The Birds

The birds are back. A long winter silence has been replaced with bursts of spring song every morning.

They're congregating at the Amish farm Purple Martin Condos.



They're at my window in yellow, red, brown and gray flashes, fighting over the bird feeder.


(No, there aren't really flamingos at my feeders. I needed an extra pic to round out the set.)

They're in the old apple tree,



and the old lilac bush, hatching out their babies and protesting loudly each time I try to take a peek.


(Mama Robin, I count 4 beaks. It's a tad crowded there. Time for flying lessons?)

And they are patrolling the pasture with their young, teaching them nutrition, how to stay together, what dangers to avoid, soberly parenting this generation.


(Papa Goose--"And by all means, stay away from the lady with the camera!")

Yes, the birds are back.

And life at Iron Acres is better for it.

Outstanding in Their Field

It was a typical day in western PA. The children were in school.



The men were either in the field plowing,



or at the auction looking to sell or buy cows and pigs.





The women were doing the wash



and working in the garden.



And the cows were out standing in their field.







Hehehe. Get it? Outstanding---out standing? Oh, never mind.

Dear Mom,

(My Mother with her first baby--me! Aren't I an adorable chub, I mean, cherub?)

I think of you every time I see this picture of a gardenia from my baby sister's garden. You must be very proud of all that she has accomplished. I know I am.



I remember Dad giving you a gardenia corsage to wear on special Sundays. They are beautiful and delicate flowers, with a strong a sweet fragrance. I think they were your favorite because they were so much like you.

I miss you very much. You weren't only my Mom, you were my best friend, too. I have experienced something of that with my own daughter. I just wish we lived closer together so we could get into more trouble!

You haven't met her yet, but we have a second daughter now. She is the Beautiful Mommy of our precious Sprittles. And she is as sweet as she is beautiful. She helps your first grandchild remember his sense of humor.

Yes, you have three wonderful great grandchildren. Dad must have shown the pictures to you when he got to Heaven.



Of course, that would have been after he explained the whole girlfriend thing to you. I have a feeling that after you left this life you really didn't mind that he found a good friend to help him cope with the loneliness.

Oh dear. I feel like I'm having a celluloid flashback to "Broadway Melody of 1938."
I'd better close now before I start singing "Dear Mr Gable" in my best Judy Garland impersonation. You did love the movies.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Cornbread, Snuff, and Bananas

My maternal grandmother was the only grandparent I really knew. Grandfather was a struggling Georgia accountant when he moved his family to Texas to start up a new soft drink franchise called Seven-Up. I've written about a few of my memories of Grandfather here.

When I was old enough, I would spend weekends with Grandmother. We would visit Grandfather's grave, listen to her soaps on the radio, eat Bob's peppermint sticks and drink Coca Cola in bed while watching tv. I think she was the inspiration for the phrase "young at heart." She loved her grandchildren and great grandchildren. And babies. She loved babies.

Grandmother was an excellent no frills southern cook. Her cornbread was outstanding. If she were alive today, she could give Paula Deen a run for her money. Grandmother's secret seasoning was bacon grease. She never met a vegetable that didn't require the addition of the nectar of the pigs.

(Grandmother attributed her somber expression here to the fact that this penny photograph was taken without permission from her parents.)

She was born 30 years after the close of the Civil War in a small Georgia town. Her father was the town sheriff. I have visited the genealogy archives there and seen his signature on a copy of the census records.

Grandmother was a proper southern lady with only one vice of which I was aware--dipping Levi Garrett snuff. She claimed the addiction developed during her first pregnancy and she had never tried to kick the habit. A spit can was always by her rocker, and she would rock and spit and crochet and knit to beat the band. Of course, when the Preacher came to visit, the snuff can disappeared.

Grandmother had a wonderful sense of humor and loved bananas. But after eating them one day, she became deathly ill. Her prayer for healing was answered and she kept her promise to the Lord to never eat bananas again for the rest of her 94 years.

After she died, I would tear up every time I found myself near a short, sprightly, elderly lady. Her faith made a tremendous impression on me. I can see her now, up in Heaven with Grandfather, smiling down on me...

...and eating a banana!

The Fox, The Snake, and the Water Hose

My knowledge of my paternal grandmother is associated with three items: the fox(or dead animal of indeterminate class), the snake (outhouse story chronicled here), and the water hose.

Grandmother G died just a few minutes before my Dad, a recently discharged WWII sailor boy walked into the house. I never knew her. But there are stories....

(Grandfather and Grandmother G on their wedding day)

The daughter of early Texas settlers married the son of recent French immigrants in a small northern Texas town. Grandfather G provided for his wife and two sons by hauling goods (most often cotton to and from the local gin) with a wagon and team of mules. He died while Dad was in high school.

Being the widowed mother of two sons was not an easy job. Money was scarce, work was hard, but faith was her anchor.

And humor.


(Grandmother G in midlife)

It is hard to tell from this picture, but my Grandmother G had a wonderful sense of humor. Both of her sons inherited it. I always enjoyed hearing my Uncle and my Dad swap stories. My favorite was the one about the snake and the outhouse. Another was about Grandmother G turning a water hose on my Uncle's very proper future mother-in-law. Evidently none of parties involved took offense because the wedding wasn't canceled.


(Grandmother G and her two boys)


I would like to have known her, this small woman who raised two tall sons and weathered widowhood, poverty and WWII with a great heart and a good sense of humor.

And the woman from whom I inherited spunk and some serious eyebrows.

To Bee or not to Bee

There were honeybees at Iron Acres for a few years. Harvesting the honey was a messy, sticky business, but pulling a newly capped frame of honey from the hive was an incredibly satisfying experience. I've actually been thinking of trying again, now that the honeybees are in need of friends.

Last Sunday was a sunny day that had followed some spring rains. The apple blossoms were glorious. Prime time for swarming. We were gone most of the day. That night I discovered a honeybee buzzing around in our den. I gently escorted him out into the night, and wondered how he had gotten into the house.

The next morning I opened the blinds and discovered the carnage. There were a few survivors, still buzzing. They were tenderly gathered up and deposited outside under the apple tree.



I was heartsick. They must have swarmed on Sunday and landed temporarily near the window. Some adventurous souls found a crack that led into the den. Son 2 and I searched high (in the chimney) and low (in the coal room under the den), but found no evidence of a swarm inside. They must have moved on.

Perhaps I need to dust off my beekeeping equipment and settle in a hive or two.



"I told you we took the wrong turn at Albuquerque."

The Glory That Was

Every morning for the past two weeks they have been there. Waiting. Wondering if this day would be their last. Each new sunrise gives them hope. And so they stand, facing the inevitability of their death with courage and beauty.

And I, I have been chosen to be the instrument of their death. How can I describe the wringing of hands, the guilt, the sorrow, the procrastination...

The time we have both dreaded has come.

I solemnly raise the garage door, disconnect the charger, turn on the mower.

I will spare you the gory details. Let's instead think of happier times. Of the glory that was. . . the front lawn.











We will miss you. You will not be forgotten.

Cinco de Mayo

Setting aside my French heritage in favor of my love for Tex Mex food, and as a public service to all you wonderful readers out there, I offer you the complete Cinco de Mayo party planner.

1. History
The fifth of May is a Mexican holiday that celebrates " the Mexican army's unlikely defeat of French forces at the Battle of Puebla". If you are a history buff you can read up on the facts in this Wikipedia article.

I believe the essentials for celebrating Cinco de Mayo are being able to spell it, remembering to mark your calendar, inviting friends over, learning the phrase, "Feliz, y'all", and chowing down on some great Tex Mex food.



2. Tex Mex Food
If you're in Texas, just drive over to your local good quality Mexican restaurant for the fixin's. (That would be The Chaparral in San Antonio, or Matt's in Austin. I told you about Matt's Bob here.)

Everywhere else, just surf on over to Homesick Texan, or Andrea's Recipes and make your own.

3. Tejano Music
What's a party without good music? Here's a PBS clip on the history of Tejano to get you started. Once you know what it is, you can mosey on over to Tejano Radio and listen to Tejano all day!



My Dear Professor has told of many hot South Texas Saturday nights spent hanging out on the porch at the Rock House, listening to the Tejano music echoing over the fields from a little one room wooden Cantina down a narrow caliche road a few miles away.

Feliz, y'all!

This Cone's for You

Saturday, my Dear Professor and I met at the college for lunch. We have a regular date night. Yes, Virginia, even sixtysomethings go on dates. It is a wonderful time to get away from the distractions of every day living and speak to each other's hearts.

The college has two recently renovated dining halls, and this was my first visit since the redo. There were several different stations filled with all sorts of nutritious delicacies. I was very impressed.

On our way out, we passed by the (dun dun duh!) dessert station. Hey, it was a special occasion. We went for the ice cream cones.



As I gazed at that delicious dairy perfection, I couldn't help but think of our our eldest son, The Preacher, when he was little boy.

For our first 7 years of marriage, my Dear Professor and I lived in my hometown. His family lived almost a 5 hour drive south. My Mom and Dad (and Grandmother and Aunts)were more than happy to assume home court advantage with the grandkids.


(My Dear Professor, The Preacher, Dad)

Dad did a lot of driving in his work, and conveniently found himself in the neighborhood on a regular basis. Once The Preacher was old enough (two years), he and Dad would hang together at the nearby Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor. Dad loved to see The Preacher's head snap to attention as they turned the final corner and the ice cream store came into view. "IC, ic, ic!" the delighted two year old would squeal.

It made Dad's day. And mine too, watching an equivalent delight in my Dad's eyes as he told that story over and over again.

Dad and Mom are gone now, and that two year old is a father of three himself. My Dear Professor and I find ourselves the out of town grandparents. But that wonderful memory lingers on the mind as sweetly as the melting goodness of the ice cream lingers on my tongue.

So Dad, and my dear Son 1(aka The Preacher), this cone's for you.

Off Roadin'

Time has a way of stripping away our self imposed protective veneer to reveal who we really are. Being sixtysomething, I have had occasion to become fully acquainted with this process. I stand, er, sit before you today a different woman than I was in my twenties.

My mother tried desperately to raise two daughters conversant with culture and social graces. I even remember being trained to walk while balancing a book on my head. Oh, if Mother could see me now.

I don't know if I have "let myself go", or if I have just been worn down by the process of living in a place that has two modes of dress--dress casual (blue jeans) and casual (sweatpants). But I feel myself morphing into something . . something strange. Something involving country music, deer spotting, chewing tobacco (in our case it was gummy bears), and mud.

Ladies and gentleman, I've become a redneck. And this is how I know this to be true. Today I went off roading.

There are several requirements for off roading. The first is a four wheel drive vehicle, like a Jeep Wrangler.



My RFF(Really Fun Friend) provided this one. Note the optional equipment, a black lab pup named Kolby. Note also that the "optional equipment" is color coordinated with the Wrangler. My RFF rolls in style!



It was a beautiful pre-summer day in the Frozen North, so beautiful that we were not alone in the search for a challenging off road experience.

Breaker, Breaker, we had ourselves a convoy!



We were picking bugs out of our teeth with the big boys. *Cough*



The second important requirement for off roading is a trail of some sort wide enough for the vehicle. The trail must have "natural beauty", like ruts, puddles, and dirt. A Trifecta trail would have all three. This is the trail we chose.



The day came equipped with deep blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and the Jeep came equipped with a warning . .



. . . but the faithful optional equipment, Kolby, being both a therapy dog in training and a seasoned off roader, was not concerned.



Kolby's calm demeanor put my mind at ease. And so did his offer of a free 30 minute cuddle therapy session. Is it appropriate to call your therapist a cutie?

Driving up and down the hills was fun, but we were looking for something a little more . . . challenging. And then we saw it--the holy grail of off roading--a PUDDLE!! Woo--hoo!!



Remember how beautiful and shiny the jeep looked before we started? Well, this is how the passenger side running board looked after the puddle. That blur is the ground passing by.



We had a LOT of fun. At the end of the ride, , my RFF tucked her dependable four wheel drive friend (the Jeep Wrangler)in its comfy garage bay. This is what it looked like.



RFF and I thought there was an understated, almost Japanese quality to the mud spatters. What do you think?

Yesiree bobtail. I do believe I have been outed as a redneck.

Sorry, Mom.

May Day

Ahhhh. The fragrance of apple blossoms takes me back, back, back. . .

May Day the Spring celebration (not to be confused with Mayday the distress call which has nothing to do with a particular month but rather is from the French, venez m'aider meaning "come help me") brings to mind The Slab.

In my elementary school days we acknowledged the change of season with something called the May Fete. The May Fete was a sort of pagan ritual created by PTA mothers to accomplish two things--torture of children and fundraising. There was also some seamstressing involved--we all had to dress alike. It took place on The Slab.

The Slab was, simply, a slab. Our brand spanking new elementary school built to handle the booming baby numbers was fully equipped with cutting edge technology of the day--windows that opened, big fans, chalkboards that wrapped around two sides of the room, and in the midst of the play ground (open grassy areas), a 30 by 50 foot concrete slab. The Slab was used for recess when rainy season turned the grassy areas to mud, and for the grande promenade and terpsichorean feats of May Fete, accompanied by a scratchy record playing "It's a Treat to Beat Your Feet on the Mississippi Mud" over the pa system.

All I remember is that the girls were required to wear silly costumes sewn frantically by their mothers from lots of specific cloth that had been purchased in bulk from the local fabric store, and the boys always got away with wearing jeans and a white shirt.

Dance was a foreign and forbidden activity to me. My strict Southern Baptist raising did not allow certain activities and dance was at the top of the list. But my parents had no problem at all with dressing me up in some absurd costume and watching me prance painfully across The Slab, holding my partner's hand. This was before the days of sex education in Preschool, when boys and girls held a healthy disdain for each other and found nothing in common until about the 7th grade.

The greatest fear of the time was that your partner(we were divided up into couples, eewww!) would not make the Dancing with the Stars cut and you would have a second level of humiliation piled upon you. The first level was having to wear that stupid costume, the second, having to touch the opposite sex. (Eewwww!)

I wish I could provide you with some highly hilarious disaster that happened, but the combined trauma of wearing flouncy skirts held in place by elastic, holding an icky boy's hand and praying he wouldn't step on my toes has caused temporary amnesia. My therapist is working on it, though.

(Perhaps May Day the celebration and Mayday the distress call do have more in common than I thought.)

Ugly As Homemade Sin

Today I feel the need to clarify my statement yesterday about there being nothing cuter than baby birds. I had geese, chickens, and ducks in mind. Yellow fluffiness.

The official goose family portrait is a prime example. Note the patient Momma, the protective Dad, and the cuddly baby.



This morning I checked on Mama Robin again and noticed something different. She was sitting a little higher in the nest than before. See how much fluffier her feathers are?



She flew off the nest when I unwittingly violated her personal birdy space, and revealed this:



It looked like a flamingo had, ahem, "hurled" in her nest. If ever there was a candidate for the "ugly as homemade sin" category, this surely must be it.

Bless its naked little fuzzy heart. I never, in all my born days(southern expression for a long period of time) would have expected that beautiful blue egg to produce something like this. Maybe the patience of a mother's love, lots of nutritious bugs, and a thigh master will turn her into Suzanne Somers.

Or not.

You can yearbook yourself here.

Heartwarming Wednesday and a Recipe

There aren't many things on a farm cuter than baby birds. Mama Robin is still sitting on her nest in the lilac tree, but the geese are beginning to hatch out babies. Here is the little one I discovered this morning.



Mama Goose took offense at someone handling her baby. Did you know that a goose is capable of producing a nickel size bruise?

I decided today would be a good day to do something nice for my humans, and since the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I made my Dear Professor and Son 2 some fudge brownies from a great new recipe I discovered visiting one of those food blogs over on the right side of the page.

Since our ability to accessorize is what distinguishes us from the animals, I added chocolate chips and coconut. This is what it looked like all gussied up for its picture with a sprig of some chocolate mint I just purchased to grow in the garden. (yes, I ate the mint with the brownie and loved every bite.)



Is that brownie calling?

You can find the recipe here. Just tell them I sent ya.

Have a wonderful Wednesday.