Putting cows on the front page since 1885.
Putting cows on the front page since 1885.
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There was no definite change of weather when February handed the reins over to March. She did it all herself before her days were over. With balmy temps, she started to melt away her mounds of snow and brought out patches of bare fields and lawns. The snow shovel fell over without its support of snow on the patio. Killdeers flew in to cry over the muddy meadow. The mushy, icy snow took away the speed from our sledding attempts on a Fair Valley hill where four of my grandchildren and I tried the...
April didn't wait long to pay for the warm weather that March stole from May. In her very first day she let us have it all. Without respect for the green grass and bright daffodils that March brought into our world, she blew wildly with snowy breath and stinging sleet. The sun never peeped and I was again thankful for row cover protection for the early garden ventures. Staying indoors to organize cupboards and drawers seemed the perfect thing to do on April's first day. On her second day my...
Like a whirlwind, the first week of daylight saving time took me into its swirling action. Sometimes it seemed to take my breath away, other times I collapsed into unconsciousness as sweet sleep revitalized me for the next round of activity. Coming to life again, after that first "dead" Monday on March 15 when winter weather ruled, I looked forward for the arrival of Tuesday when our middle daughter and her children would come to visit for the first time since Christmas. Although it was still...
Was it a dream? Was it me in the raspberry patch, cutting off old canes and uprooting chickweed as bluebirds warbled excitedly about the sunny skies? Was is it actually true, those robin songs in the morning hour of March 9, or were my ears playing tricks on me? Was it a mirage, that sun, to draw me outdoors, to drink from the fountain of fresh air? Was it me, with Atlas garden gloves, in the big, round flowerbed, to clean away winter's deadness to reveal emerging shoots of life, green with...
"... And here's some oak and some locust and some cherry for the top." These words were spoken to the wood stove by my husband as he stuffed it full of that hard, fibrous fuel. Talking to inanimate objects may perhaps be a sign of spring fever as cold weather persists. Granddaughter Lyla, age 3, had a different way of being affected with the "fever." "I'm going on a picnic," she told her family on the coldest day of the week, but no one believed her, that is, until they missed her. They found...
There was no definite change of weather when February handed the reins over to March. She did it all herself before her days were over. With balmy temps, she started to melt away her mounds of snow and brought out patches of bare fields and lawns. The snow shovel fell over without its support of snow on the patio. Killdeers flew in to cry over the muddy meadow. The mushy, icy snow took away the speed from our sledding attempts on a Fair Valley hill where four of my grandchildren and I tried the...
The purple fabric in my hand lost my attention as my eyes strayed to the woods. Its glittering, ice-coated scenery seemed to call me away from my sewing machine. When the sun began to shine through patches of blue sky, I gave in. As my husband and I stomped through the crusty snow, missiles of ice shot down from the overhead power lines. Too weak to hold on and too weak to break through the crust where they landed, bits of broken ice skittered around us as we tramped to the woods. A winter song...
"They think because I sew and bake And sweep a white pine floor, I never think of winding roads Somewhere beyond my door! They think me deaf to messages Of winds in trees that bend And sway in sheer abandonment, While all I do is mend! 'Tis true, my body dwells at home While a white shoreline calls The roving heart and soul of me Beyond these humble walls! And so I sing and bake my bread And baste my narrow seams, But while I put my loaves in pans My heart is light with dreams!" This unknown...
"February's a time for hearts And big red satin bows, Boxes of candy, lacy cards, A fragile, long-stemmed rose; "A time for searching the garden Lest a green blade flourish there Or looking for a robin Soaring through the air; "Days of restless energy To begin the tasks of spring, A longing to be done with snow And winter winds that sting." That's what Shirley Sallay writes about "The Second Month," but being "done with snow" didn't happen last week. In fact, we had quite a bit to do with it....
Dear January, Snowflakes made little tic-tic sounds as they glanced off my windbreaker jacket and my boots swished in the accumulating powdery whiteness, as I walked in the darkness of your last day. Quickly, before you handed the reins over to February, you gave us softly-falling snow. Although most of your days were mild, in your last week, a strong wind roared in from the north and cooled us down. Water on ponds froze, to the delight of fleet-footed youngsters, but not all the youth were...
"What Matters In A Day?" asks Margaret Peterson in her poem title and goes on to say: "By the power of God, a day is born With endless potential in it. We have 'free wills' so each may choose What to do with each minute. "Vast may be the day's work done, Huge the goals that are striven. But greatest of all in the eyes of God Is the amount of love that was given." When I ponder on the amount of love given, I think that only God knows. He alone can tell how much love we have in our hearts as we...
"On my next birthday I will be nine and then I'll soon be ten years old." These words came from Grandson Tyson last week as we sat with him around the table, enjoying his homemade birthday meal. Besides pizza and fresh veggies, there was a huge 3D dump truck cake. It leaned a bit on its wheels with a heavy load of dark soil and rocks (crushed sandwich cookies and chocolate-covered marshmallows) but the colors were right, as was the CAT name. Included in the day were games and songs besides...
The memory capacity of a tyke, just-turned-2, isn't very developed yet. In fact, last fall when Granddaughter Bella was at our house for a time, she never asked about her parents who disappeared to Missouri to attend a wedding. But that wasn't the case last week, just three months later. Not only did she get a dreamy look in her eyes at times and mention her parents, her pets or her dolls, she also remembered things about the last time she was here, like going to the attic. "Momie, come," she...
Dear December, Like a blanket, you covered all the months that came before you and brought the year to an end. A misty, gray day was the knot that tied it all together. Though your nights were long with darkness, we chopped them shorter at both ends with lamp light indoors and packed your short days to the brim. Although you did give us two balmy days in which I worked in my garden and greenhouse, most of your days resembled the winter which you are. Winter wasn't officially here, however, when...
"Delay is natural to a writer," quoted E. B. White, 'like a surfer, he bides his time and waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in. Delay is instinctive with him. He waits for the surge (of emotion? of strength? of courage?) that will carry him along." This writer of Charlotte's Web says he has no warm-up exercises, other than taking an occasional drink. "I am apt to let something simmer in my mind before trying to put it in into words," he concludes. Even if I had time for delay, to wait...
The grandfather's clock in the corner of the living room chimed to me about my approaching bedtime and brought me away from my reverie of poetry reading and Christmas card creations. The darkness of the year's longest night looks into the window but the light of our short days have been greatly brightened by the thick cover of snow on the valley last week. Children were much delighted to play and ride sleds in the unusually early snow. The last time December gave us so much snow, our oldest...
"The storm crashed down behind me, lightning bolts chasing me like a pack of bloodhounds, thunder screaming at me." These words grabbed me in the first sentence of Randy Alcorn's book, "Edge of Eternity," and so began my surreal journey with Nick Seagrave. It is wildly imaginative and dramatic, besides being a bit too unrealistic for me, so much so that I don't "get it." When I do understand the metaphors, I back up and read again, so I can be "with it." But I liked how he described his...
Dear November, Thank you for giving us all the last joys of the growing season of the year 2020. On your second day you blasted us with fierce, snowy winds and we thought we missed the boat, as far as getting ready for winter was concerned. But then you did a complete flip and gave us eight calm days in a row of delightful sunshine. Each new day of pleasant warmth surprised us, but farmers and gardeners took advantage of every minute. With grateful hearts we made use of your mild weather to...
"Just Think." That's what Robert W. Service named his combination of rhyming words and Charles P. Hargrave gave the words a tune. Or maybe the tune came before the words. I don't know which came first but I do know 82 years later we sang the song together at my friend's house on Tuesday evening, Nov. 24. "Just think, some night the stars will gleam, Upon a cold, gray stone And trace a name with silver beam And lo, 'twill be your own. That night is speeding on to greet Your epitaphic rhyme, Your...
In 1942 Margaret Wise Brown wrote "The Runaway Bunny." That I can share her story with my granddaughter Bella, age 2, so many years later, is a wonder to me. We've shared many books already for their worth in pictures but the bunny that wanted to run away from its mother held her attention to the end, even as other books lay strewn around us. Bella was sitting on my lap and I was on the floor at her house when I read to her about the little bunny that threatened to become a fish in the stream to...
Dear October, My letter for you is quite tardy and you are 15 days already gone. When I used my diary to jog my memory, I found you a month of seemingly contradictory qualities and phases. In your paradoxical days you had darkness but even in your darkness there was light, both with starlight and two full moons. So there was less darkness than light. Rain was recorded. Some of your drops increased our water level and restored parched soil. Others fell on the meadow and came in with mud on the...
The great effort of whopping the Cove with its first snow storm, complete with fierce winds, tuckered out young November. This second-to-last month of the year grew sleepy with half-closed eyes and hasn't recovered yet. As I am writing on Nov. 8, the winds are completely calm. Our farm and all the surrounding valley seems to bask in a warm sun. The mountain ridges that suffered from that May storm, hold tenaciously to their leaves, now subdued in subtle shades of rust and bronze. Yellow leaves...
"Caroline Woodlawn, stand forth!" she cried. Caddie obeyed. "It was only a joke, Mother," she said in a quivering voice. These words, being read from Caddie Woodlawn by my sister Annetta for her son Christopher, held me captive, too, as we waited for our driver to arrive on Wednesday afternoon, Oct. 28. I could feel for Harriet, the mother of Caddie, as she applied swift punishment to her daughter for being mean to her girlish guest from Boston. Caddie was sent to her room without supper and...
Reluctantly I placed my book aside to come back to America where I usually live. Sometimes, with the aid of the written word, I travel. When my sister-in-law gave me a book titled "In the Land of the Blue Burqas," I was instantly held captive by the gentle story telling of a woman who lived for more than five years in Afghanistan. Using a protective pseudonym, Kate McCord's adept pen and amazing ability with metaphors took me to a land of small, mud-brick houses behind the standard twelve-foot...
"The wondrous shine on autumn leaves must be the golden notes That beat on them the summer through, From songbirds' rapturous throats." Sudie Stuart Hagar calls them Goldsmiths, those songsters that are now silent. A lone chickadee song was all I heard on my solitary hike in Sunday's sunshine. A snowy tree cricket fiddled away as the strong breezes blew from the southwest, bringing down little, yellow locust leaves like rain. "There's a purple tint on the woodland leaves, And the winds are up...
Autumn Rapture I, when the summer was over, Found autumn was covered with gold; And colors more lovely than springtime Were there for these eyes to behold. Lost in a sweet fascination, I gazed on with wonder and awe Then, rapt in serene adoration, Praised God in the glory I saw. ~George R. Kossik Before dry September left us, she washed off her dusty leaves and lanes and watered her dry fields and gardens. With the heavenly liquid, her remaining flowers grew vibrant with color again. She...
Dear September, It doesn't seem possible that you are ready to leave us. We grew so accustomed to your golden sunshine, we thought you would just stay. But your gentle evenings grow ever darker and last week you handed the summer reins over to autumn. Overflowing abundance was in your days. There were weddings and windows and water, the latter mostly coming from our wells and only an inch from your skies. The Living Water was in our Bibles and in our church in the wild wood. The weddings were...
The great outdoors called to me all week so I was thankful for the three rows of potatoes to unearth while I basked in the late summer sun. Cricket songs in the raspberry patch had a calming effect on me, as the sound of my husband's harvester whined in the fields of corn over the hill. But when I stepped out of the milk house that evening, I stopped short. It did not matter that I was carrying milk in pails and bottles for my calves because the sight of the sun was too unusual. It was hard to...
It was only a short walk we took after chores around the newly-opened cornfields as an early darkness settled over our cloudy Sunday. Along the fence rows long goldenrod stems bowed down into the open spaces, begging me to break them off for a huge bouquet. Not a breeze stirred at the wood's edge where white snake root bloomed in the green of late summer. The cricket songs seemed unhurried and the deer slipped quietly into the dark woods when we disturbed their corny snack. Snacks and meals as...
Almost apologetically August finally gave us one day of comfortably cool weather to work in my garden all day. I pulled out my two rows of spent string bean plants, marveling again at the potential productivity of one bean seed. I cut broccoli one last time from my spring plants before I yanked them out because my fall plants are yielding new, bigger heads. There were a few cucumbers and some red raspberries to gather but by far, the biggest crop for August's last day, were tomatoes. Once again...
Dear August, You are getting old. The crickets are singing away your last full night. Cradled in the lap of summer, your days are too soon gone. Our little grandchildren ran barefoot in all your weeks. If they wore shoes in your few chilly mornings, they were soon kicked aside. Clouds laughed across your sky and the sun blazed from it. In your days, the chattering of purple martins and barn swallows quieted as they took to the sky for migration to a land where heat like yours never goes away....
Time seemed to stand still as I stood inside the screened door of our front porch. Having recognized the call from the bluebird parents for their fledglings to try their wings for the first time, I had turned from my duties to watch and wait for a rare nature show. In fact, I never saw three bluebirds take turns to fly from the birdhouse on the grape arbor. As the crickets sang and gentle breezes touched me, I let the golden moment sink into my heart before it sped by on summer wings. But if it...
Like a hot knife through butter, summer days are melting away. Cricket songs lull us to sleep at night and cicada songs remind us to organize our books and get ready to count our 180 academic days. Following is a list of schools that tentatively plan to open their doors on Monday, Aug. 24, 2020. The teachers' names are also included. Piney Creek School: Eileen Martin and Annalissa Zimmerman Cove Lane School: Marilyn Martin and Rosalyn Martin Shady Grove School: Marcile Martin and Carolyn...
"Pop, pop," went the kernels of corn under the lid I held over the cast iron pan. The flames of the campfire flickered cheerily in the growing darkness of our seventh annual camping time with our grandchildren. Besides my first-time attempt at campfire popcorn, a whole bag of big marshmallows was toasted over the encircled heat. (This time I remembered to provide long sticks for everyone.) On our first time in 2014 there were three grandchildren: Dana, age 6, Cassidy, age 4 and Kaitlyn, age 3....
Dear July, Thank you for the gifts of beauty in summer. There is no secret that your days were simply summer. Your 31 days went over 80 degrees and over half of them went over 90 degrees. Your hot sun seemed to scorch our world, especially on the dry days. But you did give us an inch more of that precious moisture than June did. Even as we dragged hoses to water in the hot dryness, your golden days spilled on us with treasures galore. Unbelievably, my freezer is defrosted and organized, filled...
My father was one to stand at night And look up at the sky At springtime moons and blue starlight And clouds that drifted by. He seemed to drink the fragrant air In natural, keen delight. One with the breeze that stirred his hair, He'd murmur, "Some nice night!" My father was one to love the heat Of any summer day; The clover field to him was sweet; He mowed it all away. With shirt stuck to his back and wet, Upon the hay he'd climb And pause to mop his face and say, "Ah, good old summertime."...
It was in a sermon that I first heard that children 'put their feet under their parent's table'. In essence, I guess that means the carefree, innocent time of eating at a table in which you did not provide the food or cook it. I remember the years I put my feet under the table at home to share three meals a day with my parents and nine siblings. Although we weren't a perfect family and siblings spats may have erupted among us, mealtime was much more than sharing food that our mother had cooked....
“Fill your soul, your memory, With layers and depths and textures And heights of lush green, Before the miracle of summer Fades away once more, as it always does. “Drink in, absorb every hue and Shade of green, from pale of mint To the rich, dark splendor of evergreen forests. Gaze at fields stretching far, Like patchwork quilts of emerald, Their edges stitched by fence-post embroidery.” In her “Midsummer's Green” poem, Jean A. Davidson has more to say, but I like her first two verses best. I like the thought of filling my soul and my memory...
Dear June, I wanted you and waited for your warmth, but you were influenced by May in your first day. Your frightening 38 degrees soon dissipated, however, then you whammed us with 90 degrees. In our struggle to adapt to your radical climate, we tossed our jackets and welcomed your sudden summer. Your warmth coaxed new leaves to unfurl on mountain ridges and although you healed and uncurled hosta leaves after May tried to kill them, no amount of coaxing brought lilies from buds that May stole....
The first day of summer has already come and gone. It was a good day for little purple martins to hatch out of their eggs. Their tiny heads wobbled hungrily on their skinny, frail necks as they waited for a life-giving morsel from a diligent parent. The week with the last days of spring and first days of summer was full of green, from grass under my feet to leaves on mountain trees. It is the color I was waiting for. I look at it dreamily and sigh with contentment and wonder. The color green...
The sound of the vacuum pump humming is a part of life on the farm. It's normal and usual. We take it for granted, never thinking twice about the motor that produces vacuum to milk our cows. But obviously I always listen for it, subconsciously, because on Sunday morning I listened for it in vain. Early rising was to no avail because replacing an unwilling, smoking motor took expertise that needed time to arrive. The worn out motor greedily wolfed up our leisure Sunday morning time and put a...
When June began its first day with temperatures in the 30s, it seemed that chills would simply stay and outdoor comfort wouldn't come, but it did. It seemed like a miracle, but by the end of the week, I was picking strawberries and the breezes were soft that swirled around me as I cleaned my weedy flowerbeds. It was a long wait, but it was worth it. Besides being thankful that summer weather is here to stay for a while, I remained caught up in the count down till our youngest son's wedding day....
Dear May, Thank-you for all the blessings you have given us in your days. We anticipated your warmth and your flowers which eventually came after you finally shook off the influence of cool, wet April. Before you got that accomplished, however, you blasted us with freezing temps and whirling snow in icy winds. We sought shelter in our homes from your onslaught but the evidence of your harmful rampage remains to this day in plant life. Like so many dead mice, the curled-up, dry maple leaves lie...
The newest storybook in my house is for children. The metaphoric story was written by Jeremiah Pent of Tennessee last year. In it, an orphan boy looks for a place to call home. On his journey, he meets various people who each give him a metaphor for a good life. Metaphoric stories are not new, in fact, they were one of Jesus’ ways to tell stories. An example, is the sower and the seeds he scatters. That helps us understand about preachers and the sermons they preach about God’s word to us, the listeners. In this story, the orphan boy met an...
Dear April, Thank you for all the lovely gifts you gave to us and forgive us if we grumbled about all your chilly, cloudy days. Even though we don't usually burn wood for warmth in all your days, we did have wood to burn so we were thankful for our warm home. Forgive us for being so unappreciative of your swirling snow in windy skies as we scrambled to protect our seedlings. Your precipitation was also in the form of life-giving rain for millions of alfalfa seeds in our fields. We are thankful...
In the battle between winter and summer, I am most encouraged by the songs of our feathered friends. It did not matter if the temperatures again felt like 32 degrees, the chirping sparrow would not be silenced. His spirited songs called forth those of my own, to praise our Maker. It did not matter if the skies were again overcast, hiding our life-giving sun, the song sparrow paid no heed. His songs inspired me to bear patiently the chills that plagued me. Like summer, were the excited warbles...
April continues to hold us at bay. A violent storm on her second Monday morning whistled up from the south and took off some roofs and pushed over some big trees, leaving their roots in the air. The small plants in my garden hunkered down and survived to meet the next cold, damp, sunless day. On Wednesday, the 15th, the sun came but so did a cold wind from the west. But at the tree-surrounded home of Granddaughter Bella, age 18 months, the wind couldn't get us as we cleaned weeds and winter...
"First she said she thought she could; Then she said she couldn't; Then she said she guessed she would; Then she said she wouldn't. First she smiled a teardrop; Then she frowned a shower, Turned the sky from gray to blue And back within the hour. Winsome as a sweetheart, Demanding as a shrew, Wouldn't say exactly What she planned to do; Somber as December, Radiant as June, Faithful Spring will pay the piper Faithless April calls the tune." "April Foolishness" is what Julia Collins Ardayne...
“Am I seeing one right now?” my husband asked suddenly on Monday, March 30, when breakfast was almost over. We had just been talking about the arrival of the purple martins because we anticipated their acrobatic flights over our farm. My eyes followed his gaze, which pierced through the kitchen window and into the clear sky, studying the feathered flier. He left the table to crank up the martin house and open their little doors. When I was done washing dishes, I poked my head out the door in hopes of hearing their welcome songs. It was the...
Dear March, Thank you for all the gifts you have given to us in your days and all your surprises. Through my years of diary-keeping, your recorded temps were radical. One year in your hot sunshine, we donned flip flops and painted the outside barn walls. We walked the fields to pick rocks before seeding alfalfa. Other years, in your brown woods, we walked over frozen Piney Creek. One year your snowfall was too deep for travel and other times we had snow enough for sculpting various objects and even digging caves. Sometimes your winds played...
