BLACKBERRY SEASON

If you’ve been my friend for a while, you’ll have read, in seasons past, my rhadpsodizing about making jelly. It’s one of my favorite summertime things to do! I love to pick the fresh fruit, handle it, smell it, admire it, then cook it up, and, most satisfying of all, to hear the jars “ping!” when they seal.

I inherited my love of jelly making from my grandmother, and I inherited some of her jelly-making equipment:

     her colander (which she called a “cullender”)….

                    and her old enamel cooker.

I also inherited her cheesecloth, with which to give the juice its final strain. Unfortunately, about three years ago I had to finally admit that that ancient piece of cheesecloth, tattered and in shreds, could no longer do its job. You just can’t hold on to EVERY old thing, so I threw it away. And try as I might, I can’t find new cheesecloth that holds a candle to the old stuff…they just don’t make it like they used to.

My inheritance from Grandmother is not worth much in the way of the world’s reckoning of value, but it is priceless to me. She gave me these humble items and her love of the process…and, best of all, she taught me how to do it!

Yesterday, I made blackberry jelly. And, though not in body, in spirit my grandmother was with me every step of the way. I could almost hear her say, “When you get all the juice you can from those berries, if you’re still short a little, it’s okay to add some water. Now not too much, maybe one-fourth of a cup, but just a little, to get all you need.” And, “Be sure the rim of the jar is clean before you screw on the lid…you don’t want it to not seal.”

Yesterday while I was crushing blackberries and extracting the juice, my favorite farmboy came in from a very busy morning of working cattle. He sat down in the kitchen rocker with a tall glass of iced tea and watched me. As I worked, we talked about the day and the week. He asked me a lot of questions about what I was doing, and I could tell that he might have a suggestion or two about my work, but this time he kept them to himself, leaving me to be the Queen of Jelly-Making in this household. My farmboy is very good at every thing he does, but I’ve got it all over him when it comes to making jelly! I learned from the True Queen.

At the end of the afternoon, I had 15 sparkling jars of blackberry jelly to go into the pantry. They’ll sit on the counter for 24 hours before I move them, and then I’ll hide them away for a while. Come winter, when the snow flies, a dollop of this sweet, purply-black goodness will taste like the essence of a hot summer’s day, when plopped onto a hot biscuit with a melting slice of butter.

Wishing for you days as sweet as this!

Ode to the Morning of the Last Day of June

Lo, early the day came with bright shafts of light

Rising over the mountain, first dimly, then bright.

Whilst early to the wire the trilling bluebirds did fly

Yon evening’s moon did wink a weary goodbye.

Hark! Overland the brave horsemen did ramble…

Stirring sleepy mamas and wee calvies to gambol.

‘Fore long, the June morning was no longer new,

E’en tho’ flowers, they bloomed, bonny and blue.

by Dame Janette, Mistress of the Diamond T

 of the County of Aux Arc

My friend, Christy Keirn, who is a faithful facebooker, posted a question: What do you miss most about being a kid in summer? She got some great, quick responses, but as is typical for me, I couldn’t let it go with one line. It got me to thinking back to my memories of summertime, to being a kid in a little town smack-dab in the middle of America…. 

As it was for most kids of my day, playing was my primary occupation. I would stay outside all day long and play hard, from morning until it got too dark to see. I rode my bike all over our little town and up and down the gravel roads that led into it. I climbed in mulberry trees and, along with my next-door buddy, used our neighbor’s split-rail fence posts to build forts.

We pulled Larry’s little wagon around the roads, looking for discarded pop bottles that we took to the little grocery store and sold for a penny a piece. All the time we were looking for the elusive pop bottles, we were figuring out how to spend all the money we were going to get….would we buy an orange pop or some kind of ice cream treat at the drug store? Or if we went there, the rack of comic books would lure us to open their covers…such temptation!

One year Larry and I wrote a newspaper. For a few days, we gathered stories and promises of subscriptions; but it soon became too much like school, so our publication was a short-lived venture.

His folks had the Western Auto, and summer sometimes meant a new ballglove from their store. Remember the smell of the leather, of breaking it in? If there was no one to play catch with, I’d throw a softball up on our house to catch it for hours on end. But it was so much more fun when we could get enough kids together for a game of work-up, played on the school’s dusty ball field.

I spent a lot of time at my great-granny’s house where she kept me busy, picking gooseberries or blackberries or whatever was ripening in her huge garden. It was, of course, out in the hot sun, which is where berries ripen best. But back in her old farmhouse-in-town, the air stayed cool and a little fan stirred up a little breeze on the hottest days. She didn’t turn it on often…that would run up her light bill….just when it was real hot. What I really loved about Granny’s was snooping in her attic, but that was best saved for wintry days.

Granny’s wide front porch had a swing and two big old wooden rockers. When my grandparents (Granny’s daughter) would come for their summer visit, we sat on that porch at night, watching the fireflies wink and listening to the grown-ups visit. Finally, I would coax Grandmother to tell me a story, and I would lie with my head in her lap on that creaking swing, lulled to sleep by her magical voice telling tales of fabulous make-believe, stories of little girls who could do anything…Grandmother’s way of telling me I could do anything….

Our little town did not have much of a library, but I spent many summer mornings there, looking through ALL the books, trying to find something to read. I would bring home anything and everything, and often it was something inappropriate for my age. I remember reading Grapes of Wrath before I knew there had been a Great Depression. Pearl S. Buck became one of my favorites in those summers, and the scene in The Good Earth where the woman delivers a baby in the rice paddy and just keeps toiling made an impression on a ten-year-old that I’ve never forgotten. Magnificent Obsession, The Robe, The Keys of the Kingdom…all epics that I loved. When I brought home Tobacco Road, one of my mom’s friends noticed me reading it and removed it from my hands and said, “No! You’re too young for this!” Of course, that just made me want to read it all the more…

Ours might have been the only little town in America without a swimming pool, but we did have Lick Creek, and we’d play in that as long as the water flowed well. But when it got too dry and the water became sluggish, Mom wouldn’t allow me near it. “Don’t go near stagnant water,” she’d say, “You’ll get typhoid.” We never knew anyone who ever got it, but we minded our moms.

The long days of summer stretched on and on, but the monotony was broken by the Fourth of July. The very definition of this holiday for my family was PICNIC. We would have a major picnic! It was not a matter of going through a drive-through at KFC and getting a bucket of chicken and going to a park somewhere. Nosirree, it was a picnic of epic proportions.

Granny kept chickens, so she would butcher several of them and fry up dishpans full of crispy goodness (Mom always said fried chicken was even better when it was left-over). She made wonderful potato salad (Dad said you could never get too much onion) and Grandmother made baked beans and homemade lemonade, a delightful treat reserved for only these special occasions, in a big gallon jar. 

We would load up in our station wagon, roll the windows down and head for a special picnic place, different each year but always with water. We went to Tecumseh, to have our picnic under the Steel Bridge, or to Gamaliel, across the ferry, to a picnic area there. One time we went over to Shadow Rock Park at Forsyth, and another time to Beaver Creek at Kissee Mills. We swam, even all the grown-up grandparents, except great-Granny, who sat, napping, in the shade of her umbrella with her Clinkingbeard Funeral Home fan going. We kids took innertubes to float in the clean, cool water, working up a good appetite before the food was spread.

And then, oh, the goodness! Along with the main dishes there were fresh peaches sliced in a sugary syrup, jars of homemade pickles, deviled eggs, and for dessert there was a big old watermelon, kept cold in the creek until time to cut it.

It sounds as if all I did was play, but there were always chores in summer, too. Mom was diligent about that. I was the chief dishwasher (three times a day) and clothes-gatherer. She was particular about hanging clothes out to dry, so I didn’t have that job. But I could bring them in and fold them…VERY carefully (that diligence, again.) There was always a bag of sprinkled clothes in the refrigerator awaiting her iron. That was a hot job that I graduated to, at about age 13. Perhaps that was the end of my real childhood…

Those long-ago days seemed so quiet and languid, with the buzz of cicadas coming through the screen to hynotically lull us to sleep at night. Summer lasted a long time back then…it seemed like it would last forever. But like all aspects of childhood, summer came to an end, and then it was back to school, back to growing up, and eventually summer jobs took the place of summer play.

Summer on the farm is so busy now. We get up early, work hard, get a little rest, and do it all again tomorrow. But when it gets old, I take a little mind-vacation, back to those childhood days of play. How thankful I am to have had that smalltown experience! How I wish every kid today could have it…it seems like it was just about perfect…

What do you miss about your childhood summers???

Wouldn’t you like to take a bath, right about now, in Chip’s bathtub?

Doesn’t it look cool and inviting?

Let me tell you….it IS! Cool because it is spring water, clear and fresh.

Inviting…well, when it is 96 degrees outside with unrelenting sunshine, what could possibly be more inviting? Not your lukewarm, chlorine-saturated swimming pool, nosirree. Not for me!

Chip, either. He fairly bounded (even though he is 80) out of the back of my truck and high-tailed it to the water.

He had a fresh haircut, compliments of our resident doggy-barber, the Farmboy, who is ever so deft with the clippers.

And now all he needed was a good shampoo and rinse, to be fresh and clean and ready to take on just about anything.

Chip only gets baths in warm weather, and he only gets them in natural bathtubs. This dog is not made for indoor plumbing…he’s the outdoors, natural type.

Just show him a creek or a river or the lake, and he’s ready to be scrubbed. He loves the lathering part, and he tolerates the rinsing, even when I duck his head under to get the soap off.

And then comes the fun part…chasing sticks! Chip may be 80, but he can still dog-paddle with the best of ‘em, yes, indeedy.

Now, about being 80…how did I arrive at that figure? Chip’s birthday was June 1, and it was the 11th time we had celebrated. It just so happened that our favorite dog-lover-extraordinaire was with us at that time. Miss Emma explained (for she has studied these things and she knows) that dogs age the equivalent of ten human years in their first year of life. And for every subsequent year, they gain seven more….so, if I did my math correctly, that means Chip is 80. But just give him a bath and he feels like a spring chicken again….

Speaking of chickens, would you like to see how the twins are faring? Remember that we had triplets? Unfortunately, that status did not last long. It’s a sad tale, and I’ll let Delbert share it someday. Anyway, where once there were three…there are now two.

But aren’t they cute? I haven’t had the nerve to tell Minnie that “I don’t think they are hers!” If looks mean anything, I believe these chix hatched from Clara’s eggs.

This is Clara. Beautiful girl, but not quite mature enough for motherhood…and since Minnie felt the urge to set, here we are. Adoption is fine in this family.

Say, do you remember Salty, Pepper and Corny? They seem to be survivors. First they survived the girls’ hugs and squeezes, and now they have survived the move from the back porch to the henhouse and yard. I sort of hold my breath and wonder when a chicken hawk is going to zoom in on the little white one….Salty stands out plainly for all predators to see. But, so far, so good…they hide so well under the bushes that I can’t even get a decent picture of them!

Hope y’all find a nice, cool natural bathtub to dip in this weekend, if you’re so inclined. Chip and I’ll prob’ly go back tomorrow…daily baths seem to be necessary this time of year…

A few things I have re-learned in the last few days….

1. Children do not require variety in their diet. Just as long as you give them some kind of noodles, they will eat it…three times a day.

2. Letting a four-year-old stay up late does NOT translate to sleeping in the next morning. No matter whether bedtime is 8:30 or 10:30, 6:00 a.m. means “Rise and Shine!” There may, however, be consequences, such as grumpiness, uncooperative attitudes and a tendency to pout if said bedtime is 10:30.

3. Children do not enjoy prolonged rides in the country, if such rides require confinement in automobiles. Rides are ENDLESS and BORING, whether the distance traveled is 3 miles or 30 miles. Encountering wildlife along the way does, however, help to break the monotony. Be sure to include spottings of wild turkeys, deer, armadillos, snakes and skunks, to elicit ear-piercing shrieks, sudden jostling and many, many questions, such as, “How long would the pickup smell bad if you’d hit that skunk, Poppy? Boy, you just barely missed him! He was trying to spray ME!” and “Why are armadillos so ugly, Mimi?”

4. Although it is tempting for Mimis to finish up chores while naps are taking place, it is wiser to forego work and join in the nap-taking. It will come in very handy along about 5:30 p.m.

5. Contrary to mommy wisdom, a daily bath is not necessary for the health of children. A good dousing in cold, clear creek water is a perfectly acceptable substitute.

6. Eating outside really does make food taste better.

Questions still awaiting answers:

1. How many days can a child go without shampoo or soap and still be considered tolerable?

2. How many cookies are too many, and will a small glass of Coke or sweet tea really hurt anything?

3. How many times does a Mimi have to read “Christina Katerina & The Box” before she has it memorized?

4. If the tadpoles in the bucket on the screened porch sprout legs and turn into frogs, will they jump out and be gone before we even see them?

5. How many pictures, colored and painted, does it take to completely plaster the surface of one refrigerator ( the side-by-side doors type)?

6. Why are donkeys’ ears so soft?

We’re working on these and other pressing matters….

May Daze….it’s what I’m in.

Did you realize that Spring is now 2/3 over? Wait, Spring! Slow down, I want to enjoy you some more!

       Four-year-olds love to play soccer in May showers….

            These photos taken from under an umbrella…

               Big girls like to play in the mud, too…

          Who says you can’t swim on a rainy May day?

Do you fish? I have always said if I ever caught a fish, I might become a fisherwoman, but alas, I’m still waiting for that momentous event to happen. However, lots of folks I know are absolutely addicted. Because of a plentiful supply in the local bodies of water, fishing always has been an important part of life in the Ozarks, whether by necessity or purely for pleasure. And it remains a very popular activity, drawing many to our little corner of the world, to the rivers and lakes alike.

Marty, one of our regulars in Sunday School, was absent yesterday. When I asked Max (her hubby) where she was, I knew the answer before I heard it….Marty was fishing. It was her idea of the best possible way to spend Mother’s Day…plus the fact that her oldest son can only come down to visit on weekends. I totally understood because I know how much Marty loves to fish, no matter the weather, how she is feeling, or any other variable. Marty is one of those who catches fish…guess that is why she likes it so much. Hope she had a good day yesterday!

Another friend who loves to fish is John R. Sims. Honestly, his very name is synonymous with fishing. John R. is my dad’s age, and his daughter is my age.

          (Jan, Kat, & Sue Ann–still friends, 40 years after h.s. graduation)

In fact, Katherine is one of my closest girlhood friends, so I’ve known her and her daddy for a long time. My earliest memory of John R. is of a big fish fry he put on behind our old church house downtown. There was a huge crowd, kids and oldsters and everyone in between, and he provided enough fish to feed us all. Rather Biblical, if you will permit the reference. And the loaves….well, they were hush puppies. Dishpans full of slaw were an accompaniment, and the fried potatoes were perhaps the best of all. Cooked in huge, well-seasoned, cast-iron skillets, with a goodly amount of chopped onions thrown in for seasoning…now that was a blessing!

      (Guavana, my mother-in-law Julia, and John R, friends from WAY back)

John R., his dear wife Guavana and Kat (as the Class of 69 called her) came to visit me last week. Kat now lives in Texas and was home for Mother’s Day, so they drove out to reminisce a little bit. John R. is one of my favorite story-tellers, and he didn’t disappoint. The day’s subject was one of his richest story-lodes…fishing.

Back in the very early days (the 1950s and 60s) of our local lakes, when the fishing was simply phenomenal, John R. had a boathouse at Liner, down on Norfork, just south of the Steel Bridge at Tecumseh. He worked hard as a butcher and owner of Sims Locker Plant by day and was a dedicated fisherman by night. I asked him what he best liked to fish for, and his reply was unequivocal….”Catfish!” His tone implied there was no question about it, and as he told his stories, it was like it was only yesterday.

            (above, Pete Klineline and John R. Sims)

John R. and one of his buddies (more often than not, the late Pete Klineline) would go down to Liner after they got off work and would proceed with the evening’s work….but not before they had their own private fish fry. The boathouse, a rough, handmade affair consisting of a little shack on top of floating barrels and tethered to the shore by steel cables, featured a live well, where the fishermen had a few fish left from the night before. They would quickly skin and filet what they could eat, fry them up, and then head out.

Their craft was a metal johnboat, shallow and sort of pointed at the front. Usually Pete sat in the back as navigator, running the little putt-putt motor, probably a Johnson outboard of 12 horsepower. John R. would get in the front (I know there are technical, sea-going terms for the boat positions, but I don’t know them) with a dip-net and a gas-powered lantern, and off the two would go.

Their first order of business was to catch their bait…shad. John R. said this was the most fun part of the whole evening and added that not everyone could do it. He really liked to find gizzard shad; the fish had a gizzard, much like a chicken, and John R. said that was the very best morsel of bait.

He knelt on the front seat with one knee, leaned out over the side of the boat as far as he could, and shone the lantern along next to the shore, as Pete slowly trolled along. The shad were attracted to the light, and John R. would quickly scoop them up with the dip-net and throw them over his shoulder into the center of the boat.

Kat recalled going on many of these night-time excursions. Her allotted seat was in the center of the boat, and she or whoever was lucky enough to sit there would “receive” the shad, along with a free sprinkling (or dousing) of water with each toss of John R.’s net. She would grab the scrambling bait and stash it in a bucket until enough were caught for the evening.

When the bait bucket was full enough to satisfy John R. and Pete, they would pull the boat over and slice the 6-8 inch shad into bite-size pieces, just right for baiting their trotlines. The men used trotlines with 33 hooks(legal at that time) attached to dangling short lengths of fishing line spaced along the main line at regular intervals. They would then weight the baited line and let it down to the bottom of the channel, so that other fishermen could not find and rob their lines.

Liner was just north of the Arkansas state line, and on the southern side there was no limit on the number of hooks or trotlines an individual could put out. So the men worked both the Missouri and Arkansas sides, mostly keeping it legal, John R. said with a smile. After baiting their lines, the two men would go back to the primitive boathouse and sleep for a few hours, and then arise when it was just light enough to see, to bring in their catch. It was nothing for the two men to have 90-100 nice catfish for a night’s work.

John R. remembered a night when he and another friend went out, despite hearing the storm warnings. They had baited their lines, first in Missouri and then in Arkansas, and were heading back to the boathouse when the wind came up. It turned out to be a sure-enough tornado, and the two made for a beach where some small willow trees offered the only shelter. They drug their little craft up on the beach, got under the willows and hung on for dear life. Much later, when the wind had finally passed, they had had to retrieve their boat three times, and the cedar trees on top of the opposite bluff were literally flattened. A stand of huge oaks just up ahead of where they came ashore were also uprooted. Many area homes were destroyed, as well, they later learned. John R. realized they dodged a dangerous bullet that night by going out in a small boat with a storm approaching.

Through the years, John R. has delighted in introducing newcomers to his favorite hobby. One year, when Katherine was a student at Harding College, she brought home a friend, Joe, to meet her folks. John R. took Joe fishing, and Katherine suspects that is when Joe decided to marry her. He had such a good time that he went back to Harding and told all his buddies about the incredible fishing he had found on Norfork with Kat’s dad. From then on, every trip to the Sims house found Kat and Joe accompanied by three or four (or more) of Joe’s pals. The old boathouse became a favorite destination for them all.

John R. is now 82, and he still loves to fish. He and Guavana have been to Canada many times, he has plied Mexican waters on multiple occasions, and he still loves to go out on local lakes. Last Friday, he, his youngest son, Terry, and Kat’s son, Jeff, spent the day on Bull Shoals. It was a windy, chilly day, and the fishing was not good. But does one day’s lack of success deter this die-hard fisherman? Never! He’s hoping to go back to Canada with Guavana, but in the meantime he’s planning his next fishing trip on Norfork…or Bull Shoals…or wherever they’re biting…

Chickenhouse Chronicles, Part 3…

…Delbert’s Important Announcement

[Preface by Americanjanet: Although I had no intention of giving Delbert another chance at my laptop so soon, he has convinced me that he has news of earth-shattering importance to share with "his" fans. I tell you, giving this rooster computer access gives new meaning to that old phrase, "hunt and peck." My laptop will never be the same!]

Are ya listenin’ up? I’m here to tell ya that Minnie and me has had us TRIPLETS!

That’s right, three of the finest little balls of fluff that ever did hatch… And boy, let me tell ya, they are FINE!

I knowed somethin’ was up, the way Minnie kept settin’ on that ole nest, day in and day out, hardly never gettin’ no food nor water, settin’ and settin’.  But she never tole me nuthin’ about no babies! It come as somewhat of a shock to me, just so ya know…

Long about Wensdy, there was a bit of a commotion comin’ from that nest. She begun to squirm and twist a little, but if I come near, she gave me that ole evil eye that said, loud and clear, BACK OFF. So I backed. Minded my own. Nobody messes with Minnie when she’s like that.

That evenin’, it was close to dark when me and Clara come in and clumb up to roost. We heard us some strange little noises, soundin’ sorta like cheep…cheep. I told Clara not to bother, it was just Minnie bein’ her fidgety self.

But then the Lady come in like she does ever night, to see we’re tucked in good, and soon as she hears those cheeps, she dashes back out like a house a-fire, and then comes runnin’ back with that black box she likes a lot and goes to flashin’ lights at Minnie, and cooin’ and oohin’ and ahhin’ and then she runs out again and comes back with the Man.

Well, I’m beginnin’ to think somethin’ bad has happened to Minnie, when the Man says somethin’ about how sweet it is. The MAN done said that! And then he said, “How many are there?” 

They slipped out quiet-like, and I stewed about it. No sleep for Delbert that night, wonderin’ what was goin’ to happen next.

Long about first light the next mornin’, the cheepin’ and carryin’ on really picked up. And I could see those little yellow specks wigglin’ around and in and out from under Minnie and it was then I KNEW. We’d done got us some babies!

Three little ‘uns, is what. Minnie and me has decided we won’t name ‘em yet, and we’re hopin’ the Lady won’t neither. It just don’t do to give a chick a name like Della and then have to change it onct he starts to crow and such. I’m speakin’ from the mouth of experience, here…

Things is surely lookin’ up around this old chickenhouse, a sight better’n it was just a while ago. It does a feller good to see his offspring springin’ around, learnin’ to grab onto a worm with his little beak, chasin’ after Mama across the yard, and peckin’ at ever little thing that moves. Course, Minnie won’t let me get close to ‘em…but that just means she’s bein’ a good mama. ‘Bout all I see of her these days is this side!

I’m thinkin’ it’s time Clara and me thought about havin’ us a family. This daddy bizness gives a feller somethin’ to crow about! 

Chickenhouse Chronicles, Part 2

…or Delbert’s Annual Report of the State of the Poultry on Diamond T. Ranch, Inc.

Let me just say, right off, that there is nuthin’…. and I mean, NUTHIN’…. to crow about on this here farm right now, and that’s the flat-out truth of the matter. Leastways, not from this rooster’s point-a-view. What can a feller say about two measly hens? Did they expect me to fight off the skunks, possums AND coyotes????

Maybe I better back up, ’cause you need to know the whole story, not just what SHE”S told ya. The Lady at the House don’t give credit where credit is due. She don’t know how many hawks and foxes and blacksnakes and rats and other critters I fought off these last many years. All she carries on about is the ones that slipped in on me. What’s a feller s’posed to do about a skunk, fer goodness sake??? Did she want me to peck him???? No thank you, nosiree, not this here rooster! No sweet little hen is worth that kind of mess on his feathers! Just so ya know….

Or did she perhaps tell ya about the hole in the fence? See here, now, I will set the record straight — I was not the one that done that! It was that feisty little red hen, Clara, that thought the grass was SO much greener…. and the grasshoppers SO much juicier…. on the outside. It was HER that pecked and pulled and twisted that wire till she had a hole big enough to squeeze her feathered little fanny through. And a cuter little fanny this rooster never did see, by the way….but that’s a story for another day…. ahem … best to keep to the business at hand ….

                         (That’s me and Clara…)

Well, it DID seem like Clara was gettin’ a whole heap more bugs out there in the horse pasture than we was, all penned up in this little ole yard. And she DID sorta strut around and taunt us, like, with her little happy chirpin’ sounds. And soon, we all pushed ourselves through that little hole in the fence and was all out there, runnin’ around like chickens with their heads….oops, like kids outta school. Freedom does that to a feller….he fergets what he’s supposed to be a-doin’, like keepin’ an eye out on the sky fer them mean ole hawks and such….and first thing, I knowed, Gaudie was a goner.

Now let me say this right up front: I did love that little Gaudie. She was my best girl from all the way back to the beginning. That little striped hen had me wrapped around her little chickenfoot from day one. All she had to do was cock her head to one side and give me that eye, and I’d come a’runnin.’ Why she didn’t holler on THAT day still haunts my roost ever night. All I know is, she was gone. And I’ll never ferget her. Just so ya know….

‘Cept maybe when I look at Minnie. Now, this new gal, Minnie, she’s a looker. Striped like Gaudie, and maybe that’s what made the Old Lady get her. The woman did sorta cry and carry on over Gaudie, maybe more’n a human should. I guess she thought a new gal would take her mind off her grief and such. Anyway, when this new gal steps outta the house and walks down the little ramp every mornin’, it’s like she’s on a runway, ya know? Like she knows I’m waitin’ and watchin’, and she struts it pretty good, lookin’ here and there and stretchin’ that nice little neck out good and long and fluffin’ her feathers. And when she makes that little cluckin’ deep in her throat that says, “Delbert? What are we gonna do today?” Well, I just say, “Honey, whatEVER you want.” What’s a feller to do, I say, What’s a feller to DO?

I guess, since this is some kind of O-fish-ul Re-port, you wanta know about eggs. All people wanta know about eggs … it’s all we ever hear. “Where are the eggs?” “How many eggs today?” Why is this egg funny-lookin?” “What do these speckles mean?” I have to say, sometimes this rooster gets TARD of hearin’ about eggs! In fact, they’s a good reason why the eggs became scarce as hens’ teeth this last winter, and it’s spelled S. N. O. W.

Now, if you wanna talk about somethin’ that gets my wattle in a wad, let’s talk about SNOW! You got any idee what it’s like for us chickens long about January? Remember, we ain’t got no BOOTS! And you expect us to climb down off our cozy perch, walk down that ramp and step right out into that freezin’ white stuff?? I’m here to tell ya, life is no PICNIC for a chicken in winter. These skinny little feet are NOT made for wadin’ in no six inches of frigidity. And last winter there was W-A-A-A-Y too much of it.

Now, I know they’s no such thing as a chicken union, but let me just say this: it’s easy to get the gals to cooperate when they’re cold. So I reckon it’s time to get this out on the bargaining table….next winter had better be different….or else! Mexico begins to sound M-I-T-E-E good long ’bout New Year’s… and I hear they don’t keep ya in no pens down there … runnin’ free and breezy all the live-long day, is how I hear it. Just so ya know…

Well, that’s about all Delbert’s got to say. I just heard Minnie purrin’ somethin’ about worms in the garden the Man tilled for us. And Clara wants to go back to the salad bar this mornin’….the Lady did do us one good favor when she planted somethin’ she calls Hosta in her flower beds…man o’ man, it sure is some good! But why does she hafta gripe about us eatin’ it…what does she want us to do, LOOK AT IT???

I’ll be back long ’bout this time next year, if the good Lord’s willin’ and the hawks stay away….and the skunks and the possums and the coons and the coyotes…don’t it seem like chickens has got more’n their fair share of enemies in this ole world???? Life is no bowl a cherries, nosiree. Just so ya know….

Yours truly,

Delbert the Rooster

(This here’s Minnie…she’s gotten awful lazy lately…won’t come offa her nest for nuthin’–think the Lady needs to have a gal-to-gal talk with her, if ya catch my drift….)

 HOW I SPENT MY SUNDAY AFTERNOON

by AmericanJanet

After fortifying ourselves at a bountiful fellowship dinner after the morning worship service at church, we boldly set out on an adventure. Our goal:

To Find The Evening Shade School.

Why, you may ask, would a school be lost? Well, it wasn’t, exactly. It just had not been used in many a year….many a decade, in fact.

Let me explain. My good friend and fellow history and genealogy enthusiast, Susan, and I are compiling stories about Ozark County’s one-room schools for a book. At one point in the early 1900s, there were at least 90 such schools dotting the landscape of our fair but rugged county.

Consolidation occurred in the 1960s, and the old school buildings were no longer needed for educating the children. All these years later, many of the old schools have disappeared, victims of progress, neglect and the ravages of time. A few survive, some having been remodeled into dwellings, some still being used as rural churches, and some just existing but in ruins.

I had heard about Evening Shade from a couple of her former pupils, now in their 80s. They gave me the surprising information that this particular school was built of logs, and that it was still standing, although it has been since the 1940s that it has been used. The number of students dwindled in that decade to such a few that it became impossible to support a teacher. So the Evening Shade children were transferred to Romance, a neighboring district.

All the earliest schools were built of logs, but this was the first one I’d heard of that was still standing. So off we went! We traveled down a graveled county road, turned at a mailbox onto an overgrown driveway, wound our way down into a holler and came to the house of the owners of the property.

It sounds simple, doesn’t it? But let me also say that we went several miles down that county road, and all the while my Farmboy was protesting. He didn’t think it was a good idea. There was a No Trespassing sign beside the mailbox. These folks weren’t “natives” and might not welcome intruders who drove right up to their door uninvited. The hill going down was very steep, and there was absolutely no way to turn around. The minute he turned off the truck, we could hear the dog barking, not real friendly-like. And it just felt like we were perhaps not going to be welcomed.

But I was on a mission. The only remaining log schoolhouse in the county deserved at least a photo in our book, and I was determined to get that photo, if it could be gotten.

Mr. Meelhuysen came to the door, and I introduced us and plunged right into my spiel about the book, not giving him a chance to refuse. In fact, I don’t think he minded one bit. He grabbed a jacket, and we set off on “about a quarter-mile” hike through the woods.

Some people measure distance in “abouts” with little reference to reality. This might have been the case with our hike to the Evening Shade School. We wound around the pond and began our ascent. For it was pretty much straight up. Henrik and I were in the lead, and I was carrying on a non-stop explanation of one-room schools and their importance to the history of our county. But soon, as the huffing and puffing became more insistent, the history lesson gave way to hiking and climbing in, pretty much, silence. Except for the gasping. I was thankful that Henrik was also huffing and puffing, so there was really no need to talk at this point. (Farmboy, bringing up the rear was effortlessly moving along, smiling as he became aware of my breathlessness. “I’ve been saying you need to get back into walking regularly…” Yes, dear.)

I kept looking ahead for my first glimpse of the school, and after what seemed like a half-hour, it came when we summited that little hill. 

Set back among the huge trees, I could see the weathered gray boards and was THANKFUL we had arrived!

At first I was alarmed because I could not see logs. But Henrik said they were under the clapboards, which were probably added at some point when the logs began to deteriorate.

I stepped right up to the door and peeked inside, hoping to get a photo of the logs that way. Suddenly, something BIG in there began thumping around noisily, and I jumped back, startled and stumbling. Henrik reassured me that it was not a bear but that buzzards were nesting in the attic. Dear Farmboy was doubled over with laughter and offered not one bit of assistance except to say that I should probably go right on in, since it probably wasn’t anything dangerous. I thanked him for his advice and did not take it. I did, however, peek in quickly to snap one quick shot of the logs.

Below, you can see the chinking between the logs where the siding had come off. Thin pieces of wood were placed between the squared timbers before the gaps were filled in. There was evidence of repeated chinking….different colors and materials.

As you can see from this rear shot, a previous owner had covered over the broken-out windows with tin.

And you can see the foundation….stacked, flat stones.

Henrik closed the door on the Evening Shade School, and we made our way back down the hill, via a nearby spring

where drinking and washing water was obtained by the bucketful for the use of the students. They took turns carrying the day’s water up the hill to the school. And it didn’t hurt them one bit.

In the valley, the old road bed was filled with masses of May Apples…do you know what a May Apple blossom looks like?

I was satisfied with the results of our hike through the rugged woods. It is difficult to imagine that children received an education in this tiny structure, but the ones who did so remember it fondly. And from what Susan and I have learned, the standards were often much higher than what is required of most elementary school children today. One woman, now 92, said she had to do advanced square-root problems to pass her eighth grade examination. I remember learning that as a junior in high school….and sure couldn’t do it today!

I will share some more things about one-room schools in the days ahead. Hope you enjoyed visiting Evening Shade with me this evening!