"Pain'ers"... Hoarfrost... & Bright Colored Leaves

Fall in the Valley

Of all the places I've ever lived, I miss the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina the most.  There's something both mysterious and majestic about those old mountains...  something that is palpable when you sit on the porch and look out across the valleys.  Those mountains are old... older than we can imagine.  They were some of the first formed on this continent.  In fact, they were old by the time this even became its own continent.  And there's something about that antiquity that makes them seem like they are whispering soft words of wisdom to you when you look across their valleys and streams, hills and curves, blanketed in trees so thick that the true shape of the mountain is only hinted at.  They hold secrets man will never come to know.

Fog Covers the Valleys

In the cool of the evenings, you can sit there and hear the slow, deep bong of the big pipe windchimes that swing from porch and tree branch.  The wild cry of the "pain'ers" (panthers, or mountain lions) can often be heard deep within the trees, off on a nearby hill... owls hoot their quick greetings, while the moon rises, scudding behind clouds that were born among the hills themselves.  

In the Spring, the mountains light up with more colors of green than I ever thought possible, as each tree brings new leaves on its multitude of branches.  Fields of flowers begin to appear around every bend in the crooked roads that snake through the valleys.  Mornings often bring blankets of fog settled between the mountains, as if Nature itself has tucked them in for the night.  In the Summer, those same trees catch the mountain breezes as they wind their way through valley and over hills and bring them down to the ground where us flightless humans dwell. 

Hoarfrost on Grandfather Mtn.

The Fall brings a show like no other, with the brilliant colors of greens and golds and hues of browns, drawing visitors from miles around to slowly wind their way down crooked roads and parkways to catch a glance at Nature's finest show.  Artists and photographers seek the best view, to capture its beauty on canvas or in picture, only to find that there is no "best view" because it's all breathtaking.

As Fall wanes and Winter creeps in, hoarfrost begins to cover tree and field with it's ghostly blanket of frosty sparkle as the very clouds freeze as they sweep over the hilltops.  Winter's winds blow, and snows cover ground, tree, and home with a sparkling blanket of crystal white.  Animals leave footprints throughout as they scurry about seeking shelter and food.  Then, before you know it, Spring comes again.  Melting ice and snow fills creeks and rivers to the brim with the coldest clean water you've ever seen or tasted, first dripping from rocks, then gathering into mighty torrents as it rushes down rivers, to points beyond.  

Spring's Beauty

Every season is alive in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and carry with them a rhythm that's been beating for more years than mankind itself has been around.  We are but travelers, passing through, as the mountains move to the beat of a much slower drum.  They share their beauty with us but for awhile, then we're gone, but the mountains remain.  

There's something special about the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina... something that has to be experienced rather than read about, or seen in pictures.  Words cannot do them justice.  You'll just have to "feel" them for yourselves.  

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn."

~ John Muir ~

Fall's Brilliant Show

Autumn: A Time For the Senses

Fall Leaves

"What does Fall mean to you?"  I asked some folks in my family this, and was surprised at how vivid their answers were.  Fall is a sensual time of year.  We are assaulted with colors, smells, sounds, and a feeling deep inside that doesn’t happen any other time of year.  It's a mixture of excitement, relief, and satisfaction for a Summer well-lived.

“Fall means a sea of oranges, reds and yellows with the crunch of leaves and pine needles under your feet. It means the smell of crisp fresh air with hints of cinnamon, apple and pumpkin.”  - Ashley, daughter and best friend. 

"Rabbit season, Brunswick stew... raking leaves and jumping in 'em... Grapes and apples getting ripe" - Mike, brother and fellow storyteller.

"Putting away things outside for the winter... Fall Festivals... Leaf collecting.... Gathering nuts in the woods with Granddaddy"  - Joan, sister and "partner in crime". 

Hay Bales

Fall seems to tap us on the shoulder, and beg our attention from the busy life that Summer often brings.  The leaves start changing colors, dogwoods first, then the other trees follow suit.  Annual fairs and fall festivals start popping up everywhere.  The air starts to smell different somehow... even if it’s still the dog days of August, and sweltering hot outside.  The last of the harvests are being brought in… pumpkins begin to appear on doorsteps and porches.  Bales of hay can be seen laying in fields that were once big meadows of grass waving in the breeze  Field corn turns a crispy looking brown ready for harvest.  Okra stalks are long and lanky by this time, with just a tuft of leaves up on the tip top.  Mums start blooming, and pots of them start appearing on porches and steps... dotting the countryside with their yellows and pinks and whites.  Soon, pumpkins will join them as bright greetings and Fall decor.  All signs that the weather is starting to change, that the trees are starting to tuck in for the winter, and that folks need to basically wrap things up from summer’s busy-ness. 

Garden Wagon with Leaves

Gardeners hear the whisper of Fall through the last blazing days of Summer heat, and begin to tuck their gardens in for the winter... pulling up tomato cages and stakes, plowing the last of the plants under the ground, sometimes seeding the entire patch with clover for the nutrition it will bring the ground in the Spring.  Potted plants and flowers outside on the porches and decks start to lose their luster.  Soon their spent dry husks will be pulled up, tossed on a compost heap, and the pots put away for a Spring sure to come.  It’s a time of tidying up the outside, putting things away, and getting ready for the snows on Winter whispered on the wind. 

Mums Begin to Appear...

It all starts with Labor Day... a celebration of work itself.  Originally started by a union leader and his brother in the late 1800’s to celebrate the American worker, Labor Day has come to mean much more than that to us nowadays.  It’s the last hurrah of summer, time to slip in one more vacation before school starts for the kids in the Fall.  It’s the time when gardeners and farmers start thinking about what still needs to be done before the winter months set in... gathering in the last of the harvests, baling the last fields of hay, and preparing gardens for the winter months. 

Growing up, it was the time when we typically took one more vacation.  We camped for our vacations back in those days, and usually went to Kerr Lake for one more week of fun and fellowship with the same group of folks that we vacationed with every year (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents).  We eventually started calling our camping group The Gully Campers because the camping area we used was on a hill, and when it rained (which it seemed to do every time we were there, at least for a day or so), the hillside would wash out with huge gullies where the water ran down off the hill.  Motor boats, canoes, and big tractor tire inner-tubes provided water sport.  There was at least one campfire to sit around every night, several hammocks that could be lounged in for an afternoon nap, and a volleyball tournament sometime during the week.  It was always a great time of laughter, fun and good eats.  Nowadays, though... we typically just stay home, cook some hotdogs and hamburgers on the grill, and enjoy the company of family and friends.

Maple Tree in the Fall

After Labor Day was over, it was time to think about school.  New clothes and shoes were needed for growing kids whose clothes and shoes from last year were either worn out or too little... new school supplies were bought (pencils, pens, paper, notebooks)... desks that had been piled high with toys, coloring books, and broken crayons during the summer were cleared off to get ready for the nightly drill of homework and studying.  It was also the time of year when every housewife knew she had to swap out her clothes, putting summer dresses and shoes away, and getting out the fall/winter clothing.  You see, you never ever ever wore white (especially white shoes) after Labor Day.... nor before Easter.

It was also the time of year to start thinking of Memorial Day (Homecoming Day) at the church which always occurred later into September.  The last of the flowers in the flower gardens were cut and arranged in vases of all sizes and shapes.  Everyone put flowers on all the graves of their ancestors, flags were put on the graves of all the veterans in the graveyard, and lots of food was cooked and brought to the church that day for a huge cover-dished meal after the service.  Friends and family that had moved away from the community often came back for this one special day at the church.  During the service, memorials are read for each person that died during the past year, honoring them one more time with a candle lit in their name as their memorial is read.  The sanctuary was often standing-room-only on Memorial Day, and the meal was like no other, for the volume of food involved.  It was a time of visiting with relatives you seldom got to see, seeing people that came from far away just to be here for that one special day.  It was always one of my favorite days at church, and one which still occurs each year.

Dogwood Leaves Start Changing First

Cooler days start to creep into the warmth of summer.  Before you know it, you wake up one morning to frost covering yards, bushes and flowerbeds.  Leaves start to drift off the trees, covering the yard in a blanket of reds and golds and browns.  Now’s the time to break out the rakes and yardbrooms and start raking the leaves.  When we were kids, that meant it was time to play in the piles of leaves that our parents and grandparents had labored so hard to make, but to us it was a wonderful place to bury ourselves in, run and jump into, and scatter as we plowed our feet and legs through them, kicking the leaves up into the air.  Big white sheets, that were well past their usefulness as bed sheets, were laid on the ground to rake the leaves into.  Those were then carried over to one of the fields and burned.  Nowadays, we have one of those fancy mowers with the vacuum on the back that sucks up all the leaves and puts them into a trailer behind the mower that then becomes a dump bed when it’s time to empty it out.  Not nearly as much fun as running and jumping into the big piles of leaves... but much easier now that we’re all getting on in years. 

Fall Fills the Shelves

Stores nowadays practically assault you with the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon whenever you enter... everything has a pumpkin pie flavor option, from cereal to coffee to cookies and muffins.  The fall colors are everywhere.  Burlap replaces the silks and cottons of summer.  Grapevines that were shaped into wreaths and other fun shapes last Fall when they were trimmed off the main vines are now dry and ready to use.  The smells that I love the best aren’t in a store, though.  They are outside, created by nature itself… the smell of the falling leaves as the trees start to shed them... the scent of fresh fallen pine needles... the smell of hay as it’s being cut and baled for the winter... the smell of the fresh turned dirt in the garden as it’s prepared for winter... and the smell of fresh made apple pies from this year’s harvest.  Pumpkin pie smells great too, but it’s the apple pie, with the cinnamon, that really smells like Fall to me. 

As the weather starts to slowly change from the blazing hot/humid days of summer, to the welcoming cooler days of Fall, we often find ourselves thinking of snuggling in a blanket with a hot cup of cocoa, building fires in the fireplace, and sweaters waiting to be worn.  We begin to wonder when “peak season” in the mountains will be this year, and think about planning a trip on the Blue Ridge Parkway to see the beauty of a sea of color along the mountainsides. 

Grandfather Mtn. - Blue Ridge Parkway, NC

Of all the seasons, Fall puts on the grandest show.  Spring has its beauty with the growth of new things, green sprouting everywhere, flowers blooming, birds returning, and bees and butterflies all around.  But Fall sends us the signal that it’s time to rest, watch the beauty of the changing leaves, smell the warm smells of home, and surround ourselves with family, and friends.  “It’s time to rest,” says Fall... “Come, let me show you something wonderful!”

There’s something about the march of the four seasons that make life seem more interesting somehow.  Each season brings its blessing, each it’s special “something” to be cherished... and as we flow through those seasons, it gives us milestones and waypoints on which to plot our lives as we look back over the years. 

Enjoy your Fall!  May it bring you blessings and cherished moments! 

“Fall means watching the world outside change through the window with a hot cup of coffee on a chilly morning…  Fall means the cold is coming and you start warming your soul by surrounding yourself with friends and family.”  - Ashley

Git Movin'... 'Fore the Squirrels Git 'Em!!!!!

IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN!!!  No, not school starting.... nope, not football season starting. (although.... yea for football!!!)  The dogwood leaves are starting to turn, the fields of corn and grains are starting to dry up, ready for the harvest.  Hay bales, or the long rows of grasses that will soon be baled, lay in fields dotting the landscape.  Gardens are nearly spent, and farmers are starting their Fall routines to get them “tucked away” for the winter months. 

Hickory Nuts in the Tree

These, however, are merely signs of what time of the year it is..... It’s Nut Gathering Time..... time to head to the woods and gather nuts before the squirrels get them all.  Or that’s what we did when we were kids.  This was the time of year when Daddy or Granddaddy (sometimes both at once) would take us on long walks in the woods to the same trees and bushes that we went to each year.  Hickory nuts, hazelnuts, chestnuts, wild pecans, black walnuts... those were what we were after.  This was also the time of year that Grandmother started checking the persimmon tree to see when the persimmons would be ripe for Persimmon Pudding... and hers was the best I’ve ever tasted.  Her recipe can be found here, on my Southern Recipes page.

Nut gathering meant long walks in the woods, and time for tales from Granddaddy as he told about the sawmill he used to have.  It was a mobile one, so he could hook it up to his team of horses, or to the tractor, and move it from place to place, as needed.  He once had it on the very spot where Mom’s house sits today.  One of the places he had it was in what we referred to as “the back field”.  The back field was always our destination, more or less, and we wandered throughout the woods from there. 

Getting the nuts was only half the task.  After gathering the nuts, we had to husk them out and crack them, to get to the “goodie” inside.  Some were much much harder to crack out than others.  Hickory nuts and Black Walnuts, were the two most notorious for being “a hard nut to crack”.  The nuts would be used in all sorts of things during the wintertime... cakes, cookies, and sometimes even Jell-O salad sorts of dishes. 

The Hickory Nut Cracking Rock

Here’s the thing though... hickory nuts are really hard to crack out... and require a hammer and a rock.  Yes, I said rock.  We have a special rock that’s been used for generations, just for cracking out hickory nuts (see photos).  The hickory nut rock that used to be at Grandmother’s house, but now sits in Mom’s front yard, was nearly always used.  You could use a flat iron turned upside down and held between your knees, if you just HAD to do this inside for some reason, but the hickory nut rock was preferred (besides, doing this part inside always made such a mess)... and there was a reason. 

One of the indentations on the rock.

There are divots in it from being used for hickory nuts for so many years (see photo).  Those little indentations hold the nut still while you take aim at it with a hammer.  Even the husk on a hickory nut is hard to get off with just your fingers, so husk and all, the nut was placed in the divot.  Several meaningful whacks with a hammer later, and you had the husk off.  A few more well placed whacks, and the nut would crack open.  The cracked pieces were placed in a dishpan or bucket for the next person to take a nut pick and pry out the pieces of nut.  The process was repeated until all the hickory nuts were cracked.  All this occurred under the big maple tree in Grandmother’s side yard.  So it was another of those times when tales were spun as work was done.  It was also a time when we could begin to enjoy the cooler days of a Fall season just around the corner. 

Black Walnuts Still in the Husk

Now, cracking out Black Walnuts was another difficult task.  It was the husks of those nuts that was the most difficult, not because of how tough they were (and they weren’t/aren’t very tough), but because of how messy they were/are.  There is a reason they are called “black” walnuts.  The husks will stain anything they touch the color black.  Work gloves were worn when working with those nuts.  I was not surprised to find out that the husks themselves were once used for dying cloth a grey or black color.  Once the husks were off, then the tough interior had to be cracked.  Daddy used an anvil, but the old hickory nut rock was used sometimes as well.  Again, once they were cracked, the pieces were put into dishpan or bucket for the next person to pick out the pieces to save for use later.  Black walnuts have a strong flavor.  You either like them or you don’t... it’s one of those types of flavors.  They aren’t like the English Walnuts that we use in baking today.  Cookies and cakes were often the end result of all the effort that went into getting the black walnuts.  

Treasures from The Past

Daddy used to take a few of the black walnuts (and sometimes peach seeds) and carve them sometimes.  I have a tiny basket and a teeny monkey that are part of my “collection of precious things from the past.”  Those were made from peach seeds (I think)... at least the little basket was... not sure about the monkey. 

Over the years, the trees came to us, so to speak.  Daddy planted several wild pecan trees in the yard when we were little, and which bear lots of nuts each year, so that’s pretty much the extent of our nut gathering nowadays.   My sister has a chestnut tree in her yard, and lots of black walnut trees planted beside her driveway.  When I went to visit my oldest son at his new house in Tennessee this past summer, I noticed that ALL the trees in his yard were well established hickory nut trees.  So now, if we want any of those, all we have to do is get him to save us some each year. 

Every season has a meaning deeper than just how cold or hot it is, when you live in the country.  Spring is for planting, and dreaming of what can be.... Summer is the time for tending the plants as you watch them grow, harvesting and putting up the vegetables as they begin to come in from the gardens, and cooling off under the shade of a tree on a hot day.  Fall is the time for final harvests, making jams and jellies, harvesting nuts, scuppernongs and muscadines, and persimmons and preparing them to be saved for winter.  Winter is a time for rest from gardening and harvesting and preserving... it’s a time of planning for the coming year... a time for celebrations and feasts.  It’s a time of reflection on the past year, learning from mistakes, and enjoying the fruits of our labors. 

It’s a cycle built on sustenance, but becomes more than that.  There’s a comfort and satisfaction that comes from it as well... not just one that means food (or treats) on the table, but one that goes soul deep.  It’s a rhythm built over generations... part of our internal clocks.  The years tick by, but within them we move to the beat of an age old clock, telling us it’s time to plant, time to sow, time to reap, time to harvest.  It’s the drum beat that we, here in the country, march through our lives to. It's such a deep part of who and what we are, that even if we move away, we will often find ourselves going through the motions (on a smaller scale, of course), that have been part of our heritage for generations.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8  (KJV)

There's No Place Like Home!

What does “home” mean to you?  Growing up, it was the place that Mom and Dad lived.  More than that, it was the community that we lived in with Grandmother and Granddaddy next door, cousins just down the road, and church not far beyond.  It all combined together in our hearts and minds to create a place we felt safe in, a place that gave us confidence to grow up to be the adults we became, a place that supported, loved, and welcomed us no matter whose front door we happened to show up at as we went about our daily lives.  It was a feeling as much as it was a place... a feeling of comfort and familiarity.  It was a good place for kids to grow up.

A few days ago, my brother sent me a message... something that had crossed his mind as he went about his job, which often takes him outside in different parts of the county.  I found it reminded me of what “home” meant to me after I had grown up, left home to start my own family, and often found myself moving from one part of the country to another.  “Coming home” was a special time.  It grounded me, renewed me, and always lifted my spirit. 

Here's the message my brother sent me:  “The other day while crossing a church yard a familiar feeling came across me and it occurred to me that it was a good feeling. It was comfortable but it was deeper than surface comfort. It was safety and confidence but it was more sure than safety it was more profound than confidence. Then it hit me this feeling was ‘home’... because home is not a place that happens to share an address with your current abode. Home is a place that always accepts you and never turns you away. Home is more than the place that you happen to share an address... It’s more than a place that you belong; it's a place that belongs in your life.  It never judges you, threatens you, or manipulates. You may not have had this or you may still live there. You may be remembering it now, but one thing is certain, we all need it. My hope for you is that you find it and never lose it. Hold home in your heart.”

We all have those “deep thought” sort of moments from time to time.  They sometimes catch us by surprise as if someone tapped us on the shoulder and said “Hey, notice this!” or “Remember this?!”... and we pause for a moment, and let the thought melt into our soul... drinking it in as if it’s a cool drink of water on a blistering hot day. We ponder its meaning, and wonder why that occurred to us at that particular moment of that particular day, as if it were some signpost on the path of Life itself. 

I’ve lived away from my childhood home for more years than I’ve lived here, coming back from time to time to visit and catch up with family goings-on.  Always it seemed to me to be a little piece of paradise, a place I could truly relax and just rest from the busy life of raising three kids on my own and holding down a good job. It was better than a vacation because there was nothing to plan, no schedule to meet, no places we had to go... just relax, turn the kids loose in the back yard, and renew family connections as we sat, sipped sweet tea, and told tall tales of our adventures since last we saw each other.  There was always lots of kidding around and laughter, always more food than anyone should eat, and a never-ending quantity of hugs and reassurance that all the current troubles of the day could and would eventually be resolved.  It was a place where I could renew my strength in the battle we all call Life.  It was a renewal of spirit, and I always came away refreshed and ready to hit the daily grind again.

Now that I’ve moved back home, I have to remind myself from time to time what a paradise of respite this place was to me for all those years.  The familiar... the daily sights and smells and places... we become blind to their beauty and what they mean to us when we see them all the time.  I’ve lived at the North Carolina coast with its rolling dunes and soothing waves.  I spent many years surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains with its lore and ever-changing beauty of nature, and yet more years practically next door to Mickey Mouse.  I’ve lived in the gorgeous Pacific Northwest with the tall deep green of the spruce trees, and in the ideal weather of Southern California with its eternal breezes coming off the Pacific Ocean bringing perfect temperatures year ‘round. And always... always... after awhile, those places became “normal”.  It was hard to remember to notice the beauty and wonder of that particular area of the country.  Home was always where I lived at the time... but Home was always that special place in south-central North Carolina, where worries ceased, where true relaxation began, were love was never-ending, and laughter was always abundant.  It was a place I came for comfort, relief, and a deep abiding sense of safety. 

“Home” can mean so many different things... it can be a place lost in time, or the place you are now... it can be the beginning of your journey through Life, or the end destination.  It can be a feeling, more than a place... wherever you hang your hat, the saying goes... or a place that you have never been, but know beyond certainty that it exists somewhere, if only you can find it.  And sometimes it sneaks up on you at the most unexpected times.  There are places I’ve lived that felt like home from the first day I was there, and there are others that, even after living there for years, never felt like home. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes said that home was a place where “our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”  I think that about sums it all up.  Home exists in our hearts first and foremost... sometimes that’s the only place it exists because it only exists in memories or might-have-been’s.  Sometimes going back to a “place” doesn’t mean going back home... it has become just another place over the years, familiar somewhat, but not the same as what we remembered.  Those are the unfortunate ones... as for me, I’m one of the fortunate ones.  Home has changed, but I can still sit on Mom’s back deck and remember the days, the people, and the feelings, and know, beyond question, “I am Home!”

“The ache of home lives in all of us, 

the safe place where we can go as we are 

and not be questioned.”

~ Maya Angelou ~