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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mistake in last posting

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

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

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.

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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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

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