My Life is Still

 Hot summer. I hear the sweat..running through my hair like a river trickling across my scalp to drip on the counter just as I am talking with the kind person at the monument store/mall/emporium. Never in one place did I imagine that many choices of monuments, stones, samples, cemetery animals and plaques.

I laugh and joke about the weather. She has time right now to give me a gravestone estimate and even a computer sketch with the deceased’s information. She tells me that they are not busy today-because of the heat which I interpret (always a joke) as its too hot to die or to look after the funeral arrangements??? And Kel, as the air sizzles, the hair frizzles. I can feel it growing into that dandelion mass that will not comb down. Ah who am I kidding, I just run my fingers through it and pat, pat.

Unbearably hot. Today I was asked if I was melting. Feeling Gumbo-ish. MS noodle legs in the heat.
Each day this week a summer thunderstorm moves in at my house in the evening, saving me from having to water the plants or a cornfield if I owned one. The plants are happy and the weeds are doing double duty on growth. The Sweet William look a likes sneak in faster than I can pull. One small tomato is thriving in the new- this year -raised bed. Cucumbers are climbing and blooming. And it is time to eat that red nasturtium bloom on a salad. Daisies and even white sweet williams wave in the slight air movement. I cant say breeze. Breeze and cool go together and thats not happening today. A wild pop up mullein is gracing the flower bed. I know it is growing there for Della who remembers using the leaves for medicine when younger. She is now 90. That she keeps those dear memories all these years gives me hope for mine. She was friends at Pioneer with my Mother. Mother told me that Della had more Bible knowledge than anyone she had ever met. I am glad to know her now. She connects me to my mother.

After lunch on the way south to New Haven, my sister Carol messaged me to look at the clouds. My heart smiles at this. How can the white fluff grow that high without collapsing? Closer to home, the billows subtly change to streaks and waves of gray blue and now the horizon is deep blue gray and I hear rumbles above the truck traffic.

We are looking ahead to the 4th of July activities next week with friends and family. Fake meteorologists predict a cooling trend. Oh, and the orange road lilies are filling ditch lines and propping up mailbox posts. On SR 61 south, the best run is across the road from the Bores home. Thought of your mom and dad, Linda, as I drove by. My Native American gggggrandmother (I am NOW saying that I had one. Enough of the proof BS in genealogy. I am trusting in those stories that have traveled through my family) and used the canes of the daylilies as the weavers in baskets that carried berries, herbs and the three sisters. In my possession is a basket my Grandma Wireman Coffey made from oak splints. My family used it to hold potatoes dug from the garden. When Leah and I were younger, we took basket making classes from Ruth Pittinger in Plymouth. That year I gave my baskets as Christmas gifts. Yeehaw and Merry Christmas!

My brain does not stop ever. And a memory is attached to everything I see, do or think. I even remember dreams in detail. As I drive, I listen to old songs and some new to me music that brings young memories, love memories, wildness and wistfulness. Summer of 69, Seven Bridges Road (on my bucket list if I ever love again), Gimme Shelter, Where We Will Never Grow Old, Where were You, Wicked Games, Desperados Waiting for a Train....... Those were the days my friend...when Carol and I at 16 and 14 shared the $16 cost of a 14k gold and jade ring size 6 that we bought at Kipp's jewelry store on Maple Street. I have had the ring in a jewelry box for the last 50 years. She gets to keep it for the next 50. God bless everyone. HE is my power.

This year I read one book, Horse, about Lexington, the best racehorse ever, painted one watercolor pen and ink with a friend, Mary, and am now writing a story for my blog, “from the Redhead”. 

Thank you Kathy for telling me that you like my writing. I enjoy comments and responses when you share an experience from your own life.

062625

Karen Coffey Wilson

Summer Days

 

On a corner of Hasbrock and Old State is a golden field of wheat stubble left after the combine’s buzz cut harvest. I know that a walk there is damaging to my feet. The leftover stalks look as smooth as a good haircut on a cute boy but they are spikes into soft skin. The next corner waves it’s tassels of green corn stalks that were head high by the 4th of July. In the wind I hear the knife edged leaves rustle against each other. The fields are fronted by the tall ivory heads of Queen Anne’s lace filling the Ditch lines. When the grandchildren were small we picked the lace and placed in vases with food coloring to change the delicate bloom to blue or green or pink. Red food coloring never colors true red. Here and there orange road lilies are still fighting for existence. The stems from the lilies can be cut and dried for use in basket weaving. I learned that from Native Americans. I own a primitive split oak potato basket made by my grandmother who was born in 1880. And people use wheat stalks to weave crosses. I see these at craft shows.

Blue chicory lines the road edge and fills an occasional unmowed lawn. Chicory is not a native plant but is not invasive. I will use this and other native flowers and grasses on my corner of New Haven next year. Chicory and Queen Anne’s bring in the down side of summer days when we hear the cicadas singing in the hot afternoon. Now the trees are lush in their green stories hiding dead limbs and farm equipment in the countryside. Their cool shadows protect fairies in their lazy rest. leaves show their pale undersides now in the hazy wind to let us know of rainstorms on the way. All along the paths we follow, God shares the beauty in simple things of the season. He even brings memories of times and places for us to relive what has been a pleasure to us. Remember the summer vacation at Grandmothers when all the cousins would play together. Or a reunion when we waded in the river and half way home the next day we felt the itch of the chiggers. We survived. Or a day at Cedar Point enjoying the thrill of highs and lows and water in our faces and the scare of a pirate ride in a dark tunnel with a secret kiss.

I still have a prize from the age guessing game. A lion. The 16 year old running the game guessed me at 16 when I was 12. Oh yeah, he wanted me.

And then there is all kinds of summer love. When I worked my first job, I think I liked a different boy every week. All around me I saw boys and girls turning into couples. Forgotten as school began.

The corn is now tall blocking the intersections and making tunnels on the back roads

Beans are planted in the buzz cut wheat. They grow quickly into soft green carpets.

This woman still grieves for her husband, her lover. Summer days hurt me when he is not here to dream with me in the hot afternoon. The moonlight makes shadows under the trees that we used for love and dreams. I still feel his heart against mine.

August is never hot summer anymore like the sticky days of childhood. The month starts with lazy cicada song and cool evenings under the moon. Queen Anne’s lace is faded into bunches along the road. The state mows the roadside cutting the chicory away. Sunlight is a glare as it angles to earth. It is not real sunlight. Like July. The last garden tomatoes and green peppers struggle for light to ripen against the weeds that shout out against the gardener.

Family reunions are over. They number 14 and 25 and none at all for the ones that have ended. The old folks are gone and the cousins are older and infirm and not able to drive. Second cousins work and have vacations and ballgames and do not know each other. Schools start long before Labor Day halfway into August. Boats and campers fill the highways as camping and beaches close. The end of another season and anticipation.

We are left with mums and frost on the pumpkin and craft shows full of junk and repetition and signs telling us how to live. Artisans and true artists are few and far between in the market.

My grandson is playing MS football and he is worth watching. As a receiver he stands tall in his uniform and pads never letting on that he is a nervous 13 year old kid. I walk to the fence, he sees me and thanks me for coming. I have tears in my eyes. My first grandchild is a junior and beautiful and kind. My heart smiles with her work stories and girl friend dramas. I have been there and remember. Two grandchildren are in leadership groups and show love and humility. They have humor and sarcasm. They all give me hugs that warm me. A grandson is a freshman this year and we are concerned because we remember that year of trying to find our locker and how to find classrooms. I still have dreams of wandering the halls and missing math class. Schools have preventive actions in place but life is scary in the unknown all alone. I pray for all and believe God will watch over them.

The sun wanes in brilliant color to the west as friends share photos of the event.

I continue to love others. God shows me relief and comfort in my loss of family. And I will always love the one who knew me. Even as I knew his deception I loved him because he needed love and care. Open hearts are from God.

 

My Mother Returns

My Mother Returns

Today my Mother came to visit the zinnias on a warm fall day. She was dressed in yellow lace that swirled about as she moved against the soft wind. Her wings soared her around as she touched a red bloom then a pink stack of petals. She didn't stay long. Just long enough to catch my attention for the flowers. I think she is telling me in this rare visit that it is time for the flowers to end. A frost will come soon and I must gather the seeds for another year as she did for her gardens.

Upon your death revised June 2020

In a hazy noon of July summer
Shaded little under still pines above me

the carriers labored up your own steep land
to place your polished casket in the dark hole 
dug in the cooler morning by friends 
and some respecting foe

A rude place to hold your body down


As I waited in the buzzing heat 
for your story's end
I slipped into a daze 
I saw the other side

As you reached the azure river that slid over smooth grey stones 
bounded by fields flowing in colors of Heaven.


As you glided across gentle waters
golden fingertips reached for you.
Hands pulled you close as arms entwined you 
Your eyes were warm stars
when you saw your mama running to greet you. 

My peace was intense 
as I felt you slip into that promised land

Of love and ease.
Ease.


Breathless suddenly,
 mourners wails, 
and soft weeping from some 
at your final day
 seeped into my heart.

Leaning into a close pine to release my grief 
in a last hug for you,
My tears streamed into the black roughness of bark


As I weakly forgot that yourself now resides on the eternal mountain 


Soon the family walked the worn path home 
Home changed forever again at death,
they spoke of your goodness and made heart promises
To meet you again. 

Not me though.
I ran wildly through the shallow river screaming my sorrow
at your loss 
from my being alive.
 grief has wrapped me tightly into pain
that makes me stand alone in nothing

Only looking into the time to be with you again.

We were one 
and separate 
for a lifetime.
Your leaving makes me alone
not finding who I am
without you

Death is final for your body
but not my heart.

HOME

HOME


Home is a house, a place that warms you, comforts you, makes you feel safe and waits for your return.  There you have experienced love of family and friends and the familiarity of your surroundings. Time lets you see the same street and the house on the corner with the swing on the porch. Neighbors have the same flowers and gardens year after year. You play with Chris and Arlene in the summers then attend school with them and others in the fall. Friends come and go. The Millers add a new patio. The Steven's saplings have grown tall for shade.

During college you come home on weekends. Home is different after being away. It is smaller and duller and you wish Mom and Dad were more modern.

The first apartment is a home but you know it is only temporary. Your Mom has helped you furnish it with discards from the basement and thrift store finds. It will fade without feeling as you move on.

Home is your grandmother’s house at Burning Fork in the south where you visit on summer vacations. She has a wide stairway leading to a low room with quilt covered beds in a row. The warm musty scent at the top of the stairs invites napping and reading and soft memory of good times. The front porch has the swing to emulate activity as you push to and fro doing nothing but dream. Swinging is best alone as you create stories and find answers in your imagination. Her home has no chores or pressure and is filled with other family times and her love.

Aunt Lucy's homes were mine. In 1967, I owned that upstairs bedroom on summer afternoons as I read the forbidden Peyton Place found on her bookshelf. As she moved from Louisville to Frankfort and back to Louisville our visits followed her. Her nice homes were different from our farmhouse and she treated us to beautiful things. We were always welcome.

As children, we lived in Eastern Kentucky for a while with grandmother and Aunt Lucy and Uncle Ken. Grandfather Callie was there but bedridden with lung disease. That was the real home I remember from childhood. Every inch is etched in my memory. There was an attic we slept in when we had company that was decorated with scary stern faces of old grandparents in ornate gold frames. The upstairs was not equipped with lights or heat. When the lantern burned out the pitch dark was filled with the occasional bat and imagined creepy beings that produced groans in the beams causing us to cower under a pile of wool quilts that scratched unbearably on baby skin. The rest of the house was filled with light and doilies and green beans simmering on the free gas run stove. The front porch there had a swing on each end and offered a view of the garden, the hill over to Spruce Pine and the Licking River up Straight Fork or to the left up Howard's Fork. Then, no road existed up the river branch so we watched for riders on hill climbing mules come down the traces or even the sound of a vehicle bouncing over the rocks in the river. Grandmothers house was surrounded by mountains and trees and cowpaths and high rocks that entertained us daily. Our only responsibility was to stay out of trouble.

Grandmother moved to Burning Fork, then Louisville, then Frankfort. Each of her homes gave us the same feeling of peace. To her we were all special and she showed it. Mostly by talking to us.

When we left the hills, my family lived in the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio. Changes came with this move. We had work in the garden and house chores and schoolwork. But plenty of time to roam and play in the woods and fields. We were in the country and lived it. The house was simple but kept warm and clean by my sweet mother.

In 1962 we moved to an old used up home in northern Ohio. It was different here as we grew into adults. We were already pulling away from the familiar to something unknown but our own place in the world. I never liked that house or the flat land close to the highway and neighbors who never learned about us. They did not welcome us. I had lost my place with people. Schools were different and there was a town close enough to visit and every day we heard the clock tower chime 5 o'clock and the factory whistle its start times. The trains rumbled on tracks thru town. In the distance in the back field, we saw the blinking light of the phone tower at night. Many cars went by on the roadway but no one waved and we did not recognize the passengers. The saving grace for that place was the flower gardens my mother established and shared thru the years. Mother is gone to Heaven but I still drive by the Townline Road home to see the changes and to see any flowers left from my Mother at that home.

Home is the feeling of a place. My current home is an 1845 remodel in New Haven. We have raised children and grandchildren here. But I still dream of modern and convenience and get disgusted at the millionaire previous owner who didn't update and repair things. It is comfortable and has a front porch that we use. We know many people here and the history of the village allows to learn of a different people as industrious as my Appalachian ancestors.

Home is a place of memory and solace as you travel familiar roads and see the places and things and people from your past. I saw your face in the face of your granddaughter today and thought of how you loved me till your end.  And I heard the voice of my mother as I listened to my friend Hazel describe how hard life used to be when they were young. And the simple fun they had before modern life. Scattered flower gardens and pots of begonias around the old houses speak of work and pleasure we remember. A row of dahlias on Route 7 continues as part of the family. Hillsides recall old barns angling back to the earth and country kids climbing to the high rocks used as playhouses and shelters from the mountain giants and Indian ghosts from the caves and mounds. Home becomes smaller as we lose mom and dad and great aunts and their reverent tones as they talk of their parents and grandparents. Pieces of our lives disappear and change as homes change.

Then the home grows bigger as we communicate across the wireless space. We connect with old schoolmates who we no longer recognize and distant cousins who we only know by name and great grandmothers.

People say you can never go home again. They are wrong. Home is a cemetery in a front yard, orange lilies along the July roadside, and road signs naming your place. It is a history of your travels along the roads and your feelings as you pass.

Home is a song from your youth that takes you back to 16 and the day a boy whistled and looked into your eyes and deeper.

Your aunts keep you in the arms of the mother you have lost. They know the love you need for home.

Home is your sisters and other sister women who share the terrors of femininity and the day to day drudgery of work and child raising and husbands and bills and coupons and repairmen and insurance companies and businesses that think we are weak and stupid.

Home is a target for our heart. A safe place of peace. A touch of a good memory inside yourself given by God.

I still search for home.

Dismemory

October 8, 2018 and fall is here in the form of an 85 degree day. A few leaves are scraping across the highway stirred by traffic wind. The sun shine is at angle that masks its summer intensity. Along the roads, scattered trees are in flames with bunches of leaves already red and gold.
Today I will attend calling hours for a friend from school and work. I remember his wry sense of humor. Never any meanness. Although I didn't see him often in recent years, he was always there and is now one more empty space in my heart. If we continue to grow, we will let other friends fill those places. What do we do when we are 95 and outlive our lifelong friends?  Does the heart shrink and wrinkle like our old bodies?

I have a new word today. Dismemory. Definition: an occurrence of remembering events that are not your own. Recall of someone's story but putting yourself as the main character.
 This happens as we age and fill our brains with family, friend and work stories. Hearing and telling over the years is saved as part of our history. As we recount an incident we fairly attribute it to the author. But as all the stories collide and overlap, the brain can pull that jumble into a new memory that lets us make it our own.

My grandmother told me stories about long gone family members which I have recorded on paper and internally. I am still able to separate them from myself. Over the years through genealogy I have found those stories common to distant cousins. We know Aunt Rainey by her love for jewelry and Great grandfather Brice as a Confederate soldier who had his last child at 76. But like the old telephone game, the audience adds bits and pieces to every telling until the stories disagree. Brice becomes a Union soldier because our family never fought for slavery and states rights. And it is not common for anyone to father a son at 76.
When do we trust the storyteller? And our own memory?

In my dad’s family, we are descended from Native Americans with the surname Sizemore. There is documented proof to my 3x great grandfather George who had 55 people claim him as their father. This is on the Internet. His father is referred to as George "All" Sizemore but no proof is recorded. Numerous stories exist of the Sizemore/NA connection. Occasionally a generous researcher will post a picture of that ancestor who lived before photography. We protest but the story sounds better than proof.
We need to listen to stories and decide if they are true.
In dismemory, the teller is convincing and believes what he is sharing. The author of the incident can question himself or the teller. Or just let it go. The story ends.

Dismemory is the sadness of lost thoughts and names when we can still fake a presence in the conversation by using random stories. It is the beginnings of Alzheimer's when real thoughts and instruction are tossed like the Yahtzee dice trying to find a match. You get what comes out of your cup. Sometimes you only roll 2 ones, a score low in points. That's when you call your sister Jan when her name is really Leslie. A laugh. A brush off. Soon you don't know Jan or Leslie. The phone becomes the remote and you watch the same channel all day until your daughter visits and explains once again how each works. You don't understand the difference because the phone no longer rings. Memories fade and wrinkle like our aging hearts. We do not care for things in life as we melt back to God from whence we came.

Changes and Endings

Changes and endings follow us through age. Marriage, divorce, children, grandchildren, death, and disease all work to stir our emotions. First love to loss, anger and hurt can lead us on different paths. Friendship and love guides through tough times and the wondrous moments.

Seeing the Grand Canyon was amazing. Stepping from the subway to see Rome finally was a dream I didn't know I had. The adoration for my grandchildren and their amazement in life leaves me breathless. Their selfless love for me has created new life and meaning. Friends of old reach out and new ones appear for support in aging. Everyday, flowers and the wind and butterflies soothe my heart in the goodness of the world. I speak with God daily knowing that he loves me and accepts me as I am. Younger life of wildness and hurt slip away as does time. Summer moons light the night in mystery without fear. And the sunlight moves me to feel life in this place I live.

For 14 years, I planned and led our Howard family reunion in Eastern Kentucky. The reunion began as a way to see family other than at funerals. In those early years, many family members attended. We renewed acquaintance with cousins from a childhood visiting my grandmother Maudie. She was the person who led us in love and to God. We were each her favorite. Grandmother was our connection between a family of six siblings and children. She also shared stories about her parents, grandparents and ancestors long gone. They live in our memory

We met new cousins and distant. Mother’s cousin Joe gave the best hugs and called me baby doll. He is always in my heart. His Sutton family attended for several years and we talked of the old folks. As the years went by new babies joined our family. We also lost family. That changed the dynamic of the reunion. Children were unable to visit because the loss was too hard to bear. Carl and Ruby Marshall were neighbors we knew after Maudie married Callie Joseph and lived at Burning Fork. They are both gone but their son Rick still comes to see us. We have lost mothers and husbands and some to Alzheimer's and ages of 92. Attendees catch us up on their children and jobs and the remember whens. Over the last few years, I have become friends with Hazel Shepherd and her family. They live at Grandmothers homeplace at the Head of Licking in Magoffin County. She has lived there now longer than Grandmother did. Gary and I visit the Howard Cemetery there and then stop to see her. Hazel knew my family and is a distant cousin. She remembers when my baby sister Sandra died and the burial service in the front yard for my grandfather Callie in 1958 preached by brother in law Henry Mullins. When her children go to Walmart, they take her along and she sits in her walker by the checkout and visits with friends or others who talk with her. Hazel gives a lot of good advice taken from a rough life in the mountains. What a great life Hazel has now with devoted bossy children and pet chickens and ponies and a view of the wooded mountains from her childhood and mine. Her daughter Sadie brings her to the reunion along with special candy she makes and fresh green beans and tomatoes which she grows in a garden on her other place. Most of the produce is given to residents on the road home.

Two years ago, Angie said she would take the reunion over. The preparation became too much for me to handle. She has help from Tamara and Ruth as I did. I couldn't handle the stress of getting people to play bingo and gather for the family photos. Some people come to just sit. Others readily join in the auction to raise funds for the hall rental and cemetery upkeep. Sister Leah always brings a quilt for a raffle creating great excitement and money. The winner now wears it parading for all to see. Tamara prints the family tree chart listing Grandmothers descendants. She gets the info from me and of course I always have a wrong date for someone. I take several books I have created with descendant and ancestor photos. It is fun to see old photos and to decide who you might resemble.

As the years have passed, fewer people attend. Reasons are health, age, distance and the infamous family vacation or the I don't feel like going. It is one day of the year!  When I was young, our vacation was traveling from Ohio to visit Grandmother. While there, we saw other relatives and visited the places in Kentucky that my parents knew from younger days. Those names and scenes are still ingrained in my mind. Their memories transferred to me. Nowadays families take their own trips to Myrtle Beach, The Smokey Mountains, and Florida. Their little families are the focus, and many children hardly see aunts and uncles or cousins. Families are smaller. In the future, if there is a reunion, it might consist of a brother and sister with spouses and four cousins who barely know each other.

My family's closeness comes from those times that we visited on Sunday and played together. Then, there was no trip to the amusement park or a $300 birthday party. Our social life was family.

My generation still has friends who sit and talk. All the kids are on an IPhone to see what others are doing.

I miss the porch talk when I was amazed at what my grandchildren had to say.

Families are smaller than ever but farther apart. As I age, I see the loss of connection among members.

Change and endings. We must learn to be alone.

Food is Relative

When we were youngsters, we ate the food put on the table. And liked it all as we cleaned our plates. Food then was different. No buffet. I first ate spaghetti at age 10 when my Aunt Rebecca brought Chef Boy Ar Dee in a can. I fell in love with the sweet taste of the sauce. Our pasta was macaroni with tomato juice added. My dad hated it. We had pork chops or thin steak for breakfast from animals that we had grown and butchered. As a child, my brother Roger adopted a calf which he named Sam after a Walt Disney animal. Sam was trained to pull a sled and come at Roger's call. Well, Sam grew and reached his purpose. He was made into steak and roast. They broke the news to Roger who was devastated. But that night at supper as the platter was passed he said "You might as well give me a piece of Old Sam".

My dad and brothers shot, scraped and butchered the hogs but cows were taken to a professional. In the early 60s, WWII veterans received a bonus for duty. My parents bought a freezer with his $500 used to store meat and garden produce.

Along with the farm animals, Dad and brother Larry hunted for game. And fished. I have held the hind legs of many rabbits and squirrels as their skin was peeled away from pink flesh that was crisply fried. Parts were parts until it came to the squirrel brains. I once told my Ohio friend Deb that we fought over who got to eat the brains. She is still laughing. That food was delicious but I guess we have out grown most of it. Except for chicken livers and gizzards which my husband can fry into a delicacy. Imagine my own shock when we went to Tiro Tavern with friends and found that they were featuring a Coon Feed. Who eats coon?
I will never fish. My dad and brothers went to pay lakes in southern Ohio. When we moved north, they thought they had found the mother lode in Lake Erie. Each Sunday they sat on the pier at Huron patiently waiting for a bite. One Sunday I was made to go. The sunburn lasted for a week. The boredom a lifetime. They were proud as they walked off the rocky pier showing off the buckets of their catch. I don't know how my mother stood it when they arrived home late with fish to clean. Today I am repulsed by a fish scale or bone.

As I listen to the rooster crowing down the street in New Haven, I am reminded of how often we had chicken dinners. My mom or grandmother were swift in capturing a young fryer or a fat stewing hen from the pen or under the shrubs in their dusty hideout. A quick jerk broke the neck or the sharp ax took the head off.
We laughed as the beheaded chicken flopped about the yard under the big dishpan. Not so as we plucked the scalded feathers that created an unforgettable odor. My sister Carol gagged and was excused from the duty. Then we watched as my mother singed the pin feathers over the flame on the gas stove. She or my grandmother cut the chicken apart in no time and unlike take out chicken today you could tell the thigh from the breast or back. Sometimes the hen had a partially formed egg which was thrown in with all the other parts to cook for the fat used to make dumplings. A great dinner on a hot Sunday after church.  We had to take turns on who got to eat the gizzard or liver. Grandmother always said she liked the feet-yes, they were cooked too. But I think that was the part left for her as she strived to feed hungry children. Mother never ate chicken.

Nowadays we serve chicken fingers, fish sticks, nuggets, pizza, tacos and calamari. No kid eats pork, fried chicken or wild game. They have not been hungry.

Into Winter 2018

Jan 6, 2018 Into Winter

Already it is January 6, 2018 and I have received not one seed catalog in the mail or thru email. The world is changing. In previous years, the booklets came right after Christmas. And I was able to spend hours looking at spring and planning my new gardens. If Mother was still with us, that is what she would be doing on these cold days. It’s always good to order at least one new Iris. And one weird vegetable. Perhaps the publishers realize that my gardening days are slipping into retirement and don’t waste time on a ‘just looking” subscriber.

I know it is unreasonable to think of gardens when northern Ohio and much of the country is in an extended deep freeze of weather. But hope is alive as we anxiously await next week’s temps in the 30s. We can put the heavy coats and scarves away for a while.

Christmas at our house is back in the closet. Each year, I plan to sort and discard ornaments and sit arounds, but by then, I just want it out of sight so the stack of boxes continues to grow. We collect vintage ornaments and often travel to Bronners in Frankenmuth, Mi. where we look for out of the ordinary ornaments. In the first year of marriage, we visited Bronners Christmas shops when they were in houses up town and had to stand in line to go through the houses. Since then, they have moved to the southern outskirts of town into a large building with decorations for all seasons. Its funny to think that some of those ornaments from the honeymoon trip are now vintage. When we visit Frankenmuth, we always have a chicken dinner at Zehnders and sit in our special booth in one of the small rooms. The restaurant’s specialty is fried chicken family style and includes noodle soup, slaw and cranberry relishes, liver pate, and special fruit bread.  We always enjoy a glass of Rhine style wine. One year, with the girls along, we bribed Victoria with a sherbet to try the pate. Her face indicated her intense dislike. We couldn’t even bribe Jennifer. When she tried beef liver at age 4, she told me she thought her food had poison in it. That is honest dislike.

Now that the rush of the season is over, I am trying to plan things to avoid my annual bout of SAD depression. This story is one way to avoid that desperate feeling. I also use my light to simulate some sunlight. The snow cover with the harsh whiteness keeps the gray away. I have also started a genealogy project. Each week will feature a different ancestor along with photos and stories I have access to. I will share on family FB pages and print a copy for myself. By the end of the year, I will have a nice book. My parents’ profiles are already completed and printed. Also, I use my Notes on my Iphone to write quick memories that can evolve into short stories. One of my friends, Cindy, remembers everything about Willard and its people and needs to do this for a Willard history.

Over the years, I have scanned, saved, shared, and reprinted thousands of old photos (the reason my computer is low on memory). This winter, I plan to drag out photo boxes and albums full of photos of my daughters to divide and scan. Maybe if they are online, the grandkids will enjoy seeing mom as a youngster and hear childhood stories from me. When we visited my grandmother, we always found her box of family photos to review. As we dug out pictures, she shared the names and relationships and a story about the person. My nonstop memory has stored that information and over the years, I have tried to share it in my written stories and my family tree on Ancestry. Those people who brought us to where we are today need to be remembered. Isn’t it a special moment when someone tells you that you look like grandma or Aunt Lucy and you know who they mean? They gave us our walk, our looks and mannerisms. As we age, who doesn’t find themselves using those Mom or Dad warnings and sayings from our youth? Our speech slowly recalls theirs.

In January, we have a trip planned to sunny Florida to visit my sister. Another forward plan. By then, we will need some real sunshine. Plus, it is good to get out of the comfort zone of home. In retirement, it is easy for me to spend days in my pajamas. Come on, I know others do the same thing.

As I write this, I am on the last day of antibiotics for upper respiratory infection and feeling ambitious after laying on the sofa for 2 weeks only going out to get the old “hags” hair (yeah looking rough) done and to get a few groceries with a friend. Weird that I can function through MS and RA, but a UPI knocks me out and seems to last forever. Have binge watched a few Netflix shows -Grace and Frankie-and actually read several books by Conrad Richter.

Not as many friends post on FB as in previous years. Please consider those people who use this as a way to stay in touch. We do enjoy hearing about your family. Your posting of activity and photos can bring brightness to a slow day.  Just a message means a thought. Keep it going. Sometimes a dark day lasts forever. Remember friends and family.

Karen Coffey Wilson

Labor Day

Today, Sept 4 2017, Labor Day, is surely bringing in the fall weather. Warm air is moving gently across the porch but the rushing wind in the trees shows their changing colors and sounds the dry rustle of yellow leaves falling and scraping across the roadway. Few travelers are out today. An occasional car whips the leaves into action so they can get on down the road to the neighbors yard. Or a motorcycle stirs them into shoelaces and delivers them to other towns.

 Nearby someone is burning wood for the holiday cookout. The odor makes me think of late evening bonfires and s'mores eaten by the squealing grandkids. Cricket chirping competes with the mellow tones of the wind chimes. They have been calling for mid September frosts which will cease their annoying song.

In 1976 the Labor Day weekend was rainy then hot and humid. I was miserable as I labored without drugs to deliver my oldest daughter at home for a day then in Willard Memorial Hospital for a night and day. In those days the nurses kept the prospective mothers strapped to the bed. All I wanted was to walk. Only one person could sit with me. Now they will let the whole extended family in the room if the mother and father can stand it. I just needed the doctor.

Other Labor Day weekends in the 80s, we traveled to Louisville, Kentucky for a family reunion at Grandmother Maudies on my mothers side. Those were hot days in an open park area. Most everyone came because few places worked weekends then. And the kids were still young enough to be made to see their relatives once a year.

Younger Labor Days signaled the start of the new school year. That weekend meant haircuts and home perms for me and 3 sisters until junior high. My poor brothers were treated to curly hair one year when Mother had leftover perm solution. Rogers school picture that year clearly showed his continued anger at the situation.  Ralph was too young to care and not in school yet. I now wonder how Mother felt when he was the only one at home and six of us were out of her way for the day.
She did not get a job until he was in first grade.

The holiday in the teen age years meant we still had to work a full day at the muck farm. Workers had to pull double duty and a long day since the farm season was ending as kids returned to school. Many of the girls shopped at Hills that Sat or Sun and compared clothing and supples while we worked. The air buzzed with excitement for the changes coming.

Labor Day used to be the end date for white shoes and white skirts for ladies. Now anything goes for fashion - not style. I will wear sandals and shorts in Ohio until the snow flies or the leaves burn. And Gary will mow the lawn in December when it is warm enough.

Lifes rules

Life rules and observations according to Karen:

 

 Check the toilet paper before you sit down.

 Always take a Kleenex. Your nose will run.

 Carry a hundred dollar bill in your wallet for shopping emergencies and donations to the less fortunate.

 Never burn a book. It carries someone's soul.

 You can't have too many books. You can have too little space. Move.

 A true best friend loves you without bias and encourages you to be wild.

 Anything you make is art. Express yourself. Keep paint on your hands and lyrics on your tongue.

 Listen to the cicadas in August. They sing the summer away.

 Your sister loves you when your mother has passed.

 Cousins are the best playmates and always have a connection to you.

 Grandmothers love unconditionally.

 Reunions recall childhood.

 Smoke on the Water makes you dance.

 Write your story a sentence at a time. A grandchild will memorize your words.

 Your mother is always with you as you parent and love and rejoice. Sometimes she is in your face.

 Buy red lipstick for your granddaughter.

 Let your oldest granddaughter be the boss.

 Grandsons don't give kisses but they like snuggles and hugs.

 Boys talk farts, poop and mine craft.

 The mountains call to me.

 Old enemies become your best old friends.

 At 60, it's okay to wear your Jammie's all day.

 Retirement means you no longer work. STOP. Enjoy the leaves in the breeze.

 Listen to others. They need a shoulder for caring.

 When you are lost, pray to God. You will find your purpose.

Don’t waste time on apostrphes.

I am sure theres more.CC

Candy Time

As a young child., I went to Jackson Local School in Jackson County in southern Ohio. The school and our home were located in the rolling foothills of Appalachia. We lived in the country far apart from other families on Tick Ridge. The school was our social life. The friends were great, and I loved the writing and math workbooks. Before I started 1st grade, I was allowed to go on a one day trial for the first grade with my older sisters. A high point in my life was the day when Mrs. Gahm opened the Big Look and See reader on the easel, and I learned to read the word "look". The world was opened. One day, Mrs. Gahm asked me to write my name on the blackboard. To me, writing meant cursive versus printing, and I wrote Sue in cursive. She was displeased but I had practiced with my sisters and knew how to do it. I quickly found that 1st graders only print their words. We practiced our printing on squares of paper cut from grocery bags. Although most students had yellow tablets, that paper was saved for important work. The teacher gave us stamps and stickers according to the seasons for excellent work. Mrs. Gahm kept her handkerchief down the front of her dress.

 In 2nd grade, I had Mrs. Essex as a teacher. We learned counting to 1000 and adding and subtraction. I used to take my workbook home on the weekends to do pages ahead. Recess also became important as I learned to socialize with other kids. Mrs. Essex had a daughter, Nancy, one year older than me whose dresses were passed to me. Jackpot for pretty dresses with under slips with bells. I still have the dresses in a trunk.

 In 3rd grade, I was taught geography, health and multiplication by Mrs. Betz who was short and stern. In geography, we studied Eskimos and became familiar with China on the other side of the world. As we stood in line for the bus, I became adept at the memorization of the times tables. 3rd graders were eligible for candy time after afternoon recess. In the principal’s office, candies and snacks were displayed on a wooden rack. For a dime, I bought small boxes of stick pretzels wrapped in cellophane. The first time I ate pretzels.

 Although shy, I was a good student. The reading and math and pretzels were the beginning of me knowing the world.

Summer Cedar Point

Tomorrow Ela and Aleks will go to Cedar Point with their cousins and parents who are visiting from California. I feel their excitement. When we were kids, we went to Cedar Point for the Pioneer Rubber Co picnic. My dad worked there,and he could get numerous tickets for a small price. My cousins and aunt and uncle from Lebanon came to go with us. One time, Aunt Lucy and Uncle Jack and grandmother Maudie came from Kentucky to accompany us. I think the anticipation of all the family coming to visit was better than the actual  trip to the amusement park. The parents were only in their 30s then. And grandmother was not even 60 years. I wonder what rides she took. She was probably thrilled to see the gunfights and the skeletons on the Riverboat Cruise. And I can see her smiling as she rode the Sky Ride and viewed the beautiful flowers. It is hard for me to imagine my parents riding a roller coaster. They probably went on the Pirate Ride and the train. I think they spent most of their time trying to keep track of their 7 children   We took coolers and sandwiches for lunch.  At the appointed time we met at the picnic area for food. There was no money for Berardi fries and cokes. At mealtime, we talked about the rides we had been on and who was the most scared on the double Ferris wheel. And the large stuffed animals at the Midway games. We always went in the arcade and wished for a nickel to buy a fortune from the fake rotating gypsy lady. Sometimes we were allowed enough change to have our weight or age guessed for a prize. My mom and grandmother giggled as their ages were guessed way under the actual number. Grandmother chose a chalkware pheasant ,and Mother chose a  small cup and saucer on its own stand. I still have a roaring lion on a platform won for an age misguess. I was 10 and they guessed 14.
We always went home sunburned and tired. At home. we ate bologna sandwiches while the adults recounted the day and other old times. The next morning the tearful goodbyes were for the end of a different time and going back to farm chores. For a time, we were in some other world apart from country town of Willard, Ohio.



Sent from my iPhone

Letting Go

Letting go of your things can be both disheartening and a relief. Last week I sold 6 cartons of used books from my collection for $23 at Half Price books in Columbus. Looking at my shelves, one would say I am still book rich. Those volumes gave me hours of enjoyment and took me out of this life.
This week I will once again have my last garage sale. I am cleaning house of lots of vintage decor, antiques, toys, and parts from dozens of incomplete projects started in my retirement. A retirement that included going to garage sales and auctions. My excitement was certainly greater when I carried those newly purchased boxes into the house to explore versus my aching back this rainy day as I carry them to the garage and disposal.
The red Radio Flyer tricycle that the grandkids rode is on the chopping block this year. As is my daughters' now vintage 600 wagon bought at Plymouth Hardware. The small wooden rockers that have satisfied two generations will go. I thought of saving them for the next ones but that's 20 years of storage. Anyway by the time my grandchildren have little ones, they will probably own the couch and run the whole show. It's hard to  release ourselves from stuff that reminds us of our journey and those who have passed.
Life changes and we have to adjust or  down the rabbit hole we go. Or we can sit still and hope to disappear into old age and life in the home.
Ridding myself of books  also includes the Ideals magazines collected by my husband. 100s of them. He loved the nostalgic stories and stylized photos of days gone by. The days of Sunday dinners and home for the holidays.
I've realized that I  will no longer fit into the size 12 clothes nor can I lose that kind of weight again. The middle age spread has arrived and is here for the duration barring divorce or sorrow. The clothing rack is sagging with jeans and capris.  Plus as I get older I need fewer clothes and more pajamas.
You would think my house looks bare without all the garage sale bounty. Not so. I still paint and draw and read and care for my grandchildren.  I will keep rocks and old keys and odd items for them to carry home and treasure.
My first pre sale was to grandson Riley who needed the globe pencil sharpener, a small toy rocker for a beany baby and a 3x5 piece of my artwork. He is like most other shoppers. Just whatever catches the eye. Riley paid for his purchases by doing a few small chores for me. Vera bought her mom a wreath of roses. She still owes me. And Ricky found an old scrapbook in the freebie box.
Then today is May 6 and cloudy with a high of 45 degrees. I am sitting in front of a heater with most stuff inside the garage due to a 70% chance of rain. We opened the doors at 9 am and have had sporadic customers since. We met a nice man from New Washington who listened to Gary's Camaro run and collected Jadite dishes like his grandma had.
Overall sales were slow, I think, due to the weather. In the end I donated 2 Traverse loads of my valuable goods to charity. I am finished with the hard work of sales. Next up is the downsizing auction. Please attend.

My heart is ready to let go of all things. The memory of you is enough and that is slowly fading away.

Entertaining the Grandchildren

A large strawberry moon rose above the trees shadowing the youngsters chasing the lightening bugs. Their loud frantic voices brought the old dull neighborhood to life again. We heard a harrumph from the old man across the street. He still works so he is not yet 65, but he has lost his youth to the daily life of the job. We have been retired for about 7 years and have begun our next passage. We have a fast Camaro- my retirement gift to my husband. Travel is high on our list. We have been to New England, North Carolina, Kentucky (numerous times) Bowling Green, Ohio, Florida. And Arizona. I have been to Italy 3 times myself. Then there are the repetitive trips to doctors from Cleveland to Clyde to Mansfield that always include stops at Hobby Lobby or some antique store  Antiques are cheap now because this generation wants stuff easily thrown out in the trash. No treasures or keepsakes for them  
My 10 year old granddaughter who is one of the firefly catchers has a malfunctioning phone and her concern is about photos never printed and videos in a cloud.
Today I have five grandchildren guests ages 3,5,7,8,10. For compensation, they are supposed to help me carry and sort items for a garage sale. The 3 and 5 year old are most cooperative, the 10 old girl is begrudging with her help, always worrying about the actions of the 2 older boys who are tired and sly about avoiding assistance. The little girl comes to talk as I unpack boxes and to give me smiles and kisses. 5 year old boy does lots of shopping in the Scooby Doo section and finds numerous items he might need at home. The 3 older kids find the music and proceed to blow horns and beat a loud tune out of the xylophone that no baby ever played.
I do not remember any adult entertaining us as kids. The closest we came was one winter when my Uncle Harold visited us at Jackson. He was a teacher and knew lots about motivating children. On that trip he taught us how to cut paper houses and glue them with a mixture of flour and water. We made whole towns.
Now most adults plan events for their kids or grandkids. Mine have been here 4 days, and we have done the following: painted sharpie shirts, played with water guns, learned Yahtzee (on 2 consecutive turns I rolled Yahtzee), played croquet, shopped in my collection of small found objects, made found object robots, caught lightening bugs, twirled sparklers lit by Gary's torch, watched Pitmasters with Gary, shopped at my barely set up garage sale, had popcorn and Zootopia night, visited their cousins home one evening, made dozens of octopus with sculpey clay and had a science day with Aunt Leah. They always needed something to do. Don't get me wrong that they are not creative. I am constantly amazed by their humor and opinions on life. They are not very open to reasoning yet.
The planned activity regimen here is totally my fault. I want them to experience simple things that they create themselves. To learn self worth. And all of this is sprinkled with my stories and my love for them.

Summer Ages

Summer will never be the same. Last Sunday, as Gary and I drove to the lake at Huron, we drove past Valley Beach Swim Park south of Norwalk. As I looked over the hill thru the trees, I saw no sign life, of the crowds that packed the place on a hot afternoon. The large pool had little water, and the surrounding grass beach was uncluttered. We wondered if it was closed. Then today, I googled the name and found the posting from March stating that they would not reopen in 2016.

Kids and families have been going there for 61 years. My family belonged for 20 of those years. When the girls were little, I usually met my sister Carol and her 2 children there. We sat at the water’s edge while the kids played on the small slide. As the girls grew, every Saturday or Sunday after chores, at around 12:30, we dressed in suits, gathered towels, a quilt, snacks and drinks. And assorted pool toys although the park provided tubes and balls. Often we included friends of the girls which involved picking them up. I have since thought how easy those mothers had it to have their daughters occupied for the afternoon. They probably took naps.

We always sat on the west side grass to avoid looking into the sun. As soon as we spread the quilt for me to lay on, the girls were in the water. I usually had a book to read and a beer or two to pass the time. And in those days, I was a smoker. As soon as I was settled, I heard the “mom call”- “ Watch me jump off the dock”. I did the wave, shaded my eyes and watched for hours as they jumped and slid and paddled across the pool in the tubes. Snack time usually came during the hottest scene in the romance I was reading. They ate chips, pretzels, and granola bars. No apples or good foods. They needed energy. The second snack break required a trip to the concession stand for a popsicle that promptly ran down their arms and dripped on my quilt. They were sent into the water to wash off and with the warning that we would be going soon. Potty breaks meant crossing the bridge to the restrooms. And at 6, they went alone without fear. I watched as they dawdled on the bridge to see the stream flowing underneath and to spit.

As they swam and played, I watched the crowds. Many were regular members like me. Most sat in the same area each time. I watched their children grow from year to year without knowing their names. Visitors respected each other’s space.  One man chose to wear a speedo type suit. He stood at attention with arms crossed guarding the actions of his children. We referred to him as ”Dick”. Lots of laughter.

The weather was always a consideration. If it showered, swimmers ran out of the water for shelter. When we heard thunder, guests packed up quickly for home

Our stay was usually from 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm. At my final wave, I gathered equipment and waited for them with towels and money. Before we left, they always needed a candy bar for the trip home. Usually a KitKat bar. Chocolate for sure that would melt and make a last mess. As I walked to the Blazer, they trailed behind me with towels half over a shoulder and half dragging in the dirt of the drive looking like sad little urchins.

Isn't it funny how things work out

When I draw or paint my brain relaxes. Otherwise, most of the time it feels jumbled and breathless. Usually, I live on the edge of saying the wrong word or jumping in with a wrong decision. Any conversation interruption stops my thought process. I used to have a witty sense of humor with quick comebacks. Cant even recite a joke now. The jokes now come when I use an inappropriate or off the wall word in conversation. We look at each other like “where did that come from?”. My brain is also full of random information gleaned from being a voracious reader of fiction and apparently a set of encyclopedias somewhere along the way.

The status of reading has certainly changed in my lifetime. When we were kids, my parents thought we were just reading to get out of chores or being lazy. Reading was a lifeline for me. I went to different places and times. Not everyone was like Willard, Ohio. My travels led me to ancient Rome and Egypt. I was on the battlefield with Molly Pitcher and at horse farms with Justin Morgan. The Swiss Family Robinson tree was my home.  I fell in love with Rhett Butler.

But still it wasn’t cool to say that reading was one of your hobbies.

Today, the news is full of stories about the decline of books, libraries and reading in general. The public is concerned about the next generation being able to read. I worry about their overall education. So many things and places that young people do not explore in books. Everyone cant visit Timbuktu, but they can at least know what it is. Kids are required now to read a preset number of minutes for homework. My grandchildren still like to learn a new word. Rarely do you see anyone at the airport with their nose stuck in a book, oblivious to the crowds glued to iphones.  Will they eventually speak in the msg dialect?

I am now unable to read books because of confusion and focus. I miss the being lost feeling. But God as chosen for me to try art. Do you remember the pictures in TV guide to draw for art school scholarships? My drawings were always a little off. Now I use that to advantage in abstracts. But along the way, I trained to draw what I see. And that everything in the picture doesn’t have to be in the painting. And no, the painting doesn’t really look like the picture. It is a painting! The artist has his own unique vision.

My current project is titled “Waiting for Jesus”. It is one of a group series to celebrate the days of Holy Week for a local church. I chose Saturday or Black Sabbath as some call it. Yeah, like most of you, I thought that the Saturday after Good Friday was for coloring eggs and shopping for Easter clothes and candy for baskets filled at midnight. This assignment has led me through Isaiah in the Old Testament to the Gospels in the New to find out what happened with Jesus on Saturday. That was/is the Jewish Sabbath and all followed the traditional rules for the day. I could not find that anyone had mourned at the tomb for Jesus. But many awaited his anointing and resurrection- all who are captives of Satan until Jesus proclaims their freedom.

The process of the painting helped me realize my own captivity and that all I had to do was reach out to Jesus for salvation. Praise God for leading me here. And I have no trouble reading His book.

Material Baggage

Throughout our lives we collect a lot of material baggage. We save toys from childhood, souvenirs from vacations and even old rugs in case we need them. And if we don’t save the stuff, our mothers do. I am starting to admire people who change out their décor and just dispose of the used items. I save it for garage sales or ebay or sometimes Gary saves things in the garage instead of taking to the garbage. He has 3 lamps awaiting repair.

I am a garage and estate sale addict and attend the monthly flea markets in the area. You savers are appreciated by me. For me, the old things spark a memory of a time gone by. I am always on the lookout for any memento that reminds me of my mother or grandmother.

Since genealogy is another hobby, when I see old papers, letters, bibles, or cards, my interest is piqued. I used to think that ancestor photos and documents were the only important part of compiling a family history. Now I can see how the stuff used and left by people can tell stories of how they lived. At a recent sale I picked up a Masonic bible, a lamp with the tag still on it, and some artwork. The bible had the homeowners name along with other members. The lamp was purchased in Chicago at Marshall Fields. One piece of art was a straw picture from Mexico, another a signed and numbered lithograph. From the bible, I learned that the man was probably a businessman since he was an officer in the local Masons. The lamp indicated that they may have travelled to Chicago and that she was interested in fine things. “Good friends” had given them the Mexican souvenir in 1953. What a long time to keep such unusual décor. One piece of art was a winter scene painted on cardboard and signed in the corner by the lady of the house. A bible that I did not purchase had her maiden name written on the owner page.

Sometimes I pick up some ephemera at auctions or flea markets, then try to track down a relative on Ancestry who is interested a piece of family memorabilia. I always wonder why people sell letters and family photos at sales. Did no one in the family want such precious items? Well, you just can’t keep everything. And often the younger generation has lost track of who the photos belong to. The names of friends and relatives that grandma and grandpa knew easily get lost with time and distance from the past. Unless a younger family member takes an active interest. For instance, when I visited my grandmother, we went through the old photos box and she told me names and stories about the ancestor. I related to them through her and now through the pictures. On her death, my Aunt took possession of the boxes of family valuables and pictures. That usually happens in families. One daughter takes care of those items, and the possession and knowledge should be passed down. Photos and family memorabilia is not shared enough. For instance, my aunt has no children. I hope she has made an arrangements in her will to pass it all to someone who will be responsible with them. Pictures used to be precious but now everyone can take numerous shots with the Iphones and save in the cloud. Where do those go when you are gone from the cloud? And many never print those digital images to share. From our children we receive an annual family shot and the infamous school pictures. And a few from relatives as Christmas cards.

As pictures become less important, some “little thing” from grandmothers and aunts become more precious and can tell something about them. I received a gold pocket watch from my mother engraved with her uncle’s name. He drowned in 1925, two years before her birth. The uncle was her father’s twin brother. She cared for the watch like it was worth a million dollars. I think she treasured it so because it made her remember the uncle and thus her father. Grandmother gave her the watch but the story of how she came by it was lost. Perhaps my grandfather acquired it upon Uncle Romain’s death and Mother thought of it as “Daddy’s  watch”. After Mother passed, I searched for Romain’s son of the same name. He lived and died in Bellevue, and we never knew until my internet research. He left no survivors. I like to think that he would have enjoyed having something of his father.

My sister cherishes a small depression bowl belonging to our great grandmother Howard. From grandmother, it is passed to the oldest granddaughter in the family. So it travelled to Mother then Brenda and now to her granddaughter, Brittaney who will understand its meaning.

When I was a young girl we had a basket that we used to gather potatoes. One day years later, I viewed it sitting forlornly in the garden mud and asked my mom about it. She told me that my dad’s mother had made the basket. At my interest, she gave it to me and I have cared for it over the years. I imagine my grandma Margaret making the basket out of necessity as it is made from hand hewn thick wood strips. It is not a fine piece of basketry as those made by the Cherokee Indians and artisans.

When the family was dispersing my grandmother’s household, I was given hats belonging to her and her second husband, Callie. Grandmother’s was a straw hat with red plastic cherries. I still see her coming from the garden with a basket of beans wearing that hat. Or walking on the beach at Daytona. Callie had been gone for over 30 years and still she kept his hat. It deserves to be saved another 30 years by me as I remember him passing the day at Burning Fork rocking under the shade tree in the front yard. As we sit on the front porch watching all the cars in a hurry, catching a random wave or honk. No, I do not wear the hat yet but I drink an occasional beer there.

Already, I tell my girls which of our stuff is important to the family. Some books are old and valuable, but they will need to be checked to see what little item I have stuck in there. A common habit. And our will designates specific dispersals. We have instructed them to pass on that stuff they don’t want. I hope that my paintings and Gary’s hand mades will be treasures.

If you see either at the auction, please save.

End of Summer

August is upon us with the chatter of the cicadas and the smell of freshly mown hay along the country roads . It is supposed to be the dog days of summer, but the weather is variable from cool to hot. No consistent pattern of hot sweaty unbearable nights that make the days long and miserable. Local county fairs are benefitting from the milder weather but the tomato crop is not. To ripen properly, tomatoes need some hot August nights. I miss the sweetness of a just picked tomato.
We did not have a garden for the second year but did plant 6 tomatoes, 5 peppers, and 2 cucumbers behind the garage. The cukes are the long burpless variety recommended by my cousin Willa, and as of today, I have picked 15. Well worth the money and time. I used several to make cucumber salad with onions and mayo/vinegar dressing. Yum
This summer has busy for us. We took our first family vacation in the Smoky Mountains. The cabin we rented had plenty of room for 5 kids to run and scream as well as privacy for each family. We were still speaking to each other at the end of the week so I think it was a success. Great to have my quiet early morning broken by "I'm hungry grandma" from soft little voices. Meanwhile, my daughters and sons in law slept on in comfort.
In July, we went to Eastern Kentucky for several days for the annual Callie and Maudie Howard Reunion. This was our 14th year of gathering to honor my maternal grandparents. I am gradually transitioning the arrangement duties to other cousins because I experience too much fatigue to take care of everything myself.  One goal I was able to accomplish was the compilation of the photo book of all their descendants. It took me 4 years of begging, borrowing and stealing photos to reach completion. I wish my grandmother was here to see it. As we gather each summer, I think of how proud she would be to see the growth and successes of her family. She came from such humble stock and lived an often hard life but that never stopped her can do attitude. Or made her waver in her faith in our God.
When we make the reunion trip, we always try to visit the family cemetery at the Head of the Licking River and to stop at the old homeplace to visit our family friend and distant relative, Hazel. The graveyard is high on a steep pine covered hillside on Howard's Fork. The sun shines warmly on the  stones thru the tall forest there. Soft music is provided by the shallow trickling river. What I remember from my youth as a raging river is now barely able to wash the stones left from other times. But that does encourage my wading enough to just wet my hot feet.

Life's Rocks

When I was a small child, I lived in eastern Kentucky at the Head of the Licking River with my Grandmother Maudie Howard and my Aunt Lucy. One day, Aunt Lucy and I walked over the mountaintop to Grassy to see Aunt Alta’s family. On our way, we passed thru an area of giant rocks. We sat and rested. That place always made me feel safe when I needed a place to go in my mind.

I always yearned to return there in reality. Thus begins Karen’s journey to find my rock place. In early September 2015, I was able to convince my friend and relative Hazel Shepherd’s daughter, Sadie Bailey, to guide me to those high rocks. They live on the old home place that belongs to the Howard family still today. I arrived around 9:30 on a cloudy morning. After visiting with Hazel a bit, we discussed several rock  formations atop the ridges and determined that my place was probably at Mandy House, a gap on the property of Berlin Howard, and too far and treacherous for an inexperienced old hiker like me. Sadie and her brother Danny told of a least 3 other areas we might try. We decided to start at the home place and climb that ridge to the first rocks then go around to the other two and back down the hillside at the graveyard. Sadie and I both had walking sticks and we swung them lightly as we walked down the road to find a good start spot along the gas line. I clumsily climbed straight up for ten feet and was out of breath and energy. We rested near a tree and continued on. This pattern repeats itself for the next hour or so. We finally reached a more level spot still not at the top of the mountain. I huffed and puffed. Finally, in the distance, I could see the first rock cliffs. As we walked, Sadie related stories about her family. How they loved the land and the mountains. She said they would come to the rocks on a regular basis as they ran and played on the hill sides. They kept paths worn to the levels and even used the rocks as a playhouse. I could see why as we approached the site. One large rock lay atop several others creating a “house”. In the early days, Indians used the rockhouses for shelter, but Sadie said they had never found any remnants there unlike in her garden that turned up arrowheads at every plowing. We carefully climbed the rocks with me following Sadie’s lead. At last, I was on top those great boulders looking all around at the tall untouched old trees. I was breathless. In awe of Gods beauty. And from climbing. Ha! After some silent reverence for the place, I named it “Sadie,s Playhouse”. Now others will know where I have been. And we have the photos and small rocks to prove it. Yes, Sadie carried the rocks in her backpack.  Now began the next leg of the hike. She told me the next 2 formations were much bigger and higher up the ridgeline. I decided at that point that we should return while I could still move. Finally, I made a wise decision and admitted my health limitations.

The best way to descend looked to be along the gas line. The company had recently trimmed a ten foot wide swath on each side so the area was free of undergrowth and saplings. My first step landed on my behind and I slid several feet. So be it. We slid down the rest of the hill to within 10 feet of the road. Our total time was around 2.5 hours and it looked like rain. Upon siting us in the drive, Hazel commented “Why, you’uns didn’t go no place”. Then she snickered into her hand and asked me “how old do you feel now?”  I guess I have given her a story to tell also.

Hazel invited me in for a dinner of green beans and cornbread and fresh corn and apple cobbler. And for story telling about her younger days and things she knew about my family. Her sister remembered seeing my Mother’s first child Sandra Faye before she passed at the young age of 2 years. Hazel and her husband William were there when my great uncle Henry Mullins preached in the yard at the funeral of Callie, my grandfather. We talked about the rocks I brought down with me and how she does the same thing, even going so far as to packing them in her purse. And how my Italy luggage was heavy due to my sea rocks and glass from Positano.

William’s family lived just down the road and were 2^nd or 3^rd cousins to us. Hazel’s parents were Sadie Crager and Chester Shepherd. We have not figured out our ancestral relationship yet but we are related by heart.

Hazel shared stories of her trips to Walmart in Prestonsburg and how as she sits near registers waiting for a daughter to shop, friends and strangers stop to talk. She often ends up giving them counsel about life and God. As she did for me that afternoon. She told me of her baptism and the joy she feels from her relationship with God. She told me that I will know when God takes ahold of my heart. He already has.

That day, I realized that I find the same peace in listening to others as I find among the mountain rocks. That place has become about me visiting with Hazel as well as visiting the land and the graveyard.

Hazel’s family has lived there over 40 years. She had 12 children and 6 of them still survive. They take care of her. They cook and clean and call every day.  She has chickens and small ponies for pets. Her front porch built by Sadie and Jane provides a view of the traffic, the mountains and memories.

Those other rocks still beckon, but it will take a four wheeler. My mind is still young enough to trick my body into trying it soon.