A favorite place...

When I was a kid, we used to walk “up in the holler” to my aunt and uncle’s house. 

I loved to go there.  Their home was nothing fancy to look at, but I found it fascinating.  The living room was papered with something that looked like wood paneling.  The paper was split and sagging in places, so they’d patched it with old aerial maps.

My aunt stored her dishes in an icebox in the dining room.  A large chalk horse with red circles painted around its eyes stood on a dark bulky buffet beside the table.  The horse appeared to be glaring at us, and my siblings and I were all a little afraid of it. 

In the extra bedroom, the bed was piled with my aunt’s “purties.”  She liked dolls, and that’s where she displayed them, propped up against the bolster.

My cousin slept upstairs. His room was hot as an oven in summer.  I can remember climbing the stairs to his room and seeing piles of dead wasps beneath the window, apparently casualties of heat stroke. The room always smelled like sweat and drying shuck beans. 

My favorite spot at their house was probably the front porch.   From there, we could see way down the valley.  The wood floor was weathered to a velvety gray.  My siblings and I would vie to sit in the mint-green painted swing beside my aunt, but whoever didn’t get that choice seat would sit on the edge of the porch and swing his or her legs over the side. 

Pink cleomes bloomed in the corner of the yard beside the chimney every summer.  My uncle gathered some of their fine black seeds in an envelope and gave them to me once I moved out on my own.  They’ve been blooming in my yard every summer since. 

We’d often time our visits to their house around supper time.  My aunt always had something tasty fixed, one of my favorites being her fried hoecakes.  She used plenty of “May-zola oil” when she fried them, so the edges were golden brown and crispy. 

 I make hoecakes myself on occasion.  Most of the time, the smell of them takes me straight back to my aunt’s kitchen. 

On Monday, thinking about what I like about Sundays...

…Isn’t there a country song with a title that goes something like this? 

We attend a little country church called Greenbriar Baptist Church.  I’ve always liked the name of the church-- I think it’s very fitting, because just about any place around here that you don’t stay ahead of the weeds, the green briars are sure to take. 

Not that the church lawn isn’t always neatly mown, mind you, but the briars are near, ready to encroach if given half a chance.  I think there’s a spiritual lesson to be learned somewhere in this.    

Blackberry briars and wild rose briars run wild around these parts.  While they produce beautiful blooms, smells, and fruit, they can quickly multiply to create an impenetrable thicket. 

Greenbriar Baptist Church stands near the banks of Middle Fork Creek, close to the spot where my hubby and I were baptized back when we weren’t much more than kids. 

It’s nestled in one of the S-curves “at the foot of” Drip Rock Mountain.  For those who aren’t familiar with hillbilly speak, that means the church is in a valley, at the base of a mountain.  

The little church, attended mostly by humble rural folk, has been a refuge of comfort and strength during this trying period in our lives. 

I’ve felt enveloped by the warmth and concern of “my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ” every time we’ve stepped through the front door. 

We’re always greeted with firm handshakes from calloused hands with warm smiles and hugs.  Nearly everyone asks about the baby.  They’ve been praying for him since long before he was born. 

 I love the fact that hardly anyone feels the need to wear a suit here, and many members show up in their cleanest jeans.

 I like that there is no political grandstanding from the pulpit, just reminders to “pray for the leaders of our country.” 

I like that we stand around outside after the service and talk about our gardens, or the latest sightings of wildlife in the valleys. 

There have been a few black bear sightings around these parts.  The least you can do, ya’ know, is to keep your neighbors posted about their whereabouts. 

I love that one of the most frequent comments I hear when I go to church is “It’s a purty day, ain’t it?” This comment is usually made with the speaker lifting his or her gaze to scan the familiar hills that hold us.

We share an unspoken bond—a deep love for a place that’s been home to generations of our kinfolk. 

We know each other’s stories. 

We sing the same hymns that sustained our fathers and mothers during hard times, one of my favorites being, “What a friend we have in Jesus.” 

“Backward religious folk” is a label that frequently gets slapped on congregations like these. 

We are far from perfect, but “good-hearted simple people who are mighty concerned about their neighbors,” might be a more accurate title. 

Life's curve balls take on new perspective

We are again sitting in the hospital waiting room.  Our little grandson, born with a congenital diaphragmatic hernia, has made some significant gains this week.  He’s off several medications and has fewer tubes and wires. 

Unfortunately, he is now battling an infection.  The doctors haven’t figured out where it is yet, but tests have revealed there is a reason for his fever. 

The doctors warned us that progress would come “two steps forward, one step back.”

Still, these setbacks wear us down after the baby had such a good couple of days.   

The seriousness of little Clay’s condition sure puts a different perspective on minor injuries.

I remember when Hannah stuck a peanut up her nose when she was just a toddler.  I couldn’t get it out, so I took her to the emergency room.  Another time, she acquired a minor cut and had to have a stitch or two.  I remember how distraught I was.

We were watching the news a while ago and saw a little girl with a huge gash on her face.  She’d been attacked by a pit bull and required more than 50 stitches.

If that had happened to one of my girls when they were small, I’d have freaked out, probably. 

I don’t mean to minimize the trauma of that little girl’s or her family’s experience, but watching that news report, I longed for baby Clay’s condition to be something so simple. 

Whenever we’re faced with adversity, it’s not a bad idea to remind ourselves that things could be worse.   

Preparing for a long winter's nap

What a beautiful day it’s been here in central Kentucky, considering it’s mid-November, and the weather could be really miserable by now.

Instead, the sun has been shiny and it’s been warm enough to be comfortable in long sleeves.

After breakfast and morning chores, we spent most of the rest of the day outside. 

I’m thankful for the opportunity to do that. 

Our little grandson has enjoyed a couple of uneventful days in the hospital, and we felt at ease about not visiting today.

He’s come a long way in the past few week s.  The doctors say he’s not out of danger, but it is obvious that the little guy has made a lot of progress, judging by the far fewer tubes inserted into his little body, and the far fewer meds he’s getting through his IV. 

It was very relaxing to just spend the day at home, though, raking some leaves and pulling up tomato cages to store for the winter.

There is still much yard work to be done, but I enjoy the whole process of clearing the flower beds and garden after a growing season.

I like pulling up frost-bitten plants and piling them up to burn.  I like burning cornstalks and withered brown morning glory vines off the garden. (No, I’m not a pyromaniac!)

 I like when the whole weedy mess is plowed under.  That way, we’ll be ready to start with a clean slate come springtime.    

There’s a feeling of closure that comes with the completion of a year’s growth cycle. 

That’s when I know it’s OK to go into hibernation for a few months. 

Every season comes with a different set of joys—and I’m almost ready for that long winter’s nap. 

My not-so-secret-anymore passion

We’re one-third of the way through NaBloPoMo already!  Yay, fellow bloggers! Way to go!

Today’s prompt asks, “What is your secret (or not-so-secret) passion?”

One of my life-long passions has been secret to other people, I suppose, because until the past few years, not many knew that I’ve always wanted to be a writer.

I’m a person of simple tastes, and I’m really not that interested in a lot of things that our culture deems necessary or entertaining. 

I do have lots of interests, though, most of them pertaining to what I would call my top five passions: my faith in God, my family, nature, food and…writing.  Those things pretty much make up my life. 

I don’t care about owning a lot of things.  I’m not very fashion conscious, and the thoughts of more than two or three shopping trips a year pretty much makes me cringe.  I mean, I go to the grocery more often than that, but I don’t shop for the fun of it. 

I don’t really care what kind of car I drive, as long as it gets me where I’m going.  I don’t like shiny new matched furniture sets.   I like scaly paint and rust on stuff. 

Yeah, I know I’m pretty weird. 

I would say I’m pretty much equally passionate about all of my passions, although my writing has been the slowest to become visible. 

I’ve always been a reader.  Many times when I’d finish reading something, I’d think, I wish I could write something like that.  I wish I could touch people’s hearts and change their minds.  I wish I could tell entertaining stories. 

I used to think I’d like to go to college and major in English. That sounds like a pretty worthless thing to do if you don’t intend to teach—unless you want to be a better writer. 

Which I did.

So, off I went to college at the age of forty-something.  My last semester, our two daughters and I were all college students at the same time. 

Yeah, I know that’s pretty weird. 

But secret passions often lead us to do weird stuff. 

And I’m glad I did it. I’m surer than ever that I’m a writer. That’s want I want to be, and that’s who I am. 

Some folks feel the need to make music, some to paint or photograph images. I feel the need to write.   

Many don’t understand this about me.  To some it must seem like a waste of time to sit around and think on paper. 

Why don’t you quit your dreaming and get a real job?  I imagine that’s what people must think. 

Maybe folks don’t ever think that.  I’ll bet most simply don’t give a hoot, but I’ll have to admit I ask myself that question pretty often.  Then I go write.

I write in my journal, and I write newspaper features and columns, and I post blogs daily during National Blog Posting Month, which I share with my friends on facebook.  Sometimes I’ll attempt a poem or a short story. 

Every now and then, people take pity on me and read my stuff. 

Whether or not I have an audience, I’ve got to be a writer, though.  I feel like I haven’t really lived life until I’ve processed it on paper. 

That’s just me. 

Maybe that’s pretty weird, but that’s my secret passion. 

This old house--definitely unlike other homes

 Today I’m taking advantage of the BlogHer writing prompt that asks, “When did you first realize that your home was not like other people’s homes?” 

That was pretty obvious from the day we began to clean out the gaunt old farmhouse that had stood empty for four years. 

One of my aunts had lived here previously, and she was quite the collector of magazines.  We spent an afternoon just carrying out and burning all the ones she left behind.  There was a lot of mouse poop to sweep up, too. 

This old house that we call home definitely has a different kind of floor plan.

When the house was built, there was an open breezeway or “dog trot” between the front rooms.   A second aunt of mine remembers crossing from one half of the house to the other in winter and wading through snow in the breezeway. 

We replaced the old screened-in back porch with an indoor bathroom and laundry room.  It must be hard for modern Americans to imagine that a house that’s stood for 150 years didn’t have modern plumbing until the late 1980s. 

When the front door swells from the humidity and won’t close for the summer months, I know our home is different. 

When I note the blue paint on the windowsill revealed beneath a peeling topcoat of white, I know our home is different.  For some reason, people no longer rely on “haint” blue to keep the boogers scared away.    

When my hubby and I host a family reunion here in October and nearly all the guests—from toddlers to ninety-year olds—remember either living here or visiting here as children, I know our home is different. 

When I walk on warped wooden floors, or note door facings that don’t stand square, I know our home is different. 

Our home has many imperfections, or, as some say, has lots of “character.”  

I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Spreading the love: Vina's Peppermint Chiffon Cake

Back in September, I attended the Rosses Creek school reunion in Lee County, Kentucky, and was honored to interview a lady named Vina who once taught in the one-room school that still stands there.   

Vina was delightful to talk with as she recounted her teaching career. 

She began teaching just after graduating from high school, with only a couple of college classes under her belt.  She said she was “emergency certified” because our country was in the midst of World War II and there was a shortage of men to teach school. 

Vina eventually taught at several area one-room schools, then married and moved to Ohio where she raised a family.  She took classes while continuing to teach until she completed her degree.  She taught first grade in South Lebanon, Ohio for more than twenty years.

We talked for about an hour, and I felt like I had made a dear friend before we parted ways. 

“Go get you a piece of my peppermint cake,” she suggested with a wave of her hand toward the table laden with dozens of desserts. 

She didn’t have to tell me twice.  Vina’s granddaughter led the way to the cake, then she dished me up a large slice of cake that must have stood at least six fluffy inches tall. 

I carried it to the car and ate it all on the way home. (My husband was driving.)  Oh. My. Goodness. 

The cake was light and airy, sweet, but not too much so, with just a hint of peppermint flavoring. The icing was white and luscious and infused with just a touch of peppermint as well. 

Vina said this cake was her father’s favorite, and that her family called it “the birthday cake” because most of her family members request it for their birthdays. 

I can see why. 

Vina had asked me to send her a copy of the feature I wrote about her and the one room school.  After the newspaper was printed, I did so, and I requested that she send me the recipe for that cake I couldn’t stop thinking about. 

Therefore, I’m spreading the love. 

Here’s the recipe for one of the most delectable cakes you’ll ever stick a fork in. 

Vina’s Peppermint Chiffon Cake

Step 1)        Mix 2 cups plain flour

                     1 ½ cups sugar

                    3 tsp. baking powder

                    1 tsp. salt—or you may use ½ tsp. salt, according to Vina

Step 2)       Put into separate bowl and mix:

                    1 cup salad oil

                    7 egg yolks

                   ¾ cup cold water

                   1 tsp. peppermint flavor

Beat until smooth—fold in the above dry ingredients and mix well. 

Step 3)      In a large bowl containing the 7 egg whites (Vina says she usually adds an extra egg white), add 1 tsp. cream of tartar.  Beat until very stiff. Fold in the batter gradually, using a rubber spatula.  Do not beat.  Pour into an ungreased angel food pan.  Bake at 325 degrees for 55 minutes.  Turn up temperatures to 350 degrees for 10 to15 minutes.  Cool cake by turning it upside down a few inches from table or counter.  The cake may need to be cut from the pan. 

 Fluffy White Frosting:

                 2 egg whites

                 1 ½ cups sugar

                 Dash of salt

                1/3 cup water

                2 tsp. light corn syrup

                1 tsp. peppermint flavoring, or more to taste

Combine above ingredients, then place over boiling water and beat constantly until frosting stands up.  Spread on cooled cake.  Enjoy!