Found

Sometimes I come across birds' nests that have fallen to the ground after a storm. I always pick them up and stick them in a pot of flowers or, in this case, on a wreath.
During the course of the summer, I've found a feather from a blue jay, the shell of an egg that has hatched, and a shiny earring. I put them together for this little vignette.

Isn't it sweet? 

Sweet is...short summer showers

This month's Nablopomo's theme is "sweet," so I'm going to see how many ways I can define sweet... the moments, the sights and sounds, maybe even the tastes, but sweet is so much more than a flavor.

While I was brewing my coffee this morning, I noticed dark clouds gathering off to the west. Now where did those come from, I wondered.

I'm almost certain that when I checked the forecast last night there was a 0 percent chance of rain. But I soon heard thunder, then the gentle drum of raindrops on the roof.  For about 10 minutes, maybe less, we got the sweetest little summer shower.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and went out on the porch.  I breathed the sweet smells of damp earth and wet grass and watched narrow streams of water pour off the barn roof like streamers of tinsel.

I pray some of this on the drought-parched sections of the country.  Three weeks ago, we were arid as a desert too, but the weather pattern's changed and everything is lush and green as May again--and a sweet sight it is!

Things I love about steamy summer days...

 ...the candy apple green scent of damp grass just mown...

                      ...carrying a big bowl of assorted vegetable peelings to the compost pile while I'm cooking supper...

...the sound of God's tater wagon turning over in the heavens...

.                   ...homemade mint syrup in my tea...

...how the swimming pool feels like a hot tub after a rainshower cools the air...

                 ...watching my hubby's eyelids droop while he reads the latest...

 ...green--everything's so green again...

                     ...cotton candy skies just before dark...

...Queen Anne's Lace mixed with zinnias and black-eyed susans in a pitcher of water on the table...


Things I dislike about steamy summer days...

...snakes...

...and mosquito bites. 


                                            I think the pros outweigh the cons. 

"....with my song I will praise Him..."

https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?v=10100183822764983

This little video fills my heart with so much joy that it spills down my face. I thank God with everything in me for the gift of little Clay and all that He has taught us through our journey with him. 

I remember last June 13^th like it was yesterday. 

Chelsea and I were set up at farmers’ market.  The sun was shining, there wasn’t a cloud in the dazzling blue sky and it was simply a picture perfect late spring day. 

Besides the gorgeous weather, Hannah was going to the doctor, and maybe, just maybe, they could tell her if she was having a girl or a boy.  Life was good. 

Sometime around noon, or before, Hannah called.  “I’m having a boy!”

“You are?” I grinned into the phone. 

“Yes, but they want me to go on to Lexington.”

My smile quickly faded as I asked, “Why?” 

The ultrasound tech at the gynecologist’s office said she couldn’t get a very good picture of the baby’s heart.  She’d made an appointment with a high risk doctor; they could work her in that afternoon.

Hannah didn’t sound too worried as she explained. 

“They said it’s probably nothing to be worried about.”  I felt a chill in my soul, but I tend to be a worry-wart, so I tried to squash my instant reaction of fear. 

Chelsea said she’d ride to Lexington with Hannah, so I could pack everything up and take it home when the market closed in a hour or two. 

I felt uneasy all afternoon.  I finally called Chelsea’s cell phone when I didn’t hear anything for hours.   

“Is everything OK?” 

“Yeeaahh,” she said, in a way that left me doubting.  “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

She called back after Hannah had dropped her off at her car. 

“They said the baby has some kind of hernia-thing. Sometimes it’s serious, but sometimes it’s not.  Sissy’s going to stop by and she’ll explain it to you.” 

A little while later, Hannah stopped by with two or three pages of printed information about a rare birth defect called CDH. 

The language was very cold, full of medical terms—but clear. 

Our first grandchild was going to face some life-threatening problems when he was born.  There was a good chance he’d not even make it.  If he did, he’d face surgery a few days after birth.  He might have long-term problems as a result of this condition we’d never in our lives heard of before that day. 

You know the rest of the story.  Most of you have been here with us through this journey.  You know what a ride it’s been. 

You’ve been right there, pulling for Clay, praying for baby Clay. 

Today, Clay is not only a survivor, he’s an overcomer!

This is the sweetest sound I think I ever heard.  All babies sound sweet, but this little guy has had to learn how to use his vocal cords around a tube inserted into his windpipe. 

Forgive me if I brag, but I think he’s pretty special!   J 

 

“Blessed be the Lord, because He has heard the voice of my supplications!  The Lord is my strength and my shield.  My heart trusted in Him, and I am helped; therefore my heart greatly rejoices, and with my song I will praise Him.”  Psalm 28: 6,7

A cool and welcome change of pace

Cool cloudy days like this one are a relief to me after several days in the sun doing mostly outdoor work. 

I love being in the garden and mowing, weeding, etc., but it seems like there’s always one more weed to pull or something else to plant or pick.  

However, when I got out of bed this morning to cloudy skies, then rain, I felt freer to turn my attention to inside work: laundry and writing, for example. 

I also listened in while Chelsea interviewed her “Granny Grethel” for the research project she’s doing for Berea College.  She’s been busy collecting oral histories about Appalachian food ways.

My mother-in-law shared stories about making buttermilk candy and told how to roast a groundhog so the meat doesn’t taste so wild (with sprigs of spice wood). 

She said she used to pick and sell blackberries and save her money to order school clothes from the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  She recalled how their house caught on fire when her kids were small. She just happened to have a lot of water “drawed up” to douse on it and put it out.  (Yes, we did veer a little off topic.) 

She said the neighbors used to come running to see if you needed help if you blew a car horn. 

“We always had plenty to eat,” my mother-in-law said repeatedly. “We always had a lot of love and we always got along.”

Except for when her father called them all to the breakfast table, and they’d fight over who got the biggest boiled egg to crumble over their biscuit and gravy.

A stranger with a camera might have surmised that her family was impoverished.  But what the camera would have missed is how close they were, and how they went about their work with good humor and lots of pranks pulled on one another. 

My girls are fortunate to still have both sets of grandparents and a great-grandmother to pass along such priceless information about their heritage.   

I never knew my dad’s parents--he barely knew them either, because both died before he was six.  I lost my mom’s parents before I was 25.  

I always felt like I missed out, not ever getting to meet my paternal grandparents, and I still miss my maternal grandparents, though they’ve been gone a long time. 

My mother-in-law’s father died of prostate cancer when he was 48.  That’s mine and Robin’s age.  That’s young. 

Her mother died of tuberculosis in her mid-fifties. 

My husband still has his “Great-granny”--who now seems like mine too--but there aren’t really many of our oldest family members left to share their special memories of growing up in hard times… those difficult days when work was physical and tough, but their days were also filled with laughter and love.

As Chelsea captures audio of the voices of her interviewees and painstakingly transcribes their dialect, she’s also noting the rhythms of speech, the pronunciations and expressions that reveal our Scottish and Irish ancestry. 

I’m glad our speech hasn’t been blanched of its personality by mainstream America. I hope to goodness it never is. 

Many folks around here might not be aware that they are of Scotch-Irish descent, but their language, beliefs, and customs carry echoes of previous generations of settlers, who, while poor and not too book smart, were smart enough to survive and thrive.

Tonight, to celebrate a cool cloudy pensive spring evening and to honor our Appalachian ancestors who knew how to take the simplest ingredients and whip up a tasty meal, Chelsea made homemade biscuits, and I stirred up some chocolate gravy for supper.

I really needed a break from all those salad peas.  ;) 

Slinky woes

I don’t recall being particularly thrilled with most toys when I was a kid. Our parents always made a good attempt to buy our most requested items for Christmas, but they didn’t buy us many toys the rest of the year.

“Play” meant going outside and finding something to do—taking a walk, playing wiffleball, climbing trees, swimming in the creek, shooting baskets in a hoop attached to an old smokehouse. 

I got over playing with baby dolls at a very young age.  Barbies bored me too.  

I do recall wanting a Slinky very badly when I was about eight or nine years old.  Slinkys are a tightly coiled flexible spring that you can pour from one hand to another.  You can walk it down stairs once you acquire some Slinky-manipulating skills. 

One Saturday morning trip to town, I convinced Mom to buy me one.  They were just a cheap little toy, so she caved. 

I was so excited!  When we got home, I played with the Slinky awhile, pouring its perfect cool coils from one hand to the other. 

Then I had a bright idea.  I wonder how far it will stretch? 

I called one of my younger brothers over and had him hold one end while I walked backwards with the other end. 

I walked ten feet…twenty feet…that was about as far as it would stretch.  “OK, you can let go now,” I said to my brother. 

He dropped his end.  I expected it to spring back to me.  It didn’t.  Each coil was spread about two inches apart.  I tried squeezing them back together, but they wouldn’t stay. My heart sank. 

Pretty soon, my arms were full of a tangled mass of coils.  I carried them into my room and stuffed them under the bed, fighting back tears. 

I didn’t say anything about the mess I’d made of my Slinky to my parents, but I felt sick about it for days.

May Days, play days

Doing the “Dizzie Lizzie”

My favorite memories of recess, the ones that stand out the most anyway, are also associated with pain. 

The playground at my old elementary school consisted of a large grassy area, a blacktopped square with a basketball goal, and a sandy area with monkey bars and a balance beam that stood about knee high. There was a swing set with three or four swings, but most of the time, only one or two were operative. (Chain broke, seat broke, big mud puddle beneath, etc.)   

I liked the monkey bars, though.  It was a simple apparatus with a row of bars, and a kid could swing from one to the other like a monkey.  It was quite a feat to swing all the way across without touching the ground. 

One day, I was determined to make it across. I almost made it after a few attempts, but my palms burned so bad from swinging and twisting.  When I looked down, I saw that my skin was blistered and peeled back.

One of my teachers noticed and took me to the office to get doctored up, but my hands hurt the rest of the day.

We played relay games a lot at recess, too.  You know, sack races, the three-legged race and the “dizzie lizzie.” 

Did anyone else ever do the “dizzie lizzie?” 

You ran to a designated mark, picked up a ball bat, and placed your forehead on the grip end of the bat.  The other end of the bat stayed on the ground. You circled the bat three or four times in this position, then you dropped the bat and ran back to the starting line.  At least, you tried.  The faster you circled the bat, the dizzier you got and the harder it was to run straight.

Although this “exercise” didn’t exactly hurt, it usually made me feel nauseous. 

Sounds like a lot of fun, huh?