….Hello?

Oh! The old swimmin’-hole! Whare the crick so still and deep

Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,

And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below

Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know

Before we could remember anything but the eyes

Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;

But the merry days of youth is beyond our control

And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.

Gracious, no, I didn’t remember it by heart; I had to look it up. But I would hate to part forever with going to a swimmin’-hole!

Guess I’d better get busy this morning. There’s mowing and trimming when the yard dries off, but until then I’ll head up to my sewing room. I’m trying to sew up some sweet things for Susannah’s new little one who is coming in just a month! The doctor says he will perform a C-section on September 24. Hadn’t I told you she’s having a little girl? Isn’t that perfectly perfect? A little sister for Wyatt! Unless they change their minds, she and Derek have decided to name her Adalyn Ann. Her monogram will be all As. Yes, remember that Derek’s mom is Lynn, and his grandmother is Adda. They’ve changed the spelling a bit but it sounds the same. I think they plan to call her Addie…isn’t that cute?

No, you haven’t kept me from a thing….call anytime. I love these nice, long visits…it isn’t often that we get to just chat, and we had lots to catch up on! I’m always so happy to hear from you! Give my love to everyone and hope to see you soon!

’Bye!

….I’ve never been the queen of anything before, but I’ve always said that if there was a competition for the Queen of Laundry, I might have a shot at winning.

Laundry is a constant in my life and has been for the entire 38 and one-half years of our marriage. This job is as much a part of my routine as getting up each morning and brushing my teeth. Some days there are three or four loads and some days fewer, but it is the rare day, indeed, when there is not at least one load of laundry that must be washed in our home.

Of course, living on a farm is a big part of why I do laundry. When we undress at the end of the day, there is simply not the option of hanging our clothes back up for another day’s wear. No way. Too much dirt.

Ah, dirt… such a mild, benign-sounding little four-letter word. How misleading!And though there is a certain amount of good, old-fashioned dirt involved in the challenges of my laundry basket, the word doesn’t even begin to touch upon the myriad of contaminants, impurities and just plain filth that a farmer can wear by the end of the day.

Crawling on the ground under a clogged-up baler in the hayfield does provide the opportunity for some soil to be ground into a sweat-soaked shirt. That shirt I can get clean, because it will respond to old-fashioned soap and water. It’s the one that he wears when he’s crawling around on the shop floor, under the tractor with the stopped-up fuel filter that presents a few problems. This shirt, with its gobs of grease, dousing of diesel fuel and mud brought in on the tractor tires, mixed all together, is the one that gives me a headache.

For years, I’ve begged my husband to be extra careful handling diesel fuel. Even a slight spill on a garment, when thrown into a washer full of other dirty jeans and work shirts, will contaminate the whole load, and if one then throws the works into the dryer, the heat makes it all stink to high heaven. The only real remedy I’ve found for diesel fuel smell is pure sunshine and fresh air. Enough time hanging outside will eventually rid garments of that lingering aroma, if one is patient. One day is not enough, and winter can be a particularly difficult time.

Mechanical issues are just the tip of the difficult-laundry iceberg. From equipment, let’s move our discussion to livestock and the laundry issues they create. Anyone who has been around cattle knows they have a propensity to excrete, defecate and urinate when in close contact with humans. *IT* happens. Unfortunately, I have been the victim of this sort of close encounter, and I keep a watchful eye at all times on any animals around which I am working. I’ve gotten quite adept at dodging, jumping or, at the very least, turning my back. It just isn’t pleasant to be splattered with poop and etc.

But my husband doesn’t seem to have the same aversion to wearing animal waste. Perhaps it is because he is required to have more physical contact with the animals and simply cannot do his job without the inevitable side effects.

I have learned to make certain secret concoctions of cleaners, pre-treatments, and scrubs that will usually take care of this type of organic stain. But there is one that, like diesel fuel, has been the bane of my laundry-goddess existence. It is the sleeve, and if you have worked around cows you’ll know what I mean.

We have mama cows that must raise babies in order to earn their right to live on our farm, eat our feed and enjoy our protection. If, when checking the cows twice a year, a mama has no calf and is not visibly, unquestionably expecting a calf, she must be checked. I remember the first time I learned what this procedure demanded; I nearly fainted. I was young and innocent. Now, after decades of witnessing first-hand this necessary part of farm life, it has become so commonplace that I don’t even give the preg-checking a second thought…until time to wash the shirt that the preg-checker wears.

I try to meet my husband at the back door and ask him to immediately remove the offensive garment before it enters our home. If it is a nice, warm day, holding the shirt at arm’s length I dash to the nearest outside faucet and give it a high-power wash, getting off all that is loose. Then it gets a presoak in a bucket in the utility sink with some of my secret stuff. Finally, into the laundry for a hot wash, and voila! Only a slight green cast to that sleeve indicates how it was abused.

Now, does anyone remember the good old days before there were disposable diapers? If you are that old, you’ll know how I deal with that shirt in coldest winter, when the outside faucet is not an option. Indoor plumbing is a good thing.

Today, I’ve been working on something that has the Queen stumped. My husband wore his favorite white t-shirt last Saturday. It was a nice, relaxing afternoon, and he was supposed to watch the ballgame, read his book and get some rest. Instead, he slipped outside, wearing this pure, soft white shirt, and decided to work on his old boat. The result is a spot of blackest grease, right in front, that I was not aware of until AFTER it had gone through one wash cycle.

A farmer’s wife cannot afford to cower before a challenge. Thus, I’ve Cloroxed, Shouted, Oxy-cleaned, hand-soaped, Fantastic-ed, Cascaded, Gained, and nail-polish-removered, in all sorts of combinations and applied with a brush. I even resorted to mineral spirits…all to no avail. That little spot, the size of the end of a pencil eraser, is still there, slightly faded but still black.

I guess it is time to relinquish my crown.

 …another granddaughter has come to visit us!

 Emma, 8 years old and full of unquenchable spirit, fun and intelligence, is staying the week. Emma’s little sister, Lucy, who visited us for two weeks in July, will be going to preschool at the school where Sarah teaches, both starting tomorrow. Emma’s classes don’t begin until next Monday. So we get to enjoy her for her last few days of summer.

If I can’t find Emma, I know where to look…down the hill and over to the horse pasture. She is completely enamored with these beauties, and she has especially bonded with Peppy. In fact, Emma feels as if Peppy is her very own.

She can ride him all around the place, with no fear or trepidation….but it would help if we had a child’s saddle, the stirrups of which would fit her! No matter….she says she can ride bare-horse (her term) just as well as with a saddle.

And if I don’t find her brushing the horses’ manes with my favorite comb or feeding them sugar cubes to make them smile, she’ll more than likely be somewhere with Chip. (“Give me some sugar cubes, too, please!”)  He’s a year older than Emma and has endless patience and love for all the children who come his way. Chip seems to sense that little ones are special, and he treats them just that way.

When the sun goes down, then I know to look behind the cover of a book for Emma, for it’s a sure thing she has her nose deep in one. Right now, she is reading Little House on the Prairie, a copy that belonged to her own mama when she was eight years old. 

Sarah’s childish script is right on the front page, letting all the world know the owner of this special set of books. I wonder if Emma might enjoy a visit to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum and Home at nearby Mansfield this week? It is where Laura lived when she began her writing career, and after a childhood and early marriage of moving from place to place, this is where she lived out the rest of her life. Yes, I believe we might take a little trip up the road to see Laura’s beloved farmhouse. It never fails to inspire me, for you can almost feel her spirit there.

Occasionally, Emma can be found in front of the television, for she is very caught up the Olympic excitement of this particular time. Tonight she enjoyed the sychronized diving competition, but this is how Emma prefers to go into the pool!

We talked today of Chicago’s hope of hosting the Summer Olympics in 2016, and Emma thinks that might be a fine time to attend. I told her that her great-great-grandparents drove from Missouri to California, way back in 1932, to attend the festivities when Los Angeles was the host city. (I love this picture of them from that trip, Grandad in his plaid knickers and argyle socks, Grandmother in her hat)

Grandmother and Grandad Ebrite fell in love with California on that trip and vowed to return. In 1948, they moved to Pasadena, where teachers’ salaries could actually support a couple, and spent the rest of their lives there in the warm sunshine. What a fun place it was for a grandchild to visit!

I want to make our home and ranch a fun place for grandchildren to visit, too, just as my grandparents did for me. So, we’re thinking of ways to fill up this week. Of course, there will be chores to do and meals to prepare, but we’re going to make memories too. There are pictures to paint, a creek to swim in, great-grandmas to visit, fresh peaches to eat….

Hope you, too, have a really good, memory-making week!

…we all scream for ice cream!

And in our family, it’s the homemade variety for which everyone screams the loudest. But “scream” is too harsh a word to apply to something as sweet as this, so let’s change that to “beg.” And who’s the most insistent beggar of all? That distinction surely goes to my husband, for homemade ice cream has to be his favorite dessert in the whole wide world. Plain vanilla is the ice cream flavor of choice, so long as it is vanilla ice cream that I’ve mixed up by hand and frozen in our own freezer. Forget additions and variations and new recipes; don’t even think about messing with a good thing. Just give him the old standard and he’s happy, all the livelong day.

Ice cream is a long-standing tradition in our family in the summertime. It’s one of my special memories from childhood, to recall how my dad would go into the ice house at the old Standard Station, where big square chunks of ice sat amid sawdust, just waiting to help our cause. Out he would come with a choice block secured in his big ice tongs, and off we’d trot, to Great-Granny Bushong’s house, for she was the one who owned the ice cream freezer. Granny was also the one who owned the chickens that produced the large, fresh eggs, and the milk cow that produced the milk and rich cream, two essential components in the ice cream recipe.

The temperature was always nearing 100 degrees, and our two sets of grandparents were on hand, along with Granny and whoever else happened to be visiting, for this was a special treat reserved for special occasions. The womenfolk hurried to the kitchen to beat the eggs with the rotary beater, measure cream and milk, discuss just the right amount of sugar to add (most of the time it was two cups to the gallon), and add a tablespoon of Watkins vanilla, and then a little more, for good measure. Meanwhile, Dad and both grandads used a sharp ice pick on that block of ice, to chip off a big dish pan full of pieces that would fit into the freezer.

The ice cream was made on the back porch of Granny’s old two-story house, where everyone sat around, the women fanning, in ancient, low-to-the-ground, mule-ear chairs with creaking, woven-hickory bottoms. Background music was provided by the bees buzzing in the nearby grape arbor, and the heavy air was laden with the dank, smoky smell that always emanated from the smoke house out in the side yard.When the churn was filled, the chipped ice and lots of stock salt were layered around it, and cranking began. It was easy at first, and that’s when I would help turn, fast and faster, to make the ice cream ready sooner! But that wasn’t how it worked. Like all good things, it takes time to make good ice cream, and slow and steady wins this race, too. The men were the ones who kept at it, sometimes asking one of my brothers to sit on top to help hold the freezer, until the crank would no longer turn, and by that time they had all worked up a good sweat from their efforts.

But the reward was worth it! No store-bought ice cream could compare with the rich, creamy taste of homemade ice cream, eaten in the shade on a late summer afternoon, with the grownups wondering if we’d be sick after our third bowlful. Not even one melted drop of this goodness went to waste, for it was just as good to drink as it was to eat.

Not much has changed today, except for the fact that our ice is bought in bags full of little cubes, rendering the old ice pick into an antique. And our ice cream freezer now has two options. If there are plenty of hands handy and we want to really do it the old fashioned way and get a good, firm set of the ice cream, we’ll use the hand crank. But if there are no extra turners handy, I let electricity help me out. I simply plug it in, and voila! Fabulous sweetness in 30 minutes, and no hand cranking!

Now, there are two schools of thought when it comes to preparing the ice cream: to cook or not to cook the custard before freezing it. The question involves the safety of consuming raw eggs, and this is a valid consideration. We consider the fact that our eggs come from our chickens, we know exactly their “born-on” date, and we know that enough time never elapses for something bad to happen to our eggs. Thus, we feel safe in continuing the time-honored tradition of not cooking the mixture. I’m not advocating this method, only saying that we’ve never gotten sick, and we prefer the taste of the uncooked custard.

Yesterday we celebrated some July birthdays with a family get-together, so I made a freezer of ice cream before church, then scooped it out into a big bowl to go in the deep freeze to keep until serving time. While I was mixing up the ice cream, I thought of how Dave and Steve Morrison told me about growing up out on Pine Creek. The only time they had ice to make the treat was in winter, when huge icicles would form on the bluffs above their house. Their mother, Miss Earlene, would send some of the brothers to gather big chunks of ice into tow sacks to bring home, while she prepared the ice cream mix. I wondered if Miss Earlene (my beloved third and fourth grade teacher) made it like my family’s recipe.

For our birthday gathering, I served the ice cream atop homemade pound cake and fresh sliced peaches.

Here’s how I made the ice cream yesterday, the same way my mother and grandmothers always did:

6 large, fresh eggs, well-beaten

2 cups sugar

1-2 cups heavy cream (depending on how rich you like it–the richer, the better, as far as we are concerned!)

1-2 tablespoons of vanilla (I use 2)

Enough whole milk to fill up the churn

Beat the sugar, cream and vanilla into the eggs, making sure the sugar is completely dissolved, and pour into the freezer’s container. Add enough milk to bring level with the fill line (mixture expands during freezing, so leave enough space for this) and stir until well blended. Freeze according to ice cream maker’s directions.

Hope you have plenty of sweet opportunities to enjoy this quintessential summer treat!

July 24, 1925

My Dear Bobbie,

     Is it hot there in Ava? We have been suffering terrible here at Brixey with a prolonged spell of drouthy conditions, but things are looking brighter this week. Last evening lightning and thunder filled the air, and before they subsided, the countryside was soaked and washed fresh and clean. It is a relief today to breathe cooler, fresher air.

     The storm is not the only news of yesterday. I believe you will be happy to learn that Frank and I have been blessed with a new baby girl. She was born in the morning, when the sun was coming up, long before those storm clouds gathered. I expect her to have a disposition to go along with the view out our bedroom window when she was coming into this old world.

     Our tiny daughter is to be called Julia Anna, after my dear departed mother. I am thirty-seven years of age and fully expect this to be our last child. Mama was forty-four years when she bore me, and I came along well after she intended on adding to the family. Your dearly beloved husband Landon was already seven years of age when I showed up at the back door, and brother Baxter was the ripe age of eleven, so Mama had despaired of ever having a little dolly to dress up. I felt much the same way before this little angel came along. I believe that I know how my own mother felt to be given a little girl late in life. So it seems fitting that I shall call her for Mama.

     Ruskin and Lois seem happy to share our affections for this small child. Lois has already been such a help to me in this confinement, bringing me whatever she can and seeing to the baby’s needs as much as a girl of seven can do. Ruskin thinks he is much too old to be catering to an infant, but I’ve noticed the tender glances he gives her, and he has even soothed her when I was ill this morning. He has now gone to chore for me, and Lois will see to the kitchen as best she can.

     I must tell you that I truly wished for my dear Mama on the day before yesterday. As the hours extended into the evening and the baby refused to be born, I could not help but think of my grandmother, Katie, who travailed with twins, those many years ago back in Indiana. To labor and labor, to see tiny girls, one after the other, finally come into the world demanding food and protection, and then to simply not be able to live to provide it must have been heart-rending, indeed. It defies imagination to know how Grandfather Brown managed to keep the little orphans alive.

     And then to think of how he bravely tucked them into the old black kettle, placed them aboard the old wooden wagon and started forth for a new land, with them not yet walking or even creeping, is more than I can think of. After arriving in these dark, forbidding hills and finding no home, only a cave in which to take shelter that first winter, Grandfather must have been mighty happy to see the spring of 1846 arrive. I believe Mama must have been made of stern stuff to have survived such a difficult beginning! It is my prayer that my own little one, now bearing her name, will be cut from the same cloth.

     Frank has gone to his mother’s this morning, to see to her needs. As you know, she is not slack in making demands on her nearest and favorite child. Mother Mahan does have some trouble with her eyes, making it unpleasant for her to be alone. She consented to come to our home two days ago, to assist with bringing this little one forth, so I should not begrudge his help to her. I felt unwell all that day, and Frank fetched her here at dusk, believing the birth to be imminent. It happened to be a long night of travail, and by sunrise of yesterday I was nearly done for. Thankfully, I was able to produce the child in good health. I am still ill and will be, I am certain, for many days.

     I can see through the window that my garden has revived since the rain. With so much work to be done in July, I am wondering how I can possibly ignore the tasks that await me. But await me, they must, for Mother Mahan says I must lie abed for two weeks, after which time I will surely be ready to rouse, if I can only do so.

     I’m sure you know that Baxter and Nan came on Sunday, driving down from Ava in their new motor car, which was of the greatest interest to Ruskin. He declares he will have one once he goes off to college and becames a professor. Since he keeps his nose in a book most nights, I believe he will succeed in his dream.

     I butchered two fat roosters and made a kettle full of chicken and dumplings. That, along with truck from the garden, fed us very well. As I was feeling like swooning with the heat, Nan did up the dishes, letting me rest my swollen feet.

     Lyda and Byron came down from Rockbridge, too, and brought little Billy. Lyda can scarcely let the little fellow out of her sight, but after seeing her lose the older three children to measles, I know her fear. The tales of the cholera that is raging around this nation frighten me to the bone, and I’ve asked Frank to tend the hogs instead of letting Ruskin do it.

     It is my fondest desire that you and Landon will be able to make the trip to visit us sometime soon, to meet your niece. Nan told me of the beautiful stock of goods you have in the store this season, and perhaps you’d bring a yard or two for a new little dress for Julia Anna.

     Speaking of making dresses, I spent all day Tuesday, the 21st, sewing burial garments for the late Mrs. Smith of Souder. She succumbed that morning, and because of the extreme heat, the burial must needs take place immediately. Her young grandson rode his mare over with the family’’s request, and there was nothing to be done but sew while he waited. The beans got themselves canned while stitches were made.

     I’m hoping the cabbages will survive in the cellar until I am back on my feet. There will be no kraut cutting for a while!

     Bobbie, you and my brother must try and stay indoors during the middle of the day so as to not get overly heated. We’ve heard of many heat strokes among the neighbors who are threshing. Frank says they will be here within two weeks. I must be able to cook for the men by that time.

Your loving sister-in-law,

Mary Frances

Happy Birthday to my dear Mother-in-Law, Julia Anna Mahan Taber, 7-23-25, daughter of the equally dear Mary Frances Gaulding Mahan, who was born 7-07-1888 and passed away 5-29-1980. She would have been 120 on her last birthday.

…I am on the wagon. It has been three four long, tense days since I’ve had one, and I’m beginning to feel slightly desperate, so maybe it’s time to join a support group. Does anyone know of a chapter of Potato Chip Eaters’ Anonymous????

I love potato chips. There, I admit it. I’ve said it out loud, announced it to all xangaland. I don’t just like them a lot; I have an ardent, flaming, passionate romance with the crispy morsels of yumminess. And like most aholics, I’m not picky. I love plain ones, smooth ones, wavy ones, barbecued, vinegared, cheesy, fried, baked, formed from who-knows-what, cheap, expensive, fresh or stale, imported or exported, New England-style, Southwestern style, any style that can be bought by a woman in need….I love them all!

Like so many adult issues, this unhealthy relationship goes back to my childhood. When my brothers and I were kids, Mom let us eat chips with our bologna sandwiches any old time we wanted to. She neglected to tell us of the facts of life….that there is absolutely no redeeming value to this particular food group and that eating them is quite habit-forming. I’m not blaming my mother, but she really did nothing to stop my growing (no pun intended) problem.

Through the years, there were others, either knowingly or unwittingly–I can’t really say– who helped perpetuate my addiction. One person, in particular, was a certain baby-sitter who stayed with us from time to time. I won’t name names because it is dangerous to finger-point in a small town (who knows what she’d say about me?), but I’ll just say that this “Pam” taught me a fancy potato-chip trick or two, including the fact that there is more than one way to dip besides the traditional and always delectable sour-cream/onion mixture. A dollop of ketchup works really well in a pinch. Her serving dish of choice? A saucer: fill the circle in the middle with ketchup and then overlap the perfect little circles of salty, oily deliciousness all around the edge. What a pretty picture it made!

When I was about 11 and she was worldly-wise at 14, “Pam” and I sat out on my old front porch one day and talked about the deep meaning of life. Our discussion turned to food. “If you were stranded on a desert island and could have only one single thing to eat, what would you choose?” I asked her.

Without hesitation came “Pam’s” answer: “Potato chips!” And of course, I agreed whole-heartedly. They were already my number one choice of snack food, side dish and midnight treat; who would even think of living on an island without them? And since I idolized “Pam” with a pre-teen’s heroine-worship, in those two succinct words, she sealed my fate. I’d love potato chips forever if “Pam” loved them.

Years went by, and my addiction grew. I became a mother and, alas, failed to teach my own children of the harmful effects of indulging. They all grew up eating potato chips alongside their sandwiches, whatever the filling, and each one has in turn become somewhat of an addict, too. And now that there are grandchildren in the picture, this threatens to become a three-generation problem. When two-year-old Lucy was visiting last week, I could see the signs: she managed to open the pantry door all by herself and, passing over the Oreos, fruit snacks, and cereal bars, picked up the bag and proudly said, “Mimi, I need chips!” I’d forgotten to hide them in my usual secret place.

I’ve tried many times down through the years to give up potato chips. I’ve taken a vow in front of the mirror (after trying to zip up my jeans that suddenly seem to have shrunk), I’ve written in my journal about my determination, I’ve read everything I could find about the ill effects, and I’ve given myself pep talks as I walked down the chip aisle at the grocery store, (I will NOT buy chips today! I will NOT buy chips today!) But my feeble, half-hearted efforts have all been to no avail. So I think it is finally time to say that I cannot do this on my own.

Just where and when does PCEA meet????

 ….summer means fun with cousins!

  …a thunderstorm came through late Saturday night, scouring the atmosphere of last week’s haze and humidity.

Sunday morning reveals the gift of a clear sky, decorated only with a few wispy gossamer clouds, and cooler air. This day stands as an island in the middle of July; as we approached it, we sailed through rainy, stormy, wet weather, and when we get past it we’ll again paddle against the typical oppressive heat of midsummer. But just for a while, we’ll rest on this little oasis of an island, basking in its gifts.

(Above, lush maidenhair fern grows out of a bluff with cold spring water below)

Early morning is still, with not even a breeze to stir the canopy of leaves on the trees or the long-stemmed grasses in the meadow. In a remote and rugged place on the farm, one could stand and shout all day long and no one would hear. There is no sign of human existence, other than the ramshackle old house that sinks down, inch by inch, into the arms of the earth. An overwhelming silence pervades…

…until one stops to listen. With no radio or machinery or human voice to interfere, what seems, at first, like perfect silence soon turns into a cacophony of nature’s busyness.

Close by, the incessant buzzing of insects soon becomes apparent. Bees, wasps, all manner of bugs are hard at work, doing what insects do to survive. If one could hear with butterfly ears, one would know a raucous work day is in progress. Right at one’s feet, young yellow grasshoppers are feasting on a smorgasbord of foliage, chomping happily and hopping from stem to stem for the choicest morsels. Crickets chirping, cicadas fiddling in the nearby trees, a golden honeybee staking out his territory in a spread of large clover blossoms–imagine the energy that is being expended by all these tiny creatures!

Farther afield, crows are noisily scolding each other in a small grove of walnut trees. An Indian-head (pileated) woodpecker drums a rhythmic beat on the side of a dead oak tree. Warblers sing and call to each other, as they dart through the thickets. And behind all this racket, there is the soft ooh-wah, hoo-hoo-hooing of doves, sweetly providing a calming backdrop for all the twitter and chatter.

High overhead, a couple of buzzards are inscribing large circles in the sky as they search for breakfast. Rarely flapping their long, fringed wings, they are masters of conservation, floating effortlessly on air that seems to barely move. It is hypnotic to lean back and watch them drift, higher and higher, until they become but specks in the atmosphere.

Up on the ridge, mama cows lie in the tall grass in the shade of the trees, chewing and switching their tails against the flies. At the intrusion of humans, some of them bawl at their youngsters to come closer to home, but no one seems terribly excited. They are a pretty relaxed bunch.

The predominant color is green. With abundant rain this season, every tree, shrub and patch of grass is richly verdant and full.

Walnut trees that were barren last year are now pregnant, their branches weighted down with fall’s harvest.

                                                            Wild plums will soon ripen in the thicket.

Grapevines will hang heavy with fruit from the lush blossoming season.

Closer inspection of the meadow reveals a riot of the warm colors of summer’s flowers.

The paler, softer pastels of spring have given way to jewel tones: dark purples, deep yellows and vivid oranges. Butterflies tinted with variations of the same hues flit from flower to flower, drinking deeply, undisturbed by the footfalls of an ardent admirer.

Down the slope, at the foot of the hill, a clear, clean stream splashes over the rocks, providing a little more music for the soul.

Normally, by this time of year the flow would be reduced to a trickle, but rain has kept it running steadily this year.

                                                   Pollywogs (tadpoles),

           shiners (minnows–above, they’re sunning and have their shiny side up)

                    crawdads (crayfish–isn’t his camouflage good?),

pond skaters (water striders–the dark is his shadow…he is tiny and sits on top of the water),

                  and darning needles (dragon flies–one is sitting on the leaf)

unwittingly reveal the healthy ecosystem that exists in this place as they go about their business of simply living.

It is a morning to savor, this brief respite from summer’s usual fare. As I lift up my eyes unto these beloved Ozark hills, I know from whence comes this oasis of beauty and life. These are moments to savor.

…I’m takin’ over this here writin’ column for a while. The Lady on the Hill is busy right now, doing somethin’ she calls baby-settin’, so she asked me to take a shot at this bloggin’. I don’t know of any other roosters who blog, but then, I really don’t know any other roosters. Maybe I’m the first? And about that babysettin’: my gals set on eggs, but I sure hope that Lady don’t set on no baby.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Delbert and this here barnyard is my kingdom. That’s right, I’m the king of this place, and if you don’t believe me just ask any of these here gals. They know who’s in charge, and his name is Delbert!

Ain’t Delbert a grand name for a rooster? Funny thing is, I wasn’t always called Delbert. Way back when I first come to live in this here barnyard, she called me Della. Crazy, ain’t it? Seems the first thing the Lady did was start givin’ names to all of us. There was Bertha, Ollie, Arrie, Cleffie, Minnie, Mattie and Vergie…and me she called Della. Well, that went on for a while till I couldn’t stomach that Della business no longer, and I up and crowed right at her. Next thing you know, She was calling me Delbert. Boy, I showed her!

Them gals I just mentioned? Just so you know, they’re all mine. Yep, I got me quite a harem. These gals do as I say, anytime I say it, cause I rule this here roost. ‘Course, it ain’t all play and no work. I got to keep ‘em safe. They got bad habits, like wanderin’ away and scratchin’ for worms and bugs right out in the middle of the horse pasture. Seems like ever’time that happens, here comes a big old hawk, swoopin’ down and scatterin’ chickens all over the place. That’s when I go to work, gatherin’ ‘em up and chasin’em back into the bushes where it’s safe.

We’ve got lots a territory to cover around here. That Lady on the Hill made a fence to go around our house, but she wasn’t smart enough to know we’d just go under it. Then she spent a whole afternoon, drivin’ little stakes through the bottom edge to keep it down, but shucks, it wasn’t nothin’ to push those up. We’ve been out ever day of our lives, makin’ our ramble round this place. Me and the gals have got us a reg’lar routine.

The first thing we do is check to see what the horses didn’t eat. The Man feeds them every morning in their pasture, and sometimes they spill some of that good grain on the ground. Then we dig around in the hay and around the water tank, where we can usually find some good grubs.

By then it’s time for Bertha or one of the other gals to go lay an egg. They get back in the house, climb up in the nests and go to squawkin’, back and forth, encouragin’ each other like, till finally they get the job done and we can all get back to business. All I can say is, I’m glad I’m a rooster and don’t have to mess with layin’ no eggs.

We like to get our drinks from where the Lady waters her Dog and Cat. She has a big pan of water for us by the barn, but for some reason, it ain’t as good. The water up by the house is just better, so we go up and get us a good, long drink. Chickens can’t take in much at a time, so it takes us a while. We like to feel those drops run down the throat, nice and cool, especially on these hot summer days. And while we’re there, we check out the Dog and Cat dishes. Sometimes they might leave a little for us, if they’re feelin’ generous.

Now, this part may be a little delicate for some of you folks, so just plug up your ears if you don’t want to hear it. Right there on that nice brick patio is where we like to do our business, if you get my drift. Like humans, we like bein’ reg’lar as rain, and just after a good, deep drink is a fine time for us to relieve ourselves. Sometimes I think it must make the Lady mad, ‘cause she comes stormin’ out with her broom, but then sometimes I think she’s just a little tetched. After all, it’s just natural.

By now, me and the gals are about plumb tuckered, but we’ve got the finest nappin’ spot you ever saw! The Lady fixed it up just for us. It’s a shady little bed of flowers, all planted with hydrangeas and hostas and this little vine called a clematis that is so pretty. We get in that little bed and scratch us out some smooth little places and hunker down for a rest.

Every once in a while, the Lady forgets it is our place and she goes in there and plants some little flowers called impatiens all around, so we have to scratch those up and kick ‘em out into the yard. Then we have us quite a rodeo! That Lady comes out with that infernal broom again, hollerin’ and mad, tryin’ to sweep us outta our bed. I think she must really like that broom! But we just run off under the hill till she calms down and then we can go back and get our rest. We’ll have us one or two of those chases before she gives up and lets us have it to ourselves. It’s a mighty fine restin’ place, after all that hullabaloo.

We’ve got us another real good place the Lady lets us use; she calls it a garden and she spends a lot of time workin’ on it for us. Last week, she got out some big bales of straw, broke those up and scattered it all around the plants. But she forgot that we don’t like it too deep–that makes it hard to dig into the dirt and find worms and bugs. So we had us a mighty hard time of it, scratchin’ all that straw out into the yard. We knew it was gonna be a big job, so we got started soon as she quit and went back up the Hill. It took most of that afternoon, but the girls do what I say and they got it done. I kept tellin’ ‘em, Scratch! Scratch! and they did it. By evenin’, there was plenty of good, bare places opened back up for us.

But I’m here to tell you that Lady didn’t appreciate our efforts, not one bit! She came runnin’ down that hill, mad as an old hornet, and low and behold, if she didn’t grab up an old bucket and throw it right at me! Nearly hit me, too! Me and the gals had to duck and run for cover and stay hid in the ditch for a good, long while. Meanwhile, that Lady almost earned herself a new name. She was sputterin’ and spewin’ and said a few words that don’t really go with that Lady business.

But we’ve got our troubles all behind us now. The Lady seems to be all smiles and happy again, the reason bein’ that Bertha has gone to settin’. Yep, she’s plum broody, and I’m proudly makin’ the announcement here and now. Six nice big brown eggs are fixin’ to hatch, and soon there’ll be little peeps runnin’ all around the place.

But I’m here to tell you I surely hope we don’t have a repeat of what happened last year. Roosters can handle about any emergency that pokes its head in the henhouse, but there’s a few things that is just outta my control.

It was about this time last summer, and seems like it was Ollie settin’ then. The rest of us were workin’ away around the barn, when Mama set up a squawkin’ like you never heard in your life! I come a runnin’, with the other gals fast on my heels, but we stopped short at our little door. What we saw nearly struck me dumb! There was a big old black snake, all draped over the nestin’ boxes, trying to get Ollie to give up her babes. He’d already swallered two fresh eggs that a couple of the gals had laid, but that hadn’t satisfied him.

I found my voice, give the signal, and all of us went to hollerin’ and carryin’ on, squawkin’ and shriekin’ like the sky was fixin’ to fall. Some of the gals went to flutterin’, too. Lucky for Ollie and the peeps, the Lady was workin’ in her yard and heard us and come a runnin’. When she saw that monster, she commenced to squawkin’, too, and run up the Hill faster’n I ever seen her run before. Quick-like, here come the Man with a big stick in his hands, and before we could clear outta the way, BOOM, that big stick went off and scared that big blacksnake plumb to death.

It’s a pure wonder Ollie and her babies survived all the commotion, but they come outta those shells in a few days, fluffy and fine. Ollie did a good job being mama, but she had more than she could handle, so she turned one of the little ones over to Speckle, a newcomer from over Brixey way, who took right to the mama business.

Those little ones grew up to be mostly fine hens, but a couple of ‘em thought they’d horn in on my job, so they got sent to the neighbor’s. I don’t hear any crowin’ from up his way, and the gals have heard gossip about choppin’ blocks and wringin’ of necks, but I won’t tolerate that sort of speculation. It ain’t healthy.

Well, folks, I’ve got hens that need tendin’ to, so it’s time for Delbert to get back to work. I’m wonderin’ if they’d let me sign up for this here Xanga? If they do, I’ll call myself ozarksfarmchicken, ‘cause that’s surely what I am. It’s not been too hard for me to scratch out this little bit of writin’. I’ll be lettin’ you know when they’s more news from the farm yard. Y’all have yourselves a good old day, hear?

…as I watched a news broadcast last week, an enthusiastic reporter introduced some of the hottest technology to recently hit the market. She described items that I am certain I will never purchase, being so tech-challenged that I can barely operate our new television. But I watched the segment anyway, to see what wonderful gadgets I’ll never use.

One of the featured items the reporter raved about was a pair of athletic shoes with a GPS system embedded in the sole of the shoe.

“Hmmm,” I thought, “so, you take off your shoe to see where you’re globally positioned?”

The reporter quickly went on to explain that the idea was to have the ability to keep track of the wearer of the athletic shoes. She mentioned teenagers and senior citizens as possible culprits who might need tracking, and I was immediately struck with the absurdity of that idea. Is there a teenager anywhere who would not know to simply take off the shoes if he or she did not want his or her whereabouts tracked? Seniors, I’m not so sure about. Maybe that’s the target market.

GPS systems have spawned a whole new industry, now that they are being marketed to ordinary people instead of just the military and people into espionage. Catchy advertising makes it seem like such fun to be able to find one’s way around using coordinates, satellites and such concepts as triangulation. New vehicles come equipped with the system built right into them, and the pocket-sized ones are perfect to carry around, along with all your other everyday tech necessities, such as cell phone, notebook-sized computer and XM radio. But who really needs these things? It begs the question: have we forgotten how to read a map?

Maps are now being relegated to the attic, along with those boxes of antiquated calculators, typewriters, tape recorders, records and corded telephones. But once they were a valuable tool, especially when it came time for that wonderful event, the family vacation.

Remember how much fun it was, driving down the highway at 65 miles per hour, with all the windows rolled down? The July temperature soared to at least 100 degrees, and when you tried to slide across the vinyl upholstery, you found your bare, sweaty legs were stuck fast. Dad and Mom always got the front, and however many kids there were sat in the back, fighting over what percentage of the seat belonged to whom.

As a new city, never before visited, loomed in the distance, Mom would sit up a little straighter, turn off the scratchy radio, and caution the kids to keep quiet. It was time for her to do her job. Her mission: to steer Dad through the unfamiliar territory. She would unfold the deeply creased 4 ft x 4 ft square of paper, attempting to keep it from blowing away, and peer anxiously through her rhinestone-speckled sunglasses at the tiny print.

As highway interchanges whizzed by, Mom would press her foot deeper into the passenger floor, trying to slow Dad down. But now we were in a race. As lanes multiplied and cars flew by, he became determined to keep pace. Never mind that the county roads back home had done nothing to prepare us for the reality of a freeway. Never mind that our rural town didn’t even have one single stoplight, much less exit ramps. We were going with the flow.

Along we flew, Mom barking out turns and directions, Dad zigzagging through traffic. Huge billboards attempted to lure us to wonderful and exotic attractions, but we were not deterred. Pity the poor child who needed a bathroom break, because stopping was not an option. On we pressed, until finally the city receded in the rear view mirror and traffic thinned. Dad visibly relaxed, and Mom breathed a big sigh of relief, while beginning the seemingly impossible task of folding her map back into its original shape.

Now the kids could finally ask the question that was uppermost in their minds during the entire vacation: “Can we p-l-e-a-s-e stop at a motel with a swimming pool? Please!” Like stoplights, that was another thing that we didn’t have any of, back home. It was the sole purpose of going on vacation, as far as we were concerned.

Imagine if Mom had possessed a GPS back then; she could simply have punched in “nearest motel with swimming pool,” and we’d have been able to drive right to one. Those gadgets would have been worth something, after all!