Persimmon Puddin' 'n' Turkey Laigs

Artist's rendition of The First Thanksgiving

We’ve all heard the First Thanksgiving story.... “The English colonists we call Pilgrims celebrated days of thanksgiving as part of their religion. But these were days of prayer, not days of feasting.  Our national holiday really stems from the feast held in the autumn of 1621 by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag to celebrate the colony's first successful harvest.”  (Scholastic.com)

We continue that annual tradition even today, celebrating not only harvest, but taking time to realize just how much we DO have to be thankful for.  This year, more than any year I can remember, we need to pause, spend time with family, and count our many many blessings... because we DO have them.  There is always always ALWAYS something to be thankful for. 

When I was growing up, this was one of those family gatherings at Grandmother’s house that I’ve mentioned in past posts.  The men folk (Dad, Granddaddy, and Mom’s brothers) would always gather early in the morning, and as Mom and Grandmother were putting the turkey in the oven to start the preparations for a feast to end all feasts, they went out in the woods and went hunting.  I can’t remember what they were hunting for... squirrels and rabbits, most likely.  It was rare to see a deer or wild turkey in those woods back in those days.  They’d stay out there until on toward noon, and come back in.  After all, it wasn’t going to be long before the football games started.  Us kids, of course, were situated in front of the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. 

Many traditions have sprung up around a typical Thanksgiving Day around here, not least of all a feast to end all feasts, complete with all the favorite family recipes.  This was when I could always expect to get a piece of Grandmother’s persimmon puddin’... made from this year’s crop of persimmons.  There would always be Grandmother’s potato salad, and her cranberry salad.  One of my Aunts always brought her “Pink Stuff”, which was a salad with lots of fruit mixed in a whipped cream base... we just always called it “Pink Stuff”.  Everyone brought something to go with the turkey and dressing and yeast rolls that Grandmother was cooking. 

The tables were set with the “fancy china” and we had to be sure to use the “correct way to lay a table” (fork here, knife/spoon there, glass here, etc.) Food was served buffet style, and after we filled our plates, the adults would go to “The Big Table” and we would go to “The Kid’s Table”.  We always wanted to get big enough to finally be invited to “The Big Table”, but looking back on it, “The Kid’s Table” was where the fun was... laughing and giggling about something or other all the time.

Somewhere around Thanksgiving was when I remember Dad always going to at least one Turkey Shoot.  I knew it was some sort of shooting contest because Dad always spent a lot of time cleaning his guns before they began... and I knew someone was supposed to have always won a turkey, but I don’t remember Dad ever bringing one home.  It wasn’t until later that I found out it wasn’t a “real live” turkey that was to the prize, but a frozen one that someone had bought from the grocery store.

Thanksgiving in the South usually means that the weather is still pretty good some days, and while the nights are starting to get chilly sometimes, the days are usually in the 60’s and 70’s, so that meant that us kids would get shoo’d outside to play, so we’d be out from under foot for all the cooking that was going on. 

It wasn’t until later in life, when my oldest son mentioned it actually, that I realized that Thanksgiving was actually better than Christmas, in a way.  There were no gifts to worry about, no tons of decorations to get placed just so, just lots of family and friends and food.  These days, family is all over the country, having moved away over the years, but they still try to make time to come in for Thanksgiving.  Christmas is often too busy with church and family obligations to travel very far, but Thanksgiving is another thing altogether.  We get extra time off work since it’s a national holiday, so what could be better than a long weekend road trip and come home for a family gathering. 

Thanksgiving is actually a pretty unusual day, if you think about it.  It’s a day set aside to be thankful for the many blessings we’ve had over the past year... a time to reflect on what’s gone on over the past year, and take a moment to realize just how very blessed we have truly been.  In this age of hurry-hurry and instant gratification, in an age of uncertainty and change.... in this age of feeling that the world is spinning too fast and you just want to get off...  It’s good, no – it’s important and necessary, to stop...  take a deep breath, and look at all you DO have... look at your family, your friends, your loved ones (2-legged and 4-legged).  Those precious things are your blessings.  They make your life better.  They are the priceless treasures that you hold dear to your heart. 

So on this Thanksgiving Day...  take a few moments...  As the song says, “Count your many blessings, name them one by one...” !!!  YOU will be on my list.  I am grateful for each of you that read these memories.  Thank YOU!  And have a wonderful, wonder-filled Thanksgiving!!!!!!!!!  

Fresh Brewed Coffee ‘n’ a New Box of Crayons

When you think of things that smell good, I’ll bet you think of things like the smell of a meal cooking, or fresh baked cookies... or maybe even the smell of a little puppy.  No?  Maybe it’s a fresh box of crayons, or a new tub of PlayDoh, or bread fresh out of the oven?  Or, oh yeah, I’ve got it... it’s the smell of coffee brewing first thing in the morning!!  Even if you’re not a coffee drinker, that smell tells us it’s morning, and time to get moving.  We all have those special scents that affect us in some sort of way.  Coffee brewing is one of those scents for me... In fact, all the things I mentioned are among those smells that either makes me think of some “thing”, some “one”, or some “place in time”.  Growing up in the South, and being such an outdoors kid, there were smells that were part of my life, year ‘round.

In the Spring, it was the smell of flowers blooming, like hyacinths with their towering stem of pastel colored flowers, or lilacs as their drooping pastel blooms gently wave in the breeze.  The smell of fresh turned dirt told me that Dad was getting things ready in the garden for planting the tomatoes, beans, corn, cabbage, and other vegetables.  When Dad mowed the grass (or when we did, when we got older), it was both the smell of the cut grass, and the smell of the onions.... there were always wild onions in our yard.  In the evenings, I’d help Mom get the laundry off the clotheslines, and that smell... the smell of those clothes and sheets and towels... that was one of those smells that told me where I was, “when” I was, and was always a favorite... especially when you’d slip into bed at night between sheets that had just been dried on the line.  That smell!!!

In the Summer, there was the scent of honeysuckles that wound around the fences, and up posts and over bushes, wafting its scent on the summer breezes.  That’s when we knew it was time to taste the tiny drop of honeydew that could be found at the base of each flower when the bloom had just opened.  There was some finesse involved to get it though.  We had to pinch the stem end of the blossom off without breaking the stamen that went up the middle of the flower.  Then carefully, oh so carefully, slowly pull out the stamen out of the bottom.  On it, glistening in the sun like a jewel, would be a tiny drop of sweetness.  Touch the tip of your tongue to that, and it was such a sweet treat. 

When the weather changes on a Spring or Summer day, you can smell the storms coming.... something changes about the air.  The air itself, blowing in before the storm on the sudden gusts, smells different, like a mixture of dust and clean air.  The smell after a rain is “pure clean”, like the Earth and all that’s in it had been washed clean.  Even the air was clean... cleaned of all the pollen and dust and other smells from around the yard.

As the garden started coming in, with it came its own smells... the smell of tomato plants as we’d pick the ripe tomatoes off and carefully place them in a bucket or basket.  The smell of corn... as we’d cut it off the cob so we could freeze it for the winter.   The smell of fresh picked berries (strawberries and blackberries) meant that cobblers were soon to follow.  There were other smells as well... the smell of the bean vines after they’d finished bearing and were beginning to die... the smell of the dirt itself, after Dad has run the tiller or tractor through the rows to help keep the weeds at bay.  So many scents assaulted us during the summer.  It was (and is) a time of growth, blooming, and fruiting, and everything carried its scents on the wind.

A trip down to the pond brought different smells to the nose... smells of the silt and mud that covers the bottom of the pond.... the smell of the pine trees growing on the bank, and the water grasses and cattails growing at the edge.  The smell of fish, when caught, added to the smells that, even if your eyes were closed, told you that you were at the pond.   

In the Fall, there was the smell of dried leaves, gently falling in a slow cascade from the trees in the woods, or in a waterfall of leaves when the winds blew in the next storm.  There’s the smell of a garden, nearly done for the year, as plants that once grew there finally end their growing cycle.  Even the air starts to smell different as summer moves into fall, changing from flowery light smells, to something more earthy.  The smell of pumpkin pie starts to appear, as harvest begins and pumpkins ripen.  Apples and cinnamon are scents often wafting from the kitchen, as apples are harvested and either cooked, baked, dried, or frozen.  Citrus smells begin to be a part of the home, as those fruits begin appearing in grocery stores, having made their way from the orange and tangerine groves of the deep south.  These are all smells that tell us that Winter is on its way.... that it’s time to finish the harvest, prepare the ground for next Spring, and finish all the preparations for a long winter.

Winter brings the crisp smells of ice and snow... the mouth-watering smells of a Thanksgiving Feast... and the evergreen smells of Christmas.  Cinnamon, nutmeg, chocolate, vanilla, and other spices seem to permeate the house, as pies, cakes, and cookies are baked for the various celebrations.  Fires are laid in the fireplaces, the aroma of wood burning adding to the soothing, cozy smells of winter. 

It wasn’t just the seasons that brought the smells of place and time.  On a Sunday mornings, scents were everywhere, from the men and their after shaves, to the women and their perfumes, and the flowers on the altar.  Farms have their own smells, be it chickens or cows or pigs.  Wild animals often bring their smells into the nearby woods at night, and the smell of certain perfumes in a store can bring memories to mind.

Smells add to our memories of time, and place, and person.  They tell us where we are, when we are, and who we are.  We adorn ourselves with scents that we find most pleasing.  We surround ourselves with scents that remind us of “who”, or “when”, or “where”.  When we think of memories, old and new, we often think of sight and sound... but we tend to forget smell.  Yet, walk into a candle shop, and right away you’ll smell something that reminds you of something.  Smells create powerful memories.  

Lewis Thomas said, "The act of smelling something, anything, is remarkably like the act of thinking.  Immediately at the moment of perception, you can feel the mind going to work, sending the odor around from place to place, setting off complex repertories through the brain, polling one center after another for signs of recognition, for old memories and old connections."

Whatever your favorite smells are, they are guaranteed to come with some sort of memory or other.  It's through our memories that we tie together our path through Life.... the people, the places, the times.

        

Country Roads... They Take Me Home...

Red clay is the kind of dirt we have around here in a great many places.  There are some sandy areas, and grey clay dirt, but most of the area I grew up in was red clay.  It brings its own set of challenges.... when it's wet; it's like potter's clay that's almost soupy wet.  When it's dry, it can cause a cloud of dust behind a car that will swallow a tall tree.  The dust gets on everything, from the trees and yards on the side of the road, to the cars that drive up and down it. 

I can remember when Dad or Granddad would drive us somewhere; they would always go a certain speed so as to outrun the thick cloud of red dust behind us.  There was no avoiding it, but you could outrun it in a car... but you never wanted to be the car behind that car.  The problem was, the faster you went, the more dust you threw up behind the car.  Our front yard was small compared to our backyard, and it always stayed dusty from cars going up and down the road, but the house blocked it from reaching the back yard.  So after a long dry spell, even the house started having a red tinge to it on the front.  Cars were always dusty and dirty, but you didn’t let Daddy catch you “writing on the car with your finger”, or you’d end up having to wash the car.  Washing the car, when you live on a dusty dirt road, is a futile thing, and we kids were aware of the fact that our hard labor was really for nothing...  it stays clean until the very next time you'd take it anywhere.  No one had garages back then, so all the dust always settled on everything, cars in the driveway included.

Red clay is a special kind of awful when it's wet.  Gummy sorta, like wet soupy potter's clay, and a kind of red that stains anything that's anywhere close to white.  Socks were always to be sorted between those allowed to be worn when you were gonna be outside, and those to be saved for times when you wanted to look your best... like school or church.  Mom went to great pains to try and get the red dirt and mud out of white things, but it never completely worked.  All Moms were intimate with the challenges, and often shared any secrets they came up with that would rid the clothes of that red tinge.

This was the way the roads were when I was growing up.  Only the main roads into town were paved, everything else was gravel and dirt.  Today, it’s rare to find a dirt road, though there are still a few shooting off the road that goes by Mom’s house.  Some of the dirt roads that were around when Mom was growing up have long since ceased to be used, and trees and brush have swallowed them up now.  Other road beds have changed to straighten out some of the curves, or more accurately follow property lines when the old dirt roads became state property, and maintained by the state. 

The dirt roads around here were especially difficult to deal with when it rained.  The bus that took us to school came by our house from the direction that caused its door (in the mornings) to be on the other side of the road.  This meant that if it had been raining, we had to tiptoe/hop across the muck and mire of red clay, trying desperately not to get our shoes too muddy while getting on the bus.  In the afternoons, the door was on the same side of the road as the driveway, so easy-peasy to give it a quick jump and then we were safe from the mud onto the gravels of the driveway. 

Sometimes when I ride the roads around here, I imagine what it was like back before everything was paved.  Some of that I can remember for myself, but pretty much, all the roads were established by the time I came along.  Mom tells me that there was a section of the local roads near Snow Camp, NC that was called "The Old Plank Road".  It was named that for obvious reasons... there were literally planks on the road in an attempt to make it sturdier than the red clay muddy roads that are all around these parts.  But did you ever stop to think how it was that the roads got there to start with. 

I have added an appendix page to this blog for sharing some of my favorite poems and quotes, and the like.  Take a moment and go read the poem I added today called "The Crooked Path" (linked here).  The poem talks about how a calf left a trail... which was followed by wagons and horses, until one day that same crooked switchback trail was a road.  I think of this poem sometimes as I'm riding the roads around here.  It's not that far-fetched a tale to think that some of these country roads started as game trails, which were followed by the Native Americans stalking the game, and later by wagons as the area was settled by the pioneers.  It is extremely common to find out that they were mere wagon tracks for many many years before becoming a road of any sort.  The more houses that a wagon track road ran near, the more “traffic” the road saw.... and as years passed, the road became a main road used by anyone in the area.  In fact, the church that I grew up in currently faces away from the paved road that goes by it because the road, back in the 1800s, that went by the church was on the other side of the church.  When the church was first built, the church faced the road, as most churches and houses do.  Today it stands with its back to the road. 

There are two main roads into the little country village I live near.  One is fairly flat, gentle turns through lush farmland, the ground rising and falling over small hills as it winds its way through the countryside.  The other is steep hills, dipping down to cross branches and creeks with a bumpity bump then up the next steep hill, around some winding curves, and dipping down again to cross another creek.  One road seems typical of how the road crews sculpt the roadways nowadays... the other seems to be a throwback to days of yore.  I can only imagine teams of horses and oxen pulling hard to make it up those hills before it was paved, and farmers having to lay hard on the brake to make it down the next hill.  Wooden one lane bridges would have crossed those creeks... creaking and rattling as the wagon wheels slowly thump-thump-thumped their way across.  Going the few miles that we travel today in a few minutes would have been an all day trip.  But as I travel that hilly, windy road, I can almost hear the squeaking wagon wheels, the huffing of the horses and the clop-clop of their big hooves as they pulled their loads there and back again.  Life was slower back then, and dirt roads were something people were grateful for because they were better than the ruts of a wagon road.

Oddly, there’s a part of me that misses the old dirt roads.  They were not pleasant to deal with at the time, but they were a sign of a slower life... of peacefulness, when everything seemed right, and life wasn’t nearly as confusing.  The roads today even sound different... today it’s just the hum of tires on pavement... but the old country roads had gravels and the gravel on the road crunched as you drove over it.  My daughter still misses the sound of gravel crunching. 

The next time you drive through the country, turn off on some of the side roads... find an old dirt road... slow down, roll your windows down, listen to the gravel crunch.... Stop your car for a minute... Close your eyes, and breathe deep.  You just might hear the squeaking wagon wheels and the clop-clop of horses' hooves... 

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This forest path becomes a lane,

That bent, and turned, and turned again;

This crooked lane became a road,

Where many a poor horse with his load

Toiled on beneath the burning sun,

And traveled some three miles in one.

- Excerpt from "The Crooked Path, by Sam Walter Foss -

Made From the Same Flavor of Crazy!!

Our family, for as long as I can remember, has always used humor as a personal pressure valve.  When things get tough, we always find something to laugh about.. not necessarily the situation itself, but something going on around us, or remembering something funny from the past.  It's our way of releasing a little steam over the situation at hand, and then readdressing the problem and figuring out the solution.  I like to refer to it as "our own special flavor of crazy"!  :)

It's odd how, going through life, we are drawn to people sometimes... people that we meet at work or at church or in casual situations.  It's sometimes like we've always known them... a kindred spirit of sorts.  The kind of people I seem to be drawn to seem to be in this same "flavor of crazy", with their wit and humor that pervades every conversation.  We always find something to laugh about, joke around about, or funny things to share with each other... creating a flow of happiness and laughter between us.  As the saying goes, "Life is too short to be taken seriously."

When someone new enters our "inner circle" of family and friends, it's always somewhat of a culture shock to them.... people marrying into the family, for example.  We're not your typical lot of folks.  Love and laughter (at ourselves and at each other) is the current that runs in, out, among, and between every word of every conversation.  Some people are rather taken aback by all this, and don't quite know what to do with it, much less how to act among it.  It takes some getting used to, that much I know... but eventually they become comfortable enough with themselves and others around them to where they join right in...  and are, in the end, our "flavor of crazy" right along with us.  

It's like this, really..... Life is serious stuff.  Every day we have to make hard decisions, worry about important things, and deal with hard-to-solve problems.  When we get together, be it two or twenty of us, we like to balance out all those troublesome things with lighthearted humor.  Some would say it's living in denial, but nothing could be further from the truth.  Balance is one of the most important things in Life.  Balancing the good with the bad is critical to a healthy outlook on Life.  Our humor, poking fun, and generally cutting up to make the other person laugh is that balance.  Life gives us plenty of serious and troublesome stuff all by itself.  It's family and friends that give us that which balances all that out.  

So if you're having a bad day.... if things aren't quite going just as you'd like them to for some reason... if you're worried and troubled about some one or some thing... stop by and join in our "Circle of Crazy".  We're likely to poke fun at ourselves, offer you some sort of sweet snack and something to drink, and sit around telling tall tales that no one is likely to believe, but which are apt to make you at least giggle a time or two.  Yea, your troubles will still be there, problems that need solving, but somehow it won't be as big a burden... sometimes it even helps you to see the way through easier.  When you leave, you'll realize that you were probably worrying far too much about whatever it was that was on your mind.... that Life is always serious, just different kinds at different times.... that we all try our hardest, but none of us always get it right all the time.... and that sometimes, just sometimes, it's alright to be "our flavor of crazy", even for just a little while.  

You Can't Go Home Again...

Mom's House

I’ve been spending a great deal of time at my Mom’s house lately; helping her convalesce from a health event she had a couple of weeks ago. Time spent there is always a walk down Memory Lane, remembering old times, family gatherings, and just the day to day life that I spent there. As I looked out across the gardens and well-kept lawn, the giant shade trees and the orchards, a thought came to mind. There are so many places that exists only in my mind’s eye... familiar places... places near and dear to my heart, and which I visit often as I write these stories about growing up in Southern Alamance County, North Carolina... about how things used to be and how that’s different from how things are now. 

Mom’s house has changed as the deck and sunroom were added on... the surrounding landscape changed as trees grew, flower gardens were planted, and new houses sprang up within sight. Even the nearby towns have changed so much that when I moved back here four years ago, it was like moving to somewhere I’d never lived before... new road networks to learn, new stores to memorize the location to, things/places that no longer existed (or that had changed so much that they might as well have been something brand new). Time moves on, and with it change comes. That’s just the nature of things, and places, and people. And most of all, we change... a little bit every day.

Oh, the Times I've Walked This Driveway...

I’ve heard it said that “You can’t go home again!”, and I know what that means now. It’s not that you can’t go to the same location, the same town, even the same house... it’s that things change over the course of time. People come and go... businesses change locations or just disappear altogether... even the “old home place” changes as saplings grow to huge shade trees, or a garage is added where once only lawn was. We’re happy for the progress at the time, but how often do we stop and realize what we’re losing in the process?

I remember looking out across the field that’s always been beside Mom’s house and seeing my grandparents’ house, with the old wooden garage out back, and a huge (to me at the time) barn out back of that. The garage and house are still there,

Looking Across the Field at Grandma's House

though no one lives in the house anymore, but the barn has long since been torn down. Yet I can still see it as clearly as if it were still there, and I was about to climb up the rickety wooden ladder that lead to the hayloft. I can walk around the yards at my grandparents’ house and point out to you where Granddaddy had his fishing worm “bin” that he made, or where the old apple trees once stood (and when the apples were likely to be ripe)... I can show you where Grandmother’s clothes line used to be, and the hole under the side of the house that the barn cats always used to climb into to have their kittens. I can show you where the fig bush was, and still taste the sweetness of a fully ripened fig, and feel the stickiness of the sap where I pulled it off the bush to eat it. The details of that place, forever preserved in my mind’s eye, are astounding... all I have to do is just go for a walk down that particular Memory Lane to see it all.

I can remember finally being released from chores in the house, racing out the back door (slamming the screen door and being told not to slam it again), bouncing down the porch steps and out into the yard where adventure waited to be found. I remember every detail of that back yard... how small the trees were, where the sandpile beckoned at the edge of the woods, and where the swing set was. I can remember laying on my bed at night and hearing the whip-o-wills (where have they all gone?) and crickets and frogs as I drifted off to sleep each night. So many details come to mind... of a place that once was, of a time that will never exist again, and a childhood that was full of adventure just waiting around the next tree, bush, or corner.

A Creek in the Woods
(not ours, but similar)

Not long after I moved back here, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, a few of us went walking in the woods out back of the house. As we wandered past the old back field that Dad once planted with corn (or something else), I noticed how trees and meadow grasses had started to reclaim that area again, and a part of me sighed inside at the change. We made our way to the creek at the bottom of the hill, and I noticed how that had changed, though not as much in some places... the water was still icy cold... the banks were still steep... and it was still too wide to jump across in most places. We made our way to the place where Dad would always take the family for a picnic. Nothing about it looked the same, but my sister assured me that it was the same place. I remembered a soft layer of grass beside a creek where the bank dipped down to the edge of the water. I remembered a shoal of sand where we could step from creek bank to sand and straight into the water. I remembered a giant tree nearby. Some of that was still there, but the bed of soft grasses was gone, and the undergrowth had grown to such a degree that the place seemed new somehow. It wasn’t the same picnic place... the location was the same, perhaps, but the place itself (its surroundings) were all different.

The Saplings of "Yesterday"

The places we remember are like a patchwork quilt of treasured memories, eternally etched in the Annals of Time... our time. These precious places and people are part of our stories... our journal of a life well lived. My Mom remembers her childhood and all the years since, as if they were yesterday, visiting them often with laughter and fond memories. My daughter, still in her 20’s, remembers her childhood, her brothers, and the places we’ve lived, with far more vivid details than my memories are fading into. It’s our sanctuary that we all go to now and then... full of memories, joy, and yes - sorrow, that make each of us into the person we become. It’s the very fabric on which our life’s story is woven.

Hold fast to those memories. Visit often those treasured places. It’s within those places, learned by heart, that we find our roots. It’s outward from those self-same places that we see the crooked path that lead to where each of us are today.

There are places that exist only in my mind’s eye... but once upon a time, not so very long ago, they were real... they were loved... and they are part of who I am today.

Some memories are unforgettable, 

remaining ever vivid and heartwarming.

~ Joseph B. Wirthlin ~

"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