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’s got 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 pines 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

Today I saw a beautiful old quilt. Most people would not see the same beauty as I did. It was obviously made by hand, from each tiny square that was cut and sewn together to the intricate hand-quilting. The stitches were small and still very tight. It was quite worn and a bit tattered. Some of the material was very thin from its many years of use and the many washings it must have endured. The edges had become frayed, yet it still retained its scalloped edge. The pattern on the quilt top was the Double Wedding Ring, a 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 those were the original colors, or just what was left after so many years of use. I have made quilts with my mother, though none as intricate as this one. My mother and grandmother were given the ability to do this kind, not me. I usually mess something up or lose patience and give up. Perhaps as I get older, I’ll try again. Maybe then I’ll succeed.            

Quilts, especially older ones, are not only functional, but they are works of art. Many of the patterns have names that may be familiar to you if you ever slept under one of your grandmothers quilts - Jacob’s Ladder, Bow-tie, Log Cabin 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. 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.             

Material was often very hard to come by in years past. 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 much of the material used in them - a piece of one of my old blouses, the summer curtains from the kitchen, daddy’s shirt, all sewn together like pieces of our lives.                  

Quilts were made by woman all over this country. Each area seemed to have its own patterns, colors, materials, and ways of making them. 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 wondered if it had been a wedding gift so many years before. When I held this one in my hands today inside of a little antique shop, I wondered of its history, and questioned myself as to how it wound up in such a place. If it had been a gift, who had made it? How many generations had it been passed down like a family treasure? 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 little shop, it was probably part of an estate, with the relatives wanting to discard and liquidate everything as quickly as possible so they could continue their busy lives. 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.

Of Days Gone Past

On the way to where my mother lived as a child, there is an old farm with several old barns, outbuildings and gray, weathered homes. All are in disrepair, some worse than others. I remember this little stretch of road from my childhood. I was always fascinated with this farm. It is in the middle of a huge pecan grove. The main road, shaded by pecan trees, runs through the middle of the farm with fields behind that stretch as far as you can see. It is in a rural area of south east Georgia, where farming has been a way of life since the earliest settlers. I have no idea if the same family from many years ago still owns the property, or if it has bought by one of the large farming corporations. My grandmother told me we were related somehow to the original owners, but I have no idea how. I do know that it is still an active farm, often seeing the self-propelled irrigation system doing its job of watering the various crops. A few times in passing, I have seen a modern tractor out in the field with a cloud of dust behind it from plowing. There are a couple of occupied homes and barns on one end of this farm that are obviously much newer than the old, graying buildings of the past on the other end.

But the new places don’t really interest me the way the old places do. I have often wondered if many years ago they were slave quarters, but again, I know more rural southern farmers than not back then were too poor to own slaves, so perhaps these old homes were for sharecroppers? My grandfather and my great grandfather were sharecroppers. They were just poor dirt farmers working long, hard and dirty hours to provide for their families and make money for the other fellow. They moved often, never owned much of anything or had a permanent place to call their own. Not much of a life many would say, but they were happy. I take pride in the fact that both were in demand in the area as they both were blessed with the proverbial green thumb and had a good work ethic that they passed down to their own children. By the time I came along, my great grandfather was gone and granddaddy had failing health, had moved to a bigger town and only had a home garden. But, oh, how I remember that garden!


I have often wished that I could go and just sit in one of these old homes or stroll around the outbuildings, perhaps to see if I can absorb some of the memories trapped inside. One of the homes is much larger than the others and sits closer to the road. It has a beautiful corner porch and still has its original wooden shutters at all the windows. Situated towards the back of the group is a large two story with lots of windows and a porch that goes all the way across the front of the house. The others are smaller, a couple probably not more than 2 rooms, but each of them surely has a story to tell. Scattered amongst the old homes are outbuildings such as tobacco barns, corn cribs and pack houses, and sheds for storing farm equipment and such. From the road, I can see an old hay rake that was pulled by mules or horses, or if using two men, an old tractor, resting and rusting under one of the sheds.

I have quite the imagination, especially for old things and old places. I can smell the fresh turned earth and the sweat on the mules. I can smell the smoke coming from the smokehouse and almost taste the sausage and ham that will come out of it. I can hear the children running through the pecan orchard after church on Sunday. I can see little boys using old pecans they dug up in their homemade sling-shots and little girls sitting on the porches shelling peas or learning to sew. I can see the fresh laundry that was hand washed this morning with homemade lye soap waving in the breeze on the clothesline. I can see the dogs laying around, often in the shade just under the porch, willing to bark at any possible visitor, yet all the while hoping not to be disturbed.

I can see the men in their overalls and brogan boots coming up to the back porch to wash the dust from the mornings work from their faces before going in to eat dinner, or lunch as it is called now. Most times, clean shirts for all the ones who worked in the field and a clean apron for the woman of the house were in order before they sat down to eat. I can hear the dinner bell being rang letting everyone know that dinner was on the table. I can hear the women calling the children in to get ready for their baths in the wash tubs in the middle of the kitchen. I can hear the breeze rustling in the pecan trees and the clucking hens in the chicken yard. I can imagine a group of children sitting on the edge of one of the porches waiting patiently to be handed a slice of fresh watermelon in the late evening of a summer day. I can taste the wonderful meals that came out of these kitchens, fresh homegrown vegetables, smoked meats, and homemade jelly, preserves and cane syrup for the wonderful buttermilk biscuits. I can also appreciate the work it took to make these meals happen.

In days past, many of the things we take for granted simply did not exist. The sheer magnitude of what these earlier people accomplished is staggering. The way they lived was filled from before daylight to dark with not much more than hard work. The whole family had chores to do, even the young children. Yet, when you get a chance to read the diary of someone from times past, or hear the stories told by a much older relative, you’ll find they were mostly happy. Crime was never an issue, juvenile delinquents were unheard of and marriages lasted till death. Communities were not filled with unknown faces. Everyone knew everyone in the community and helped each other out whenever it was needed. People now often live right next door to each other for years and never even exchange a friendly hello. It really makes today’s modern way of living seem somehow wrong.


It makes one yearn for days gone past, for simpler times, for peaceful living with no crime, no worries about electric bills or replacing one of our broken, must-have mechanical gadgets; a time before computers, cell phones and video games. When living was what you actually did, not simply surviving as we do today. Yes, they worked harder and they were mostly poor, but the payoff was worth more than what any amount of money could ever hope to buy. The riches they enjoyed are worth more than gold. They had restful sleep without pills. They enjoyed the simple beauty of early morning sunrises and were able to actually see the fruits of their labors and took pride in them. In days gone past, the men, women and children were all working together for the good of the family. Oh, how I wish I had been born in Days Gone Past...

What Price Beauty?

So, I am knocking on the age of 50. Not there yet, but it’s a lot closer than 40. At this writing, I will be 48 in less than 2 months. I am seeing the wrinkles and gray hair of my parents when I look in the mirror. My now adult children tease me about being “old”. I am a grandmother. I have arthritis. I often walk a bit slower than I used to. I am supposed to dress more “age-appropriate” whatever that means. I’ve been told it is time to cut my long hair because long hair isn’t for “older” women. It is getting more and more rare that a nurse asks me about my last period when I go to the doctor. I have the wisdom, or at least I hope I do, of things I have learned over the years.

I have learned that all arguments don’t have to be “won”. I have learned to pick my battles. I have learned that softly spoken words make a bigger impact than yelling. I have learned that I don’t have to be in such hurry all the time - things will wait, people will wait, the light will turn green in time and chores will be there when I get to them. I have learned that schedules for every little thing in my life are more of a bother than a helper. I do not have to eat lunch at noon, nor do I have to have dinner ready precisely at six. I have learned that nothing is more precious that a grandchild saying “I love you”.

I have learned that eating a piece of chocolate cake will not kill me or make my waist increase by 6 inches. I have learned that wearing make-up is not a mandatory thing, nor is spending hours on my hair, nails, or clothing choices. Comfort really is a style. I have learned to be comfortable in my own skin, even if that skin has stretch marks from having babies, it sags in places due to gravity, or it weighs more than the physicians standards chart recommends. I have learned that I am me, a one-of-a-kind and I’m perfectly fine with that.

I am comfortable. I see so many women, even those much younger than me, in a constant state of depression due to aging. Oh, depression? They have a pill for that. See a new wrinkle? They have a cream for that. Discovered gray hair? They have a dye for that. Have a flabby belly after the kids were born or a sagging set of breast? They have a knife for that. Money, money, money by the tons is being made from life’s little insecurities. I’m sure if there was a magic wand that we could wave, there is something we each would change about ourselves. With just a wave of the wand and tah dah, a nip here, a tuck there, thicker hair, uplifted bosoms and bottoms. That poor wand would be worn out in no time! No one seems to be satisfied.

I looked up a few prices online. As with anything online, the variables are many, but, good for a basic idea. The average price of liposuction from the hips is $2,400, the butt $1,800 and the outer thigh region about $3,000. You need to add around $1,600 for “non-surgical fees”, whatever those are. The price for a tummy tuck will set you back somewhere between $3,000 and $8,500. Ok, so on to the face lift, which will run between $7,000 and $9,000, a forehead/brow lift runs $3,500 - $5,000, eyelid tuck, upper and lower, $4,000 to $5,500.

So, let’s say you’re not financially able to spend this amount of money on your looks. Take a quick run to your local big box store or neighborhood pharmacy for some of the over-the-counter miracles. At one of the chain stores online site, I compared some prices. You can get a fake tan, wipe away years of age spots and wrinkles, firm, tone, tighten and plump your skin, all for anywhere from $8 to $50. Of course, when you empty that product container you just bought, you get to spend that amount again, and again, and again. Now add in the cost of make-up to make sure that you get the biggest bang for your buck out of that high-dollar cream/serum/goop. You’ll need concealer, foundation, bronzer, lip liner, lipstick, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, eyebrow pencil, and of course, all the sponge applicators and brushes to apply it. While you’re in the cosmetics department, walk on over to the hair care aisle and grab a bottle of whatever color you need to get rid of those pesky, aging gray hairs.

Well, well, you look fantastic! You’ve suddenly got new hair and a new face, what’s next? Grab a push up bra to defy gravity, a pair of shaping, slimming panty hose, or go all out for some of that new wonder garment called SPANX. Great – face, hair and now body. Aren’t you just fabulous? Aren’t you proud of yourself? You’ve just spent a fortune to turn back the hands of time. Don’t pick up the grandkids, they may mess up your make-up if they hug you. Don’t you dare wash the dishes or do any housework, it’ll ruin your hands all covered in that age defying lotion. Don’t kiss your husband, it will smear your lipstick. After all the running around you’ve done buying the stuff to look this good, don’t take a nap either or you’ll smudge your make-up and muss your hair before dinner. Come on. Really?

I’ll never be the one who is too primped to play. I’ll not be the one whose house goes untouched for fear of breaking a nail or chipping the polish. I’ll not spend money foolishly to erase my life. I’ll spend my “beauty allowance” on a kite to fly with the grandkids thank you very much. I refuse to carry three pounds of make-up in my purse. Every single wrinkle I have I earned, many of them caused by smiles and laughter, especially the crow’s feet around my eyes. Every gray hair shows the world that hey, I made it another year. I have lost several friends in the last 4-5 years. I’ll keep my gray to honor them.

I’ll never be afraid of smudging my make-up by snuggling with a grandchild in my lap. Ok, so my hair is simply pulled back in a not-for-my-age ponytail. My grandson likes me to tickle him with the ends. I don’t wear eye shadow, but my eyes are just as blue as they were when I was 16. I don’t have a bikini body, but then again, I never have so I don’t miss a thing. I figure I’m built sturdy to be able to handle what life hands me, and boy, has it handed me a lot! I am not a hard body fitness freak, I am soft. This means my grandchildren have a soft place to spend time playing, talking or napping. I am big enough that my husband has something to hold on to without feeling like he’s going to crush me.

What price are you willing to pay for beauty? Or perhaps I should ask what price will you pay before you realize that true beauty comes from within? A real woman (or man for that matter), is supposed to age. We’re not meant to be 20 forever. Gravity does indeed work – it’s a law you know. I spent a weekend not too long ago with a cousin who just turned 89. She has been a wife, a mother, a grandmother and a great grandmother. She is now a widow, but she has enjoyed her life. She has never wasted her time or money on the foolish notion of staying forever young. Her mother lived to be within a few months of turning 100. Oh, that I may be as lucky.

When indeed it is my time to leave this world, I want to be remembered not for any outer beauty. Not for my perfectly coifed hair, my impeccable make-up, or finely toned body. I want my family and friends to remember my cooking, my smile and the sound of my laughter that caused many of my wrinkles. I want them to remember how I loved music and loved to dance. I want people to remember how my husband looked at me as if I were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. I want my grandchildren to one day tell their grandchildren that I was always there for them, that I had a soft lap for sitting in, and that I used the end of my graying ponytail to tickle their belly. What price beauty? Mine is free. How about yours?

What If?

What if you lost your job today? What if you became seriously ill and could no longer work? What if your entire world came crashing down throwing you into situations you were very unfamiliar with? I recently spent an evening lounging on the couch with my husband. We were watching a documentary by the BBC called "Poor America". It brings to light to the over one and a half MILLION American children who are considered homeless. It took us on a journey through the storm drains of Las Vegas where around 500 people live. We were shown children being interviewed about their eating, or lack thereof. We visited a tent city outside of Detroit. We were taken to rural Tennessee to a facility hosting free medical and dental consultations where hundreds of people were camped out by 2:00AM, battling the cold and the time until the facility opened.


Talk about enlightening! And upsetting. The United States has always been considered the land Of Plenty, where everyone had the chance to achieve "The American Dream". It seems that dream has became elusive, almost unobtainable for far more than the public realizes. For those who thought they had achieved the dream, then lost it all due to circumstances beyond their control, it has became a nightmare. The poor in our country are often ignored, sort of hidden by the media. Those shown on our local news are often portrayed as troublemakers, panhandlers making the "good people" nervous. Many times, they are labeled as useless, mentally unstable, lazy drug/alcohol using bums that put themselves in their situation and do not deserve our help, much less our pity. It's time to stop this way of thinking and it's time to stop it now. The truth needs to be told. It needs to be brought to the attention of every American who has been brainwashed that this type of thing simply isn't possible in the United States.

One of the segments went underground into the huge concrete storm drains under Las Vegas. With millions of dollars being blown above them, some 500 people live in these drains. Some may have a part time job providing a few bucks a day, maybe enough to eat on, but nothing to come close to getting them into a better situation. One couple spoke of a 2 foot wall of water that came washing through the drain during a rain. They lost what little they had, but it is a risk they have to take just to survive.

Another segment visited Detroit, Michigan. Anyone who has kept up with the news knows what dire straights this city is in financially. It almost looks like a war zone in some areas with all the abandoned buildings, including a police station and a school. Here we were introduced to a couple who lived in a tent city right off the interstate a few miles outside of Detroit. They were actually referred there by one of the homeless shelters in Detroit because the shelter was full. They had been living int his tent city over a year. Think about this for a minute - a tent, in Detroit, Michigan, for a year.

Off to Tennessee where we see a facility parking lot filling up in the very early morning hours. The facility is holding a free medical consultation for both medical and dental. A mixture of people, from children to adults to obviously handicapped are camping in their vehicles, some even ling up at the door wrapped in blankets to ensure they can be seen. When the reporter speaks to these people or they are heard talking during the filming, you can hear the obvious accent of these mountain folks and i can just imagine all the "dumb, redneck, ignorant hillbilly" remarks coming. before you fall into thinking such, be aware that these people, just like those in any other area, are simply hard working families trying to make it from one day to the next. we saw a man who could very easily die without some proper medical care, yet he has no insurance and no money to pay. But he does have a family.

The saddest of all, which is why I saved it for last, was when they were speaking with elementary school children and a few who worked at the particular school. One woman said she noticed the children taking handfuls of ketchup packets and putting them in their pockets. When she inquired about it, she learned the children were taking them home so they could make "ketchup soup" by adding water, just so they would have something to eat before going to bed.

A young boy of eight spoke of going to bed hungry, how his parents didn't make anything on some days and how it was hard to go to sleep with his tummy growling. He also spoke of how his parents are planning on giving up the baby the mother is pregnant with because they have no money to take care of the baby. He said it made him sad. This is simply too much for a child of eight to be worrying about.

The saddest of them all was a cute, tiny six year old girl who was a bit more quiet and reserved than the others. She spoke of her mother eating a rat because there was no food. Yes, a rat. Are you kidding me? Here, in the land of Milk and Honey, children have been forced to watch a parent eat a rat. What did the child eat? It didn't say, but I would bet the same as her mother. This child will never forget this memory. This should show how bad things truly are. It will cause disbelief at first, but hopefully it will cause anger, frustration with the way things are currently done and handled, and hopefully spur an overhaul, a change for the better and pave a new road to the American Dream.

Perhaps as a nation we need to first of all, stop sending money, medical supplies and medicines, food and everything else imaginable overseas. I am not against helping others, but we definitely need to help our own first.

You can watch TV commercials or go online to see the many charities asking for your donations to feed hungry children. Yet, rarely have I ever seen an American child. I have seen African, South American, Middle Eastern and many others. Why? I know there are people starving all over the world, and it truly is a sad thing, but what about feeding our own first?

In the town that I live in there is an international non-profit group called MAP International. They distribute medicines, medical supplies and other relief efforts, a total of FOUR BILLION dollars worth in 2011. Yet on their website, I saw nothing about any help within the United States. I'm not saying they don't provide for US citizens, but none were shown or spoken of. Not one American child featured, not one elderly American. I did see their "featured stories" box - De worming supplies to the Ivory Coast, helping a Kenyan village, and about Travel Packs (boxes of medicines and supplies) going to Haiti. Hmmm... nothing to the citizens of the United States? Not one tiny portion of the 2011 four billion? Why?

Just because you don't see something does not mean it does not exist. When you ignore a problem, it does not go away. Even if you see a problem, you will never solve it until you get to the root of what caused it. You have to ask questions, such as why our economy is is the state it is in. Why do we have so many people losing their homes? Why is our nation going broke? Why are many our elderly having to worry about losing some of the benefits they paid into their entire working lives when they already have to choose between medicine, food or heating? Why? And then figure out what we going to do about it?


Just about any working American will tell you our welfare system is severely broken. We have too many second, third and sometimes fourth generation recipients. We have allowed an "entitled" population who feel they deserve everything to be handed to them and they are breaking us. We have illegal immigrants feeding off of us. We have a failing educational system causing us to rapidly fall further and further behind the rest of the world. So many problems, but are there any solutions?

There are always solutions if people are willing to put in the work, the dedication and the sacrifices to make them happen. Excuses of "It's too difficult". "It's not politically correct", It's too much work" are simply not going to get it done. It's beyond time to suck it up and get busy.

Welfare - many years ago the government created two programs - the WPA and the CCC. The WPA (Work Projects Administration) put people to work doing jobs such as roads, bridges and construction projects. The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) put young, unskilled men to work taking care of and developing our natural resources such as forestry lands and parks. Instead of just giving a handout in the form of welfare, why not reinstate such programs and have people to work? The government will still be "paying out", but at least we as citizens will get something for our money. When you put someone to work, you are also allowing them to have some pride as well as possibly learn a skill. This will flow over in tot he next generation, thereby breaking the entitlement mentality. Children learn by what they see around them. If they see working parents who pride themselves in being self sufficient, they will strive to be that way as well.

Illegal Immigration - When an illegal is found, it should mean immediate incarceration until such time as they can be deported back to their native country. The second time they are caught, they spend a minimum of 1 year at a work farm prison before being deported. The third time, or if they have been arrested within the United States for a violent or drug crime, they get a minimum of 20 years at a work farm prison. They will be forced to work on said farm, providing not only food & goods for the prison, but also for sale to the general public. The moneys reaped from these sales will go toward running the prison and to our Border Patrol. Woman who are caught will follow these same rules. Any children born in the United States will also be deported if their parents are here illegally. If someone wants to immigrate to the United States in the legal fashion I have absolutely no problem. The key point here is LEGALITY. Give our Border Patrol and law Enforcement the rights they need to enforce the above options.

Failing Education System - Start by firing inadequate teachers. Increase salaries of those who actually "teach" rather than just spend time at a school for a paycheck. Get rid of all the "work days" when students are not in school. Go back to the older schedules, such as school starts the Monday after Labor Day and ends the last Friday in May. Breaks will be the usual holidays - Thanksgiving, Christmas (Winter break), Easter (Spring break), as well as any Federal holidays. Stop taking children from the crib and placing them in "school". A study by Cambridge University shows that children who are forced into school before the age of six are simply not ready. They are simply set up for failure because their minds are not ready for a curriculum. When they begin failing at such a young age, it often sets them up for future failure in higher grades. In other words, let our kids go back to being kids! School has became the nations babysitter. Even within the well-to-do, children begin their life with a babysitter or nanny until they are old enough for "school", as young as age 3 for many. Then, the school is responsible for them from early morning to afternoon, then often until early evening through after-school programs. Our kids are growing up without their parents. They are learning from their care givers, their teachers and whatever celebrity is currently at the top.

As for curriculum in general, make sure our children learn not only the basics of mathematics, reading/reading comprehension and English grammar skills (the old reading, writing, and arithmetic"). Make sure our schools are also teaching our children how to work, balance a checkbook, live on a budget, save for retirement or for a "rainy day" and how function and gain employment in our ever changing world. An educated society is much better equipped to run that society than an uneducated one. Give our schools the tools, from computer labs to college prep classes, from work study programs to apprenticeships for skills. We need to learn to be honest with ourselves - every child is simply not going to be a doctor, a lawyer,or a physicist. As a society, we will also need plumbers, carpenters, brick/block masons, landscapers/horticulturist, and other such craftsmen. Give our kids the educational choices and give them the reasoning skills to make the right choices. A person who is content within his vocation is more productive, happier, and has fewer health issues from stress related medical problems.

Our government is spending us into oblivion. Even I have the basic skills to figure out that you can't spend more than you make and expect to be out of debt. Do you realize that as of May 2011, China now owns 28% of our debt? Which means they own us! The credit rating of the United States is frightening. Leaders are voting themselves huge pay raises and benefits for life when they leave politics. They are giving "bail-outs" for companies to stay in business and create jobs, but the only ones benefiting are the top CEO's with their bonus packages and vacations. They are passing laws that may sound good, but they line the pockets of big corporations and their cronies. They are wanting to cut benefits that many working Americans have paid into their whole life. They want to raise the retirement age thereby saving money on paying Social Security. The rich just keep getting richer, it's politics as usual.

Meanwhile, we have children in the United States of America eating rat for dinner.

This is MY River

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

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

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.

© Dorothy Taylor 2008

Double Trouble

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'

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.