Holiday Break Is Over

Everyone is gone, and Gerald and I find the silence almost deafening. Gerry’s family had to leave Friday morning since their family was involved with a softball camp this weekend. Katherine and David were just out for the day on Thursday—bringing me a start of the beloved lilac bush that Katherine dug one hot afternoon from our old farm home. She was still able to plant and nurture it then eight years ago. David had dug it for me for my birthday. I could not have asked for a better present. The other two families left this afternoon. I hope all are safely home and tucked in bed after their long drives home.

We weren’t sure what time Erin’s flight was from Atlanta to College Station, but I hope it was early enough that she too is soon in bed. Everyone dreaded starting back to the grind in the morning.

It has been a good six days of family visiting at Woodsong. Most days people were coming and going, and I was never sure who was in the house. Eighteen were here Thursday, and after that, seldom less than ten of us were eating. Sweets from Gma Shirley’s Thanksgiving dinner showed up on our dessert counter along with Mary Ellen’s apple pie and chocolate pecan pies. So it did not seem to take much effort to fix a new dish or two for lunch and mix with the leftovers.

Friday we took the kids to the Carbondale mall while two daughters and I looked at kitchen sets. (Five of my six chairs are beyond repair, and the sixth will likely die soon.) Since we were there, we went to Pagliai’s for pizza while Jeannie reminisced about college days there. After a Saturday night movie, it was pizza at Walt’s, which brought memories to Mary Ellen. The kids thought pizza two nights in a row was a great nutrition choice. We oldsters enjoyed it too.

Gerald convinced me that I should go ahead and use the leaking sink by keeping the crock pot beneath to collect the water. That worked, and all I had to do was remember to empty it. We kept the dish washer and the sink busy with dish washing.

I slow baked steak and potatoes in the oven while we were at church this morning. We were all pleased that Leslie and Elijah sang for us in the service. Mary Ellen and Brian had not been able to hear Leslie sing in a long time; and except for his family, none of us had heard Elijah for a year or so. When we arrived back at the farm, I fixed the okra that I had thawed out to prepare for Thursday’s feast. A family favorite, okra is always on our Thanksgiving menu and I had it written down on the planned menu, which I failed to consult on Thursday. Two days later I remembered it in the downstairs fridge in the den. Ah well.

Now at last, the leftovers are mostly gone. The two youngest granddaughters finished their turkey cupcakes this afternoon—a project that got stranded last night when it was time for all to leave for the movies. The kids drove the “mule” for the last time. I assume they may have made any last decisions or conversations about their on-going group book project that they have been working on for a year or so. Jeannie straightened bedrooms and put the sheets from the couches and air mattresses through the laundry. Kids were told to pack up their clothes and stuff. There were emotional hugs as cousins parted company from one another. Granddogs were loaded to leave, and after the final farewells, I took Sam and his friend Tyler home. We enjoyed the neighbors' beautiful Christmas lights as we drove.

Gerald and I watched television together. Two people don’t make much noise.

'Twas the Night Before...

This afternoon I wrassled the turkey. With Gerry's help pulling out the still frozen-in plastic ring, it is ready for the oven at 5 a.m. The sweet potatoes are boiled and ready for the casserole. The celery and onion have been sauteed ready for the dressing. I think I have everything necessary out of the freezer.

I just made up three couches and have a couple more to go in case they are needed. Fortunately, the Taylors are willing to use their camper. The kids could go to Katherine and David's or may end up at the camper or at Gma Shirley's, and there are always plenty of air mattresses if someone wants the floor. But I want to have places ready just in case since the adults occupy the bedrooms.

Gerry, Vicki, and Geri Ann arrived from Georgia early this morning sometime after midnight--I was alseep. Yesterday afternoon Erin arrived from A&M and Leslie from Belmont about the same time that Gerald and I returned from our dermatologist appointments in
St. Louis. Gerald took us out to dinner. My birthday was Monday, but I asked to wait and celebrate with my two favorite college students.

Right now two families, whose kids had school today, are on the way here--and should be here by midnight if not before. Brian and Mary with Trent and Brianna are coming from central Illinois, and Jeannie and Rick with Elijah and Cecelie are coming all the way from Freeport. I imagine Elijah is driving.

Gerry's family left to go to Gma Shirley's for a family dinner there before they head out to the Crab Orchard High School gym to see their cousin Drew Johnson play. He made 22 points the last game. Hope he even beats that tonight, while his family is watching!

Gerald and Gerry went hunting this afternoon with Gerry's two dogs that are here at Woodsong right now. That went well and there were four quail dressed in the sink that I quickly put in the freezer. I might have prepared them, but my kitchen has a clitch in it right now. After I had washed and prepared the turkey, I used lots of hot soapy water to clean the double sink to be sure no bacteria was left behind. Then I noticed all the water on the floor and water dripping from the door below the sink. Since I try to be careful not to splash when handling poultry, I was puzzled. Gerald and Gerry helped me explore under there, and it was discovered that for sometime water was leaking from the disposal. A crock pot stored there was full of water from he past. I am glad we found the problem, but it could have happened at a more convenient time. It was all the extra use of water that made us aware.

I'll have to restrict the use of that main sink. Fortunately, on the other side of the kitchen, instead of just a small water-dispensing sink, I had chosen to install a large sink. I was thinking of a place for wash the garden vegetables in the summer, but it will sure come in handy until we get the other sink repaired.

Leslie knew I was wanting to see Up that I've heard so many good things about. So while she was in town getting a hair cut this afternoon, she rented it for me and after supper she and I watched it together. It was as delightful as everyone said.

Well, I am sure I have stuff to do in the kitchen, and I need to hunt up some more sheets and blankets. I wish you all a happy
Thanksgiving. Pray for peace. And drive carefully. As we say in Southern Illinois, watch out for the deer!

School and Swine

My daughter, who teaches art, wrote on Facebook about the six graders suddenly showing up in class with miniature skateboards in their pockets, which of course they could not resist pulling out and playing with. That brought to my mind the annual appearance of water guns each spring among the high school crowd in the old days. And I remember granddaughter Tara and her young friends at Harrisburg all having some kind of mechanical “baby” that they carried with them even on the softball bench that had to be fed and cared for every few hours. These young “mothers” took it all very seriously until the fad faded as rapidly as it started.

I had recently again picked up Volume 1 of The Moravian Springplace Mission to the Cherokees off a table in the living room. I’d started it months ago, but life interfered. The bookmark still remained about a fifth of the way through. Enough time had passed that I wanted to start again at the beginning, and I’m now probably a fourth of the way through. Only recently translated and made available to the English reader by the University of Nebraska Press, it is fascinating reading detailing the daily life in the mission at Springplace in the Cherokee Nation. The diaries and other documents were made available and published with the consent of the Moravian Church of the Southern Province.

Dr. Rowena McClinton of Southern Illinois University Edwardsville translated from the archaic German script the diary entries from 1805-13 is this first 648-page volume. Volume II then awaits me with entries from 1814-21. McClinton’s enlightening Introduction presented the historical context that brought the Moravians from Central Europe to the New World and this group to the Cherokee.

The Moravians lived among the Cherokee for over thirty years, and it is interesting to read the experiences and adaptations they made in the first two years (the only ones I read so far). They could only board four students in their school, but the James Vann plantation was nearby, and some children lived there and came to the school.

After reading Jeannie’s lament about what the small skateboards did to students’ learning and classroom decorum, I had to giggle the next day when I read the entry about little Johnston McDonald’s parents visiting the Moravian school. The father was extremely interested in Johnston getting an education, and he forbade his son from bringing his blow gun to school knowing it would distract him. (The blow gun was a long pipe which allowed arrows with thistles instead of feathers and could be used by the boys to kill birds.) I could imagine that Johnston and the other boys made new blow guns when the season beckoned.

The mission seemingly welcomed all Indians and all travelers for meals and sometimes for several days’ visits. I found the hospitality amazing although occasionally the missionaries had to say they could not provide what someone asked for. They wished they had more room for student boarders. Sometimes the visitors slept in the school house with the boys or evidently wherever they could find room for them.

Keeping food available for such a large group was always a challenge, but the missionaries had unflagging faith that God would provide. They might be out of meat for awhile, but eventually a Cherokee would come with a turkey or a venison ham, and the diarist would thank God for the provision. Sometimes the missionaries purchased or traded for the meat, but often it seemed to be a gift.

Because so many people were dropping in and eating breakfast or dinner or supper, I expected more detail about the food preparation. What was being harvested or prepared was mentioned, but nothing was said about how the food was cooked or how the dishes got washed. And there was very little said about the method of instructing the students, who came speaking Cherokee, but I am hoping for more information on that when Anna Gambold becomes the diarist later in the volume. Missionaries were told that adults could not learn the Cherokee language. Much was said about prayers and other devotional activities and who attended the services.

One of the missionaries’ greatest pleasures was the packets of letters and materials received from other missions in Pennsylvania and elsewhere. I am assuming those missions delighted in reading the Springplace diaries, but maybe not since there was no copy machines. Right now I am following the many entries concerning the lost pigs that the Springplace mission desperately needs for food. The pigs are simply allowed to run loose in the woods, but they have disappeared. Has someone stolen and already butchered them? Have they wandered so far that the brethren will never find them? If I can find time to keep reading, maybe I will learn.

Thinking about Thanksgiving Day

Weather at Woodsong turned fall chilly today along with some rain. I did not leave the house although I originally planned to go with Gerald when he took Katherine for her H1N1 shot, but it was just too tempting to stay snug at home.

Since it was cool enough, I turned on the self-cleaning device in the small oven, which was quite disgraceful from heavy summer use. I emptied the big oven on my stove, which I seldom use except to store big skillets, and used it for today’s project.

Today was pie-baking day, and I put five pumpkin pies in the freezer for the Thanksgiving holidays. That is 30 pieces, which is not very much for people who are here for more than just dinner that day. People are often too full after turkey and dressing and veggies to even eat dessert—but later in the day while everyone is having fun or have wakened from their after-dinner naps, most will return to the dessert counter. With a cup of coffee, some will be visiting again at the kitchen or dining room table, so I want plenty available. I also have a dough-lined pie pan in the fridge to put together another pecan pie to join the one already in the freezer. Fortunately both pumpkin and pecan freeze well.

In the morning, I plan to purchase the biggest frozen turkey I can find and it will go into the freezer until Saturday. That will give five days for it to thaw. If it is completely thawed, the battle will be easier with the metal or plastic thing-a-ma-jig that holds the legs together.

I also want to be sure I have adequate potatoes and sweet potatoes in the house for next Thursday’s mashed potatoes and sweet potato casserole. I have already bought cheap bread for the dressing to supplement the left-over odds and ends of bread and cornbread that I have accumulated since the last time I made dressing. It takes a big pan for our gang. I learned the hard way, however, to not make the dressing too deep in the pan or it will not be sufficiently baked by dinner time.

I am trying this week to get done the preparation I usually do Thanksgiving week because two days next week include follow-up doctor appointments. Gerald and I go to St. Louis for a follow up with the dermatologist on Tuesday, and I think two granddaughters are arriving from their respective colleges that same evening. Wednesday I have a follow-up on another fall procedure in Marion, which should not take long. Afterward I will buy fresh salad fixings and some nice rolls to heat up for our dinner on Thursday.

The week after Thanksgiving I can begin to think about Christmas cards and holiday decorations. But right now I am thankful for family and the abundance of love that will be in our home next week.

Celebrating Autumn

A warm sunny Saturday afternoon saw folks sitting on the steps and picnic tables at John A. Logan College entrance. Fragrance floated from the Karmel Korn trailer, and relaxed shoppers coming and going to and from the filled parking lot were enjoying the beautiful autumn day. Bales of straw artistically topped with pumpkins, squash, and gourds set the theme for the annual fall festival of arts and crafts inside.

Writers had the opportunity to display and sell their books at the Southern Illinois Writers Guild tables in the cafeteria surrounded by booths of hand made jewelry, fluffy hand knitted hats, and almost every art form imaginable. Our newest SIWG anthology just off the press had arrived for us to sell our craft at the festival.

This eighth volume of The Writer’s Voice, produced by a commercial printer with an International Standard Book Number and to eventually be available for purchase on Amazon is a long way from the early ones we used to assemble with borrowed equipment at a local school. Editor Kathy Cotton reviewed the anthology’s history and wrote, “The product expanded from sixteen writers and fifty-something pages to thirty-eight contributors—including winners of our own national writing contest—and one hundred forty pages.” Cotton, a talented and dedicated volunteer, who is an artist and dancer in addition to being a poet, designed and formatted the book and completed it on schedule despite problems calling for a new hard drive, then a new motherboard, and finally a new laptop.

Along with the top winners in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, this year’s anthology was opened up to include offerings from the public for a special storm section about the May 8 derecho. Those eight extra contributors and photos of the storm will make this year’s book one to remember.

I enjoyed sitting beside Jim Lambert, our president, and showing people his poetry book Winds of Life, which I am very fond of. And it was fun to meet two of his grandkids who came by with his wife Sandy. Jim was busy showing off Fog Gilbert’s books on the other side of him as well as hawking our anthology. I even sold one of my books to a friend of one of my daughters.

Since there was plenty of help at our tables, I felt free to leave early—even though I had gone late. I came back to Woodsong to finish putting together a green bean casserole and some pickle dishes to go with the pecan pie I had made the day as our contribution to the annual Thanksgiving feast at our village church. Some special people had donated their time to make the hams and turkeys along with pans of delicious dressing. Shirley Butler had outdone herself with beautiful decorations making the church basement an autumnal wonderland. Others prepared our “home grown” program afterward, and we laughed and cried together.

Lost Dog, Good Neighbors, and Veterans Day

Monday started with Gerald waking me with the good news that he had found Gerry’s bird dog. Wanting to get acquainted with the dogs, he had taken them “hunting” on Sunday afternoon (without a gun), and he was dismayed when one ran away from him and he could not locate it. A road away from Woodsong in a far neighborhood, Gerald found the dog upsetting two sweet women who were fretting about the lost dog going back and forth between their houses. They were taking care of the dog even though they were needed to get ready to go to work.

They had inquired and tried to find the owner, one had called the no-longer-in-use lodge phone number on the collar, and both had fed the dog. One was so worried the dog was hungry. Until it ran away, it had free access to its feed, so Gerald knew it was not yet suffering too much even if the dog had not found such caring neighbors. Gerald was glad to meet such nice neighbors for the first time, and he was greatly relieved to find the dog. I think Gerry was even more so because he was worrying about his father searching for them.

Later in the day we had a phone call from our fourth-grade neighbor Katie telling us the time for the Veterans Day program at Crab Orchard School. She invites Gerald for the program and lunch each year, and he was again planning to go with her. Unfortunately, a Tuesday morning call reported that Katie had a high fever and would have to miss school.

That cancellation allowed Gerald to finish the repair of a tin roof on a machine shed up at Wayside Farm on the road to Pittsburg. He had acquired the tin and started the job on Monday, and he was eager to finish up one more derecho-caused problem. He came home at noon yesterday saying he was now done with replacing the tin. However, while on top of the roof, he discovered how rusty all the nails were and was amazed more tin had not blown off. So he announced that maybe ten or so two-hour sessions between now and spring would complete the project and allow him to repaint the tin. He put in his two-hours this morning.

I am old enough to remember when Veterans Day was still Armistice Day, and my daddy would cross the street to the Jonesboro Grade School to ring the bell at 11 o’clock. I remember his telling our school assembly once how people in Goreville beat tubs and celebrated with great vigor when World War I ended. He wanted us to sing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” with a little more enthusiasm and thoughtfulness, and we did after his story. While the many programs across our nation were planned before the dastardly deed at Fort Hood, I am sure we were more thoughtful and more tearful with this tragic event so fresh in our minds. We look forward to the day when we can sing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” and ring a few bells. But too many will not be coming home.

Daughter Jeannie posted on her Facebook the Journal Standard’s video of the Freeport School District program yesterday in appreciation for veterans. Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk1KXYGlM3M&feature=player_embedded.

If you watch it, the first soloist is our grandson Elijah singing. Then the next three nights, their high school will be performing their fall musical. I wish we were able to go, but it is just not working out for us.

Celebrate!

November 9, 1989

Open up. Open up.
The people spoke it.
Open up. Open up.
The people demanded it.
Something there is…
Make it fall. Make it fall.

Create. Create.
God spoke it.
Light. Sky.
Land. Plants.
Sun and stars.
Birds and animals.
God spoke it all.
Let people rule, He said.
It is good, He said.
Swords rule. Word rules.

Tear down this wall.
Let it fall. Let it fall.
Celebrate. Celebrate.
The people spoke it.
The people demanded it.
The people ruled.
And it is very good.

Speak up. Speak up.
Word creates. Word rules.

By Sue Glasco on 11-9-2009

Seasons

Rainy weather has been replaced this week with sunny days giving just the right amount of warmth to the breezy air. Everyone has felt their spirit lift although the great fall color has greatly diminished.

Yesterday I was scheduled to speak at Nine Mile Baptist Church’s women’s retreat at Lake Sallateeska, and I enjoyed the drive up to north of Pinckneyville and the beautiful lodge after I got there. Their retreat theme was “Seasons” built around the scripture that for everything there is a season.

Since these women live near Mulkeytown (one grew up there), I was asked to speak on the life of Priscilla, the slave girl freed to live in the Silkwood home. I tried to show the various seasons of her life and how despite the very difficult times and many deprivations caused by prejudicial nineteenth century laws, she was able to live a useful life that blessed others. And there seem to be many indications that she lived a happy life at Silkwood Inn. With little education, no career, and no children of her own, she is probably the most famous of anyone who ever lived in Mulkeytown. (Abe Lincoln’s son Robert and some elephants came to town to build the railroad through there, but he didn’t actually live there.)

Musing over the day’s theme scripture, I did some heavy reflection on that as I drove home and realized I need to face and plan for the new season of life that I am now in. I don’t like change, so I don’t reorganize life easily. Nor do I like to discard traditions, friends, acquaintances, or possessions. Especially I do not like to discard paper or books. Yet maybe the time has come to simplify my life and my office. Simplification may mean cleaning out some things. We’ll see.

I am not an inveterate hoarder. I know I can honestly say that because I have hauled trunk load after trunk load of clothes, household stuff, and other things to give away when I could no longer use them. Gerald has cooperated by hauling truck loads of furniture or mattresses to the household give-away in our nearest town. I also have hauled countless trunk loads of refuse to recycling centers. So I know I won’t be written up in the newspapers when I die for having a house with mounds of old newspapers and magazines with only narrow lanes to walk through. It also helps that as long as I can stay out of second hand book stores and away from beautiful dishes at Salvation Army, I am not much of a consumer.

Nevertheless, I seldom see a newspaper that I don’t want to clip and save information—just in case I write an article or know someone who needs that information someday. I struggle to pass on magazines even though I know I will never have time to finish reading them. I think part of my affection for the written word was passed on to me by my mother. As a motherless child on the farm with her daddy at work in town, she looked forward to a daily newspaper or any periodical or letter that came to their mailbox. Unlike today, the printed word was a scarce and precious possession in that time. We are inundated with newspapers, long begging letters from countless organizations, and inexpensive magazines. Mother never got over being in love with publications, and a favorite phrase of hers was, “I read an article that said…” If it was in print, she was inclined to trust the words even though she was not a gullible person.

I still giggle when I remember the first time Gerald, as my fiancé, went with our family to our beloved Mount Airy Farm, my dad’s childhood home. He was eagerly reading from a Popular Mechanic from a large stack on the wicker table in the living room. Suddenly he noticed it was twenty years old. I don’t think our family ever subscribed to that magazine, but a friend had passed them on, and rather than throw them out, Mother took then to the farm. I understand.

Magazines stack up at my house. File cabinets are full. I made family scrapbooks for years, but that hobby disintegrated into filling boxes of family ephemera with the idea that maybe in my frail elderly years, I will have time to make scrapbooks again. Both our old farm house and our new one have had the delightful characteristic of having nooks and crannies, and that has encouraged me to make use of them with various saved items. Our grandkids know if they need some item for a project (clay, toilet paper roll, cardboard box, construction paper, gold foil from a Christmas card, you name it), I will probably be able to find it somewhere.

However, so our children won’t have to go through some stored boxes looking for lost stocks or savings bonds (don’t have any), I have boxes of former teaching files or other projects marked: “Throw out when I die.” But maybe it is time I start throwing out some of the stuff myself. Maybe this should be a winnowing season for me.

The Week at Woodsong

Where did the week go? I started with laundry from the weekend on Monday. The first week in the month also holds both our regular board meeting of the Illinois Chapter of the Trail of Tears Association and also the local women’s club.

The board meeting was supposed to be a very important planning session when we were joined by the national president and the national executive secretary, both from states away to plan our national convention, which is going to be in Illinois this year in September. We planned to meet at Camp Ground Church as soon as they arrived from area airports, so that they then could drive on over to Metropolis to spend the night and to sign contracts and secure space for the convention there. Knowing our visitors would have no time to eat before the meeting, we planned a light supper. At the last moment, one became ill and her doctor did not want her to travel, so there was no reason for the other national representative to come from his state either. We thought our Illinois board would therefore have a short meeting since the main purpose of the meeting was aborted.

Not so. As we relaxed and ate together, we realized that there was much local planning we also needed to do and this was the perfect time to accomplish it since we’d be involved with convention planning at a rescheduled time. We brain stormed and came up with some good ideas for work to be done in 2010.

The most exciting event of the evening, however, was sharing in the birth of Joe Crabb’s great granddaughter down in Texas. His grandson and wife were there to attend to the birth of a baby girl that the biological mother was heroically allowing them to add to their family. Joe warned us if the phone rang, he’d leave the room so he could learn of this expectant birth. We would not have that. We did not want to be denied our participation in this important occasion.

Sure enough, his phone beeped and a text message told him Savannah had been born. I wish you could have seen the smile on Joe’s face. There were goose bumps and tears and happiness filling the room. Then the baby’s grandmother phoned to make sure Joe had received the text announcement. And, best of all, next we were all privileged to see this sweet baby girl’s photo on Joe’s phone—all wrapped cozy in a blanket with her little face staring at us with no idea she had caused such pleasure up in Illinois. I predict great things for this cherished child.

Not nearly so dramatic nor so important, the second most exciting event of the evening was Joe’s bringing in the beautiful new brochures his daughter helped him create—brochures showing the map of Pope County with clear directions as to how anyone can hike, bike, or drive over a nine-mile certified original segment of the Trail of Tears.

The National Park Service has sent the signs to make the way clear for visitors, and some are already in place. After running out of posts, a new supply has been found, and the rest of the signage on the trail segment should be completed soon. You don’t have to wait though. If you stop by the Chocolate Factory (always a good idea) on the designated TOT highway, Route 146, you can pick up a brochure and follow the clear directions for an interesting day trip through beautiful countryside, where the Cherokee sadly marched 171 years ago.

Today was the afternoon meeting of the Women’s Club, and we were able to hear Cindy Gibbons, president of Old National Bank, tell us some of the important things happening in Marion right now. Since I missed last month, it was fun to see everyone again and hear all the plans for the season ahead.

With meetings, meals to make and dishes to wash, phone calls, research, and reading, the week has flown by. Gerald continues in his project of helping clean up Brian and Mary Ellen’s new acreage, and then there have been a couple of Gerry’s dogs here at Woodsong to care for this week. Baseball games for Gerald to watch in the evenings. What should have been a week we could pronounce a good week ended with the great national sorrow and our hearts filled with grief for the families who lost loved ones.

Visiting Waggoner and Mascoutah

Several weeks back, I alerted our youngest daughter, Mary Ellen, and husband, Brian, that we might be up for the weekend since I was to speak at the Mascoutah Heritage Museum this afternoon, and Mascoutah would be on our way back home to Woodsong. As both our lives and theirs became busier, Mary Ellen and I were both assuring each other it was okay if we did not carry out those plans.

Nevertheless, we went to Waggoner this weekend, and I am glad we did. Waggoner is definitely my size town—200 to 250 or thereabouts population—surrounded by farm country. The only place to get a coke is at the machine at the tiny post office. There are several vacant buildings, a former school building with a terrific set of modern playground equipment (donated by a famous visitor several years ago—a story I need to find out more about), many well cared for homes, and a few of the other kind.

My daughter’s family has just moved there and live five miles out in the country, so I did not get to explore the town as much as I hope to in the future. I am sure you will be hearing more about Waggoner from me in the years to come.

We were able to meet some of the girls in the freshmen class of the area high school on Friday night. They gathered in the kitchen for pizza and then a trip to a “haunted funeral home” several towns away. I enjoyed all the giggling from afar as we ate our pizza in the living room, but I declined the invitation for the haunted site—especially after we heard there might be a four-hour wait line. Actually I think it was only two hours by that night, but I was glad to be comfy-cozy relaxing and watching a movie on TV at the Taylors.

On Saturday, we slept late, relaxed more, and went to lunch at a fabulous Chinese restaurant in a nearby town after we visited a rural tree nursery. (Brian always ends up with a great landscaped yard with neat trees wherever they move although right now he is planning a test plot in their huge back lot. Mary Ellen is regretting seeing the pretty green lawn plowed up for planting.) After lunch, we visited a couple stores and bought candy in case any goblins showed up at their rural home, and then we went home for more relaxing. We were so stuffed from the wonderful Chinese buffet that we could not believe it when Brian put a large-size pork loin on the rotisserie on the patio. Not surprisingly, we were hungry again after he brought it in smelling and looking delicious. Then we settled to watch the baseball game, and Trent entertained in his lancer costume including the wooden sword and authentic looking wooden shield he designed and he built with some help from his dad.

This season at the Taylors always includes a spooky visitor called “Dead Donna,” something or someone they bought a few years ago for a slumber party. She is a two-foot doll or manikin with death pallor, long dark stringy hair, horrible eyes, skinny feet with painted toenails coming out beneath her white gown, and over-size scary hands. She can light up and make some frightening noises if you turn her on. Mary Ellen had not been able to find her on the top shelf in the basement where she had been stored after their move, but someone found her and brought her to share the evening with us. Donna managed to move around the house to startle us, and I was disappointed when I did not happen to be in the room when Brian woke up from his nap with Dead Donna a few inches from his face.

With the change to standard time this morning, Gerald and I woke before the family. On my way through the kitchen to the downstairs bathroom, I noted the nice table laid out with dishes handy for the waiting cereal choices on the counter. I came out of the bathroom back into the kitchen and jumped when standing at the end of that table offering us a bowl of apples was none other than Donna. I laughed next, but I could not bring myself to eat one of her poison apples. When Trent walked through and opened a Reese’s cup for his breakfast before he went back to bed, I assured him that the orange treat surely had plenty of Vitamin C.

After more coffee and visiting, we worshipped with 50 or 60 others at Waggoner Christian Church in a charming white clapboard building. An enormous tree (sycamore?) was the only tree in the large church yard. Mary Ellen said they measured it recently and it was the fourth tallest of its kind in the state. I thrilled at its beauty and prayed the town does not have a derecho. We heard a wonderful sermon by Pastor Mary and deeply regretted that she is soon retiring. I would have liked my grandchildren, Trent and Brianna, to hear more than a few months of her wisdom and knowledge. The Taylors stayed for the pastor appreciation meal at 11, and we drove on down state
Route 4 first built in 1920 and later designated as U.S. Federal Aid Highway 66. Within a few years, Highway 66 was moved east, but much ado is made yet about the original Route 66, which we also traveled on last spring in Oklahoma when we missed a connection to the Interstate.

We got to Mascoutah in plenty of time to be set up before the 1 p.m. opening of the museum. The volunteer had told me she’d be there at 12:30 in case anyone wanted to come in early and tour the traveling Smithsonian exhibit “Journeys.” Their museum was one of six in the state chosen to display the well-done interactive kiosks. Their high ceilings and spacious rooms qualified them to have their second Smithsonian exhibit.

Our first visitors were two little cousins—one a fourth grader and one a fifth grader. The volunteer assured them they did not have to pay to see the exhibit—but they saw the money box, where people donate, and they hurried home to get coins so they could also be contributors to the museum. It was fun to show them around the large two-story building filled with local antiques and artifacts in addition to the Smithsonian exhibit on the first floor.

By the time our program was to start at 1:30, the second-floor auditorium was filled. (They have a fund underway to put in a passenger elevator since now the only one is a freight elevator.) I was able to tell about the forced journey the Cherokee had to make in 1838-39 leaving behind their fine warm cabins and the graves of their loved ones to walk a l,000 miles to a strange territory to start building anew. At the end of the hour, after questions and answers, people huddled over the exhibit tables of books and articles about the Trail through our state, where more died than in any other area of their horrific journey.

It had been a day without a hitch—almost—when the Taylors had returned home from the church potluck and saw my suitcase still sitting by the backdoor. If it had only clothes in it, I’d told Brian to bring it the next time he comes to the farm. Since it had my meds and the arm splint I have to sleep in right now, we had to accept their offer to bring it down. We intended to meet them part way, but they kept driving and were also able to see the “Journeys” exhibit. Brianna got some hours of driving practice to help her meet the Illinois quota she’ll have to have before she gets that coveted driver’s license.

So we got to hug and say goodbye again before we started down Route 64 and then Interstate 57 to arrive at Marion in time for supper at Taco Bell before coming back to Woodsong. Gerald watched the game tonight, and we had phone reports of Tara’s Southern Force softball tourney in Georgia, where Erin had also arrived for the weekend to help coach, and Geri Ann played. Then Erin went back to Texas while Tara and little Maddux went back to northern Illinois until next weekend at Chattanooga. Gerry and Vickie get to keep Aidan this week, so there will be a fun time in Watkinsville with Aidan to entertain them.

Blessed by a Gathering and then a Son's Visit

Monday evening I drove over to the little town of Pittsburg, one of several small towns or villages on our side of Williamson County—many of which came about or grew because of the coal mining industry, which used to reign in this region. No longer are most houses occupied by men with carbide lanterns on their hats and who carry their lunch in buckets down in the bowels of the earth. Despite the demise of many mines, some of our villages have survived but others have ceased to exist. When we first moved here in 1962, most of the people we met were miners. Most of those are now retired, deceased, or moved away when a mine closed. Sirens blowing and ambulances rushing on the highway are not as frightening as they used to be when you never knew what had happened at a mine. Right after we moved here, one miner was trapped in a mine. For several days, other miners risked their lives trying to get his body out until they were made to stop. Right now I can’t think of a single miner I know although we still have some mines in the area.

I digress. I went to Pittsburg for our monthly women’s meeting at Tally Taylor’s house. Wearing an orange shirt, she had sweet pumpkin figurines lighted for us and festive lights to welcome us. After yummy sandwiches with chips and dip, there was pumpkin cake, all served with colorful Halloween paper ware. Afterward, we sat at table savoring our cokes and coffee and visiting while we munched on candy corn. It was a neat social gathering with good friends on a cool fall night, but I realized anew how much can be done when everyone in a group pitches in a little.

In our meeting after singing and devotions, we had planned for a Thanksgiving dinner for the entire church and our many friends in the community. Two hams and three turkeys this year. That will provide plenty of take-out for shut-ins at the end of the evening. We eat this turkey and ham early in November because the Saturday night before Thanksgiving is deer hunting season, and some of our families depend on the hunt for their winter food. That works out well since we are hungry for turkey again with our individual extended families on Thanksgiving Day.

We also planned for our month to send Angel Bags home with some of our school children on weekends, our Christmas caroling with goody plates for shut-ins, and we had a volunteer who said she’d do the Christmas shopping for two needy children on the school’s list. Although we usually just slip in a dollar or so when a box or a dish is passed at our meetings, by December we usually have enough to give two children gifts.

No one of us could do all these activities by ourselves, but together, we do so without too much work by most of us. (Of course, some volunteers do the major work, but they have decided they have the time and energy and would get their reward with their enjoyment in the project.)

All over America right now, there are women’s clubs and units and friends’ groups who are busy planning similar activities. There are also business, civic, and fraternal organizations, where men and women are doing the same. I am convinced that such volunteerism has made Americans strong. Some volunteers in housing projects have caught on that to make our children strong, we need to involve them in giving. It is true that America has many self-absorbed and short sighted citizens, but it is an incomplete picture to not recognize the generosity of the many people who give despite their own struggle to pay their house payments, food and medicine bills, while trying to save for their kids’ college funds.

I was somewhat shocked when I came home from Tally’s and soon after had Gerald tell me our son was coming out from Marion. I had prayed for traveling mercies for him all weekend, but I had no idea his trip would include an extension north up through his home territory. Somehow in our discussions of this trip, Gerald and I failed to communicate perfectly. He thought I knew Gerry was coming our way. Although I would have prepared a different menu for Gerald’s left-behind supper when I went to Tally’s if I had known Gerry was coming in, there was adequate food available. (Mothers fret about such things. I remember how much pleasure my mother used to get planning meals when my brother was coming down. “Jimmy loves meat,” she would say as she decided her menu.) And even though Gerry thought he was too tired to eat after his late arrival, he did eat a bite while we visited before we all piled into our beds for needed sleep. The next morning we had time for a leisurely breakfast and more visiting. After lunch he took off for his home in the South and the work awaiting him there leaving behind his stories for us to giggle and talk about in our empty house. Tomorrow is his birthday, and I felt warmly blessed to have had his unexpected visit.

Autumn's Joys

Looking out our living room windows beneath the overhanging white clouds in the pale blue sky and past the green lawn, past the lake, past the fields, and on to the encircling line of trees, we are surrounded by soft yellows, muted oranges, and gentle browns of autumnal leaves. This has been one of those perfect days here in Southern Illinois. Warm sunshine mixed with a gentle breeze made me remember why fall is my favorite season. No one could not rejoice on a day like today.

Gerald mowed the lawn again yesterday (and half the countryside around it) leaving the grass extra tall since he feels this would be the last mowing until spring. Except for eleven acres of late-planted beans and the replanted field of a nearby relative, Brian’s crops have been in the bin or already to the market for a long time now. With predictions of rains, that is very comforting. We still occasionally get a late tomato to add color to our dinner plates. Although our vines are already mostly dead and not as healthy as most years, I hope to gather a few green tomatoes tomorrow to wrap in old newspaper to finish ripening. Usually I have tomatoes for the Thanksgiving salad that way—and sometimes even for the Christmas salad.

Driving to our village church this morning, we let our eyes feast on the bright red of maples decorating yards and the sumac and sassafras enlivening the roadsides. We were in the mood to praise before we reached the church house.

Every week in our preschool class, we notice Caleb’s vocabulary growing. This morning it was exploding. In rapid succession, I heard him explain to Bobby that the blocks should be tall, big, high. He would repeat any words he heard from the other kids as well as us teachers, and the look on his face told us he was very conscious and proud of what he was doing.

Usually he only sits a moment or two for the short Bible story before he wanders off, but today he was as interested for almost as long as the older kids. And he loved putting beads on a bright red chenille stem to make a book marker. Out of the choice of red or yellow stem, he chose green, so though he knows the colors’ names, he isn’t onto which one is which yet. Bobby certainly knows, and he said he choose the yellow because his mommy loved yellow. It was pleasant to watch Miranda and Bobby being kind to each other and sharing beads. The kids think they are having fun. We certainly are. But we also know they are developing hand/eye coordination, which will make them better readers one of these days. Then they can read the Bible stories and discover Jesus’ teachings for themselves.

After worship service, Gerald took Brian and me to lunch before Brian had to load up to go back home to central Illinois. We came home to rest and watch TV—Gerald does the ball games and I try to catch some of Book Notes.

I drove back to the village for evening worship and our brief business meeting afterwards. Our much used fellowship hall is in our basement, which means those in chairs or with walking problems have the challenge of the stairs. Earlier our small congregation had voted to not build the needed fellowship hall on the ground floor until we had all the funds to pay for it. The building committee had secured a bid and it was beneath our built-up savings. With dreams of a new kitchen and dining hall and new restrooms with universal design one step closer, we voted unanimously to accept the bid. People weren’t in a hurry to leave as they visited and talked about these exciting plans. I drove the long way home, so I could go by Brian’s new field and enjoy the beauty of burning brush piles flaming in the dark.

Ugh! Don't Read This.

Usually I blog about the beauty of the farm and rural roadsides, the fun outings, and the happy visits from friends and relatives. It is not that unpleasant things do not happen in my life, but rather I don’t usually see any point in extending the unpleasantness by writing about it. I do not mean to be deceptive, but I blog mostly to please myself—although I hope to please you too—and frankly blogging about the good things in life is one way to distract me from the bad things.

I know that I should be ashamed to say it has been a bad week. Nothing seriously different has happened to me nor anyone I love this week. No alarming phone calls about wrecks or cancer. I do not have to worry about food on the table (if I am able to fix it), a roof over my head, or so many things that others have endured this week. But I have felt puny all week because of health-giving procedures that are good but not pleasant. If Magnesium Citrate rings a bell with you, you know what I am talking about.

Gerald and I had to rise early Monday morning to get to 9 a.m. appointments with our dermatologist in Saint Louis. Despite heavy traffic, Gerald expertly got us there on time. No bad news there. My appointment was to get rid of minute cysts (dozens of them) all over my face and also ugly catch-on-your clothing warty growths. I had not really had time to think about it ahead of time, but I believe I thought it would be like the dentist giving you a shot to stop the pain on a bad tooth repair. Not so. I was required to be brave, and I thought I would die. The only one I felt sorrier for than me was the doctor because I knew she did not like hurting me. I was left with red spots where the cysts used to be and ugly splotches where the warty growths were treated by freezing. Gerald was helpful to remind me that I was going to look far better soon when all healed.

We had time for a lovely brunch after our appointments and time to get on to his check up with cardiologist at 1:30. That went well, and we had a pleasant drive home through Missouri since our usual highway was closed. We meant to eat at a favorite restaurant at Cape that has sort of become “our” place, but it was only 4:30 when we got there and we found out they now only serve later in the evening rather than all day. We were kinda glad they weren’t open since we weren’t really hungry yet and decided we would go on to a favorite Anna restaurant. There we discovered they serve evenings on the weekends but only lunch the rest of the time. We still weren’t very hungry so we drove on home to Marion to our old stand by—Cracker Barrel, although I really did not want to be seen by anyone who knew me since I looked such a red-faced mess. But hunger was greater than pride, and we had a nice meal and saw no one we knew.

Now I should explain that I am having to sleep with my left arm in a splint in hopes of repairing nerve damage in my elbow that might cause me to lose function in that hand. Naturally a writer does not want to be unable to type, and originally I thought I was going to have to have surgery until this lesser treatment was suggested to try first. That was great news, but after a couple hours sleep in the splint, I would wake up with a terrible ache in my arm and would sleep fitfully if at all the rest of the night.

At the first wake-up with aching arm, I would move to the guest room so I could groan and twist all I wanted without disturbing Gerald. This had gone on for almost a week, so I wasn’t too rested before the St. Louis trip on Monday. Gerald and I both needed Tuesday to rest up. The dermatologist nurse had said to refrain from using makeup for a couple of days, so I sure did not want anyone to see me although the redness of the multitude of removed cysts had already faded. Adding to this was the fact that my permanent was suddenly gone, and I not only felt terrible, I looked terrible. Nothing makes a woman feel worse than a droopy worn-out perm with hair in all directions. Twisting from the arm splint did not help my hair either.

Even without makeup and with lousy hair, Wednesday was fairly normal. I fixed a nice meat loaf for noon dinner, and drove to town to visit with Katherine that afternoon. That evening I really did not have anything to blog about, and I did not want to share my misery. I looked forward to life returning to normal.

Except I had forgotten that Thursday was the day meant to prepare me for Friday. Maybe it was best I had not anticipated that day. I could have put on makeup since two days had passed, but I did not have the heart to do so. I lunched and dined on chicken broth and lots of water. I drank water at 2 and 3 and 4 as directed. I drank the first bottle of Magnesium Citrate at 5 and thought I would die. I drank the prescribed water afterwards. I spent the next three hours dreading that second bottle. I was already nauseous. I was uncertain if I could possibly get it down. But I did and drank the required water afterwards. Suffice it to say that sleep was not any better that night although the arm problem has calmed down just as the physical therapist who prepared the splint for me told me it would do. Next morning, I got ready in a hurry since I had been directed to not wear makeup to the surgical center.

At 6:45 yesterday, Gerald had me at the surgical center, where everything was sparkly clean. People were kind, friendly, skilled, and comforting. The warm blanket on a cool morning felt wonderful, and the two procedures were over before I knew they had happened since I was instantly asleep after the nurse directed Gerald to kiss me before he was sent to the waiting room. After good news from the doctor, Gerald collected me and gave me a choice about where to eat the delayed breakfast-lunch. His idea of going through the drive-in for a take-home breakfast sounded great to me because I did not look any better than I had all week. Once home after we finished our meal, I tried to sleep as directed, but I never did go to sleep that day, and I was not comfortable until midnight or so.

I kept thinking I should blog. I had the time. I thought maybe I could make all this funny. But it was not funny to me. I might be able to laugh if it happened to you, but I was not amused. So you are getting a true look at my life with me pouting and looking like a wild woman all week. (I say pouting because I know how desperately needed such fine surgical centers are in so many places on our globe. I certainly wish everyone had access just as I did. Every time I felt sorry for myself, I also felt ashamed that I was such a spoiled baby.)

Today I had a long wonderful “girl friend” visit with my youngest daughter by telephone, put on makeup for the first time since Sunday, had my pitiful hair fixed and made an appointment made for a perm on Wednesday, bought myself a new coat I really needed since I had left the last one on the back of a restroom door in Iowa or Nebraska or someplace two years ago, went to a sad but stimulating program at the mall on slavery in Illinois, and then visited with Katherine a bit. That visit turned out all right since two neighbor kids caught Sam’s dog Scooter when he ran out the door and into the park when I opened the door to go in.

Driving home through the dark, I saw the huge bonfires our son-in-law Brian had going. Gerald has been working for two or three weeks cutting brush and trees away from the side of the road. The county had helped pull up roots, Gerald had pushed trees into piles, and suddenly Brian’s newly acquired field is larger and more productive, and a dangerous curve on our country road is much safer. I fixed us all a bite of supper, and life seemed normal again.

As Mary Ellen accurately and sympathetically said on the phone this morning, my life has been tough from top to bottom this week. I promise to write about the good things next time. I hope you didn’t read this.

Lovely Weather for a Lovely Weekend

Fifty or so of us gathered at the south Arena parking lot at Southern Illinois University Carbondale yesterday morning for the once-in-a-lifetime tour from there through western Union County on Trail of Tears routes and over the Mississippi River to Moccasin Springs where some of the Cherokee arrived on the two ferries near Willard’s Landing.

First, Sandy Boaz met us at Camp Ground Cemetery to share the story she had been told from childhood about the Cherokee who camped there. Her ancestor George Hileman owned the land that early pioneers and native folk had long camped on because of its closeness to the Lusk Trail, the grove of trees, and the presence of three springs. The Hilemans had not yet donated the land for a church and cemetery. But they had buried two children there on a hillside, and they allowed the Cherokee to bury their dead also. They also allowed the freezing ill clad Cherokee to cut the timber for heat. That likely is why there were not more deaths at that site.

After the fire burned out, the Cherokee were able to dig the thawed earth for graves as opposed to having to leave loved ones on the frozen ground topped with branches to keep the predators temporarily away. Harvey Henson explained how his SIUC students had used various non-invasive means to discover evidence of graves exactly where oral tradition had said the Cherokee were buried. Sandy had been told as a child to respect the gravesites and not to walk there. The Camp Ground Cumberland Presbyterian Church has continued to honor those grave sites for almost two centuries. With typical hospitality, they opened their doors yesterday for our tour groups to use their rest rooms.

Sandy has discovered evidence of the Trail going down Camp Ground Road and Murphy School Road, but we are uncertain how the Trail ended up at Jonesboro since Anna and Route 146 were not in existence in 1838. On the Jonesboro Square, Harvey and I pointed out to our respective buses where Winstead Davie’s store house had been and his and Anna’s home behind it where some Cherokee leaders boarded with them.

We pointed down towards Cook Avenue where some detachments went past the present school and up over Bauers and Pansy Hill and down past the present Lockard Chapel Church, through the Shawnee National Forest area, over steep Hamburg Hill on a road no longer there. This took them on to Hamburg Landing on the Mississippi River, which I feel certain has the sandbar that Rev. Daniel Butrick recorded in his diary. One ferry took them to the sandbar, and another ferry came over from Bainbridge, Missouri, to take them the rest of the way.

However, instead of going down Route 146 and Willards Ferry Road to Ware as some of the eleven TOT detachments did, we drove around the Square and down Route 127. The early industrial center of Flaughtown was two miles south of Jonesboro, and Christian Flaugh ground corn meal for the Indians at his mill. We took beautiful Old Cape Road through the country just as some of the Cherokee did. The fall coloration has begun, and we enjoyed that beauty though those trees were bare when the Cherokee walked there.

At U-Be-Dam Holler, we drove over the narrow bridges and onto Ron and Deb Charles’ family farm, which has the Trail of Tears Lodge for horse lovers and mushroom hunters who return again and again to stay there. A former barn, the Lodge has a restaurant with down-home decor on the first floor. We were given the opportunity to visit in the second-floor loft where a great room is beautifully decorated with soft carpeting and comfortable couches. The hay fork on its original track is far overhead. (Steps from that room lead to a third floor apartment, where Deb and Ron live.) After that, we were served a fantastic fish dinner with homemade dessert that is available to the public on Friday and Saturday nights. Deb graciously shared with us their Cherokee heritage and why they wanted to honor those who marched the Trail.

Back on the buses, we drove through Reynoldsville and again onto Route 146 (also called Route 3 now) going south as some Cherokee probably did since there was a Smith Ferry near Cape Girardeau. We crossed the wonder of the new bridge at Cape, drove past the murals at riverside depicting Missouri history and onto the Missouri Trail of Tears State Park. (http://www.mostateparks.com/trailoftears.htm ) We were envious that Illinois does not such an interpretive site. Here we saw artifacts including a pioneer wagon, glassed displays with explanatory text, and an opportunity to view the brand new National Park Service video on the Trail of Tears. It is the best I have ever seen. Before we climbed back on the buses, a woman with Cherokee heritage prepared us to see the Bushyhead Memorial. She laughingly but firmly told us that the Princess Otahki myth was bogus, and that the memorial gravesite actually marks the death of Jesse Bushyhead’s sister Nancy Bushyhead Walker Hildebrand and the others who died in the cold at Moccasin Springs. Gratefully Jesse Bushyhead’s wife Eliza safely gave birth here to baby Eliza Missouri, who grew up to be a great educational leader in Indian Territory.

After viewing the Memorial, we drove up through high hilly forests to the Overlook and walked down to stand in awe of the mighty Mississippi looking back over to Illinois where Willard’s Landing once was. I heard more than one say that view was worth the trip over.

The day was growing cooler and it was time to head back across the river. We returned to Jonesboro taking Route 146 past the Clear Creek/Dug Hill/Dutch Creek area, where thousands camped in 1838 waiting for the ice floes on the Mississippi River to leave so the ferries could operate again. George Morgan and Willis Willard both had mills there to grind corn meal and flour for them. Willard’s steam driven mill also produced lumber to floor some of the more fortunate ones’ tents. Others slept on the bare ground. Hunters went as far over as the present-day Illinois Trail of Tears State Park to find the scant game left after the hungry hordes were stranded so long. Traveling on to the Arena parking lot, we departed the buses and said goodbye to newly made friends and headed for our homes.

Today was another beautiful autumn day, and the children in our Preschool Class sang about Zacheus and I told them his story—one of my favorites. We talked about trees and fall and went outside to see some of the fallen leaves. They looked up one of the trees and imagined Zacheus up there wanting to see Jesus. By the time worship service was over, the children and I were hungry even though they had a snack, and they were eager to go down to the playground and pavilion and eat the wonderful fish, potatoes, and hush puppies that the cook crew kindly volunteered to prepare for us. Supplemented with many veggies and two tables of desserts provided by the congregation, we had a fall feast.

Finally Back Online--Maybe

Sorry I have not been able to blog.

On Wednesday I wrote a hurried explanation, but then did not get it posted. Next day we had wonderful help trying to get speedier service in our rural area, so I was not online while this was going on. Friday morning I was pleased with the increased speed and was almost finished with a promised project to send to a couple of folks. Stopped to fix Gerald a bite of lunch when he came in from getting our car serviced, and went back down to the office only to find we were offline. But a simple procedure, which our friend told us about, put us back online that evening. I have been away from home all day today, but here is what I did not get posted Wednesday night. My goal is to return to normal blogging tomorrow evening. We shall see!

Wednesday, October 14
We have been offline for week and a half. Router trouble. Changed server. New ordered router did not work. Electrical engineer nabor who helps us got stumped. GRRR. Long story. I think we are back online now. Maybe.

Gotta appointment for arm splint this afternoon. Long story. Gotta go to Carbondale tonight for Trail of Tears board meeting. Granddaughter Leslie and her boyfriend should be here at Woodsong when I get home as they are on their way to Freeport during Belmont's fall break.

Tomorrow is important Writers Guild meeting as we have to make nominating committee report for 2010 officers. Had to do all our work by phone since I was offline. But we have an almost complete roster to offer tomorrow night. Still have to get the anthology editor's consent as she was too exhaused from this year's anthology to say yes immediately. I think she had two computer crashes while doing it! It is at the printer's and I hear it is tremedous. (It was sent to all of us for okay--but I was offline so did not see it.) I am busy catching up on email, etc. Maybe I will blog tomrorrow or at least by Friday.

Gotta go fix Gerald's lunch and also a plate for supper since doctor's appointment is on the way to Carbondale.

I do not like long stories.

Love Is the Theme

A diverse gathering of folks from 23 states brought musicians, teachers, university administrator and professors, prison teacher, doctors, housewives, preachers, nurses, sales people, office workers, farmers, banker, dentist, computer specialists, journalists, social workers, and no telling what else together again. Most are now retired or semi-retired. Hugs, the loud chatter of nearly 100 voices catching up on news with friends, beautiful music, a few tears, and lots of laughter for two days is both exhilarating and exhausting. Despite our diversity, we were unified by our love for each other and for Jesus and his teachings.

Our 87-year-old leader was there with short curly hair from her recent chemo. She said the illness might have slowed her down physically but mentally she was still in good shape. Most significant to us, her incredible sense of humor was functioning in top form. Maybe I should say her outrageous sense of humor. Only Helen Green Galloway could get away with the constant quips, digs, barbs, and quick-witted responses that she serves up in her unique style each year. I am sure the young man across from me at the supper table was as amazed by her as we all are when he described her master-of-ceremony style as fabulous. Her humor makes it easy to forget the hours of hard work (physical and mental) she has done for all of us for the past seven years after she replaced the late Maurice Swinford as president.

We were gathering for the annual reunion of alumni from Southern Illinois University Carbondale from the 1940s, 50s, and 60s who once upon a time participated in the activities of what then was called Baptist Student Union. This event started with four or five couples who somehow got together one morning over donuts while someone had a garage sale. That story always includes the explanation that the late Bob Hastings passed on the donuts to eat Rinnie Spencer’s cornbread left over from the night before. They had so much fun that they decided to meet annually. The crowd soon outgrew their homes. This year we met in Carbondale, and Thursday evening was in the Baptist Student Center to acquaint us with activities available for today’s collegiates.

Helen plans for the opening gathering to be a fun evening. This year featured four clowns who had us laughing hysterically as we sang along with them. We did sober up for serious and inspiring remarks by Chase Abner and Linda Auxier although Helen could not resist flirting with good-looking Chase. We enjoyed the lovely music by the Korean Singers under the leadership of Yunduk Kim, and we were also rewarded with the annual vocal selections by Jim and Rosie Robinson.

The next morning we met early for breakfast and more visiting at the University Baptist Church. There we were greeted with recycling bins in the back parking lot. Signs on the hall walls pointed the way to the food pantry, the clothing closet, the library. Folks were coming and going to reap those benefits, and our group joined in directing people to the help spots. Mid-morning we moved to the dignified sanctuary with windows of blue and red and bits of yellow that I remembered from my college days. On the outside, the windows are quietly dark and subdued; I had forgotten how lovely that sanctuary was with light flowing through those windows.

Now we were treated to a concert directed by Rayford Raby by the New Chapel Singers. Their music always seems incredible since they have only two rehearsals during our reunion. But Rayford is a director with both extraordinary ability and good-nature, and many of the singers are gifted musicians. Rayford’s wife Martha helps make sure everything goes smoothly for the group, and Helen Ruth Dillow accompanies with grace and talent. Don Dillow made us think deeply as we commemorated those who had died this past year, and Doris Taylor Bush filled the sanctuary with her gorgeous piano medley as we reflected on lives well spent.

During our two days, we listened to our fellow attendees tell stories of a mobile feeding unit working near ground zero for eleven months in New York City, teaching GED classes in the inner city, teaching college classes in a women’s prison, helping clean up after storms, taking medical care to other nations, roofing homes of needy folk, and, of course, how delightful their grandchildren and great grandchildren were--with photos to illustrate.

After a bountiful noon meal, we heard an inspiring sermon by Nate Adams urging us to be the conduits of God’s love flowing down from the mountain top to thirsty humanity. Then we had to say goodbye.

Next year we will meet at the First Baptist Church of Vandalia since Helen recruited Ginger Wells from there to be our new president. Helen does intend to continue the newsy website she started for us. Her servant mentality reflects what we were all taught by parents, leaders, and pastors long gone from this earth, but who were brought to mind as we met with those we’d shared our youth with. Gerald will be relieved as secretary-treasurer by Rosie Robinson, Ginger’s college roommate, so Ginger said they knew they could work together. Helen also has the ability to get others to do what she wants them to do. Hence, I am blogging about our reunion again this year.

Summer's Ending

Our neighbor’s tall green wall of corn lining our lane became variegated some weeks ago. The green separated the brown top tassels from the three feet of brown on the bottom of the stalks. When we got back from Georgia, the wall was all brown. Before we even returned to Woodsong that evening, Gerald had to drive up to Brian’s fields to see if the soybeans were brown, and they were almost there. Some farmers have started harvest, and Brian and Trent were down to their camper this weekend preparing for that event soon. The tomato plants are still producing, but not so much that I have to fill bags of tomatoes to share as I did a few weeks ago. School is well underway, and sweaters are needed some evenings as autumn approaches.

When I drove into our village on Thursday, I was surprised to see flags flying up and down the roads. I tried to remember what holiday it was since volunteers only put the flags up for special events. As I drove further into the heart of the village, I saw yellow ribbons on the flag poles and in people’s yards. Then I remembered reading on Facebook the night before that Jeremy Truitt, one of our Crab Orchard young men, was safely home from Iraq. Sure enough there was a large banner in front of one business welcoming Jeremy back home and giving a date for a celebration at the school in his honor.

I do not know Jeremy or his family, but I was touched with the love the community was showing, and it was easy to imagine the gratefulness and relief his family knows that he is back home. By the time I reached the Methodist church where I was to speak on the Trail of Tears to the lunch bunch there, I was wiping tears away and having to get my emotions under control. Today I learned young friends must drive to St. Louis tomorrow to meet their nephew coming in for his great grandmother’s funeral and also for a last leave before he ships out for Iraq. I know this young man and remember how he worked with younger children in Vacation Bible School just a few years ago before their family moved to the East. All is not well when our young people must be initiated into adulthood by going through such terrible dangers and deprivations.

It seems to me that there is also an unusual amount of surgeries and illnesses going on in our community—so much so that I can hardly keep the events in my head. My sister’s daughter down in Texas had surgery while we were away. The day before we left, my brother and wife came by briefly. They had come down the night before because both her brother and her sister were seriously ill in an area hospital. By now her sister will be back in the hospital for surgery. Our beloved oldest member of our congregation was to have back surgery and tonight we have learned that first she must have gall bladder surgery. Our neighbor from the farm across the road phoned from the hospital last night, and at that point I realized that the date for her scheduled surgery had come while we were away. And I just learned that another further away neighbor, who had done well for years following a stroke, is not doing well now. While some folks are old enough that we can expect their health to begin to deteriorate, many on our church prayer list for cancer and other illnesses are young.

Because we have such material abundance in our nation, it is easy to forget that without good health, the wealth means nothing. Although I mention material abundance, I am not forgetting that so many of our citizens have lost their jobs that they feel anything but wealthy right now. And I know there are way too many people in our nation living in shelters or even on the street. Yet in comparison to a large proportion of the world’s population, our people are still rich with electricity, plentiful running water, indoor plumbing, and community food banks. Nevertheless, if you have no job or hope of one and you are afraid of losing your home and having to move in with relatives or to a shelter, the mind must focus on what you do not have or how to cope with an uncertain future. You will probably be more likely to worry about how to pay the electricity bill than to appreciate having electricity.

How do we handle all the misery all around us? I heard a psychologist on television today point out that we humans often turn away and deliberately do not see unpleasantness because it is so painful and upsetting to see the problems around us. I know that I do. Not seeing is one way of coping. Are there better ways?

Softball Players Wear Pink for a Cause

We left Georgia in the rain this morning, and Gerald had rough driving off and on throughout the day as rain stopped and started. Sometimes it only sprinkled, and sometimes the downpour and fog in the mountains made visibility quite a strain. We are glad to be back at Woodsong, reviewing the mail, emails, and answering machine messages and happy the roofer completed the repair necessitated by the May dere

A final day in Georgia was extremely rewarding. Gerald and I drove up to Dahlonega, where the first gold rush in America occurred. We visited the beautiful 1836 courthouse built on the square there in the middle of Cherokee land after Georgia had given the land to whites through gold and land lotteries. The Dahlonega Gold Museum is now in this ancient courthouse building that was used by Lumpkin County until 1966 when a new courthouse was built. Even the locally manufactured bricks used for the building have flecks of gold clearly seen on the unpainted bricks leading to the attic. The friendly knowledgeable guides shared a great deal of local history as did the film we saw sitting on beautiful ancient metal chairs once used by the young military trainees at North Georgia College.

More amazing to me, however, was a framed letter on the wall written to local residents Daniel and Rachel Davis on January 1, 1838. It was written by their son Martin Davis, who was a supply officer on the Trail of Tears. Full of facts, the letter was written from Jonesboro, Illinois, my home town. As soon as I find out what detachment Martin Davis worked with, I will know which detachment suffered the blow-up of the Golconda steam ferry, something I have wanted to know. That explosion injured many and killed one white and one Cherokee, the letter explained.

After the very satisfying visit to Dahlonega despite the heavy rains throughout the day, we phoned Watkinsville to see Geri Ann’s game was cancelled. It had not rained there, and the game would go as scheduled at 5:55. (Evening games must start before six o’clock.) We got back to the high school park in plenty of time. Pink balloons were flying, and all the team were wearing their pink shirts as part of their benefit game to fight breast cancer. Many of the adults wore them also.

I’d already put in my donation on the admission table where a basket was waiting. The coach motioned us to the fence to whisper that Gerald might want to get his camera because our daughter-in-law Vickie was chosen to throw in the first pitch. Typically, Vickie had not told us she was being honored. She threw a great pitch and her youngest daughter Geri Ann was designated to catch it.

We had rejoiced with Vickie recently that she was through her last chemo and had been allowed to ring the bell in celebration at the hospital. She is an excellent poster girl for breast cancer because despite the March surgery and all the unpleasant treatment she has been through since then, she has not missed a beat in taking care of her daughters, her husband, her home, her dog, or her grandsons. She amazes us and fills us with pride at her upbeat attitude and calm confidence. She looks and acts great.

The rain had now arrived at Watkinsville, and the early sprinkles kept increasing until fans were seeking shelter, and I was grateful for the umbrella put up on my chair. Geri Ann was scheduled to pitch this game. Since it was with a regional team (conference team we call it in Illinois), everyone wanted the game to finish, but it had to go for five innings to be considered a complete.
We were soon far ahead and the coach was letting players have a chance to bat, who do not always get to do so. When it thundered in the fourth inning, we held out breath lest lightning call the game to a halt. We kept successfully batting and the rain became harder and harder. Finally the fifth inning arrived with the score 8-0 with the guest team batting last. Oconee High quickly shut the guests down, and Geri Ann was able to complete a perfect game.

We met up at the house to dry off and go to dinner at a local steakhouse before we visited for the final evening and retired to rest before our return trip to Woodsong this morning.

Visiting in Georgia

Kudzu-covered trees line the roadways with leafy green cathedrals. Eye lids close against our will against our will in the heavy September heat and we shake ourselves back awake. We are in
Georgia to watch grandaughter Geri Ann and the Oconee High School softball team.

Two opening games Friday at the annual Veteran Memorial Park Invittional were comfortably cool, but the three Saturday games were played in more typical sun-burning weather. Thanks to the large umbrellas Gerald has attached to our game-side chairs, I avoided the red face I saw on many by the end of the day.

The invitational hosted by Oconee North and Oconee County was not a traditional tourney with winners, but rather an opportunity for fourteen high schools attending from throughout the state to each meet five other teams at the four-field complex there on the outskirts of Watkinsville and Athens. For us it was an opportunity to acquaint ourselves with this year's team and to see Geri Ann's two home run bombs on Friday evening. And it was great seeing Courtney and Geri Ann pitch again.

After winning our first four games, it was a disappointment when our team lost the fifth game. We ended seven scoreless innings only to have Effingham's Lady Mustangs break the tie 2-0 at the end of the eighth inning. Our girls' desire to win was strong. As the loss sunk in and our girls realized what those last few minutes of play had wrought, there were some misty eyes and sagging spirits. We felt all those same emotins with our team. Nevertheless, Gerald and I have watched enough softball to not only feel girls' pain when they lose but to know our hurt has provided happiness to the other team, whom we would love too if we had a chance to know them.

That night the girls shrugged off the loss and gathered at the home of one of the players to watch the University of Georgias Bulldogs play South Carolina. Gerald and Gerry hurried to the stadium to join over 90,000 seeing the game there, and Vickie and I watched on the screen in the comfort of home. The day in the heat caused me to do as much napping as watching, but I saw the exciting ending with UGA winning 41-37. I was glad the Oconee girls had a winning game at the end of the day when Vickie left to collect Geri Ann. By now we were able to remember the four games won by a large margin as well as the final loss.

Yesterday we worshipped together singing our desire to embrace praise and justice. We rejoiced that love and grace comes flowing down from the One whose hands and feet were nailed to a tree. Then the pastor taught us we were made in the image of the Creator. He had made us wonder that we have to keep the doors of our cars and homes locked to keep out our fellow man created in God's likeness. Then he abruptly ended his sermon and the service with a question to ponder the rest of the day: What went wrong?

The Holiday's Over

Our weekend was indeed special with the Archibalds, Taylors, and Leslie and her boyfriend Michael visiting. It was not as good as it would have been if Katherine had been well enough to come out to the farm or if Vickie and Geri Ann had been able to come visit Gma Shirley as planned, but that trip from Georgia was not to be. A last-minute softball practice for yesterday was called, and that reduction in the weekend ended their plans to drive up. Everyone was bummed, but I am sure the unexpected weekend at home was more restful than the long trip up here from Georgia.

Yet I know Vickie and Geri Ann wanted to see everyone—especially Gma Shirley (Vickie’s mother) as well as Geri Ann’s sister Tara and husband Bryan and nine-month-old Maddux and three-year-old Aidan. We all felt bad for Shirley since she can’t travel to Georgia and other places because she is so conscientious to take good care of her very sick little sister Janice. Shirley now stays next door with Janice since their elderly mother died in May.

When Gerry and Vickie were dating, Vickie’s family and her grandparents and Janice lived in adjoining homes on down the road from us and around a corner and down that road—not close enough to be called neighbors even in a rural community—but still close to us. In fact, during high school days, Gerry sometimes visited and courted Vickie and her entire family by riding his horse down to their place on a Sunday afternoon. So when Gerry and Vickie come up from Georgia, it is easy to see both families during the same trip. But sadly, only Shirley and Janice remain in the two-home family compound that had eight back then in those high school days. Nevertheless, Shirley had Vickie’s brothers and families in for her famous chicken and dumplings for Tara’s family even though Vickie and Geri Ann could not come. Aidan played baseball with his cousin Drew, a high school athlete, and he felt big indeed, and Tara caught up on the Johnson clan news. And everyone got to take turns holding and loving on Maddux, who Tara says is the lover in the family.

Although he can cry if disturbed enough, Maddux is usually smiling. He immediately stole Gerald’s heart when thet arrived Saturday by not only by smiling and cuddling continuously with him but by reaching up his little mouth to repeatedly kiss his great grandfather.

Gerald had been so excited to know Aidan would finally have time to dig in the lime pile here at Woodsong. He had bought Aidan a little digger after their last visit. That time Aidan wanted to work, and he kept the whole crew of grown-ups busy. He dragged shovels and hoes out of Gerald’s shop to put people to work on that lime pile. When his mother showed up and there were no more shovels, he dragged out the heavy post hole digger and handed it to Tara. “Here,” he said, “You use the nabdabber.” No one was sure where he got that name for that tool, but somehow it seemed to fit. After he wore all of them out and they began sneaking away, I came outside and he had us climb into the “mule.” He wanted me to drive it, but I honestly told him I had forgotten how. He snorted disgustingly, “Well pretend.” And pretend we did for the next half hour.

So in preparation for this visit, Gerald had our little red wagon, the new Aidan-size shovel he had bought him and the digger all ready for Aidan’s use. Despite the rains throughout the weekend (especially heavy Saturday night), there were sunny spells that allowed Aidan to use the tools Gerald had ready for him, and I suspect Gerald enjoyed the play even more than Aidan.

Leslie and Mike arrived right before midnight on Saturday after being in a church retreat in Nashville all day, so we were pleased Sunday morning to be able to hear Leslie sing a new song she had written at church. Leslie cautioned us not to ask Mike to play guitar because he would want to so badly, but he cannot right now because of tendonitis. Weight lifting and guitar playing had done a number on him, and he is in therapy to regain proper use of his arms for his passion for guitar.

The Taylors were down from Waggoner for a late Sunday dinner, and we had a relaxing afternoon and evening. When Tara’s family returned from Gma Shirley’s, Aidan was fascinated by teenage Trent’s Stitch hat, which he entertains us with at holidays. (Maddux thought it was scary.) Trent was wonderful giving Aidan lots of stories and attention, and Brianna played Candy Land with Aidan. Everyone wanted their turn with Maddux.

Somehow the old worn-out Sorry game was found; and after the kids got it out, all the men (Brian, Bryan, and Gerald) ended up at the dining room table playing Sorry. Tara was there for part of the game when she did not have to stop and take care of Maddux or talk softball on the phone with Gerry. I had not seen Gerald play Sorry since Erin was a preschooler, when we played many a game at the old farm house under her directions. Bryan was as competitive at Sorry as he was at football. He was a stickler for the correct rules and Gerald griped. However, after he won, I figured he may have liked the real rules better than Erin’s changing rules—which I think probably let her win most of the time. Everyone was missing Erin since her birthday is coming up. They wanted her at the farm to celebrate, but she was in class yesterday as Texas A&M did not take off for Labor Day.

People slept as late as they wanted yesterday and had cereal and fruit or whatever they could find as they came to the kitchen table. Some fished, rode the mule, took paddle boat rides, or texted friends. And there was plenty of time to visit. At noon there were 10 of us at the dining room table for ham with biscuits and gravy, fresh corn-on-the cob and garden tomatoes and all the left-overs from previous meals. (Brian was not at the table because he was up on the other farm spraying with his fancy new spray rig. He came in mid-afternoon sunburned but happy.) After dinner the packing of cars had to begin. Sweet corn was bundled up to return with them to the city. By late afternoon everyone was gone again their separate ways. Woodsong was so quiet.