It was those two big eyes that finally got to me. Staring through me, each time I walked past, looking right into my heart. My flabby, weakened heart. Never mind that it seemed a little harder to climb the steep hill from the garden lately. No matter that my pants were feeling too snug around the waist, that my backside had an extra jiggle and that a certain saggy, baggy element had settled into my skin. I could ignore and pretend that I didn’t see the subtle looks from my dear husband as he gave me a squeeze and pinched a little (or was it a lot?) more than an inch.

But, oh, those eyes! Every time I walked by them, I couldn’t miss their green (“START”) and red (“STOP”) glow, their insistent and persistant beckoning. They pierced right through my nonchalance, my feigned disinterest, and they eventually broke down my resistance. Finally, I relented….it was time to get on The Thing.

My husband recently decided he needed to add some more exercise to his already jam-packed, physically-demanding day. So, one evening when we went into town for supplies, while I grocery shopped he bought The Thing. But I had no use for it. Refused to even acknowledge its existence. He labored and sweated for several nights, assembling the complicated apparatus, while I stayed away, busily ignoring the commotion in the garage. Then one morning, when I went out to check the sunrise, there it was, in all its glory. Plugged in and humming, our new treadmill was alight with eager anticipation of my partaking of the fun it offered. Only I knew better.

Treadmills are NOT really fun. They are work, and the reason I know this is because I’ve known a few in my time. Last year I even joined a fitness center in town and doggedly made the 32-mile round trip three or four times a week. I pushed the buttons until I learned how to make the treadmill do my bidding, and then I progressed to the weight machines. I did sit-ups on the bench. And I trimmed down (a little) and toned up (some) and felt like a million dollars…or at least a lot more than before I began. But in a few months life interfered, excuses reared their ugly heads, routines were broken, and finally I accepted the fact that going into town for fitness was not worth the effort. But I could do it on my own.

Not! I’d walk, but if it rained too much, the creeks wouldn’t allow me to pass. I’d drag out a couple of weights, and the phone would ring and off I’d go, to do something that seemed much more important. When I actually had some spare time, I’d spend it upstairs, pushing the pedal of my sewing machine instead of peddling on a stationary bike. Finally I faced the ugly fact that I’m just not much of one to exercise. Which brings me up to a couple of weeks ago.

The glowing “eyes” of our new treadmill haunted me every time I passed through the garage. I began to see them in my sleep, along with images of clogged arteries, fractured hips and increasing weight gain. It was a torment I could no longer bear, so I caved. Nine days ago I pulled on my sneakers and some cool, loose clothes and climbed aboard. When I pushed that green “Start” button, I felt motion underfoot and suddenly things began to feel right again. I walked, slowly at first and then with increasing speed and incline, until I felt my old rhythm coming back. I swung my arms, took deep breaths and let that old familiar sensation take over…the one where you know you’re doing something right and good for yourself.

Why in the world am I so stubborn? Or shy? What is it about taking that first step, that first lift, that first bend? This morning, as I was alternating between two mintues of jogging and one minute of walking on my new-found friend (and enjoying the feeling of my heart pumping vigorously) I think I found my answer. It is the commitment….I’m commitment-shy when it comes to exercise.

There, it’s out there! I’ve said it. I have proclaimed to all the e-world that I’m weak in this area, that I need help. So I’m enlisting all of you to give me the support I need to stay with the program. Right now, I feel like I’m committed to this for the rest of my life, so help me goodness. But I know there are weak times ahead, times of temptation, when the garage seems cold and dark and the warm house seems so cozy, or the computer calls me to check on my e-friends, or the yarn on my needles BEGS me to come knit. To sit down and be lazy.” Rest…you need it, you’ve been working hard,” they say. Will my resolve see me through? Will my commitment extend to more than just a few weeks?

I sure hope so, because I know this is the right thing to do. And I’ve learned a few things about using the treadmill that I would gladly share with you would-be users:

• You shouldn’t hold on to The Thing when you walk; you should walk normally, with a good arm swing to help you along. Holding on significantly lessens the impact of your workout.
• You should incline The Thing a bit to offset the fact that the treadmill helps move you along to some degree. I read that a 2% incline on the treadmill is equal to walking on a level track. Anything above 2% adds to the workout.
• It helps to focus on muscles as you’re walking along. For example, for those of us who are well past the childbearing years, one can reacquaint oneself with certain muscles that help hold the bladder in place and keep it from functioning when one does not WANT it to function. Remember those post-childbirth exercises? One can do them while walking. Call it multi-tasking, if you like. I call it necessary.
• Music helps. I don’t have a tv in the garage, and I can’t read while walking, but I sure can listen. Up-tempo helps; I’ll save my smooth jazz for another time.
• The experts all tell us to warm up and cool down, and there’s a reason they are experts. It really is important! I use a four-minute warm-up, to gradually bring my speed and routine up to a pace that is true exercise. And I use a four-minute cool-down at the end, which makes it better when I step off The Thing….no stumbling around, trying to find my land legs.
• Drinking water is vital! Especially for me, because I do not perspire….I sweat! If that sounds unfeminine, I just tell myself that it’s better for me. Think of those pathetic, sad women who never have more than a misty dew on their upper lip….that can’t be healthy.
• And that part I said about treadmills not being fun? Well, it may not actually be fun to get on one and work out, but it is fun to feel better, look better and have the peace of mind that comes with doing the right thing…taking care of yourself.

So, now that I’ve written a treatise on Me and and My Treadmill, (yes, we’re pals, now), I’ll close with one last word of encouragement to all you non-exercisers out there. Go to Walmart. Or the supermarket. Sit and watch the people come and go. It doesn’t take long to figure out some rough percentages, and you know which percentile you want to be in.

“Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,

For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow,

So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep–

I’m rocking my baby, and babies don’t keep!”

Thirty years ago, I had just finished stitching that motto onto a piece of linen and had Mr. Dan Ketchum frame it, ready to hang in the nursery … for 30 years ago today I was very, very pregnant and ready to deliver! But nothing was happening. It was a Sunday, and we went to church, sitting beside our doctor-friend. He sympathized with me when I said I was a week past my due date and said he hoped he’d see me soon in the hospital. Five hours later, he arrived there just in time to catch Susannah! After church and lunch and a nap,  Mary Susannah Taber decided to make her appearance, and it seemed she was impatient to do so. We were thankful to live only eight miles from the hospital, for if it had been farther we literally wouldn’t have made it.

So what is she like, this grown-up baby of ours? Here are some things that inquiring minds want to know about Mary Susannah Taber Alms:

• Susannah has very long fingers and toes and can palm a woman’s basketball. Next time you see her, ask her to give you the peace sign….it’s an amazing spread.
• She is neat and tidy, very organized and task-oriented. Her bosses love and adore her, for she gets things done!
• See her hair in the one-year picture above? That’s the way it was for four long years. No hair bows, no barrettes, nada. But THEN! She got gobs, and by age 5, had enough to be “Curly Locks, Curly Locks” in the kindergarten Mother Goose parade.
• She loves to go, go, go….being still is not natural for Susannah.
• She was named for her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Susannah Daily, of Lancaster County, PA. Also, Mary was for great-grandmother Mary Mahan, and great-great-grandmother Mary Bushong.
• Susannah cannot stay awake in the car. Ask Derek.
• She is very tender-hearted and cries easily.
• Susannah is a loyal friend who makes the effort to keep close to those who matter to her.
• She is forgiving and sees the best in everyone.
• Susannah is a wonderful, devoted mother to her own two little ones, and this makes her mother extremely proud.

I love you and look forward to seeing what the next 30 years brings for you, our beautiful daughter, Sus!

If I was a short-legged person, the headline might have read, “Ozark County Woman Rides Pig!” Thankfully, I have long legs. What, you wonder, does the length of my legs have to do with a pig? Let me explain.

We journeyed to Sedalia last Saturday, to attend the Missouri State Fair….my first time! I love a fair, and THE STATE FAIR promised to be a doozy. Couldn’t sleep the night before, so excited was I, imagining all kinds of sights, sounds and tastes. Oh, how I longed for a corn dog on a stick, some kettle corn and a candy apple…and a funnel cake for dessert! But the closest I got to anything “pork” was to Virgil.

Now, we are cattle ranchers, our preferred breed being Black Angus. So, our real destination at the fair was not the junk-food stands, the midway or the dozens of commercial exhibits. No, we were looking forward to browsing through the livestock barns and admiring the beautiful registered cattle. But it turns out that our timing was off. There were very few cattle in the stalls, for their shows were on other dates. We found a few Charolais, some Herefords and one measly row of blacks.

So, to assuage our disappointment, we decided to check out the SWINE BARN. The aroma greeted us long before we entered the huge building, and inside we found pigs a-plenty, from Hampshire to Durocs to Poland Chinas, and many others I didn’t recognize. There were crowds milling around everywhere, and the hallways were congested because kids were showing their pigs that morning.

The first arena was full of boys and girls and their Hampshires. I had never seen pigs in the show ring before and was surprised to see them running loose, with no leads or other devices to connect them to the handler.

The kids used stock prods to gently guide their pigs in the direction they wanted them to go….sometimes. Mostly, the pigs went wherever they wished to go.  My impression was one of semi-organized chaos.

After the class was judged, the kids brought their pigs to crates where they waited until they received their ribbons.

We were standing by this one; the young lady said his name was Virgil. “Virg,” she cooed lovingly to him, as she sprayed a steady stream of water all over his sleek, fat body, to cool him down after the excitement of the chaotic show ring. Virg was one hot pig.

Realizing the show was over and that we’d soaked up enough pig aroma to last us all day, we turned down the hallway to leave. It was slow going, for everyone else was leaving, too. Suddenly, I felt something warm and wet between my ankles. Looking down in shock, I saw it was a pig snout. And it kept coming, snout followed by pig head, neck and big, fat, wet, warm pig body.  I squealed. The pig squealed. Everyone stepped back to give us room, and the pig never stopped. I was able to straddle the pig, and he just kept going, on down the hallway, pursued by his girl owner. That was when I recognized him…it was our friend, Virgil.

People around us broke into howls of laughter, me included, for what else can you do when a pig runs between your legs but laugh about it? A man standing nearby said he wished he’d had a video camera, that we would have won the funniest home video award. I think I’m glad he didn’t have one. The warm memory is enough for me.

P.S. Another thing for which I’m glad: the kids get their pigs nice and clean before they show them. If I’m going to ride a pig, let it be a clean one!

Here are a few random fair shots:

prize-winning pickles                                                   pretty poppy quilt

The stitching in this quilt garnered Best of Show. And see the Wee Care Gown? These are hand-smocked by some members of a local SAGA guild, who donate them for preemie babies that don’t make it, to be used as burial gowns. Isn’t that touching?

Put some cheese on it!                                          Gentle Ben

           Sample of quilt entries                                                  See the blow dryer?

                        Pretend milking                                                         miniature mule carts

Old-fashioned quilt pattern–Jacob’s Ladder                                            Who says men can’t knit?

Monster combine (this is for Wyatt!)                             Good muscle–one thing you look for in a bull

This FFA emblem was created using only seeds; Civil War reenactors on the lawn of the 1905 fair coliseum

Two down, two to go!

(Well, three down if you count the one in which our favorite grandson was ring bearer…we didn’t go to this one, but isn’t he cute in a tux?)

The last two weekends have been wedding-oriented.

First, there was a party. Two young men in our family, our nephew and cousin, have found two beautiful young women with whom to share their lives. This was cause for celebration!

Andrew, our nephew, and Emily, with Emily’s grandfather, Tidwell Semmes; Carrie and Nathan, our cousin.

Big Creek entertained us with their perfect harmonies and their fine fingerwork.

Groom-to-be Andrew, his future nephew Semmes, with his sis Julie and husband Jeffrey behind; Nathan, the other groom-to-be and his dad, John.

Emily with her nephew, Semmes; our Emma.

     Zeke and Logan; Beth, mother of Andrew (and sis of Stan), and Sarah

       Mitzi, grandmother of bride-to-be, Carrie; me with John and Carolyn (in red), parents of Nathan

It was a time for the city families to meet the country families, for a celebration of our roots as well as our future.

Our Sus and Jenny, with Addie and Zeke; mother of bride-t0-be Emily, the lovely Jane.

Four generations had fun together, country-style!

Grandmother of groom, Nell, and my mom, lifelong friends; cousins, our Sarah and Andrew

Prayer before barbecue dinner by Jimmy, father of Andrew; Stan and me with Uncle Doug.

Part Two:

The roadtrip to the first of their weddings began with this sunrise, foretelling a beautiful day.

Cousins Sus and Julie; Carolyn with her Aunt Julia

Brunch with lovely ladies in a lovely old home was delightful.

                                       Andrew and Emily

                     The wedding was simple, elegant and very sweet.

The party afterward was fun for all…even Grandma danced!

Looking down from 33 stories up; jumping to Daddy.

In three weeks, we head to Nebraska for Wedding Number Three, and two weeks later is Wedding Number Four in Arkansas.

Now you know why I called this the Year of the Wedding!

Whew! Sometimes an innocent tap of the finger can start an amazing and unexpected sequence of events! Last week when I sat down early one morning and wrote a spur-of-the-moment comment about heroes and anti-heroes, I wondered if I’d receive any feedback. Later that morning, a message came my way from XANGA, saying ~they~ would like to feature my post on the front page. Would I agree to that? I didn’t even know ~they~ had a front page, but I thought, ”What could it hurt?”, so I tapped that “agree” button, and that is when the ~fun~ began! Many, many people read my post and several of them expressed their own thoughts on the subject. There were pros, cons, a couple of nasty remarks and a few that I couldn’t even understand. Mostly, the Xangans who commented were respectful and the majority agreed with me. It was interesting, and it even continues into this week.

If I had thought about it longer, I would probably not have tapped that little button….but I would have missed out on some unexpected blessings. Some new friends have come my way as a result of this experience, and I look forward to getting to know them better. I also have thought more about the content of my post, having mental debates with some of those who vehemently disagreed with what I wrote. I concluded that I’d let it stand as it was written…those who misinterpreted my comments as villifying Michael Jackson put their own slant on my words. It was more an indictment of our society than of one man….a society that glorifies people like him. I’m sorry that he died, but his death does not give him an automatic promotion to sainthood, simply because he was talented.

Now, on to other, happier subjects! Recently, I was a winner!!!!  I mentioned in an earlier post that I’d won a giveaway by  http://jude1-22.xanga.com/ . My prize was an handsewn apron, and here it is, for all the world to see!

Notice this cute pocket with a little pleat to give it fullness…and she made the bias binding that covers all the raw edges so neatly. Thank you again, Dana!

The reason I’m tardy in showing you the apron is because I have been camera-less. For a whole week, I was just lost. Can you imagine how many times during that interminable week I had the urge to snap a photo? Oh, so often! But now I have my long-lost Kodak back, and I had myself a one-woman fashion shoot in my kitchen. Where else should one photograph oneself in one’s newest kitchen finery? Self-timers are handy-dandy devices, so I posed in front of the fridge (where I feel so at home!) and snap! Here I am!

Now, why, you might ask, was I camera-less for a week? Tired Mimis forget things. I took Lucy home to KC, and while I was there, my two dear daughters and I gave a bridal shower for Kristin, better known as Buzz, and the camera was given a workout. By the time I headed home, fatigue won out, and the camera was forgotten. 

But what, you question, about that shower? Our theme was FARM FRESH!, in keeping with Kristin’s eco-friendly wedding that is coming up in September. For example, the food to be served at her reception will all be locally grown and produced. We asked guests to share a recipe that included some farm-fresh ingredients and their gift would be something to use in the making of it or to serve it. It was fun to see what the women thought of.

Buzz received a cheese maker, with some fresh basil and tomatoes (the makings of a yummy salad), and a platter to serve it on. There were some farm-fresh eggs and an heirloom serving utensil from the groom’s family, a bread-maker with some special flour, a casserole dish with seeds for herbs, and many other clever gifts….and three, count ‘em, three aprons!

 I made the half-apron for Buzz….it is called Saucy Circle Apron, reversible and made of 30s-era reproduction fabrics. Very farm-fresh feeling! I wish you many happy years of cooking for/with Brandon, Buzz! 

And that’s all for now from AmericanJanet, who is feeling an irresistible urge to get outside and photograph something besides herself!

This morning the reporter mentioned the word ”criminal” in conjunction with the cost to the city of Los Angeles for services provided for Michael Jackson’s funeral. I didn’t watch any of the public spectacle, but I wondered at it. I remember when other famous musicians and celebrities have died, but I don’t remember much about their funerals, perhaps because those events were mostly private. I don’t recall any government entity having to incur “criminal” costs of their behalf. Was Michael Jackson such a hero that he deserved this recognition, even in death?

When Michael was at the peak of his success, my children were at a very impressionable age. We could not get into the car and turn on the radio without hearing one of his hits, and soon they would be singing along, belting out the lyrics to the thumping background beat. It was a struggle for me to contend with the content of his music, to explain to them what I found objectionable, when all the world seemed enthralled with a man whose performances were marked by gestures I found obscene. His songs that promoted peace and unity and brotherhood were overshadowed by those with a less than wholesome theme. And his bizarre appearance was more of a story than his music.

Later, when the rumors of child molestation turned into public accusations and lawsuits, I thought it would be the end of his celebrity, that people would cease to be interested in someone of such questionable character. I was wrong.

In death, Michael Jackson’s star continues to rise. The tabloids and other magazines plaster his pale, unnatural-looking face across their covers, once again pointing up the extreme lengths to which the man went to change his appearance, to try and become something other than what he was born to be. Officials in high places want decrees honoring him in a very public way, and online petitions circulate, asking for a national holiday. A bankrupt city spends more than a million dollars to help put on a festive funeral for a guy who died of a drug overdose. Words like “greatest” and “king of pop” and “icon” are used liberally, as his praises are sung loud and long.

I just don’t get it. What is it about this guy that is even remotely heroic? What constitutes the character of a hero? Fame, or fortune? He certainly had both of those, but is that what it takes?

There’s a man in our county who picks up trash along the roadsides. I don’t know his name, but I know his face for I see him out there, working away in every season. He always has a smile and a little wave for passersby. For years now, he has been cleaning up our roadsides, helping keep our county beautiful.

I heard about another man, but again, I don’t even know his name. He makes teddy bears for kids who are in auto accidents and gives them to highway troopers to keep in their cars, to use when needed. According to the trooper I know, this man doesn’t want his actions lauded, he just wants to do something nice for kids in need.

A couple of weeks ago I heard about another guy, one who delivered Meals on Wheels to shut-ins in our county for 12 years. Every single week, rain, snow or shine, he showed up, loaded up his car and headed out on his mission. He never missed a week. There is money to reimburse drivers for their mileage, but this fellow always gave it back, never keeping a penny for compensation. Now, I know this guy, have known him for years, but I didn’t know this about him. He doesn’t want recognition, just wants to do something nice for others who need it.

Then there is the woman who sews for newborn babies in need. She makes burial gowns for needy ones who don’t make it, for she cannot bear to think of a little one never having a dress of its own. No one ever sees these little garments, but they are dainty and precious, sewn with loving care.

There’s the one who regularly takes communion to shut-ins, and the one who visits the prison, offering encouragement and a bit of cheer to those who feel utterly hopeless. There’s the widow who lives on a fixed income but uses what she can…her ability to pray…to lend her support to those in need. There’s the woman who plays the organ at funerals any time she is asked. Any gratuity she receives goes into her church’s offering plate. There’s the couple who make rounds at the nursing home each week, stopping to speak to those who can no longer answer back but who still smile at a personal touch.

I know each of these people and others like them. The reward for their work is not measured in dollars and cents, in public recognition or in power. They are my heroes, unsung though they may be. Their actions will never make headlines, but they will make a difference, in a good and positive way. Heroic, indeed.

                                                                 (Two fun-loving cousins, Wyatt and Lucy)

We’ve had the Lovely Lucinda Jane with us the past week, and what fun it has been! Her mommy, daddy and big sister are in Greece and Turkey with a group of Sarah’s students and their families, but they don’t have anything on us, for we’ve been to Rome every night this week! Lucy’s visit coincided with our church’s Vacation Bible School, the theme of which was a visit to Ancient Rome, home of the early church.

(They made leather bracelets, above)

(dancing is part of praise….chariot riding is just for fun!)

           (Learning Gray Squirrel with Sue Ann, dressing in togas)

Lucy made new friends and got to enjoy being with cousin Wyatt. There were new songs and Bible stories to learn and lots of music, music, music!

This day is simply beautiful, cool and dry, so we have spent some time outside, admiring the landscape after several days of rain showers.

The flowers aren’t as pretty as Lucy, but they are looking better after the generous watering from Above.

Being on the farm means having lots of friends to visit, even if they aren’t of the human sort.

We had to go to the store, and even a Mimi with lots of grit and determination sometimes has to give in….fake jewels look absolutely fabulous on just the right model!

After we put on the jewels, she wanted to dress up in a fancy dress.

I pulled out this one that Emma wore in Aunt Sus’s wedding seven years ago….it’s the perfect fit! Wonder if it might work for Aunt Buzz’s wedding, which is coming right up?

Getting this dress out of the closet reminded me of a smocking friend I know who’s also a xanga blogger. www.xanga.com/Jude1_22 is a friend I’ve made online because of our mutual love of this craft. How exciting it was when I learned she is practically a neighbor, too! I’ve even bought some of her daughter’s delicious baked goodies at a nearby farmer’s market and didn’t even know of the connection. She’s getting ready to open an Etsy shop and would love to have you check it out. I’ll keep you posted…

While our little guest is napping (much against her will!) I’d better get back to the kitchen. Two sour cream pound cakes need to be made right away; they’ll be topped with fresh peaches and whipped cream for a bridal shower for Aunt Buzz on Sunday afternoon, and then it’s on to the next round of pre-wedding festivities for our nephew and cousin….I’ve decided this is the Year of the Wedding. Wonder if that’s what the calendar says in China???? It sure says it on MY calendar!

Happy Summer!

                      Happy Birthday, Mom!

                 July 7 was a special day…my mom’s 75th birthday!

This called for a small celebration….

                           Wyatt put the candles on the cake

                          and after we sang, she blew them out!

It was a surprise party! Her Friday Night Cards group helped me surprise her, the first surprise party Mom had ever had. I told her we would pick her up at 6:30 to go out to eat. Instead, we descended upon her and nearly overwhelmed her. I brought a party in a basket, complete with snacks, drinks, cake and flowers for the table. And after a little game of “How well do you know 1934?”, (here’s a little trivia for you…Bonnie and Clyde once bought gas at Romance, just a stone’s throw from where I live?!) it was time to play pitch!

We left them to their cards, and I think they had a great time, playing for hours.

                         Irene and granddaughter Sus

                       Jean dealing a hand of 14-point pitch…

                        Loretta pondered a play….

                         Helen is happy….she had a good hand!

Hope you have many happy returns of the day, Mom! Wish I could look as fabulous as you at 75!

I think I’ve done pretty well, on the whole, in adjusting to farm life.

                                     (Sunrise over silo this morning)

After almost 40 years, you’d think I would have accepted all the things with which farm wives must come to terms. For example, I learned, long ago, that farmers work all the time, not 8 to 5. And when farmers aren’t actually working, they are thinking about work. Just because a farmer appears to be watching a television show does not mean he’s really listening to it. And just because he looks at me when I ask him something does not mean he really heard my question. Me: “Honey, I was wondering if we might talk about this carpet. Don’t you think it’s time we replaced it? Just look at all the stains! Honey?” Him, after several seconds of silence and looking blankly at me: “You know, that 4450 is giving me fits. I think we’re going to have to trade it pretty soon. I’m wondering if a Kubota might not be just as good as a John Deere, for what we use it for. Do you think you could look on your computer and see if you could find a good used one?”

                             (Stormy western sky…bumpy backbone of GladeTop in distance)

I learned, early in wedded life, that farms are dirty places to live. There is mud, dust, and yuck…lots of yuck! And most of it comes home with him. He wears it like garments, on his skin, his clothing and especially his boots. If a farm wife wants to be picky about her housekeeping, she’ll be a frustrated farm wife. I’ve often been frustrated but I’ve learned to get over it.

                              (Rainbow…the reward of weathering a storm)

I learned, from the start, that weather is a vital force in a farmer’s life. It’s how we begin our day, watching the news and mostly the weather, and it’s how we end it. I’ve stood outside, beside my farmer, watching the southwestern sky, praying for rain, for a drenching on parched crops. And I’ve stood beside him, facing the same direction, praying for the rain to go somewhere else, to give him a little more time to get up the much-needed hay. Extreme heat requires extra caution for livestock and for humans, as does extreme cold. Wind can blow away, in the span of a few seconds, the result of years of hard labor and can require much more hard work to clean up its mess. I’ve watched baby calves, nearly dead after being born in a freezing rain, brought back to life by almost super-human efforts of a farmer. And I’ve sat beside him, white-knuckled and tense, as we drove over the iciest, most dangerous roads imaginable, barely managing to stay out of the ditch, to get to the home of an employee who didn’t have the nerve to drive, because the cows must be milked, horrendous weather or not.

               (Mr. Mockingbird did his best to fool me with a rendition of Mr. Bob-White’s call.)

The phrase, “fast food,” has its place on the farm, but not as you might expect. No, it doesn’t mean driving through McDonald’s down on the corner. I’ve learned it means rushing into the kitchen to throw together sandwiches and fixing a quart jar of iced tea to send to the hay field because suddenly there’s a big rush to finish before that rain gets here. Or it means dashing in, sitting down at the table to my lovingly prepared meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, then wolfing it down in minutes without even tasting it, because the load of corn that was supposed to come at 9 showed up at noon and the driver is impatiently waiting. I’ve learned to always have some basic things on hand, the makings for a fast, good meal, for the inevitable, “That cattle buyer is still here from Iowa, so I’ve asked him to stay for lunch.” And I know better than to fix anything that won’t keep for a little while; when I have supper ready at 6, it’s likely to be 7 or 8 before it gets touched.

(Peppy and Bandit were sad to be left behind this morning…tomorrow is THEIR day)

The long, seven-day work weeks, cancelled social plans, arriving late to church or school events…I’ve gotten used to them. They are part of our lives, and I try to go with the flow, whichever way it carries me. But there is one thing about farm life that this farm wife has not adjusted to….I still hate the early mornings. By nature, I just am not an early riser. Everyone has a personal, built-in alarm clock, and mine is NOT set for 4:30 a.m. Now, I don’t care anything about sleeping late; I’d have trouble, if I ever got the chance, with lying in bed until 8 a.m. But how about 6:30? Or 7? That is about right for this farm wife who has a lot of difficulty falling asleep at night.

                         (I finally got the weeds out of the garden so I can show it to you!)

The problem arises every summer, when the days are longer and first light starts creeping into the eastern sky at around 5:00 a.m. The farmer in the family thinks along the same lines as the rooster down in the henhouse….it must be time to rise and shine! He hops out of bed, cheerful and ready to visit. Coffee cup in hand, he likes for us to sit outside on the screen porch, listening to the sounds of nature as it awakens, not noticing that I have yet to awaken. Then, we move to the living room where the morning news requires much conversation. “What do you think about that Madoff? Do you think the judge will give him what he deserves?” “If the price of oil keeps going up, I wonder if we shouldn’t trade that truck for a diesel. Do you think it would pay to do that?” “If the weatherman says a fifty-percent chance of rain, should I go on and cut that field or wait till tomorrow? Do you suppose it’s going to rain today?” I sit in mostly silence, trying to keep my eyelids open, occasionally managing a monosyllabic reply….it’s just too early for sentences.

                                    (Dew on raspberries)

This week it’s time to work cattle, and early morning is decidedly the best time for this hard, hot work, so we roll out at 4:30 and the day begins. There is a box lunch to be fixed, water jugs to be filled, supplies to be gathered, horses to be caught and saddled, and last-minute directions given. And after the hustle and bustle and the trucks pull out, headed for a hard day’s work, there is a sweet reward for this early riser. As quiet once again descends on our valley, I notice the mist rising over the alfalfa field. The scent of honeysuckle sweetens the morning air. I walk to the garden and, as the sun peeks over the horizon, see the dew glisten on the ripening raspberries. The owl across the creek is calling a last “hoo-hoo-a-hoo,” as he prepares to rest throughout the day. The bob-whites talk sweetly to each other, and a pair of cardinals come out of the thicket in the ditch and check to see if the chickens missed any grains of cracked corn yesterday. The beauty of it all seeps gently into my soul.

(See the Diamond T brand on his left hip? Stan chose this as the ranch brand when he was 15.)

As the mama bluebird, three perfect warmed eggs tucked into her nest, flutters out of their little house beside the garage and begins her daily routine, I head back up the hill to begin mine, and I think to myself, “Maybe I could get used to this getting up early. It’s really not so bad, once I’m up…” After 40 years, I might be getting used to this.

It’s our church’s week to help at the Senior Center, and my job is to deliver Meals on Wheels a couple of days. Yesterday I made my first run, and as I was driving home, I couldn’t help but think about how this simple little task has allowed AmericanJanet to see a side of my America that I usually manage to avoid.

First delivery: a mother and daughter who share a home. The daughter is mentally challenged, but I noticed her nails when she took the food from my hands. Perfectly manicured, possibly false, probably a professional job. How does someone who qualifies for Meals have a manicure? 

Third delivery: a lady I’ve known for many years, the sweetest soul. Never learned to drive, so when her husband passed away, she truly found help with Meals delivered. This is such a good thing!

Fourth delivery: start taking deep breaths as I turn into the long driveway. The house sits atop a knob that overlooks our beautiful lake, and the property is probably worth a small fortune. But the house is in a state of dismal and total disrepair. Screens torn, trash piled everywhere, weeds and grass probably harboring snakes and other vermin. But the worst thing is the smell. I take a good deep breath as I walk to the door and knock. No answer. That means he’s gone this morning, so, per instructions on my sheet,  I step back, take another REALLY big breath and dash in…hurry across the dark room to the kitchen, put the food in the fridge, trying not to look at the countertops, then hurry back out and gratefully gasp fresh air outside. This is the first time he’s been gone, so it’s the first time I’ve not had to breathe in that house. But I can still smell it outside. It’s hard to imagine how someone can live, breathing air like that. Surely the stench carries bacteria and who knows what? But I noticed something else as I hurried across the living room….an electric organ. There was music on the stand. Someone, him or another who is long gone, once played music in that house. What did it smell like then, with music in the air?

Fifth delivery: I drive down a narrow dirt lane and turn into the yard of a simple Ozarks farmstead. The son’s car is gone, so I carry food to the door and knock. A weak-sounding voice bids me to enter. Sitting in an old-fashioned straight chair, dressed in clean overalls and a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt, he smiles his toothless smile and waves with the flyswatter in his hand. I speak loudly because he’s nearly deaf: Shall I put this on your kitchen table? He grins and agrees, watching me through watery, age-dimmed eyes. At 101, this fellow is prototypical Ozarks, to me. Sturdy, long-lived, enduring, unchanging…as I bid him goodbye, I wonder if he’ll be sitting just like that on Friday when I return. I fervently hope so.

Seventh delivery: I step over empty beer cans as I enter the squalid trailer. This man is reed-thin, cigarette in hand. He barely has the strength to lift himself from the chair to open the door. I’ve learned he’s an alcoholic, and the stuff is literally killing him. He looks very old, but I wonder if he’s really past 60. Bless his heart today.

Ninth delivery: A sweet lady tries to keep her two little dogs inside as I hand food through the screen. Just down the street, an eruption of ear-splitting barks and howls from many dogs causes her two canine friends to get excited. She frowns, making sure her pets stay in, then tells me of the incredibly awful situation next door. The electricity is now off. The trailerhouse is so filled with dog feces that the people had to move out and now live in a tiny travel trailer sitting nearby. Several dogs of unknown breed jump, bark, howl and scramble in a makeshift pen, probably starving and perhaps smelling the food I’ve brought to this neat home. And a young girl goes out to calm them down. I wonder, throughout the rest of the day, what to make of this….and what to do…

Twelfth delivery: The man thanks me profusely as I bring his meal to the door. He acts surprised (as he does every time) that someone is actually bringing him food! Thanks me over and over as I head back to my vehicle. I smile to myself as I think back to what my trainer told me. This fellow, also a probable alcoholic, has a propensity to go clothes-less, but when he learned he couldn’t receive Meals sans clothes, he manages to keep them on, at least for delivery time. I’m so thankful he remembers!!!

Fourteenth delivery: This house is new to my route, and I’m delighted to see it.  It’s such a neat place….lots and lots of flowers around, evidently the home of someone who loves to work in the garden. When she answers the door, the first thing I notice is the missing arm…amputated, evidently, at the shoulder. But she is so sweet and thankful and I compliment the flowers and her beautiful handiwork. As I walk back to car, I can’t help but wonder how she did all this. How do you put plants in the ground with one hand? From the looks of things, she has many years experience.

I usually make photos the focus of my blog, but obviously, there are no pictures with this post. These people will hopefully remain anonymous. But they are teaching me some lessons I need to learn. I’m looking forward to school on Friday…