Molly's Buckle

We lived in the valley where I live now.  Dad and Mom decided we needed to be closer to the highway to catch the school bus otherwise we would be walking over a mile in all kinds of weather one way to catch the bus. They purchased a small house from a couple that had belonged to their daughter who had moved away.

In those ancient days it was proper respect to call elders you didn't know by Mister, Missus or Miss and elder friends were addressed by Aunt and Uncle.

That placed us close to neighbors, Joe and Emma Rose, in their grandparent years with their children grown and gone. I adopted them, or they me, I'm not really sure which was true. They quickly became Aunt Emma and Uncle Joe.  I was there when ever I could obtain permission.

They had a Catalpa tree that reached the sky.  I could climb to the top and sway in the breeze with no admonition. It was heavenly!

Aunt Emma's kitchen always had great smells and Uncle Joe's barn always had surprises to discover.

AND they had a horse. She was almost a true black with the longest mane I'd ever seen.  Her tail touched the ground.  In the middle of her forehead was one bright white star.  Molly would present her head to be scratched and hugged no matter how small you were.

Molly could pull a plow and turned our garden many times.  I was able to ride her, too.  In fact Molly would willingly walk with five children on board at a time.  I learned Molly had been a show horse with many ribbons and trophies ridden by Aunt Emma and Uncle's Joe's daughter. Molly was twenty-three when I met her.

In the barn Uncle Joe and I found part of Molly's old show halter with the buckle still attached.  He removed the buckle and handed it  to me.  He said I could think of Molly every time I held it.

Life changes.  Aunt Emma and Uncle Joe moved closer to their son.  Molly went with them.

I still have Molly's buckle. 

Oh, the memories I have when I hold the buckle in my hand.

Thank you, Aunt Emma and Uncle Joe.

Thank you, Molly.

The Velveteen Bulldog

Not sure if it's an old age thing or if it's time simply for me to remember. Memories surface and I share.  That is the only thing I know with any certainty.

Aunt Grace was Dad's mother's sister and very special to Dad.  I loved (Great) Aunt Grace. There was such an innate kindness in her that was only exceeded by her unconditional love.

Her "get" left something wanting.  Her son, Glen, was referred to in hushed tones around me.  He may have liked the bottle and other illegal actions a little too much. He always made me feel uncomfortable. I would never sit in his lap which seemed to be his life's mission and personal challenge.  I had nothing to do with him!

Glen's son was just the worst of Glen with some other s**t mixed in. His name was Louie and was married to "poor" Betty.  Betty was a quiet mouse of a woman that served Louie in whatever way needed serving.They had a string of children I did not count and it seemed Betty was always in the "family way".

I was required only to address Aunt Grace as aunt and the others I avoided.

We were invited or compelled to visit Aunt Grace one evening. The whole gang was there.  I think it may have been the Fourth of July because there were fireworks later but beyond that, as a two-year-old plus I guess I just didn't remember what I deemed unimportant.

Mom, Dad and I arrived (I don't remember if my sisters came, again, not in my memory). Mom, Dad and Aunt Grace huddled in conversation as adults do. I was left on my own in the same (only) room of the house. The children, Stevie and Gracie, gathered around me. They were the only ones not in diapers and the only ones brave enough to try and talk to me.

In my hands, clutched tightly, was my most favorite possession, a velveteen bulldog.  He was brown with a white chest, bright button eyes and wore a red collar.  He was filled with sawdust, had no moving parts and remained in a sitting position.  He had no name that I recall. The only thing I remember was I adored that dog and carried him everywhere.  He was small enough to carry in one hand.

Stevie and Gracie were fascinated with the bulldog.  I allowed them to hold it.  They had no toys that I could see and they brought none to show me.  They politely took turns holding my bulldog gently almost reverently. Their eyes were alight with some emotion I could not name.  I was keeping an eye on my bulldog.  He was precious and I was taking no chances with him becoming lost in the crowd.

Daylight waned and it was time for fireworks.  The children lined up in a row to watch. The fireworks were something of a treat for all of us but the night was soon over.

I whispered a question to Mom as we were getting ready to leave.  She asked, What? in disbelief.  I asked again.  She said, If you really want to...

I handed my much loved bulldog to Stevie and Gracie as I said, Take good care of him. He's yours.

Sherry, Stevie and Gracie

Floating My Doll

I don't remember when she came nor if she had a name.  She never wore clothes.  She was a handy size to haul around with me on my adventures. She was about eight inches tall, stuffed rubber with eyes that closed, and varying cut lengths of reddish brown matted hair.  The only seam was where her head attached to her body.

Naked Friend was a constant companion. She was my ultimate "Action Figure".  She climbed trees with me because I could tuck her in my waistband as I climbed.  She liked dogs.  They liked her and sometimes carried her for me.  I kept a hay string so if the going got rough I could tie her to me or even drag her along. Naked Friend did things I never could.  She jumped from trees bravely and landed uninjured. She rode cattle (more often than I) and even explored the underside of the outdoor toilet. Oh, the adventures we had!

The hay string could be her safety line so I tied it permanently around her neck. It gave Naked Friend such a sense of security she began to have more and more adventures.

Our friend and neighbor lived down the creek from us. Mom and Dad visited often.  Naked Friend and I always went too.

Uncle Ray's creek was the continuance of ours with springs joining it along the way.  By the time it flowed below Uncle Ray's front yard it was too big for me to enter without an adult. The creek was in view of Uncle Ray's porch so the adults could watch me while I played BESIDE the creek.

Naked Friend was far luckier.  She entered the stream with her hay string around her neck.  The current would grab her and rush her to the end of the string as I ran along side on dry ground.  Back and forth, back and forth, Naked Friend floated and I ran. It was the highest form of entertainment for a four year old tom boy (who didn't really like dolls).

I thought of Naked Friend (named for this story) and told the tale to my hubby.  He was shocked and appalled as if I were a serial killer or something.  I said, It was just a doll. He shook his head.

Oh, the imaginative adventures of a country child!  I think Hubby will be watching me next time I'm around him with any kind of rope.

May our imagination and sense of adventure never fade.

This Rock

is much larger than it looks and is part of a large limestone shelf behind the garden.  Just below a spring runs as the first full time source of live water that begins our creek.  The main springs join in further down.

The ledge is over grown now.  There are four to five rocks that I'm sure used to be one thousands of years ago but time and climate and other sources divided them.  They lay thick and solid almost touching but never moving...not in my life time.

Today I wanted to climb and touch them but along with briers, honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper there was also a fine crop of Poison Ivy so I didn't.  I stood at creek level and remembered.

I remembered the ongoing adventures my dad and all the grandchildren had here.  One rock sounds hollow when tapped with a hammer or a rock.  This sound was the beginning of The Treasure Hunt.

It was a sight to see...Dad leading a row of stair step grand children, each carrying their tool of choice, through the garden and down the bank to endless adventures.

The cracks around the hollow rock, filled with nature's debris,  were emptied with sand shovels, picks, tiny hands and patience.  Much laughter was always heard and many stories told with no limits to their imagination regarding what they might find.

When they grew tired Dad and the ducklings shouldered their tools and returned home to feed and rest.

The bottom edge was never reached but the digging never stopped. A day at the farm usually meant a treasure hunt with Grandpa Pete.  The digging crew grew smaller but they now had their own stories to add.

The children grew older and went their own way.

One day I came to visit and Dad was digging alone remembering.  The grandchildren will never forget.

Monochromatic

"I'm restless.  Things are calling me away.  My hair is being pulled by the stars again."--Anais Nin

This is the picture prompt from Mindlovemisery's Menagerie 

MONOCHROMATIC

When your world

 is but one color

flowers are empty

I remember child hood

and believing

in dandelion wishes

Swinging high

to touch the clouds

bicycles were freedom

Colors fade to one

memories in a dusty box

are bones of the past

Also for the Tuesday Platform
at
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

The Sign

When we first moved to the farm we raised miniature horses.  My sister, Beverly, and I had cleaned and repaired the barn from one end to the other.  I gave tours to groups at no charge. I was just proud of what we had accomplished and wanted to share with the world.

During the repairs we found many pieces of our family history had been destroyed just by storing them so many years in a barn.  I took the pieces, and, yes, I knew the story for every piece and made a sign.  I had a piece of something that belonged to every member of the family generations past.

 I even had t-shirts made. Front

and back. (Raindrops on the shirt not stains)

After the tornado the barn and the sign (and many other things) had much damage.  This past month I tried to resurrect my sign.  Too much destroyed so I began anew.  Different pieces but the same purpose...to share the name we chose.

All that remained of the original sign was part of an F so I began there.

I gathered pieces of this and that and pieced them together to recreate my original sign.  It's not the same but we are labeled again.

Some may wonder why At The Farm.  Before we moved here someone would ask, Where's Dad? Where's Hubby?  At The Farm was always the answer so with my horses' registration I used At The Farm as the suffix instead of the standard prefix in a farm/ranch name.  

The first filly born here was Angel's Trumpet At The Farm and the first colt was named Walking Small At The Farm...see where I'm going besides in circles?

When my sister, Beverly, said I should blog the name came naturally...At The Farm.

Although we are no longer a horse ranch nor a cattle ranch the name remains mainly because of my blog.  Presenting the new old sign and it's new location...Ta daaaaa!

Thank You, Mr. Spock

In 1966 I was captivated by a new show that was odd for some and revered by many. Being archaeologically minded and having written my first Sci-Fi novella at the age of ten it was a no-brainer that I became a fan.

I could finally escape into a world I KNEW was real.  Bones, Sulu, Lieutenant Uhura, Scottie, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock became my crew in a black and white world.  The first show took us to an archaeological out post and introduced us to the basic characters and the Enterprise's mission.

Many girls swooned over Captain Kirk but I, always wanting to be different, followed Spock's every controlled logical move.

Friday nights, at the age of eleven, became my night for an hour of tv.  Chores, homework, and any extras I may have been required to do were all finished long before the viewing time of 6:30 PM.

For three years I knew women could be in charge, all species are different and may or may not be able to interact peacefully. I learned how to appear emotionless.  I knew I could be a valuable member of this crew daring to go where no man (or woman) had gone before. I became pretty good with the Vulcan Salute but I never mastered the Mind Meld.

I often wondered why it stopped a month before we walked on the moon...

In three short years it was over but then there were reruns! I continued to be a closet Trekkie and watched every episode almost with reverence. Spin offs began and I devoutly followed those along with the movies.

My children were forced to watch Star Trek when we bought our first color tv.  They were not fans like me, a strong dyed-in-the-wool Trekkie.

I attended one movie in the theater with a friend twenty years my junior who was also a rabid fan. The lobby was alive.  People were talking my language!  I knew all the episodes and could converse enjoyably with all who wanted to talk.  The Menagerie was my favorite all time episode.  I felt uplifted and validated.  The lobby was filled with people like me!  Different ages but all with one thought in mind...where would Roddenberry take us next.

When Leonard Nimoy passed an age ended for me.  The shows have lost their luster. Even if Mr. Nimoy was blessed and cursed while being remembered as the half Vulcan Commander of the Star Ship Enterprise, he did great works.  He soldiered, he taught, he wrote poetry and books and acted in plays and produced.

His last tweet to his fans was "A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP"

Thank you, Mr Nimoy, for giving wings to my dreams. May those who remain Live Long and Prosper.

The Past

visits me on dreary days. I sat reading  a few posts wondering what in the world I was going to talk about today.  I visited a familiar blog with a kind story of strangers helping each other with no other purpose except that is the way it should be. It was a story of goodness, kindness and strangers working together toward a common goal.

I traveled back in time as winter days make me do.  I remembered when Dad still lived and the valley was full of horses, tiny horses.  I remembered the dreams.  I revisited photos of dreams put away.

I remembered the time almost strangers held an entire herd while we came to retrieve them. Miniature horse ownership requires "child proofing".  Pasture that held large stock does not necessarily hold small stock. They could walk under some places and just keep going.

We thought we had mini-proofed the place but sooo not so!!!  Royce, my herd stallion, found the one place we did not think about.  A water gate that held back full sized stock did not even slow this guy down.  He had a mission of moving his herd and he kept on.  Down the ditch to the water gate on the far side of the large pond he led.  They followed.  Traveling the ditch they reached highway 58 then proceeded down 58 to 69 highway to the town of Sage.

This happened before dawn on a Sunday morning or the ending would not be so great.

Six AM phone call woke us with a "Do you have miniature horses?"  Yes, we do, several.  "The neighbors and I have herded them into my yard from the highway. We're keeping them safe."

Several miles by highway and an hour later we arrive with a stock trailer.  We lead Royce into the trailer. The herd followed as a true herd will. In goes Betty, Flo, Buford, Lucy, Fancy, Tracer and Fay with all the foals. Easy Peasy!  Thanks to the kindness of neighbors and the grape vine our horses came home safely.

I believe I was born to be a horse owner, any size or kind, but things change as they always do and life goes on.

Dad's gone. The horses are gone.  The valley never changes but the actions within are always different. Mother Nature tends to the beauty and we are in charge of the chaos.

Fire Flies

Fire flies
Light the night
Blinking signals
Left and right

Sparking memories
Of captured lights
Sitting jarred
Through out the night

A childhood reminder
They light my dark
Come morning
Releasing the sparks

Another night
Another game
I caught them again
Were they the same?

As a child
I never thought
Capturing the lights
Would have a cost

Thrift Store

People
Shop
Buying
Yesterday
Smiling
They
Walk away
Content
That their
Memories
Are ageless

Poetry Jam

Two Shoes Tuesday...Late

Two Shoes in Texas have a few writing prompts weekly.  Today, a day late, I choose Two Shoes Tuesday.
With this prompt she provides two words to hopefully head us in a creative direction.

Memories

Rise and shine!  Daylight's awastin'  Biscuits on the stove and chores to do.

The smell of bacon and coffee drift in the air pulling me out of bed to begin a farmer's day.

Now only memories remain.

My childhood and my parents are gone...but the memories return with the smell of bacon.

It's Not Flip Flop Weather...

and the briers tore my feet.  It was hard to move through but I was revisiting the past and some memories.

Imagine the brush gone, the humus hollowed out from this area.  Now imagine a real top of an old wood cook stove and old dishes lining the rocks.  This was my "playhouse".

Within the semi-circle of ledge rock, I had a whole house.  The entry was where the small cedar now grows.  The rocks were swept clean and the hollow was leveled flat with hours of dirt work by a child who could not yet read.  Feeling like I was miles from home Mom could check on me from the kitchen window and let me continue to imagine great adventures. My first dog Helen was with me every step of the way.

Today I had company.

The girls explored my old hang out

I believe it passed inspection.

It also made me want to clear again

so my grandchildren

can have great adventures 

in a special place

full of old memories.

Dining Room

Well, here we go again.  Things just haven't been lining up for me lately.  Thank you, dear Blogspot. Topping my dining room table are the half price bargains I found at Pier 1.  I love that store!



The Dining Room is large in the old farm house.  The walls are natural pine, grown, cut, milled and seasoned here At The Farm.  It is a large room as dining rooms go and has plenty of room for the extras I like to have in here like Granny Pruett's pump organ and the huge table Mom and Dad had made out of red cedar and black walnut.  I don't think I could ever part with these.

My added decorations here are rather different too.  On the organ are three sad irons from the family, stones, old tools and a Shirley Temple pitcher from Hubby's parents, a cow bell, pictures, an old piano lamp and some other odd and ends.

This is the wall where the organ used to set.  I have simplified the decorations.  The chest is old and contains some essentials and holds a favorite statue. The iron skillets are for use, the tiniest is my cornbread skillet.  The old framed print a gift from a friend.  In the fifties you received a free canvas print when you filled up your car in Georgia.

Pull up a bar stool by this dog and you can eat, watch me cook or just enjoy good conversation.

 Every thing is not old. This statue by Pets with Personality stands beside the family's old kraut slicer.

We must not forget those who first lived here.  I honor them with their treasures displayed under glass on top of an old wooden barrel.

I have one on each side of the organ.

These are not all the artifacts I have found

but they are the most recent.

I think, I hope, the ancestors would approve but that is not why I have these things.  They feel like a part of me.  A home should be to comfort you. These Things, although only things, do just that.  A smell, a sound, a texture and my family lives once more.  All the generations come together and we are one At The Farm.

Last Day of Spring Break...

I had a few days off and have accomplished nothing.  I've helped join two long time friends for a spring break holiday.  I've toured them around the counties, taken them to one movie and out to eat twice. I've taken Andrew on a group date. I returned to work Wednesday sad because my time off was short.

My second grandson Jake joined the group and they journeyed with Papa to another movie and Chinese food.  They drank Mountain Dew until they were wired, played basketball, explored the farm, stayed up late and have generally been a busy group of gentlemen. Games of horse, basketball, and football have echoed through the valley at a volume only these young men could generate. The electronic games and the guitars screamed and the computer smoked with overuse.

Friday is officially their last day.  I was only with them two days, Papa the rest of the time but I believe these boys are taking home some memories.

John Carter, The Lorax, the different food we introduced them too, the tricks they've pulled, the Native American spear point Dalton found as they all explored the creek...all these will be tales they carry with them for the rest of their lives.

The house is a mess, we adults are exhausted, Zander took a roll down the stairs but all in all, it was a successful break from the scheduled life of structured education.

I hope they've learned the simplest joys are the best, that humor and honesty are good things, and I hope they know they are loved.

Today Jake returns home, Saturday Dalton returns,  and life returns to "normal". May the laughter, the adventures, the late nights and the companionship carry them through to our next break..and may the adults be recuperated enough for the next adventure.