(Yes, that is an armadillo…long dead, thankfully…)

Six-year-old Wyatt spent the day with me yesterday. He didn’t have school because it was a day for screening next year’s kindergarteners. And since it was such a beautiful day, we spent it outside. We planted some flowers in pots, hoed weeds out of the garden, raked it and planted tomato and pepper plants and some heirloom zinnia seeds. He insisted on calling them “zeenias,” and he claimed one tomato plant to be “his.” When it bears, NO ONE else is to get to eat the tomatoes from it; instead, I am to make HIM salsa from ALL the tomatoes on HIS plant.

As we worked, there was an ongoing discussion of all things “nature.” We watched a bluebird busily making a nest in a nearby box, and Wyatt understood, although it was very tempting, that the mama won’t come back if he goes over to lift the lid and investigate.

As we worked, Wyatt designed a unique alarm system that could potentially solve my problem of critters eating hens. When they come around the henhouse, a loud alarm, one that would wake the dead (demonstration with very loud sounds at this point) would be triggered so that Poppy could jump out of bed and go shoot the invaders, especially the nasty raccoon that likes to pull the head off its victim and leave the rest for Mimi to find and dispose of (SAD!)

Sometimes he would say, “Mimi, I just feel like I need to run….can I show you how fast I am?” and off he would go, at top speed, racing around the whole place, just for the sheer fun of it.

We talked about how he will never shoot a songbird with his BB gun that he has shot once at a target, and we watched a crow playing chasing and squawking games with a hawk. We couldn’t tell if the hawk liked it or not, but the crow was obviously having fun. I think it was a little boy crow.

We talked about the buzzards soaring on wind currents high above us; we decided that they are not pretty birds but they are really helpful, being Mother Nature’s cleanup crew. And then I learned this: “Mimi, do you know what buzzards eat first? EYEBALLS! They eat their dessert first!” (followed by hysterical laughing).

My tasteful lesson for the day…

To all you readers who have reliable, consistent, dependable, reasonably-fast internet service, may I just say this? Do not take your good fortune for granted. Ever.

I live in a place where internet access is limited. Out here in my country-world, we choose between dial-up (yes, they still have it, and it still makes that little splish-splashy, ding-ding noise when it is connecting), something from a satellite (if you don’t have too many trees to block the signal or if you have too many trees you must cut them down, only not me!), or using our phones as modems. Since those first two options are rife with problems, I choose the third, with the first as a permanent backup. This is not to say that the third option is without problems. It has many, not the least of which is that when it rains, the signal becomes very weak or non-existent. Usually the latter.

So, when we get a lovely rainy spell such as the one we’ve just come through, I just have to go back to living without internet, just like the good old days. It rained for forty days and forty nights. You think not? Well, it seemed like that. In reality, it was about 10 days of non-stop rain, during which time more than 20 inches of rain fell. I could rarely connect, and when it did stop pouring for a minute, I’d run to the computer, go through the motions of connecting, and then it would wickedly drop me at the most inopportune times, such as when I was in the middle of sending an important email or had just written a nice, entertaining blog post and was ready to SAVE….and then…fizzzzzle. Out it went. It was a good test of patience. And a reality check. How soon we forget.

Today has been simply beautiful! Blue skies, no wind, no rain, no serious clouds….my connection has been flawless. I smile, and all is forgiven.

On a cold, wintry April night last week, I was knitting away while the Farmboy was watching television, and I looked down at my work….a darling little baby hat, similar to hundreds of others I’ve made in the last couple of years….and I suddenly needed a change. I laid the little hat aside with no guilt; there are, after all, six finished little hats on the closet shelf, and every little person I know is well-hatted right now, anyway. So I went to my knitting closet and pulled out this:

a red shawl that I began two years ago (at least…let’s not count), a project I haven’t touched in a long time. Suddenly it became very appealing to me. This is a pattern that requires my concentration, but I’ve enjoyed reacquainting myself with it. I can do about two inches a night, and since I have about 16 inches to go (I’ve done about six since pulling it back out) I calculate that I’ll finish this project before winter, which is when it can be worn, since it is a nice, soft merino wool. If I don’t get tired of it before then….

This is a little baby hat I finished last week. No, we do not have another new grandbaby. My lovely model is Mi Bebe, Sus’s baby doll, brought by Santa one Christmas long ago. This baby has also been loved by all three little granddaughters. I love her, too, and am glad she is ageless.

Last weekend we visited our daughter,

son-in-law, and their two little girls. We went to a soccer game,

cheered this little monkey on the monkey bars,

cheered some old guys playing b-ball,

chatted up these pigs on the way home,

bought this bull,

and met this sweet little real baby.

Doesn’t he look like a little man? Better than a doll, any day. HIs cousin is so proud of him! Technically, we’re not related to this little guy, but we claim him as part of our family. You can do that with babies, you know….

I’ll leave you with a parting shot of our alarm clock.

That’s D.T., already in his roost in the dogwood tree. This chicken gives new meaning to the phrase, “bird brain.” All winter, in the absolute WORST weather, he has roosted in this tree, refusing to enter the henhouse. It’s getting to be a little tiresome when he crows at 4:30 a.m. Delbert the Third may not be long for this world, so I thought you should see him now. Look quickly.

Sweet dreams…and to all, a good night.

Visitors, Both Welcome and Not So….

We have enjoyed having a couple of rose-breasted grosbeaks visiting us these last few days. Wish they would linger longer….they add such a splash of color, and it’s funny to see what LARGE seeds they tackle with their gros beaks.

Addie is SO excited about the newest addition to their family. It was fun to have them visit last Saturday. Aren’t these little girlfriends adorable?

Wyatt spent Friday with us since there was no school that day. He kept us entertained.

We all love this BIG hackberry tree in our back yard. 

When we moved here 24 years ago, the tree had been damaged, perhaps by lightning. As time has passed, it’s scar has opened more and more and seems to be revealing a hidden totem pole. At least, that is what Wyatt and I think.

Those visitors were MOST welcome.

           ~~~~

Then we had an unwelcome one.

The creek behind our house rose and rose until it came up to the big rocks. Our back yard and horse pasture are under all that water.

It came TO the barn beside our house but not into it.

In six days, we had more than 17 inches of rain, a record-setting event. Yesterday, as it continued to pour and pour, we watched our lake waters rise and gush down the spillway at the edge of the dam.

And then, there was more than the spillway could handle, and soon it came over the top.

So we prayed it would hold, and it did. And we are thankful for the engineering skills of a fellow, many years ago, who knew what he was doing when the dam was built.

Today, the sun peeked on us for a while. It has once again hidden itself, and the sky is dark. But the hours without rain (since midnight) have allowed the high waters to begin to recede. Life will return to normal, but we’ll talk about the Easter Flood of 2011 for a long time.

 Old Ways and New Ways, Exfoliating and Taking Lunch to the Corral

(or, My Spicy Life)

~They~ say that variety is the spice of life, and if ~they~ are right, then my life, indeed, would be classified as spicy. My life is very varied.

Yesterday, I ran. From here to there and to everywhere, I ran. In between running from here, before running to there, I listened to a phone message:

“Sis, if you still want to find some mushrooms, come on over…I found some.”

Long and disappointed sigh….it is the phone call I’d been awaiting for years. A neighbor (not my brother…”sis” is a friendly term used by many men here in the Ozarks to address a woman acquaintance) had long ago promised to show me how to find morels. I’ve searched and searched the woods and valleys and creeksides, all to no avail. I wouldn’t see one if it jumped up and bit me. And now…now is my chance! But, alas, commitments have been made and can not be broken. So off I run again, longing to be finding mushrooms instead.

Get home, stand in the kitchen, deciding what to cook for supper (wishing the menu could include morels), and the phone rings again.

“Those mushrooms won’t keep any longer, Sis. If you want them, you’d better come and get them.”

Excitement springs anew in my heart! It still may happen!

“Honey, do you want me to cook supper or do you want me to take a mushroom-hunting lesson?”

“Go!!! Hurry!!! I don’t care about supper–just find some mushrooms!”

The farmboy is dealing with a nagging back ailment and didn’t feel like joining the hunt, so off I go.

Down, down, down to their place, down into a deep, deep holler.

Pass this little cabin. Know I have to hurry but can’t resist stopping and taking a quick pic….love, love these old relics.

They, along with six or so dogs, meet me in the driveway of their home cabin, built from logs they had cut and stacked into a sweet little house. Probably 100 gourds hang from the porch rafters. She says, “I’m going to make bird houses out of them when I get time.” Some chickens scratch around, making me feel welcome. Vintage automobiles are tucked out back and down the lane, ready to be restored … valuable ones, like a ’32 Ford coupe and a ’66 Dodge Charger with a 440 engine and an old Suburban, one he uses for parts for his best Suburban, a ’51 model, that he drives to town. I really would like to have one just like his … so cool.

He hands me a stick and says, “We’ll walk up this way.”

She says, “Are you warm enough?” for the sunlight is long gone in this deep valley.

“I’m too excited to be cold!” say I, eager to start.

We pick our way up a dry creekbed, one that rushes full when the big rains come. Past a small pen with a mare inside, one he says will foal this weekend. She bulges and looks rather miserable. There is a 12-ft length of metal pipe coming out of the hillside, spouting a steady stream of water into a trough for her. This mare gets to drink of the finest Ozark spring water. Perrier would be jealous.

He points out the abundance of May apples, hundreds of little umbrellas covering the flat places, and says mushrooms like the same sort of ground. And she points out the slippery-bark elm trees growing all along the creekbed. Another good mushroom sign.

We walk on, and he says, “Use your stick to help you see.”

I ask what he means, and he says, “It may sound crazy but it works. Point your stick at the ground and your eye will follow it and see what is at the end.” Sure enough, he is right.

After ten minutes, he says, “There are mushrooms here. See if you can see one. Be careful and don’t step on it”

I look, to no avail. Look and look, and see leaves and beautiful wildflowers and rocks and twigs, but no morels.

He points with his stick and says, “Look harder.”

And then I see! THREE BEAUTIFUL MUSHROOMS, in a little cluster.

If you happened to be up that holler or even over on the other side of the ridge, you might have heard me shout, “I see them!!”

He draws a deep breath and tries to be patient, reminding me to look closely because there are more. They let me pick all I find,

carefully placing them in the bag I brought, pointing out all the details surrounding us.

She says, “Hon, we’ve found the ticks, too,” pulling up a pant leg and retrieving a surprisingly quick hitchhiker.

I say, “I don’t care, it’s worth it. Tell me more.”

They do. I learn about spicewood, and how she cans poke greens. The man who lived in the valley before them lived to be over 100, his dad lived to be 107 and his grandpa died at 126. Yes, ma’am. Could it have been the water? It is suggested I go to the local cemetery and see if there are dates on stones, to verify that claim. I am instructed to soak the morels for a few minutes in salt water to be sure all the tiny bugs are washed out. A black bear used to cross the lane just below their cabin on a regular basis, but they haven’t seen him in a couple of years. They were married in the old Ford coupe. He was a firejumper in Montana as a young man, before she got him into that ’32 and talked him into finding a preacher. This tree in their yard is Edith, named for the old lady in whose yard it was dug. That one is named for their oldest daughter, for they planted it the year she was born. The barn in the back yard used to be filled with bleachers and on Saturday nights men would pour into the holler, filling the barn with fighting roosters, smoke and…who knows what. That was before fighting roosters was outlawed.

By the time I absorb all that education, it is dark, and past time to head home. Thanks are profuse….I have loved every single minute.

At the house, I soak, slice and fry a dozen of the most gorgeous mushrooms ever. And as I stand in the kitchen, eating them fresh from the skillet, I feel something crawling at my ankle. I bend over, peer at my sock and find that I, too, have picked up some unwanted hitchhikers.

I flee to a hot shower where I scrub and scrub until my skin is red. And as I stand under the fine spray, enjoying the warmth, I realize that “exfoliate” is simply a fancy-shmancy term for a good scrubbin’. Remember the ones your mama gave you, at the end of a hot, summer day, when you played outside all day, got hot and dirty and really weren’t fit for anything until you got into that tub and endured a powerful, skin-peeling wash? I remember. But I also think about just a generation before me, when kids didn’t have the luxury of hot water running out of the faucet. Water would be drawn or hauled to the house, heated on a wood-burning stove and poured into a tub, and turns would be taken.

The old ways are longed for and lovingly remembered….and the new ways are appreciated and well-practiced.

[All that remains of the barn that was built by the great-great-great-grandfather of my grandchildren.]                       

Now for Part Two, that part about lunch:

It is nearly noon when I get the call: “We can’t stop what we’re doing–bring my lunch, please.” Hurriedly, I pack sandwiches, cookies, quart jars of tea, chips, a little bowl of fruit and put it into a cooler. Jump in my truck. Forget…run back inside and grab my camera. Fly over to where they are testing bulls.

                        [This is the location of lunch today.]

It is that time of year when the bulls are scheduled to go back with the cows…a happy time for all. Lots of loving reunions. Lots of excitement. But it’s a good idea to make sure that they can actually do the job they are paid to do, once they meet up with their many girlfriends. This is the one time of year we call in a vet, for he knows how to use his microscope and count those little swimmers, to be assured they are numerous enough. Getting enough bang for our buck, so to speak. Enough said about that.

After lunch is delivered, I treat myself to the long way home.

My road. I love this road, for all the wildflowers that adorn its verges. Do your recognize it? You’ve been on this road with me before. 

I love it for the creek that crosses it multiple times. For the soaring cliffs above the stream.

For the drifts of dogwood above the water.

I’ll go back to work soon enough, but for a half-hour I slowly, slowly drive along, stopping often and noticing all the ferns unfurling, the butterflies lilting, the birds singing. There is the threat of storms tonight, but today is sweet.

Tonight, there are morels on the table. My spicy life…and my supper….are good.

                   My Christmas….and Easter….Cactus               

Every year, my great-grandmother’s Christmas cactus decides to display a few blooms in honor of Easter. I like to think that it knows that Easter was the fulfillment of Christmas. This year, the blooms have appeared early. But what can one expect? For a cactus to read the calendar? When has Easter ever been this late? My cactus and I are ready for it now!

Knowing of my interest in the old people, places and things of the Ozarks, folks sometimes come up to me to say, “I know something [or some place or someone] you should see.” They proceed to give me directions and I mentally take notes, hoping that a rare free afternoon will soon occur, allowing the opportunity for a jaunt into the past. Sunday afternoons are often the best times for these adventures. And although this past weekend was cold and rainy and even a little icy at times, by mid-afternoon yesterday the weather had faired off enough to lure us out on the trail of a discovery.

One-room schoolhouses are of special interest to me. While once they were numerous and ordinary throughout these hills, now they are scarce and becoming scarcer. So when an older fellow said this one was worth a visit, I could hardly rest until it was found.

But what he didn’t say was that we were to be doubly rewarded. As we tooled down what we hoped was the correct dirt road, the sight of this old house made me exclaim, “Stop! Oh, farmboy, would you look at that? Isn’t that beautiful?”

No, the house itself isn’t beautiful in any architectural or aesthetic sense, but the setting and the color and the drifts of golden daffodils and the singing spring branch flowing beside it all combined to create the homiest, sweetest houseplace ever.

He sighed, brought the truck to a halt, and patiently picked up a farm magazine to read while I trespassed.

Yes, I admit that I am given to trespassing, when a place like this presents itself. So without hesitation I climbed the fence and, camera in hand, boldly proceeded to get up close. Should I feel that it is wrong to thus break the law? Possibly. But I cannot summon up any guilt. I try to imagine what the current owner would think. He/she surely would not mind for pictures being taken. I touch nothing, not even a flower, but I stand and listen and wonder about the family that lived here, the woman who undoubtedly planted the daffodils and arranged the flat rocks around the perimeter of the square bed they now ignore. There is an almot tangible feeling of contentment and peace here. They were happy, I think, the family whose home it was.

I turn to walk back to my patiently-waiting chauffeur and, glancing off to the north, I see her….a ghost, across the spring branch, standing on a little rise, almost hidden in a tangle of vines and brambles. The old schoolhouse has been watching me the whole time!

So once again, the breaking of the law happens.(I hope no local sheriffs or law-enforcement people are reading this, for a written confession would condemn me if I am brought to court.) Since he spent his early years in a one-room school, this trek holds interest for the farmboy, and off we go.

The little rushing creek must be crossed, and he kindly places a stepping stone in the middle for me. I bravely (read: clumsily) leap and make it across with minimally wet feet, and we climb up the rise to the abandoned school.

Thanks to a good, sound roof, the old building is in pretty good shape. It is nicely built, with a pretty belfry on top.

Though the bell is long gone, it is easy to imagine how it rang through this valley and surrounding hills, calling generations of children to come and learn.

The pump is a Chandler, and if it was primed, I’ll bet it would still work. It looks like a sentinel, still standing at attention after years and years of service, guarding this old place.

Inside, there are echoes of this school’s working days. The old cupboard, now a home to rats, once held supplies.

This crooked bookshelf …

once held a small but mighty library, a window on the world for backwoods children in early times. The old flue…

carried away woodsmoke from a stove that has since disappeared. And the blackboard…

this blackboard could surely tell stories if it could talk, stories of ABCs and 123s, ciphering matches, lessons learned. Do you know that blackboards are no longer a part of the classroom? They’ve been replaced, first by dryboards and now by smartboards. But in those earlier days, they were the teacher’s handiest tool.

Modern schools are vastly different, in every way, from this ancestor…

whose benches and desks once held all eight grades together. It’s hard to imagine how it worked from today’s vantage point. But if you ask anyone who attended one of these old one-room schools, they will tell you they got a first-rate education there, one that prepared them well for the future.

Once our discovery has been made and examined and captured in memory and on film, we set off for home. I feel satisfied at having found the old school; the old house was just icing on the cake. And there is a twinge of sadness, of letdown–

But wait! Remember how that fellow said there was another old school…and the cemetery where his Civil War-veteran grandfather is buried? And that spring with all the watercress and the old springhouse?

Stay tuned…

Sunday was a perfect day for being outside. Celebrating the first day of Spring on the farm…we couldn’t think of a better way than fishing in the farm pond. So after some post-church naps, we were off!

Our transportation…we didn’t go far in the back of the truck…just around the corner and up the hill a little bit, to the lake….

Wyatt couldn’t wait to wet a line…

and Addie was right behind….

She caught her first fish!

“I don’t want to touch it!”

Kristen, the star of the day, employed her expert skills to help Wyatt pull this one in.

The other five Kristen caught were bigger than this perch (it’s there…look closely)…

It took a while, but Derek finally pulled in a keeper.

Sus inherited her mother’s fish-catching ability–she had fun watching, though.

Two buddies….Poppy patiently showed Wyatt how to hold a catfish without getting “horned.”

And that stringer-ful was quickly turned into supper, at just about the exact hour Ole Man Winter was leaving and Sweet Spring was making her appearance, which we happily applauded…and that was our celebration!

There is a fine line between boasting and simply stating facts. I am certain of one thing–my subjects of this writing would not like anyone boasting about them. So let’s get it straight: I’m stating facts, plain and simple. And maybe, to keep me out of trouble, you won’t tell them I wrote this. Let’s just keep it between us, okay? 

I’d like to introduce you to the women of the Prayer Shawl Ministry in my church. If you like to sit and knit or crochet or embroider or quilt, then you’d fit right in with them, for that is what they do when they gather twice each month. They also manage to squeeze in a little visiting, eating, praying and world-problem-solving while they’re at it. But those activities are secondary to the serious business at hand, which is what they are creating.

Prayer shawls are why this group was begun and they were the first order of business when the women began meeting last spring. Patterns were procured, yarn was rounded up, purchased and donated, and needles began to fly. Soon, the women learned an amazing thing. As soon as a shawl begins to take shape, someone–someone–needs it. And then the race is on to finish it and get it wrapped around the shoulders that need to feel the warmth of its embrace. Newborn babies, cancer patients, those grieving…the reasons to give a prayer shawl to someone are limitless. And without exception, the recipients feel the love and prayers that go into the making of these items.

When the holidays rolled around, the women decided to broaden their outlook. They created hand-sewn Christmas stockings, filled them with all sorts of goodies, and then made warm, soft scarves, hats, slippers and other things for more than thirty senior citizens in our area who are home-bound.

Since the new year began, a new focus appeared on the horizon. And today more than two dozen sweet knitted or crocheted hats, to warm and lovingly bless the heads of little ones, were delivered to the local health department, for the nurses to distribute to families who participate in their programs.

Also, two handmade, hand-quilted baby quilts, a lovely crocheted baby blanket and a darling little hand-sewn dolly will go to…just the right ones who need them. We don’t know who…and we don’t know why. We just know it will be right.

When I look into these faces, I see angels. I see selfless love. I see kindness and character and goodness.

I’m not boasting, remember. Just the facts, ma’am.

Who do you think you are…and why should you care?

Reality shows are positively taking over the airways. Since that long-ago premiere episode of “Survivor,” which seemed so unusual and unlikely a topic for a television series, we’ve moved on to being able to choose from a veritable smorgasbord of people who seek the limelight. Want to peek in the window and see how the worst sort of hoarders live? Or suffer along with parents trying to juggle six toddlers going through the terrible twos, all screaming at once? How about witnessing the incredible angst of being so young, beautiful and rich that everyone is envious of you? Bless their hearts, life is challenging, and they just have to say those bad words. Then there are those folks who are fatally attracted to animals. Some….no, a lot of this stuff is just plain weird. Wannabe tycoons will seemingly do anything for power…or is it seeing themselves on television that is the real attraction? Large-size people suddenly don’t mind taking off their clothes for the camera, showing us way more than we wanted to know about how much weight they need to lose….in the next 16 weeks. Right. Honestly, it seems like there is no dignity left when dollars are dangled in front of these….participants.

I sound like I know what I’m talking about, but the truth is I’ve never watched a whole episode of any of those shows. Never watched Survivor or Kate and her bunch, with or without Jon, never stepped on the scales with the losers, never gagged at the squalor people choose to reveal inside their homes, don’t really care about the guy with 16 wives or the folks with 30 kids. This stuff they call “reality” just does not feel like entertainment to me.

But someone has finally come up with one reality show that has me hooked, but good. On Friday nights at 7:00 p.m., I’m glued to the television, watching celebrities find out fascinating things about their heritage on the show, “Who Do You Think You Are?” It’s not the celebrities who are the attraction for me; although they’ve chosen to highlight people who are popular and interesting, it could be any ordinary Tom, Dick or Mary on there as far as I’m concerned. I’m watching to see how they do it and what they discover because I want to do it, too!

It’s sort of ironic that new technology (zoom to the future) has revolutionized the ways in which we can find out about history (blast to the past). The show is sponsored by Ancestry.com, a web-business that allows its members to access its wealth of online records about the past. Census data, birth, marriage and death records, military service and immigration information–all these are some of the collections available, and they can literally be at your fingertips. Where once it required a trip to a musty courthouse basement to find a heavy tome filled with a county’s homestead records, now one can simply type into a search engine and in a matter of seconds know that one’s great-great-grandfather proved up 160 acres and had a document signed by someone like Theodore Roosevelt or James Buchanan to show for it. Heady stuff.

But why bother? Who cares about a great-great-grandmother who bore seven children and died when the eighth was born? Or about an uncle who shouldered a musket in a long-ago tragic war? Why would anyone want to understand the rationale behind leaving the comfort and security of home to head west in search of riches in the gold fields–or just a new life? Can we understand, in the midst of living in the twenty-first century, what it was like to be a pioneer…when western Missouri was the western frontier?

For me, it started with an envelope. A scrap of paper that my dad’s cousin picked up, in answer to my naive question, “Do you know anything about our family’s history?” He smiled and on the back of that used envelope began to sketch out for me a simple graph of our shared family line. He started with his mother and my grandad, who were brother and sister, and then he added their parents, and then their parents, and on back and farther back–and suddenly it was a little tree with roots reaching all the way to the American Revolution. My family tree. And it had names on it–magical sounding names that belonged to my people. I wondered about them from that moment on. I wanted to know them.

Why did my great-grandfather choose to become a printer? Did he, like me, love words? What was it like for his father, a doctor ministering to Union soldiers in the Civil War, to move from Pennsylvania to Illinois to Missouri? Did it seem that he had left real civilization behind? Who was the woman behind the haunting eyes in the faded photograph of my great-great-grandmother? She inspired me to give my daughter her name, even though I never knew her. Could I know more about her than the fact that she was pretty, even in old age?

These are all questions I want to answer, but still the bigger question remains: Why? What does it matter? I think it matters because very often who we are is influenced by who they were. I do not think it is an accident that my father-in-law loved his work. When I talked with him about his predecessors, I learned that his father and grandfather before him were also well known as hard workers, men who took great pride in the work of their hands and found satisfaction in the fruits of their labors. I do not think it is by happenstance that my daughter devotes herself so fully to her job as a teacher, a role in which she thrives; although she never knew them, several of her great-grandparents and grandparents were well-respected educators. And when I kneel down to plant seeds in the ground or take up a start of heirloom peonies from an old, abandoned houseplace, I can almost feel my granny looking over my shoulder, encouraging me to not set them too deep–or to tamp the soil down just so. She never said that me during her lifetime; I just know it.

People argue over which is more influential–genetics or environment. Those who are strictly scientific might say that the behaviors I’ve described are learned, rather than transmitted through the genes. But I don’t buy that. If scientists can prove that people are genetically predisposed to certain negative things, then surely the same can be true of the positives. I just know…in my blood…that Granny gave me her love for gardening and growing things. I know that my husband’s love of agriculture is a part of him, as much as his dark hair and large hands. And this is why we live the life we do today, pure and simple. 

Genealogy is about blood–and it gets in your blood. Finding out about one’s ancestors allows you to solve mysteries, put together puzzles, and have the satisfaction of filling in the blanks. Sometimes you search and dig and look high and low and finally must accept that there are unanswerable questions, puzzle pieces that don’t fit or mysteries that, at the end of the day, must remain unsolved. Not every clue leads to a solution, and sometimes fiction is clothed as fact, leading the searcher far astray. Nevertheless, once begun, this journey cannot be abandoned. One does not give up, and I’ll probably go to my grave wondering…still wondering…was that James Taber the one I think he was? And if he was, whatever happened to him? Why does he simply disappear from the face of the earth? Is there one more little thing I’ve overlooked, one more land record I could find or spelling of his name that I could try. Perhaps if I go back to Forsyth, to the genealogy room in their library, and look through the old newspapers once again I will find something… that one little something….

 A couple of weeks ago I gave you a tiny preview of coming attractions…

And now for the unveiling!

I refer to 2010 as the Year of the Historium…the year a few historical society friends and I worked to buy and renovate an old building on the square in our little town. ”Worked” is the key word in that last sentence–far more work than we imagined. But now, 12 months since the decision was made, we’re ready to welcome the world to our place. So, our first exhibit of 2011 is (drum roll, please!)…..

Squares of Affection: Ozark County Friendship Quilts

We’ve gathered thirty examples of this particular genre and have displayed them in our new old building, and we’re thrilled with the result! I’d like to share a few of these old treasures with you.

This appliqued beauty is just gorgeous! Made by a local homemakers’ extension club in the 1940s, each block was made to represent a boy serving in WWII and is embroidered with a name. Amazingly, every boy came home! Here’s a close-up. This quilt has never been washed.

And another lovely appliqued Morning Glory beauty, also made by a homemakers’ club for a dear member’s birthday…her granddaughter owns it today and shared it with us for the exhibit. Don’t you love the purple and yellow?

This next quilt is what I’d call a “typical” friendship quilt and was made for a young woman’s high school graduation in the mid 1950s. The names of all her classmates as well as family and neighborhood friends are embroidered upon the blocks.

An embroidered quilt displayed the skills of the women who made the blocks….possibly another homemakers’ club.

Here is a close-up of one block from another quilt that features incredible embroidery and meticulous quilting….

And an unusual use of buttonhole or blanket stitch in stitching the quilt block maker’s name.

The occasions for making friendshp quilts were diverse…weddings, anniversaries, graduations, and other of life’s milestones. Often, when a beloved teacher moved from a community the patrons of the school district (and these were often one-room schools) presented her (or him) with a going-away quilt as a remembrance. This next block is from a little community in our county known as Udall; the teacher was going to teach at a different school the next year, so this quilt was her going-away gift. Names of students and parents are embroidered onto the blocks, and three feature the names of boys who had perfect attendance.

The block says, “Waco Carter…present every day.”

This next one was made more recently…1982…as a 50th anniversary quilt for the makers’ parents. One daughter found the idea in a book and designed the quilt, and other women in the family double cross-stitched the names into the squares of the Crosswork Puzzle Quilt. It was then hand-quilted by a family friend.

I love the graphic look and bright colors in this old quilt. It was made in 1939–very nicely preserved.

This one is an unusual choice of pattern….it says, “Margaret Upton, March 1936.”

Next is an Album Quilt, made for the parents of one of my mother’s closest friends. Their home burned and the family lost everything in an instant, when Frances was just a little girl. Her mother’s friends got together and made them this quilt. It’s not large but I’m sure it warmed the hearts of this lovely family to have this treasure.

I love the sashing and nine-patch cornerstones in this next quilt. It was made by families in the Banner School district for a beloved teacher. Some of the women embroidered whole names, some just first names, and a few simply used their initials.

The prints in this quilt, which is perfectly preserved by its loving owner whose name is on a block, are all flour or feed sacks. Today, we can buy reproduction fabrics designed like these old prints. But to have such a wonderful example with the originals in such good shape is really special!

Look at it closely…can you see the square block? The name is “Sylvie Naugle” and Sylvie used buttonhole stitch (the one commonly used) to applique her print pieces to the solid off-white background square. That background fabric was also feed-sack material. See how the women chose a quilting pattern that makes the names stand out?

That one (above) is another beautiful example of embroidery. This name is not a familiar one in our county. I’m posting it in case anyone recognizes this name and can tell me anything about it. The rest of the quilt are names I recognize and was probably made in the 1940s.

The last quilt I’ll share is a more modern one, made in 2007. Clever Rita took her grandchildrens’ drawings, transferred them to fabric and then used embroidery and paint to “color” them as the children had done. She made a quilt out of it and calls it her “going to the nursing home” quilt. Although anyone who knows this imaginative, feisty woman canNOT believe she’ll ever need to be in a nursing home, she says when the time comes she’ll wrap herself in the love of her grandchildren by placing this quilt on her bed.

It says, “To you and him” (referring to Rita and her late husband) and the delightful misspelling of “shcool” is true to the original. It is signed ”Jessica.” All twelve blocks on Rita’s quilt are this cute. She embroidered “Grammy’s Memories” in the border.

I’ll close with a photo of a new quilt in progress, right there in the Historium, in the middle of the exhibit. I’m so thrilled with this! These old frames have been stored on our farm for about 10 years, when “my” quilting group was no longer able to quilt. The others passed away or moved away, but I always knew that someday there would be a time and a place when they would once again see use.

Thanks for coming to our quilt exhibit! And come in person if you have the chance. If you’re from Ozark County, chances are you’ll find the name of a friend or relative on one of these quilts. My photos do not do justice to these works of art, made by women who had very few resources yet used an abundance of creativity and needle-skills to make lasting treasures to inspire us today. I am in awe of them…the quilts AND the quiltmakers.