From A Southern Writer

This is MY River

2011-06-26T18:38:00.002-04:00

This Yes, I said MY. Just as it is yours and every other resident of the state of Georgia, as well as the tourists who seek the beauty of the outdoors. Hunters, fishermen, artists, historians, wildlife observers, scientists, kayakers, swimmers, photographers and weekend boaters all are able to find something that interests them. From the brackish, marshy areas in McIntosh and Glynn counties to the fresh, tea-colored water further north, this river is one of a kind, and it is mine. My beautiful Altamaha River.

From where the Oconnee River and Ocmulgee River come together near Lumber City, it meanders about 137 miles south to kiss the Atlantic Ocean near Brunswick. It is said my river is the 3rd largest contributor of fresh water into the Atlantic Ocean from North America, as well as being the largest river system east of the Mississippi. It has some of the last remaining cypress swamps and hardwood bottom land in the south and has the only known old growth long leaf pine and black oak forest in the United States. It is home to over 100 rare or endangered species of animals, plants and birds, as well as supporting at least 55,000 species of shorebirds and seabirds every year, many on their migration routes from the Arctic to South America. It was designated a Bioreserve in 1991 by the Nature Conservancy and is on their list of 75 Last Great Places on earth! Quite impressive, huh?

Historcally speaking, from the prehistoric time of the Timucua people to the 1610 Spanish Mission, from the Yamasee Chief Altamaha in the late 1600's to marking boundaries during the Revolutionary War, all the way to recent times (1994) when Survivorman Les Stroud filmed an episode in one of the Altamaha basin swamps, there is much to be learned. I will leave the seeking of this history to you, as each of you may have a particular time period that interest you.

I am an avid fisherman (um, woman!) and enjoy my camping trips. I have always preferred "roughing it" over staying at a campground, so my husband and I will load up the boat and head out to a sandbar, setting up camp and calling it home at least for a few days. I will admit that as I've gotten older, "roughing it" now consist of a large tent with an air mattress! In the months that weather and temperature are cooperative, we will fish, both with rod & reel and limb lines. There is nothing like being on the water at the break of day, seeing a limb line jumping up and down, then finding a nice catfish just waiting to be turned into breakfast, or an afternoon spent watching a bobber disappear and pulling in "bigger-than-my-hand" bream! We, like most all fishermen, have our favorite "honey holes" for pan fish or smaller catfish. We know right where we want to hang our limb lines before we even arrive. Other times of the year, hunting is on our agenda. Wild turkey, deer, wild hog, squirrel or whatever suits our fancy and is in season.

My main reason for this writing is to bring an awareness and hopefully an appreciation for this wonderful river habitat that is right in our own backyard. This is my river and I hate to see what is happening to it because of a few people that don't care, ones who destroy so much of this beauty, whether unknowingly or out of sheer lack of deceny and courtesy. It makes me sick when we pull up to a favorite camp site and see their crushed beer cans, broken glass, dirty diapers, paper towels and anything else you can think of. It makes me wonder if these idiots trash up their own yards in this manner. Are their homes as dirty as they leave the camp?
When we hang our limb lines, I often find where someone else has hung a limb line, yet they left their line tied to the limb, only cutting the hook off when they left. In a short time, the lines they leave behind will begin to cut into the limb, setting it up for disease and eventually killing the limb. Sort of like wrapping a rubber band around your finger and leaving it there. I cut every single one I find, often having to disembed it from the limb. My lines are tied so I can remove them when we leave. These same people often mark their lines by tying plastic ribbon to the limb. Sure, in time the ribbon will get brittle and not cut into the limb, but it can fall into the water and be eaten or entangled in wildlife or fish, as well as looking unsightly.Why not just tie your ribbon to your line instead of the limb? When I find these ribbons, I remove them and place them in the trash bag I carry in my boat. When we leave camp, our trash goes with us, including all that we have picked up. It is then properly disposed of and will not leave a mark on my river. A good rule of thumb is "If it wasn't there when you came, don't leave it there when you go." If everyone would simply clean up their own mess, people like me wouldn't have to clean up after them. This is my river - clean it up!

I understand the enjoyment of boating. What I don't understand is how anyone can possibly enjoy anything around them going so fast! I promise, the fishing hole you are trying to get to so quickly will be there when you get there if you slow down. Most boaters are aware of NO WAKE zones near camp grounds, landings or homes along the river, but what about the wakes they cause along sandbar camps or near other fishermen on the river? Do they think about the bank erosion they cause? What about the people like me who own smaller john boats and get swamped by these speed demons? I can't count the times my husband has had to bail out gallons of water in our little boat caused by these idiots and their wakes! Or the times we have been quietly fishing along a bank and have had to take a wild ride over their waves. SLOW DOWN! Not only is it the decent thing to do, but it is safer for all involved.

Anyone familiar with the river should know how dangerous it can be. The usual yearly flooding washes all kinds of debris into the river where it can be floating just under the surface, unseen by a speeding boater until it's too late, until their boat is capsized, bottom ripped open, or flung the occupants overboard. For example, in January 2010, a Baxley couple were duck hunting when they hit a log in the river, capsizing their boat. He didn't make it, and she was found 9 hours later suffering from hypothermia. In December 2008 the mighty Altamaha claimed the life of Rev. Jimmy Byars of Brunswick and February 2006 claimed the life of an Iraqi War Veteran stationed at Ft. Stewart. Yes, my river can be cruel - which means you need to be careful. Be mindful of others on the river. Be watchful at a slower pace. Be safe. Doing so may just allow you, or others, to enjoy the river for a long time to come.
While writing this, my 6 month old grandson sat beside me in his highchair, playfully babbling and cooing. Before too much longer he will be up and running around chasing his older brother and going with us on our fishing and camping trips. Both my grandsons will one day swim here with us, probably this summer when the water warms enough for them.

As they grow up, I'll teach them how to fish, how to hunt, how to gather the proper firewood, how to set a limb line, how to skin a catfish or clean a bluegill. I'll teach them what the night sounds are and how to spot the majestic bald eagles perched in the tall, ancient cypress trees. I'll teach them to read the woods for deer sign or where to look for squirrels. I'll also teach them the importance of our river and how to take care of it. This is my river - take care of it. Clean it up. Move a bit slower. Have some manners towards others. If you bring it in, take it out. Leave nothing behind but footprints on the sandbar. And please, I am begging you, leave my river suitable for my grandsons to one day inheirit from me.

The Tale of the Everlasting Candle

2009-09-14T11:10:00.002-04:00

Somewhere close to three hundred years ago, a young business man, his lovely wife and their beautiful daughter lived in a small, but well built and lovely cabin on a coastal island. The man worked for one of the plantation owners on the island, and would often have to spend days or weeks traveling on ships to other ports along the coast. His little family always went down to the docks when he arrived home, where they would cheerfully greet him with smiles and hugs. Sometimes, the father would bring back special treats for his precious little girl. Oh, he loved her so! She was the center of his world!

One afternoon, when the father arrived at the dock, his wife and daughter were not there. He struck out on the sandy road heading home, thoughts racing and wondering as to why his family had not been there to greet him. This was quite unusual, and he was worried. When the cabin into view, he noticed how very quiet it was. He broke into a run and nearly tore the door off the hinges going inside. There, he discovered his wife, lying so very still in their bed, face flushed, and barely alive. She had the fever. His precious daughter was sitting beside her mother, dutifully wiping her mothers brow with a cool, moist piece of cloth. “Oh, father, mama has been so ill! I tried to help her, but I didn’t know what to do and I’m scared father!” cried the little girl. The man took his daughter into his arms and told her she had done just fine for a little girl of only five years. He then sent her outside to get some fersh water from the well.

Throughout the night, the father stood watch over his wife. The nearest doctor would be days away as there was no physician on their island. He bathed her in the cool water, he tried to get her to drink. Nothing he done could save her. The fever had claimed another soul. They lay her body to rest on a small patch of ground under a live oak tree in the church cemetery. Both father and daughter were grief stricken. But, as were the times, life had to go on.

One of the ladies in their little community offered to take care of his daughter while he was on his trips for the plantation owner. She would care of her until he could find another wife, which was customary in those days. The father didn’t want another, as he had loved his wife with all his heart. He also knew that he needed to provide a mother for his daughter, and that he could not continue to take advantage of the nice lady who had offered to care for her. He decided that when the proper mourning time had passed, he would indeed look for a new wife in earnest.

He found her on one of his journeys. She was the daughter of a wealthy client he had worked with in the past. She had never married, and was considered by many to be a spinster. She was quiet, not much to look at, but seemed to have a gentle way. He spent as much time as he could with her, telling her about his little cabin on the island and about his beautiful daughter before asking her to be his bride. She, seeing things through his eyes, agreed.

When they arrived on the island, his daughter was waiting with a pretty bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers for her new mother. The father had a wagon waiting to carry his new bride and all her things to her new home. She greeted her new step-daughter, and carefully took the flowers so as not to soil her gloves. The messy things would leave green stains or dirt on them. She quickly threw them in the back of the wagon. The father, who was excited, didn’t notice this gesture, but the poor little girl did. She knew at that moment that this woman would never be a mother to her.

The new bride was miserable from the very first day. She couldn’t imagine what had made her decide to move to this God forsaken place, or why she had agreed to be a wife and mother. Oh, well, this was her lot in life, she had chosen it, and she would make do the best she could. She quickly learned didn’t like being a wife when her new husband had exercised his husbandly rights, and she hated the little girl that seemed to always be needing something or was in her way. She had servants back home. Here, she had to do everything herself, the cooking, the washing, the mending, the cleaning, the tending to the garden. Oh how she hated her new life. But she never showed this to her new husband.

She learned to look forward to her husbands trips, especially since they were for longer and longer time periods. Sometimes, he was gone a whole month! She dreaded the days he returned. She had already figured out a way to keep that brat of his in line – she kept her locked in the small outside shed most of the time, only allowing her out for small meals and trips to the outhouse. She told her that if she ever told her father, it would upset her father terribly and she’d really be sorry. The little girl loved her father and would never upset him, so she kept quiet about her horrible new life. Her step-mother always made sure to cover her behavior in such a way that the father never suspected a thing. The little girl learned to put a smile on her face so as not to give away the horrid secrets that was her life.

She hated most the absolute darkness. She imagined all the bugs and spiders that must be in the shed. She missed the sunshine, the smell of the woods and the wildflowers, and the sand between her toes. She missed watching the clouds form shapes in the sky and feeling the drops of cool rain on her skin in the heat of a summer afternoon. Day in, day out, every season, the poor girl was stuck in the dark, damp shed. Maybe once a week, if it was sunny, her step-mother would sometimes allow her out of the shed and make her sit in a chair in the sunshine so her pale skin wouldn’t betray her time in the darkness. She wasn’t allowed to move or play, but at least she was out in the sunshine, even if only for a short time.

For several years, this awful behavior continued. The step-mother seemed to become more bitter and evil as time passed, now often beating the girl for some accused wrong before putting her in the shed. She was slowly losing her grip on her sanity, but didn’t realize it. She had allowed her bitterness to consume her. She became more careless, more slovenly in her ways and allowed her appearance to slip, often remaining in her night clothes for days. Yet when her husband was home, all appearances changed. She would keep the girl out of the shed, working herself and the girl in a frenzy to clean up the accumulated mess. When he arrived home, she would always portray the loving wife and mother, never allowing him to see her true ways. He simply never knew.

One spring afternoon, he arrived home a few days early. He had bought new dresses for his wife and daughter, along with a few other special treats to celebrate a new promotion. To keep everything as a surprise, he didn’t notify anyone that he would be home early. He happily took off on his way home, carrying his packages with a bounce in his step and joy in his heart. He was so thankful for his blessings, for his beautiful daughter and his loving wife. He was happy to be home, especially when he had such wonderful news to share. He had no idea as to what awaited him.

He walked up the eerily quiet cabin, fearfully remembering the time he had came home to his first wife. He ran up, opened the door and was appalled at what he found. The inside of the cabin was in shambles. He saw his wife in her night clothes sitting in her chair. She jumped like she had been shot when he burst through the door. He looked around an didn’t see his daughter. Fear gripped him. He ran over to his wife, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her while he yelled “Where is she? What have you done?” “But, but, you’re not supposed to be here! You’re simply not supposed to be here!” is all she could say. He dropped her and ran through the house, fearfully searching and calling but not finding her. He ran outside and began to call her. He finally heard her weak cries coming from the shed.

He ran to the shed, ripped open the door and grabbed his frightened little girl and sat down sobbing. “Oh, father”, she cried, “I’m so sorry! I tried to be good, I really did. I’m sorry I am so dirty and that I smell so bad, but she didn’t let me out like she usually does. I think she forgot about me this time. I didn’t mean to upset you father! Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” And so they sat for more than an hour, comforting each other and him learning of the terrible, dark filled life his precious daughter had been living for the past 6 years. Never had a man felt so low. And never had a daughter felt such joy. It was now over.

The father managed to keep his temper in check while he gathered the horrible woman’s things and put them onto the wagon. He put her on the first ship headed up the coast and gave instructions for her to be delivered to her family, along with a letter explaining why she was there. She had fully lost her mind, and all she would do is repeat “But you’re not supposed to be here, just not supposed to be here.…” She boarded the ship and they never saw her again, nor did they ever want to.

The first thing the father did was take down all the curtains in the house. He swore to his daughter that she would never have to be in the dark again. He tore down the awful shed that had been her prison for so long. He went into town and bought every candle that was available, along with a new oil lamp and enough oil for a year. Their life took on new meaning. The took pleasure in the simple things that had missed for so long. The father’s promotion allowed him to remain at home now, never having to sail out again. The daughter took over the running of the house, the father enjoyed his time at home.

As the years past, the little girl grew into a beautiful young lady. She was now of the age to begin having suitors. Many young men came to visit their humble home to see her, as she was said to be the fairest of all the young women on the whole coast and would make quite a catch for some young man. But alas, their past problems would come back to haunt them. When a young man seemed to be getting a bit serious, the father would have a talk with him and explain that who ever chose to marry his daughter would have to solemnly promise to burn a candle or a lamp by her bed every night, as she had a terrible fear of the dark. Well, no young man was ready for the expense of such a promise, as candles and oil were expensive and sometimes difficult to obtain. One by one, the suitors would quit visiting.

One evening, a young man that she had met at her father’s work place came calling. They chatted, ate supper, and talked about the current events up and down the coast. They included the father in their conversations, and seemed to enjoy each others company. Months went by, and the father knew it was time for him to talk to the young man. Sadly, he explained the promise, just as he had so many time before, knowing that the outcome would probably break his daughters heart once again. But he was surprised. The young man, instead of fleeing like the other past, replied that if he could have the lovely daughters hand in marriage, then he would gladly burn a thousand candles! The father was overjoyed and gave the young couple his blessing. They were married in the fall.

They moved to a small house just down the road from her father. With him being alone and getting older, she didn’t want to be too far away. Her husband was as good as his word, and kept his promise to her father. Every evening, he would place a candle by her bed, and when he kissed her goodnight, he lit the candle. In the mornings, he would gather the melted wax into a small bowl to reuse. And as always, time passed.

The now old father passed away quietly one winter night in his sleep. He was laid to rest by his young wife from so many years before. The young couple also grew older, seeing their own children grow up and move away to the cities. Life was changing on the island, and there simply wasn’t anything to hold their children there. They took care of each other in their old age, each one doing what the other could not. But the husband still burned a candle by her bed every night. Not one single night had she ever had to be in the dark, just like he had promised.

When she passed away, she was laid to rest near her parents. The old man missed her terribly. He kept his promise though. Every evening, regardless of the weather, he walked down to the cemetery where she now lay. He had built a little shelter of sorts for a candle by the head of her grave. No wind or rain would be able to put it out in the middle of the night. He took her a fresh candle and lit it every evening, often staying long enough to tell her some news of the day, or read a letter he had received from one of the children or grandchildren. He would then walk back to their little home, sometimes waving, smiling or saying hello to a passing neighbor.

Over the years, the island had grown, and most people knew about the crazy old man and his candle, but few remained that were old enough to know the real story or the reason the old man made the walk every evening at dusk. When it was finally discovered that he had died in his sleep, many people couldn’t believe it. The new undertaker said he had been dead at least a week when he was found, but many people said he couldn’t have been, as they had seen him walking towards the graveyard or had seen the candle burning by his wife’s grave. People really began to talk when the candlelight was seen weeks and months after he had been buried beside his dear wife. Many began avoiding the road in the evenings for fear of seeing the mans ghost out for his evening walk.

Over the years, people came and went, the plantations ceased to exist. The island simply changed with the times. More and more people were buried in the same cemetery and any memory of the old couple faded away. In more modern times, pavement replaced the once sandy little roads, large homes replaced the cabins, and automobiles replaced the old buggies and wagons. Now, no one remembers their names, nor exactly where they are buried, but even now, almost three hundred years later, if you walk by the cemetery at night, in between the shadows of the headstones, live oaks, magnolias and the azaleas, if you look closely, you can see a candle glowing in the darkness. Just a soft shimmer that tells the tale of a little girl that will never have to be afraid of the dark, a tale of true love, a promise made, and one single, glowing everlasting candle.

© Dorothy Taylor

The Best of Friends

2009-09-14T11:06:00.003-04:00

Lizzie was so excited about moving to the new house. Mama said that daddy would be home more because he would be closer to work, she would be able to walk to school instead of taking a long bus ride, and the new house had a real yard to play in! The apartment they had been living in was so cramped, always noisy, and no place to play except the hallway or the sidewalk outside. Yea, Lizzie was sure she was going to like the new house!

They had been in the new house about 6 weeks and Lizzie was thrilled! She finally had her very own bedroom. It had 4 big windows with pretty white lace curtains. Daddy had made her some bookshelves and a new toy chest and mama had painted the walls a light pink. It was the prettiest room she had ever seen. Since starting school, Lizzie had even made a new best friend. Ashley was so pretty! She had long blonde curly hair, sparkly blue eyes, and always seemed to be running and laughing.

Ashley showed Lizzie around their neighborhood, the local park and even showed her a secret clubhouse that she had found made with old plywood. It was in the woods that divided their neighborhood from the freeway. Lizzie really liked the park, but she didn’t want to tell Ashley that the clubhouse was a bit creepy. It always felt so damp and cool there, and seemed a lot darker than the rest of their neighborhood, even on bright sunny days. But, since Ashley was her best friend, she’d go to the clubhouse anyway, where they would spend the afternoon just telling stories about past friends or things they had seen or done.

Oddly, even though they played together every day, they never went to each others house to play. They always played outside. Lizzie used to have a friend back in the city that was like that, but she knew it was because Tammy’s daddy was always drinking and Tammy was too ashamed. Lizzie figured it must be something like that with Ashley, so she never asked her about it. She’d just meet Ashley at the park every afternoon after school.

One afternoon when they were at the clubhouse, Ashley asked her if she could show her something, but that she’d have to promise not to get scared. Lizzie couldn’t think of anything that would really scare her, unless it was a snake or something really gross, so she promised. Ashley walked over to a pile of old wood and lifted up a piece of plywood. There, laying right on the dirt and covered with a raggedy old blanket, was a little girls shoe and sock stuck on the end of a bone! Lizzie was terrified, screamed and fell backwards. Lizzie just looked at Ashley and asked her why she would show her such a thing. Ashley told her it was because she was her best friend and she thought she should know. Best friends weren’t supposed to have secrets! Lizzie told her that she didn’t want to ever come back to the clubhouse. It was a creepy place before, and now it was just plain scary. Ashley yelled at her, “Well it may be creepy, but you don’t know what scary really is!” They left the woods quietly, not really talking. Lizzie did tell her that she’d meet her at the park the next afternoon. Ashley just nodded, then they parted and went their separate ways.

The next afternoon, Lizzie waited and waited at the park, but Ashley never showed up. She finally went home just before dark. Her mother asked her why she was so down, and Lizzie told her mother that Ashley never showed up at the park. Oh, Lizzie, maybe she’s sick today.” her mother offered. Lizzie admitted that she hadn’t seen her at school, or that afternoon walking home, but she wondered if it was because of what happened at the clubhouse yesterday. Ashley did seem a bit different when they parted, and Lizzie wondered if maybe Ashley was mad at her for acting like such a baby. Lizzie asked her mom if she could take a couple of the fresh baked cookies down to Ashley’s house to see if they would make her feel better. Her mother told her it that sounded like a fine idea. She also said it was about time to meet Ashley’s parents and that since it was dark, she’d walk with her. They wrapped up 4 cookies in pretty plastic wrap and headed out the door. Lizzie showed her mom which house Ashley lived in, and they stepped up onto the porch and rang the doorbell.

A woman came to the door and asked them “What can I do for you?” Lizzie stepped forward and said “My name is Lizzie and I’m Ashley’s best friend and Ashley didn’t meet me at the park today and I thought maybe she was sick so I brought her some cookies. Well, me and mama did anyway.” The woman at the door went suddenly pale and seemed to lean on the door, obviously very shaken. Lizzie’s mom asked her if she was alright? The woman told them to please come in. She offered them a seat on the couch and told them she would be right back.

Lizzie and her mom sat down, and Lizzie got scared. She imagined that something bad had happened or that Ashley was really, really sick and that maybe Ashley was in the hospital or something. Then Ashley’s parents both walked into the living room, introduced themselves and sat down. Ashley’s dad then asked Lizzie when had she seen Ashley last. Lizzie told them it was yesterday afternoon. She told them that she and Ashley were best friends, that they had been ever since she moved to the neighborhood and that they played together every afternoon. Today was the first time Ashley had not shown up and that she was worried that Ashley was sick. Lizzie’s mom was getting quite uncomfortable and asked them “Why the questions? What is going on? Is Ashley missing or something?”

“Yes”, they answered, “Ashley is missing. She has been for 6 years now.” Suddenly, Lizzie knew where Ashley was. She knew why Ashley had shown her what was under the big pile of wood. She knew why Ashley wanted to go there all the time. She had been best friends with a ghost! She knew! SHE KNEW! Lizzie passed out cold.

Double Trouble

2008-11-21T08:27:00.004-05:00

I am a hunter. I enjoy the outdoors, so I am careful to preserve and protect the environment that offers me so much pleasure. I am equally careful to watch my behavior and safety so as not to give the anti-gun people a reason to take away my hunting privileges, or give them ammunition they could use against my 2^nd Amendment rights as well. I have been a hunter since early childhood, going with my father before I was even big enough to carry a firearm. As a gift, I received my first firearm at the age of 9, a sweet little used Steven .410 single shot that I have to this day. I have killed many rabbits and squirrels as a child with this little gem. After growing up, I have been fortunate enough to increase my firearm ownership, growing familiar with each and every one to the point they feel like an extension of my hands. So what could be the trouble I am speaking of? Well, first off, I am female.

Throughout my growing up, I was often a mis-fit. I didn’t fit in with the girls because I’d rather be in the woods than playing with Barbie dolls. I didn’t fit in with the boys just because I was a girl. I couldn’t relate to either of them. As a teen, I didn’t dress all frilly, or spend hours on my make-up and hair just to impress the boys. The teen boys either avoided me or treated me like one of the guys. Regardless of my age, I did however, fit in with daddy just fine.

When I was born, daddy of course wanted a boy. But according to mama, it didn’t take long for him to have me wrapped around his little finger, and him around mine. He started teaching me early and taking me with him on hunts by the age of 5 or so. I really enjoyed these times, as he was in the military and would often be gone for months at a time. Even though we were never allowed to go over seas with him, being a military brat did give me the opportunity to hunt in many environments, different terrains, and to hunt a wide variety of game. I hunted my first bear at age 12 in northern California, as well as wild hogs in the Georgia swamps, ducks in Texas, rabbit in Ohio, and the usual white tails in these same states. Throw in a nice mule deer in Colorado a few years ago, a few birds such as dove and pheasant, add some squirrel and that about covers it. Luckily, my father took the time to teach me. I was very fortunate to have a father that didn't mind that I was a girl.

According to an article (written by Kevin Helliker of the New York Times) on October 5, 2008 in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, “… the overall number of U.S. hunters declined to 12.5 million from 14.1 million in the 15 years ending in 2006, the number of women hunters rose to 1.2 million from 1.1 million, according to a survey conducted every five years by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.” It is obvious that the number of female hunters continues to increase. Just about all the firearm manufactures now produce weapons with shorter stocks and barrels suited for the smaller frame of most women. Makers of archery equipment are making bows with lighter and shorter pulls. There are now several clothing makers for the outdoors woman. That’s right, full camo gear, boots, hats, the whole nines. And none of it is pink! So if big business has realized this increase, and manufacturers are targeting the female dollar, why do I still get looked at and treated like I am less of a woman because I hunt? Am I less feminine in some way? I can put on pantyhose, a sexy dress, a push-up bra, throw on high heels and compete with the best of’em, but I can also field dress a deer while doing it! Less of a woman? I don’t think so. A more talented woman? Of course.

Oddly, outdoor sports such as hunting are still considered a man’s domain in many places. If a woman does get to go on a hunting trip, she is expected to stay at camp, keep the fire going and coffee on, and do the cooking for their great male hunters. Well, that’s just pure hogwash! And I’m not the only one that feels this way. I am a member of a hunting forum based in Idaho, though there are members from all over the U.S. A female member and I were discussing hurdles we females have to overcome to be considered just worthy of being in the woods. She told me “There have been countless times when I'm out hunting and for instance, when hiking back to camp and have been hiking back on a logging road, a truck of passerbys will go by. I get the double take and heard one truck full say "D**N, That's a d**n woman!" Like DUH! WE DO HUNT TOO! I don't know. It just struck me as ridiculous for a bunch of males to be shocked that a woman would be out there all camoed up, geared up huntin' and hikin' just like they do. Many of them SO underestimate our drive and strength and passion to hunt!” (K.H. in Oregon)

So yes, we have to face a lot being both a woman and being a hunter. That covers trouble number one. Fellows, it’s time to “man up” and accept us for who and what we are – real women with a real love for the outdoors and for hunting.

For trouble number two, being from the south I feel I have to prove all the typical stereotypes wrong. So many people that are not from the south have a very skewed idea of us southerners in general. I know this for a fact because I have lived in all areas of the country. Much of it is based on our celebrities and comedians and the way they portray being southern. Good grief, Larry the Cable guy is a fellow named Daniel Lawrence Whitney that was born in Nebraska! Southern, my foot! In many cases, we are seen as backwards, uneducated, and often ignorant. Someone needs to let the cat out of the bag and tell the rest of the world that we are not like that.

Real southern women are nothing like the Sugarbaker sisters from the sitcom “Designing Women”. That while we may talk similar to them, we really are not as ignorant as the Beverly Hillbillies. We no longer have party line telephones like “Green Acres”. That Hey world! We have indeed moved into the 21^st century. And will someone please let Jeff Foxworthy know that his “You might be Redneck” jokes are getting old. They were cute for a laugh in the beginning, but they have been getting more outrageous and making us southerners look worse and worse as time goes by.

As for being southern hunters, we are often thought of as being indiscriminate, having no regard for legalities or conservation. Nothing more than a bunch of mullet wearin’, mud boggin', beer swillin', monster truckin’, fire huntin', shotgun totin', throw another 'possum in the pot yahoo's shooting whatever comes into our view and yelling Yee Haw! all the way. Yeah, right.

Those of us that have hunted our whole lives often learned from our fathers and grandfathers. There is more at stake here than getting meat for the table. There is the time honored tradition of hunting. The teachings that we have received that are now second nature to us. The memories we have of time spent and first hunts, of our first success in the field, and the pride we have in knowing we are able to provide healthy, fresh meat for our families.

By learning how to be a be a more conscientious hunter, and by teaching my children and one day, my grandchildren, to be the same way, I hope the rest of the nation will begin to see that we are not what they think we are. The sad part is there will always be a few idiots who get the media’s attention, which of course makes the rest of us look bad. So, if you have any pride at all and value your hunting traditions, when you see idiotic and/or unsafe behavior, do the right thing - call the Law Enforcement division of the DNR and turn the idiots in.

So my fellow hunters, when you see me coming, you will know I have fought double trouble for most of my life. Ever since I was born I’ve been both a girl and a true southerner. It’s been a heck’uva fight, and I’ll probably have a few more scuffles along the way. You will know that I won’t be prejudiced against you because you speak differently or assume that because you are from “up north” you’re automatically rude. I won’t down you just because you’re a man. I happen to like men – I’m married to one that I wouldn’t trade for all the gold in… wherever all the gold is kept.. Just do me one favor – when you see me coming, try to look at the real me. It’s one step at a time ya’ll, one step at a time!

Gone Fishin'

2008-11-20T10:30:00.002-05:00

My husband, our dog and I left on a Thursday afternoon in late July and went to the Altamaha River. We took our little john boat, food for a few days, some simple camping equipment, and headed to the Altamaha Park. We put the boat in, loaded it down with our things and headed out to find ourselves a piece of “prime” sand bar real estate. He is not from here, so I’m quite a bit more familiar with the area than he is.

Most people in this area that camp know that the best sand bar camping areas are often hard to get since so many people desire them. These are the places where almost everyone who has ever camped there has made some kind of improvement – someone built a table, someone put up a clothesline, someone gathered firewood and left it stacked for the next campers. Sure, there are a few people who do nothing but destroy, tear up and litter, but in general, those of us that camp this way always try to leave the area at least a bit better than when we found it.

When we got to the sand bar, we unloaded our supplies and readied ourselves for a nice weekend. I pitched the tent under a shady tree while he did most of the unloading; he got our fishing poles ready while I put together the “kitchen” area for our stay. We had purchased some bait at the park store, so the late afternoon was spent fishing a couple spots I hadn’t been to in a while. We got back to camp just before dark, which gave us time for a quick supper and a dip in the river before bed. It was clear that night, so we took the rain shield off the tent and enjoyed the stars and the nighttime breeze.

Early Friday morning, he got up a bit before me, had the fire going and my coffee water waiting. While drinking my coffee, I started working on putting together some limb lines to set that evening in hopes of catching a good sized catfish or two. My wonderful husband even made breakfast while I worked. And, get this - he did the dishes as well! Ladies, take notes here – being in the outdoors can often change a man! The only problem we had is something I should have known better than to do. I had left some of the groceries out in the open and the local raccoons decided they needed to get into our loaf of bread. From then on, I made sure everything was covered and out of their reach.

Off for fishing for most of the day on Friday. We went back to camp for a bit of lunch and a nap, then to the park store for some more bait. A small shower of rain had moved in and out and gave us the most beautiful double rainbow to look at on the way down the river. I managed to catch a couple good sized bluegills that we cleaned and put on ice, and he caught some small brim for baiting our limb lines. Just before dark, we set the limb lines and headed back to camp for the evening. After supper, another quick swim cooled us off and allowed us just to enjoy the sounds around us.

It’s odd how we never seem to notice the little things like how the sounds change from day to night. The sound of the day time song birds change to the sounds of the owls, frogs and crickets. The temperatures cool down a bit and the breeze begins to blow in the evening. Even the river seems to take on a slower pace. When at home, most people have a schedule of sorts that they follow and most everything follows the clock. We have a certain time to get up, to go to work, or to get the kids off to school. There is a certain time to eat, a certain time to watch something on television, a certain time to go to bed. When you’re out camping, you never seem to look at a watch. Time doesn’t matter. When you get hungry, you eat. Even without an alarm clock, when the sun begins to rise, the birds start chirping and the fish start jumping, you automatically wake up. When the sun goes down, you instinctively get sleepy and know it’s time for bed. With no electricity, no phones, internet, or television and suddenly, our bodies very quickly seem to revert back to the natural way of things. And it feels good.

Saturday morning found us checking our limb lines and fishing. No luck on the limb lines, but we weren’t too disappointed. After all, half the fun is in the anticipation. Later that morning, our dog decided she needed to protect me by fiercely growling and barking at 3 small raccoons that had climbed into some trees on the bank where we had tied up and were curiously watching us! After assuring her that they really weren’t going to attack us, she calmed down and again took her place at my feet. She’ll make a river dog yet!

We explored a bit for new places to fish, but eventually wound up right back where I started. Good thing, too, as late that evening I managed to land 3 nice bluegills, one of them a little over 10 inches in length! All the fish were cleaned and put on ice for a little fish dinner back home. We baited the limb lines again just before dark and headed back to camp. We spent the evening enjoying an over-the-fire cooked supper, just talking and enjoying each others company. Sometimes, I think all couples need this sort of thing every now and again. I think it kind of keeps us in touch.

Bright and early Sunday morning, we pulled all of our limb lines down to use next time. We went back to camp and began breaking down, cleaning up and packing up. One final trip back to the park docks, boat loaded, and the few minutes drive to get home. We got home about 10:30 that morning. We got everything unloaded, put away and then jokingly fought over who was going to get a shower first! River sand can get into the darndest places!

What a weekend! It was enjoyable, relaxing, and definitely economical, even with today’s prices. In these economic times, often it’s difficult for the average Joe to spend a vacation, much less a weekend doing something memorable with the family. The price of fuel has skyrocketed, slowing down the usual summer travel vacations to a crawl. People are getting laid off left and right, and those that do have jobs are working as much overtime as they can just to make ends meet. It seems there is less money, less time, fewer choices.

Why not consider the alternatives in your area, like a closer-to-home weekend or a day trip? There are so many things available right in your own area that are often overlooked in favor of a week long trip to the mountains or to the usual theme parks. Enjoy what you have and often take for granted or just don’t see. Just look around you – something for everyone, for every budget and every interest. Create memories. Take the kids camping or fishing. Go to local historical sites. Drive to the next town and browse through the antique or book stores. Go walking on a nature trail. Go for a walk in your own downtown and tell the kids how it’s changed since you were a kid. Be a tourist in your own backyard. Rediscover what has been there all along.

Let's Get Real

2008-11-20T10:00:00.002-05:00

I was chatting with some friends on a hunting forum and the subject of televised hunting shows came up. The person mentioned being tired of the same old – same old type shows that have a couple guys sitting over a feed plot behind a fancy blind and waiting on something to walk their way. They have their camera crew, state of the art equipment, wear the latest in hunting “fashions”, have all the new technical gear, thousand dollar rifles and scopes and seemingly all the comforts of home. I know the kind of shows they were referring to. And I agreed – I’m ready for something a bit more real.

I personally would love to see more shows get real. Shows dedicated to us "poor hunters" - the ones that are true do it yourselfer’s utilizing public land. Shows for those of us that don’t hunt with fancy equipment, who get in the woods with no guides. Where if we spend the night, we might have a tent on a sandbar or under an oak tree, or even just a couple old quilts in the bed of the truck. Most of us really don’t have a fully equipped cabin to run back to when the sun goes down. Many of us use the same firearm we started out with when we were nothing more than kids, or ones passed down to us from our fathers and grandfathers. I want shows where the hunter has to actually use his/her own wits and learned lessons to be successful in filling their tags.

Too many of the current hunting shows are simply dreams that are out of reach for many us hunters. Even if we already have a firearm, when you consider the cost of ammo, license, tags and transportation cost to get to the woods, often, that takes the whole hunting budget for some of us. There is a lot of difference in hunters that hunt as “professionals” or just for the sake of hunting and those of us that hunt out of need to provide food. Necessity hunters have a lot more riding on their success than just a nice trophy and pretty photo's. I remember several seasons that I simply couldn't afford to go hunting - I had a family and the kids needed shoes or school supplies instead. I couldn't take the money from the family budget to buy the license & tags. So, I sat and dreamed of times past and wished luck to those that could go.

I have never hunted from a stand. I have never hunted over a feed plot. I have never been on a guided hunt or been to a hunting camp other than where ever we stopped for the night. I have never been a member of a hunting club, so all of my hunting has been on public land. And I've done an awful lot of walking, stumbling, climbing, sliding, sweating and shivering through the years! I've fought mosquitoes big enough to mate with turkeys, bled gallons from brier scratches, hobbled with sprained ankles, shivered like a vibrating sander, watched all the pretty color changes in countless bruises, itched to insanity from poison ivy/oak/sumac, ate plenty of smushed bologna or pb & j sandwiches, drank creek and river water, and then swelled with pride when I managed to out-do the fellows!

Speaking of such, lets not forget seeing more females! Being female is difficult enough as it is without having to fight against an antiquated good ol’ boy system and prove ourselves over and over, getting looked at like we have a third eye in the middle of our forehead! In today’s world, there is no reason why us woman should have to stay at camp, keep the fire burning and do all the cooking. Most all firearm manufacturers have models suited to most woman’s smaller frames. Now I’m definitely not one of the smaller framed women, but it’s good to know that the availability is there! Where is a woman’s hunting show?

The same thing goes for taking the kids, boys or girls. Most manufacturers have youth models, so there is no excuse not to take them. And, with the ever changing politics, we never know when we will be really fighting to keep our rights. If our kids don’t grow up learning to hunt, learning to respect the land, learning the joys of hunting and experience the pride of being responsible for the meat on the dinner table, how can we expect them to fight for these rights when they are old enough? I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather pass on my old Winchester to one of the grandchildren instead of turning it over to the government! The children are our future. Give us a show with a youth hunt. I want to see the kids beaming with pride! I want to see them learning and enjoying a time old tradition.

Dear television hunting show producer – Show us some more traditional hunting. Quit showing me the same rich guys with the fat endorsement contracts, their fancy rifles and scopes, wearing the latest in hunting fashions while sitting comfortably on their behinds in a fancy blind waiting on that 6 X 6 elk, monster black bear or 10 point whitetail. Better yet, let’s get real – send those rich guys on a hunt with one of us!

Lost Identity

2008-06-23T08:34:00.003-04:00

Somewhere between the wedding vows and the undertaker, women seem to lose their identity. How does this happen? As most of us married women will tell you, we remember being single. We remember being able to go and come as we wished, follow whatever schedule we wanted and we were able to do what we wanted when we wanted to. We had opinions, likes and dislikes, and had friends and hobbies. We had a personality of our own. We were a complete person. We had a name, and it was ours and ours alone. Then we get married.

In many cases, the first thing to go is our name. We take the name of our husband. Jane Smith becomes Jane Jones. Ok, so two become one, I understand this. Now, she is no longer recognized simply as Jane, she is MRS. Jones, or Tom’s wife. She is often treated as if she no longer has opinions or views of her own – it’s just assumed that she feels the same as her husband. She no longer has time for her own things because it interferes with her new wifely duties. Strangely, it doesn’t seem matter if Jane is employed outside the home or not.

Her hobbies are pushed to the back because there simply isn’t time to pursue them. After all, she has to plan the dinner party for her husband’s boss so her husband can win the big promotion. She has to prepare the holiday feast for the whole family since this will be their first one as a married couple. She has to clean the house and do the laundry and pick up the dry cleaning and make the dental appointments and book the flight for her husband’s business meeting. Then right smack in the middle of her already busy life, surprise, surprise, she discovers she is pregnant.

Fast forward about a year. Now, not only is she Tom’s wife, but she is Juniors mom. First at the daycare center and the pediatric office, then later at Junior’s school, she becomes simply Juniors mom. Maybe by this time she is Sally’s mom as well. And let’s not forget she is still Mrs. Jones, Tom’s wife.

Jane is no longer known for her kooky sense of humor, she’s known for the baking the best brownies for the class bake sale. She’s not known for her artistic ability in painting, but for her fantastic avocado & green onion dip at her husbands’ annual company picnic. She isn’t known for her taste in movies or music – she’s known as the band uniform fundraising coordinator and soccer mom. She just isn’t known as the fun loving, intelligent, witty, talented girl she used to be. Where is Jane? Where did she go?

I think too many of us allow ourselves to get lost. We ignore our desires to be who we really are. We deny ourselves the luxury of keeping our identities and no one really knows why. It seems that in today’s world, with all the so-called advances we have made as women in a modern society, we would be able to figure this one out. Have the expectations of society become so ingrained in our nature that it is now genetic? Have we evolved into what society expects us to be?

So how can we keep from losing ourselves? We have to insist and be stubborn about it. We have to remain connected to the outside world. We have to pursue our own interest, keep our own circle of friends. There is nothing wrong with being a wife and mother, but we are women as well. We are individuals with our own opinions, values, desires and dreams. We can not allow ourselves to forget that part.

Remember when you and your friends would meet at the bookstore to discuss the latest romance novel over a cup of coffee? Well, stay connected with these friends and meet at the bookstore every Wednesday evening. Remember how you liked to paint? Buy some cheap canvases, a few brushes, some paints and paint away! Really splurge and go to a spa for a facial or massage. Find some music you used to listen to and turn it up! Dance in your own living room! Spend some time with yourself. If you don’t, who will? Keep yourself active and up to date on current events. Volunteer for a cause that interest you. Offer to speak to a group of young people on a topic that you enjoy. Join a garden club. Go for a drive with the top down and let your hair blow in the wind. Go for a walk in the rain. The point is to keep yourself interesting.

There is nothing wrong with being Tom’s wife or Juniors mother. You just have to be yourself as well. If Tom married you because he found you interesting and a pleasure to be with, don’t you think he deserves to have the woman he married? I really don’t think the Toms of the world want an automaton partner with no personality. They have blow-up dolls for guys like that.

Junior may be a bit harder to convince – after all, you’ve always been just mom to him. He needs to know that you are a person, not just a figure in the household. How else is he to learn that you have feelings? Once he knows that you are indeed a person in your own right, you’ll be surprised how the relationship will change. Suddenly, Junior will be coming to you for advice, asking your opinion, and realizing that, hey, that mom lady really has a sense of humor!

It just takes a bit of practice and lots of discipline. We have to really want to hold onto ourselves. If you are truly happy being no more than the window dressing and the cook for your husband, or the housekeeper and transportation to your kids, then by all means, just forget everything you’ve just read. If, on the other hand, you really miss the woman you used to be, get off your behind and go looking for her. She’s still there you know.

Monsters In Our Midst

2008-04-15T21:20:00.004-04:00

This article was first published in Going South Sportsman magazine in March 2008. Thanks to Roger for letting me get this off my chest. Since this was written, Gary Micheal Hilton has been indicted for the murder of Cheryl Dunlap, and is fighting extradition to Florida. It has not yet been decided whether the John & Irene Bryant case will be prosecuted by the state of North Carolina or whether it will be federally prosecuted.

Monsters In Our Midst

I know this is not the usual type of article that Going South usually prints, but I think this kind of affects us all. I also know this is a difficult topic -it’s the kind of stuff nightmares are made of. We are all outdoorsmen, and there are real life monsters in our midst.

The day is January 1, 2008. It’s a brand-new year. The weather is nice, but cool. It’s a perfect day to go hiking in the mountains of North Georgia, a perfect way for Meredith Hope Emerson and her beloved dog, Ella, to start the New Year. She leaves her home in Gwinnett County, Georgia and heads to Vogel State park in Union County, Georgia. She is never seen by her family or friends again. A “person of interest” was soon listed.

The person of interest was found January 4 and arrested on an unrelated charge in Dekalb County, Georgia. On January 7, her body was found in a wooded area in Dawson Forest in Dawson County, Georgia, which is about 50 miles from where she was last seen. The “person of interest” led law enforcement to her body in exchange for them not seeking the death penalty against him. According to the released information from the autopsy a few days later, she was alive approximately three days after being kidnapped and had died on January 4 from blunt force trauma to the head, with decapitation following her death.

The monster that is currently in jail for this horrible crime, is a 61 year old monster named Gary Michael Hilton. He had apparently been a drifter for quite some time. I won’t go into all the timeline details of this case, as that information can easily be found by anyone with access to a computer. Believe me, just Google the names involved and there are hundreds of sites, from newspaper articles, television news programs and open public forums full of everything from speculation and rumors, to actual good information.

Hilton has been seen by many visitors along both the hiking trails and in the wilderness areas that he and his dog, Dandy, frequented. On October 26, 2007, he had been given a warning ticket by a deputy in Cherokee County, Georgia for trespassing/camping on private land. The deputy ran his usual checks, found nothing, and released him. On November 17, a U.S. Forestry agent in the Apalachicola National Forest ran his tags. Another Forestry agent in the Osceola National Forest ran them on December 28. Hilton was obviously quite the traveler. Many of the people who had seen Hilton at various locations described him as “creepy”.

On January 31, Hilton pleaded guilty to the brutal murder of Meredith Emerson. He was immediately sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole in 30 years. In 2038, Hilton would be 91 years old. The medical problems Hilton supposedly has, along with his age, pretty much means he’ll never again walk our streets. But, it also means we, the taxpayers, will be paying for any of his medical needs, his food, clothing, shelter and protection, for as long as this monster lives.

After much investigation, it seems this monster is connected to and will be possibly charged in at least a few other murders as well. Law enforcement agencies in four states have tracked his travels since October 2007, and have him linked to the murders of at least four hikers from North Carolina, Florida and Georgia. Yet even more agencies are looking to see if there are more connections that can be made in other unsolved murder cases, some going back many years. The most publicized connected cases at this time are John and Irene Bryant in North Carolina and Cheryl Hodges Dunlap in Florida.

A retired, but very active couple, John (80) and Irene (84) Bryant, a North Carolina couple, were last seen alive on October 20 in the Pisgah National Forest located in western North Carolina. Mrs. Bryant’s body was found 3 weeks later about 50 paces from where their vehicle had been parked. She died from blunt force trauma to the head and her body was covered with leaves. The remains of her husband, John, were found on February 2, 2008 by a hunter in the Nantahala National Forest. Sheriff Mahoney from Transylvania County, NC stated on (or about) January 17 at an afternoon news conference that “This investigation has resulted in the investigative team being able to establish a positive link between Gary Michael Hilton and Transylvania County and, more specifically, to the case involving John and Irene Bryant.” They are now trying to resolve whether the state or the federal government will prosecute Hilton.

Cheryl Hodges Dunlap (46) of Crawfordville, Florida went missing on December 1. Her body was found by hunters on December 15 in the Apalachicola National Forest. Even though the law enforcement officials in this case have not officially released definite details, speculation is that Ms. Dunlap was also decapitated; possibly even her hands had been removed.

As I stated above, the body of Ms. Emerson was found due to the “deal” made with Gary Hilton – You take us to her body and we won’t seek the death penalty. I am sure that her family wanted to find her body, to have her body available to them for proper burial and perhaps a slight amount of closure. My question is, at what cost should a deal be made? Emotions can often make someone say or do things they normally would not in normal circumstances. Don’t you think the law enforcement involved should have considered this fact, rather than jumping so very quickly to cut a deal with such a monster?

What about the recent “deals” made for the person(s) responsible for the Christopher Barrios murder? This poor six year old little boy was abducted, raped, murdered,by strangulation, put into a trash bag then dumped into a small wooded area not too far from where he (and the killers) lived. Donald Dale – “Guilty but mentally retarded” and a few years in a mental institution and that’s it? Peggy Edenfield – No death penalty in exchange for her testimony against her husband, her son, and Donald Dale? You’ve got to be kidding me! Just how many more “deals” will be made for any of the monsters currently in the news before we say enough is enough?

How many “deals” have been made by law enforcement personnel that have allowed monsters such as Gary Hilton to be possibly released back into society or be given ridiculously reduced sentences? How many monsters get away with horrible crimes because some idiot feels sorry for them because they have a low IQ? How many of these monsters will we, the tax payer, have to feed, clothe, provide medical care, and house for the rest of their lives? How many monsters have to be treated with kid gloves, guarded by the authorities “for their own protection”? Who the hell was “protecting” their victims? We’ve simply got to make some changes people.

As for protecting yourself from these predators, most anyone with common sense knows they need to be aware of their surroundings. Many of us may even have what is known as a “Concealed Weapons Permit”. Now here’s what is funny – did you know that even if you have a permit, you ARE NOT allowed to carry on either State Park or National Park lands? It’s true, just look it up. If you have access to a computer, go to www.GeorgiaPacking.org. This site kind of takes the “legalese” of the laws and makes them easier for us regular folks to understand. Unless the new bills currently proposed pass, (www.georgiapacking.org/bills.php ) , according to Georgia Code 12-3-10, it is unlawful for any person to use or posses in any park, historic site or recreational area any firearms, bows and arrows, spring guns, air rifles, slingshots, or any other device which discharges projectiles by any means, unless the device is unloaded and stored so as to be not readily accessible or unless such use has been approved within restricted areas by prior written permission of the commissioner of natural resources or his authorized representative. According to National Parks Federal Regulation 35 CFR 2.4, it is unlawful to carry a firearm in a National Park unless it is unloaded and secured.

That’s right; you can’t even carry a slingshot! What this means is that if you are one of the many people who happen to enjoy just being in the great outdoors, or you enjoy hiking or walking on our state or nationally owned nature trails, you’re on your own, buddy. The State of Georgia does NOT provide guaranteed protection for you or your family if you are in a remote area on any of the many trails that are in our state. Yet, the state prevents us from protecting ourselves. The State of Georgia will provide law enforcement to search for our murdered bodies, they will pay the GBI to investigate our murder, they will pay the prosecutors to convict the criminal (providing they are even caught), but they won’t allow us to protect ourselves. This law needs to change. It needs to change NOW!

Now I realize there are many people who are totally against the death penalty. Some of the reasons might even make a little bit of sense to me. Even though I have weighed the pro’s and con’s myself, I still think the death penalty is the only way justice can or will ever be served when it comes to monsters such as these. There is a part of the brain that makes us human. Somehow, that part of their brain is missing or defective. If you have a dog that goes mad or is especially vicious, the dog is put down, either by a veterinarian or by someone simply taking the dog out and shooting him. Either way, the mad/vicious dog is just as dead. It will never again be a menace, it will never again cause harm to another. I feel the same way about the vicious beings that are lurking out in public or sitting in prisons across the nation. Get rid of the problem, make it permanent, and do it as quickly as possible. No more twenty or thirty years worth of appeals sitting on death row while we, the taxpayers, are paying for their upkeep. According to my research, the average cost for housing an inmate in a maximum security prison is between $25,000 & $28,000 per inmate, per year.

We, the people, simply have to start the needed changes. We need to bombard our law making officials with letters, phone calls, and anything else it takes to make them understand our needs, our wants and our beliefs. We need to let them know that we are tired of the way things are, tired of paying taxes that support the things we don’t believe in or want. We are tired of not being allowed to protect ourselves. We are tired of the justice system that allows pure evil to continue. Case in point is a quote from a friend of mine that lives in Blairsville. She told me to quote this:

“Just how many chances should a murderer get? With all of the advances in DNA and evidence technology, there are no more issues of wrong identity. Why do murderers get 7 appeals? Why should they get to choose how humane it is when given the death penalty? Why should a low IQ factor be figured in when a criminal commits murder? We are all taught right from wrong as little children. If they run, then they know it was wrong. When people choose not to live by the same rules and laws as the rest of us do, then they need to be punished, severely. If they commit murder then they are broken and cannot be fixed.”

The fact is the general public is tired of the way our justice system is working. They are tired of seeing more and more violent crimes being punished with the equivalent of a slap on the wrist and seeing these monsters released back into society.

Let’s take a quick look at some government crime statistics. This info can be found at
www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/
• Fifty-three percent of jail inmates were on probation, parole or pretrial release at the time of arrest.
• Four in 10 jail inmates had a current or past sentence for a violent offense.
• Of the 272,111 persons released from prisons in 15 States in 1994, an estimated 67.5% were rearrested for a felony or serious misdemeanor within 3 years
• State courts sentenced 28% of convicted felons to straight probation with no jail or prison time to serve.
Of the defendants who had State felony charges filed against them in the Nation's 75 most populous counties during May 2002 --
• An estimated 62% were released by the court prior to the disposition of their case. Thirty-eight percent were detained until case disposition, including 6% who were denied bail.
• Of the 22% of released defendants who had a bench warrant issued for their arrest because they did not appear in court as scheduled, about a fourth, representing 6% of all released defendants, were still fugitives after 1 year.
These numbers tell a chilling tale. It really lets us know just how messed up things have become. They also let us know what things we need to change. If you have a computer, take the time to visit www.georgia.gov . Here you can find the listings, the phone numbers and the addresses of your elected officials, both State and Federal. You can also find this information at your local library. Take a few minutes to write a letter or make a phone call. It’s going to be up to us to see that changes are made and the cost of a stamp or the time for a phone call seems well worth it to me.

The Silver Lining
Sometimes, there can be a “silver lining” in even the most horrid and terrifying of stories. The story of Meredith Emerson is no exception. Meredith was a student at the University of Georgia between 2001 and 2005. The University of Georgia has established a fund in her honor. When the fund is fully endowed, The Meredith Hope Emerson Memorial Fund for Study Abroad will go to one student each year for study abroad in French speaking countries. Friends, family and UGA professors have stated it will be a fitting remembrance to Meredith as she was an outstanding student of the French Language, Literature, and Culture.

The Atlanta based duo, Indigo Girls, will donate the proceeds from the eBay auction of autographed, hand written lyrics to one of their hits - “Power of Two”. The proceeds of the auction will be donated to Paws Atlanta in memory of Meredith and her dog Ella.

On January 8, Winton Porter, owner of Mountain Crossings, received a phone call from Candis Jones, a customer that had been touched deeply by the events of the past week. She pitched the idea of a memorial walk and a Cherokee Smudging Ceremony. Winton like the idea and agreed to post the information on the Mountain Crossings Website. Candis emailed a couple of news stations and the walk was mentioned at Meredith’s Memorial Service in Athens on Friday. Margie, Winton’s wife posted the upcoming event on local forums. At first, Winton thought there may be 50 or so people to show up, but with the publicity, he quickly realized it was going to be bigger – much bigger. He said “The little snowball….was getting big.” The event was moved to Meeks Park. On January 20th, despite the frigid 12 degree temperatures, over 300 people turned out in Meeks Park in Union County for the Meredith Emerson Memorial Walk.

Coffee, hot chocolate, donuts and camaraderie were available to all. There were several speakers and the Cherokee “smudging” ceremony was performed. The Humane Society’s Mountain Shelter in Union County, Georgia not only provided neckerchiefs that said “Remember M. E.” for all the dogs in attendance, but also offered free microchip implants to all dogs at the event. The microchips allow the animals to be tracked if lost.

Winton told me “I was walking with a woman who drove 200 miles to participate in the event on that cold 12 degree day… she described the mood perfectly…A walk of frozen tears. I spoke with one reporter… who said that he has covered many murders over his 35 year career and he has never seen one have such an effect on him and his colleague as this incident with Meredith. His message echoed from many of the people I spoke to throughout the week. What, I heard through those conversations was that people needed this ceremony... it offered some closure and a path for healing. ”
Winton also told me “We have had over twice as many people in January on the trail hiking then what is normal. They are coming together mostly, some in single, many who simply feel it is necessary to reclaim.”
His personal feelings – “It is unfortunate that we cannot put up a magic curtain against evil. This man was a human predator, of the worst kind. I lie awake thinking about it, a fall asleep… I dream about it … what could I have done differently. In one instant we all have the ability to change an outcome.”
You can read more from Winton Porter, including the elegy, (the use of “elegy” vs. “eulogy” will be explained on the website) at http://mountaincrossings.zenfolio.com/p207145984/

This article has been difficult to write. Not only with the research involved, but having to scan through and read the horrible details of these and other cases. It will make anyone with a heart feel sadness and makes you hug your loved ones a little closer. It will make you angry to know that the very places we consider safe are not so. I hope this article has opened a few eyes. I hope it will start the process of changes needed in our judicial system. I also hope it makes it hard for us to ever forget the people who have died needlessly at the hands of monsters. The monsters in our midst.

The Little Hunter

2008-02-23T10:00:00.004-05:00

It was about an hour or so before dawn. Mama and Daddy had already had their coffee; mama had packed the lunches she knew would be gone shortly after sunrise. Today it was fried potato sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise. Daddy had both the shotguns in their cases sitting by the front door waiting to be loaded into the trunk, along with their game pouch vest and ammunition. Everything was ready except getting the little hunter out of bed and ready to go, and daddy knew that wouldn’t take long.

The little hunter had recently passed the required hunter’s safety course and was anxious to be able to use their newly acquired knowledge. Well, not new knowledge exactly. The child had been going hunting with daddy almost since they could walk and daddy had taught them well, but this time they had a card. A real official card they had earned and could carry that told anyone who saw it that they were good enough to be in the woods hunting with daddy. They no longer had to feel like they were just a kid that was tagging along.

Daddy popped his head into the child’s bedroom and said “Alright, hot rod, it’s time to go.” The little hunter didn’t have to be called twice. Right up out of bed and into the clothes they had laid out so carefully the night before. The little hunter started with the small thermal shirt, then the flannel one, thick socks, thermal long-johns, then jeans and the all weather, almost knee high boots. The little hunter grabbed the bright orange vest and a knit cap before going to the kitchen table.
Mama had a cup of homemade hot chocolate and a fresh pear preserve tart ready for the little hunter. Both were hot, but it didn’t slow them down. They were anxious to be going, anxious to be in the woods, and anxious to maybe be able to bring home some game for supper. Daddy said it was to be rabbit hunting today.

With everything loaded into the trunk they were off. They were going to a huge field area down by the lake. They often hunted here, sometimes for rabbit, sometimes quail, or ducks down a bit closer to the lake. It was a familiar area, easy to get to, and never crowded. Most other hunters passed up the small game for the larger animals like deer. This field was just about perfect.

They arrived just as dawn was breaking. Daddy had taught the little hunter how to whistle recently. Not just the carry-a-tune kind of whistle, but the really loud kind of whistle. The child had practiced and practiced all week until mama said enough was enough. Daddy said it would be good to use in case they ever got separated in the woods, so it had to be pretty important. The child showed daddy how good they had become. Daddy said he was proud, but that they needed to keep it a bit quieter for now.

Off they went, the little hunter following daddy, and then finally moving a bit faster to keep up side by side with daddy. The little hunter would, over the years to come, learn to walk in step with daddy. He wasn’t a big man by any means, but he had a long stride and a quick step. As the child grew up, their step became one with daddies. The two of them walking together in the woods would sound like one, step for step.

Sometimes daddy would stop and just listen. He had taught the little hunter all the little sounds of the woods and fields. He taught them how to watch the top of the grasses for movement that wasn’t the wind. He taught them how to look for the rabbits under the edges of the brush. The little hunter soaked up everything daddy said like a little sponge. Years into the future, the little hunter would pass this same knowledge on to their own children.

About thirty minutes after dawn, the little hunter spotted a rabbit going towards a clump of brush. The little hunter stopped walking, and on instinct, daddy stopped as well. The child made a quiet motion and pointed the rabbit out to daddy. Daddy nodded, giving his permission for his little hunter to take the shot. Taking their time and being as quiet as possible, and with careful aim of the Stevens single shot .410 they had gotten for their 8th birthday last year, the little hunter took the shot. With great pride, they realized they had gotten the first rabbit of the day.
It was a nice, fat, buck cottontail, just perfect for frying. The little hunter picked up the prize and stuffed it into the back of their game vest. How proud the little hunter was! Daddy had a bit of pride himself. Off they walked to continue their hunt. By the time it was 7:30, daddy had two rabbits and the little hunter had two. Not a bad morning at all.

They went back to the car and began loading everything into the trunk. The guns were unloaded and checked, then put into their cases, but the little hunter knew that as soon as they had skinned and cleaned the rabbits and given them to mama for supper, the guns would be again be taken out of the case and cleaned. Daddy had taught the child that if you take care of your firearm, it will last a lifetime and always be there to take care of you. Daddy was right, as the little hunter would always have the Stevens shotgun, perhaps one day passing it on to one of their children or grandchildren. The little hunter would acquire several other firearms in their lifetime, but none would hold such a place in their heart as this very first one.

Once they arrived home and everything was unloaded, they went out back to clean the rabbits. Daddy taught the little hunter to never, ever kill anything that they didn’t intend to eat unless it was really necessary. Daddy had also taught the child how to properly dress any animal that they killed, from little rabbits to big deer. The little hunter was as handy with a skinning knife as daddy was, and just as careful and clean. Within a few minutes the rabbits were ready for the frying pan. Mama put them in a pan of water and set them in the refrigerator until time to start supper.

Daddy and the little hunter brought in the rest of their things and put them away in their proper places to be ready for their next hunt. They brought their shotguns into the living room and opened their cleaning kits. The little hunter had their very own. When the guns were properly cleaned, they went again into their cases and were put away. Both guns were stored in the closet of the owner. Yes, the little hunter was able to keep their firearm in their own room. There was no chance of a mishap or accident. Daddy had taught them that the shotgun, and any other firearm, was a tool with a special purpose, not a toy to be played with.

That evening during supper, mama said how good the rabbit was and how proud she was of the little hunter. Daddy had also taught humility, so of course, the little hunter acted like it was nothing, even though they were quite pleased and thankful for the compliments. These early morning hunts with daddy were always a source of joy and were looked forward to with eager anticipation. After all, there are not too many girls who get to go hunting with daddy.

Feminine?

2008-02-23T09:56:00.003-05:00

Feminine - it brings to mind the color pink, flowers, lace, bows, and perfume. It brings to mind perfectly manicured nails, every hair in place, pouty lips and a slight sense of helplessness. Small figured woman with small bones that wear small dresses, small jewelry, and small shoes. It makes you think of the perfect little wife who bakes cookies and has dinner on the table for her husband and children every day promptly at six. Non-argumentative, a bit on the helpless side, unable to make decisions, and always needing a man to take care of her because she’s so delicate, so, um, so feminine. Yeah right. Not in my world.

I am about 5 feet, seven and a half inches tall. I am big boned and I’ve got some big meat wrapped around those big bones. I was the oldest, so I was daddy’s “boy”. While other little girls were having sleep-overs and playing dress up, I was going hunting and fishing with daddy. While the other girls were playing with their tea sets and Barbie dolls, I was playing full contact tackle football with the sons of my dad’s friends. When my mother took me shopping for my first bra, I was hysterical! I had the idea that with the sudden growth of the new bumps on my chest, I would no longer be able to go hunting because I wouldn’t be able to shoot. The new bumps would get in the way. Daddy had to tell me that they would be no problem. I was alright after that.

In my growing up, my mother did her very best to teach me all the things a young lady should know. At the time, I thought it was pretty boring, but I am thankful that I know which fork goes with which course and how to set a formal dinner table; I can attend a formal tea and not feel like an idiot. I know which stemware is for white wine and which one for red. She taught me how to speak, how to dress, sit, stand and walk like a young lady should. It just seemed funny at the time with my skinned elbows, ripped jeans and hair flying.

At age nineteen, I married and began a family. My choice of husband was all wrong. I wound up having to be the man in the family. He seemed to have a medical problem – he was allergic to working, so I was the breadwinner. I made the money and he spent it. I made all the major purchase decisions until he learned he could use my credit and get things in his name. Things like a motorcycle and a credit card. The card was maxed out in less than a month and he lost the motorcycle after our divorce. Luckily, I didn’t have to pay for either.

Jobs that I have over the years are varied, and not much is feminine about them. Ok, so maybe being a waitress is a feminine job, but a landscaper? Not so much. Neither is managing a pawn shop, which I loved. I had a bit of trouble when I first started at the pawn shop though. Seems the men folks just didn’t think a female had any sense or knowledge when it came to firearms and tools. Once they learned that indeed, I did know, they began to trust me, coming to me quite often for advice on their firearms, or asking which brand of tool was the best in my opinion. I was also a lead sawyer for wood mill. I ran a commercial gang saw and pulled, lifted, cut, loaded, and stacked lumber weighing more than I did, and had a ball. Definitely not a feminine job – splinters makes for some rough hands.

My husband now is so much different than my first one. He actually works! When he and I got together, I was working at a large chain bookstore. The managers were just kids and behaved as such. When the store closed at eleven pm, it was often two am before we got out of there. I had reached the age where two am is WAY past my bedtime, and I was quite dissatisfied. When I told my husband about it, his reply was to quit. I told him I planned on it as soon as I had something else lined up. He said no, just quit and stay home, so I did. For the first few weeks, I was lost. I had no idea what to do with my time as I had no routine to fall back on. It didn’t take me long to learn. I discovered it was nice to have the house clean, the laundry done and a meal on the table when he got home from work. It was nice to have the time to visit with my family and friends. I was married, but I had more freedom. I was a housewife for the first time in my life. It’s the most feminine job I have ever had.

As for feminine looks, I’ve never had the skin for make-up. It just makes me break out, so I wear it very seldom. My hair is long, which could be considered the only feminine trait I have other than in the boobs department. I don’t have long nails. I have large hands that are rough from working. Sure, I can dress the feminine part, do the whole heels and hose thing as I call it, but I’m more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt. I only wear earrings when I think about it, a necklace very seldom, my wedding ring, a small sapphire ring I bought myself from the pawn shop, and a large turquoise ring that actually belongs to my son. Nope, there’s nothing feminine about my everyday looks.

I am a wife and a mother. I am a lover to my husband. I think I am a good daughter and a decent sister. I am argumentative when I feel it’s needed, and I am not helpless in any way. I don’t do lace and frills or waste time in front of the mirror doing my hair and make-up. I still go hunting and fishing and I drive a 4 wheel drive standard shift Jeep.

Ok, so I’m not a poster child for feminine. I am a no nonsense, 100% self sufficient, tough, able to handle anything and keep on going Woman. I wouldn’t change a thing. Being considered feminine? I think it’s overrated!

No Place Like Home

2007-05-08T12:53:00.000-04:00

No Place like Home

A couple of years ago, I moved two thousand miles from my home in south east Georgia to south west Colorado. My new husband was raised in the mountains of the west and wished to return. I grew up with a military father and had moved often as a child, so I assumed that with a new marriage and with my children pretty much grown, that I would have no problem with the move. I rationalized that it would give me a change and may even be an adventure and a chance to see and do new things.

I was so very wrong. Everything was so different than what I knew. The climate was strange. The environment was strange, the birds, the wildlife, the smells, the available foods, even the people. I learned a lot about myself. I came to realize that I had always taken our southern hospitality and ways of living for granted. I learned very quickly that I was in the wrong place. Sure, there were some beautiful places and lots of things to see and do, but it all became old very, very quickly. After much pleading and praying, much thinking, lots of financial planning and a bit of luck, we finally made it back to Brunswick.

I learned that I am not from the mountains; I am a flatlander, born and bred. I am not from a place where the rain evaporates before it even hits the ground, where narrow, shallow creeks are called rivers, where the tallest trees are little more than shrubs, where the only colors you see are shades of brown, gray, and dull green and where flowers do not bloom in spring because of the cold. I am from a place where the rivers are wide and deep and flow down to kiss the ocean. I am from a lush, almost tropical area where the land meets the sea, where the trees are tall and the flowers bloom, sometimes all year. The marsh mud runs deep in my veins. The colors, the scents and the sounds of Coastal Georgia are all a part of what makes me who I am today.

The history of this area is part of me as well, as I have ancestors who settled the area when parts of Georgia were still considered to be frontier. I have ancestors who fought in both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War who were born, lived, died and are buried within an hour or two’s drive. These ancestors paved the way for those of us who came after. They planted, they fought, and they raised their families back in the very beginnings of the state. It became home to them, as it is home to me.

It is here that holds my fondest memories. This is where I began life as a “Navy Brat”, the child of a sailor and a sharecropper’s daughter. It’s where I started to school, learned to ride a bicycle, fed the birds at the old Hardee’s restaurant and ate M&M’s in a downtown park with my granddaddy. It’s where I learned to drive, spent my teenage wild years, and used to go to the feed store and play with the baby chicks when I was small. It‘s where I finished growing up, and where I started my own family. I have experienced new life here with the birth of my children, my niece, and several new cousins. I have also seen death here with the loss of my grandparents, an uncle and my father. So many memories, even the sad ones, which also makes it home to me .

The dawn breaks with the chirping of the birds. The sun is just rising and giving a warm orange glow to the early morning sky. In the distance I hear a dog bark and a log truck go by on the highway. The azaleas are blooming in splashes of pink and the wisteria vines have begun their show of lavender blooms as well. Spanish moss sways in the breeze, almost seeming to drip off of the giant, old live oak trees. The grass glistens with the morning dew.

The scents of early morning are quite mixed - a combination of pine forest, magnolia blooms, newly mown grass, freshly turned earth and salt air. Even though it is still quite early, it is already warm and the humidity is high letting you know you are on the southern Georgia coast. The temperatures have already hit the 70’s during the day and it is only the beginning of March. Everything around speaks of spring, yet you are teased with a hint of the long hot summer to come. Flowers and bedding plants are crowded into the local stores. Gardeners have already begun to plow and plant most of their garden vegetables.

I sit on my front porch, cup of coffee in hand, watching a huge red-headed woodpecker seek his fortune in the bark of the big pine tree in my front yard. I watch the doves on the ground under my bird feeder and hear the mockingbirds and jays call to each other. This evening, I’ll be able to watch the hummingbirds at the feeder and listen to the crickets and whippoorwills, or maybe even go down to the river and fish a while before dark catches me. After being away from this area for quite some time, I have come to realize how important it is to me it is to simply see, feel, hear and smell the familiar. I now know what “having roots” really means, how important family ties are and how important all the little things are that I will never again take for granted.

I can relate to the fictional Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, as even though I may have had an adventure, seen new things and met new people, I have learned there truly is “no place like home, there’s no place like home”……

Wild Ducks and Fruit Loops

2007-05-08T10:09:00.000-04:00

Wild Ducks Won’t Eat Blue Fruit Loops

What a beginning line - wild ducks won’t eat blue fruit loops. The strange thing is, it’s the truth - they won’t! Let me explain. Not too long after me and my husband got together, we used to take walks and feed the ducks at a bar pit in south Georgia where we lived. For those that don’t know, a bar pit is where usually the highway department digs a big hole to use the dirt on the highways. The water table isn’t very deep in south Georgia, so the hole fills up and eventually you have sort of a man made lake or pond, complete with fish, birds, bugs, and ducks. It was at one of these bar pits that we made our awesome discovery.

We had driven out to the bar pit one afternoon for our usual walk. We had forgotten to bring any bread or crackers, but the ducks had grown accustomed to us feeding them. When they saw the vehicle, they came from all directions. There were about 10 of them, including a couple of real pretty ones and one of the ugliest ducks I have ever seen. He was black and white with the funniest looking head, a knobby looking beak, and feathers sticking out in all directions. Poor fellow!

My husband looked behind the seat of the truck to see what we had to feed them. All he found was a bag half full of stale fruit loops. Ok, we thought, it may not be the best thing to feed a duck, but at least they’re made from grain. So, we proceeded to drop little handfuls of the cereal as we walked and they loved them! You’ve never seen such a fuss over handfuls of cereal, not even at your childhood Saturday morning breakfast. Without hesitation, they gobbled them down, red ones, the orange, green, purple and yellow ones. We began to notice something strange - they were leaving the blue ones on the ground!

We decided to test them a bit, so we picked out small handfuls and divided them by color. First, we threw a few orange ones. No problem, they were eaten in a flash. Next we tried the green, then yellow, then purple and red. Again, all was quickly eaten. Finally, the blue. Nothing. The ducks simply looked at them and kept searching for, what we assume, was another color. When we threw a mixture of colors, they ate them all except the blue. When we didn’t throw any more, they quickly became bored and took back to the water to continue doing whatever it is that wild ducks do. A few days later, we went back and our previous visits blue cereal was still on the ground. Hmm, makes you wonder if they know something we don’t.

What reason would a duck have for not eating the blue ones? Apparently, they are not colorblind, as they were able to distinguish the difference between the colors, even between green and blue. We tried mixing handfuls of those two colors and they ate the green ones and left the blue ones. We even tried to “taste test” the different colors ourselves, but they pretty much all tasted the same. Were the ducks taste buds more sensitive than ours and they just thought the blue ones tasted awful? Could it be because there’s not much in nature that is blue? Perhaps the color itself was foreign to them? Odd, strange, bizarre or weird? Maybe even frightening? Probably not, but you have to look at all possibilities, you know.

Ok, so we all know that fruit loops cereal is not your standard wild duck food. We all have heard what the doctors and dietitians have said about artificial colors, sugar and our highly processed foods making all of our children hyperactive. I know that many wild animals live near people now, and have adapted to a different way of life so they can survive along side of us. Animals from bears to birds have learned to live on human food that they have scavenged. Maybe evolution is working here. Maybe some sort of animal “if ya can’t beat’em, join’em” kind of thing. Who knows? I may not be a scientist, but I now know that wild ducks won’t eat blue fruit loops!

Grits in Wyoming!

2007-05-08T10:04:00.000-04:00

I Found Grits In Wyoming!

What a wonderful discovery this was! While living in Colorado, this Georgia girl thought she was going to starve. The only place in town that served grits was a Denny’s restaurant, and even then they were usually half cooked or soupy, and served in those tiny little bowls, not even enough to taste. Most of the time, the waitress didn’t even know what they were because so few people ever asked for them. While living there, I had learned, (please may my ancestors forgive me), learned to eat instant grits. Not very satisfying, but they made do in a pinch.

At the local restaurants, I was unable to get other southern foods like real cornbread, vegetables like peas or butterbeans, or something as simple as a glass of sweet tea. They had never heard of mustard or collard greens. Their idea of banana puddin’ was a few vanilla wafers stuck down in banana flavored instant pudding with a few slices of banana stirred into it, topped with whipped topping. Their fried chicken tasted funny. They had never heard of boiled peanuts. You couldn’t find fried catfish in a restaurant and you couldn’t go catch any either. Because of the elevation and the temperature, all they had for catching was trout.

The grocery stores were also quite odd, as the regional difference was quite obvious. Self rising flour was hard to find. They didn’t even sell the vegetables I was familiar with, and only once in a while, you might, if you were lucky, find a couple of cans of turnip greens. For link sausage, you could find kielbasa, bratwursts, or something similar to a slightly spiced up hot dog. No smoked sausage could be found, and believe me, I looked. Neither could you find a decent piece of ham. I guess they just didn’t know about a good salt cured ham, so that meant no red-eye gravy. Since they didn‘t have red-eye gravy, I figured that‘s why they didn‘t know about buttermilk biscuits.

I made a trip back to Georgia to visit family and the day before I went back to Colorado, I went to the grocery store armed with a huge ice chest. I brought back field peas, speckled butterbeans, purple hull peas, white acre peas, ham and real link sausage. I even brought back some Dixie Lily self rising flour, some good yellow corn meal, and some real grits. I rationed it all out and it lasted me until I moved back to Georgia a few months later.

For my birthday, my husband suggested we visit his sister in Kansas. I would get to meet her and wouldn‘t be working on my birthday, so it sounded good to me. After our visit, he insisted that since I had never been in Nebraska, that we would return home that way. So, up from Kansas into Nebraska going west. I kept looking and wondering when he was going to turn south into Colorado, and when I mentioned it, it was then he told me of his birthday present for me - a trip to Yellowstone National Park. Needless to say, I was quite surprised. So, west through Nebraska and north into Wyoming where we spent the night.

The next morning, we stopped at a local restaurant in a small town. We have learned that while traveling, usually the local establishments have better food than the chain restaurants. I was almost speechless when I read their menu - they actually had grits on the menu! Of course I was skeptical, but I thought I may as well give’em a try. I ordered 2 egg over medium, grits, and link sausage. Of course, I was expecting something like I would have gotten in Colorado, this being the west and all.

What a surprise when they brought out my plate! A big bowl of grits, cooked just right and topped with butter, the eggs, and a real piece of link sausage! The waitress and the other customers must have thought I had been on starvation! It was fantastic! It was the best breakfast I had eaten since being back home. What I wondered was how in the world did this kind of southern food wind up in Wyoming? And why hadn’t it found it’s way to Colorado? Yep, I found had real grits in Wyoming! Who’d have thought? By the way, the best breakfast my husband had on the trip was a big plate of real sausage gravy and biscuits…..in Idaho!

Gardenias in Colorado?

2007-05-08T09:59:00.000-04:00

Gardenias In Colorado?

There I was, my husband walking next to me, just minding my own business and doing a bit of shopping. Suddenly, a smell overwhelmed me. Something as familiar as my own face in the mirror. The smell gently tugged parts of my very being all the way back to Georgia. Well, not really ‘gently tugged‘, more like roughly snatched.

I smelled that wonderful, pungent sweet smell of gardenia blooms. I thought to myself I must be dreaming, or else wishful thinking had made itself a bit too real. Gardenias are not something you see in the high desert area of south west Colorado. For that matter, where I was, flowers in general were few and far between other than a few yellow flowered weeds here and there. I knew I must really be losing it.

I stopped right in the middle of the aisle with my husband wondering what was wrong with me. I told him I smelled gardenias, but that I knew they couldn’t be anywhere around. I told him, and myself, that it must be some perfume or something. So we kept walking with the scent seeming to get stronger. As we rounded the aisle, there, right in the center of the big front aisle, were 2 gallon containers filled with blooming gardenias.

I quickly felt better knowing I wasn’t losing my mind. I stood and stared at them like they were from another planet. I think I touched or smelled every bloom I could find. I wondered at their glossy, deep green leaves. I was amazed at the white fullness of their blossoms. I was almost drinking the scent like a fine wine. My husband, bless him and his patience, probably thought I was nuts for sure.

Ok, so it seems a little silly to go so overboard about a few gardenia plants, but, when a simple smell takes you back home, what else could you expect? When I had ooh’d and ahh’d over the plants, we moved on, with him walking and me floating on the fragrance. I think someone, somewhere, set me up, because much to my surprise just down a ways from the gardenias were azaleas. Beautiful, pink and white blossomed azaleas. A bounty of bushes in little 2 gallon pots, just like the gardenias.

Why on earth would gardenias and azaleas be in Colorado? The weather isn’t exactly hospitable for their survival. I’ve never heard of either of them surviving a minus 10 degree winter and 2 foot of snow. I asked one of the cashiers and she said people out there treated them like houseplants. They enjoyed them while they bloomed and then threw them out at the end of the season, only to replace them the next year. Like a common begonia. An annual. How sad! These were not houseplants! What an outrage! They were gardenias and azaleas, for goodness sakes! Little plants that turned into bushes and hedges. Plants that would burst forth with blooms every spring when it began to warm up! They were perennials, not annuals. It’s was just a plain disgrace! Besides the fact that it made me terribly homesick. Strange the things you miss, huh?

On one of my April visits back home, I was sitting on mama’s front porch, in a sundress and barefoot, talking to my husband in Colorado. The azaleas were blooming in splashes of pink all through the neighborhood. It was about 74 degrees and the sky was clear and blue. Birds were singing, the trees were budding, the grass was green and growing. Meanwhile, back in Colorado, it was just below freezing and was snowing. And I was going back there in just a few days.

Isn’t it strange how things can affect you? How the simple fragrance of a flower can bring home right into your mind? How different things can trigger a memory? A certain song on the radio or the smell of Old Spice aftershave can bring my daddy back. The aroma of frying jack mackerel patties or WindSong cologne makes me think of mama. The smell of Prince Albert tobacco or seeing purple morning glories in bloom brings back granddaddy. The scent of Cashmere Bouquet dusting powder or a handful of rubber fishing worms brings back granny. Don’t even ask about the worm thing!. Seeing a commercial for G.I. Joe toys makes me think of my younger brother. Construction paper and the smell of new crayons and I’m suddenly walking down the memory lane from my kids childhood. Watermelon makes me think of the fourth of July 1974 in Ohio. It made me sick that day and I still can’t eat watermelon. The sound of a slightly out of time motor with loud pipes and suddenly I’m riding with daddy in his old Ford Falcon. A fingernail file and I think of my uncle, a bell or an apple and it’s my aunt.

And the wonderful scent of Gardenias in the middle of a grocery store in Colorado took me back home, even if only for a moment.

Blank Page

2007-05-08T07:20:00.000-04:00

The Blank Page

Well, here it is. Just a blank page staring at me. It can have quite an effect on people who like to write. The idea of starting with nothing and expecting the miracle of a filled page can be scary. Sometimes it seems we have a million ideas trying to tumble out of our heads, but the ideas seem to come when we’re grocery shopping or pumping gas! By the time we get home to write them all down so we can become the rich and famous author of our wildest dreams, the ideas seem to have suddenly disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again!

Why do we put ourselves through such torture? We know we enjoy writing, but why do we do it? Why put ourselves through the madness of trying to organize the few ideas we were able to capture? The malady known as writer’s block can be a terrible thing. It attacks our confidence and can sometimes rip it to shreds. It can haunt our every moment. While we are awake, we are ever aware of the Blank Page yelling at us to DO SOMETHING! While asleep, we run into nightmares of being swallowed by the “Blank Page from the Mind’s Lagoon”. We spend our time trying to convince ourselves that we are competent, we are not stupid, and we will, eventually, get over whatever our problem is. In the meantime, the Blank Page tells us we shouldn’t even be allowed to help our children write down their ABC’S or the week’s spelling words!

It’s kind of like trying to play baseball short of one player. It can be done, but it’s not preferred! Try playing with no pitcher. How about no catcher? With no one to guard first base? We have all the bats, balls, and gloves, but, without that one player, it’s a pretty tough game. Just like having the paper, pencil, or computer, but the ideas didn’t show up! We have a perfect playing field, whether it’s an office of our own or the dining room table. Our mind, like a referee, is telling us to either play or forfeit. Most of the time we go ahead and play. We may not play well, but at least we’re in the game. Even bad writing is writing, which is what we like to do anyway.

Then, right out of the blue comes our Star Pitcher. That one idea that can set off a spark so bright the keyboard is likely to burst into flame. The lead in the pencil can’t keep up. No blank pages here, the Idea has come! This perfect moment is why we persevere, why we keep trying. It’s the love of the game, ya’ll, the love of the game!

By the way, Blank Page - 0, Writer - 1 !!

Tombstone Of A Home

2007-05-08T07:10:00.000-04:00

Tombstone Of A Home

Where there now stands a lonesome chimney, there was a home. The chimney is all that remains as a testimonial that once upon a time, someone cared. With loving hands, each brick was carefully laid in a mortar of mud. Even though all traces of the home have long since disappeared, the chimney still proudly stands.

How many cold mornings did this chimney serve it’s purpose, doing its job of warming the souls and bottoms, the faces and hearts of the family who lived here? How many children were warmed by it’s hearth before going out into the cold, perhaps to school or to do their chores, or a father warmed his feet and hands after working in the fields? How many clothes did the mother press with the flatirons that were heated here? How many ? How much? How many times? So many questions, so much history.

The lonesome chimney now stands as a grave marker in time. It has many memories that it could tell. It makes a person wonder if it had a mantle. If so, were the family portraits there? Maybe a bud vase of wildflowers given by a child. Think of the labor that went into the building of this chimney, and also of the building of the home and family that it warmed. It now serves as a reminder that long ago, someone’s father was young and strong enough to cut and split the wood for it’s use. That long ago, someone’s mother was young and strong enough to keep that fire burning brightly.

The outline of the home can still be seen if you look hard enough and possibly have a little imagination. If you listen long enough, you can almost hear the voices and laughter of the family that once lived here. You can see where there might have been a rope swing tied in the ancient oak that still stands in what must have been the front yard. If you are lucky enough to be here in springtime, you may see some of the mothers now wild gladiola and tulip bulbs peeking through the soil. You can imagine where the clothesline was, where the garden, chicken coop, and hog pen must have been. You can see what could have been the children’s favorite place to play, and where the mother kept watch over them. If you listen closely enough, you may even be able to hear the family dog scratching out a cool place in the sand under the porch that once stood here.

The mother and father that once lived here grew old and watched as they slowly lost everything. They were no longer young and strong enough for the old house. Life had called their children into a different way of life. Not better, not worse, just different. The children rarely visited after they grew up and moved away. Sometimes, the old couple would receive a photograph or letter from the grandchildren, but not very often. You know how busy our lives can be. The children decided that they were too old to remain in the house. Sometimes, the roof would leak and the cold breath of winter would come creeping in the cracks around the doors. After a lot of convincing, the couple was moved into a “retirement” home. It was here that they passed away. The children never returned to the old home place.

Almost like a person, a home needs love to survive. When no one cared anymore, slowly, board by board, and nail by nail, the old house lost it’s strength and gave up. No more laughter would fill it’s rooms, no more dinners in its kitchen, no more fires would burn. Perhaps the chimney still stands in the hopes that someday, maybe a family will return. Maybe they will see how well it has stood the test of time and rebuild a new home around it. In the meantime, the lonesome chimney will continue to stand proudly, holding on to the memories of the past. Always and always, forever hoping.

The Tablecloth

2006-10-15T13:00:00.000-04:00

The Tablecloth

The old woman stood at her dining table lost in her own thoughts. She had been busy this morning doing all of her usual household chores. The laundry was whirling away in the washing machine, the sweeping had been done, the dishes had been washed and put away. Meat had been set out to thaw for supper. She was changing the tablecloth on her dining table when it happened. She became lost in her own memories.

She had went to the linen closet and took out an old white tablecloth to use on the table. There was no need for anything fancy as she was expecting no guest, she had no special meal planned. She was simply one who thought a table needed a tablecloth, and placemats too, if she had any that would match. She always had some type of flower arrangement in the center, usually something she had made herself, along with the little Mason jar salt and pepper shakers.

She stripped off the first cloth and put it in the washroom to be washed. She then opened the old white one up and began to straighten it out on the table. She saw a couple of faded yellow stains and suddenly it dawned on her which table cloth this was. It was a tablecloth from many years ago that she had hung onto for no apparent reason. After all, it was old, a little frayed on the edges, and had those ugly yellow stains.

Many years ago when her children were small, she had managed to acquire an antique dining room set, complete with the china cabinet, the high-boy buffet, and the table and chairs. It was the nicest thing she owned at the time. She had been very protective of it. She remembered not allowing anyone to sit there at meal times. She, along with the other members of the family, ate in the kitchen at the old table she had. She remembers telling the children that the chairs were too delicate for everyday use. She remembered telling them that it would be used for special occasions only.

The first Thanksgiving after acquiring the dining room set, she had managed to save enough money to buy a beautiful new white tablecloth for the table. She set the table, using all of her best dishes, platters and bowls. Some of the things she had were mismatched and old, but to her, the fancy table with its new snow-white tablecloth was beautiful She was so pleased.

When the meal was ready and she had placed everything in its place, she called the family to dinner. They even had company over to share their Thanksgiving meal. She was so proud that everything looked so nice. She had already instructed the children to be very careful and not spill anything on the new tablecloth, and to sit very still so as not to break the chairs. She was very protective, remember?

As the meal progressed, naturally things were spilled, dropped, or dribbled on her pretty new tablecloth. She couldn’t say anything because company was there and she really wanted them to enjoy their meal. She cried inside as gravy dribbled, cranberry sauce left their pink marks, and one of the children spilled their tea. All she could do was cringe. She knew that after their company left, she was really going to let the children have it. She had warned them, hadn’t she? She had told them to be careful, hadn’t she? Didn’t they realize how hard it had been to save enough money to buy the new table cloth? Why couldn’t they respect her things? She didn’t ask for much.

When dinner was over, she began clearing the table, putting the food away and washing the dishes. The children had went outside to play. The more little stains she saw on her tablecloth, the more angry she became.

When the children were called in to take their baths and get ready for bed, she brought them all into the living room and sat them down. She told them that she wanted to talk to them about respect, and about taking care of things. She told them how difficult it had been for her to save the money for the tablecloth. She scolded them for their sloppiness. She scolded them for not caring about her or her things. She scolded them for their lack of manners. She scolded and scolded. She never raised her voice, but the words she used had cut the children deeply. They were all in tears and begging her forgiveness for their indiscretions and mishaps. They apologized again and again before going off to bed.

That night, she used every kind of stain remover she had to try and restore the tablecloth to its original bright whiteness. The stains remained. She washed and she washed, she scrubbed and she scrubbed. The next day she dried it on the clothesline in the hopes the bright sunshine would at least help to fade the stains. It didn’t. She finally folded the tablecloth up and put it away, way back in the back of the linen closet on the bottom of the stack.

Over the next few years, she often thought about how she had scolded the children that day. She felt very guilty about having made them feel so bad. She felt guilty for saying the things she knew must have hurt them. She felt guilty for allowing her own pride to get in the way and for not having the courage to admit her wrong to the children. She felt sad in the fact that her children didn’t know that she had forgiven them long ago.

The children grew up and moved away into their own lives. When they would come for a visit, they never sat at the dining table. They always went to the kitchen where the old table was. They never sat in the delicate dining table chairs. Even when holiday meals were served, they told her they were just more comfortable there, there at the old table with the old benches that had been repaired too many times to count.. They just didn’t like the fancy dining room table.

Now, all these years later, the old woman stands alone staring into her past. She stares at all the little stains on her old tablecloth. She sees the little hands of her children when they made the stains. She sees the hurt in the eyes of her children when she scolded them for making such a mess of her pretty new tablecloth. She sees the mistake she made so many years ago. She knows she should have made things right years ago and told the children that she had been wrong, so very wrong. She sees her regrets, and she sees how much she would give to have the time to do over again. She wishes she could have the chance to tell each child that they were forgiven, that they were more precious than any piece of cloth, that she had been wrong. But, as the reality of her mistakes come back to her, she slips away.

One of the children came by to check on her and found her crying at the dining table, holding onto the old tablecloth, crying and repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her mind has slipped into the past where she now spends her time going over and over the stains of an old tablecloth.

Mamas Lap

2006-09-22T21:17:00.000-04:00

When was the last time you held your child? I’m not talking about when they were sick, or the quick hug just before going to bed. I’m talking about just for the reason that they belong to you?

This is something that I often do. My children are not babies anymore. I have a daughter who is fourteen, and two sons, aged ten and twelve. A couple of mornings ago, as I sat sipping on my morning coffee, my youngest woke up. He came into the living room, still sleepy eyed, and crawled into my lap. He weighs around ninety pounds, and he has to fold up his legs in order to sit in my lap now. As he lay his head upon my shoulder, he looked up at me and said “ Mornin’, mama”. I could still feel the warmth from his blankets, and smell his hair that still smells like the baby I had rocked ten years ago. Where does the time go?

As I sat in the morning light, holding my baby that isn’t a baby any longer, I wondered. Why do parents not hold their babies any more? From the time they are born, babies are in car seats, carriers and strollers. By the time they outgrow the carriers, they are walking. Suddenly, we seem to busy to hold them, and they are to busy to be held. When we do find the time, they are called too big to be held. Who says they are to big?

I still hold my children. All of them. It seems to let them know that even though they are growing up, even though they will someday soon be on their own, that the comforts of mama’s lap will always be there. In this world of ours, don’t you think all children need that sort of comfort sometimes?

When my daughter sits in my lap, not only does she receive the comfort and reassurance she needs, but it keeps the lines of our communication open. We talk about her hopes, dreams, problems, fears, accomplishments, and sometimes the male species. She is at an age that is sometimes little girl, and sometimes, grown woman. If the one in my lap is one of the boys, we may talk about school, sports, hopes, and sometimes, if daddy is nowhere around, girls. I hope my children and I are always this close, and that they always trust their mother.

Many times, I have been standing at the stove or at the clothesline, when one of my children would come up, give me a quick hug and “love ya, mama”, for no reason. My oldest son is in middle school and is still not embarrassed to be seen with me. He’ll even give me a hug when being dropped off or when I have visited his school. Did my holding them have anything to do with this? I don’t know, but it sure didn’t hurt!

I feel I am lucky to have this type of relationship with my children. If I can keep that relationship strong by them sitting in my lap, giving them hugs, and telling them I love them, I will continue to do so.

So far I haven’t found a better way to spend a morning than with one or all of my children in my lap, discussing all sorts of things. Can you say the same? It doesn’t matter how old a person gets, there is no better place on earth than ... mama’s lap.

Since the writing of this piece, my children have grown. My daughter is now 23 and my sons are now 21 and 19. The funny thing is, they all will still sit in my lap! Even though my oldest son is about 3-4 inches taller than me, even though the youngest son can pick me up and walk across the floor with me, even though my daughter is out on her own and doing fine. Even though they are all grown adults, they still sit in mama's lap.

Autumn In The Mountains

2006-09-22T21:05:00.000-04:00

I am not from these mountains, yet they are quickly becoming a part of me, and me of them. I am from southeast Georgia, where the salt marshes stretch into the sunsets across the Atlantic. I am from where sea gulls cry in the day time, whippoorwills call in the night, and Spanish moss sways gently in the ancient live oak trees that abound there. I was born there, so it runs thick in my blood, just as the marsh mud runs in the tidal creeks. I am used to salty sea breezes, rivers that kiss the ocean, and flat land; where the azaleas bloom early and the fragrance of magnolias lingers on the summer air.

Here in the north Georgia mountains, the deep green tendrils of kudzu have grown, weaving and wrapping themselves around the woods like a rope anchoring the trees to the earth. You can almost hear the trees gasping for breath from the slow strangulation. Wildflowers are in their autumn bloom. The blush of the tall Joe Pye weed stands watch over the delicate white Queen Anne’s Lace. Birds are beginning their songs of the day. The leaves of the hardwoods are beginning to turn, setting the woods aflame with red, gold and orange. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel barks, sounding a warning to some unseen trespasser.

The dew sparkles like silver sequins with the morning sun just peeking over the mountains and through the slowly lifting fog. The fog here is not merely something seen, but something that can be felt. It is tangible, real, touchable. It is almost a heavy mist, almost a cloud drifting on the gently rolling ground.

A few of the late blooming flowers can be seen in the flower beds throughout the neighborhoods. The bright pinks of the impatiens, the deep red of the roses, the rich orange and yellow of the marigolds. Regardless of how hard we try to hold onto summer, soon, these too will be gone, giving in to the coming grip of winter and its drab grays and browns.

A slight breeze with just a hint of coolness touches my face like a caress from Mother Nature herself. She lets me know that winter will be approaching before too much longer. She reminds me to enjoy the colors, for they will soon fade. She tells me to savor the warmth, as Old Man Winter and his chilly weather will soon be approaching. I listen to her, and I do savor the warmth. I enjoy the last little bit of summer’s beauty and color. I breath deeply of the perfume that is called Summer. I regret the coming loss of these things, yet there is hope in the fact that I know the warmth and color will return in the spring. It will burst forth with a suddenness so as to release the grip of winter. Spring will quickly paint the mountains again with splashes of color like an insane artist with a new canvas.

In the Springtime, we ache for the lazy days of summer and all her bounty. We plan for picnics and fishing trips, playgrounds and campsites. In the thick heat of a late summer afternoon, we dream of the golden colors and cooling breezes of Autumn. In Autumn, we look forward to the possibilities of snow on our mountains, of frozen creeks, fires crackling in our fireplaces and holidays. In the dull gray middle of winter, we are anxious for the color and brightness and rebirth of Spring.
Yes, we always have something to look forward to here in our mountains of rock, red clay and kudzu. The changing of the seasons, the unknown always right around the next bend. Someone I know said “If you’re lucky enough to live in the mountains, you’re lucky enough”. Well, I look around me, and I think they’re right.

A Day In The Life

2005-11-28T09:57:00.000-05:00

A Day In The Life

As I slowly drag my consciousness back from blissful dreamland, I am forced to throw it into the unforgiving dawn light. Before the stars go into hiding, and before the sun blooms into morning light, I rise. It’s time to prepare for the long day ahead.

It is now that I look my worst. The pre-dawn light does nothing to conceal the blemishes, the gray hair, or the newly found marks of time. My hair is something resembling a nest of tangles that pours over my shoulders and down my back. My eyes are puffy from the sleep they tried to squeeze out of the last few hours of darkness. My walk is stiff and painful, as is the movement of my hands. The gait is slow and somewhat unsteady. The only voice I hear is the conversation between my bladder and the bathroom down the hall.

My own personal little people are still dancing with the sandman in their sleeping state of innocence. My soul mate is dancing with his own dreams, whether of better things to come, or of the worries that come with being a man.

I walk quietly down the dimly lit hallway so as to not disturb the others. For sleep in itself is a wonderful thing. It is a time of renewal and rejuvenation. A time of no worries or pressures from the conscious world in which we reside during our waking hours.

As I make my way into the kitchen, lit only by a dim light from my radio, I find my two best friends beckoning me from the kitchen table. My empty, but soon to be filled coffee cup and my trusty cigarettes. Both are enemies to me, but neither could I do without. As the first swallow of hot, sweet, creamy coffee begins to clear the cobwebs of sleep from my head, I slowly begin to feel more human. When the first acrid smoke enters my lungs, I begin to think of what today will bring.

It’s beginning to get a little lighter outside. The subtle colors of orange, yellow, and pink are peeking through the pines in the eastern sky. Just fifteen more minutes of precious quiet before my little people must begin to ready themselves to conquer a world of their own. No matter how much I wish I could, I can not join them on this journey. I can not be there to comfort or protect them from this cold, cruel, world in which we live. I feel a certain fear in knowing this, and sadness in wondering if they really need me there anyway.

My soul mate may sleep through the early morning havoc. If he can, I let him. He’ll have enough to deal with when he leaves his dreamland behind.

By the time everyone else has risen for the day, my hair no longer looks a fright, my eyes appear more normal, my walk and my hands seem to be cooperating a lot better. I’m glad the others usually see me this way.
The day has officially started. The sun has begun its blazing trail toward the west. I now hear the cries of the house. With the radio blaring, I wash the first dishes of the day, and start the first load of clothes. Soon, they will be waving on the clothesline, both drying and soaking up the sunshine that I’ve been given to day. Then beds to make, floors to sweep, vacuum, and mop, counters and tables to clean off. It’s a daily list of wash this, dust that, clean this, move that. This goes here, that goes there. Rearrange the mess day by day. Just change the looks of it all, because I know I’ll never be really finished. Always tomorrow, always more to do.
The phone rings and snatches me away from a couple of daydreams. As I exchange daily pleasantries with my mother, I wonder if she had the same thoughts, dreams, and worries as I do when I was her little person? Will my little people one day worry me the way I’ve worried her? Probably.

Soon my little people come bursting through the door with the excitement that only a child could have. Anxiously, they each tell of their challenges and accomplishments of their day. I’m glad they are home. It makes me feel better. Soon, they are off to their rooms to prepare for a tomorrow they know nothing about.

After the evening meal is over, the kitchen clean again, and the last load of clothes is brought in, folded, and put away, I see again the colors of orange, pink and yellow. Only this time, they are in the western sky and my day is beginning to wind down. I realize I have the same things to look forward to tomorrow.

My little people, freshly bathed and smelling of sweet soap, will soon begin their nightly courtship of the moonlight and dancing with the sandman. They will be sleeping soundly, tucked in their beds, oblivious to the world around them. I ask God to watch over them, as I can’t join them here either. And while I’m at it, I ask Him to watch over my soul mate, too. I need him.

After the sun has closed up for the day, and the stars and moon take over the black velvet sky, I notice that this darkness is no different from the darkness before dawn. All are peacefully sleeping; the house is dimly lit and quiet. My hair is once again a cascading mess of tangles, my walk is stiff, and the eyes seem a little puffy. Once again, my two best friends and I are alone in the dark. After the last swallow of coffee is drained from my cup, and the last smoke is expelled from my lungs, I leave these friends alone on the table to wait for me ‘till morning.

As I turn back the cover, I give thanks for the sunshine and my accomplishments. When I feel my head hit the pillow, I pray. For forgiveness, courage, and wisdom. Soon I am drifting on the planes between two worlds. The one, consciousness of the waking world, the other, the sheer bliss of quiet, peace, and dreams. I sleep.

Ghost of the Aspen Grove

2005-08-15T17:48:00.000-04:00

Ghost of the Aspen Grove

The tall, thin, black and gray ghost of the Aspen grove stand alone. Even the sky today is gray and eerie looking. Like towering unearthly warriors, they remain standing even though death has already taken the spirit, the life of the tree. Death came suddenly and without warning. It came in the twinkling of an eye. It came with the Missionary Ridge wildfire in south western Colorado.

The Quaking Aspen, as it is known, has adapted to be quite the survivor. It grows tall and straight, reaching for the sunlight in it’s cool climate. It grows where the conifers have not yet taken over, where there is enough room for it to open it’s branches to receive the life giving sunlight. Its delicate bright green leaves will pick up the slightest breeze and become the voice and music of the forest. It grows where there is room for several to grow together from one root system like protective brothers and sisters, where it’s branches become the nesting places of the birds and where it’s small new shoots are one of the favorite foods of the deer and elk.

The aspens I saw today are but ghostly reminders of their former being. The once white bark is scarred in darker shades of gray, marred by the black of the scorching fire. There are no leaves to speak in the breeze. No nesting area tucked between branches. They are mostly just sticks now. Sticks, still holding on to the earth as if they refuse to let go of their last hope. Spirits of the Forest, these ghost of the aspens, holding on as long as possible to past sunny days, past snow falls, past springs when they would continue their growth. Holding on to past seasons, and holding memories that man would never understand.

Missionary Ridge began to burn on Sunday, June 9, 2002. With only 20% of the yearly normal snow pack, only 1.3 inches of precipitation, high temperatures and relative humidity below 10 %, the setting was perfect, dry and ripe for a fire. It burned in the beginning at a rate of a thousand acres per hour. It burned approximately 6500 acres the first day alone. Flames jumped to heights of 500 feet at times, claiming a total of over 72,000 acres of forest, 56 homes, and much wildlife and fauna. One brave fireman gave his life for the forest he was trying to save. Monetary cost for the fight and destruction was close to forty million dollars. Smoke from the fires billowed into the sky at heights of up to 44,000 feet. It could be seen for miles. The blush in the night sky glowed like a cheap neon sign. Several firestorm related tornados were reported, leaving trees and anything else in their path ripped apart and uprooted. All of Colorado was watching, as was every news broadcast in the U.S. Watching, wondering, hoping and praying. Watching the devastation, seeing so much of the forest hungrily feeding the fire that seemed to have no end in sight. So much speculation, so many why’s and so few answers.

Missionary Ridge was home to the ghostly remains of the Aspen trees I saw today. It was also home to Rocky Mountain Juniper, Douglas Fir, ancient Ponderosa Pines, Gambel Oak and many others. Home to many shrubs, wild flowers, herbs, berries and grasses.

It was home to the secretive bear, mountain lions, the bugling elk and cautious mule deer, home to the curious raccoons, the pretty but malodorous skunk, bob cats, coyotes, the cottontail and jack rabbits. It was the home and dening area of the endangered lynx.

Countless birds called it home also - the Brown Thrasher, Hummingbirds, Robins, Magpies, Stellar’s Jays, Ravens, several types of Hawks and Owls, and the majestic Bald Eagle. Too many to name, many I don‘t know.

Butterflies were here, as were the ants, grasshoppers, cicadas, beetles and moths. Even the lowly grub had called this area home. All and everything known to them as home was destroyed. Many of the animals lost their lives as well.

It is now a little over 3 years later. The beetles and bugs are beginning to return to make a living in the dead, decaying wood of all that has burned. The woodpeckers and other birds have returned for the beetles. The wildflowers are beginning to return and have brought the butterflies and hummingbirds with them. The grasses, herbs, shrubs and berries are growing again, bringing the rabbits, skunks, and raccoons, and they, in turn, bringing the coyotes, hawks and eagles. Slowly, this will be home again. Slowly, the new shoots of the Aspen will grow into new trees. Slowly the conifers will again move them out. Slowly the animal life will return to a somewhat normal state. The circle of life will continue, with one species feeding, protecting, or housing another.

Even though things will eventually return to what we know as normal, never forget that some of the Ponderosa Pines who succumbed to the flames were several hundred years old. No one now living will see the return of such splendid trees. The forest may regain it’s former splendor in time, but it will never be the same. Never forget the lost firefighter. We will never know what this brave man would have done in his lifetime, nor how his life would have affected others.

Say a prayer for the forest. For the ghost of the forest. Let them know it’s now ok for them to go. They can let go of the earth now, to allow others to take their place. To allow time to continue it’s march through the ages. For everything there is a time………

Destiny

2005-08-15T17:23:00.000-04:00

Destiny

Sitting on the edge of the pier, absorbed in their own thoughts, Jessie and Adam watched as the sun drew its last breath before sinking into the horizon. This place was special to them, almost sacred. It was where they had met the first time. It was where they always seemed to wind up after a date. It was where Adam had proposed so many years ago. It was where they had brought the kids in their strollers, then on their skates and bicycles. There was a little playground with picnic tables where they had spent many Saturday afternoons having lunch, watching the kids play and just enjoying life. Well, the kids were grown now, and instead of picnics, they would just get a cup of coffee to go from the little café just up the street. Sometimes, they would sit and talk for hours, often just relishing the quiet solitude and the enjoyment that comes from being with the one you love. They both knew they had spent a wonderful life together.

“Why is death so scary?”
“I don’t know, baby. I guess ‘cause it’s an unknown thing.”
“You know that I won’t be able to make it without you.”
“Yes, you will. You’ll have the kids and grandkids to think about.”
“No, I won’t. Jerry is in Philadelphia, and Susan and Sharon are in New York. You know they never come down, and we never get to see the grandkids except in school pictures. I’m not even sure if they would even miss us.”

In just a few more minutes, the sun will be completely down, and they will be sitting in the twilight of early evening, holding hands and watching the stars come out over the ocean, feeling the cool breeze that flows off the water, just like they had done so many evenings before.

“What do you mean by ‘us‘? You’re not gonna die, I am.”
“I meant just what I said - us. I’m not going to stay here without you. You’re all I’ve got, all I’ve ever had really. We belong together, whether it’s alive or dead.”
“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. It’s just not fair. I’m not through living yet.”
“I know, baby. But we are having this conversation, and there are things we need to do, things we need to say. We’ve always talked about everything before, and now should be no different.”
“You mean like what happens when I’m gone? Funeral arrangements? Who gets what I leave behind? Stuff like that?”
“Yea, that’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Wondering if you really know what a difference you’ve made. Wondering if you really know and understand how much I love you, how much I’ve needed you.”

Once again, they are immersed in their thoughts. Jessie squeezes Adam’s hand. The breeze tickles the hair from Adam’s forehead. You would think they were just an older couple enjoying the evening, not discussing the end of their lives.

“So, who gets what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I care.”
“What about arrangements?”
“I don’t think I care about them either. What a word - arrangements. Like this is something people plan on? What difference do arrangements make?”
“Kind of like life insurance. It doesn’t insure your life, just your arrangements.”

They both smile at this comment. It’s the first smile they’ve shared today. Its funny how words and phrases are often ignored for their humorous content, funny how they can take on new meanings when the situation calls for it.

“By the way, I want you to remember that I do know how much you’ve loved me. I’ve seen it everyday in your eyes, your smiles, and all the little things we’ve shared.”
“I hope you really do know.”
“I do, baby, really I do.”

Adam leaned over to kiss her. Not a long, drawn out thing, but a kiss that seals their last words. A kiss that tells them both how lucky they have been. How fortunate they were to have found that once-in-a-lifetime true love.

Adam thought about how beautiful Jessie was, even in her advancing years. How time had been kind to her and how she still had the same bright eyes and glowing smile that he fell for in the first place. He sat with his memories, remembering all the little things, like the glow she had while carrying the children, the light in her eyes when they bought the house. He thought about the way she looked in her wedding dress so many years ago or in her old nightgown just last night. The way she responded to his touch, even now.

Jessie was thinking how attracted to Adam she still was, even though they weren’t young anymore. She thought about how his eyes still lit up when she entered a room, how the years had added lines to his face, but not in an ugly way. She thought of all the smiles that caused the lines around his mouth. She remembered the way he never seemed to get angry, never seemed to get flustered. She thought about how his hand in hers had felt over the years, the strength of it, and the feeling of knowing that everything would always be ok if he would just hold her hand through it all. She remembered with a slight blush how his hands had felt to her over the years lying close in their bed.

“You said you weren’t going to stay here without me. Were you serious?”
“Yes, I‘m serious!” I know it sounds like I’m crazy or something, but that is just how I feel. I’d be incomplete without you, somehow missing something. I’d have no purpose, no meaning in my life. Do you think I could ever come down here again? Just sit here by myself? Or just rattle around the house by myself every day, alone in bed at night?”
“So what are your plans when I’m gone?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. I guess a handful sleeping pills and a couple of vodka tonics would do ok. I’m not too keen on blowing my brains out.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I told you I was. You may go first, but I’m not staying here by myself. I‘ve shared the last 43 years with you. I plan on sharing eternity, too.”

It’s dark now, and still they are sitting, although a little bit closer now to ward off the chill of the evening. Not many people are on the pier during the week. Just an occasional tourist, maybe one or two fisherman. Basically, they are alone. Just them, the sliver of a moon, and the stars gleaming against a velvet sky.

“You know, you have a choice. I don’t.”
“What choice? To live, to stay here alone? What kind of choice is that? Not one that I chose!”
“My choice was made for me. I am definitely going to die. This much we know. I meant that, if you are serious, you can choose to go with me, at the same time, rather than waiting on me to go first.”
“So how can I do that? We don’t know when you will go. The only thing the doctor said was it would be soon. He didn’t even say how soon.”
“Well, we could both go home and do the vodka tonics thing.”
“Hey, you know, that doesn’t sound too bad, now that I think about it. We could be together, in our own bed, just like always. Let somebody else worry about the damned arrangements and fight over what’s left behind.”
“Yea, but it doesn’t seem to have much flair to it. We’ve always had a flair for things, and this just doesn’t seem to measure up.”
“So, do you have any more suggestions?”

They sat quiet for few minutes, letting the realization of the conversation sink in. What would people think if they only knew what they were discussing? A falling star streaked across the sky. It seemed to almost linger there, almost beckoning them to follow.

“Did ya see that?”
“I sure did, baby. Wasn’t it beautiful?”
“It sure was.”

They thought about the many falling stars they had seen in their lifetime on this pier. They thought of all the hopes, dreams, and wishes made on them.

“I have another idea.”“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“We started on this pier, let’s end it here. There’s been no place more special to us than here. We fell in love here. It has that certain flair I was talking about. How about if we just disappear from the pier? Just jump off the side and swim to the falling star?”
“You know, baby, I like it. All you have to do is say when, and I’ll be with you. Always with you. I love you. I always have and always will”
“I love you, too. Do you think we’ll go to Heaven?”
"I don’t know, baby. I just know I’ve been in Heaven since I met you."

Jessie and Adam stood up, a little stiff from the long time of sitting. They looked around to see if there were any people who could try and stop them. There was no one. The pier was empty. Adam led her to the end of the railings. They were both trembling. There were tears in their eyes. This was good-bye. They knew this would be their last night on the pier. It would be the last evening conversation, the last falling star they would see together. Perhaps it was simply destiny. It seemed like a proper ending for two lives so intermingled, so intertwined. They held each other close for what seemed like a very long time. They kissed one last time.

Four days later, the morning paper read:

Missing Local Couple Found On Beach, Both Drowned

They were still holding hands.

Where Do We Go Now?

2005-08-09T16:00:00.000-04:00

Where Do We Go Now?

Imagine looking down a river bank in the late fall. The trees are ablaze with the golden orange colors of Autumn, the sun is glistening off of the river in a prism of diamonds. The sky is so clear and blue that it almost hurts your eyes to look. The woods nearby are noisy with the inhabitants preparing for winter. The squirrels are running through the trees busily hiding away acorns for the long winter ahead, the birds are chirping their warning of cooler weather, and somewhere in the distance you may hear a deer walking towards it’s bed of dry leaves and pine straw.

In the distance, you see a family with a small campsite on the sandbar at the waters edge. A fire is burning, putting the faint, sweet scent of smoke in the air. You can barely smell the coffee and stew that the mother has cooking. You can see the smiles of the little boys as they fish with their father at the waters edge. The mother is sitting contentedly watching. The young daughter is quietly drawing unknown pictures in the sand. Each of the people you see are happy and pleased to be in the middle of nature.

There are no other people around, unless you go farther down the river to another sandbar. There are no televisions, video games, telephones, or other worldly “necessities” to be found. Simply a family enjoying the outdoors. If you had came by earlier, you could have seen the mother showing the children animal tracks in the sand on the river bank, and teaching them which animal made them. You could have seen the father showing the boys how to properly tie a hook onto their line, how to put a cricket on the hook so he will still move and attract a bite from the
prize catch, and how to remove a hook from a turtles mouth without harming him. The stew in the pot is made from the squirrels that were hunted this morning. The father and sons brought them in, and the daughter has learned from her mother how to clean them faster than you can get the pot ready. The daughter takes a little pride in her speed and
accuracy. The sons have the glow of being able to provide supper, (or at least part of it). They know that the fish caught this afternoon may be tomorrow’s breakfast.

Before lunch time, the family gathered the wood for this evenings campfire. The children have already been taught to look for wood that has already fallen and is dry, as most green wood won’t burn well anyway. They know which wood gives off the most smoke to keep mosquitoes and gnats away, which burns the longest and hottest, and
which will make meat cooked over it taste the best. As dusk begins to fall, they will all go down to the river and wash up for supper. When supper is finished, mother and sons go again to the water to clean up everything after supper. The boys are busy scooping sand into the pots and dishes to scrub the food particles and grease away. No soap could get them any cleaner. Mother also gets a fresh pot of water for coffee and hot chocolate.

The water may have a strange color, but the children know that it is because of the tannic acid from the tree roots and leaves in the water. No bacteria can grow in the tannic acid. The water is safe.

Back at camp, father and daughter are preparing for the night. When you’re in the woods, bedtime comes early, and no one ever complains. When the sun goes down, and the sky is filled with millions of stars, it just feels right to lie down. Just as it feels right to rise early when the fog is still clinging to the trees and hovering just above the water. When everyone is sitting next to the fire, it is time for stories, roasted
marshmallows, and learning about the woods at night. The children are taught the different sounds of all the night birds. They listen for, and can identify raccoons and opossums scrambling in the woods just behind the camp. They have learned the secrets of how to tell when the deer are feeding, when it’s expected to rain, and how to tell if the water is rising. They know how to hunt, fish, and supply themselves with food. They
know the right way to build a safe fire, and what type of wood to use. They have a wonderful respect for the woods, the river, and everything in it. They know the music of nature, and how to dance with it. The reason they know is that they were taught. They were able to be taught because there was a place to teach them.

The next time the family comes, they can’t get to this place. It has been blocked off with a gate made from steel pipe, chained and padlocked. There is no way to get there. There is no more access to the classroom of nature. There is now a posted sign, nailed into a tree with a large spike. The children see the sap running from the new injury to the tree, and know that the sap will attract the insects, who will eventually kill the tree.
Everything is only a matter of time. They are saddened by this turn of events.

When the father inquires, he learns that area is now leased by a hunting club. He doesn’t have the money to join this club, or any other for that matter. In his experience, most of the members of hunting clubs aren’t as responsible as they should be. When they have done all the damage they can do to the public lands, they return to their leased “club”. It just doesn’t seem fair that the ones with the most money always win. He can’t
afford to join them, and he can’t afford to fight them.

The only other place to camp is at a campground. Yes, it’s also right on the river, but it is full of big RVs with their big, noisy electric generators. The sounds of their televisions replace the sound of the crickets. The parks lights replace the millions of stars. The smell of pine is replaced with gasoline fumes. No camp fires are needed, as the park boast of being safe and well lit. The quiet is interrupted by the noise of four wheelers, boat motors, and too many people. It also cost $20.00 a night to stay here. He can’t afford that for a weekend either. After all, he’s not made of money, and he has a family to support.

For the next year or so, the family weekends are spent mostly at home. There is always a television or radio playing. Instead of fishing and hunting, the boys are riding skateboards and bicycles. The father works in the yard, the mother cleans out closets and drawers. The daughter spends her time on the phone. The beauty and sounds of nature are
so far back in their minds that they are almost forgotten.

The father hears that the old campsite area is now re-opened, and makes plans for the following weekend. When they arrive, the once pristine sand is now full of broken glass, beer cans, and tire tracks. The once proud standing trees in back of the old campsite are nothing but jagged stumps. They’ve been cut down and used for huge bonfires, and no one remembered to clean up the mess. Several of the trees that remain
have wire pinching into the bark from old lines put up by the members of the club. The members didn’t have to care. After all, the land didn’t belong to them. There are no more bird nest in the trees near the old campsite. The only tracks are human, not animal. There is no longer anything here to teach, except for what things not to do. As the children go down to the waters edge, they see a dead turtle. He has a hook in his mouth, and being unable to eat, has simply came to the edge and died. They don’t understand. The mother tries to explain, but cannot find the words. The father simply walks away and cries.

When will we learn? When will big businesses learn? When will the teaching of our children be more valuable than the almighty dollar? When will the timber companies, who control most of our wooded areas, learn that to really preserve something, you have to teach our younger generations how to respect and protect it? When will hunting clubs
learn, that regardless of their money, we, the few who wish to teach our children, don’t want them here? When will we start speaking up and speaking out? When will we quit allowing the Department of Natural Resources to ask us for help, when we can’t do a thing and don’t have a voice? When will we change our value systems?

Where will we take our children to learn? To the local library? Some things simply can not be learned from a book. How can a book teach a child what a mocking bird sounds like? Can a book explain the smell of pine needles in the early morning mist? How can a book make the sounds of a ripple in the river caused by a fish jumping for a quick meal? Is it possible that a book can fully describe the taste of fresh meat
cooked over an open fire? How can a book illustrate the feel of warm sand on bare feet?

Once all the lands and rivers have been taken over, used up, polluted, over hunted, over fished, and ruined for future generations, will the hunting clubs and pulp wood companies with all their money finally be satisfied? Is the loss of education and respect worth it?

Where do we go now?

The Old Quilt

2005-05-13T22:00:00.000-04:00

The Old Quilt

Today I saw a beautiful old quilt. Most people would not see the same beauty as I did. It was all made by hand, from each tiny square that was cut and sewn together, to the intricate hand quilting. The stitches were quite small, but were still very tight. The quilt itself was very worn and tattered. Some of the material had gotten very thin over the years of use and the many washings it must have endured. The edges had became frayed, but it still retained it’s scalloped edge. The pattern on the quilt top is known as the Double Wedding Ring. It is a very difficult design when such tiny squares are used. The pieces of material could not have been more than one inch square. The colors were quite pastel, but I couldn’t tell if that was the original color, or just what was left after so many years of obvious use.

I have made quilts with my mother, though none as intricate or difficult as this one. My mother and grandmother were given the ability to do these kind, not me. I usually mess something up, lose patience and give up. Perhaps as I get older, I’ll try again. Maybe this time I’ll succeed. There is a lot of time and work that goes into making a quilt. An old tale says that if you are single, and you are the first to sleep under a new quilt, you will dream of your future mate.

There are three main pieces to a quilt, new or old. There is the top, which is the part that has the design, pattern, or color scheme. Second is the batting, which is quilted between the top and the back. It is usually carded cotton in the old ones, or polyfill in the new. This is where the warmth comes from. Older quilts were quite heavy, and would make you feel like you were pinned down under the cover. The last is the backing, which is usually muslin, but old flour sacks were used for many of the older ones.

Quilts, especially older ones, are not only functional, but are also a work of art that a woman would pride herself in doing. There are many quilt top patterns, from the very simple to the very detailed. They have names that may be familiar to you if you ever slept under one of your grandmothers quilts. Names such as Jacob’s Ladder, Bow-tie, Sailboat, Dutch Boy (or Girl), Log Cabin, Pin Wheel, Flying Geese, and the list goes on. There are those that really have no pattern at all, but are just as beautiful, like the Postage Stamp, the Crazy Quilt, and the good old Patchwork. Quilting patterns (the stitches that hold the batting in) themselves can be difficult, and vary as much as the different quilt top patterns.

Material was often very hard to come by in years past. First of all, in the rural areas, a woman may go to town only once every month or so. Money was also an issue. Woman did not have access to money as they do now. If they needed something extra, they would have to sell eggs, take in laundry, or come up with some other way. The majority of quilt tops were made from scraps of material from flour sacks and old clothing that could no longer be worn. My mother still has quilts that I recognize some of the material used in them. There is a piece of one of my old blouses, the summer curtains from the kitchen, daddies shirt. Like pieces of our lives.

Quilts were made by woman all over this country. Each area seemed to have it’s own patterns, colors, materials, and ways of making them. Some were made by a single person, others by a group known as a quilting bee. Some were made in the persons lap, while others were put into frames that either sat on chair backs or were suspended from the ceiling with eye hooks and wire. Some were made just for warmth. Others were made as gifts for special occasions, such as the Double Wedding Ring one I saw today. I wonder if it was a wedding gift?

When I held this one in my hands today, inside of a little antique shop, I wondered of it’s history, and questioned myself as to how it wound up in such a place. If it had been a gift, who made it? How many generations had it been passed down to like a family treasure? How many cold nights had it spent keeping the owners warm? How many babies had taken naps either under it or on top of it? Who discarded it to where I had found it? And why?

If you really look at it, you can see the love and the work that went into it. You can also see the sad reality of our time. Like many other things in this shop, it was probably part of someone’s estate, with the children or grandchildren wanting to discard and liquidate as quick as possible so they could continue their busy lives. Now, if something isn’t brand new or perfect, it isn’t respected or wanted. People no longer respect the craftsmanship, the work, the love or the effort it takes to make something with pride. People don’t seem to understand what sentimental values are any more. It doesn’t have to be a quilt. It can be anything that is, or was, homemade with pride and a true artistry. It could be a hand carved dough bowl, a piece of functional furniture, or an old weather vane. Crafts today are not the same.
I can’t seem to get my mind off the old quilt. It’s almost like it’s trying to tell me something. You know, maybe it already has.

Jackrabbit Joe

2005-05-13T21:00:00.000-04:00

Jackrabbit Joe

The streets weren’t always so crowded. So many people, so many confounded horses. I remember the time when a horse coming into town meant some cowboy had done gotten himself in trouble. We used to get all the outlaws through here. Since the railroad passed us by, they figured they’d have a place to lie low for a while before any law men would find them. There was the time that the Pinkerton’s found one of them though.
Jackrabbit Joe they called him. He always seemed to stay one jump ahead of getting caught. He’d been living outside Starkes, Nevada with his wife when it started. Priscilla was a real pretty woman from New York. She always said she hated the rugged country Joe had moved her into. She was educated and was used to being pampered. She had been raised quite the proper city lady. The idea of living in a two room, dirt floor shack in the middle of nowhere just didn’t appeal to her. It didn’t matter to her that Joe was trying to get his herd built up. It didn’t matter that he would work from can to cain’t, daylight to dark putting up fences, diggin‘ out waterin‘ holes, or cutting‘ hay. It didn’t matter that Joe loved her more than life itself.
Joe would take her to town every chance he got. When he’d have to go in to buy whatever building material he needed, supplies, or grub, he always brought Priscilla. She would walk into the mercantile like she was some kind of queen. She always acted like she was better than everybody else and she never was pleased with anything. That is, until the day she met Lawrence Cashman. He’d been a big shot newspaper man in Philadelphia, and had came to Starkes to start a new paper. He had also been raised “proper”, and was quite the gentleman.
Priscilla was hooked right from the start. “I finally have someone to talk to, Joe. Somebody other than these rowdy, dirty people that live in this hell hole of a place”, she said. Joe didn’t like it, but he always gave in. He loved her too much to argue with her.
Joe had to go into Carson City to pick up a few young heifers to add to the herd. He knew he’d be gone at least a week. He also knew Priscilla wouldn’t want to stay at the shack until he came back. She would want to pack up and go into town to stay at the hotel. “At least”, she said, “I won’t have to worry about Indians and coyotes if I’m in town”. Joe worried more about the wolf at the newspaper office. Joe got her all settled in
at Miss Rosie’s, and took off. He told Priscilla he’d be back by supper on the following Friday. Joe felt mighty uneasy, but blamed it on the slightly cool breeze and the clouds banked up to the west.

Joe arrived home late Thursday evening. The heifers had been penned up in Carson City, and were anxious to get out on the trail. There weren’t but 20 head, so Joe had no problem keeping them together by himself. Come spring, these heifers would hopefully have had their first calves. If he was lucky, he thought, there might even be a set of twins in the bunch.
He was daydreaming when he approached the shack. He put the heifers into the newest fenced area, got off his horse, and went inside. “It may be shabby”, he thought, “but it shore feels good to be home”. The first thing he noticed was the lamp on the old board table holding down a letter. Then he saw the empty trunk where Priscilla’s things used to be. He began to shake as he picked up the letter and began to read.

“Dear Joe, I am sorry to leave you this way, but I just can’t bear
another minute of this horrid life. It will make me old before
my time. As you may have guessed, I am with Lawrence. He
and I intend on leaving Friday morning for Sacramento. He
has told me of the city, and I think I would fit better there than
here. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but I tried. I hope you have a
good life. Sincerely, Priscilla”.

He read it again. Then again for the third time. He didn’t want to believe that the one thing he loved in this life was gone. Something broke deep in his chest. A burning pain like he’d never felt before rippled through him like a tornado on the plains. Joe started to cry. He’d never cried a day in his life, not even when his ma passed on. He wiped the tears from his face and walked to the fireplace where his gun belt hung. He never made a habit of wearing it, as he wasn’t the type for violence. He strapped it on, and for some reason, it just felt good. He reached over the mantle and took down the Sharps. He loaded both weapons carefully, then turned and walked out. It was just beginning to get dark, and the sunset was a crimson red on the horizon. He walked around behind the shack and turned out all the cattle. Calmly, he went back inside the shack, rolled a cigarette, and took out a match to light it. The burning match he threw onto Priscilla’s letter on the table, and he began to watch his entire life, his dreams, go up in flames and disappear in the smoke. Nothing mattered now.
The ride into town didn’t seem to take long. He tethered his horse outside of Miss Rosie’s boarding house, and walked in. When Miss Rosie saw the gun slung around his hip, she knew there was going to be trouble. She spoke to Joe and told him “Now, Joe, don’t go losin’ your head over that woman! Everybody knows she ain’t no good, and there’s been trouble brewin’ ever since that news feller came to town. You’re too good a man to be brought down by the likes of her.”
Joe heard nothing as he climbed the stairs two at a time. He didn’t even bother knocking, just went through the door. There was his Priscilla, all wrapped up in the sheets, but without any clothes on. She had never slept that way at home. She said it wasn’t proper for a lady. When her eyes fluttered open, there was a look of fear when she saw the pistol in his hand. “’Cilla,” said Joe, “I always loved you, and always will, but you ain’t never goin’ to belong to anybody else but me. I reckon I’ll see you in hell, cause that‘s surely where I‘ll be goin‘”. He pulled the trigger until the gun was empty. He didn’t even notice the blood for the tears in his eyes. He then left the boarding house and headed over to the little room where Lawrence stayed over the printing office. From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Lawrence riding hell to breakfast out of town. “No matter”, he thought, “I’ll find’im” He calmly mounted his horse and began to ride in the direction Lawrence had went. He didn’t care how long he’d have to tail him, he’d find him.
It took almost two weeks, but Joe tailed him to a railroad station near Lake Tahoe. Lawrence had bought himself a ticket and boarded the train. Joe had no money for a ticket, so he just rode out a few miles to meet the train when it got there. After about an hour, the sound of the train could be heard. Joe stood in the middle of the track with his old Sharps ready and aimed. The screeching brakes and steam billowing up brought the train to a stop. Joe boarded the train and told everybody not to be scared, he was simply looking for one man. He found him in the dining car, with a liquor glass in his hand. Lawrence looked up and smiled at Joe. “I wondered how long it would take you. I simply got tired of running, and decided to have a little more pleasure before I left this life.” Lawrence then emptied his glass. “The only pleasure I ever had in this world ”, replied Joe, “is gone because of you. And your right, you’re fixin’ to leave this life.” By the time the smoke cleared, Joe was gone, and Lawrence was dead.
The Pinkerton’s were notified about the killings, and they began the search for Joe. Just about the time they would show up, Jackrabbit Joe would be one jump ahead of them. After several years of running, Joe went back to Starkes to start over. The Pinkerton’s followed, but when they arrived, all they found was a fresh grave marked with Joe’s name. Miss Rosie told them he “had just came home and died. Buried him three days ago.” The Pinkerton’s had, as usual, found their man. The only thing they didn’t know is that there was no body in that grave, just an old wood coffin. I know this for a fact.
My name has been Mack for now on 25 years, but I used to be called….Joe.

If Only They Could Talk

2005-05-13T20:05:00.000-04:00

If Only They Could Talk

I have always been what you could call a yard sale shopper. I cannot count the Saturday mornings spent with my family looking for that perfect bargain. I have furnished my home, bought gifts, clothed my entire family, met many interesting people, and saved plenty of money in the end. An estate sale, though, is an altogether different story.

For those who do not know, a yard sale is when people are cleaning out closets, re-arranging, moving, or making room for new things. They are held on lawns, porches, garages, or sometimes in living rooms when the weather is too cold or rainy. They are held in every month, with spring and summer being the best. They are held in big cities and small towns, and in neighborhoods everywhere. An estate sale, on the other hand, is often just as it says - the selling of a persons estate after death. Perhaps I have a melancholy view, but so be it.

I have attended several estate sales with my mother. She quite enjoys them, and has a different view than I. She feels it is a privilege to be able to purchase treasures that the family doesn’t want or need. I feel it is an invasion into a persons personal life. Just a way for the adult children to dispose of family “junk” so as to settle everything before they return to their busy lives. I wonder if they would feel the same way if these items accumulated over the years could talk? If they knew the rich memories behind all of the family junk. If they knew what each piece had meant to the family member.....

Hello, I am Grandfather Clock. I guess you could say I kept the time of this family, not just in minutes and hours, but in memories, too. It was me that father watched as each child was born into this family of mine. It was I who counted the time before the children went off to school, and before father went to work. My numbers taught the children to count. It was I that let out the chimes to signal bedtimes and curfews. Often, I was hated by the children because I signaled the end of some enjoyment, or the beginning of some dreaded chore. Over the years, I’ve seen the children come and grow and move away. It was I that was stopped when father passed away. I didn’t know then if I’d ever run again, but just as life kept on, so have I. Simply standing in this hallway, ticking away the minutes of this families life. Now that mother has passed away, our home is being separated and sold. I wish I could tell them all the things I remember. My memories are for sale at the price of $ 55.00.

I am Miss Mirror. I have hung in this hallway for over fifty years. I was a present from father to mother. He used to stand in front of me, with his hands wrapped around mother, and tell her how beautiful she was. I’ve seen so many smiles! I’ve watched as mother fixed her hair before going to church on Sundays. I’ve watched father check his tie. I watched as son and daughter primped and checked their looks before dates, prom nights, and weddings. I saw the children grow from babies amazed at their reflections, to proud adults. I’ve also seen the tears when the family was told of brothers death in a war, of sisters car crash, and all the little arguments of a family. I’ve seen so much, but can tell them so little. I’m not worn out or used up, but I guess I’m useless to son and daughter. If only they could unlock the memories I have. My price is only $ 35.00.

I am Mrs. Rocker. I’m the one who watched sleeping babies in mothers arms. I remember all the nights of colic, fevers, chicken pox, and broken hearts. I remember all the sleepless nights mother spent with me while waiting for some member of the family to return safely home. I’m the one who stayed up with father when he sorted out problems ranging from a disagreement with mother, to how to pay for daughters wedding. I’ve seen more worry than most of the house, but I’ve seen plenty of joy, too! Like the time mother discovered sons first tooth while nursing him right here! And the time mother discovered what it felt like to rock a grandchild for the first time. So many memories wrapped up for the small price of $ 45.00.

I am Mr. Hammer. I supposedly belonged to father, but spent most of my time with mother. Oh, sure, father used me from time to time. To fix a few things like the nail in the front steps that keeps coming up, or putting up targets for sons first BB gun. Mostly though, I was used by mother. To open stuck windows, open paint can lids, and pull out old nails. I was once used to threaten a sewing machine that wouldn’t cooperate with mother while she was making a quilt for daughters wedding! I’ve had a few new handles over the years, but I work just like new. It seems with my experience, I would be worth more that the price tag of $ 2.00.

My name is Ladle, and I guess I’m the speaker for the kitchen crew. I assume we are the least thought of because we are the cheapest priced. We range from a dime to a dollar. We all wonder if son and daughter remember all the after school snacks, sleep-over party favors, birthday cakes, and Sunday dinners that came from us and mother. Nothing could make us feel better than to see their smiling faces after they had finished eating mothers homemade cookies or special Saturday muffins. The things she made for this family were pure labors of love. The kitchen was so hot in the summer. We didn’t have fans or air conditioning. Mother always made things from scratch, never from a box. Everything in this kitchen speaks of her love for this family. We wonder if our new families will have that same love, or will we be considered outdated and thrown away at the end of this sale. If only we could talk!

With the breakdown of the family unit, it seems to me that some of us have forgotten just what the word family means. Think about your life. About your parents and your children’s lives. Will your children hold memories, or an estate sale price tag at the end of your life? How about you? Will you hold a tag, or will you remember the smiles of a gift given? You know, the trinket box you gave to your mother when you were little? Will you remember the fishing trips with you father when you see his old tackle box, or will you see the price of a lure? Look in your home today. Remember where you got each little knick-knack, each picture. Sure, some things may have no sentimental value, but what about the things that do?
Think about these things the next time you see.......

*ESTATE SALE*
1234 ANY STREET
YOUR TOWN, USA
SATURDAY 9AM TO 2 PM

Autumn Afternoon

2005-05-13T20:01:00.000-04:00

Autumn Afternoon

As I sit on the front porch using the last of the day’s light to glance over the evening paper, I feel the slight chill that has crept into the air. I have spent the late afternoon watching the golden brown leaves of the sycamore tree float slowly and gracefully to the ground. The pine straw is a bit heavy on the now browning grass in my front yard. I know I shouldn’t be wasting my time just sitting on the front porch. I know I should be in the yard raking up the leaves as they fall. I just can’t bring myself to leave my perch. I, after all, have a perfect autumn view.
I can sit quietly listening to the birds getting ready to nest at evening light. I can watch the squirrels preparing themselves for the fast approaching winter. I can see the pink shimmer of an autumn evening sunset. I can smell the soft fragrance of a fireplace beginning to burn. I feel the cold breath of winter beginning to creep into the fast approaching night. My toes, poking out of the sandals that I have lived in since April, are suddenly quite nippy.

I know that soon, I will wake up to a yard that has been diamond studded with the first frost. All the leaves will have finally found their final resting place in my front yard. The children will be catching the school bus in the early twilight of morning wearing new sweaters and jackets. Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations will soon be showing up, glowing brightly in windows and dancing across lawns. The sound of chainsaws whining and axes cracking will be echoing across the neighborhood announcing the golden glow of fires and the perfume of smoke to come.

I almost hate to think about removing the fallen leaves from the yard. They are a signal of the coming changes. The slow, methodical grace of the leaves falling down is as graceful as the soft, gray, billowing of smoke coming up from the chimneys. The newly grounded leaves are the signal that winter is fast approaching. They act as a reminder to get out your winter coats and blankets. They tell you to winterize the lawn mower, to break out the rakes and leaf bags, and get the yard ready for colder weather. Listen to them.

I don’t think I’ll worry about the leaves today. I may not worry about them tomorrow, either. I may just spend the early fall sitting on my front porch. Just sitting and watching as the season shows her finest colors and changes moods as quick as the fall wind blows.

Then again, I may not have to rake them. Maybe there will be a good strong wind to blow them all away into the oblivion of my next door neighbors yard. I never liked her anyway.

Mama, I'm Bored!

2005-05-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

Mama, I’m Bored!!

How many times have we parents heard this cry? How many rainy days have passed without this being uttered in the distance? Not many, I can guess! Today, our children have a zillion things to occupy themselves with, yet they still say they are bored stiff, with nothing to do.

Our kids today have television with more channels that anyone ever needs. They can watch anything from nature to cartoons. There are channels for every sport imaginable, fashions and fads, music of every kind, (including Lawrence Welk reruns!), channels for old movies, new movies, foreign movies and movies they don’t need to watch. Channels for home improvements, home building, and interior design. I think every religion is represented on today’s TV airwaves. Isn’t it strange how we used to complain about reruns, but now there is even a special channel for them!

Our kids live in a computerized world. More and more homes are getting their own home computers. Look at how many computer games there are that only require a television and some connection cables. We started off with a game called PONG and look what has happened. There are so many new companies coming out, that the average parent can’t keep up with who’s who in games. There are television type, arcade type, and pocket sized. Games now have everything from monsters to automobiles, from gunfights to makeovers. They have more blood, guts and murder than any city in the United States. Computers have made possible the interactive stuffed animal and any kind of virtual world you can think of. Even the newer models of stereos, televisions, and VCR’s are computerized or at least computer compatible. As fast as technology is moving, items are often obsolete before you can get them home and plugged in!

Even the simplest of toys are different now. Our little girls have dolls that have colds, earaches, sore throats, diaper rash, and little sisters. They have eyes that cry, bodies that move, feet that walk, voice boxes that giggle, huge wardrobes, special diapers and food, and some even come with adoption papers or their very own pets! Our little boys have remote controlled, battery eating construction equipment that can move mountains, action figures that could have came from the army, and every intergalactic spaceship imagined, complete with aliens that talk, threaten, fly and squawk.

As you can see, most of the stuff I’ve listed requires very little, if any, imagination. What ever happened to Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys? What about a good, strong, yellow Tonka truck? You remember, the ones with no motor? No batteries? Why can’t you seem to find a baby doll that does absolutely nothing? Do you know if there is a manufacturer for good old fashioned building blocks? I remember the brightly colored pieces of wood, sanded smooth and in many different shapes, packaged in a stiff cardboard box. No batteries here, either. Have you forgotten what a new box of crayons smells like? There is no sweeter perfume. How about the excitement of a brand new coloring book? Not the so called ones they have today that advertise the latest super hero or animated film, but the ones with pictures of animals, flowers, rainbows and children? Plain cheap butcher paper and finger-paint used to amuse kids for hours. On rainy days, kids would read classic tales of fun and adventure. Moby Dick, Oliver Twist, Call of the Wild, Tom Sawyer, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and Little Women were well known.

I also remember that activity we called playing outside. A child could run, hop, skip, jump, roll, and tumble to his hearts content. Hide and Seek, Hop-scotch, Freeze Tag, Red Rover, I Spy, Leap Frog, Simon Says, marbles, playing catch, or just finding pictures in the clouds. The possibilities were endless. Drawing in the sand, making mud pies, building forts, or just simply getting dirty was never boring.

Older kids would ride their bikes, skate, socialize, or organize impromptu ball games. Baseball, football, basketball or soccer, house rules, no special equipment, no leagues, no competing parents, everyone could play. Kids were their own referee’s. I think I liked it better that way.

Is it any wonder our kids are bored? They have so many things cluttering up their mind there seems to be no room for imagination. Have we given them so much that they now can accept nothing? Do they really need all the stuff we’ve pushed on them? I think our kids would be a lot less bored if we taught them about the outside, classic books, and creative things to do. But then again, how can we expect more from a child, when he sees his parents, remote in hand, channel surfing the television, complaining to each other, “There’s nothing on, I’M BORED”. Sound familiar?