On This Solid Rock I Stand.....

Bethel United Methodist Church
Snow Camp, NC

Growing up, when Sunday came, you went to church.  If you didn’t... if you said you had a stomach ache, or something, then you couldn’t play on Sunday afternoon.  And Sunday afternoon was when you were apt to see your cousins when they came to Grandmother’s house for a visit.  So you put on your "Sunday Best" clothes (sometimes referred to as your “Sunday go to meetin’ clothes”), piled in the car with the rest of the family, and off we went.  If we didn't get dressed up nice any other day of the week, we did on Sunday... dresses and patent leather shoes or little white sandals... hats, gloves, and high heels.... suits and ties.  Everyone who went to church dressed up in their best clothes.

Church, in those days, was the center of the community.  It was the glue that held the people together.  It was the place where meetings were held, where the Fall Festival was held, where Vacation Bible School occurred... and so many more things that drew us all together each Sunday, and many days throughout the week.  It was our youth center, and provided a central place for both women and men to hold their gatherings. 

Our church building started out as just a small wooden structure, but our church itself started out as a group of people who met in a home that once stood where the cemetery is today, or in a grove of trees.  In those days, the church was lead by a parson on horseback, called a Circuit Rider.  He took care of many such "churches", riding from one to the other, preaching, staying the night with one of the people in that area, then riding on to the next one.  Our church met every other Thursday, if I remember correctly, and the pastor stood on a rock in the grove of trees that was the primary meeting place.  In bad weather, the meeting was held in the house I mentioned.  The rock is still there, but the grove of trees has long since disappeared.  
  

The rock where the Circuit Rider stood to preach
the first sermon for our church.

Around the time my Mom and Dad got married, the church building was raised up and a basement dug and built underneath.  Mom and Dad were one of the first couples married in the church after that was finished.  Years after that, an Education Wing was added (to the left of the church in the photos), to supply more classrooms for Sunday School.  The Fellowship Hall was built since I became an adult, and serves as meeting room, classroom, and gathering hall with kitchen, basically becoming everything that the old basement had been used for.  The basement became a storage place after the Fellowship Hall was built. 

When I was growing up, we always had Sunday School first, then a short break, and Worship Service would follow.  After Sunday School, the men folk would gather out front of the church under the two big maple trees and talk about their week, while wives were left to herd the children into the sanctuary for the service.  This happened so much that I can remember how the grass had worn down under those trees to the point that there were spots of dirt where the men folk stood most of the time.  I remember slipping up beside Granddaddy to give him a hug (he always smelled so good... like All Spice Aftershave), and he'd give me a piece of gum that he always seemed to have hidden in his suit coat pocket. 

The church bell would ring to let everyone know when to move from one place to another, once for starting, once for ending.  The church bell rang loud enough to be heard for miles, and was one of those reassuring sounds of Sunday life in our community. 

 

Bethel United Methodist Church, Snow Camp, NC

The church, being the hub of the community, followed the seasons as sure as any calendar.  In the Spring there were Easter Egg Hunts, Easter Services, and always always a new dress and shoes to wear to church that day.  Summer brought Vacation Bible School and all the fun things we'd do during that week of daily meetings at the church for the children of the community.  Fall brought the Fall Festival... a money maker for the church where all the families contributed something they'd made to be sold to raise money for the church.... jellies, jams, cakes, pies, crocheted and knitted things, things made on the sewing machine, wooden thingamajigs and whachamacallits, and all sorts of things.  Ours was a creative community and everyone knew how to build, make, or sew something.  Usually the women tended the booths where things were sold (these were long tables with metal folding chairs behind them)... and were often just as busy trading secrets about how they made a certain craft or recipe. 

Fall also brought the annual anniversary of the church, called Memorial Day or Homecoming Day.  Our church was founded in the 1800's, starting out as a Circuit Rider (a preacher on a horse that went from place to place all week long preaching at wherever people would gather... sometimes it was someone's home, sometimes just a grove of trees).  Our "stop" was on a weekday evening in a grove of trees that used to stand across from where the front door of the church is now.  Tradition tells that the preacher would stand on a big rock (that is still there today) in a grove of trees and preach his message.  Back in those days, there was no church building.  It was later that a building was built near the old rock and is Bethel United Methodist Church today.  (I'm told that if you look up in the attic at the rafters, you can still see the old post and beam construction of the original church.)  Memorial (Homecoming) Day serves several purposes:  It's a time when people that have moved away from the community will often visit the church.  It's a time of remembering and honoring those who passed on during the past year and were buried in the church cemetary.  It's a time when there's a feast fit for a king spread out at the church... a cover dish lunch.... everyone stays, eats, talks, visits, and generally catch up with each other. The cemetery always looks nice, with its fresh mown grass, and flowers adorning the graves, and flags on the graves of the veterans.

When I was a kid, we didn't have the Fellowship Hall beside the church that is there today, and where the luncheon is now held.  On Memorial Day, a large roll of wire fencing would be brought out, and stretched between two huge trees that stood in the church yard, held between them by two "come alongs" (wenches).  Sometime in the past, the men folk had added some "legs" (2x4's) to brace it up every 6 feet or so.  White table cloths were spread out on the long long table and the women would unpack their goodies they had brought.  Desserts at one end, and food the rest of the way down... it was a wonder to behold.  Picnic baskets and boxes of all sorts and sizes littered the ground underneath the tables, but us kids still loved to sneak under there while the adults weren't looking.  The pastor would call for quiet, and as parents shushed their kids, he'd say the blessing.  Memorial Day was a standing room only kind of day during the service, so getting that many people through the line was no small feat.  Parents helped kids, who couldn't see what was on the table, to fill their plates.  Folding chairs had been brought out of the basement of the church, but us kids usually sat on the steps of the church to eat.  It was a grand day, and one we always looked forward to, not least of all because we were getting to see cousins, aunts, and uncles that we seldom got to see. 

Winter brought Christmas, of course, and there was always a real tree in the basement of the church that the men folk of the church had gotten from someone's woods somewhere nearby.  Paper chains, popcorn strings, and ornaments adorned it.  The church would always have a Christmas Pageant that the children of the church performed in the sanctuary, and then we'd go to the basement to open presents and have a snack.  This was the event that, to me as a child, signaled the “true start” of the Christmas Season. 

There was always something going on at the church during the week.  We had youth meetings there.  The choirs practiced there, both youth and adult.  Women had their woman's meetings there.  And of course, the men had their meetings too.  There were the various meetings that had to take place around the maintenance and administration of the church itself.  So it was always a hub of activity of one kind or another, with one group of people or another. 

Bethel United Methodist Church, Snow Camp, NC
Photo Credit:  Rev. Joseph Park

I’m not sure why the church isn’t thriving today like it was when I was growing up.  Some of it can certainly be attributed to the way that families don’t stay clustered in the same geographic area anymore.  Some of it may even be attributed to technology in the sense that we get some of our sense of “community” from things like watching the news on TV, and hanging out on social media of all sorts.  However, I think the largest reason is the same as for so many churches everywhere... people just don’t go to church like they used to.  Whether it is the lack of need for a heart of the community sort of place, or whether it’s just a sign of the times, it’s sad nonetheless.  Not just sad from the standpoint of religion itself, but sad because there’s something that folks are missing by not being a part of a community like the church provided us in the past.

If something doesn't change, the inevitable will eventually happen.  Someday I'll stand on the steep steps at the front of the church where generations have climbed before me...  where babies were held by their parents on their Christening Day... where new believers shook the preacher's hand after a service because it meant so very much to them... where newlyweds bounced down those steps on their way to start their lives together..... where caskets were gingerly carried down to the cemetery to lay a loved one to rest... Someday I'll stand on those steps and hear the ghosts of all those past Sunday's whisper in my ears, and know that the bell will never ring again. 

The first pastor of our church, a Circuit Rider,                
stood on this rock to deliver his sermons.                     

That will be a sad day.  It will mean that something that was once as alive and vital as any living thing, plant or animal, has died.  It will mean the end of an era.  It will mean that no one will be there to remember the history, or carry on with tradition, or tell the old stories, or sing the old hymns.  It will mean that a part of the true feeling of “home” will be gone.  It will be a sad day...  perhaps I'll go sit on the old rock that started it all.  It's just a short walk from the front steps.  Perhaps I'll hear the clatter of the Circuit Rider's horse's hooves when I sit there and close my eyes.  

And I'll sit there and remember........

_______________________________________________________________________________

Church in the Wildwood

There's a church in the valley by the wildwood

No lovelier place in the dale

No spot is so dear to my childhood

As the little brown church in the vale

How sweet on a clear Sabbath morning

To listen to the clear ringing bells

Its tones so sweetly are calling

Oh come to the church in the vale

Chorus:

(Oh, come, come, come, come) 

Come to the church by the wildwood 

Oh, come to the church in the dale 

No spot is so dear to my childhood 

As the little brown church in the dale

Runnin' Thru the Sprinkler 'n' Homemade Ice Cream

Here in the South it can get mighty hot in the dead of Summer, and like anything else, we have plenty of ways of telling you just how hot it is (hotter than blue blazes, so hot the chickens are layin’ hard boiled eggs, so hot the cows are givin’ evaporated milk, and so on).  If the heat isn't bad enough, the humidity will take it to a whole nuther level of discomfort.  And then there are the rains.  On a hot humid Summer afternoon, it's common for a thunderstorm with heavy rain to roll through as the sun is going down.  This is when you’ll hear phrases like “frog strangler” and “gully washer” for describing the deluge of rain that often comes down.  It tends to cool things off just a bit, which was appreciated the most back before we had air-conditioning in the house. 

Stock Photo:  Water Sprinkler Fun

When we were kids, we had ways of dealing with the heat of summer.  There was always the cool sand in the sandpile sitting in the edge of the woods, in the deep shade.  Then sometimes Mom would tell us to go get our bathing suits on and she’d squirt us with the hose.  She’s make fountains with the water and we’d run through it, squealing the entire time as the cold drops of water hit our hot skin.  Sometimes the hose would be connected to the sprinkler and we’d play for hours in the streams of water arching through the hot summer sun.

Sometimes we’d go on a picnic to the creek.  Daddy would hook the wooden wagon to the back of the tractor while Mom packed the picnic.  Everyone would load into the wagon and off we’d go bouncing down the roads through the woods that Daddy always kept well trimmed from the undergrowth.  There was always this one spot we went to.  The bank of the creek dipped down on one side, creating a small sandy beach that we could play on.  The icy water of the creek wound lazily around the small sandy bank and went on down the hill.  We’d float small sticks and leaves on the water, pretending it was a little boat.  We’d take off our socks and shoes (or flip flops) and hunt for pretty rocks in the rubble on the bottom of the creek bed, always longing to come up with an arrowhead (often found in our area).  Salamanders were always to be found, with their glistening skin and tails that they could break off when they were afraid.  Sometimes Daddy would take us all for a walk up and down the creek.  We’d use big sticks to unblock the little dams that leaves and branches had created, and open the water flow. 

  

 

Stock Photo:  Woodland Creek

Mom would call us out of the water when she got our picnic ready, and we’d all have a seat on the blanket she had spread on the ground.  The meal was usually sandwiches, peanut butter crackers, and pickles, and the like.  It was more about having fun and cooling off than it was about any sort of fancy meal.  Picnics and the creek were about adventure, discovery, and staying cool on a hot summer day. 

The creek runs through a thick stand of woods and isn’t very wide in most places.  It twists and turns through the woods, meandering off to wander through the back parts of what used to be Granddaddy’s property, then on to what used to be our Great Uncle’s property.  From there it flows into a bigger creek, and eventually into the mighty Haw River.  It was always a fun place to go, but there was one other way that we cooled off on a hot summer’s day that we loved even better. 

Making homemade ice cream!!

Old Hand-crank Ice Cream Freezer

Now this usually happened on special days (like birthdays), or on any given Sunday afternoon.  We had an old hand crank ice cream churn, with the silvery bucket in the center.  Mom would get the bucket out of the churn and disappear into the kitchen to work her magic in creating the ice cream mix.  Daddy, and any Uncles that were around that day, would get the ice, rock salt, and burlap bags ready.  We kids would play in the yard until called to play our role in the event.  We understood what our job would be, but saw no reason to just stand around when there were cousins available to play with.

Mom would bring out the bucket with the dasher in it and lid on top, and hand it off to Daddy.  He’d put it in the churn and begin shoveling scoops of ice around the bucket.  He alternated layers of ice with a thick layer of rock salt.  As soon as it got close to the top, he’d hook the crank to the top of the bucket and latch it all down.  More ice was added, then one more layer of rock salt, then the folded up burlap bags to be put on top of the whole thing. 

Now it was time for us kids to do our part.  We sat on the ice cream churn (and occasionally would sneak a piece of salty ice out and pop it in our mouths).  Our added weight to the churn made it easier for Daddy or one of our Uncles to turn the hand crank, especially when the ice cream started to harden inside the churn.  They would turn that crank until it was almost impossible to turn it any further.  Then it was time to wrap the churn up in old towels and burlap bags, and let it sit and harden for a bit.  It was usually about this time that Daddy would sneak a piece of ice out without anyone noticing and slip it down the back of someone’s shirt.  He’d smile with glee when he got the expected reaction of a yell, as the cold ice slid down hot skin.  This is usually accompanied by the “victim” jumping up and doing sort of a crazy dance as shirt tail is yanked out and the ice quickly removed.  The “victim” would grab some ice and attempt revenge, but wasn’t always successful. 

It was fun for the kids (because making ice cream usually meant that some of our cousins came over), and it was fun for the adults (because it gave them a chance to sit in the shade and share the events of the past week).  If we were at Grandmother and Granddaddy’s house, just across the field from us, it meant us kids climbing up into the maple tree that sat in their back yard.  It had limbs low enough that we could jump and catch hold of, and other limbs up in the tree that made great seats. 

That old maple tree still stands today, but it’s about seen its day... some of its limbs are starting to die. Grandmother’s and Granddaddy’s house stands empty these days, but one glance in its direction brings a flood of memories back.  We still make ice cream, but it’s in an electric freezer these days... but I do miss the old hand crank kind.  There was just a little something different about it.  Today we don’t sit under the trees and talk, like we did in those days.  We have air-conditioning now, so on hot days we go inside.  It’s ironic though... I don’t remember the heat of summer... but I do remember the fun things that we did to endure it.  

It's Not The Heat...... It's The Humidity!!

Dribble Castles 'n' Sand in yer Shorts

Summer vacations!  Who doesn’t love ‘em?!  Kids look forward to them... adults plan and save for them.  The destination can be anywhere, as long as it’s a chance to get away from the norm, and relax a little bit, have some fun with family, and generally make more memories.  Our family went to the beach when we were kids.  Other families will visit the mountains.  Some take long trips, some just a short distance from home.  Wherever we go, whatever we end up doing, whoever we end up doing it with... vacation is a highlight of the year.

When we were growing up, our vacations were a family event, involving both of Mom’s brothers and their families, her Mom and Dad, and a family that may as well have been kin for as much as they did things with us.  The adults would get together throughout the year and plan everything out.  For most of my childhood, we all went to a campground in North Myrtle Beach, SC called Ponderosa Family Campground.  I’m told the campground isn’t there anymore, but it sure held lots of memories for us, and was a yearly destination that we all looked forward to.

Ponderosa Family Campground, N. Myrtle Beach, SC

Our group consisted of 5 families, made up of 10 adults and around 10 or 11 kids.  The families would always reserve campsites that were back to back and side by side, so that we had a big area for all of us.  Someone always brought a huge roll of heavy duty plastic that was strung up in the trees to create a make-shift cover over the whole area.  It always rained sometime during the week or two that we were there, so the adults had learned to plan ahead.  Dad and my uncles would take marbles, wrap them in an edge of the plastic, tie a string around it tight, and that would hold that section of the plastic, which was then tied to a tree.  All around the edge they went with this method, until the whole area was covered.  They planned it out so that the plastic only overlapped in areas that it was ok for a dribble to get through when it rained.  After a big rain, we’d take brooms and gently nudge the puddles that had collected to the outer edges of the plastic.

Planning was something that Daddy and my Uncles were good at.  They thought about this trip off and on all year long, scheming better ways to do something than the year before.  One year, Dad decided to make a big wooden box that would fit most of the kitchen ware, as well as the camp stove, and some of the foodstuffs.  He built in sides that dropped down to be used for places to prepare the meals, a place to put the camp stove when it was in use so it wouldn’t be dangerous, and other custom made sections.  It was painted with gray “porch paint” so that it would be waterproof.  It was all designed specifically to fit on top of the car we had at the time.  In later years, it was modified just a bit so that it would fit exactly in the back of the station wagon we had.  The whole thing had legs on it once it was assembled at the campsite, and was a very convenient place for Mom to fix meals. 

Many of the meals were shared between the families, and we always had fish one night before we left since the men folk always went out deep sea fishing one of the days we were there.  Mom was in charge of the meals at our campsite, and would think of some of the most ingenious ways to save on space when we were packing.  She’d freeze spaghetti sauce ahead of time, for example, and use that (and other frozen food) instead of ice to keep the food cold on the way there.  As it thawed, or we used the food, we’d get bags of ice to replenish the cooler. 

Getting there was one of the best things about the trip.  We’d all leave together and caravan down to the campground... 4 or 5 cars, all together, joking around on the walkie talkies that Dad and the uncles used for keeping up with each other (mind you, we didn’t have cellphones or gps, so CB radios and walkie talkies were what they used).  When we had the station wagon, Mom and Dad would pack the car so that it was level with the windows all the way to the back.  On the top, Mom would make a pallet (bedding made of blankets) and our pillows.  My sister and I would ride on that all the way to the beach.  Nope, no seatbelts or seatbelt laws back in those days. 

For many years, we all slept in tents, those large ones that sleep 6 or 8 people. Every day we'd have to sweep the sand out of the tents before we went to bed, because try as we may, sand would get tracked into the tents during the day. Some nights would be sweltering hot, but other nights, when it rained, we'd be lulled to sleep as the raindrops splattered through the tall pine trees that surrounded us and onto the tent.  There were, of course, the usual disasters of sleeping in tents when the tent would leak and things would get wet, but we'd just pull everything out, string up ropes for clotheslines, and dry it all out the next day.  We were all too happy to be there, having fun at the beach, to let stuff like that cause more than a pause to handle the situation, then back to the serious business of having fun.

One of the highlights of the trip was Grandmother’s Sour Pickles.  I believe she used straight apple cider vinegar, and nothing else, because those pickles sure were sour.  She’d make a huge gallon jug full.  We’d love going over to her picnic table and getting a sour pickle out and seeing who among us that it puckered up the worse. 

The campground was situated within walking distance of the beach, but between the beach and the campground was a little inlet with a walking bridge over it.  It was named The Swash by the campground, and was over your head deep at high tide, but wading height at low tide.  It was always a fun place to swim because there were no waves to knock us down.  At night, we’d take bits of raw chicken and some string and go to the bridge and try to catch some crabs.  I didn’t mind eating crab meat, but I didn’t want to be around when they were being cooked.  I didn’t like to hear their tiny screams as they were being put into the water. 

There was always something going on around there with that many people.  Sometimes we’d walk to the general store that the campground had and get ice.  We’d always get a little extra money to get us a piece of candy.  The whole while we’d be scoping out the other merchandise because my sister and I knew we’d be allowed to get some sort of souvenir before we went home.  Sometimes we’d all pile in cars and go to some of the other sites in Myrtle Beach... rides, gift shops, and sometimes even a seafood restaurant.  The Gay Dolphin Gift Shop was always a family favorite.  Not only did they have tons and tons of trinkets, tshirts, and other gifts, but they had this sculpture sort of thing in one of their windows that had oil that dripped down thin wires that made it look like a cascade of water droplets all the time.  It always fascinated us kids to see that thing.

Dribble Castl

Going to the beach was a daily event.  Mom and Grandmother taught us how to make “dribble castles”, where you take really wet sand, and dribble it through your fingers to create a mound of wet sand droplets all piled up.  If you kept moving to the side, you’d eventually have a wall.  More would be added to create turrets and arches and other features.  Then there were the “reliefs” that we’d make.  Sand would be piled up and shaped into some sort of shape, like a mermaid, and we’d gather the tiny shells always on the beach to make the scales of the mermaid’s fin.  Frisbees would always appear at some point and we’d run all over the beach catching and tossing back.  Sometimes one of the cousins would have a skim board.  I never became very good with the thing, but it was always fun to watch as one of the boys would sling it across the area where a wave had just washed up and running, jump on it and glide across the water.

Toward the end of our time there, there’d always be a night when we’d go to the beach and shoot off fireworks.  We were in South Carolina after all, and that’s where they sold the “good” fireworks.  There were always roman candles, sometimes a few mortars, and certainly sparklers and bottle rockets.  It was a great way to wrap up a couple weeks of nothing but fun every day.

All too soon, it was time to pack up and go home, so into the car everything would go, and once again the caravan would form up and off we’d go back home.  I remember that home always looked a little different when we’d get back, as if something inside of me had changed more than something about the house changed.  My world had gotten a little bigger.  I had spent days in the sun with family and friends, and had so much fun. 

The heat of the summer waned on, and soon enough fall arrived and the promise of new adventures at school.  But then, that’s a story for another day.  Summer was always one of our favorite times of year because it held the promise of summertime adventures with our cousins at Ponderosa Family Campground.

Every time I stand before a beautiful beach, its waves seem to whisper to me:
If you choose the simple things and find joy in nature's simple treasures,
life and living need not be so hard.

~ Psyche Roxas-Mendoza ~

Ya'll Come Back Now, Ya Hear?!!

Family is everything to people in the South.  Where I grew up, everyone was kin to everyone in some way or other.  All those “once removed” and “twice removed” references when referring to a kinship was, and is, common place, and we grew up trying to understand what it all meant.  I grew up knowing that there wasn’t a single boy at my church that I could go out with when I got old enough because, likely as not, I was kin to them in some way or other.  Ours was a little country church, and back in those days it was odd for children to move very far from the old home place when they grew up, so everyone was kin to everyone else within the church community. 

Life isn’t just about family in the South, though.  It’s an accepted (and somewhat expected) fact that neighbors help neighbors.  I was reminded of this the other day when a neighbor accidentally got too close to the bank of a pond and got his tractor stuck.  It took the better part of the day, but one after another of the neighbors (that also had tractors) heard about it and brought their machinery over to see if they could pull him out.  By sunset, he was out, and as I watched, it made a special part of me glow inside to see that part of “how things used to be” is still alive and well in our neck of the woods.  It restores faith in humanity as a whole to know that there are some communities still around that go out of their way to help a neighbor in need.  

Community is a big part of things around here, too.  Communities out here in the country tend to be centered around a church of one faith or another, and the people that go there, of course.  If someone is in need in any way, the community gets together and does what they can to help out.  Death in the family?  Everyone cooks a casserole or some fried chicken, and a cake or pie, and takes it over for the family to have while they are busy making funeral arrangements, dealing with relatives from out of town, and the like.  Sick and laid up?  Cards will start pouring in before long, the pastor will come for a visit, and a gift basket will be made up by the ladies at church.  Exorbitant medical bills?  The community will get together and have a barbeque benefit.  Food will be donated, sometimes even a bluegrass band will play old hymns, and the whole community will come together to pay for their supper (to raise money), visit for a spell, enjoy the music, and end up helping out the person in need. 

I’ve always loved that about this community, but it wasn’t until later in life that I found out it was a Southern thing and not just unique to the community I grew up in, and that lots of communities in the South did the same sort of thing.

It’s almost like the ripples on a pond when you plunk in a rock… the family is the center… solid and supportive and protective.  Then comes relatives of all sorts, cousins, aunts, uncles, third cousins twice removed, all those people.  All supporting one another, making sure everyone gets the help and advice and support they need (relatives are always ready with advice).  Then there’s the community… supportive, checking to make sure you’re ok… somewhat nosey, sure, but it’s always with the best of intentions… they just want to make sure you’re ok.  Like ripples on a pond, every moving outward… you’ll see the same friendliness and willingness to help out even when you go into town for shopping, or come to a four-way stop sign, or visit folks in another county.  It’s just the Southern way. 

Photo Credit:  A Celebration of Women

When we say “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?” we actually mean it.  We want you to come back, if you want to.  We want you to sit a spell and talk.  We want to find out how you are, and whether there’s something we can help you with (or if you happen to need advice, hehe).  We’ll listen while you tell us about your day, and “hmm” and nod at the right times, and offer you another glass of sweet tea.  We care! 

So while the world seemingly goes off the rails, I am reassured as I look around this small country community at the people still going out of their way to lend a helping hand, at the benefits to help someone in the community who is very sick and has mounting medical bills, at the neighbor with the tractor stuck and other neighbors bringing their equipment over on a Sunday afternoon just to help out, no pay, no reward, just lending a helping hand.  I’m reassured that it’s not the entire world that’s going crazy, just part of it.  I’m comforted to know that there are people where I live that care… that truly care, and will go out of their way to help or listen or just send a card (yes, by mail, with a stamp and everything). 

Too often we just want to look the other way when someone is in need.  Too often we want to look down our noses at the bad things on the news each evening, saying “never me”, “never here”.  Too often we become hard and callous to the horror in the world today.  It’s hard not to when the reality is so harsh, so horrible, so unbelievable… so filled with spite and venom, backbiting and hate.

Come and spend some time with us here in the country.  We’ll show you how folks are supposed to treat other folks… not because we’re somehow better than you, or anybody else for that matter… but just because that’s our very nature.  It’s how things have always been around here, and likely always will be, I guess… at least for awhile longer.  It’s as ingrained in us as our Southern accent. 

Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?!?

Just as ripples spread out when a single pebble is dropped in the water, 

the actions of individuals can have far-reaching effects.

~ Dalai Lama ~

Catchin' Tadpoles 'n' Skippin' Stones

Back when we were kids, Daddy and Granddaddy made a small pond out back of the house, where the woods met the field that separates our two houses.  At first, it was only a big mud hole, but as time passed by it became a nice little pond where dragonflies dance among the tall grasses that grew on the banks, and fish jump out of the water in the cool of the evening catching one last bug for their evening meal.  Sometimes when it was a hot, dry summer, the water dried up to only a single deep spot on one end, but during rainy seasons, the water overflowed the lower bank creating something of a marsh outside it.

It was a favorite place of ours when we were growing up.  Daddy and Granddaddy loved to fish and the goal was to create a place they could go fishing that wasn't so far from the house.  Today there are some good size fish in there, and since folks that fish there now "catch and release", it stays that way.  It never has been much of a swimming hole.  The mud on the bottom is pretty deep and oozes between your toes and tends to want to get your feet stuck solid.  But just because we didn’t want to swim in it didn’t mean we didn’t want to do other things there.  There’s an air of magic and solitude about an isolated little pond half surrounded by tall trees, and the wildlife love it.  We’d hunt for animal tracks in the muddy banks every time we went down there.

A pond has its seasons, just like anywhere else, and we loved all of them.  In the coldest part of Winter, the pond froze over.  Daddy would always test the ice by stomping around on it to make sure it wouldn't break through, and then we'd be allowed to go out on it and slide around.  Spring and Summer brought tadpoles and dragonflies and butterflies (and, of course, fishing), with Fall bringing the changing leaves drifting down onto the water, as grasses died back from First Frost... as if to be tucking up the covers around the pond in preparation for the cold to come.

 

Our family has always loved fishing as long as I can remember, and today's generation is no different.  Daddy and Granddaddy used rod and reel type gear, but Daddy always kept a couple of cane poles rigged and ready in the shed behind his workshop for us kids.  He always went with us when we went to the pond, and our intention was always to go fishing... however, that's not always how it worked out.  Something else that catch our attention, and down the poles would go and we’d be off on some sort of exploration or adventure. 

The Springtime was when the frogs laid their eggs in the shallows of the pond.  We'd get a Ball jar (or an old Duke Mayonnaise jar) from Mom, and scoop up some of the frog's eggs so we could watch them hatch.  Sometimes we'd just scoop up pond water and tadpoles.  Little black wiggling dots with long tails waving behind, we'd watch them swim around in the jar every day waiting for the magic to happen.  We'd only keep them long enough to watch their "magical" transformation from tadpole to frog, then let them go.  Waking up in the morning, checking the tadpoles and finding out they had hind legs was always a thrill.  Then it wouldn't be long before the front legs appeared and their heads started looking more like a frog than a tadpole.  It was about this time that we'd add a stick from the yard so they'd have some way to get out of the water if they wanted to.  Watching their wiggly tail slowly disappear as they finished their transformation was as close to magic as it comes. 

Photo Credit:  Pollywog Creek

Daddy always taught us to respect the wildlife found around the house and in the woods.  Yes, he was a hunter and fisherman, but he taught us not to kill for sport... only for eating purposes, or for protection.  Daddy knew about a lot of things, from wildlife to the various kinds of trees... to how to build and fix things, to gardening and how to keep the tractor running.  We thought he knew how to do just about anything.  If he didn't know it, he knew who to ask, and likely as not, his first go-to was Granddaddy. 

The pond wasn't always for fishing in.  Sometimes it was just a nice place to visit and enjoy.  It was during those visits that Daddy would teach us things like how to skip a stone across the water.  Choosing the right type of stone was important.  It had to be flat, and the right size to wrap your index finger half way around the edge.  Then he'd show us how to sort of lean to the side, and spin the stone as it left your hand in such a way that it would be parallel to the water.  The end result was that the rock would skip across the surface of the water, instead of ker-plunk into it.  As we got better at it, the contest became how many skips could you make your rock do.  The one that skipped it the most times won the “match”.  Two or three skips was average.  More than five was fantastic.  Daddy almost always won, but it was fun just getting our rock to skip at all.  More than twice was a victory to us.

Photo Credit:  Wikipedia 

Sometimes our walks to the pond would turn into a walk into the woods with Daddy instructing us on the types of plants and trees we'd pass by, pointing out how to tell the poison oak from the other little plants, and ending up at the branch that ran through the woods at the back of the property.  If we were very lucky, we'd find salamanders there, and would take a few back to the house for "salamander races" on a wet picnic table in the back yard.  We always let them go after we'd finished the races, of course.  Keeping a wild thing penned up wasn't allowed... with few exceptions.  Wild things belonged in the wild, even if we wanted to enjoy them up close for a little while.

There was always something to do around there when we were growing up.  Being bored was cured by just going outside.  Daddy was careful to teach us how to be safe in the woods and respect all nature, and there was always something waiting to be explored, learned, or watched.   It’s small wonder that the outdoors brings me such solace today.

"We didn't know we were growing up,

we just knew we were having fun."

~ Anonymous ~

Sandy Toes 'n' Stick Horses

When we were kids, we played outside as often as we could.  Mom would want to get us out from underfoot and, as apt as not, we wanted to get out of doing more cleaning and dusting.  That became somewhat of a balancing act though because when we went outside, then Dad would want us to help him in the garden.  We became pretty good at dodging though, and often as not this would take us to the sandpile at the edge of the woods.

Summertime was our favorite time of year.  There were so many things to do outside.  At the back edge of the back yard, Dad had cleared out some of the woods of all but the major trees, and that made a nice shady spot for us to play in.  It also made a nice spot for Dad to build a workshop, tractor shed, dog lot for his hunting dogs, pig pen for the pigs, corn shed for holding dried corn, and such things as that.  Truthfully, that was probably Daddy’s main reason for clearing out that area, but we enjoyed having a shady spot to play in.  Our Dad was always busy building, fixing, or growing something, so it really should come as no surprise that he needed some space to do those sorts of things in.

One of our favorite things to do during the summer was play in the sandpile.  The sandpile was our mound of sand that we had all sorts of imaginary adventures in.  It wasn’t surrounded by a box of any sort, just a pile of white sand piled onto the dark dirt at the edge of the woods.  We made roads around and through it, buried our feet in it when the sand was wet from a summer rain and made “Toad Holes”, built forts and castles... all sorts of things.  It was where we spent a good part of our outdoor playing time... especially when we had “new sand”. 

Almost every year, at the beginning of summer, Dad would tell us it was time to go get more sand for the sand pile.  Due to rain, and our spreading out the pile more than we were instructed to, the dark dirt of the woods had started mixing into the white sand.  Given enough time, it would have disappeared altogether.  We didn’t buy bags of clean white sand from the hardware store like folks do today, we’d go get our own with the tractor and the wagon.  A couple miles down the road, the land changed from red clay to white sand.  Dad figured that no one was going to complain if he cleaned out a stretch of the ditches on those country roads, and as it turned out, the whitest, cleanest sand happened to be in the ditches where it had washed off the sandy road during the rain storms. 

Dad would hook the big wagon onto the back of the tractor, and we’d all pile in.  Off we’d go down the bumpy red dirt road that ran by our house at the time (like all the roads around here, it’s paved now).  We’d stop at Grandmother and Granddaddy’s house “next door” (there was actually a big field between the two houses, but to us it was next door) to pick up Granddaddy, and set out for the sand country.  No seat belts, not even any seats... just sitting in the wagon hanging on to the wooden sides while Dad drove the tractor down the road, bouncing and bumping as we went. When we got to the ditch he had chosen for this year’s sand, he’d pull the tractor over and we’d all pile out. 

Dad and Granddaddy would take the shovels and get some of the sticks, weeds, and rocks out of the way first, then begin filling the wagon as full as they could with new sand.  On the way back, Granddaddy and us kids would ride on top of the pile.  Of course, some of the sand would leak out on the way back.  My sister and I worried about all that sand going to waste (truthfully, it wasn’t much, but any was too much to us kids), when it could have been part of our sandpile when we got home, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it.  It was, after all, just a wooden wagon with wooden sides, made of whatever boards Dad and Granddaddy could get their hands on at the time, but it served its purpose well enough all through the years.

We’d make our way home (a little slower than we went), pull up to the edge of the woods and dump the new sand into its spot.  My sister and I couldn’t wait to play in it.  If the going to get the sand wasn’t a grand enough adventure, the time spent in our new sandpile always promised to be.

I’m sure there were games of “King on the Mountain” while it was still piled high, followed by sand castles, roads and toad holes as time went by.  I can still remember the feel of burying my feet in the cool sand on a hot summer’s day.  I remember racing my sister to the sandpile when we were given permission to go out and play.  Part of the competition was who could get there first, but the larger part was who was going to get the blue car.  We had one of those plastic cars with the wheels that would pop off if you pressed down too hard.  But we only had the one.  So it was a race (and often an argument as to whose turn it was) to get to the blue car. 

It didn’t take much to entertain us back in those days.  A long stick could become a horse that we rode around the yard.  Scratch some squares on the hard ground in the woods and you have a hop scotch board.  Small rocks would be gathered as each player’s marker.  Sometimes Mom would give us a few pieces of old clothes (which were always way too big for us) and we’d put those on and pretend to be movie stars, or “The Queen of Sheba” (somehow our supreme ‘someone’ that we would pretend to be).  “Tend Like” (short for ‘pretend like’) was our phrase that we’d say to each other to create the fantasy world we were playing in at the time. 

Then there was Daddy’s Shop.  He kept an old rusty bucket underneath the workbench that had nothing but bent nails in it.  He always had scraps of wood lying around, and would loan us a hammer (as long as we faithfully promised to put it back when we were done.... which we did.... most of the time).  If we wanted to try building something, we had to straighten the nails out first.  Sometimes we’d need a little help from him, but mostly it was just hammering pieces of wood together for something or other we wanted to make.

I’ve often said that life was simpler back then (and parts of it actually were), but the reality of it was something different from an adult’s point of view.  Life was hard, money was scarce, and most of the time if we had anything it was because we made it or grew it ourselves.  When we played, it was our imaginations that kept us busy.  Oh, we had toys, but they were mostly for “inside days”.  It was the outdoors that drew our attention on the warm, dry days of summer, and our imaginations that filled the world we were in. 

I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by.

The mirth of its December, and the warmth of its July.

~ Winthrop Mackworth Praed ~

Of Mice and ......... Mousers

I recently learned that my Maine Coon cat, Jinx, is a great mouser.  He’s an indoor cat, always has been, and one of those types of pets that has never met a stranger.  Long fur, brown, grey and black tabby stripes with white chest and “boots”, soft as a bunny’s fur, as big as a small dog (seriously, he’s huge), and more loyal than I ever knew a cat could be... that’s my Jinx.  I’ve heard Maine Coon cats described as the most dog-like cats of all the breeds, and I believe it.

The other day, he caught a mouse that was in the house.  As far as I know, he’d never seen one.  I’d always read that his breed was supposed to be extremely good mousers, but had never had the opportunity to “test that theory” (thank goodness). 

I live with my sister these days.  She has two cats, and I brought two cats with me when I moved in 4 years ago.  All of them are indoor cats except for one, who is that cat that always wants on the other side of the door... you know the type.  Jinx and the other cats had been vigilantly scouting and standing guard in the kitchen for a couple of weeks, but we hadn’t seen any signs to forewarn the adventure that was about to take place.

A small mouse ventured out from somewhere in the kitchen that day, and the cats scrambled.  Jinx chased it into the living room, behind the couch, and finally came up with the prize.  As all cats do, he proceeded to play with his capture... catching it in his mouth or under one of his giant silver-dollar -sized paws, and then releasing it.  I instantly tested the ability to levitate.  Not succeeding for more than a second, I jumped on the couch and yelled for my son, who happened to be home that day.  He gallantly came to my rescue, finished killing the mouse, and tossed it into the woods behind the house. 

Jinx was very puzzled by the quick disappearance of his mouse.  He kept going around the house sniffing like a beagle, trying to figure out what happened.  You could almost see the conversation going on in his head, “Let me see... I had it here.... then I took it there... then I was playing with it here, here and here.  Then there was a scuffle and the human did something.  Then it just disappeared.  But I still smell it.  It must be hiding under the rug.  No?... maybe it’s hiding here... or here.”  Nose to the floor, tracing and retracing his steps, finally he gave up and just stretched out on the hearth.  Every few minutes he’d get up and try again, seemingly convinced that he had simply overlooked something… somewhere.  This went on for about half an hour.

Jinx is a “talker”.  Sometimes he sounds like a Siamese cat, with his long, loud meows.  He talks about lots of things, from food, to wanting to be petted, to fussing at the other cats, to trying to get attention about most anything... so when the mouse “disappeared into thin air”, he was indeed “talking” about the entire thing.

Several days pass by and while we’d notice one or the other of the cats with their nose to the bottom of the pantry door, we hadn’t seen any mad scrambles to catch a scampering something.  So, of course, we forgot about it... more or less.  

We had one of our family gatherings this past weekend, and a batch of No-Bake Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies (a family favorite) had been requested.  I needed to check to make sure I had the all the ingredients, so went to the pantry and opened the door.  Jinx was following me around, as usual.  Normally, when I open the pantry door, he just stands back and waits for me to do whatever I’m going to do, and then wraps himself around my legs and ankles again.  Not this time.  As I opened the pantry door, he got in front of me, meowing and sticking his nose or paw into every crack between the small bins we have sitting on the floor in there.  Mouse!  Had to be!

Most of those bins hold spices, but a couple hold things like seasoning packets, cookie mixes left over from Christmas, Jell-O and the like.  There is also a small rolling rack of shelves that fits underneath the bottom shelf of the pantry that holds things like Pop Tarts, crackers, and popcorn on the top, and extra condiments or pickles and such on the bottom two shelves. 

Jinx was so excited that, as I started removing the bins one by one, he started sticking his giant paws in there to help move things around.  I do NOT like mice.  I come from a long line of Mouse-Haters (more on that later), so I come by it naturally, and it’s not something I can control very easily.  I was alone in the house this particular day, and so, was extremely cautious as I pulled one bin after another out of the pantry.  Jinx got more frantic, and poked his paws and nose into every nook and cranny I opened up.  Removing the last few bins was more a case of (Step 1) remove cat, (Step 2) remove bin, and repeat.  By this time all the other cats knew something was up, and were trying to get in for a look-see. 

Then suddenly they weren’t. 

There had been no scramble, no racing off after some scampering thing, nothing.  They just vanished.  Not understanding, I called them back.  When they didn’t come, I went looking for them, only to find Jinx in the living room, playing with a small mouse that was still wiggling occasionally, as the other cats looked on... just in case he lost it.  I instantly jumped up on the couch.  Logic told me that Jinx had this under control, that a small 2 inch long creature could not possibly hurt me.  But logic has nothing to do with anything at that moment.  I was in a fix.  I was the only person in the house, so I had to deal with this.  I’d stand on the couch, and then get back down, determined to do something, and then jump up on the nearest something when Jinx dropped the mouse again. 

This entire time I was texting my sister, who was at work, about the whole round of events.  The phone rings, and it’s her.  I’m standing on the couch, talking to my sister, and watching Jinx catch the mouse, let it go, see it wiggle, then slams his giant paw down on it again and catches it again.  Then my sister says something that makes me feel in control of the entire situation, “Get the fly swatter!”  With eyes wide open at my shock of not having thought of this in the first place, I get the fly swatter, finish off the mouse the next time Jinx drops it, scoop it up (on the swatter, of course) and pitch it outside… and breathe a sigh of relief!  Of course, this sent Jinx into his “search for the disappearing mouse” all over again. 

My son was at work at the time, but I had told him I’d leave everything out of the pantry until he got home so he could check and see if we had a small mouse hole in the back somewhere, and so he did.  He pulled the small rolling cart out and helped clean up the mess that was on the floor in there.  We had discovered some mouse damage in some of the bins, so we wanted to make sure nothing on the cart was damaged before putting it back inside.  There were a couple boxes of Pop Tarts lying on the top, so I bent over and peeked inside and saw that the mice had been in there, and picked up the box, saying that we needed to toss that out for sure.  My son, standing opposite me to the cart, reached out and in the calmest possible voice said, “Mom, hand me that box for a second.” I looked at him with puzzlement, and he quickly said (again, in a calm, but more forceful way this time) “Mom, let me see that box for just a minute”, so I handed him the Pop Tart box, still puzzled at what he wanted with it.  Once he was certain he had full control of the box and I had let go (mere seconds), he said, as he headed out the back door, “There’s a mouse in this box”.  Stunned, and frightened all at the same time, I went and (yes, you guessed it) stood on the couch for a few minutes.  When my son came back into the house, my sister asked him almost rhetorically, “You DO know what would have happened if you told your Mom that the mouse was in the box before taking it from her, don’t you?”, at which point he nodded, smiled, and tossed his hands straight up in the air, indicating that I would have thrown that mouse and box to heaven only knows where in my haste to get rid of it.  And he was right!!!!!!!!

Like I said before, I come from a long line of women that feared mice, so it’s part of my genes, I think.  Mom was the one that discovered that a fly swatter can become a weapon of mass destruction.

Back when we were just kids, Mom (just as fearful of mice as I am now) saw a mouse in her kitchen.  We didn’t have cats back then, so she got the only thing she could think of at the time, the fly swatter, and flailed at that mouse until it was dead.  That swatter was one of the old kind with the metal screen for the swatter part, so it was a little tougher than most of the flimsy plastic ones you can buy today.  So just remember, Fear + Fly Swatter = Dead Mouse... EVERY time.  Well, every time that the theory has been tested anyway. 

Mom tells a story about how when she was a girl, they had an old barn cat that kept vigil outside, and when they’d spot a mouse in the house, Grandmother would yell, “GO GET THE CAT!!!!!”  Mom would run and grab the cat from outside and bring him in.  He always knew why he was being brought inside (as that was the only reason), and would hunt until he found and killed the mouse.  Once he did his job, he was put back outside again. Maybe they didn’t know about fly swatters back in those days. 

We finally figured out that the mice had made a hole underneath the sink, and took care of the situation, but mice being the invaders that they are, and with us living in the country, it won’t be the last time we have to deal with this sort of thing.  I’ll keep the fly swatter handy.

"Trouble with mice is, you always kill 'em."

- John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men -

One can only hope, Mr. Steinbeck, one can only hope!!!  ..... And get the cat!!!!