Called Home

When we were children playing

our parents called us home

we went

It's the same

when the Lord says,

"Come home."

Sister-in-law Josephine

got the call
last Monday
12/4

She told her sons

she was dying

At 4 pm the 5th

she went home

My understanding of

death has changed

Only the body dies

The soul is eternal and

doesn't skip a beat

I watched her

meet and greet

family and friends
also deceased

She doesn't need oxygen

Her body is no longer

half-moon shaped

You've arrived

Aunt Joe

Enjoy your pain-free life

We love you forever!

2018 ©️ Red Convertible Travel Series

Sharp Family Photos

Hmmm, we do look sharp
Living up to our name
On Xmas cards

Note cards

T-shirts

Hmm, nice formal shot
Love your blue ribbon

Papa, you look a little beat up

It's all the hand work, you know

Well, I like you a little weathered

It gives you character XO
Want to cut a rug

💕💕💕💞

 Son, what are you doing

Seeing what you see

You're such a cutup

©2017 Red Convertible Travel Series

Brian Weems wood carving, Schatzie and Madchen

 Mr. Cedar Root,

Master of Focus and Silence 

stood by
holding up the mailbox

while our Maine Coone, Schatzie

was mauled by four, large stray dogs

early 9/12/14.

 We, including Buckshot,
when we buried Schatzie

overlooking the MS River

Sweet Grand Nephew Bryce

gave Madchen a new do.

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

How to Tree a Boat

“Do you want to go fishing?” man-of-the-house asks.

Not really. I can do without a gazillion mosquitoes and humidity so thick it soaks through my everything. Welcome to the Deep South. I groan and try to think of an acceptable excuse: I’m sick; I have a deadline; I have someplace to go. Guilt overrides. You should spend time together. What if this is your last day? But I’m a Lucille Ball-type klutz.

To say I am not water savvy is an understatement. Our last jaunt, I tilted the boat within a fraction of dumping us into DeSoto Lake. I didn't hand him the right gear. I couldn't get over the seats without stumbling. And the list goes on. I was so inept I earned, “The most failures” award.

He keeps trying. “Bring your book. I’ll put in a lawn chair for you. Buckshot, let’s go." The guys are off to the truck. Buckshot follows two steps behind at the exact same pace. He’ll even wait to eat when he does, no matter how late in the day it is. They give and receive love and loyalty.

I did what I did not want to do. I got into the truck with that something-dreadful-will-happen-feeling. Buckshot rode shotgun while I clutched my coveted bag of mosquito repellent, reading material, paper, and pens. I prayed we had a sufficient balance in our “prayed ahead” account.

Scene 2: At a bar pit, small lake, the man-of-the-house says, “Mules were the muscle used to haul the earth out to build the dam. The MS River gladly filled it in."

There's green algae inches thick on the water. He backs the boat trailer into the lake, but the boat won’t float off. The rear wheels of the truck are submerged a good 18”. He wades in over his knees and shoves. The boat moves enough to float. “Don’t let it get away."

My stomach is traveling to my throat. My mouth is dry. I'm sweating bullets.

The 16 year-old Bravada eases up the bank. The stern turns toward the bank. I am powerless. "STOP!!!!” He can't hear me over the engine. The trailer wheel catches the boat and shoves it up on the bank. It will take two men to extract it from the trees and launch it.

My gut was right. We weren't prayed up.

He thinks he’s home free, gets out, and sees the damage. He turns his back on the situation and does a perfect and sincere Philo Bedo imitation, "Why me Lord."

Upset beyond words, he glares at me. “Why didn't you let go of the rope? I could have waded out and caught it.”

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Thoughts for Fathers for Father's Day

Father's

Kinds of fathers 

loving, kind, 

happy, strong, 

weak, mean

Their childhood

molded them 

What will Baby be

The father holds his newborn

Speechless, overcome with joy

the responsibility seems staggering

I can't do this 

In his arms their bond is forged

deep, everlasting

Protectiveness rises in him

Gentleness flows from him

Baby trusts him

asleep in his arms

He memorizes baby's lashes,

the all-over scent of Johnson's

Child of my heart

You are the new and improved version

of your mother and I

Be all you can be

The process is subtle

Not just Father's words,

his thoughts, too

Baby believes he's right

Whatever is thought or said

by the bed of a sleeping child,

he or she will become

©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Carol's Baked Fruit

Carol Jasa made this when I stayed with them.

Delish! 

I made it at home in an 8x8 and ate it all myself..

She used a 9x13

All fruit was canned and drained.

In a 9x13 she started at the outside

with a row of apricot halves on each end

the second row was peach halves

pitted plums were the next row

a row of pears were centered

(or make your own arrangement

with whatever fruit you have)

Lay pineapple rings on top

Heat 1/3 cup packed brown sugar

1 Tablespoon butter

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

and 1/2 cup pineapple juice

Cook, stirring until sugar dissolves

and butter melts

Pour over fruit

Bake uncovered 350 degrees 20 to 25 minutes

Enjoy!

Tastes great cold, too.

2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

The 2013 Cook Off

I moved 800 miles from NE to MS, but my heart belongs with my three adopted grandchildren.



I always visit school when I'm in town. Aja is ten and in 5th grade. Her class was social studies, and the teacher was talking about plantations. I'd been to Seven Chimneys Farm recently and gave them first-hand information.

Ryker, 11, and Alec, 12, were in writing class. I took Leaning into the Wind and read my story, "Tractor Travels". As aspiring writers, I wanted them see it is possible to get published. Principal Harris introduced himself and asked if he bought a book would I autograph it for the school? You bet!

Ryker, Aja and Alec decided to do a cook off the next day and I was to judge the best.

Aja made a smoothie with frozen raspberries, chocolate chip mint ice cream and whipped cream. Delicious!

Ryker cooked Ramen noodles with his roasted red pepper seasoning and topped each serving with a slice of fresh yellow pepper and fresh parsley leaves. Yummy!

Alec made cupcake cookies with Snickerdoodle cookie dough. While they were still warm, he added white frosting and sprinkles. His Mom said, "You can never have too many sprinkles." They were great!

Judging included originality, presentation, flavor and texture. Since all other contestants had been cut, a $1 prize was awarded to each for winning their category. Yah!!!

Hugs to all. No goodbyes. See you later

2014 Red Convertible Travel Series

Fire: The Mother of All Fear

I was mesmorized by the flames in the cast iron barrel stove. "Study the fire," our friend Dago urged.

Perched on the cast iron picnic bench, I let myself go into its mind. Primitive. Raw energy. Cleansing. Tall flames licked sticks, then hunkered down, got serious, and had their way with logs. I shuddered to think what they could do to a house, a car, a person. Suffocation or water could stop it, but it would sizzle resistence to its end. Maybe the smoke off it made designs like clouds make shapes. I didn't see what Dago did.

Fire has a purpose. Animals eat ashes for salt and minerals. Ashes and lye make soap. It kept us warm, heated our teakettle on the cookstove, and baked Mom's bread. She knew exactly how many cobs it took to make a perfect angel food cake. My first encounter with fire was when I was a pre-schooler. It was my job to reach into the cob basket and pick out those with kernels of corn left on. Mom lifted the stove lid for me to add cobs one at a time to "feed the fire," she said. All was well until I rested my wrist on the stove. Ouch!!! An inch by 3/4 inch blister shot up. I ran outside to show Daddy, slid face down in the mud, and peeled off my top layer of skin. I have a permanent ID on my left wrist. I learned respect for fire, and I continue to be educated by its blessings and dangers.

Each spring Daddy bought a hundred three-day old chicks and brought them home to the brooder house. Mom caught one and held it to my ear. Its cottony coat tickled me, and the chick talked to me, "Peep." Everyday I wanted to play with them. It wasn't long until they sprouted feathers and we couldn't catch them. One cold morning, Daddy looked out and saw too much smoke rising from the brooder house. He ran out to save them. Mom and I watched him carry the circular stove out and drop it in the snow. He came in breathless. No chicks died, but, the front fell off of his new leather jacket.

District #70 had a program every month. When I was nine, I broke my leg the first week of school and couldn't be in the program. Miss Anderson put a paper napkin bow in my hair, a candle in my hand, and stood me beside the piano. All went well until I turned my head and the napkin caught fire. Mom jumped out of the audience, ran to me, pulled the fire off my head and stomped it out. I was stunned but not hurt. She said when she saw me with the candle, she never took her eyes off me. Thank God!

The most disturbing fire was the one in our upstairs bedroom. Registers were opened to allow for heat rising off the oil stove. When our parents decided it wasn't enough, Daddy lit the fuel oil stove in our bedroom. It might not have bothered me, if I hadn't been able to see the flame through the glass on the front. I couldn't sleep. I was paralyzed. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul, I knew I'd been burned alive. A nightmare? My imagination? Or was it another time? another place? Wherever it came from, it is my mother of all fears.

2013 Red Convertible Travel Series

Car Washers

Real car washers

my sweet friends

Ryker, Aja & Alec

2013 Red Convertible Travel Series

The Fork's Life

Dedicated to Angela Levkoff whose Grandmother passed recently.

An heirloom
with its own stories
of foods forked

at Grandma's Sunday dinners

Crispy fried chicken

homegrown potatoes mashed and milk gravy
sweetcorn
picked and shucked Sunday morning

 lettuce
wilted with bacon, green onions

and a splash of vinegar

homemade buns

butter and honey

angelfood cake
real cream whipped

sliced, fresh garden strawberries

on top

and the things it heard . . .
the neighbor is in a family-way
markets are going down
so and so's kid stole the boss's tools
will he go to jail

it's job done
washed in hot soapy water
dried with a soft towel
tucked back in her silver chest

Grandma died
the silver chest laid untouched
until a granddaughter
lifted the lid
oohed and aahed
and took possession

the craftsman heated it

 intertwined the prongs
to make two hearts

and bent the handle

to go around her wrist

one more way
Granddaughter
holds Grandma close

2013 Red Convertible Travel Series

Our Animal Kingdom: Madchen, Schatzie & Buckshot

Madchen (long A) and Schatzie paired for life.

Although not related, both are rescue cats from different years. 

They groom each other and snuggle to sleep.
At night, they take turns going out.

Buckshot

the unwanted addition
third wheel
different species

All he wants to do is play with them.

They want no part of it.

He says, "With my blanket in tow, I could go anywhere."

He gets excited when neighbor dogs

show up in our yard

and he doesn't like to have to "sit"

to be hooked to his long leash

 

He liked his blanky so much,

he nibbled it all gone

We found his "colon sweep"
 recycled in the yard.
He's just fine.

2013 Red Convertible Travel Series

The Help on the carpet

Author Kathryn Stockett exposed a Deep South way of life that sixty agents rejected. I am grateful the sixty-first saw her work's value and had the courage to do something about it. I caught up with the movie at our local library expecting the pull down screen to be the object of projection. Wrong. It was projected on the carpeted wall behind it for a larger picture.

Prejudice was not limited to the Deep South. In the Midwest, we had religious prejudice. In the 60's an African-American engineer came to our area to work for General Dynamics. It was the first time I witnessed racial prejudice.

I compared my Midwestern culture with the Deep South. Where I grew up, we were 'the help' with an outside bathroom, too. Ours was a two-seater outhouse. Jani and I learned to garden, cook and preserve our food, tend the chickens, hogs, cattle and occasional lamb, sew, entertain, write thank you notes and more. We never had a sitter or a nanny. When Mom and Dad had to go somewhere, we stayed with Grandpa and Grandma and Aunt Bobbe.

We watched Mom do it all in the house and the garden and train us to do the same. She helped Dad move livestock and kept the hogs back when he drove the tractor in with a load of corn. We sure could have used 'help', but it wasn't an option. Neighbor helped neighbor, but not on a daily basis.

We were self-contained. We grew our own food, and Mom and Dad did our comforting, guiding and inspiring. We knew we were loved. She belonged to Seven-O-Sals extension club that met monthly for practical household tips and homemade cake the hostess took great care preparing. At home chocolate with chocolate frosting was Jani's and my favorite. Mom's favorite was angelfood with strawberries and whipped cream. She knew exactly how many cobs to put in the cookstove to bake a perfect angelfood. Couples played Pinochle and Canasta and Square Danced.

Our lives were full and complete. We always had 'enough'. Extended family helped harvest the garden, clean chickens, and came in emergencies. One summer Saturday Mom knew something was up when three-year old Janis asked for soap and water. Mom searched and discovered she had dipped the black and white kittens in tan (ugly to me) porch paint. By the time Grandpa arrived, the kittens were stiff. He and Mom worked the rest of the day cleaning them off with paint thinner. They all survived.

Without hired help, willing neighbors were a treasure. They helped each other put up hay, harvest, and do what ever was needed. We were a tight-knit, small community that revolved around a country school.

Every community has its own culture. I enjoy learning what's held sacred, how they worship, care for one another, what works and what doesn't. Learning about our differences leads to understanding, tolerance and peace. Whatever works.

Goodnight y'all.

2012 Red Convertible Travel Series

A Southern Living Thanksgiving

Uncle Ben lives Southern Hospitality. No matter when we stop we're asked if we're hungry. His daughter, Patty, always has something cooking. Last weekend she lifted the lid on her lima beans with ham hocks. Yum! And not greasy. She mixed and baked a huge skillet of cornbread and fried green tomatoes. We didn't come to eat, but it smelled so good we did. Wonderful!

The Barrett Clan gathered the Sunday before Thanksgiving over more food than I have ever seen and more family than I could imagine. The ages ranged from one month to seventy-two years.

An eight-foot table was covered with three rows of casseroles and juicy, deep-fried turkey, spiral-cut ham, cornbread dressing and oyster dressing to name a few. Patty made Rachael Ray's potato lasagne: partially cooked potatoes sliced and layered on the bottom covered with a layer of chopped artichoke hearts, ricotta cheese, parmesan and chopped fresh spinach covered with a cooked white sauce. Repeat. Repeat. The guys loved it, too.

Good old green bean casserole graced the center of the table surrounded by a sweet potato casserole with marshmallows and raisins and two with lots of nuts, corn casserole and yellow squash casserole. I don't remember all of them. No failures, I assure you. And there was a crockpot of turnip greens.

Felix's wife bottle fed their six-month old grandson. Jason and Shannon juggled their pre-school son, Joe, twin daughters and infant son. I remember feeling like a jungle gym to my two young daughters. And there's no rushing to the store with babies in tow.

It was a pleasant afternoon of family and friends celebrating their roots in peaceful co-existence. The counter was lined with salads: ambrosia; cranberry fluff; cranberry relish; watergate and more. Among the desserts were homemade pecan pie; apple pie; Abbie's chocolate frosted cupcakes; and a banana pudding made with peanut shaped cookies rather than vanilla wafers. Some Southern cooks use Eagle Brand in their banana pudding. What's not to like about that?

I cut the pecan pie in little slices without knowing it was Uncle Ben's personal stash from Beverly. I apologized. I'll know to hide it next time.

Paper platters were heaped, mine included. Those who ate on the screened-in porch were entertained by a litter of kittens scampering and tumbling. Born in the house, they spent their early days comfy in Ben's bathroom closet. I found them on the floor nosed into a corner under the counter like geese following the leader.

Oh, there's another baby boy. Felix has twin six-month old grandsons. Life is going on double time.

2010 Red Convertible Travel Series

NO CABLE IN THE PASTURE!

Last week we moved our covered wagon/motorhome three hundred miles from TN to Uncle Ben's in MS. It took two days with the heat index at 110 and JB without AC.

Grateful for shade, we parked in Uncle Ben's pasture where the 4th of July picnic takes place. The area will be cleaned off and wet down. Grills, tables and chairs will be brought in for the near 100 guests.

While we setup, Ben searched for eggs. Imagine this: he's 6'4", weighs 285 lbs., was shirtless, in khaki shorts, docker shoes, no socks and carrying pullet eggs in a flowerpot with a short rope handle. All he needed was a floppy hat.

With the help of great-granddaughter, Abbe, late afternoon we began clearing the pasture. Five, six pick up sticks, seven, eight lay them straight we did in the two-wheeled trailer attached to the Rhino. In low gear we poked across the pasture to unload on the burn pile.

At daylight we heard pounding on our door, looked out the window and didn't see anyone. The pounding continued. Must be Uncle Ben. JB got up, went to the door and found Ben's Barbados ram most unhappy we were in his pasture. A few claps and a "Git!" sent he and his five ewes on their way.

Ben has an variety of large and small roosters that out number the small hens by seven to one. Those girls are constantly running away. It's a wonder they have time to lay eggs.

Our cats love being out doors. The roosters must have held a meeting and a small one drew the short straw. Apparently he was elected to let us know they also did not approve of our intrusion. I caught him cussing the cat.

The Rhino fascinates me. I call it "the imagination maker." Like I need any help. I decided to take it on safari, look for elephants. In first gear I ambled around the pair of long-necked geese, past three ducks, three noisy guinea hens and a lone tom-turkey. His mate passed on last year.

In the open pasture I found the carcass of the nanny goat. Coyotes got her baby last week. Around the burn pile to the far edge of dense trees, I searched for wild life. No elephants either. Between trees I spotted a clearing wide enough for my Rhino. Must investigate. LBJ used to say I was too curious. "You'll be sorry someday." Cresting the hill I froze then slammed on the brake before going headfirst into the pond with the Rhino. Ben wouldn't be amused. LBJ would say, "I told you so." Out of gear it eased to a stop. My heart pounding, and no room to turn around, I eased backward until I could turn into the woods. Now I know why it's called a Rhino. It went over branches and stumps, through tall grass and brought me home safely. I'm giving my imagination a rest. If you believe that...

At daylight this morning we heard racket on the kids jungle jim by our house. The ram was playing with the rubber tire suspended on three chains. He butted it around for half an hour. Guess he's just a "kid" at heart.

We don't need cable in our pasture home, we have plenty of entertainment.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

From the Deep South to the Midwest and back

I returned to the soggy South yesterday after a 2,000 mile journey to the Midwest and back. Wahoo lawns were dry as late July. If it had rained as much as in TN, I would have filled a four yard dumpster with landscaping weeds. Sprinklers are great, but not the same as Mother Nature's magic. Grass seed responded; it sprouted.

Alabama peaches rode north and rhubarb south. I will chop and cook it down sweetened with the organic cane sugar Sucanat.

Ryker and Aja came for welcome hugs. He said, "Work is so much fun, what can we do?" They cut the suckers off the crabapple stump and were paid in fresh pineapple.

We celebrated Aja's 6th birthday by making chocolate chip, oatmeal cookies and drinking lukewarm green tea from French demitasse cups. She called her mother and asked, "Would you care to join us?" Of course my camera battery was dead. Our afternoon is burned into my heart.

Seven-year-old Eli came to the door and asked, "Can you come play "Monkey in the Middle" with Aunt Shelly and me? How often do you get an invitation like that? I went out and threw the ball over the one in the middle. Close to noon Eli asked if I'd like to go to Burger King with them. Sure.

Sarah, 6, came and asked if she could wash dishes. Glad to have her. Payment was a banana. Such comings and goings. I love that the kids want to come.

Jani got a purple cast on her left arm, and she isn't old enough to wear purple. I suspect it is well decorated by now.

My high school class had a meeting to discuss next year's reunion. We expected three or four. Twelve showed up. We are kinder than in high school. Life has knocked us all around a plenty.

It is strengthening and comforting being on home plate. I talked with everyone I needed to, saw old friends and was properly hugged up. Many pleasant memories were made and others maintained. I'll be back in August. Don't know why yet, but I know I have to come back. Time will tell.

On my 885 miles in one day return trip, I noticed cars abandoned by the side of the road. Know how to tell? No license plate. Poor lonely, lost, forgotten, or stolen cars wait, wait for someone to see some worth in them and haul them off to rest among more of the same. Maybe a radiator or tire will be a transplant. Nature wastes nothing. An empty vehicle is open season for rodents, snakes, homeless people and animals.

Passing at 70 mph I caught a glimpse of a maroon Chevy with it's right front tire missing. A lanky jack held up the right axle like a long-legged, boney dog. Did you know a gray hound isn't necessarily a greyhound.

My car's air-conditioner faded out. The fan cooled the air a couple of degrees reminding me of my empty bottle of Nantucket Rain perfume.

Large perfectly round bales lay scattered in a hayfield. Some stood on end, bow and arrow target practice style. Others lay flat. I see a checkerboard in the making. It would take a forklift to make a king.

Tennessee, Kentucky and Missouri grow rocks, trees and water. Water has to come from somewhere, why not grow it?

Fifteen hours of driving brought me to Fayetteville in time to have Chinese food with JB. Back to the point of my other life in Tennessee.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

MOTHER'S DAY 2009

. . . a day set aside to celebrate the one who birthed us and all who nurture us.

My mother: My right thumb has a small rise on the knuckle exactly like hers. I see her rolling balls of yeast dough in her hands making buns; creating the divinity I've never been able to duplicate; serving grasshopper pie after a large meal; playing the "The 12th Street Rag" on the piano; hands folded in her lap when we needed to tell her something; creating my tap dancing dress from yards of lavender gingham; canning green beans; putting Denver mud on my chest. In my mind she is always there, alive, well, helpful and beautiful. Love knows no bounds. It connects hearts forever.

Grandmother Mae: My namesake, her cut finger wrapped in a white cloth. Work didn't stop, she maneuvered around it making apple dumplings and fixing chicken and dumplings for Grandpa and I when I was in high school. Quilting is her testimony to salvaging the beauty of the worn and frayed.

Aunt Bobbe: My cheerleader who laughed at my jokes. She'd "do" my nails and take it off before I went home. Not acceptable for little girls, according to Dad. I missed her the most. She passed before I understood we shed our body to live in changed form; she's still my cheerleader.

My sister, Janis: Slim fingers with polished nails. I see her as a child holding a baby chick to her ear to hear it peep. Her home is large enough for all of us for dinner. It thrills her to cook for Thanksgiving, as if feeding an army, and she gets excited making travel plans. No matter what she's into, her hands stay soft and smooth.

Corrie: My favorite second child. "Mom," she'd say exasperated, "you can't have more than one second child." That's why she's my favorite. Her hands have slim, smooth piano fingers that make great music and fluffy crochet. I see her lovingly cupping their dog, Maggie's, face.

Krysia: Her hands were small with wider knuckles like mine and Mother's. She used her index fingers to type, made quiche and remodeled. Her hands stayed smooth. What bothered her most about my caring for her was what it did to my hands: frequent washing made them rough, crack and bleed.

Carol, more than a daughter-in-law, a friend: Large hands, large heart, good cook. She takes her time, makes a mean shrimp dip, perfectly fried fish, creamed asparagus, rhubarb crisp. Always kind, she is a there when needed.

To all who nurture here and from beyond, thank you, thank you for uplifting life. God Bless and Happy Mother's Day.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Myrtle's Mom

msn photo

Friends who raised sheep called and asked if we wanted to raise a spring lamb? Excited, sister and I pleaded, "Mom, Dad, can we?" Living in the country, we had lots of room, and we'd never raised sheep. It would be an adventure. They nodded in agreement.

A few days later our friend arrived with a long-legged bundle of curly white wool in his arms. We frowned at how little she was and asked why she was taken from her mother. He said, "She wasn't taken, her mother wouldn't feed her. She was rejected."
Our jaws dropped. What? We thought all mother's were like ours. It was unimaginable a mother, any mother, could/would turn her back on her own.

Dad fixed a place in the cellar with a heat lamp. We traipsed down first thing in the morning to bottle feed her and after school. Mother fed her during the day. The heat brought out the ticks in her wool. One moved over to my sister's head. Mother found it when washing her hair, removed it and placed it in a pint jar where it lived more than 30 days off sister's blood. Yuk! And it wasn't even Halloween.

When the weather warmed, Myrtle graduated from the cellar to the yard bouncing around stiff-legged, as if on springs. She liked to be chased. When we caught her we rolled around on the grass. Squeezing our fingers in her wool put lanolin on our hands. Mother appreciated it the most. Under her fertilization our lawn improved, and she became our watchdog. Guests at our gate didn't try to enter when she bobbed her head in butt mode.

Being an active 4-H family, Myrtle became my project for the county fair. Hours were spent training her to walk with my left hand under her chin and my right on her rump. Many leaps were attempted before she learned to cooperate and stand still with her feet evenly spaced.

In August I bathed and curry combed her until she was fluffy. We gathered our sewing and baking projects and Myrtle and went to the fair. I walked into the ring holding her under the chin and on the rump and stopped in presentation. She stayed calm. I knelt on one knee. The judge felt her hind quarters and fingered her wool. We waited. Low and behold we earned a blue ribbon for showmanship. I still have it.

Fair animals were sold at the close of the fair, unless they were champions and going on to higher competition. Not Myrtle, she lived with us several years. Wherever we went she was right behind us.

The smell of wet wool reminds us of our friend and pet. I've not eaten lamb or mutton since. Spring lamb means a bouncing, playful bundle of wool in our yard, not on my plate. And mint jelly is fine on toast.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Signs of Spring

in our corner of the world. Flushing out the season, Krysia grew narcissus bulbs in a bowl of rocks. Garden books replaced winter books of polar bears and snowy Alps. The summer picture of her and Schatzie is a constant.

Hardy red, yellow and white tulips come up in our landscaping. A high school science project inspired me to cross-pollinate my grandmother's tulips. Pollen from a red tulip was tapped onto a knife and sprinkled into the center of white tulips. The next spring they boasted red stripes. It took three seasons for the red to fade out. White remained white and red remained red.

Krysia liked tea and scones for her birthday. Tomorrow I will enjoy them in my mind remembering her.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Was it the luck of the ...

...Irish, draw, rabbits foot, salt over the shoulder, Friday the 13th, prayed up or spared?

Friday the 13th of February, JB got the call no parent wants,"Your daughter has been in a car accident and won't make it through the night."

Pray first, put pants on second. We left at midnight to drive the 800+ miles on Valentine's Day. No time for romance and cards, it was crackers and peanut butter and smoked oysters that left a smelly, greasy stain on the passenger's plastic floor mat. Daylight revealed the oil had spread to the shape of a heart.

Hour by hour the details unfolded. Brandi was riding with a girlfriend on the narrow, twisted roads of Mississippi. The white line is about 2" from the edge and the shoulders aren't graveled. The driver went off the road and over corrected causing the car to flip end over end. Brandi was pinned beneath in the mud.

A nearby homeowner heard the crash, slipped into her shoes and ran to the scene dialing 911. Brandi's face was in the windshield on the outside of the car. The frame of the door rested on her neck. She wasn't breathing, believed dead. The engine was smoking. The woman helped the driver out and away.

Chuck, a Deputy Sheriff, happened upon the scene and organized volunteers to lift the car off Brandi. She took two deep breaths. An ambulance rushed both girls to the hospital. Doctors told the family Brandi would not make it. The driver had a broken wrist and torn ligaments at her knee.

Brandi's vitals stabilized. Too foggy for a helicopter, an ambulance transferred her to Elvis Presley Trauma Center in Memphis, TN where people go to die. Non-responsive, doctors again said she would not make it.

We arrived at the hospital at 2 pm. Little John warned us about the size of her head: basketball or watermelon. But she was awake and asking the same question over and over. More tests. At Elvis's wall outside ICU, the line of concerned family and friends grew longer.

Sunday she announced she was hungry. Later in the day she started walking. Monday pm she was dismissed from ICU to go home. Not one miracle, many. Praise theLord! Is luck Divine intervention?

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

How does love find us?

Our maternal grandparents were unacquainted in Illinois. As young children their families packed up their covered wagons and headed west in the late 1800's. Grandpa's family homesteaded in southeast Nebraska, Grandma's in northeast Kansas.

Settled on the prairie, Mae took piano lessons at home from a traveling pianist. All was well until he made unwanted advances. She and her girlfriend switched two of his buggy wheels making the buggy lopsided. He left and never came back. At sixteen Mae took the teaching test and was certified as a teacher. Several of her students were older than she, typical of a farming community and the times.

LeRoy learned to play the fiddle and harmonica for himself and dances. In 1910 he joined a wheat threshers crew to work from Nebraska into northern Kansas, about 100 miles. One of the crew's favorite meals was roasted prairie chicken. Of course, they had to catch and kill it, coat it with thick mud, dig a fire pit and roast it.

Near Linn, Kansas they set up their machinery for the Simons. Mae, her mother and two other women cooked for the crew four times a day for two days. Resting in the shade of the thresher, LeRoy stopped mid-bite on his thick slices of fresh bread slathered with sweet cream butter and quince jam when a young woman crossed the farmyard carrying a pail for water. He had to meet her.

Mae was cutting cake when she noticed a man ride through the yard toward the watering tank. That was odd. The thresher was the opposite direction. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. Dark wavy hair flowed over his collar, a young man.

Music drifted up to the house at dusk. Mae peaked out through a curtain. Some thresher was playing Turkey in the Straw on a harmonica. A pleasant distraction, soothing after a long hot day. Dancing music. Toe tapping at the least. She sighed. If only. Her father was concerned no one had asked her to wed. 'Ought to be married by now,' her brothers said. Not even a promise. Two locals were interested, but she wasn't.

When the threshers finished and were packing up to move to the next farm, a man came to the house and tipped his hat. "Thank you ladies for your hospitality. We'll be going now."
Mother was surprised and pleased, a man with manners. "Do come in. Mae, come fix a sack for, what's your name?"
"LeRoy, Ma'am."
Mae saw him and gasped. The dark-haired yard rider had twinkly, dark eyes. Handsome. He nodded, "Afternoon Miss." It was all she could do to shut her mouth and nod. Heart pounding she gathered two loaves of fresh bread. If he could just look into her eyes, he could see if she was interested. She handed him the bread, looked up quickly and blushed. He could see her heart pounding through her high-necked blue dress. So was his. "I'd best be going. Much obliged, Miss." Breathless, she followed him to the porch. He mounted his roan, looked softly at her and said, "I'll be back." A half-smile crossed his face.

Stunned, she watched him out of sight, her heart filling with hope. Doubt crept in. He doesn't know I'm too old. It would never work. He lives in Nebraska, but if he comes back, it's meant to be. I'll keep busy with school. Her fourth year.

January of 1911 Mae was in the kitchen, as usual, when her father answered the door. A man asked for her. She frowned, wiped her hands on her apron and went to the parlor. It was him, LeRoy. She could have fainted, but Simons' women didn't. Her father saw her blush and excused himself.

When they were alone, LeRoy's eyes pierced hers. "I said I'd be back." She blushed and nodded unable to speak. A knot the size of a loaf of bread sat in her stomach. Flustered, she asked, "Would you like some feefee and tea take?"
He laughed. "I don't know about the feefee, but I'd drink some buttermilk and taste your tea take." She shut her eyes in embarrassment and tried to stifled a laugh.

Two days later they were married in her parlor. He took her back to his home in Nebraska where they loved, laughed and supported each other 58 years. This year would have been their 98th anniversary.

How does love find us? Love finds a way.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series