ago and soon would be celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary. She put anothehr stick of wood in the cook stove, check on the baking bread in the oven and eased down into the waiting rocking chair.

As the train gave a long, steamy, "Sheeeeeeesh," a long man jumped down from one of the middle boxcars, pulled his tattered overcoat close around his neck and took off at a slow and cumbersome run across the frosty field.

Nearby Mrs. Moore had heard the whistle. She roused herself, put on a pot of coffee and began to slice potatoes and ham into a frying pan. He would be hurrying along now, one of the fellows who, "rode the rails" in these hard times. There was never more than one man at a time looking for a hand out at the Moore farm on the daily runs. This seemed to be the procedure amongst the travelers. Farmers in other areas reported the same routine. The elderly lady continued to work at the stove and decided she would have her visitor cut some kindling.

When the box in the woodshed was full of newly chopped kindling he took an armload and walked to the back porch. After dumping the wood into a container near the back entrance he shook the snow from his worn coat, slapped his hat against his leg and entered the country kitchen. He looked to be about 35 years-old . His face was craggy and thin, almost to the point of gauntness, with cheeks reddend by too many winter rides in icy boxcars.

She chatted of this and that, plaing dishes and utensils on the table while pointing him to the wash basin and a hanging towel.

He didn't talk much , spending his energy on the food in front of him, but nodded politely when he felt a response was necessary. His, hostess, seated at last with her own cup of coffee, thought she saw him send a fleeting glance of longing toward the tiny decorated fir tree in the dim parlor. But, if so, it was quickly suppressed. Then, as he was finishing up the last scraps of the meal she watched as his eyes wandered to the back door window. There was a large card there, suspended by a string and facing the outside.

"I know," she said, though he hadn't asked, "We can't see it from in here. I just never got around to turning it around. It's what the angels told the shepherds," 'Peace on earth, good will to men."

Her grey head turned toward the message, "Seems to me we humans get that backwards today. We keep wanting thhe peace, and all the things that go with it, without giving the good will first."

The sojourner put down the checkered napkin and asked without much interest, "What is good will anyway?"

Almona Moore massaged one arthritic hand with the other, thinking carefully about her answer. "Well, it's wanting to be helpful," she said, "It's looking for, being aware of--no, it's looking for opportunities to be giving even when it isn't so easy. It's a willingness, an attitude. Yes, that's it. It's an attitude of kindness."

The man answered, "Hmm."

Suddenly Mrs. Moore spotted a sack on the chair by the door. She rose as quickly as her 80 year-old arthritic body would allow, put her hand to her cheeck and keened, "Oh, dear my poor husband has forgotten his lunch." She glanced at the clock on the shelf. It showed 11:45, There was still time if...her visitor saw the clock also.

"You see," the woman continued frowning, "My husband had a chance to make a little money today reparing a neighbors fence, but he's not even completely over being sick and he just can't go without this meal. What in the world can I do?" The faded blue eyes looked straight at the man sitting at her table

"Well, how far away is this neighbor?"

"A mile or so down the road," was the hopeful answer as she pointed in the opposite direction from the halted train.

Rising to shrug into his coat, the man replied, "Sure do thank you for the food, Ma'am, but I can't do that. Gotta get that train. I'd have to walk clean into Tacoma otherwise."

The lady sat back down, holding tightly to the sack, and sighed, "Yes. well, goodbye then."

A gust of frigid air came in as the man went out. "So long, Ma'm. Sorry."

He walked 10 paces in the crunchy snow and stopped. Slowly, by small jerks, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He could see that sign as if it had a built-in light. That one word sure looked brighter than the rest. GOODWILL. He couldn't figure how he missed seeing that on his way in. He growled, "Shoot!" as if somebody was giving him an arguement, and kicked at a mound of snow. Finally he turned reluctently all the way around and began to retrace his steps. The door opened before he knocked and Mrs. Moore handed him two sacks. "Straight down this road, Son. Mr. McGreggor's place. You can't miss it. Biggest barn you ever saw. Oh, Yes, and that large bag is for you. I wrapped up that ham shank, some bread and a few winter apples for later.

The fellow shook his head and took the bags. "How did you know I'd go?"

"Just thought I saw a lot of goodwill in you young man."

"Yeah, and I'll regret it when I find myself shiverin' in somebody's haystack tonight."

"No," she said firmly, "You won't."

He surely did shiver that night, but there was a warm spot somewhere near the area of his heart that kept from getting in at all.

Coming nearly to the end of this endeavor

2009-11-24T13:53:00.000-08:00

Yes, we are almost to the end of Tarzan and Jane's strange, but unusual eating habits; and we will end with the absolute best of the bunch. UBANGI, I BANGI, WE ALL BANGI ON THE TREEHOUSE WALL STEW

21/2 diced peeled potatoes
2 tsp salt
1 Tbls oil
2 tsps chili powder
1 recipe corn dumplings (given below)
2 cu pinto beans
1 lag. chopped onion
2 beef boullion cubes
3 lg fresh tomatoes

Mix potatoes, beans and salt and 3 cu water in good sized kettle. Sauate onions in oil. Add 2 boullion cubes. Add chilii powder and tomatoes. Stir well and add to first mixture. Bring to boil and simmer for 30 min. Drop dumplings by heating tablespoons on top of stew. Cover and simmer for 10 minutes. Causes aggressive behavior in some.

CORN DUMPLINGS

1 cu canned corn
1 cu flour
1 tsp soda
3 Tbls cornmeal
salt to taste
buttermilk to moisten

Mix ingredients until blended . Keep dough fairly stiff.

************************************************************************************

Maybe there is a large critter in your life, sniffing the air for some sweet sustenance as he comes in from swinging from tree to tree.
And, one evening very soon, after he has showered and changed his loin cloth you may present him with one of the best meals he has ever bounded through. We sincerely hope your Tarzan is a bit more talkative at dinner.

Believe it or not, we are about to end this thing, but must add just a couple more paragraphs to explain ourselves in regards to Janes's kitchen utensils. Perhaps you think we have been particularly nasty in witholding information about Jane's preparation tools. That's because they ARE particularly nasty. A blackened pot, a filthy stick and a few crummy hot rocks. UGH we simply cannot discuss it. But we have nearly forgotten Jane's all-time, top-of-the-list, very favortite: YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE HORS d' OEUVRES. DEFINETELY YUMMY SHE INSISTS. And it is only a matter of walking the banks of the river--any-river will do--and grabbing everything that moves. Our kitchen testers refer to this, "dish" as CANAPES WITH CRUNCH

Hope you've had fun, I sure have

This is the last elephant in this particular jungle

2009-11-23T19:25:00.000-08:00

Continuing with the lost family's favorite recipes Tarzan claims everyone would love ALLIGATOR SUPREME. He says, "The chewing is so beneficial to the teeth and gums." Now, you know he never said such a thing. This character can barely grunt out more than three words in succession. Nevertheless, he did make it quite clear that the above mentioned recipe is for the more advanced cook; one who can wrestle. His actual words were,"Go slow. Carry big stick."

Now here is a goodie.

BOY'S CHOICE CROCODILES PILES

1/2 cu. shortening

1 tsp ginger

1cu molasses

!/2 tsp soda

3 Tbls baking powder

1 egg

1/4 cu sour milk

1cu raisins

1/2 cu sugar

1 tsp salt

3 cu flour

Cream shortening and sugar. Beat egg and add it too. Then add molasses, mixing well. sift flor, soda baking powder, ginger and salt. Add to creamed mixture alternately with sour milk. Add raisins. Drop by teaspoonfuls on greased baking sheet. BAke at 400 deg. about 10 minutes. Yields 7 1/2 piles...er...dozen.

From the title of that last recipe you may guess what Boy thought these cookies were the first time Jane told him what they were called as she handed him one of the little hummers. It showed he had inherited at least one of his father's traits when he accepted it without an argument. They really are very good. Even Cheetah likes them. Now that we think about it that isn't much of a recommendation, he also enjoys munching on beetles.

Grit your teeth there are only a couple more of these unique offerings to endure

You can't say they haven't been ...different shall we say?

Jane is back

2009-11-20T19:07:00.000-08:00

Our jungle family's very favorite recipe's have not been included. We thought them a bit gamey for sophisticated appetites, (OH! Dear Jane! How far you have fallen.) However, in the interests of gourmet curiosities we will relate their names to you. Near the top of the list is, ANTHILL AMBROSIA. Jane recommends the wearing of boots for the gathering of ingredients. (Arm-pit length gloves wouldn't hurt either.)

Our next offering is; a tasty surprise.

SAFARI SO GOOD, CHEETAH'S HEAT-A-POT

1 frying chicken, cut-up
Flour
1/3 cu. butter
salt and pepper
1/2 cu. sliced onion
2 cu. light cream

Cheetah fooled around and came up with this recipe. Season chicken pieces with salt and pepper. Roll in flour, saute in butter. Place in greased casserole. Saute onions in drippings in pan until lightly browned. Add cream and pour over chicken. Cover tightly and bake in 325 oven for 2 1/2 hrs, or until tender. Serves 6

AND IF YOU BELIEVE THE MONKEY MADE THIS DISH WE'VE GOT A BRIDGE WE WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT

Here we are back with Jane, Tarzan, and an elephant or two

2009-11-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

Another Jungle Recipe

GOOD STUFF FLUFF

1 Tbls plain gelatin

2 Cu. milk

1/3rd Cu.sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1/4 Cu cold water

2 eggs

1/8 Tsp salt

Soften gelatin in cold water. Scald the milk, add gelatin, stirring until dissolved. Combine beaten egg yolks, sugar and salt. Slowly stir in the milk and gelatin mixture. Cook over hot water until lightly thickened or about 5 minutes. Cool. When mixture begins to set add vanilla and fold in stiffly beaten egg whites. Pour in to one large or six individual dishes. Chill well. FEED SOME TO THE MEANEST BOA CONSTRICTOR IN YOUR JUNGLE. YOU MIGHT GET A BIG HUG

Onward to : NOTHIN' SARONG FOR LONG, DUMP CAKE

I'd bet my mosquito net you will simply LOVE this one

1 white cake mix

1 large can crushed pineapple

1 large can apple pie filling

1 stick butter or margarine.

Grease 9 x 13 pan. Layer ingredients in this order. Pineapple, pie filling, and cake mix. Then slice margarine into pieces and cover cake mix. Pat down gently, cover tightly with foil wrap and bake at 350 degrees for 40 -45 minutes.

EXPECT A "THIS PURTY GOOD" FROM YOUR TARZAN

more later

Jane's story Continues

2009-11-17T16:40:00.000-08:00

At any rate Jane was found; whether by Tarzan or his constant companian, Cheetah, the chimp, is anybody's guess. Our money, if we were betting people, would be on the monkey. His human friend couldn't seem to find an erupting volcano without assistnce. He truly wasn't the cleverest individual who ever trod the jungle paths.

Edgar Rice Burroughs never imagined a, "Jane". At least we don't think he did. It was just Tarzan and the Apes, and for we ladies, that can get a little boring. Someone else thought so too apparently, for some, "romantic " came along and brought Jane into the pictures--movies that is. It certainly made it more interesting for the female audience. A beautiful cultured woman destined to spend the rest of her life with ...well, let's turn our thoughts to something a little more pleasant; like the next recipe

OKEE DOKEE PEACHY TAPIOKEE'

2 cups canned peaches, sliced
Peach juice and water to make 1/4 cup
2 Tbl Minute Tapioca
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 tsp salt
3 Tbls lemon juice

Combine tapioca, sugar, salt and liquid, (not lemon juice) in pan and mix well. Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, add lemon juice and fruit. It will be thin until it cools. Chill. Serves 4-5

More about Jane

So Jane and Tarzan formed an alliance. They were a couple, as Tarzan so aptly put it, "Me Tarzan" you Jane. The guy knew a good thing when he saw it. A banana and a chaw of bark may be okay for a bachelor, but something in his genes, shouted, "You Jane, you COOK.!!!"

To be continued

Through a different kind of jungle

2009-11-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

THE TARZAN COOKBOOK

This mini cookbook is something I've been fooling around with for awhile. A critic I know
thinks it is quite good as slapstick comedy goes and might make an acceptable, "coffee table" piece. Forgive me if you think it is the silliest piece of writing you have ever seen.

Perhaps you don't know much about Tarzan's Jane; well, she was one-in-a-million, and a good thing too. It is too horrible to contemplate more than one of our "sisters" being tossed from pillar to elephant in such rustic surroundings. Jane was a real lady, English if we remember correctly. She exuded refinement from every dirty little toe. Gentleness and charm mingled within her snarled and matted curls; definetely, "to the manor born."

Alas, poor Jane became lost in a remote area of the African jungle. It isn't clear to us now just how she got there. There is some fuzzy recollection about her having been on safari with her father. It's possible that she wandered off in search of a, "ladies room" and shockingly found herself stuck amongst the briars and the pricklies unable to free her delicate self without unthinkable embarrassment. And so, there she remained until...Enter, Tarzan, the King of the Jungle; a man not clear-headed about finding his OWN way back to civilization by most accounts., (actually, EVERY account paints him as a rather slow dunderhead.) He, himself, had been lost since childhood and didn't know it. And, in spite of seeing his quite human face mirrored in every mud hole south of Egypt , the fellow believed himself to be one of the Great Hairy Ones, an ape.

What can we say, except it wasn't his eyesight that made him famous, it was Edgar Rice Burroughs, the author who fictionalized our man of the jungle.

If we were reading a real book at the moment I would tell you to turn the page and take the first step into the leaf-shadowed world of Jane's "kitchen" and some unusual---we might even call it bizarrw--cuisine. So, go ahead, pretend we are reading a book

First Recipe

Acey Deucy Juicy Watusi Dessert

3 cu diced rhubarb

1/3cu honey

1 egg beaten

1 tsp vanilla

1 cu flour1/4tsp salt

3 Tbls orange juice

1 Tbl butter 1/2cu honey

2 Tble sour cream1/4 tsp soda

Preheat oven to 350 and grease an 8x8 inch pan. Arrange rhubarb in pan. Mix orange juice and honey. Drizzle over rhubarb and dot with butter. In medium bowl combine egg, honey vanilla and sour cream. Mix flour salt and soda. Add to egg mixture. Spread batter over rhubarb and bake about 30 minutes, or until nicely browned. ONE DISGRUNTLED OLD CHIEF BECAME PERFECTLY GRUNTLED AFTER JANE SERVED HIM A BANANA LEAF FULL OF THIS TREAT.

(These are actual recipe's from an old book as the saying goes: only the names have been changed.

HE WILL WIPE AWAY ALL OF OUR TEARS

2009-11-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

"Yesterday's Grief"

The falling rain of yesterday is ruby on the roses, silver on the poplar leaf , amd gold on willow stem; the grief that fell just yesterday is silence that encloses God's great gifts of grace, and time will never trouble them.

The falling rain of yesterday makes all the hillside glisten, coral on the laurel, and beryl on the grass. The grief that fell just yesterday has taught the soul to listen for whispers of eternity in all the winds that pass.

O faint of heart, storm-beaten, this rain will shine tomorrow, flame within the columbine and jewels on the thorn, Heaven in the forget-me-not; though sorrow now is sorrow, yet sorrow will be beauty in the magic of the morn.

This poem was written by Katherine Lee Bates. I can't say I understand all of it, but it seems to cry out to be looked into a little deeper. Let me know how you feel about it.

2009-11-07T12:59:00.000-08:00

EVERYBODY DESERVES A CHANGE

I have become a near-brunette again. I was just suddenly overcome lately with the urge to see what was under the varigated situation adhering to my scalp. I say" near" because there are still some stubborn grey hunks that won't go along with the program. But yes, that is me hiding out under Dark Chestnut #14 or, whatever it said on the bottle of dye. Actually that mass of hair on the attached picture was also mine a whole lot of years ago.

The comments of friends and relatives have been many. An example is, "What have you done!"

I can't even say, "Only my hairdresser knows." I couldn't wait for an appointment with her so I mixed, stirred, and whipped up the coloring myself and proceeded to dribble it over my tresses. Really, I don't have tresses any longer; they were transformed into hanks awhile back when they began to turn an icky grey shade and have the texture of pot scrubbers. Naturally, I wanted to cover them up; am I crazy?

There are few physical bummers a person can actually alter without the help of a surgeon. Even a goodly amount of pounds has to be vacuumed off with the liposuction procedure.

Hair, however, may be changed, and we have so many choices today. There is a whole color spectrum from which to choose. The purple appealed for a micro-second, but, I wanted my mother to continue speaking to me. For some reason, she has come to believe hair has some sacred spot in the scheme of things and prefers that all of us leave it in whatever state it gets to over the years. She has conveniently forgotten the Henna she put on her hair when I was small. I remember it though. It was the most awful looking muddy gunk you ever saw. According to her it never happened. She suggested I must have mistaken it for a stew she was making. oh yeah, and the little empty bottle under the sink didn't say, "Henna" either.

I am all for change, that is why January 1st appeals to me...resolution time...except that I don't do well at keeping the resolutions for long. I usually go down to defeat around the 2nd or 3rd of that month.

No, I am not good ar resolutions, but I have all kinds of ideas concerning changes and a lot has to do with hair. My family will tell you. They are never sure whenever they will be greeted at my door by a platinum blond in a baseball cap, a pixie with less hair than most arms, or the wild and crazy coiffure of Cruella DeVille from 101 Dalmations

2009-10-29T18:45:00.000-07:00

WHY ON EARTH DID MOM WANT BLACK LEATHERS?

Some years ago Pearl Bailey recorded a song titled, "Mama, a Rainbow." The lyricist wrote of unique presents he might give his mother...some gift to surpass all those that had gone before. His ideas were imaginitive and mostly impossible. Thinking of that old song prompted me to make a list of my own.

How wonderful it would be to hand Mama a reservoir of liquid sunsets to swim in whenever she pleased. Or, be able to hand her the reins of a diamond-saddled silver charger to carry her to Camelot, or Shangri-la. What about a golden door, always open, to that ever-blooming Secret Garden? Or, consider one perfect, cobalt blue and star-strewn night for Molther to fall asleep curled up in the hand of God; with a dream of girlhood to go with it; a dream so real a pale blue ribbon from yesterday would be on her pillow in the morning, along with the scent of Lily of the Valley. And years! Oh , yes! I would give her lots of extra spun-gold, carefree years.

All of us would like to see our mother's eyes shine with joy at whatever we choose to give her on Mother's Day, or her birthday. Because if we are blessed enough to still be able to look at her beautiful face we want her to know how very much we love her.

In my mother's case it is doubly difficult to find a gift because she is ...not an average woman. For years I had my suspicians and they were confirmed not long ago when she informed me she needed to shop for a black leather out fit. Surely I hadn't heard her correctly, "Black leather?"

"Yes, a jacket and a pair of pants."

"Oh, you mean for one of the grandkids?"

"Now Audrey, which one of the kids could possibly need an outfit like that?"

Who indeed? And yet it was an ensemble my 89-year-old mother deemed a must-have for her wardrobe. Quickly, I looked at this lady who brought me into the world. It was she alright."You want to purchase leather pants and a jacket?"

That's right with silver buttons and lots of fringe."

The matriarch of our family is as alert, concise and witty as she has always been, and it never entered my mind to think she had slipped a cog overnight. "Mother,what is all this about?"

She glanced sideways at me, lifted her head a few inches and answered, "I'm riding with the gang."

This was sounding serious--maybe even dangerous. I began to recall the fact that my mother had always been a brave individual. She had many daredevil childhood exploits to her creditm and when I was a baby one of Mom's favorite pastimes was doing barrel rolls over P:uget Sound in an open-cockpit, two seater plane. (As a passenger.)

With a little more prompting I learned my little 5'1" grey-haired mama had been riding with a Christian motorcycle club associated with her church. She loved it! No, she didn't drive, but sat behind the driver. They all wore black leather with silver buttons and lots of fringe. She just want to fit in.

Mom is quite well known in our rural community and surprisingly everybody loves her. I say, "surprisingly" because, as I mentioned before she is a one-of-a-kind, strong-willed female, and a mother in eveny DNA corner of her determined body. She is still perfectly comfortable threatening me and all of creation with the disciplinary wooden spoon. Happily, most of us can finally out-run her.

By the way I discovered that perfect gift for her and every mother. Mom is the one who told me what it is. We have it with us day and night, even though it's priceless and precious. Everyone of us has an allotment of it and yet it can't be seen, held or saved. It is continuously passing through our fingers and when it's gone, so are we. We can't hang on to it, but we can throw it away. Shakespeare called it, "...an inaudible and noiseless foot."

Yes, it's , TIME, the invisible commodity our mother's want from us more than anything. If we are still so blessed as to have our mother's here, and it is possible, go spend a day of minutes with your mom.

Sometimes I write fiction...this isn't and my mom is everything I've related here...and lots more.

She passed on to be with her Lord 2 years ago at 94 years of age.

Who do YOU think brought on the rain?

2009-10-29T15:02:00.000-07:00

During the reign of Abdullah the Third, a great drought struck Baghdad. The Mohammendan doctors issued a decree that all the faithful should offer prayers for rain. Still, the drought continued.

The Jews were then permitted to add their prayers. Their supplications also appeared inefectual. Finally, when the drought resulted in wide spread famine, the Christians in the land were asked to pray. It so happened that torrents of rain followed almost immediately.

The whole conclave was more upset over the cessation of the drought than it had been alarmed at its continuance. Feeling that some explanation was necessary, they issued this statement to the masses, "The God of our Prophet was highly gratified by the prayers of the faithful which were as sweet-smelling savors to HIm. He refused their requests in order to prolong the pleasure of listening to their prayers; but the prayers of those Christian infidels were an abomination to HIm, and He granted their petitions the sooner to be rid of their loathsome importunities."

Out of the Sea

2009-10-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

Two of my grandchildren, knowing that I am a writer,wanted to know how to write a story. My first inclination was to suggest we wait for another time. It was really an excuse but, an idea came to me and it led to an interesting undertaking.

Connor was 13 at the time and Katie was 9. They liked the challenge I gave them, and, although it isn't completed as yet, and may never be, they always remember that it is here.

It began with me writing a sentence out of my head; "The young man was on the beach when he saw the big dog fighting the waves, trying to get to shore."

Next I ask Connor to add another sentence. At first, he found it difficult but came up with, "And, to the amazement of the boy a dolphin appeared and guided the exhausted dog almost to his feet."

Now, it was Katie's turn. She took some time and finally added, "The young man sat, a little big shaky and a little bit afraid as the big German Shepherd loped past him towards the forest behind them."

My turn again and I felt as if I had "painted myself into a corner." However, I was able to add, "As he turned to follow the dog, his father's high-pitched whistle called him home."

This time Connor managed this sentence. "After lunch he talked his father into returning to the spot on the beach where he first saw the dog."

It ended with Kate's last entry, "No matter how long they searched, there were no dog prints, only the boy's."

Starting out to be quite a mystery isn't it? It has never been added-to since the week-end they both spent with me, but, hopefully they gained some knowledge about writing and imagination. They both know I still have the beginning of, "The story," and ask about it frequently. Maybe it will never be finished, because it will take all 3 of us, but then...you never know.

(the beautiful German Shepherd on this post belongs to my daughter, Cheryl, and her name is, Akeera)

The house that Jack built

2009-10-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

My son Jack is a builder and owner of Capital Country Homes out of Olympia, Washington. The family all teases him a little with, "The house that Jack built." And now, there are many of them.

This guy was a whopper when he was born...10 pounds and 18 inches long....or should I say, "short." On my birthday this last July we made arangements for him to take me to lunch when he wasn't right in the middle of building one of the pretty, custom built homes that are his specialty. We hadn't been able to complete those plans until today.

Before we went to eat we stopped by my sisters log home--which he built and said it would be the one and only log house he would build; I guess because it was such a huge undertaking. It's a dream house to me and my sister has it decorated like something out of a Home and Garden magazine. As we were leaving I tried my best to get a picture of the house. I am just not that good at it. Fooey! but I tried and I promise to get better. The three pictures I did get are the front of the beautiful log house; me and Jack, and me and Jack's truck.

It really is a gorgeous home

When I wasn't looking

2009-10-15T18:59:00.000-07:00

My last post was about my father and how he loved and protected his daughters. We were not to have him very long because when I wasn't looking he slipped out of this life.

This beautiful stained-glass window was made by my sister-in-law Janet. She is an absolute wonder and just started this new craft/art not many days ago.

Fifty years have passed

Like ground mist in a

Morning sunrise

Can it really be that long?

Surely I saw that dear face

Only yesterday

Every flower claims its scent;

And Daddy's shaving cream

Was a favorite blossom

I smell it still

Across a half-a-century

Of deprivation

His gentle hands

Are more remembered

Than last night's dream

And yet....

Those same hands only touched

His loved ones for

Forty-four racing.

Plummeting, laughing years

And then,

They moved no more

Hearts, sore and torn,

And angry

Were left behind

Oh, Daddy!

Understanding Daddy

2009-10-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

Mr.Jekyl and Mr. Moore

My father went a little strange when we girls were betwen the ages of 14 and marriage. I wondered what all the fuss was about and I really didn't understand until I had a 12 year-old granddaughter spend the night with me recently. We played a sort of dress-up where I fashioned a big chignone (sp)at the back of her head and then did a fancy (I thought) makeup job. Wow! It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, and a feeling rushed through me like flooding river. Of course I already knew she was pretty, but this girl--only 12 years old--was gorgeous. I had ugly thoughts of doing bodily harm to any male that spent more than a nano second looking her way. I was beginning understand my dad.

Dad always whistled from the pantry window for us to come in to dinner in the evening. By putting his thumb and index finger between his lips and blowing he could be heard way down at Spears Confectionary two block away. But, usually we were right there in the back alley playing Kick-the-can with the neighborhood kids. Six families on our block produced 19 children, and all of them were good kids as far as I could tell.. Father would not have been in perfect agreement.

My dad had more friends than anyone I have ever known. He really enjoyed people, from the youngest to the oldest, except for the years my sister and I were between the ages of 14 and marriage. During that interval his personality changed, but only toward a small group of the local population; all the boys between the ages of 14 and marriage. A Mr.Hyde miasma took hold of Dad. Day after day, in his opinion, these dropped lower and lower on the food chain until amoebas towered over them. They were microscopic worms, and yet, paradoxically, capable of eye-bulging plans and horrendous actions.

I was never given any specifics as to any personal peril, but some instinct told me Father must have been exaggerating at least a little when he muttered, "Gangsters! Degenerates!" And, it became worse. The muttering became almost like a second language. If a boy was in sight you can be sure we were getting the garbled, under-the-breath tirade, "Punks...no good...amount...hill of beans...MY daughters." It was a mystery to me; for quite a few years anyway.

In spite of the glitch in Dad's otherwise gentle nature, all of his worrying in those years was for nothing I was merely, "one of the boys" myself. None of my buddies were drawn into undying love at the sight of my scabbed-over knees or spiky, scarecrow coiffure. There wasn't a one who tried to hold my calloused hand or put an arm around my sweaty shoulders. If anyone HAD committed such a faux pas he would have been duct taped to the old chestnut tree and left for crazy.

Romances, boy-girl stuff and interest in my appearance hadn't yet wriggled out of the main part of my brain. It was still-more-or-less- a sleeping giant. However, there was one girl who caused me to suffer bursting cannon balls of contradicting thoughts every time I saw her. She was eighteen, gorgeous by anybody's standards, and her name was Mardell. I was cross-eyed with confusion.

When my boy pals hung around Mardell, all looking like Dopey of the seven dwarves, I would have applauded her instant extinction. I mean, they were so uncool with their jaws down on their chests. It was a different story however, when she invited me in and I watched as she did her hair or painted her nails. There were moments when I would have traded genetic
codes with her and never looked back.

Alas and alack, I was tan, freckled and tall. Mardell was petite, golden and delicate. She always made me think of the fairy tale about the princess and the pea. The test of true royalty was whether or not one could feel the tiny green sphere through 10 or 20 mattresses. I didn't know if anyone had ever cluttered up Dream Girls bedding with any vegetables, but I was sure of one thing. Very few frogs would she have to kiss before the prince found her.

Gradually, I experienced my own metamorphosis and, while I couldn't claim "butterfly hood" I wasn't a bad looking moth.

Dad did his best to prevent us girls from falling for boys that would probably be very mucyh like he was...a male, and he knew all about that gender. But we did, we do, and we will, because we just like the opposite sex.

And that, "Daddy" who first picked us up out of our cradles is at the top of the list.

The Scarecrow Clown

2009-10-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

I saw the scarecrow as I drove out of town. He was a poor specimen even for his kind, as he stood with his back right up against the barn door that was hanging on its hinges. The owners had apparently given up on large scale farming and yet there was that down-at-the-heels apparition. His arms were raised up high, as if forbidding entry. But, it wasn't the barns contents he protected. It was the small garden directly in front of it.

These guys with their battered hats, colorful shirts and straw bodies used to dot the American countryside. That was when half of the country raised their own food. My grandfather was part of that percent, and every early summer Mr. Scarecrow appeared in some part of the garden and stayed until Autumn. Where he was deposited the rest of the year was a mystery. In my child's mind it could well have been in a coffin in the basement away from all wooden stakes, crosses and garlic. I was terrified of the straw man and never snatched so much as a green pea from his domain.

Grandpa's scarecrow always seemed to look the same, except for once. It was the year my still-at-home uncle saved for months to buy himself a fine maroon colored suit. He bought it in March for his wedding the following October, but before hanging it in the closet, he noticed the tiniest of spots near the bottom of the slacks. He went down to the washroom to ask Grandma if she could remove the stain and she quickly did so. Uncle laid the pants over a tub near the trash and went on talking of other things.

Grandpa's ever-vigilant garden protectorWAS different that year. He had on an old army helmet, a brilliant purple puffed-sleeve blouse, (neither of which was ever explained) and a good looking pair of Maroon pants.

By the time my uncle found out who was wearing his slacks it was too late to do anything but snort and paw the ground a few times; then take whatever the store had that would fit him. He was a stubborn man and determined to wear at least the jacket of his new suit.They only slacks they had available were a mustard color. So, those were the pants he had on with the maroon jacket. Would you believe it started a fad in the neighborhood that continues even today. Well, maybe not.

Matching the wedding flowers proved to be a challenge but, our family doesn't have to worry. We moved away long ago and have been busy starting similar disgusting fads in other areas of the county.

Strange how things happen. When the first farmer stuffed some straw in an old shirt, put a hat on it and hung it in his corn patch to scare off the crows, he couldn't have known what an impact it would have. Imagine him saying, "Yes, siree, this here'll scare those crows outta my corn. Those crows'll be mighty scared. It'll scare those crows so bad they'll stay away. Crows scare easy. Now, what'll I call this crow-scarin' fella?" And ...Voila!Scarecrow! A new word sprang from the soil of Americana. All because crows wouldn't stay out of the corn. Well,, I have trouble that way myself sometimes

Taken from the book, Uptown Down Home by A. Yeager

2009-10-07T13:06:00.000-07:00

A great deal of what is written here is unknown to my friends as it is some of the history from my past. Heaven has musically gifted some of us. At an early age the blest among us are able to bring forth actual melodies from keyboard, horn, or stringed instruments without lessons. Then, there are people like me; the wannabes who just can't seem tobe's.

My first chosen instrument was the piano. My grandmother had been a piano teacher; perhaps some of her talent

had rubbed off on me. But, either she didn't have enough to spare me a few grains, or, I wasn't able to absorb much more than a watered-down version of Chop Sticks. After many lessons I was barely able to pound out a fairly adequate rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Somehow, my parents figured they could make better use of the hundreds of dollars that the piano teacher could and I was left in musical limbo.

Either my mother or my dad must have felt there had to be some musical talent in there some place because the steel guitar came next. this time it was group lessons. I loved the twangy, electric whine of that instrument and gave it my all, the louder the better.

It was the teacher who ended those happy . I heard her tell my mom she didn't feel this was the instrument for me.and it was better to stop now before there was any injury to the other students. I had no idea what she meant. They were an unhealthy bunch anyway. Their eyes watered every time I played.

While still in grade school I begged to try the drums and was denied on general principles; or, as Dad said to Mom, "This house is not big enough for me, YOUR daughter and any percussion instruments."

Musically, it was a long, dry spell. There was only one time of temptation as an adult when the thought of playing the saxaphone appealed to me. Then, I heard my brother-in-law--who plays a mean sax himself--say; after not playing for awhile, "I've lost my lip."

While it is true, I'm always trying to lose weight, I would prefer not to lose it in the lip area. so....

I was almost music-less until this year, when I became interested in the violin, and mentioned it to a couple of my daughters. What I didn't tell them was that I was renting one to see if I liked it.

The experience was daunting in the extreme, unfruitful, and artistically deadly. The only sound I could produce with a fiddle was the soprano-pitched squeal of a high-powered race car skidding out on a curve. I couldn't wait to get it back to the rental store, and certainly never wanted to see another violin, or even a picture of one.

A few weeks after that friends and relatives gave me a surprise birthday party. My children had pooled their money and bought me the most wonderful gift they could think of giving me. I have seldom seen them so tickled. They could hardly wait for me to open the package. Two of them were actually jumping up and down. "You're going to love it, Mom!"

Of course it was a violin.

Guess who will learn to play the violin or die trying.

Humble Pie for Breakfast

2009-10-02T16:44:00.000-07:00

Pride goeth before a fall, and there are all kinds of, "falls."

Let me tell you a perfect example from my past.

We left Southern California in the early evening, my new husband, my mosquito bites. and I, enroute to the Pacific Northwest. The bites had been acquired during a fishing trip a few days before, and were now itching something awful.

I had worked for eight hours, the last day of a two-week notice, and anticipated sleeping during the night while my husband drove. I would do the day-time driving.

Just after sundown, my mate informed me that he didn't see well driving in the dark...that the oncoming lights blinded him. Oh, goody. We changed places. Almost immediately there was the sound of contented snoring beside me.

It was a long night. By six in the morning my eyes burned, my back hurt, and the mosquitos bites hadn't let up for a minute. And,believe me, it isn't easy to drive and scratch your ankles at the same time When we stopped for breakfast I had the temperment of a wounded grizzly bear, but kept it inside of my twitching body. I prided myself, (oh! oh! there's that word) on always remaining cool and calm.

We entered a crowded restaurant, seated ourselves and waited. Then, we waited some more. We called to a waitress, she waved. Forty-five minutes passed, and so did my appetite for ham and eggs. Tears of frustration threatend, but I would never make a fool of myself like that. When the waitress DID come to take our order, I pulled myself up to what I thought was a regal pose, expounded at length on the inadequacy of the help, the owner, and the entire operation.

The other patrons stared our way, as I at last gave my order. In what I assumed to be my most queenly manner, I then stated, with perfect inuunciation, "Bring me a HUP OF CAUGHT CHOCOLATE AND A BOOTER HORN!!!"

A Semi in the House??

2009-09-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

Earthquakes are not a common occurrence in the Pacific Northwest, but they do happen.. In nineteen-forty-eight we had a big one.

My mother was gone for the day and I was taking care of my 2-year-old brother. I was 17 at the time. We were in the kitchen having lunch when it started. Our old house began to creak and shudder, then the floor seemed to shift slightly. For a moment I was frozen to my chair, then I looked at my little brother and realized I had to get him out of the rickety building.

Grabbing the baby, highchair and all, I ran for the back door. Down the stairs I dashed, doing my best to handle the cumbersome chair. The Earth was moving like a sluggish sea. Trees were waving crazily and the telephone poles were leaning, first one way, then another. I was terrified, but managed to get the little guy out of the chair.

Flopping to the ground, I made an arch of my body over my brother in case something fell on us. There was a cacophony of sound around us; horns honking, people yelling, and finally the ground beneath us stopped that awful undulation. It was over.

During all of this commotion my brother hadn't made a sound. I carried him back into the house and sat down on the couch, rocking him back and forth. After a few minutes I stopped rocking and looked down at him, concerned because he was so quiet. His eyes were opened wide with uncertainty, as he said, rather tremulously, "Dat was a big twuck."

girls with peaches

2009-09-29T15:14:00.000-07:00

Two little girls with peaches and a great-grandmother between them. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon and there were only a few peaches left after Mama and Grandma put the rest of the bounty in glass jars. We were busy children with something usually hatching in our young minds. Some times it got us in trouble. One particular Sunday we nearly outdid ourselves. Actually, we thought we had embarked on a heroic enterprise. We were wrong. There was no indoor plumbing in our little house, or the grandparents either.

We were all forced to use the same old "two-holer" out at the end of the garden...way out at the end. Not a cool prospect day OR night. On top of that it was so old it had turned grey on the outside AND the inside...really yucky, dark and gloomy. We just thought we might be able to remedy that. Sooooo; Sunday morning Mama usually made pancakes. and sure enough , she didn't let us down...not that she had any idea what five-year-olds can cook up between themselves. When breakfast was over we snatched the bottle of syrup and ran for the outhouse.

Sure enough the supply of catalogue paper was abundant; just what we needed. We had seen our mother and father wallpaper a bedroom and the idea had given birth. Of course we didn't have any pretty paper, but the catalogue pages would do just fine. Well, we thought so anyway. Our unreasonable parents did not agree. Such a shame too, because the syrup was more than sticky enough to hold the catalogue pages onto the old grey walls.

Enough to say; the remainder of the day left two un-busy little girls waiting for Monday and a new start.

P.S. I'm the one in the dark red dress and that is my sister Elaine on the other side of Grandma, Allie Moore

Heading home

2009-09-23T17:18:00.000-07:00

Living in a small apartment doesn't give much opportunity for viewing a lot of wild life, however, there is a couple of times a year I am always thrilled with an amazing event that takes place right over my head. My country town must be right on the migration highway of the marvelous geese.

Few sights evoke as much attention, and awe, as that of a large flock of Canadian geese winging their way in their V-formation to the north or south. They speak of the changing of seasons, and also of the value of teamwork.

What many don't know is that when a goose gets sick or, perhaps is wounded by a shot, it never falls from formation by itself. Two other geese also fall out of formation with it and follow the ailing goose down to the ground. One of them is very often the mate of the wounded bird, since geese mate for life and are extremely loyal to their mates. Once on the ground, the healthy birds help protect and care for him as much as possible, even to the point of throwing themselves between the weakened bird and possible predators. They stay with him until he is either able to fly, or until he is dead. Then, and only then, do they launch out on their own. In most cases, they wait for another group of geese to fly overhead and they join them, adding to the safety and flying efficiency of their numbers.

I probably haven't shared anything most of you didn't already know....it's just that the migration event is so indicative of our Creators majesty and unending beauty that He has placed all about us.

A Winter's Dream

2009-09-20T17:14:00.000-07:00

Winter's comin'
Can you hear his approach?
He's drivin' a great big pumpkin
That fairy-tale coach

The geese took off
On a wing and a prayer
When they heard the old ice king
Had left his lair

The ruby-red leaves
Are waltzin' the hills
Up and down valleys
Through rooks and through rills

Turkeys are runnin'
While the runnin' is good
Mountains have put on a snow cape
And pulled up the hood

Barns are bulgin'
With hay by the load
Whoa! Here he comes now!
"Round November's road

He's pickin' up speed
A use'n that whip
And Jack Frost's ridin' shot-gun
On his favorite trip

So, run for shelter
And don't look back
Just make sure you have wood
By the ten-cord stack

Get out the quilts
Pile 'em on the bed
Find the raincoats
And why not the sled

The air is gettin' colder
He's right around the bend
May it be a lovely season
Happy Winter, Friend

Audrey Y.

Ignorance is Always Swift to Speak

2009-09-07T16:36:00.000-07:00

One of the favorite stories of Arturo Toscanini, the great symphony conductor was this: An orchestra was playing

Beethoven's Lenore overture, which has two great musical climaxes. Each of these musical high points is followed

by a trumpet passage, which the composer intended to be played offstage. The first climax arrived, but no

sound came from a trumpet off stage. The conductor, annoyed, went on to the second musical high point. But,

again, --no trumpet could be heard. This time the conductor rushed into the wings, fuming and with every intent

of demanding a full explanation. There he found the trumpet player struggling with the house security man who

was insisting as he held for dear life onto the man's trumpet. "I tell you, you can't play that trumpet back here

You'll disturb the rehearsal!"

Until you know WHY someone is acting the way they do, it's better not to criticize him. Until you know who has

told him to, it's better not to attempt to stop him!

Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath James I:19

In the swim of things

2009-09-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

If you tend to be a pessimist consider the benefits of choosing the optomistic route as described in this old poem

Two frogs fell into a deep cream bowl,

One was an optomistic soul;

But the other took the gloomy view,

"I shall drown," he cried, "and so will you."

So with a last despairing cry,

He closed his eyes and said, "Good-bye."

But, the other frog, with a merry grin said, "I can't get out, but I won't give in! I'll swim around till my

strength is spent. For having tried, I'll die content."Bravely, he swam until it would seem his struggles

began to churn the cream. On the top of the butter at last he stopped and out of the bowl he happily

hopped.

What is the moral? It's easilyfound.

If you can't get out--keep swimming around.

2009-08-30T15:27:00.000-07:00

Autumn is old-fashioned, and my personal images of the season can't be tugged much beyond Grandpa and Grandma's long-gone farm.

My Autumn is a tan, straw-hatted boy strolling and kicking through the gold and bronze riches given up by aspens and maple trees. It is a narrow twisting lane, dividing red-barned farms where plump, rioteously orange pumpkins tumble all together at the gardens edge. The fall of the year is a time and a place where scarecrows humbly bow their floppy heads after a job well done.

Autumn is the cornucopia's bounty gathered in bushels and baskets and jars; it's the pickles and kraut from Grndma's root celler. It's mounds of cornhusks and apples with the taste of honey. It's a great copper-colored moon that dwarf's the planet, and makes a back-drop for a navy-blue horizon.

Autumn must have been born in a Heavenly country house; near pearly gray fences and old crooked gates with a finger of smoke from its chimney and a hint of frosty breath from its throat. Autumn always comes bursting loose from the hills and orchards with colors bright and brilliant. Late August explodes with sunny, saffron tufts of stubble from cut fields. It sizzles with yellow ochres and burnt sienna's left tattered from the harvest; the scene in disarray, with beigy-brown potatoes and amber yams. Autumn came out of Earth's womb with the electric touch of a Master painter and a supernatural color-wheel.

Autumn can't ever be tempted to don a fashionable ensemble. Her gown is every summers glory held captive for the moment among the blazoned, marching hills, with every fiery bush an accessory.

Autumn's trees were born to dance. Any whispery breeze may set the tempo and the waltz begins-across the county, the country, the continent. When the last leaf is on the ground, the golden season tip-toes to the sidelines, making way for Winters hulking, dancing bear.

Yet, Autumn is a stand-up comic, a clown dressed from a cosmic box of crayons. He grins with some unnamed humor bubbling and gurgling up from the ample belly. There is the hint of a wonderful, mind-blowing secret, barely held in check--waiting for the okay to tell it all-----Yesssssssssssssssssss!

It came with the Autumn

2009-08-28T15:56:00.000-07:00

This is the favorite time of the year for many of us. Autumn has a, "homey" theme somehow. "Homemade" becomes the byword amongst women, and the need to create prevails. With men it may be the psychological whispers of an era long past when their main occupation was providing food, warmth and protection for the cold months ahead.

The ladies still have some hands-on-options to fulfill the deeper urges of gathering and storing. Visions of jams and pickles, pumpkin pies, knitted scarves and jewel-colored quilts waltz through feminine minds. Big pots of homemade soup appear on the back of the stove and the stores have a run on electric bread-makers. Even with all the improvements technology can provide for us it seems that at least a part of our love for Autumn hearkens back to a time when it wasn't quite so easy to prepare a family for the coming winter.

Those were times when people were truly busy, "making" their living, yet, the checker games were played with sons and daughters. The classics were read and listened to with fervor. Friends came over for an evening of simply talking. Imagine that.

There was a lot of singing around pianos that sat in 80% of American parlors. Most everyone knew the words to hundreds of songs, and nearly every family had a musician or two.

Long, well-written letters crisscrossed the world with affection and interest. These were not notes of facts and figures, but scaled down works of the heart talking; so dear to the recipients that many were tied with satin ribons and read over and over. It took time to compose those missiles and time was just as precious as it is now...precious enough to spend any extra on those we cared about.

I have a theory that Autumn is the favorite season for so many people because a big part of us would like to LIVE the Autumns of our grandparents, or even our great-grandparents. Mainly because we haven't researched what that involved. The harvest alone would hospitalize most modern couples of today. Then canning. preserving drying, butchering and smoking would finish them off. We think we're busy now...?

Busy is the most overused word in the English language today. It's everybody's excuse for...everything. "Sorry, I'm just too busy."

If we aren't careful we will become too, "busy" to hold conversations of any substance, to pat a cheek, to say a prayer, to keep in touch with an old friend, or look--really look--into the eyes of a little one. These moments come but once. We can't go scurrying after them and gather them up again if the mood happens to strike us.

Too many of us are over-occupied with justifiable, "business."

Some years ago I dropped an oral thermomenter on the floor. It broke in two and the mercury inside began its oily, quicksilver race to find every crack in the wooden floor. The harder I tried to pick it up with a spoon, the faster it slipped away...splitting up, muliplying a hundred times until it simply disappeared in places too small for me to investigate.

Once the thermometer was severly damaged there was no way to save the meaningful part of the apparatus. Recently, I've seen a parallel between this idea and an aspect of life....the whole point to this story.

September 11th most Americans had spent some time weeping. Tears flowed from sea to shining sea, and we all had questions. Who? Why? And then, the more personal cries from ordinary people who lost chunks of their hearts between a quick morning leave-taking and a never-to-be, "Hello."

From some slight experience I know the endless keening sent toward Heaven, all the regrets, all the, "If only's.
Did I take the time to tell her/him how much they were loved? Why didn't I give just one more kiss. Why did I make excuses last night when she wanted to talk? Why didn't we take that get-away cruise? Why didn't we spend more time just being together? No TV, football games, or sit coms?

Some of the complaints against ourselves are natural and usually invalid, but, I was hit between the eyes with some very real shortcomings of my own. Just how, too- busy had I been over the last couple of years? How many times had I mnde excuses for missing showers, birthdays, picnics, etc. and yes, even funerals. I didn't like the answer. Had I lost too much mercury from my thermometer? Was it too late to get another and protect it wih backed-up, carried-through intentions?

We hear it over and over, "Our contry will never be the same." and I know that's true. Every day I am learning to live in this new place. The back of my mind is never completely clear of niggling apprehensions, and yet, I believe we can turn the results of that Autumn disaster toward the light and a better way of spending the life we have.

Let's not be too busy to try harder to love our neighbor

A trivial , tired and meaningless quest? I hope to God...not.

Music music music

2009-08-17T19:21:00.000-07:00

How much influence does music have on a person's life? Is it true that "Music has charms to soothe a savage breast," as English poet, William Congree maintains? If the The Three Tenors and Ella Fitzgerald had decided on different professions would we be a less gentle peopole? Might it be possible to judge someones character by how he reacts to music?

William Shakespeare thought so and wrote the following.

The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sound, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; the motives of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus; let no such man be trusted.

No minced words there; that's about as opinionated as it gets; even more so when you consider that Erebus, in Greek mythology, was a gloomy part of the underworld on the way to Hades.

In this age of information we are challenged with some new conclusions on the subject of music. Shakespeare could well be proven right in the near future. Those studying the possibilities have come to believe it may be a much stronger inherent force than we once thought. So strong, in fact, that those without the desire to make music might even be termed abnormal.

Those of us who ponder such things may begin any such study by first looking to our ancient, ancestral, musical roots. Did we have any? Or, did the tunes come later?

A great number of us may consider early man/woman as musically deprived, but according to a National Geographic news report dated January 2001, that is not so. Finely crafted flutes made from bone have been found at some of the archeological digs covering the most ancient periods. These were not simple, single-hole whistles, but actual instruments.

It seems there has been a song in most every heart practically since time began, and if the so-called experts are to be believed, that doesn't mean just the human heart either. Animals are included as potential composers.

Through the fairly new, but, quickly evolving fields of bio-musicology and animal communication research, unique ideas are coming to the fore. They are asking us to consider the similarities between certain human and animal sounds and the possible innate desire of animals to create music that the similarities suggest. (There are also other voices questioning these folks sanity, and at least one reporter wondering if these, "sounds" are merely biological functions better suited to locker room jokes.)

Science has shifted into high gear in the bio-musicology community, wondering if some rhythms, patterns and tones might be instinctive to animals as well as humans. Could this point to a shared inherent knowledge of music that has been around forever, and perhaps with many more implications than we dream?

Let's start with birds and their, 'songs." We can hear definite melodies there. It seems to fit perfectly with some of our own musical renditions. Mozart's Piano Concerto in G major actually has a passage that he wrote to match the song of a starling he kept. However, this century's interests are concentrated in the throats, vocal chords and other parts of more uncommon, "musicians."

We are being asked to hesitate before defining music in the old, traditional ways. Some followers of this new thought have even suggested it was animals trilling the very first compositions, not humans.

Merchandisers are on top of it, and albums of whale, dolphin, and wolf song are everywhere. Promoters are keeping an ear out for new groups every day.

The croak,yap, grunt and howl are being given a thoughtful listen and should--we are told--be viewed as a great melodic storehouse. Whoever composed, "Old MacDonald," was evidently ahead of his time.

We find, in, "Science News" that the alliance between biologists and musicologists-biomusicology--has come to life for one express purpose, to ask and answer the question...what is music?

And we thought we had that one figured out. But, the great thinkers have warned us, "Just when you figure out the question, they change the answer...or words to that effect.

Many of us have remained in the dark on this new study, feeling deceptively certain that if we were asked we could at least give a fair definition of the word, "music." And, if all else failed we felt the inquisitor could be answered if we warbled a few bars of, "The Hills are Alive With the Sound of....well, you know.

Quite a bit of craziness, don't you think?

To be serious, I believe that music is much more than we think it is. I can just imagine Milky Way Orchestra's rolling through outer space with beauty we can't yet imagine...will we ever? I think so.

Here is a little story about one of my grandson's...now a teenager. I used to baby-sit him and his mom dropped him off at my house very early. He wasn't ready yet to start his day and neither was I so I cuddled up on the couch with his little back up against my chest. He had quite a habit of humming...I mean he hummed pretty steady until he was about 4 or 5. One particular morning as he was humming quietly, I found a note to harmonize with the note he was humming. The minute I hit that note he stopped suddenly but didn't more. He had just experienced a harmonic, "buzz." I was silent and then he softly began to hum the same note he had been humming before. He was very pleased and we kept up our little acapella duet for some time.

He now plays guitar and writes music and sings

It was a truly magic moment for me and I think for him too.

He's the grandson in this post....not a good picture but the only one I could rustle up in a hurry. (The girl is Vanessa, She was on my blog with a high school graduation picture last week.) Love those kids!!!!

Having a busy day in the kitchen

2009-08-14T16:09:00.000-07:00

Even though I called this picture a busy day in the kitchen, I haven't been in the kitchen at all today...I just wanted to show off this wonderful old camp-coffee pot that one of my sisters painted for me many years ago. Isn't it wonderful? And the tole work is excellent too. It's also a good opportunity to relate a little tale. Did you know that there is now a dial-a-prayer for atheists? You call a number and nobody answers. Not true of course, however, "The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.." Psalm14:1 and thus our story.

A tale is told of a colony of mice who made their home at the bottom of a large upright piano. To them, music was frequent, even routine. It filled all the dark spaces with lovely melodies and harmonies.
At first the mice were impressed by the music. They drew comfort and wonder from the thought that Someone made the music--though invisible to them, yet close to them. They loved to tell stories about the Great Unseen Player whom they could not see.

Then one day an adventuresome mouse climbed up part of the way in the piano and returned with an elaborate explanation about how the music was made. Wires were the secret--tightly stretched wires of various lengths that vibrated and trembled from time to time. A second mouse ventured forth and came back telling of hammers--many hammers dancing and leaping on the wires. The mice decided they must revise their old opinions. The theory they developed was complicated, but complete with evidence...so they claimed. In the end, the mice concluded that they lived in a purely mechanical and mathematical world. The story of the Unseen Player was relegated to mere myth.

But, the Unseen Player contiunued to play nonetheless. Note* our family is in the midst of a few medical problems so I have not been on my blog. Hopefully that will be changing very soon

Please remember this is slapstick humor based on fact.

2009-08-09T21:31:00.000-07:00

Humans have been searching for the Fountain of Youth in one way or another for untold years. Being the impossible-to-please species that we are, it isn't only that we want to live longer, we want to look and feel 17 while while we are doing it. Naturally, there are crowds of "experts" advising on how to become youthful and good looking. Take hair for instance. On a guy what was a forest of thick locks at 21 has become an almost totally logged-off area at 50. While the experts are selling them the possibility of new growth, somebody else is showing women how to get RID of excess hair. Go figure

Another point regarding hair; more and more women are having their hair cut about the length of an ants back. It's the boyish look, supposedly youthful, but isn't it ironica that the actual boys are letting their own hair grow down to the him of their shirt? Am I getting old, Or what? One thing is for sure; nobody is seeing any more of my bumpy skull than is absolutely necessary.

Most of us hae a certain amount of vanity and like to look as good as we can without resorting to extraordinary methods. However, there are those among us who go the extra mile for--what they consider--a pleasant appearance. case in point is the Body Lift. They showed the procedure on TV a while back and I was fascinated. Mind you, there was very little fat to get rid of, it was loose skin; what is more commonly called as flab. One of the women had a 12"wide swath of sking taken from around the waist area. That's right...one foot. The surgeon then took the lower portion, pulled the top part down to meet it and stitched the two pieces together. I thought about this for a long time and decided it wouldn't work for me. Not that I don't have any extra flab, but that is just it. If the surgeon was going to have total success, the lower incision would have to be made at my knees and the upper one just below the neck. When the upper and lower pieces were sewn together I would only be two feet tall; barely able to see over the bottom of my truck window. This simply would not do in this, "drive-up-window" kind of society we live in.

That surgery is definitely not for me. I have very little self-control. That's how I got the extra weight that became the flab in the first place. What if I DID get the Body Lift, with the above mentioned result? I would simply gain more weight, which--as the years passed--would become more flab, and before you could say, "Thumbelina" I would have to go back for another tuck, and then another. One day I would just disapear.

There are other changes we can make for contented living. I'm getting a hobby today, a pet tomorrow, and looking for all the hugs I can get along the way. And, I'll still be 5'6" or thereabouts.

'

What a winter

2009-08-08T23:10:00.000-07:00

Do you recall a stifled yawn when your male parent started a sentence with, "When I was a kid."
Lecture time again and you knew he was setting out to prove how easy you had it, being practically carried about on a silken pillow, never knowing a moments strain of pain. naturally the anquish of listening to this tale for close to 20 years was never counted.

Dad's five-day-a-week, torturous sojurn to learn his ABC's was made during the Ice Age. Either that or about 40 years before the telling, his neighborhood had a run of bad luck with five or six killing winters and no time out for spring, summer or fall. The freezing snow was a couple of stories high and Pop's shoe soles were as thin as a mouse's ear. If he had a coat at all--the information differed--it resembled Swill cheese more than any piece of clothing.

To hear my father tell it the frozen noses and toes were accepted with a stiff upper lip. (no pun intended.) And arriving at the one-room school house--did you expect anything different--brought little relief. The wood pile was invariably buried beneath a pinnacle of snow one foot short of mountainhood. The only warmth on the premises was from the breath of Smiley Baileys English Sheepdog. Pupils and teacher leaned in toward the animal like sticks for a teepee and studied McGuffey's Reader. When lunchtime came they chopped their sandwiches apart with an axe and...well, you no doubt have all of the piture you can stand by now. And that brings me on my meanering way to the point. Exaggeration is the point. Coincidentally it involves the weather.

Ten years ago, or so, television predictors were the brunt of many a joke. The only members of the population who gave them any credence was their mothers. Their reading were so far off that if they said it would be sunny we got out the sandbags and prepared for a flood. Where did they get their information? From rolling dice? Picking daisy petals? There were those who questioned why they never seemed to consult the sky. Surely big black clouds meant there was more than an even chance of rain. The sun shining in a great expance of blue almost always pointed to ...the sun shining in a great expance of blue.

Enough picking on the weather people. To be fair they didn't have the scientific tools at their disposal they have now, and those tools do an almost fool-proof job. Maybe the lack of a challenge like they were faced with in the past has them bored, because they exaggerate something awful, drawing out what should be a two-minute report to about 10. An evening of winter rain has become, "A storm coming in off the Pacific to pound the coast. Snow falling in the mountains is now, "A blizzard of driving, blinding snow buring the mountain passes.

It's winter neighbors and that's the way winters have been as long as I've lived here. We had some other rough times though. Why, when I was a kid....

Taken from my humor column, Down Home.

2009-08-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

Granddaughters are wonderful; you just love them to pieces. It really isn't any different than a daughter. Sometimes it's a big, surging ,gushing thing that takes your heart over completely and causes you to act a little silly. Sometimes it takes a different course and is quiet, soft and makes you feel like crying.

The grand-daughter of mine that I am showing you here is Vanessa Renee. When she was smaller I think she would have loved the idea of being on this blog. Back then she was a dress-up kind of girl. I turned her loose in my closet and jewelry box to see what kind of outfits she would come up with. I thought for sure she was going to hit the fashion and designing world like a hurricane. Didn't happen. She's more comfortable in jeans and a pony tail than anything else. She's not quite so free with her kisses either. But, I found an old note she had written the other day and it would satisfy any grandma's heart for a lifetime. She wrote about her love for me and the things she remembered that I had taught her (imagine that.)

The boys are just as dear and I will write about them at another time

If these grandchildren could know how our love for them never changes no matter what they do, or don't do; how are hearts yearn for them when they aren't around. It's a love so deep it almost hurts Actually, it DOES hurt, but we know it's the good kind of hurt, it's a needed part of love.

I wish I could write it but somethings can't be told with words

a quote from George MacDonald

2009-08-04T16:15:00.000-07:00

The Lord has come to wipe away our tears. He is doing it; He will have it done soon; and until He does He would have them flow without bitterness; to which end He tells us that it is a blessed thing to mourn because of the comfort on its way. Accept His comfort now and so prepare for the comfort at hand.

I have saved this quote for so many years that it is quite raggedy. I just knew I would use it at some time in the future. I think that time is now

Son's graduation

2009-08-04T14:32:00.000-07:00

Awhole lot of years ago one of my son's, Jack by name, graduated from high school in Santa Barbara, California. The exercises were held outside and it was a beautiful day with 2 or 3 hundred people milling about on the well-kept grounds. My lovely black straw hat and spike-heeled shoes were perfect accessories to my ensemble. With a daughter on each side of me we smiled at the picture-taker. I soon traded places with the photographer, son Jack, to get a shot of him with his 2 sisters. It was a simple old Kodak camera and I could see right away that I had to step backward a little. What I did't see was a metal sprinkler sticking up from the grass. I promptly
took the fateful step, fell over backwards, legs flying, and smashed the once pretty hat into a joke that passed through our family for many years. Surely, you didn't think I bought it that way

The snowy farm

2009-07-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

...work with your hands, just as we commanded you, so that you may behave properly toward outsiders and not be in any need

I Thessalonians 4:11,12 (NASB)

It takes more to plow a field than merely turning it over in your mind

Intuitive nonsense

2009-07-23T16:10:00.000-07:00

While leafing through a magazine this week I found a reason given for the back problems of a lot of women. The article was written by a person in the health field introduced as an, "intuitive." Before going any further let me assure you I would never make light of intuition. After all, I am loaded with the stuff myself. I generally make an effort not to step in front of oncoming cars; never pet growling dogs, and refuse to ride horses under the age of twenty. "Something" always tells me these activities are likely to cause me some sort of trouble. No, I try not to judge; believing there is always something to learn.

If my understanding of the magazine article information is correct, here's the way it goes. (And I promise you it was presented in all seriousness." We ladies with aching backs have a feminine, "thread" that wasn't allowed to grow. What this thread is, and where it comes from the author never deigns to tell us. However, there is more.. We are further informed that the stunted growth of said thread has somehow brought about a fear of not being able to support ourselves. This was such a jump in common sense I checked to make sure it wasn't something I had written years ago myself.

For positive certain, this idea would take far more than a thread to hold it together. A rope the size of the Mississippi River wouldn't fare any better. But, let's play along for awhile. Why does the writer say that mythical thread didn't mature in some of us women? It's because someone failed. But, it wasn't any of us with the heating pad or the ice-pack pressed against out spine. With the modern day mind set, there has to be somebody ELSE to blame. And the proponent of the theory has a culprit waiting in the wings. It's another one to lay at the feet of good old Mom. (Or, as they would have it, bad old Mom.) She has barely been able to see over that pile for years anyway. What did she do to our psyche this time? Simple, the article continues, she was too busy trying to find a fully ripe of her own to give us the attention we craved. And, after that, Mom gets to toss another rock on on Grandma's pile...and so on.

You may well ask if men are burdened with the male counterpart of this mysterious string. There is no mention of it in the report. We are left to assume, (don't you love assuming?) that all men, being human like us, possess a male string of their own. We must then further assume one of two thingss. Unless you are a real Gung Ho assumer, and then perhaps you could go right on assuming into infnity. But, let's be serious. (Ahem) Either it has now grown adequately, accomplished its purpose and whisked itself off into oblivion, or, it hasn't made its presence known as yet, and therefore the guys are even more messed up than we are. It stands to reason then, that the latter would mean they REALLY have a lot of backaches. Come to think about it....

Having a Chat With Your Cat(a little fictionary fun)

2009-07-21T16:04:00.000-07:00

From all sides we get the message that a lot of us are carrying too much weight...and I don't mean bar-bells. Although Americans make up less than 5 per cent of the world's population the balance of fat is definitely on our side of the ocean. I ought to know. Over the last few years I have put on my share of extra pounds. There is now the equivelent of two of me in the same skin I started out with. I can almost feel my small section of personal Terra Firma sinking daily.

Fortunes have been made by selling books convincing us we can get rid of that chubbiness, (and thereby, all good things that go along with breathing.) Still, many of us have not been successful at keeping it off, and it seems we have passed on this weakness to our pets.

The latest subject in one national magazine is, Having a chat with your Cat about his fat. Dr. Seuss knew this would be a problem long ago, but, nobody would listen and now we have felines living in our homes that weigh in at 46 pounds. My five-year-old grandaughter doesn't weigh that much. Admittedly, the aformentioned kitty holds the worlds record for the fattest cat in the world, but, it is not uncommon for our whiskered friends to tip the scale anywhere between 12-25 pounds! This is proof of a gross misuse of tuna fish.

My point is this, if we can't manage to shave off a pound or two, (or, ninety) of our own, what makes anybody think we will have the determination to force our pudgy cat to be fit? Because it's much less painful to slim down the kitty, that's why. Simply cut the pet's portion in half and do away with between-meal snacks. If somebody had done that for me, with the necessary restraints so I couldn't reach the kitchen, all the mirrors would now be back in my home.

However, nothing is ever that simple. The advocates of the feline fitness plan also ask that we act as our cat's persoanl trainer. We are to run around the room, dragging a feather on a string so they can chase it and get their exercise; several times a day. Who do you know that would do that for you?

Another exercise suggestion is placing a bird-feeder right outside of a window so your cat can go bananas, throwing himself repeatedly at the glass trying to capture a tender morsel.

Maybe I could go along with all of this if I was burdened with a tubby calico, but one pet owners ordeal left me without much understanding. She claimed her cat hadn't received enough TLC, (tender loving care) for the day, which was another aspect of the fitness program, along with rubbing acupuncture points and massaging the tummy. (No comment.) Anyway, this particular day happened to be Thanksgiving, and by way of, "pay back" Tabby ate all of the stuffing from the turkey before it was brought to the table. The owner took the episode to mean she should get to lovin' that cat.

Funny, I would have felt a completely different need.

There is no Place Like Home, Part 4

2009-07-18T11:05:00.000-07:00

As hopeless as the contest seems, there is no search involved that we know of. The salmon find their particular, "door" easily, and sail into the estuary they left some years before. In a reverse process they pause long enough to condition themselves to the freshwater and then, as if on some vital time table, thunder onward for the moment of spawning.

In between the estuary and the spawning place a salmon might be confronted with many life threatening barriers. The wrenching, repeated leaps up a dam's, "steps" leaves many torn and battered at the bottom. their particular stream may not even be where it was when they left. It may have been diverted by, or for, a commercial undertaking. (Although this isn't apt to happen much as many individuals and agencies have taken a stand in protecting the fate of the salmon.) Worse yet, the waterway may not be there at all...only a bog of mud where over-logging has been done.

Happily, there are always those fish who win the prize, those who reach the pinnacle of a salmon's life. There time has been spent in adding assets, swirling in deadly beauty and guided by a Creator-driven purpose.

A worn-out mother salmon prepares a gravel nest--called a "redd"--and one or more large males join her and ferilize each group of eggs she deposits. When spawning is finished the gentle water laps a sandbar; the sunset blazes one last time, and the adult Oncorhyncus close their eyes.

In 60 days the eggs will hatch and the story repeats.

There really IS no place like home.

Note* This was written with no claim to a scientific background, however the facts are correct as far as I know them, and the salmon are amazing.
What a Creator we have.

Be anxious for nothing

2009-07-16T20:42:00.000-07:00

"I will both lay me down in peace and sleep; for Thou Lord only makest me to dwell in safety"
Psalm 4:8

No Place Like Home--3rd part

2009-07-16T15:15:00.000-07:00

At some point each surviving salmon in a group receives an urgent, mystical messge. It is a clamorous call to come home so irresistible no choice is possible. The fish stop, turn, and begin the all-absorbing race. No one but God knows why.

Everything about the salmon and their journey has a little star-dust sprinkled here and there, a lovely reality in a much-to-often meaningless environment. It isn't difficult to imagine them sailing along beside a golden cord that pulls them homeward. Then again, in human terms the story can seem cruel and brutal as the as the great salmon push everything within them toward the one goal. the female is full of eggs. The male is intent on fertilization. They are willing to die to fulfill the all-powerful, rushing instinct.

Odd changes have taken place in the fish. They have stopped feeding and the males have grown hooked noses and large canine teeth. Their scales have lost their shine and the colors are brighter while the females are a darker hue. Everything is part of the battle plan now, and although they consciously know of no war, one of the most heart-wrenching conflicts will find them soon enough.

This is where the tale would become unbelievable if it hadn't been scientifically verified numerous times.

The salmon have been on mighty oceanic freeways; they have followed salty, global highways, and investigated the sandy-bottomed roads of Davy Jones Locker. Yet, no feat can be more daunting than finding that one small spot on the coastlines of the earth; that one special opening which led them oceanward in the beginning. Every instinct is focused toward finding the waterway leading to that still smaller welcoming stream mouth that leads to their original home, and freedom to rest.

There is no place Like Home, continued

2009-07-15T20:29:00.000-07:00

In late spring all up and down the northern Pacific coast, most breeds of salmon begin to move out from their individual estuaries and head into the open sea. Coho, Chinook, Pink, Chum and Sockeye species all make the voyage with slight variations. It seems the last place they should go, with natural enemies on every side, yet an instinctive confidence takes the small fish, called, "juveniles" further and further from their birthplace.

Once the salmon are well into the Pacific depths they set their directions north and follow the coastline up past British Columbia and Alaska...then into the North Pacific...even as far as Japan. Thousands of miles from home they feed, travel and grow for three to five years. The most important thing they are gaining is strength for the truly unbelievable undertaking still ahead. And even strength won't be enough for most of them.

Aside from natural hazards such as larger predator fish, their food source has to be constant and adequate. The zooplankton and bait fish they feed on require a narrow range of ocean temperatures and salinity to survive. If the surface temperature of the water should rise even a few degrees the zooplankton supply would drop off and this would have serious consequences for the salmon

Although there are constant trials and snares, some fish make it to their full maturity, and are pulled closer and closer to a confrontation with the miraculous.

There is no Place Like Home, Continued

2009-07-14T16:48:00.000-07:00

No doubt you know the story of the Pacific waters salmon and their fight to return to their home to lay the eggs of the next generation. Having been born and brought up in the Northwest, I knew the tale, but no one taught me the wonderment of the reality. It was more like a geography lesson, or, reading and memorizing the dates and times in a history book. Then, one of my daughters decided to go back to college a few years ago. Her degree is in environmental science, with a minor in marine biology. I began to hear a great deal about the salmon, and became vitally interested in Oncorhynchus, the formal name for Pacific Coast salmon.

Hearing this particular, "fish story," is an experience. I have never tired of it or lost the joy it gives me. Most of all, it filled me with a permanent sense of wonder that never lessens no matter how many times I think of the wonder of, "how?" Because nothing about the process seems logical.

Pick a day in November, and an iridescent, leaf-shadowed stream twisting and splashing through an icy Northwest forest. There are plenty to choose from. Next look for a quiet pool with a goodly supply of gravel. Look very closely. Maybe we should pretend you have a magnifying glass. See those hundreds of just-hatched salmon eggs? They are on thir own; the parents long dead, and yet, they have taken the first step toward maturity, and are now tiny larvae called alevin. Even from the beginning they must struggle, and their odds are not good. Only about 20 out of a hundred will live to the next stage.

Once the alevin have emerged from their gravel birth they must find habitat that will provide food and a modicum of protecftion. Too many times, because humans hae stripped away vegetation of diverted a stream or dredging has been done, the salmon's rearing habitat is destroyed and he will die before ever maturing.

The larvae that make it through this part of the process emerge as miniscule fish approximately one and a half inches long. Most birds and larger fish are intent on a salmon lunch and the tiny "fry" must pass through a barrage of lethal attempts. Over the months, the little fellows have grown a whopping four inches. Somehow a few have made it through and are now heading down stream to a sort of decompression chamber, or, estuary. An estuary is between a body of salt water and a fresh water lake, stream, or river. The meeting and mixing of the two waters form an estuary. The salmon could not fulfill their destiny without this calm, food-filled haven. It is here that they will spend days, or, weeks feeding and adjusting their body chemistry to the salt water environment.

Next step...bon voyage,

Love is Painful Sometimes

2009-07-13T18:55:00.000-07:00

Because of the illness of one of my children I won't be able to give as much attention to my blog as I should in order to make it interesting to others. I realize that this is an unusual way to handle a blog but it is either that or go off the site completely until sometime in the future.

There won't be any pictures unless I can figure out a way to move them onto the blog. Maybe later.

However, I would like to write you a grand story of God's creativity and how He takes each aspect of His glory so seriously that the details are just as awesome as the main subject.

Hopefully, I can do a small amount each day or two.

The title is, "There is no Place Like Home"

Part 1

Over the last fifty years technology has moved so quickly and brought us such surprising advancements science would be hard put to show us anything truly amazing. In fact, we have become fairly blase' where scientific announcements are concerned.

A sheep has been cloned, "Ho Hum."

There was a short span of years when the world reeled with the invention of the telephone, telegraph and the radio. Space travel, television and the computer followed quickly. To most of us, these scientific progressions were amazing and astonishing. But, give humans anything for long enough, and before much time has passed nothing is quite as exciting.

The years have slipped by--sometimes through dark valleys--and with each passing day it takes more and more to surprise us about anything, and yet....

There is a mystery of mysteries that has been with us from the beginning; a journey with the unremitting forces arrayed full force against the traveler. The true story is unique, in that, the trip is always taken against countless
perils, and the odds of reaching the destination are astronomical.

More later.

2009-07-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

We choose how we shall live; courageously or in cowardice, honorably or dishonerably, with purpose or in drift. We decide what is important and what is trivial in life. We decide that what makes us significant is either what we do, or refuse to do. WE DECIDE, WE CHOOSE and as we decide, and as we choose, so our lives are formed.

Source Unknown

This small quote struck a chord in me. It doesn't leave much room for excuses does it?

Who, me? (It's all in fun.)

2009-07-07T16:07:00.000-07:00

Just about every television channel now has its own, "judge" show. It seems a number of us like to see somebody else in trouble. Actually, that has been apparent since time began.

"He did it." "She did it." They did it." It wasn't me."

Of course, these are civil suits, so nobody is going to get the chair. Or, a stool either, for that matter; the litigants
must stand for the whole procedure.

One of those wearing a black robe is a completely bald fellow with a closed mouth grin and heavy wrinkles across his forehead. Although he is a grinner, his smile is reminisent of the, "cat that ate the canary" just before he pounced on said bird.

There is also a guy who frowns and smiles at the same time, which gives the plaintiff and defendant the shivering fits trying to guess where they stand on this man's face. Which is just about what they would like to do at the moment.

Then, there is the dainty-looking female judgeship who slaps the two contenders from here to breakfast with perfect manners.

My personal favorite shall remain nameless just in case I ever end up in front of any of the others, although, I cannot imagine such a thing happening. Public humiliation is not something I seek. There is no need; it comes to me like a Scud missile to its target; a lover to his beloved. No, I would pay back, work off, give back, clean up,
or whatver else was required before voluntarily appearing in front of one of these judges.

I went to court with a friend once, as moral support. The official charge was hitting John P. Citizen, the plaintiff, with a two-by-four while he was remodeling her garage. He happened to be her husband. She denied it, unequivocally. A neighbors video camera had recorded something quite different. It clearly showed my friend, Florence Citizen, swinging a board at the plaintiff's head and him falling to the garage floor. She maintained her innocence with the repeated statement, "I did not hit him with a two-by-four."

You know what; she was found not guilty. Her clever, but slippery to the touch attorney, had uncovered a startling, little known fact. There is no such thing as a two-by-four board! That's right! No such thing! Carpenters, builders and lumbermen have been telling us stories all these years. What we in the United States have innocently been referring to is in truth, only a one and five-eights inch by 3 and 1/2 inch piece of wood. Check it out.

The defendant went free, her husband went to get his bandage changed and the baliff went to get a broom and dustpan to sweep up all the split hairs on the floor where my friends attorney had been standing.

(Don't take this too seriously)

Nana

2009-07-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

Meet Nana; my mom and grandma to a whole bunch of people, from age 48 to 1 month. She passed on to be with the Lord Jesus almost 2 years ago, leaving a big hole in all of our hearts. We are counting on seeing her again. I don't think she could ride that bike, and she couldn't swim either but Boy or Boy she sure knew how to love all of us. We miss her something terrible. How do people endure this kind of separation without the promises of our Lord?

Old Glory is Still Glorious

2009-07-02T19:32:00.000-07:00

That's our flag folks, Old Glory, another name for, "The Red White and Blue."

But of course, we all know that, right? Don't be too sure.

Not too long ago one of the television stations ran a, "Man on the Street special, which I watched.

The fellow with the microphone was asking passersby what we celebrate on the Fourth of July. It seems hardly possible, and yet, approximately one-third of the teenagers questioned DID NOT KNOW! These were not tasmanian immigrants or recently transported Rain-forest people. They were English-speaking people and dressed accordingly. The guys with enough material below their waists to whip up a two-man tent with ruffles; the young women with ensembles that would fit in a ceral bowl with enough room left over for the cereal.

The odd thing about it was their nonchalant attitude. They really didn't seems the least bit curious about it. It was enough for them that it was a day off where everybody went on picnics and later set fire to every explosive in the lower half of North America.

As one interviewee put it as he kicked a couple of pounds of denim out of his way, "It's for fun, man, just for fun...n'stuff.

Another willing participant thought the celebration might have been brought to our shores by Marco Polo(huh???) When he stopped here for a quick minute on his way from the Orient.

It is difficult to believe that any of our kids could get through 12 years of schooling and not know something of our Independence Day and how it came about. But then, there are a few determined ones who managed to cover that same span of years without learning to read. "Go figure" as they say.

Maybe I am a little sensitive in this area. My family seems to have gotten a double dose of patriotism and I think I know where mine started.

My materal grandmother was a political organizer and fund-raiser and was forever getting me involved somehow. The summer I turned five she was in charge of a Fourth-of-July rally at a popular, local lake. There was a newly erected stage and a microphone for the speakers. But, there was a song first; God Bless America, that Grandma had taught me to sing. While I was singing the big flag rippled above us and the crowd had their eyes on that beautiful spectacle...Old Glory. Every face looked serious and thankful. I was hooked on my country's flag.

Tell your children and grandchildren what it means--that glorious old flag that still fly's over a free country. Explain to them that there is no king or queen in the White House, (although we may not be pleased with who IS there.) but a president who has been elected by due process. And, it is all possible because of the convictions, actions and sacrifices of like-minded people determined to live as unfettered citizens.

Have a safe Fourth of July, and at least once during that day, pause and see if you can't catch just a whisper of a far-off military fife and drum corps around the bend in the road.

The Legacy of Doctor Doolittle

2009-06-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

* First let me say I would love to be putting wonderful pictures with my posts, but due to problems with camera, computer and my own lack of expertise they will have to wait until I know more about what I am doing.

Everybody talks to the animals. The question is, do the animals listen? The reference is not to commands such as Giddy Up, Whoa, Roll-over, Play dead, Fetch, and Sic'em, but comments we would make to another human. Okay, there are some people who might utter those wishes to an actual, living person, but, I think it's safe to say, they are in the minority, and would generally be ignored.

A lady friend of mine who has a parakeet is a good example of what I mean. Whenever she is in the room with the bird she questions him. With a brain-piercing and repetitive version of fowl-speak she cries, "What are you doing, Tweety? What are you DOING, Tweety?" Etc. The object of her inquiry languishes on the perch, totally disinterested and, "doing" absolutely nothing, while the neighborhood dogs begin a discordant reply of their own.
Birds don't listen, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Cats and dogs listen and care; each in their own way. Let's take dog's first because they are known as man's best friend. Whoever penned that litttle, "ism" must have been a gentleman , and it surely happened before women were allowed to get in their two cents worth. (Little did they know we would make it a dime.)

You've heard the line, "I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am." I'm sure everyone thinks that way because in the dogs eyes we are the Be All, and End All of everything good that happens to him. His life's goal is to spend as much time at our side as possible. Actually, he would get IN our side if he could. He thinks his master is the greatest thing since automobile tires and month-old pork chops. They have a one-track mind...you and/or me. We are the guys obsessive fixation. Naturally we talk to him. We ask him if he likes the new wallpaper, if he thinks the red slacks go with the yellow top, if he thought what we said to Aunt Lavina was funny, and his answer is always, "Yes." We can tell because he wags his tail.at everything we say. He's a, "yes" dog, but he certainly listens and cares.

Now, we come to the cat, definetely a listener. The trouble is I think they have overheard some Egyptian mythology concerning the worship of their feline ancerstors, and are costantly demanding their share. Oh, they're smart all right. They rub against your leg, purring and acting like humble little beasts in front of company. But, the minute you're alone with them, they whip out the crown and immediately let you know who is really master of all the survey.

In spite of that, the cat is a listening creature, and it is quite easy to determine. When you are NOT speaking to him he condescends to look in your direction occasionally. He may even jump in your lap. But, the dead-give-away is when you address the animal directly; he then looks away and simultaneously lifts his nose in the air. He listens alright, and he cares, but only about himself. You see, he thinks he is what your dog thinks you are...if that makes any sense.

Just an Observation

2009-06-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

Back in the dim, shadowy past of my teens I never pondered. I was too busy doing the stuff that was making my mother and father ponder. Now, in my so-called Golden Years, which have me in their iron grip, turning to rust as we speak--I not only ponnder, I ruminate, meditate and cogitate. One of the subjects causing me to fall into these philosophical states is the incongruous use parents make of certain sentences.

A mother is dragging her child from the middle of a busy street where 25 cars have just come to a screeching halt; causing two near-heart attacks,and as much foul language as you are ever likely to encounter

"You know better than that!" Mom informs the culprit. Ah, but DID he know better? What do you think? Can a 5-year-old have a death wish? Was he sauntering along toward imminent disaster on purpose? Or, was he completely in a dream world looking for a playmate amongst the whizzing fenders? My guess is, the 957 time Mom said, "Don't go in the street," had gone in one ear and speedily out the other, pausing no where in between.

One of the dire warnings sent out by a parent when their child is about to smack a companion, dump their milk, bite the dog or fill the bathroom commode with enough tissue to wrap the earth around is, "I'm not in the mood for that today." Doesn't that presuppose that at some later time Mama will throw caution to the wind, kick up her heels and announce she is now IN the mood and her offspring may feel free to smack, dump, bite and reel the tissue off the roll with abandon? The kid could feel justified in trying again tomorrow--several times--and every day thereafter, until he turns twenty-one.

When we ask a question we expect an answer, but not always in the parent/child relationship. Remember the ever popular, "How would you like me to give you something to cry about?" (This is not used anymore as the threat alone may mean jail-time.) It's interesting to imagine a possible answer. Here is one I'm glad I didn't have the nerve to use with my own mom who wore her ever present switch in a side-holster. "Oh, I would love it! Be creative! Bring it on! There is nothing I like better than crying!"

Parents ask unanswerable questions of older children also. Have you ever heard a mother ask, "What am I, a slave around here?" Any response will earn detention measured in years. Why do suppose I still live at home. (Only kidding.)

The absolute corker of all parental inquiries is, "How many times do I have to tell you?"

This is obviously a problem of higher mathematics; so high, in fact, that it is unreachable by the brain of any human being that has ever lived. Neither parent nor child has the answer, thus, we are doomed to hearing it repeated in every language for all time.

A child is fairly sure he isn't supposed to answer these questions, but by the time he is old enough to be certain, he finds himself looking down at a very short person, saying, "You know better than that."

COUNTRY CRAZIES

2009-06-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

No one knows where it started
Or the date when it first began
It is definetely clear, however,
That it affects both woman and man
#

"Country Crazies," has them all
The older and the younger
And no quilt or grape-vine wreath
Can satisfy the hunger
#

From shop to shop they wander
In search of the ultimate, "fix"
But only succeed in easing the pangs
With a chair of willow sticks
#

Wild-eyed and trembling slightly
They are always on the loose
Reaching out with shaky hands
For a teddy bear or a goose
#

What the poor addicted suffer
Is not fit for the lips to speak
The burning need for an Amish doll
Is enough to render them weak
#

What will happen if they're deprived
Of a wooden-hearts sweet pleasure
Or denied the satisfaction
Of a new-found treasure
#

Why, they'll riot that's what
You can't fight desires so keen
Americana urges won't be stilled
Nor the quest for a Kitchen Queen
#

So relax rag-rug devotees
And Baby's Breath lovers all
A smorgasbord hypodermic awaits
To answer your hunters call
#

In old re-vamped Victorians
Shopkeepers join the daft
Selling, while longing to keep
Tin ware and stencil craft
#

The disesase is wide spread
With so many affected
That not an attic or garrett
Has gone undetected
#

Good Gracious! I'm feeling strange
Could I have the "Country" disorder?
Yes, I'm sinking fast-while gripping
A cloth with the, "Schoolhouse" border

Of the Sad and Bitter Split of a Church

2009-06-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

A lovely wooden chapel

Stands among the trees

Fashioned by the hands of men

Opened with High-Heaven keys

God placed it as a sheepfold

Offering still waters

And food from greenest pastures

For His new sons and daughters

Angels hovered near the scene

To view salvation

Looking on in wonderment

At every celebration

A wedding feast was readied

As the Groom drew near

Reaching out a hand for her

For whom He had paid so dear

Next would follow unity

All in one accord

The congregation all alike

A single heart with Christ their Lord

Wait! Heaven's eyes are focused

On the Earth below

The bride has sent an arrow

And now a cruel blow

Against herself she battles

In the name of love

With mercy flown away she fights

To stab and pierce and shove

While in the bridal chamber

A gown hangs...soiled

By wounds inflicted there

Oh, small-town maid

What have you spoiled

(Many years ago I watched a seemingly strong Christian fellowship split with an ugly judgemental, merciless spirit. It left a mark on my heart and I always wanted to somehow get the feeling out of my heart and replace it with understanding. Not possible, I have found.. Forgive me if I have over-used my imagination)

LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER

2,000 year ago

2009-06-14T13:32:00.000-07:00

The warm wind blew in Jerusalem

Tossing robes 'round sandaled feet

Hebrews hurried toward their homes

As the sinking sun inhaled the heat

The tax collector's booth was closed

The potter took in his wares

While in the nearby temple

A Pharisee made repetitious prayers

From dawn that day the maze of streets had teemed

With Roman soldier as well as Jew

And now the shadowed doorways stood

Like skeletal eyes...as if they knew...

That morning would bring a difference

Too awful to contemplate

An evil rage massed in the air

As Pontious Pilate dined in state

A coppery moon thrust upward

To join the glittering sky

And Earth knew a false serenity

While Heaven held back a great sigh

Tomorrow would bring insanity

A crowd so cleverly incited

With death and destruction and untellable pain

Yet man's old wrong would be righted

The day would be sliced with brutal shouts

With insult, sneer and curse

Even now, a stealthy figure moved

With thirty coins held in a money purse

(And in another part of the city)

It had been a solemn supper

Eaten in the oil-lamp gloom

The Master talked so strangely

To those in the upper room

YES, TOMORROW WILL BE DIFFERENT

Nope, that isn't all there is

2009-06-14T12:30:00.000-07:00

Most of us slip easily into the waiting niche of middle age when it comes because, silly geese that we are, we haven't calculated correctly. Somewhere in the dreamland of our subconscious we think of ourselves as middle age at around 50-65.

Better give it another think unless you plan to make it to 100 because 55 years under your belt, and everywhere else it can squeeze in, means you already made it to Senior Citizen ship-hood.

When Senior citizen notices began to invade my mailbox with the news that I needed to be on the alert for the best deals in burial plots, health plans and adjustable canes I really wasn't prepared.

Is this it, then? The pinnacle of,"oldness" and all we get is a couple of bucks taken off our breakfast tab at IHops and various and sundry other so-called perks?

Personally, it ticks me off.

And, there is an added insult a title that the rest of the world uses to degrade us even further. You may have used it yourself as a kid when you referred to the ancient couple rocking on their front porch. They were the, "elderly," the really, really old.

Ugh, I hate to say it. Elderly is such a disgusting word--and only one place to go from there. The only partly comforting thing about it is the fact that all those who are working so furiously on their rock-hard, "abs"and their blinding white teeth will find themselves in the same position if they live long enough.

Sadly, I have actually arrived. My diabetic shoes, nearly non-existent, eyelashes, and the notation on my calendar for an appointment to have a cataract removed make it abundantly clear.

Some of you may refer me to God if I have a grievance about His plan, but, I don't, because my Mama

had a point, and a deep, abiding belief that, "The good stuff comes next."

At age 94 she headed out of here with a smile.

God Bless You...

2009-06-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

They see me Comin'

2009-06-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

If anybody knows about cars it should be yours truly; that is if ownership of ten automobiles withn two years is any indication. Then again, it could mean when I walk onto a car lot, the sales people see yellow, citrus yellow as in, lemon." They all have at least one of these at the top of their vehicular fruit bowl masquerading as a Porche or a 280Z. And I end up obligingly taking it off their hands shortly before its last gasp. Yet, cunningly, it goes just long enough so the warranty has run out. There is a never traceable timer inside somewhere, set to go off the second the warranty no longer applies. One minute after midnight of that day you know Big Trouble is knocking at your engine, or, more probably, in it.

Sometimes I have gone as long as 6 months with no car problems. but then, I get cocky and take it out of the driveway. Instant disaster. A terrible noise comes from the innards of my transportation. I get out and peer below. Lemon jui...er, oil, is dripping quickly to the pavement. Repairs will cost more that the vehicle is worth. Junk it and find another fruit stand.

I have become and infamous legend in my own time. I doesn't matter how much I remind others of the, "fruit factor," they believe I am somehow to blame for the demise of all those automobiles. No one will loan me a car--not my dearest friend or fondest child. I am considered a bane on anything from a carnival go-cart to a 16-wheel semi. I have even noticed apprehensive glances when I go near one of the grandkid's bicycles.

Whatever it is that goes wrong with my cars, you can be sure it is mechanically unusual. None of your run-of-the-mill starter or ignition replacements; nothing so simple as a dirty carburetor--no, no.

Unless there are bunches of you out there who have had a squirrel breathe his last in your rusted catalytic converter, my mechanical happenings are peculiar. Even the so-called trivial frustrations are magnified in my automobiles. Take the third car back as an example. It was lovely weather for a couple of weeks after the purchase--no need to turn on the windshield wipers. Then one afternoon I was out in the hinterlands looking for a rural address when a storm came up. The rain was torrential. I turned on the wipers for the first time and one of them-of course it was the drivers side- flipped off and knocked a passing dog out cold. Do I need to tell you the wipers were not covered under the warranty?

The car incident I recall with the most trepidation took place when I was at the stop-light in the small town where I lived. Pulled up beside me was a kid gunning his motor as if he wanted to, "drag." Not with this old gal. When the light turned green, I stepped gently on the gas, only to shoot inexplicably forward at top speed. I found out later the accelerator was stuck. I left an open-mouthed young man, several bystanders, and a pavement bouncing muffler in a cloud of black smoke as I was launched forward several blocks against my will.

I don't live there anymore.

The Big Question

2009-06-11T17:25:00.000-07:00

When the well runs dry

Or the pump won't work

Christians have a funny quirk

They keep on praising

When jobs are scarce

And the cupboard is almost bare

Believers do a thing that's rare

They keep on praising

When the car has quit

And the payment is overdue

God's children have a different view

They keep on praising

[

When the house is empty

with no mate to share the days

The born-again have the queerest ways

They keep on praising

When sorrow presses hard

And distress is everywhere

The Christian says a prayer

And keeps on praising

When the world is watching

To see the slightest stumble

God's own stay blessed but humble

They keep on praising

When the doubters pause

To see why we still stand

We tell them of the Promised Land

And keep on praising

That's a Christian

That's us...

Isn't it???

2009-06-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

Good advise according to old-time actor/philosopher, Will Rogers: "With Congress, every time they make a joke, it's a law; and every time they make a law it's a joke"
Fits right in with today's government...right?

I can't resist using another one of Will's quotes: "So live that you wouldn't be ashamed to sell the family parrot to the town gossip."

Okay, one more:"What the country needs is dirtier fingernails and cleaner minds."

2009-06-09T22:27:00.001-07:00

Miracle on the Water

2009-06-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

A Boat Ride

They settled down to get some rest
The fisherman and their Friend
The boat was like a cradle
The sea a hand to tend

Then the night began to whisper
With a raspy, angry sound
In an eye-blink there was fury!
Waves crashing all around

The men awoke with pounding hearts
"We're doomed," was their fearful cry
The vessel's seams were screechng
black waves became the sky

Panic filled the little band

As they grasped for rope and rail

The mast was swaying crazily

To shake off a whipping sail

And in the midst of chaos

One Man slept on in peace

The Friend that they all followed

His brow without a crease

"Master!" They cried, astonished

"Awake! We're about to die!

He streched His arms quitte calmly

Toward the boiling sky

The silence came so quickly

It almost hurt the ears

This couldn't be! It couldn't be!

But, this man all nature hears

More awesome than the storm

Was a thought that began to prod

And on the Galilean lake

They faced the Son of God

Ecclesiastes 9:10

2009-05-17T15:08:00.000-07:00

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
do it with thy might

Creation beckons

2009-05-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

When night has dropped her curtain with a slow but deliberate hand, and placed the moon and stars there, we know it's been carefully planned; for how can we doubt that this beautiful night was created for restless man; to soften his heart and maybe his soul, for there is a wondrous STAR in the plan

Hook Line and Sinker

2009-05-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

The story is told of a boy and his mother who went to a shopping mall. The boy acted badly--demanding this and that, running away from his mother, hiding so she couldn't find him. whining that he wanted something to eat or drink, interrupting her while she attempted to talk to sales clerks or make a purchase. In total exasperation she finally gave up and returned to the car.

As they were driving home, the boy could sense her displeasure and he said, "I learned last week in Sunday School that when we ask God to forgive us when we are bad, He does. Does He really do that?"

The mother replied, "Yes,He does." The boy continued, "And the teacher said that when he forgives us, He throws our sins in the deepest sea. Does He do that , Mom?" The mother responded, "Yes, that's what the Bible says."

The boy was silent for a moment and then he said, "I've asked God to forgive me for acting bad at the mall, but I bet when we get home, you're going to go fishing for those sins, aren't you?"

a love beyond our understanding

2009-05-15T11:49:00.000-07:00

May your roots go down deep into the soil of God's marvelous love. Ephesians 3:17. Teach us how to love, Lord, that we may bring forth the best of fruits.

WAS THERE EVER A WINTER LIKE THAT ONE?

2009-05-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

I am drawn to writing about winter; I don't know why, but you will find several pieces with that setting. Here's another one.

The grandparents were quite old now. It was the year I had pneumonia--one of my favorite winters. The history books and the generation just before mine tell us that these were hard times. It was the, "eye" of that hurricane they called, The Great Depression.

My grandfather was a farmer so we were a little better off than some. We at least had food. Myself I do not remember any deprivation; all was well in my immediate world. The house was on a narrow country road. It was an animated, "Currier and Ives print," smoke curling out of the old chimney, a creek meandering lazily across the back of the property, fat pumpkins squatting in the fields and cows swinging their tails and moving from one patch of grass to the next.

This was my maternal grandparents farm and we were staying with them through the winter. I loved them too, just not with the fervor I felt for Grandpa and Grandma Moore.

This house had been planned as a barn and there were two-by-fours shooting up into the shadows all over the inside. I am not sure what had happened except it was now the house and there was a big-mouthed barn some distance behind it. Time and the weather had turned the pair a lovely, pearly grey.

Up in the attic, under the eaves, Grandpa hung a special kind of corn...just for popping. When my young aunt and I saw him come down the stairs with a kettle of that corn we knew it
was winter for sure. When the last small whirlwind of colored leaves had floated to the frosty ground, and the fire in the living room glowed and hissed, it was popcorn time; it was winter tiem.

I remember so well, lying deep in a feather bed, full of corn and sounds from the old cathedral shaped radio that traveled down the dark hall.

It may be just a child's mixed up memory but it seemed as if it snowed every day. Grandma gave us a big dishpan and told us to fill it with snow and she would make us some icecream.
Well, as far as we were concerned it WAS icecream.

I caught a cold and it turned to pneumonia, which was so dangerous in those days as there were no antibiotics. A heavy weight sat on my small chest. My mother and the grandmothers nursed
me. I was at the loving mercy of every home remedy known to man; from boiled onion cough syrup to mustard packs. I lived to tell about it.

Ironically, it was the same illness that was to take Grandma Moore a few years later at age 84.

Recuperation was quite pleasant. It was obvious there was something special about me now. Grandma sang to me, mother read me stories and Auntie would have done most anything I asked.

In the meantime I gathered images that will last a lifetime; images of that winter; waking to the ethereal quiet of the first snowfall, a bowl of cornflakes covered with thick yellow cream, being pulled in a wagon over rutted lanes by my two big uncles, learning, Star light, Star bright first
star I see tonight; feeling and seeing love for the first time,and knowing it was something wonderful.

Spring was waiting behind the wind and in the veins of every tree and bush. When it came it would bring a thousand new experiences, but for now, life's magic wand was wielded by a shimmering,icy king who had his way with the countryside. Was there ever a winter like that one?

Lest We Forget!

2009-05-12T17:46:00.000-07:00

This blog is a re-telling of part of our family history and stories in the hope we don't forget those who founded our country at great personal sacrifice!

2009-05-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

She chatted of this and that, placing dishes and utensils on the table while pointing him to the wash basin and a hanging towel.

He didn't talk much, spending his energy on the food in front of him, but mumbled politely when he felt a response of some kind was required. His hostess, seated at last with her own cup of coffee, thought she saw him send a fleeting glance of longing toward the tiny decorated fir tree in the dim parlor. If so, it was quickly supressed. Then, as he was finishing up the last scraps of the meal, she watched as his eyes wandered to the back door window. There was a large card there, suspended by a string and facing the outside.

"I know," she said, though he hadn't asked, "We can't see it from in here. I just never got it turned around. It's what the angels told the shepherds, "Peace on earth, good will to men."

The sojourner put down the checkered napkin an asked without much interest, "What is good will anyway?"

Allie massaged one arthritic hand with the other, thinking carefully about her answer. "Well, it's wanting to be helpful," she said, "It's looking for, beingg aware of--no, it's looking for opportunities to be giving, even when it isn't so easy. It's a willingness, an attitude. Yes. That's it. It's an attitude of kindness."

The visitor answered, "Hm."

Suddenly Mrs. Moore spotted a sack on the chair by the door. She rose as quickly as her 78-year-old body would allow, put her hand to her cheek and keened, "Oh, dear! My poor husband has forgotten his lunch!" She glanced at the clock on the shelf. It showed 11:45. There was still time, if...her company saw the clock also.

"You see," the woman continued, flustered and frowning, "My husband had a chance to make a little money today repairing a neighbor's fence, but he isn't even over being sick and he just can't go without this meal. What in the world can I do.?"

The faded blue eyes looked straight at the man sitting at her table.

He asked,"Well, how far is this neighbor?"

"A mile or so down the road," was the hopeful answer, as she pointed in the opposite direction from the halted train.

Rising to shrug into his coat, the man replied, "Sure do thank you for the food, Ma'am, but I can't do that. Gotta get that train. I'd have to walk clean into Tacoma otherwise."

The lady sat back down, holding tightly to the sack and sighed. "Yes, well goodbye then."

A gust of frigid air came in as the man went out, "So long, Ma'am. Sorry."

He walked 10 paces in the crunchy snow and stopped. Slowly, by small jerks, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He could see that sign as if it had a built in light. that one word sure seemed brighterthan the rest. GOODWILL. He couldn't figure out how he missed seeing it on his way in.

He growled, ,"Dog gone it." as if somebody was giving him an arguement, and kicked at t mound of snow. Finally, he turned reluctantly all the way around and began to retrace is steps.

The door opened before he knocked and Mrs. Moore handed him two sacks. "Straight down this road, Son. Mr. McGreggor's place. You can't miss it. Biggest barn you ever
saw. Oh, yes, and that large bag is for you. I wrapped up the rest of that ham shank, some bread and a few winter apples for later."

The fellow shook his head and took the bags, "How did you know I would go?"

"Just thought I saw a lot of goodwill in you, young man."

"Yeah, and I'll regret it when I find myself shiverin' in somebody's haystack tonight."

"No," she said firmly, "You won't."

He surely did shiver that night, but there was a warm spot somewhere near the area of his heart that kept regret from getting in at all

an act of kindness

2009-05-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

Continued: There was never more than one man at a time looking for a hand-out at the Moore farm on the daily runs. This seemed to be the procedure amongst the travelers. Farmers in other areas reported the same routine.

The elderly lady continued to work at the stove and decided she would have her visitor chop up a supply of wood.

When the box in the woodshed was full he took an armload and walked to the back porch. After dumping the wood into a container near the back door, he shook the snow from his worn coat, slapped his hat against his leg and entered the country kitchen. He looked to be around 35 years old. His face was craggy and thin, almost to the point of gauntness, with cheeks reddened by too many winter rides in icy boxcars.

2009-05-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

Let's not start at the beginning, let's slip softly from the late 1800's all the way forward to 1930 and a cold, blustery evening in December.

The last month of the year wasn't leaving gently. It came puffing and blowing, dumping immense skies full of snow over Puget Sound. Numbing Arctic winds finger-painted the scene with silvery strokes and on one paricular snow-still morning a Western Washington farming community went about its business. At 10:30 a.m. a mournful, drawn-out whistle led a swaying freight train out of the deep forest to halt at the wooden water tower where it would spend an hour or so taking on a fresh supply.

The trains carried men from one ocean to the other, then back again; men who had taken to the open road for one reason or another. Some were good men, some maybe not so good. A large number were husbands and fathers striving to come through for the families waiting at home. Finding even the bare requirements of food on a daily basis was a challenge. Every day hundreds of down-at-the-heels men approached hundreds of back doors across the country hoping for wood to chop or ditches to dig in exchange for a meal.

Women bore their own kind of burden. Months taken up with trying to fill children with scanty rations and imagination.

Little, old Mrs. Moore had no such worries. The modest farm produced plenty for the two of them. She, and her husband, Knapp, had raised their one child long ago and would soon be celebrating their 60th wedding aniversary. She put another stick of wood in the cook stove, checked on the baking bread in the oven and eased down into the waiting rocking chair.

As the train gave a long, steamy, "Sheeeeesh," a lone man jumped from one of middle cars, pulled his tattered overcoat close around his neck and took off at a slow and cumbersome run across the field.

Nearby, Mrs. Moore had heard the whistle. She roused herself put on a pot of coffee and began to slice potatoes and ham into a frying pan. He would be hurrying along now, one of the fellows who, "rode the rails" in these hard times.

2009-04-22T17:24:00.000-07:00

This site is dedicated to Almona and Knapp Moore who homesteaded a large farm in a Washington state area in the late 1800's. The endeavor is out of love from a great-granddaughter who knew them well.