…it was a typical Monday.

I settled in for several hours of work at my desk. Payroll, bills to work through and pay, some new software to study…it would take all day. But in the afternoon I had the opportunity to take a break. My husband needed some help ferrying equipment from one hayfield to another, six miles away, and I was elected chauffeur and signal-woman.

The drive to Brixey was so pretty. All the roadsides are ablaze with color right now. Wildflowers are abundant, after all the spring rains we had. In this patch, you can see purple coneflowers, black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace.

I noticed this wild rose growing on a fence as we headed east, and on one of my trips, I got out in the road and snapped the picture. A guy came along, stopped and asked if I needed help. When he saw my camera, he just smiled and said, “Happy shooting!” In the Ozarks, people still stop and check to see if you need help.

The orange of butterfly weed is brilliant among the other flowers. This fellow was drinking deeply and didn’t flutter away when I approached.

Wild bee-balm (bergamot) attracts more than bees…what a pretty butterfly! I have a red cultivar of this flower in one of my beds, but this one is so delicate and pastel. It thrives without any extra attention, and being a member of the mint family, it smells delightful!

As we drove down the lane, the cattle were enjoying the pond on a warm summer afternoon. Black angus need to stay cool and seek out shade or water in the heat of the day.

The fescue has grown tall and lush and now is in that golden state, typical of hot summer.

Here is our destination: the emptied hay field with the baler left behind. Stan will take it to its next job, while I follow along with my flashers blinking a warning to anyone coming up behind.

Right out in the middle of the hay field stands this remnant of a long-ago homestead. It is one of my favorite places on our whole farm, because it tells so many stories. It tells of the determination of the homesteader who built such a strong, beautiful chimney for the hearth of his home. It tells of his artistry, because with no machinery, only his two hands and some kind of chipping tool, he hewed these limestone rocks into puzzle pieces that still fit together snugly, more than 100 years later. And it tells of his strength and ingenuity. With the help of a team of horses or mules, he hauled the heavy rocks to this place where he chose to build his home, and then he hefted them into place. Do you see the lintel, the large stone over the opening of the fire box? It spans the entire  width and must weigh several hundred pounds. Perhaps he used a pulley of some kind and let the team lift it into place. 

My husband’s uncle, who is 89 years young, recalls visiting in this place when he was a very small boy. He remembers entering the one-room log cabin and seeing an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. A fire is blazing on the hearth beside her, and the place is snug and warm. Uncle Lester says the home felt old and worn back then. I wonder how long these stones have been standing as a sentinel in this field.

It is a nuisance for my husband and his helpers to have to work around this island of history in the middle of a big, open field. But it will stand as long as it can, for we will never push the fireplace over. We will never fail to admire its beauty and simplicity. And I will never stop thinking of the stories it could tell, if only it could talk….

The road home, in the late afternoon, simply beckons one to follow around the next curve. As I went down the hill, a large doe was standing right in the middle of the road. I slowed and let her look at me before she decided to go on into the piney woods. I wondered if her fawn was already across.

Now it is time to go close up the chicken house for the night and watch the lightning bugs begin to appear. They are so plentiful this year and right now, at dusk, are blinking a thousand greetings to each other. I’ve tried to capture them in a photograph but just don’t have the skill to do so.

What I truly wish I could do is capture the heavenly fragrance in the air as I walk down the hill. There is a huge elderberry bush in beautiful full bloom right behind the chicken house, and it smells wonderful. Doesn’t it remind you of lace?

As Mondays go, this has not been a bad day…not bad, at all. I hope that you live in a place where you can see the lightning bugs flickering in the softness of the evening and can enjoy the natural beauty of wildflowers growing along the roads.

…I’ve been considering all the talk about “going green.” It seems to be the catch phrase of this year and appears to embody a radical new way of living, a turning away from the conspicuous consumption of the last few decades toward a more responsible, environmentally-friendly attitude of conserving, preserving and saving.

Greensburg, KS, the town that was destroyed last year by a devastating tornado, is going to be, appropriately enough, the first all-green town. The popular advertising campaign encouraging the use of flourescent light bulbs in place of incandescent ones is built upon the concepts of lower energy use and less to put into landfills. The new green cars are not so called because of their color but because of their lower fuel consumption and emissions. Cleaning products, food, even the fiber from which our clothing is made can now bear the label of green. In a short span of time, every area of our lives that is addressed by advertising has green potential.

But is this really a new concept? I wish I could pose that question to my husband’s late grandmother. In fact, I believe Velma could have been the prototype for living green. She is remembered in our family for many things, not the least of which was her trait of economy. I seriously doubt if the woman ever wasted a thing in her life. Not ever…never.

Velma’s green Ozarks roots ran deep, through many generations of subsistance farmers who lived off the land, grew almost all their food and bought very little in the way of material goods. It was the way she was raised, and it was the way she lived out her 95 years of life.

When she did buy something, Velma got her money’s worth. At Christmas, after presents were opened, she would immediately gather up the used wrapping paper and ribbon, fold it up neatly and take it home. We would see that paper again, next holiday season, wrinkles smoothed out. When the dinner dishes were washed, the rinse water was carried out and poured on the tomato plants growing outside her kitchen door. Catalogs, magazines and old issues of Capper’s Weekly were stacked away, to be read and reread, over and over again.

Have you considered carrying your own shopping bag to the store to avoid the use of both paper and plastic? Every bag, box, piece of string, aluminum foil or cloth of any kind that entered the home of Velma, our family’s queen of recycling, was used, reused, and then used again. Her kitchen knives, handmade by Grandpa, were sharpened down to nubs on his pedal-turned sharpening stone. Every scrap that wasn’t eaten at the table became dinner for Velma’s hens. And she could have written the book on composting. The dirt in her garden was as loamy, loose and rich as any I’ve ever seen, without benefit of any artificial fertilizer or commercial soil amendments.

Our family lovingly recalls Sunday dinner at Velma’s table. The centerpiece of the meal was always a fried chicken. Just one. She had killed it, plucked it, cut it up and cooked it just for us…all eight or ten of us. Somehow, Velma could cut one chicken into more pieces than I knew a chicken had. And to my surprise, there was always plenty! Nothing in that chicken went to waste.

In Velma’s house, bedroom doors were kept closed to conserve heat for the living room. Wearing layers was not fashionable; it was necessary to stay warm. Lights weren’t turned on unless they were really needed, perhaps for reading. Trips to town were reserved for necessary appointments and were few and far between. Clothing and shoes were patched and mended to last longer. Vehicles were driven until they were truly worn out, and even then the mileage was low, for mostly they were parked in the shed. At 90, Velma still grew a huge garden, filling her cellar shelves with quarts and quarts of preserved food. Even though she lived alone by that time, it was a way of life, so deeply ingrained, that she could not change.

Velma was green long before it was cool to be green. I’d love to hear her comments about this new green fad. “Shucks, that’s not a new idea,” she’d scoff. “That’s just good horse sense. They should a knowd that all along.”

She sure did.

                                                      Velma Clarkson Taber

                                             August 6, 1905-December 17, 2001

….I had a deprived childhood. No, it wasn’t deprivation in the sense of material goods or physical needs, for our parents provided all those things for my two brothers and me. We had plenty of food, clothing and shelter, as well as an abundance of affection and love. But there was one thing that they simply could not give us….cousins. And that deficiency was closely tied to another missing ingredient in our lives: aunts and uncles. For Mom and Dad were both only children. They couldn’t help it; it just happened that way, and it left us deprived.

I’ve never known anyone else who had this problem. All my friends had cousins by the dozens, courtesy of several doting aunts and funny uncles. On holidays, weekends and summer vacations, they would talk with excitement about going to visit those relatives, taking trips together, or going to large family reunions. It always sounded like a big, happy party, one to which I would never be invited. Never mind the fact that I was kin to half the county. It just was not the same.

My grandmother was one of those lucky ones who grew up surrounded by scores of extended family members. Both of her parents came from large families, and most of them settled and stayed in the same general area, right here in Ozark County. In her later years, she talked lovingly of all the coming and going between their homes, of staying with her aunts to help with newborn babies, of attending a school made up of mostly cousins, of elopements and scandals, marriages and deaths, good times and bad. The theme running through all Grandmother’s stories was the common thread of family.

After years of listening to her stories, all of which related to Grandmother’s cousins, I decided to get the remaining ones together. Together, she and I planned a reunion of Pitchford cousins, knowing there wasn’t a place large enough in Ozark County to hold both sides of her family. We had a wonderful response and filled a fellowship hall with memories, laughter, food and fun. It was a highlight that she enjoyed recalling until she passed away last year.

At that reunion, as I looked around at the sweet, smiling faces of Grandmother and her aging cousins, happily telling their stories and recalling old times, I claimed them all for myself. I told the group that although I’d never be able to have a first cousin, the first-once-removeds, seconds, thirds and so on were family all the same, and they would fill the void I’d always felt.

Grandmother’s list of cousins is dwindling in number. Like her, several of them have gone on to their reward, the latest being taken only last week. As I sat at Doin Pitchford’s funeral yesterday, I couldn’t help thinking about the reunion we had, how I had finally found my cousins, and now was having to give up one of them so soon. It gave me a real sense of loss.

But in just an instant, that sense of loss was replaced with a feeling of surprise and happiness as I realized that in the same week of losing one cousin, I had found a new one! For in my genealogy research on the internet, I had come into contact with a cousin I’d not known I had.

(l to r: me, April, and Sue Ann, another cousin from another tree branch…Sue Ann and I are third cousins, once removed, and happen to have been lifelong best friends)                        

April comes from another branch of the family tree and lives hundreds of miles away from here, yet she shares a deep interest in family history with me. And her interest was strong enough to inspire her to drive to Missouri last weekend to meet me!

On Sunday, we came face to face. According to our calculations, April and I are second cousins, once removed, but that is just a technicality. In all the ways that count, we are full-fledged cousins. Throughout the afternoon, as we made the rounds of cemeteries…

 and family landmarks…

(that’s April in front of her grandpa’s country store at Sycamore, MO)

and then pored over old pictures and memorabilia, we discovered that we share more than a common set of ancestors. We are close to the same age, both love to read, make quilts and raise flowers, and each has one son and two daughters and gave one daughter the same name.

(We found the grave of an ancestor for which we weren’t even looking…icing on our cake!)

The similarities don’t end there, and suddenly….I have a cousin! Not just one claimed from my grandmother, but one who is a lot like me, one I’ll get to enjoy having for years to come (Lord willing.) Finally, I can say truthfully that I no longer feel deprived. In addition to the ones I claimed from Grandmother, I now have my very own cousin. Now I feel rich!

And now, in case you’re wondering what is blooming along the roadsides of Ozark County,

here are some pretty flowers!

Can you see the bee on the echinacea bloom above? Isn’t it good to see him?

Have a good week….and if you’d like, please share your favorite cousin story with me!

 ….what sweeter word of spring is there than the one spelled “s-t-r-a-w-b-e-r-r-i-e-s?”

Just knowing that strawberries are almost ripe stirs all the senses….their delectable, juicy taste, the fresh, sweet smell, the feel of the soft, plump fruit between the fingers, the vision of a bed of ripe berries just ready to be picked….and what sound do you hear? I hear the sound of children’s laughter, for what child doesn’t love strawberries?

I know one who loves them, a little boy of whom I’m particularly fond. So when we heard that the strawberry u-pick operation was open for business, off we went, along with his mommy and a young neighbor, Rebecca, enlisted to help keep up with the busy boy.

There was a soaking rain shower falling when we awoke Monday morning, but a phone call to the farm revealed that picking would resume when it ended. It is about 45 miles from our place to the Simpsons’, and the rain had ceased by the time we arrived.

U-pick fruit farms are some of my favorite places. Not everyone can have the space or time to grow their own fruit, but those fortunate enough to live near one of these special venues can experience the freshness of the fruit and appreciate the process of harvesting for themselves.

Just driving up to the farm is a visual delight! Wayne Simpson of Mountain Grove, along with his wife, son and daughter, have created a beautiful and interesting environment for their operation.

While strawberries are their main crop, they also grow white grapes that are produced for a Missouri winery, vegetables such as tomatoes, onions and peppers that are sold throughout the summer at local farmers’ markets, and beautiful hanging baskets and bedding plants that are grown in their greenhouse.

Antique log cabins, reconstructed by Mr. Simpson, give the farm a sense of permanence and history.

The Simpsons have a well-organized system, making the picking process easy for all comers.

Golf carts with wagons behind carry pickers and empty boxes to the rows of strawberries. Flags indicate where to begin and where picking ends.

When you’ve filled your boxes and are ready to leave, the carts come along and haul you back to the check-out barn.

Mr. Simpson employs a raised-bed system of growing, one that works well for strawberries. Soil is “hipped up” into long hills, black plastic is put down, and double rows of plants are inserted through holes in the plastic and then grow on top of the hills.

 Weeds are kept to a minimum by the plastic, eliminating the need for most manual weeding. The farm uses no chemicals, so this is important. Grass grows between the rows of hills, making it easy to keep the beds mown and neat for pickers.

Irrigation is available but probably has not been needed this year! We’ve been well blessed with rainfall this spring, and the plants are lush, green and just loaded with ripe and ripening berries, and are also still blooming. The season lasts 4-6 weeks if the weather cooperates.

Little boys just love strawberries! Mr. Simpson agrees and does not worry about weighing the little boys before they enter the strawberry patch and again upon leaving. He was a little boy once, too, and just smiles when he sees red chins with strawberry juice dribbling down. Mr. Simpson knows that the best berry is the one just picked and popped into the mouth.

One way to keep from having muddy shoes is to simply wear none!

Picking strawberries does not seem like work here.

It is such fun to see everyone excited about the berries, happy to be outside early on this Ozarks’ morning, searching for the perfect berry. An hour, then two, pass quickly, and it hasn’t taken long to fill up our boxes!

Sometimes there is a surprise at the strawberry patch….an old friend from school days! This young man was a frequent guest in our home when the young folks were in high school. The conversation then was about basketball games. Now they compare babies and married life.

Back home, the day’s real work is still ahead. Stemming, crushing and cooking turns the fruit into jam.

Next winter, when snow lies deep on the ground and covers all thought of strawberry plants, the fresh taste will remain in these jars.

Some berries make their way into bags for the freezer, after being individually quick frozen to help retain their shape and texture. Some are sliced into a bowl for strawberry shortcake tonight, and quite a few of the most perfect ones are popped into the preparer’s mouth on a regular basis. No counting…just eat the best ones!

Hope you all have a chance to visit a u-pick operation soon to get some of this sweetness for yourself! Happy Strawberrying!

…old-fashioned flowers are blooming in the yard.

Snowballs, peonies, iris, bridal wreath….all the names that are synonymous with spring are out-doing themselves this year. And in spite of modern scientific methods, these reliable, faithful plants have not been greatly improved upon in centuries. Look around any old abandoned houseplace, and these are the flowers you’ll see, blooming amid the weeds and vines, neglected but still managing to live and share their beauty.

When I was a little girl, I didn’t really like iris, for some reason, but now they are one of my favorites.

Not only are they beautiful, but some of them have a delightful fragrance, as well. This is one of the old-fashioned flowers that conjures up memories for so many of us. In the good old days, they were often referred to as “flags.” That is what my great-grandmothers called iris. Grandma Pitchford and Granny Bushong both grew purple and yellow ones, but neither one had any of the new-fangled, fancied-up ones.

My iris varieties were given to me by a dear lady named Sammy Jo Blundell. She was our next-farm neighbor when we lived in Noxubee County, Mississippi. Miss Sammy Jo, as she was called by anyone younger than herself, lived in a big, beautiful, white-columned antebellum house out in the country. It was the kind of house one daydreamed about living in, complete with visions of spring weddings held on the lawn, replete with masses of flowers, under the canopy of the ancient oak trees.

I can’t think of a more quintessential picture of the Old South than the Blundells’ home. To approach it, one turned off the highway and drove down a long, straight, dirt lane. On both sides of the lane, fences kept back cattle that were peacefully grazing on deep green grass. Upon reaching the yard, a circular drive led you around to the massive double front doors, and that circle was lined with an amazing variety of iris. When these flowers were all blooming, it was a sight to behold!

Miss Sammy Jo kept her granddaughter after school, and since the child was the same age as one of ours, we often carpooled together. One day when I was there dropping off the little girl, the iris were putting on a show. Miss Sammy Jo came outside to wave, and I commented about the beauty of her flowers.

This sweet lady immediately offered to share some plants with me! Of course, I protested that I didn’t know how to grow iris, and that I wouldn’t want to disturb her beautiful beds. She said, “Nonsense! The best thing you can do for your flowers is to share them with friends. Someone shared these with me a long time ago!”

And that’s just what Miss Sammy Jo did. This southern belle was no shrinking violet; she quickly procured a shovel and went to work, right then and there, digging up “starts” of fourteen different varieties of iris. She said, “This is the time to do it, when they are blooming, so you’ll know what you are getting.”

I had no idea of what to do with my starts, and Miss Sammy Jo said to just dig up a bed in the sun and stick them in the ground. She told me that iris don’t prefer fertile soil, so our clay-gumbo yard would be fine. And she reminded me to not bury them, but to shallow plant them.

Those iris bloomed in our Mississippi yard for another half-dozen years, until we moved back to Missouri, when one of the boxes we packed was filled with starts of all fourteen varieties. I transplanted them into the yard at Brixey, where we lived that first year, and then I divided those plants and brought starts to our “new” house, when we moved into it in 1988. Twenty springs later, the iris are blooming away in rocky Ozarks’ soil.

At the top of our driveway are five huge peony bushes, ready to burst into colorful bloom.  

These bushes are also courtesy of another gardener, although I’ll never know her name. On a high hilltop on the farm, an old houseplace was tumbling down, and, knowing my love of old-fashioned flowers, my father-in-law called and asked if I wanted to transplant some peonies that were just ready to bloom, before he dozed the place. Of course, I grabbed my shovel, jumped in the truck and headed off. Although I broke all the rules, since it wasn’t the right time of year to transplant peonies, the plants have survived and thrived and are ready to share their blooms with me again. They aren’t the huge, double blooms of the new varieties of peonies, but they are so pretty and have a heavenly fragrance that perfumes the whole yard.

Ferns, forsythia, ivy, vinca and more…I have had the benefit of the generosity of a number of other gardeners through the years. Likewise, I love to share my flowers with anyone who asks for a start. Last night I dug iris rhizomes for a neighbor who recently mentioned she’d like to have one that she referred to as a “blush” color.

I went ahead and got every color I had, knowing that she was just hesitant to sound greedy and ask for them all. Next spring, my neighbor will enjoy the blooms that Miss Sammy Jo passed to me so many years ago. Sharing them just seems to make them prettier.

….it’s been my marriage-long dilemma: what to cook for supper? Every day, week after week, year after year, the question arises. And in the 38 years of marriage that we’ve shared, that means we’ve shared 13,870 suppers, more or less. Mercy.

Other tasks that fall under my jurisdiction have waned in those 38 years. I no longer hang load after load of laundry on the clothesline, because my dryer is just too handy and efficient. I don’t iron every single item of clothing we wear, because modern fabric finishes no longer demand it. Washing and drying dishes? Relegated to the miracle-working dishwasher. I do still run a vacuum cleaner, but my friend has a robot that no longer makes it a hands-on job. And the vacuum cleaner I now own makes me feel like Superwoman because of its efficiency; it is actually fun to clean with it.

Along those same lines, there are certainly tools in the kitchen that have made cooking less of a chore. A food processor chops in seconds what would have taken half an hour. A slow cooker keeps the kitchen from getting hot while making meat so tender it falls off the bone by itself. An electric mixer whips egg whites in a minute–have you ever even known someone who could do that by hand? And the microwave! Can you even imagine living without one now? Convection ovens, table-top grills, toasters, rice steamers, panini presses, electric slicers, frypans and knives, blenders, hundreds of coffee makers, frothers….all programmable so you don’t even have to think (if you can figure out how to program them.)

But it still begs the question: what to cook for supper? Because to use all those myriad gadgets, magic though their results may be, one must FIRST have an idea of what to prepare with them!

Unlike those other chores that have gotten easier with time, this is one task that has actually waxed, becoming larger and more ponderous as the years go by, this decision that must be daily made. Sadly, the decision is often postponed until just before preparation time. I call this meal a Last-minute Lunch. Or if it is the evening meal, then it is going to be a Snappy Supper. And if I’m feeling particularly tired, non-creative, or am faced with a depleted pantry, it may be a Desperation Dinner.

All cooks have one, the one meal that can be made in a jiffy, the thing for which one keeps all the ingredients on hand, at all times and under all circumstances. It is the sure-fire, make-it-quick, tried and true one thing that your family knows you for, because they’ve eaten it a thousand times. I’ve heard quite a few cooks say that Breakfast for Supper is their salvation in such times. Others rely on a hidden box of Hamburger Helper, used only in the direst of circumstances. In my kitchen, it is Trusty Tacos! I daresay we’ve had Tacos once a week for the last 1976 weeks.

And above you will see exactly why I’ve been able to get away with fixing Tacos so often: homemade salsa and home-raised ground beef.

Last Friday, I worked outside late into the evening, trying to get my garden planted before the rain once again arrived on the weekend. The final seeds were sown just as darkness was settling in. Then the chickens were shut up into their house, eggs gathered, garden tools washed and put away, and when I finally dragged myself into the house, being quite filthy, I had to shower before I could think about cooking supper. By the time I started cooking, my husband was hovering, hungry and impatient. When he asked that time-honored question, for the 13,871st time, “What’s for supper?”, I just pointed to the ground beef cooking in the skillet, the tortillas ready to fry, and the cheese and vegetables ready to grate and chop, and he knew, as he has known so many times before. “Tacos!” he said with a grin. And the happy ending to this story is that he still likes them!

P.S. Now let me hear about your favorite last-minute meal–what do you fall back on when the going gets rough? If I ever run out of homemade salsa or home-raised Diamond T. ground beef, I may be looking for a new Snappy Supper idea!

…last week, an article in the newspaper caught my eye. It suggested that a nice handbag would be an appropriate graduation gift for high school senior girls. I have always liked nice or unusual handbags myself, and I feel particularly well-dressed and smart when I can put all my various belongings into a shiny, new purse and head out the door. So I went on to read the article, thinking maybe this author had a good idea.

The author interviewed a girl who lives in a posh, upper-class suburb who wanted a particular namebrand purse but whose mother had not given in to the young lady’s wishes just yet, although the mother carried one of the designer’s creations herself. I did not recognize the designer’s name, but that is not unusual. I’m not a designer type of person. The only purses I carry that are truly “designed” are of my own design, tacky though they may be. But when the author went on to state that the pricetag on the bag for which the girl longed was a mere $6300, I just had to read it again! Could it be true that an 18-year-old girl really wanted to spend that amount of money on a purse?

Call me old-fashioned. Use the local phraseology and say I’m “tight.” Maybe I’m even “tight as Dick’s hatband,” as my mother-in-law sometimes says of those who keep an inordinately close watch on their wallets and bank accounts. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a tiny amount of wisdom as I’ve lived through 5+ decades of American life. But there seems to me to be something really wrong about anyone spending that much money on a handbag, purse, pocketbook or whatever you call it.

This led me to recall a memory. I have a friend whose son married a designer. Now, this is not just any designer, but a real, true, goes-to-Milan-and-Paris-for-the-big-shows designer. She doesn’t have a big name herself, but this young woman works for one of the really B-I-G names in the fashion industry. If I told you the name, trust me, you would know it.

My friend smiled when she told stories of her son’s fashionable New York City wedding to this oh-so-stylish young miss, and then she veritably giggled when she casually mentioned that the rehearsal dinner (hosted by my friend and her husband) was…a barbecue! How cool is that? My friend said the barbecue was the part of the wedding festivities most enjoyed by all the guests.

My friend was carrying a designer handbag. I noticed it right away, because, as with all designer handbags, the label is right on the outside of the bag. I have a theory that designers must be insecure people because they usually plaster their label or their initials or their symbol or some unmistakeable emblem all over the bag. So I assumed that my friend’s designer-daughter-in-law had given her the bag.

That was when I got to hear my friend giggle again. And she leaned over and whispered, “Knock-off!” My eyebrows raised, and she said, “When we were in NYC for the wedding, they were selling them on all the street corners. I couldn’t resist! I hope it isn’t illegal!” By then, we were both doubled over with laughter. Since then, I never see a designer handbag without thinking about my friend, who is very cute and hip in spite of the fact that she wears the same outfit to many of our meetings together, current fads notwithstanding.

So, I wonder about that young miss in the newspaper article, whose fondest desire of the moment is for her parents to spend enough money to feed a small, third-world country to buy her a reticule. (Note: I didn’t say “ridicule,” but isn’t it coincidental that the two words are similar?) Does she know that $6300 would buy a small used car for her to drive to the country club in trendy, eco-friendly fashion? Or that it would pay for several hours of college education at many well-respected institutions? Would she realize the difference if her mother wrapped up a $50 knockoff bag in luxurious wrapping paper and presented it to her sans an explanation of the place of purchase? Is there a mother out there smart enough to pull this off and then donate the $6250 difference to Habitat for Humanity or the nearest literacy organization? I’d LOVE to read that story in the newspaper!

And now let me share with you some of the decorative elements on my life’s stage. In case you’re wondering, these were all designed by the single most famous and elegant designer of all time. His signature is everywhere, as you can readily see:

This year, apple blossoms are all the rage for the more flambuoyant….

while the more subdued prefer the ever-elegant wild azalea.

The green of shy fiddleheads and their big sisters, the fully developed ferns, soften the background.

The crane-bill geranium is much more understated than its domesticated cousin.

In basic white, dogwood never goes out of style.

The sound of water flowing over rocks provides the perfect accompaniment to nature’s fashion show,

and for a little unexpected drama, a tortoise dared to shed its shell last year, tantalizing all onlookers and raising eyebrows, indeed!

Mayapples are pretty but NOT for eating, and this false indigo really isn’t indigo at all, in this case…rather, a soothing pale yellow.

A butterfly enjoys refreshment from the generous milk vetch.

Spring may be the season for pastels, but not to be outdone, this yellow honeysuckle and her friend, the squaw-weed, show off their warm, bright glory.

Violets and sweet william provide a perfect purple punch.

And just when you think you’ve seen it all, the best is the feathered finale: the rose-breasted grosbeak dares to dazzle, while the phoebe,finch and indigo bunting pay no attention…

They just want to eat!                                                                   

And the poor little quail is much too shy to be on stage…he just ducks and runs for cover.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my little fashion show. There is no charge for this event; it is free for all who choose to view and enjoy it. No knockoffs here!

 …we’ve got some dogs and some boys and springtime…

let’s get outside and enjoy them!

My friend Marie refers to her sons’ dogs as her granddogs. I’m not sure I’m that fond of my children’s pets, but

….when they are still puppies, they’re so cute! Daisy is the newest member of our extended family. This little girl is a born cow dog…see that herding instinct (below)? These dogs nip (supposedly very gently) the heels of livestock as they gather them in.

Eight-week-old Daisy is practicing on Wyatt.

I planted creeping phlox among the rocks in back of our house when we built it 20 years ago.

Last year it didn’t make much of a show and I thought it was worn out from old age, but this year it is feeling young again and is blooming away.

Did I mention that we have some big rocks in our yard?

We took a walk down to the creek behind our house. Recent rains have kept the water flowing, and I love to see the creek running. Chip had his first spring haircut this morning, and he is always so happy to shed his winter coat.

Chip was delighted to test the water! Don’t you know it felt good? Since Chip is a decidedly outdoors dog, he wears his coat all winter to help keep him warm. It really is dense and curly and thick and does a good job. Although Chip has the option of sleeping inside our garage, rarely does he want to do so. He much prefers to stay outside, keeping us safe from all manner of critters that might invade during the night.

Many nights I’ll go outside to look at the stars and find Chip curled up in a deep bed of leaves just outside the chicken yard, guarding his feathered friends. When I first brought my chickens home and released them into the yard, Chip thought they were a present for him! He immediately ran through them, terrorizing them into horrified squawks and shrieks. Feathers flew and four even flew away, never to be heard from again. Chip was astounded! He didn’t realize he had done a bad thing. After one simple scolding, he never has bothered them again, in nearly three years of having chickens. They are free-rangers and have the run of our place. They even come up to drink out of his water bucket, and he never even growls one complaint. Chip and the chickens happily co-exist and even seem to benefit from their companionable relationship.

It just comes naturally to little boys to throw rocks into creeks. (If Wyatt had been wearing something other than camo, he would show up better.)

The grass in the hayfield is growing again!

Buzzards perch each evening in the big sycamores that line the creekbank. This guy is circling, wondering who has invaded his roost!

Before we got back to the house, I was carrying a tired little boy and a tired little puppy…and by bedtime, I was one tired Mimi!

…I’m going on a spring ramble…

….rambling about the countryside, and rambling about loss, loons and lu lu.

Spring is the season of renewal. That eternal promise is what sees us through the long, dark, cold winter. We know the rewards of endurance and of waiting will be new life, renewed beauty and a fresh start. It comes as a surprise, even a shock, then, when this much-awaited season turns into a time of loss.

In the last two weeks, I’ve received three phone calls that I wish I had not had to answer. The first told of the sudden death of a very special man, beloved throughout our town and county. Dave was our local funeral director, and as such, he was a friend to everyone. Not just anyone can do the job that Dave was called to do. It takes a man with a tender heart to deal with grieving families, and our Dave was that man. His smile gave comfort when one most needed it. His job was much more than a paid position; it was truly his calling. At 53, we expected Dave to be with us for several more decades, but that was not the plan.

The next day, I was again called to the phone with tragic news. The husband of my best friend, also called Dave, had also just suffered a fatal heart attack. As I rushed to her side to offer what little help I could give, I tried to put myself into her shoes and thought that “widow” is a word I just couldn’t comprehend, not if it applied to a 56-year-old girl who still acts just as she did when we entered kindergarten, grade school, high school and college together. Sue Ann’s Dave was the picture of health, an intellectual, a world traveler who relished every minute of life. Whether he was pulling a fish from the Gulf, greeting a Chinese businessman or driving an old tractor on his wife’s family’s Brush Ranch, you knew Dave would be wearing a smile. At 61, we expected Dave to be around for a long, long time, enjoying every minute of whatever direction his life took.

The next week, the phone rang again. By this time, I’m dreading to answer, but it is relentless. The words hurt, again. A friend from Mississippi, Charlie was a volunteer fireman who has answered the call to help others since he was a boy. He was helping to put out a fire in the wood shop of the local vo-tech school when chest pains began. Although Charlie drove himself to the hospital, he only made it into the door before his life ended. Twenty years have passed since Charlie and his family were part of our everyday lives, but memories make it seem like only yesterday. Our children simply adored Mr. Charlie. This man’s face also wore a perpetual smile. Dealing with the public in the grocery, dry cleaning or restaurant business might make some sour on people, but not Charlie. He was always ready to lend a hand, be a friend, do for others.

So much loss in such a short time made me wonder, how can it be spring? And yet, spring is here.

It has come in all its glory.The grass is lush and green, the flowers are blooming, the ducks are calling to each other across the lake,

 the redbuds are just about ready to be upstaged by my adored dogwoods,

and there is even the desire to laze away an afternoon, to walk down to the water, put a wiggly worm on a hook and watch for a tug on the bobber. One’s heart cannot help but feel just a little lift.  

And then I remember. Jesus died in the spring, too. Loss in this season of spring has always been and always will be. And it will always be helped and healed by the promises that accompany it. The promises of resurrection, new life, renewal and rebirth.

Sometimes spring even brings too much of a good thing! This dock needs water to float, but enough already!

Perhaps you’ve heard that our part of the country has been getting a lot of rain. It’s been a real feast of rain here, with lakes plumb full.

Usually, there is a steep, deep drop-off down to the water, but not now! Those are tree-tops sticking out near the edge of the water! I’ve never seen all 16 gates open at once on Bull Shoals Dam! But isn’t it pretty?

And speaking of pretty, our little Lu-lu is growing up (much too quickly to suit this Mimi!) This recent picture shows that she’s no longer our baby but a grown-up little girl.

I don’t get time these days to make many comments on your site, but I do check in often and enjoy seeing what is going on with all my xanga friends. Hope your spring days are healing, sunny, bright and blooming!

…we were blessed to have our children and grandchildren home for Easter.

Even Chip wanted to get into the picture that we took after church. And if you think for one second that it is easy to get this bunch to sit still, please think again! It takes patience that some (like Wyatt and Lucy) don’t have. By this time, we had been up for hours. In fact, a certain trio were out before daylight searching for eggs in the frosty grass, in their jammies and jackets.

When they got thoroughly chilled, we moved indoors, where two little peekers just couldn’t seem to hide their eyes.

After church and dinner, which was shared with the two grandmas, we braved the wind and flew the kites which a certain good Bunny had generously left alongside the eggs in the little ones’ Easter baskets.

Can you see the curious horses at the left in the dark picture above? And a little later, some indignant buzzards circled around and around, wondering if some competition had flown in on the breeze.

Monday morning was a teeny bit warmer, so we went off to hike and discover. (Don’t worry…I only let them ride in the back of the truck while traveling across the cow pasture, while driving at a snail’s pace!)

Wyatt climbed a tree, and Emma climbed boulders!

Can you see the smoke from the campfire we built on the flat rocks? We roasted the best-tasting hot dogs over it.

Lucy’s favorite part was dessert….oreos!

Yesterday we took the little ones to see Horton Hears a Who, and Mimi enjoyed it the most of all! A darling movie with a good message, and I’ve never seen a two-year-old eat so much popcorn!

Today they headed home, and our house is much too quiet. The toys still scattered around are reminders of such fun that I dread putting them away. Maybe I’ll just go out for a walk and think back on how special it is to have them here.

Now, if you’ll go back up to that first picture of the family, check out Sus, our daughter on the right. Notice a teeny little baby bump under her green sweater? Wyatt is going to have a sibling come October! Hooray for more grandchildren and more fun and making more memories for a long time to come!!!!