Down Martin Cave Lane

In the brief times I have to write, I am working on a couple of pieces of family history for the Johnson County families book expected to come out in 2012. I failed to write anything for their last book and have so regretted it. I definitely want the Goreville Martin family included in this one.

That means the couch in my office is covered with notebooks, and so are other surfaces. Photographs not looked at for years have seen the light of day. I have been reading old family letters and longing to see some of these family members again—and wishing I could meet those ancestors I never knew. Oh, the questions I’d love to ask them. Who is this photograph of a beautiful young woman? Is it my great grandmother Louisa Jane Craig Martin? I think so, but I don’t suppose I will ever know for positive. Some of Louisa’s descendants look like that photo. I urge everyone to ask the questions you want to ask now before it is too late. Of course we did not locate the mysterious photo (and many other photos) until after the deaths of anyone who might know the answers.

Since Gerald was having lunch with friends, I took off Wednesday to drive down to Goreville, the home of my branch of Martins and reminisce. I drove by the first house I remember my widowed Grandmother Sidney living in—a little green house in those days with a much talked-about rock and flower garden she had created and that I barely remember. Perhaps I don’t really remember at all and only think that I do from the talk and the very fuzzy home movie Uncle Homer took of it.

I am sure, however, that I personally remember the house on the corner of that street. I cannot pass it without feeling a warm comforting emotion. What I remember is sitting on that front porch—I think on the step—while Grandma and perhaps my mother were also sitting there on swing and chair visiting with the woman who lived there. I was only four or five because later Grandma moved to a house still standing on South Broadway, and she died when I had just turned seven. The memory of that front porch on the corner of South Fly is just a memory of emotion and a dim mental snapshot, but I dread the day when that house is torn down.

I drove on down South Fly past the new United Methodist Church building that replaced the old one, and the attractive brick Pentecostal Church, whose congregation now has a larger new facility on the north side of town that I saw for the first time as I drove down Route 37. Finally I was passing the little house Mother and Dad had bought for Grandma after World War I when prices were high—and which challenged their limited income when the Depression reduced its value and payments stayed high. If I was alive at all, I was too young to remember that house. Somewhere I heard or read that Grandma divided it up so she could rent out one side. Many people are doing that with their homes today. I didn’t turn there to go to Uncle Autie and Aunt Grace’s house now occupied by someone we sent photos to when she wished to see how it used to be.

It was lunch time, so I went in to The Old Home Place, owned by a special young couple we love from our community. I knew they would not be there, but I was hoping to see someone familiar from Goreville area, which I sometimes do although there are fewer and fewer faces I recognize in Goreville. The only person I saw that I knew was someone from Gerald’s rural neighborhood and he introduced me to his sister and nephews.

Re-enforced with their great barbecue basket, I went on down Route 37 to Busby Cemetery and wandered there as I did as a child when Daddy took us there on the third Sunday in May for Decoration Day. I was grateful no one was there. I copied some dates from tombstones, lovingly remembered my grandmother, my parents, aunts and uncles and cousins, and paid quiet respect to those who gave me life although they died long before I was born. I paused at the grave of a young woman who was killed in a car accident coming to take a final exam in a speech class I was teaching. I wondered what happened to her young son.


Family graveyards do not create the same sadly mellow but yet satisfying emotions that I experiencel when I drive familiar roads and see remaining landmarks from my youth. I don’t feel as close to my parents in the cemetery as I do when I visit former home places. I drove back and this time did turn onto Ferne Clyffe Road to go past Uncle Autie and Aunt Grace’s home which looks nothing like it did when I attended family reunions in that yard. At smaller gatherings, cousin Dick and I would leave the grown-ups and go down that road where then there was an enormous flat boulder beside the road and it became our headquarters as we enjoyed ripened blackberries in the fencerow there.

Driving on past the former entrance road to the Ferne Clyffe Park, which many of us thought the state illegally closed many many years ago, I experienced again the resentment that they did not maintain the original road into the park when they created the new one out by Busby Cemetery on Route 37. If people are ever trapped by fire inside this hollow surrounded by bluffs, a second way out could by invaluable. All of Goreville’s protests were ignored, and I did not like it then nor now.

More new homes stifled my memories as I drove onto Sullivan Road and then turned onto Happy Hollow Road towards Mount Airy Farm. The excellent road there mocked my memory of Daddy going around contacting neighbors to pitch in with money and labor to keep that road passable. (That was one of the earliest events where I enjoyed seeing my father take on community leadership.)

I probably shouldn’t have, but when I got to the mailbox at Mount Airy Farm, I drove up the little lane that I walked barefoot so many times in the summer to get the mail that D. P. “Darling” Jones delivered.I no longer knew who lived there at Mount Airy Farm, and I am sure they don’t even know the name of their farm that Aunt Myrtle named in the early 1900s. I think I was hoping someone would come out and ask what I was doing there and offer for me to get out and look around.

The house burned long ago while a second cousin’s family was living there. The old barn that housed Winnie, Tony, Ginger, and the mules and where I helped haul hay was gone. The “new” chicken house Mom and Dad were so proud of and that they moved over from Sunny Brook Farm near Ferne Clyffe no longer exists. But the trees that Cousins Eugene and Kenny and my brother Jim and I and our dog Lucky slept under are still there in the front yard of the newer home. Grandma Sidney’s special rock that I sat on is not there either. It is now on my patio, but I don’t think it has the mysterious hold on my grandchildren that it does even yet for me.

Since only several big barking dogs greeted me, I turned around and went back down the lane and continued on Happy Hollow Road until it divides when it comes to the rock-bottomed creek where my second cousins--Shirley, Bobby, and Gloria Jean--from the other side of the creek used to meet me to play and wade in the cool water. We had hollering signals worked out from our house on the hill to theirs, and we called back and forth to meet at the creek.

There I drove to the right onto Martin Cave Road knowing that my great grandparents and my grandparents had often traveled that road on horseback or in their wagons and buggies. Further on the Newton house where the second cousins lived was long gone, and so was the older Jones house where my Aunt Myrtle’s friend grew up. Each girl had named their family home, and that is why we called the farm where I spent summers Mount Airy Farm. This friend later became a syndicated columnist, and I romanticized about her although I never met her. I was no longer sure where either house used to be.

The further I drove, the narrower the road became. Huge ancient trees lined both sides of the road along the banks six to seven feet high. I knew those lovely trees now showing their fall colors were also seen by my ancestors. There were a few house places, and I thought surely anyone choosing to live that far in the country must be a kindred spirit to me. Then I saw a trespassing sign in one lane and realized they might not like me as much as I liked them. Yet in my heart, I had to feel these present-day newcomers with their no-trespassing signs were the interlopers. This was MY place.

I kept going although I had no idea what I would do if I met someone else on the road only wide enough for one car. The only place I could have turned around was in one of those few house entrances. I did not want to quit before I came to the end where I knew a gate would end the road, for Martin Cave Road no longer goes on down to Sleepy Hollow where my great grandfather William Felix Grundy Martin built three-room house after the Civil War. I was last there when Gerald and I rode horses there during our engagement. When Aunt Meda died in 1950, I guess my great Uncle Sam lived there for while but then in his grief moved up to Mount Airy Farm. Sam left her clothes in the closet and the tools in the cave near the house, and gradually nature had its way. Gene Ward Walker bought the acreage, I believe, and later it was sold to the state. When my cousin Doug brought his son David after his high school graduation in California, they hiked down through the thick woods and heavy brambles to the remains of the old homestead and came back covered with ticks. I know of others besides myself who would love to go again, but it really is not a feat many could do.

Realizing that the edge of one part of that narrow road was washed out, I found myself saying a prayer that there would be a place to turn around at the end of the road. I was sure I could not easily drive that entire distance in reverse. No sooner had I shot up the prayer than I decided it was a lot to ask that suddenly a turn-around place be miraculously provided for me if one did not already exist. So I asked that I be able to turn around if there was such a spot at the end of the road. There was and I did, but I am convinced without the prayer I might not have succeeded because it was tight and rocky quarters at road’s end. Louisa’s narrow buggy could have made it easier than I did, but I think she was among that great host of witnesses cheering me on.

Annual Fish Fry

Once a year, a group of dedicated volunteers gather early in our church yard at the pavilion and start the fire and breakfast together. They fellowship and laugh as they fry fish, potatoes, and hush puppies for all the rest of us and whatever friends and family we can gather in after worship service in our village church. Yesterday’s weather could not have been more perfect for such a fall celebration. If the large crowd and the abundance of side dishes and desserts were any indication, the affair was a great success.

Earlier Gerald and I were working with the preschoolers during the worship service, and we had six small children in our care plus Tyler, a third grade helper who comes in once a month. Our hands were full with Drew, a two-year-old present for the first time, and Caleb, a three-year-old who knew about the play ground where all the cooking was going on and wanted to be there immediately without waiting. Our helper Tyler is both challenged and also challenging, and I was so pleased that he showed special effective concern to the new child, who responded well to him. Drew also adored Gerald and would sit happily on his lap, while my efforts to comfort when he first realized his father had gone from the room did not help a bit. With Tyler and Gerald’s attention, he was soon playing and participating happily again.

To some of the other kids, I was explaining--not particularly successfully-- that the Bible says to be kind to the stranger within our gates and so we needed to be particularly kind and sharing with Drew, who was just getting acquainted with us. (This was in response to someone not wanting to share a toy with him. Grabbing it out of his hand, in fact.) As you watch the children squabble over toys or the limited space beneath the blackboard tripod where you wished they had not crawled, you sometimes think the worst of human nature shows up early in little ones. They can be snippy, snobby, and selfish with each other. Yet these same children can be sweet, sharing, and concerned for another child just a few minutes later. We try to re-enforce those qualities that bring about peace and happiness. Children seem to have a built-in sense of justice that is easily brought to the surface most times. Of course, if they are cranky and tired as every child is sometimes, then they may not be rational nor capable of understanding fairness. Or if they understand it, they may not want to be fair anyhow.

It is exciting to see small children learn to play beside each other and eventually with each other as they age. It is so rewarding to see them learn to enjoy routines and order. When play chaos is suddenly replaced with coming together at the snack table for water and graham crackers and then complete silence happens spontaneously as a brief thank you prayer is said, all a teacher’s efforts are worth it. (Forgotten is the work required to take turns washing our hands and then more struggle lining up at the hall water fountain—a great joy to children who like to fill their own cups—and then getting everyone back in the room at the table after their fascination with baby Boone in the room by the water fountain—an attraction that caused considerable straying.)

After the snack and more play, we gathered a second time at the table. When the red leaves collected from our little maple tree were showered down on the table, the oldest child knew what season it was and soon little hands made them fall again, They liked gluing them on a piece of paper to take home.

Later as we ate fish and the children swarmed the play ground equipment, Gerald and I were grateful parents and grandparents were once more in control of their children’s happiness and safety. Yet I could not help feeling satisfaction that little Drew was climbing and playing as if he had known everyone forever.

Autumnal Celebration and Sadness

After a thirsty late summer, our rose bushes are blooming their hearts out despite the fact that we still need more rain here at Woodsong. The single bud I placed on the kitchen table to welcome Phyllis and Patty is now over five inches across and still looking pretty. Through email, we have heard that not only did they make it back safely to Florida very early Wednesday morning, but Patty had taken Phyllis for health check ups and she weathered the trip very well. One cute after effect of their visit was having Gerald call me Sue Alice, my childhood name that he heard while they were here.

This week as I drive to town, the bright red or light orange trees are much more common although the majority of the trees are still mottled green with only touches of color. When the garage door is left open, a few brown leaves are blowing in there as well as showing up on porches. While Gerald had the car out to drive to Jackson and Cape over in Missouri today, I swept them up, but others will soon replace them.

We are sad tonight for Garry and Ginger, Gerald’s brother and wife. Continuous seizures last week not only sent Ginger to the Cape hospital, but resulted in a dislocated shoulder that required surgery. All this is especially problematic because Ginger lost her short term memory from a stroke back in December 2001. We have been awed by the way that Garry has taken care of her and kept their life as normal as possible. But the after-care from this surgery is not something he can do alone. She had to leave the hospital for nursing home care, and he knows that all his repeated explanations to her are not remembered. For years now, he has taken her out for breakfast because that was the one meal he could count on her to consume. He will be eating alone in the morning.

Meanwhile, we are happy tonight for my sister Rosemary and husband Phil. Friday nights are family nights at the Parks’ house where everyone who is not tied up elsewhere comes to eat Mom and Pop’s cooking. Tonight is very special because both Cyndi and Gloria have already commemorated and expressed gratitude on Facebook that 50 years ago today, Rose and Phil drove from Amarillo to Galveston to adopt two pretty little blonds, aged l0 and 11. As their cousin Mary Ellen said, God knew that they belonged in our family. (It was later that they adopted Candy and Trudi. We lost Trudi on January 1, 2002 to cancer.)

Sadness and joy are so often mixed and jumbled together. Garry was so grateful last week that Ginger had not suffered another stroke and that she lived through those days in intensive care. Yet tonight he is grieving, and we are grieving with him and Vicki and Kerry. The Parks have always celebrated adoption day, and Gloria and Cyndi’s families are rejoicing over 50 years in their special family. Yet as Gloria said, they are all especially missing Trudi today. So do we.

The horrors that the Chili miners experienced during 17 days of knowing that no one knew they were alive and then all the difficult days following brought about the most intense joy imaginable for them and their families when they all came up safely. Yet we know they will have more difficulties as they readjust. A young mother we care about in the Washington, D.C. area totaled her van a couple of days ago, but that problem has been pushed aside in importance with the joyous news that her son will be coming safely home (again) from Iraq. Our daughter’s loss of a special loving caregiver brought us great distress, and the caregiver sobbed at leaving her. But now we are getting acquainted with an extraordinary highly trained and talented woman who has replaced her. The care giver who left had to move far away to take care of a very ill father. We pray that somehow someway this sad move turns into a positive event that will result in great joy.

All 33!!!

Wasn 't that something??? Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above ye heavenly host. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Busy Saturday and Lazy Sunday

Early this morning our dining room table was covered with a beautiful red and white Austrian flag—with autographs of Austrian Sharx softball players. This was created especially for Gerald and, of course, he loved it. Erin presented us with souvenirs from her summer abroad before leaving to pick up her Gma Shirley for the trip back to her parents’ home in Georgia. Gma Shirley’s surprise visit with Vickie and Gerry and Geri Ann was so much fun to anticipate.

We had Phyllis and Patti McKenzie, a hometown friend of mine and her daughter, arrive from Florida Friday night for Phyllis to attend her 60th high school reunion of the Anna-Jonesboro High School Class of 1950. (She was valedictorian of that class by the way.) I had hoped they’d arrive before I had to leave at 6 to attend a women’s gathering that I thought it important for me to attend. I had told the younger woman picking me up that if they came at the exact moment we were leaving that I’d need five minutes or so to welcome them. (They’d told me on the phone the day before that they would be too tired from travel to attend with me.) In case they came after we left, I had Gerald and Erin prepped to welcome them and had notes affixed on both doors telling them to go in and make themselves at home. Sandwich fixings and angel food cake were waiting.

Returning in the dark from the meeting at Tally Taylor’s home in Pittsburg at nine, Tracy and I came over the hill by our neighbor’s house, and there was a car slowed there seemingly looking for names on the mailbox. When Tracy asked if that could be my friends, I said surely not since they were due much earlier. But after passing them, we realized the license was from Missouri, which is what at rental car from the Saint Louis airport would have. We watched in our back window, but they stayed put as if wondering what to do. Tracy pulled into our lane and I got out in the middle of the country road and started wildly beckoning them to come on down the road and over the next hill to our lane. When they started driving towards us, I certainly hoped it was my friends.

It was. They’d arrived at the airport on time, but Phyllis’ very necessary walker had not. Although the airport wanted to deliver it the next day to our house, they knew that was not an option. So they made some necessary stops including one at Whole Foods to pick up special diet items that Phyllis is restricted to right now because of health issues. (We too enjoyed a delicious non-dairy dessert called Decadent last night and pumpkin pie for dessert for dinner today thanks to that stop.) Anyhow with all the delay, they had arrived after dark when strange rural roads are much harder to navigate and my directions they’d printed out were inconveniently in their back seat. So we arrived at just the opportune moment to welcome them to Woodsong.

We had a good visiting session both that night and the next morning before they left for Anna with time for visiting before the afternoon dinner catered at the new City Hall. They had already returned when I came home after running some Saturday errands and then having an afternoon visit with Katherine. Gerald had visited with us in the morning and then worked at the other farm cleaning up ditches there.

Phyllis was tired but pronounced her class reunion as “outstanding.” We had a bit of supper and were still at the table when Erin joined us after her visit with friends home from Nashville and Birmingham. They had attended the Southern Illinois University Carbondale Homecoming football game in our new stadium, and SIUC won in an overtime. By now we also knew that Georgia had won their football game and that Geri Ann’s Oconee High School had won the girls Region softball tourney. Erin was sad about Texas A&M losing, but otherwise it was a good day. Everyone was pretty wiped out, but we still visited some more.

While we attended church this morning, we left Phyllis and Patti to catch up on their rest. Patti had known her mother might want to visit her childhood farm home as we did ten years ago at her 50th class reunion, but tiredness prevailed. Instead we spent a lazy afternoon napping and talking and sometimes watching television with the sound off. We ate those delayed sandwich fixings for supper. We’ve heard through Facebook that Erin and Gma Shirley made it safely to Georgia, and that the family there were as happy at Shirley’s surprise visit as we knew they would be. We are going to bed feeling happy ourselves and ready for a new week.

TheCrops Are In!

Gerald says empty brown fields after harvest are the prettiest fields a farmer can see. Our son-in-law Brian finished his harvest yesterday. He completed his first crop on the new field he had bought from a neighbor on Saturday. We’ve enjoyed watching the thick soybean plants there growing taller all summer as we drove past them on the way to town. And we’ve made many side trips up to see his corn and bean crops on our other farm. On a recent trip upstate, I didn’t see any plants as pretty as Brian’s beans or corn.

But as Gerald says, the brown stubbled fields stretching as far as the eye can see until stopped by the next tree line is cause for appreciation and rejoicing. Not fire nor hail nor wind nor deep mud caused by heavy rains can now destroy all the work and expense put into the crops. The fields are resting ready for winter’s snow and promising another planting in the spring.

On Saturday on our way to Anna, I saw only one lovely tree with orange leaves. This morning one short sassafras beside the road had bright red leaves. So far most trees are only browning here in Southern Illinois. Many green leaves are darkening though a few are turning lightly red. Yet we know the colors will soon be deep and beautiful in a couple more weeks, and we anticipate autumn’s visual pleasure in advance as we relish the cool morning and evening air. We’ve had our first frost. And foggy mist rises from our lake each morning.

As I picked the few remaining pods of okra from in the garden, I enjoyed the loud music of crows cawing. Looking towards the sound, I saw large numbers of the birds beyond Scott’s trees where Brian had finished harvest. More crows were flying over my head to join the early birds already having breakfast on beans left behind in the stubble. They were glad the crops were harvested too.

Our tomatoes have been small all summer, and only a handfull remain for picking every other day. Our granddaughter Erin is with us this week, and she is trying to enjoy vegetables more, so I was picking these with her in mind. However, she and her Aunt Chris picked up her other grandmother at 4:30 this morning to take her to Mount. Vernon for cataract surgery. Very typically that grandmother already had Italian beef going in the crockpot. So Erin and all the Johnson family are gathering there for dinner tonight. There are still enough tomatoes for tomorrow though, but they are scruntly.

Tis the winding down season with stubbled fields and scruntly tomatoes. Should those words be added to the dictionary?

Elizabeth (Martin) Martin

Dear Blog Friends--I just shared this by email with a genalogical enthusiast whom I met recently. Since I did not have anything in mind to blog about tonight, I decided to share the following, which I emailed to the genealogy friend.

Let me share a poem with you that I wrote after a genealogical breakthrough in 2003 from a woman in Kansas. Thought you might enjoy the true story of William Felix Grundy Martin's early life. Interestingly, WFGM had a younger brother also named Felix, according to an old paper a 1960s researcher saw. We do not know when the younger brother Felix died or why he also was named Felix when his older brother already had that name. Odd. Evidently, WGFM and three brothers were all the children of Valentine and Hannah to live to adulthood.

Even odder to me, we found out at the time these Kansas records appeared that WFGM was called Felix by relatives in Jefferson and Clinton Counties. (We had noted that in one 1960s interview but thought that person had made an error. ) All military records and other sources we knew about called him William F. Martin, but his children knew his full name was WFGM. As a preacher, he was called "Uncle Billy" an old man told me once. WFGM died in 1901.

We have no idea why WFGM was named after the Senator Felix Grundy, but for some reason Felix Grundy was an important name to Valentine and Hannah. William was the name of Valentine's father, grandfather, and great grandfather.

Here's the poem and the story behind the poem which I wrote in a thank you note for the two women who had walked and recorded the graves at Pleasant Grove Cemetery near Mt. Vernon, IL.:

Over two decades ago I had gone looking for the gravesite of Elizabeth Martin in Perry County, where a great uncle thought it might be. Unable to find it, I had decided that she was probably buried on a farm someplace in an unmarked grave. I did not know her maiden name, and I only knew that she was buried with one or two children, all of whom the great uncle thought had died in a typhoid epidemic.

In May 2003, I unexpectedly connected by Internet with an unknown distant distant cousin-in-law, who had just received some family records from her husband's people. From those ancient records passed down in Kansas, I learned that Elizabeth's maiden name was also Martin, and that she and her baby and her mother were all in Pleasant Grove Cemetery "near Mt. Vernon." I hurried to the Jefferson County web site, and there were their names and information matching what I had just received from Kansas.



Elizabeth (Martin) Martin

Wife of William Felix Grundy Martin

5-1-1827 to 10-6-1857



Elizabeth came from Tennessee

To marry her cousin

In Illinois country.



An only daughter

With six brothers,

Her sister Margaret had died at three.



She helped out at home down there,

Content with others’ lives.

Then Felix’s dreams became her own

Which they must realize.


Though sad to leave her parents,

William Felix was a prize.

A preacher like her daddy,

Felix filled her heart with love.

Baby Margaret came along,

A second blessing from above.



Glorious sunshiny summer

Must end as all things do.

A horse threw off its rider

And troubles began to brew.



Her uncle, Felix’s father,

Was killed by that hard fall.

She comforted her young husband

Who cried but still stood tall.



Her death not three weeks later

Brought him to the ground.

For such excess bereavement

No comfort could be found.



Baby Margaret without her mother

Could not survive here long.

A third time family gathered

And sang a sadder song.



Beloved bride. Beloved babe.

He must ride to Tennessee

To tell her parents what they’d lost

Here in Illinois country.



Time passed and much to his surprise

William Felix loved once more

And the sun began to rise.



The Civil War called him from home,

And all three brothers too.

For it seemed right that men must fight

When things were all askew.



Elizabeth had three brothers

Who’d moved up from Tennessee

And like the other cousins, they marched

Back home with Lincoln’s grand army.



Nine Martin cousins

Volunteered to join the fray.

Five came back and three died young

Their hair to never gray.



The war was finally over.

William returned to Louisa Jane.

He smiled to see son Will so big

And horse and farm again.



A three-room house they built with pride

Joys and sorrows came their way.

But he had learned when Elizabeth died,

That neither come to stay.



It was Elizabeth’s father’s turn to die,

Her mother Nancy was alone.

A younger son brought their mother up

To make an Illinois home.



Nancy saw the graves from long ago

Of the daughter still so dear

Of the babe she had yet to rock

And she shed another tear.



Nancy too returned to dust

A long way from Tennessee,

She was glad to join Elizabeth

Here in Illinois country.



I place blooms on these three graves

Where William Felix sobbed in grief,

Their early deaths gave me my life,

My great-grandmother was his second wife.

I'm Feeling Younger Than Dirt!

For a couple of years now, I have been trying to shrink obligations and outside responsibilities. Gradually I have stopped some. I’ve also expressed a desire to simply be a member of those organizations I belong to—trying to be a good follower of others who are leading rather than having leadership duties.

So when my friend Jari Jackson asked me to join the local Women’s Club after I had spoken there, I explained all this to her. However, I was impressed with this group. A large proportion (majority perhaps—not quite sure yet) of these women are much older than I am! And I admired the younger members of the club (many just a year or a few years younger than me) who want to keep meetings during the afternoon so these longtime members can continue to participate. However, with so many women employed these days, this makes it difficult to enlist younger members.

Since I am no longer employed outside the home and can usually take off whenever I want, that made me a potential member and amazingly one of the “young ones.” I liked the idea that suddenly I was young. I liked the women there, and I liked the programs and the causes supported. I noticed that many were absent without anyone seeming peeved.

So I told Jari that I’d join if I could just be a member and attend when I can, not feel guilty when I miss, and not have to serve on committees or get caught with the crunch of a responsibility that I accepted and then later worried if I would have the time to fulfill. I like the idea of knowing if I fail to make a group’s meeting, no one is hurt by my absence but me. I particularly liked the fact that this group does not meet in the summer and only once a month.

The new club year has started, and once again I am inspired by these long-time club members. Many have had careers in addition to being a homemaker. All are talented, skilled, abreast of what is going on in the world, well traveled, and friendly. Our year started with a luncheon meeting, and the program was a talk by Cindy Gunnin, the program chair and vice president of Southern Illinois Writers Guild. Cindy blames me for her being in that job (a very time consuming one), so I figured I better try to attend if I could.

My seat mate at the luncheon was one of our most delightful members—Ruth was 99 on her birthday last summer and celebrated it with her family at a Saint Louis Cardinals game. She is an accomplished pianist, and when she handed me the club book to read the Collect with the others, she said it from memory. She is also blind now. What an example she is for someone young like me!

This month my friend Loretta (a year younger than me) had the program showing us a slide show of her and Frank’s summer tour up the Blue Danube with her daughter and husband and the daughter’s mother-in-law. Loretta’s knowledge she had picked up during the tour was exciting, and a large book collection on display showed she had studied well before and after the tour. Since I have always wanted to travel overseas but have accepted the fact that I never will, I especially enjoyed this vicarious tour. I was surprised at the number who raised their hands when Loretta asked how many had been to Europe. Their comments and questions added to the program. This time my nearest seat companion was only 95. She went out of her way to take care of me and make sure I appreciated Ruth a few seats away.

Loretta used to live in our village and reared four fine children while succeeding at various business careers. When they had two children close together, she and Frank sat in adjoining rocking chairs getting their little ones to sleep. I was somewhat surprised once when told me that she always put her job ahead of her kids—I’d heard many a woman say the opposite, but never heard anyone say that. I was not sure I believed her since I think her kids were always well cared for, but I enjoyed hearing a woman not apologize for her career but feel as if it was important to her family’s well being. She and Frank were one of the most hospitable couples we knew, and they were always having others over for dinner.

In retirement, she and Frank were recruited by a local funeral home to serve as host and hostess to the families and visitors. One time when Loretta and I went out to lunch while she was between jobs, she had told me wonderful stories of the wakes in families’ homes down in Johnson County before there were funeral homes there. She told me how much she enjoyed these warm and caring rural neighborhood gatherings when she was a child. So when Gerald and I would be greeted by Frank and Loretta when we attended a visitation at the funeral home, I always remembered this and knew they were the perfect pair to be taking care of those in grief.

This afternoon we drove down to Anna in Union County to attend a surprise 80th birthday party for a classmate of Gerald. Ermadell was one of nine children. The three boys in the family have passed away, but her five sisters are still around to carry off this surprise party complete with photographs they had sneaked out of Ermadell’s home for a collage and also to decorate the tables along nuts and candies. All kinds of plotting had taken place including a previous birthday dinner at a local eatery with gifts and singing all designed to fool Ermadell. The sisters were smug that they succeeded. The youngest sister Peggy, who was a close friend of Gerald’s sister Ernestine, was called upon to tell Ermadell her recent dream during all this party scheming. Peggy said she had never written a poem in her life, but she did in her dream. She woke up laughing at the poem, which had the repetitive refrain: You are older than dirt! That had then become the line for one of the banners decorating the room.

I thought that was quite far fetched. With the ladies I have been hanging out with, I consider Ermadell nothing but a spring chicken.

The 18th Annual Bus Reunion

Hugs and handshakes. Love and laughter. Music and memories. All of these seemed to reinforce the theme “Reflections of the Past” at the reunion of former members of the Baptist Student Union at Southern Illinois University. We gathered around lovely colorfully appointed tables in the back area of Vandalia’s First Baptist Church’s sanctuary for a delicious soup and sandwich supper Thursday to start our fellowship.

After accidentally starting with three or four couples at a garage sale those many years ago, this reunion on the fourth Thursday and Friday in September has grown to include not just those who were members in the 1940s, but gradually to include those of us in the 1950s and 1960s.

New friendships have been formed and old ones renewed. Group jokes have developed, including the story of the long ago filling station owner who sniffed at the banner on the BSU bus heading to Ridgecrest: “Those college kids don’t even know how to spell bus.” Because I no longer hear well, I was not sure if our new president Ginger Wells explained that the large program title “18th ANNUAL BUS REUNION” was intentional or not, but we liked that spelling and the common memory.

Although no one mentioned A.B. and Rosa Lee Plunkett and the prayer room this year, that too has become part of our common memory. And most folks understood when Nate Adams said he appreciated Ginger’s introduction because we too remembered our former long-time president Helen Galloway’s fun way of introducing him. (Actually I think Nate was a little let down to not be able to enjoy Helen’s embarrassing him.) Bill Eidson, our keynote speaker after supper, added a couple of new stories that will likely become group property as he recalled Doyle Dorm antics. Gene Wells had to take the mike away from him to explain why they fixed that top bunk to fall through with Bill.

Bob and Oleta Barrow made us all nervous when Bob started drawing out from a clear plastic bag the names of four couples to play the Oldie Wed Game. Ginger and Gene (who did the best at knowing each other’s minds), Darrell and Verona Highsmith, and Tom and Delores Gwaltney were called to the platform. Only when the Barrows’ names were drawn next, were we allowed to catch on to the smaller bag hidden within the larger bag. Relaxing then, we even enjoyed that little joke on us. We were just relieved not to have to publicly remember our first kiss, our worst cooking disaster, our spouse’s most irritating trait, and so on, but I suspect most of us tried to recall all those events as we laughed at the chosen ones’ efforts.

A surprise roast for Helen Galloway was a loving attempt to pay her back for all her years of flinging fun-filled insults. However, the roast did not really result in many negative memories, although Jim Robinson made up some. Helen was gracious as well she should have been considering her well-deserved reputation for wicked repartee. Personally, I think she got off easy.

Yet I think Verona’s memory was the most accurate evaluation of Helen’s service to all of us: when Verona was a young girl, Helen came to her church and Verona knew then what she wanted to be like when she grew up. (One of the cutest moments of the evening was when Verona made sure she sat so that she separated Ginger and Darrell after Darrell greeted Ginger with a hug at the start of the Oldie Wed game. Clearly she had achieved Helen’s ability to make us laugh.) Helen enthused over all the Cardinal gifts she found in her gift bag, and we all loved the buttons honoring Helen with her photo that we received.

The reunion choir stayed to practice for the next day, and the rest of us left for a night’s sleep. We were relieved that though the coffee and yummy rolls and muffins would be waiting for the Friday morning gathering at 8:30, if we came to visit and for photo taking, the formal program wouldn’t start until l0:30.

With many of us wearing our Helen Galloway pins, that morning program brought more beautiful music and great inspiration. Vandalia’s Abe Clymer gave us a historical welcome dressed as Abe Lincoln and taught us a little about Lincoln’s service in the legislature at the first state capitol there at Vandalia. Wendell Garrison brought new spiritual insight as he pointed out that John 17 taught us that God loved us as He loved his son Jesus. The reunion choir echoed that with their singing. Lora Blackwell shared both personal experience and practical information as to how we could share with those with less resources than ourselves. (I’m excited that I can make some space on our book shelves by sharing some of those long neglected books.) Darrell Highsmith, who has served around the world as a chaplain, brought reflections on how our past had prepared him and us so that we could benefit others.

After a bountiful catered lunch, we enjoyed more group singing and more beautiful music including Rayford Raby at the piano playing medleys of our favorite hymns. I was so glad I responded to Ginger’s request and had asked for “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” Jerry Casey thrilled us with her singing before we were treated to Nate Adams’ informative and challenging address pointing to changes that will come with this century. He shared his confidence that we can meet the challenges.

It was hard to say goodbye to those we won’t see again until next year and with the knowledge that some we will never see again in this life.

Remembering Cherokee Ancestors

After a delicious finger-food style dinner for conference registrants inside the interpretative building at the Fort Massac State Park—the oldest state park in Illinois, Gerald and I walked over to watch the peaceful movement of the barges on the Ohio River.

Gradually the round moon high above the river became brighter as the sky darkened. We moved over to the chairs in front of a plain wooden stand with only a straight chair on it. Sandy Boaz, our Illinois Chapter president of the Trail of Tears Association, asked us to let our imaginations take us back 172 years. At that time the steam boat of Cherokee Principal Chief John Ross brought him and the last detachment of the Forced Removal down that river right in front of us.

Ross’s detachment, carrying the Cherokee Constitution, had traveled up the Tennessee River to Paducah, where they went down the Ohio to Cairo. They stopped at Cairo at the confluence of the Mississippi because a letter there from Ross’s brother Lewis told him of the desperate situation of the detachments trapped between the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers because of the ice floes. Ross finally found a way up to Willards Landing and met with some of the distressed leaders in Southern Illinois.

Tony Girard gave his usual fine performance under the bright round moon as he climbed on that plain stand and became Caleb Tucker, a wagon master on the Trail of Tears. Fulfilling his boyhood dream to become a soldier, Caleb had already quit the service because of what he witnessed in Georgia when he had to help round up the Cherokee families as if they were animals leaving behind their homes and all that they had worked so hard for. He signed on as a civilian to drive one of the wagons on the Trail. By the time Caleb Tucker reached the Mississippi River, he had had all the death and misery that his heart could take. Quoting a superior officer who had previously resigned because of his conscience, Caleb concluded, “This is no job for a soldier.”

The next morning the 15th annual conference and symposium of the Trail of Tears Association was in full swing. Our Illinois board was busy registering those arriving from all over the country including 91 year old Sarah Kirk and her daughter from California.

Later I was to watch Sarah with her granddaughter Deborah on television when the TOTA took a trip to Mantle Rock and to the unveiling of markers for newly certified segments and sites both in Kentucky and Illinois. Sarah’s great grandmother and great grandfather had both perished on that Trail, and she was there in memory of them.

She was sober as she thought of their misery, but her spirit was evident when the journalist interviewing her asked her age. Without a second’s pause, she answered with a twinkle, “Nineteen.” Her granddaughter and another escort were guiding her gently with utmost respect over that rough terrain. I could not help but contrast that with the harsh conditions and lack of respect given her ancestors.

Highlights of the conference for me included hearing the current Principal Chief Chad Smith, scholars Brett H. Riggs, Jace and Laura Weaver, and Daniel Smith. Like all conferences with break-out sessions, I had to make choices and I was very disappointed not to hear Alfred “Alfie” Vick and Illinois’ own Rowena McClinton.

Nor could I attend the final day because Gerald and I were registered to attend an annual convention upstate beginning Thursday afternoon. So I also failed to hear Christopher Haveman, Fay A. Yarbrough, and luncheon keynote speaker Julia Coates. I am sure I would have learned as much at their presentations as I did from the ones I was fortunate enough to attend. I tried not to fret and to just be grateful for all I did get to attend.

Illinois was honored to have all of these serious researchers come here. They and the rest of us were intent on honoring those who walked that cruel Trail from river to river often with bloody feet over frozen ground. And especially we wanted to honor the ancestors who died on the Trail, for more died here than in other state. We cannot change the past, but we must not forget it.

National Trail of Tears Conference in Metropolis, Illinois

This week our National Trail of Tears Association is having its annual conference in Illinois for the first time. We will be starting early in the morning at Metropolis. I am sure the many out-of-state conference attendees are probably already checked in.

If you live in nearby parts of Kentucky. Indiana, or Missouri, you may want to join the free one-man drama tomorrow night open to the public. We hope many Southern Illinoisans will show up although I did not see a story in today's regional paper.

Here is the invitation that I put on Facebook: Come to Ft. Massac State Park on the banks of the Ohio River tomorrow night (Monday, Sept. 20) at 7 o'clock. Bring lawn chairs. Flashlight and flat shoes maybe. National Trail of Tears Association's conference is in Illinois for the first time. Tony Gerard will present a one-man show for conferece and for the public. Tony has many movie credits as well as two one-man shows that are extraordinary.

This will be a busy week for me if I am able to attend all the conference lectures and presentations and help as local hostess when I can. Gerald is meeting me there for Tony's presentation after his trip to Georgia.

Gerald is in Nashville right now having dinner with our granddaughter Leslie after her evening church service. She has had a busy week recording with friends, working at the desk during Parents Week at Belmont, and today judging prose at a local college speech meet.

While in Georgia, Gerald has watched Geri Ann play six or seven softball games, and he has watched University of Georgia softball practices. (Be waiting to hear more on Georgia's new freshmen pitchers: Mo and Go. They promise to be pretty intimidating!) Gerald was able to see Erin before she left for her visit with her A&M buds this weekend. Of course, he enjoyed seeing Mia and Matthew again--the two little ones that Vickie cares for. This morning he was able to attend church with Gerry and family, watched Mo and Go in the afternoon, and then drove towards Nashville later in the afternoon.

Two days later: Correction: Just found out that the nicknames are Mo and Ro, rather than Mo and Go. More on these U of Georgia pitchers in the future if they are half as good as folks think they are! (Both nicknames are first syllables of their last names.) Gerald brought home photos that he took of them.

2010 Southern Illinois Writers Guild National Contest Winners

Southern Illinois Writers Guild president Jim Lambert sent this email yesterday morning with a list of winners from Roger Poppen, Contest Chair:

Below are our writing contest winners. I think two things are noteworthy: First, the national reach. We had 130 entries from 22states. Second, how well local writers did. Of 18 prize and honorable mention winners, 5 are from Southern Illinois. Roger

================SIWG 2010 Writing Contest Winners==================

POETRY 1. "Redemption" by Adrian S. Potter, Minnetonka MN. 2.
"Wrenching" by Crystal Carey, Tulsa OK. 3,tie. "Another Winter" by Emily Hayes, Carterville IL. 3,tie. "Education" by Adrian S. Potter,
Minnetonka MN. HM "Tropic of Cancer" by Maurice Hirsch, Chesterfield MO. HM "Trust Me, if You Will," by Maurice Hirsch, Chesterfield MO. HM "An Obedient Wife" by Sue Glasco, Marion IL. HM "Waiting for Midnight" by Ellarine Lockie, Sunnyvale CA.

FICTION 1. "Goosepimples" by Dallas Woodburn, Ventura CA. 2. "Ticks" by
Clint Walker, Mattoon IL. 3. "Sounds True" by Dawn Baldwin, Lewisburg
WV. HM "Bite" by Dawn Baldwin, Lewisburg WV. HM "The Tallest Building in Topeka" by Clint Walker, Mattoon IL.

NONFICTION 1. “Just Add Water” by Murray Edwards, Clyde, TX. 2. “Cutting the Cord” by C. Lill Aherns, Corvallis, OR. 3. “I Remember, Grandma” by Lucinda Gunnin, Carterville, IL. HM: “Reading the Blanks” by Janet McCann, College Station TX. HM: “Lives, Interrupted” by Christy Wise, Washington, DC. HM: “The Bird and Bees and Little Red Peppers” by C. Lill Aherns, Corvallis OR.

Advice from One Who Knows--Carl Rexroad

As promised, I want to report on last night's Guild meeting. Woodsong Notes is also posted in Red Room, an authors' website and this post may be more appropriate there, but I know there are some local writers who read my blog here, so I'm going to post both places. Who knows? Maybe non-writers might find the concept of self promotion interesting.

Carl Rexroad has had two careers that make him a trustworthy expert on what can help local authors. Last night he spoke to Southern Illinois Writers Guild and shared his experiences on what makes a local book leave the shelf and go through the cash register in his stores.

After twelve years as editor at The Southern Illinoisan, Carl and his wife Kelly took their love and knowledge of books to a new level and opened The Bookworm in the Eastgate Shopping Center in Carbondale. Now over nine years later, that store is considered the premier regional store for rare books, used books, and local authors’ books.

Even better, when Walden Books left the Marion Illinois Centre Mall, the Rexroads stepped in with plans of their own, and a second Bookworm was created in that location. This new Bookworm features new books, but it is upholding its tradition of encouraging local authors. There is a firm welcome and a generous amount of shelf space for us there. A group signing for local authors was held in June, and another one is in the planning stages now. I had to miss the June one since we were at the college women’s softball world series, but I hope I can make the upcoming group signing.

The Bookworm was one of the first places that I scheduled a book signing when Down on the Farm came out in 2005. (That was how I learned not to schedule two signings in one day. I left Goreville’s Wolf Creek Antiques with plenty of time to reach Carbondale. Shortly before I reached the Marion exit on I-57, a turned-over semi blocked the road making all traffic stop. If I hadn’t had been expected at the Bookworm, I might have even enjoyed the experience. It lasted long enough that people were out of their cars running up and down the road socializing and getting acquainted! I was on the phone apologizing to Carl and Kelly.)

In answer to how to get your book sold in his store, Carl said that authors just bring the books in and ask. This is by consignment. Although he thinks it is important for a book to be well written, he decided to not pass judgment on the books authors bring him. He feels that judgment should be left to his customers. So except for a few mimeographed manuscripts presented to him, he has accepted all local authors’ books. So for no one has presented one so inappropriate that he had to reject it.

Carl explained that fiction by local authors is harder to sell than nonfiction because it is competing with well known fictional authors, such as John Grisham. Yet some authors use regional locales, and that makes the book create a local clientele. I immediately thought of Ann Legan’s books set in the Shawnee Forest or a recent one named Wolf Lake that I gave to my husband because that was where he went to high school. And I thought of all the Metropolis mysteries by Lonnie Cruse. Lois Barrett is back in our region again from Texas, and her earthquake books can be read not only for their plot and characters but also for their local historical content.

Again wishing that all books were well written (what former editor wouldn’t), Carl said nonfiction books sell best and are not bought so much for authors’ writing skill but because local people want that information about our region. They are looking more for stories and facts than they are quality writing. (I know some people who have presumed to write about our region, and their facts are slim, shallow, and shaky. Grrrr.)

I particularly appreciate Jon Musgraves’ books because they are full of his original research and are well documented. Carl explained that authors who continue to write more books develop followings that will make future books sell. Again I thought of Jon. I have sat by him at book signings and people trust that his books will be valued Christmas and birthday gift books, and they come looking for him. He aims to make his books historically accurate and he succeeds.

Carl explained that sometimes books sit for long periods of time with rare sales. Other books seem to fly off the shelf. He is convinced from his observation that authors making a name for themselves makes a difference. That means we must self promote.

When he started telling us how to promote our books, Carl’s knowledge of newspapers and radio stations kicked in. He urged us to send out press releases not only any time we had a new book or a signing, but anytime we received an honor or recognition that would put our name in the newspaper. Of course, our book should be mentioned, and often that mention will bring someone into the store to buy the book.

He always sends out releases from his stores about signings to all area papers and radio stations. Often these are reduced to brief announcements, but those announcements help. Because newspaper people are so busy with deadlines looming, one area of the paper does not know what the other areas receive. So for larger papers, he suggests that you send the release to the editor of each relevant section. He encouraged us not to forget the smaller free papers, who should be sent the same releases. They too bring people in to buy your book. He said the releases the author sends out will probably get better space than his.

Best of all is a long well-written feature story about the author with a photo enclosed. These can be written in third person by the author. (Who knows the facts about a book better than the author?) Carl emphasized these feature stories need to be before the signing, and gave an example of the opposite. The belated story helped but not like it would have if people could have come in and visited with the author. The better news or feature story you write, the more likely it will be used by busy editors who don’t have much time to revise.

One advantage of being a member of a writers’ group is that there are often trained journalists who will gladly accept an offer to write a news story or feature on another writer. If they are paid by column inch or per story, this benefits them, and this may be more pleasant than writing your own press release.

Carl did not mention this, but when you check out advertising rates, you realize how valuable column inches about your book are. If you can send a press release or get someone else to do so, you have free advertising that is more effective than paid advertising many people believe.

Sending to radio stations often results in author interviews, which builds author credibility and name recognition. He mentioned social networking and the importance of a website. Promoting a book is hard work, but he sees the difference promotion makes in his stores. An author has to overcome self effacement and be willing to believe in his books enough to let people know about them.

Bull Frog Bottoms

Yay rah! I can boast I’ve been to Bull Frog Bottoms.


I had just returned home to the farm after Jari Jackson and I attended Southern Illinois Writers Guild at John A. Logan College tonight. I locked up for the night and came downstairs to blog about the great program Carl Rexroad gave us on marketing our books, but before I had finished checking Facebook, the phone rang. I figured it was Gerald reporting on Geri Ann’s softball games that he has gone down to Georgia to watch. Instead, it was our son-in-law Brian locked out on the front porch calling me on the phone rather than scaring me with a late-evening doorbell ring.

I scurried up to let him in, and he needed someone to follow him down to his rented land where he is preparing to start harvest tomorrow. I have been curious all summer exactly where this farm was, so I was ready for the adventure. I told him to drive slowly cause I’m not too good at following vehicles.

Soon we were out of familiar territory. After passing several clusters of houses and tiny neighborhoods that I knew, then I had no idea where I was. I keep my foot on the gas pedal lest I lose the red lights in front of me on Brian’s pickup. We did meet one bright-eyed truck coming over one of the hills suddenly, but mostly we were alone on these deep country roads bordered by trees on both sides. Even in the dark, the drive was lovely. I had not realized his farm was so far from ours.

When we arrived at our destination, his tall corn was like a solid wall.  Looks to me like it will do very good. He got in my car to be taken back to his camper up at Wayside Farm, and I had him drive since he is familiar with these roads now.  We went back a different way to reach Route 13, and I knew this road a little better. I found out that the last area we passed through before reaching his rented fields was Bull Frog Bottoms with shallow water on both sides of the road during rainy seasons. Mary Ellen, who remembered the road from her teenage years, had explained that nomenclature to him last spring. I wondered why in the world my young teen had been traveling to Bull Frog Bottoms in those long ago days. As Brian talked to her on the phone, I asked that again, and I noticed I did not get an answer. I wonder how many other places my kids traveled that I knew nothing about! I probably did not supervise them nearly as well as I thought I was doing. Ha.

I was always leery of the back roads here in mining country because one of my early experiences after moving here.  I was going to pick up some kid for scouts or some activity and became lost on these winding confusing roads. There were no cell phones then to call for directions when one was lost. Suddenly in the pitch dark ahead of me was a chair sitting in the middle of the road. Fortunately. When I got out to look, I saw the road ended where mining had begun. Somehow I turned around or backed out and eventually found the right road and picked the child up and returned her safely to her home later.

Well, I have watched the new moon growing larger each night this week, and I enjoyed it on my trip tonight. I am sleepy, and I’m going to have to tell you about Carl Rexroad’s talk tomorrow or sometime.

A Peaceful Sunday

There is a swivel chair in our living room by the window. When I read, I turn it from its conversational purposes facing inward so that I can look out over the deck and see the lake. At twilight today, a short border of blue sky was beneath the pale pink cloud cover almost like a soft blanket overhead. The lake to the left and right reflected the overhead pink but in the middle directly in front of me were the bright green trees of Gerald’s little home-made island duplicated in the water. A new moon was already bright in the western sky. I was torn between the book and the visual beauty in front of me.
It had been a peaceful Sunday. Gerald had his usual phone calls with his buddy Bobby down in Texas and with brothers. After church services, we ran into Marion to my favorite restaurant to enjoy dinner—the designated gift to us of a friend from Pennsylvania. Son-in-law Brian came down yesterday to their camper to spray their acreage east of Woodsong and readying for more corn harvesting at the end of this week on some other rented land he farms. So we phoned to see if he’d like to go with us, but he had already eaten.

Driving to and from town, we noticed Brian’s soybean plants are yellowing. Driving by neighbors Ryan and Megan’s house, we enjoyed the huge pumpkins decorating their lawn—the first fall display I’ve seen. The cool weather confirmed that autumn is almost here. I bought a mum from little Miranda—some kind of fund raiser in the community—and it is loaded with buds waiting to pop out soon. The roses seem to be showing off with bigger blooms in a last-ditch effort to celebrate the end of summer. Gerald’s turnips are two or three inches high. He and neighbor Scott are all ready to finish the harvest of the corn plot on the other side of our driveway tomorrow, Jerry Pirtle’s new truck is outside sitting there waiting for Gerald to use to haul off the corn, and Gerald loves few things better than driving a beautiful new truck. It is a busy and happy time of the year when the harvest goes well, and a restful Sunday is appreciated.

Watching Hummingbirds

Daily entertainment is offered by the glass doors of our kitchen opening onto the west end of the deck where we see colorful hummingbirds zipping, zagging, and zapping around the feeder hanging there.

On the other end of the deck outside our bedroom is another hummingbird feeder. If I sit on the porch swing there, the tiny birds will buzz all around me letting me know they are not afraid of me even if I am daring to invade their territory. Their tiny wings make a noisy sound as the birds hover by the feeder or fly past me.
We are not only feeding them but also the wasps and dirt dobbers who like the birds’ sweet sugar water. I am impressed at the steady stream of tiny ants from down below somewhere who come up onto the deck railing and then crawl along the long black wrought iron holder that Gerald uses to put the feeders on so they are away from the deck rail and in easy reach for the tiny birds.
Every year at least five or six during the summer will fly into Gerald’s shop and cannot find their way out. He will find one dead on the floor, and it makes him feel bad. The large machine door openings that they came in can be wide open, but somehow they cannot find their way out.

Yesterday I started to leave for town and there was a colorful hummingbird frantically flyinhg around the ceiling of the garage. The door on my side of the garage was already open and I assumed that is how it got in, but the bird seemed to persist flying on the side of the closed door behind the pickup. I did not want to close my door and leave the poor little thing aimlessly trying to escape. I opened the door behind the pickup, and that caused it to fly to my side where the door was already opened. But did it leave? No, it was flying too high evidently to see the opening. I talked to the bird and explained how it could gets its freedom, but the bird would not listen to my advice. Finally I had to leave, but I could not bear to close my door, so I left it opened and hoped for the best. Much to my relief, the pretty thing was gone when I came home.

Our many martins have already left us for this summer. These hummingbirds will be leaving us for Mexico soon, and we ponder how they make that trip. What allows them to reach their wintering grounds there year after year while they are unable to find their way back out of a building the same way they came in?

After Labor Day Weekend

Brian’s first harvest of corn is completed with good yields, Mary Ellen and Brianna were down to enjoy harvest with him and take meals to the field sometimes. Sam joined Brianna here at Woodsong, and Mary Ellen brought the tubes for them to enjoy on the lake—her latest enthusiasm. The kids may have enjoyed more putting the tiny dead garden snake on Mary Ellen’s car to scare her. I saw Sam flying out the garage door in order to hear her squeal.

The dining room table is cleared of first aid items put there after Gerald’s ulnar nerve surgery, and his doctor said everything is fine and come back in three months. My plantar fascitis is getting better.

Friends Bill and Mickey Tweedy arrived Sunday afternoon carrying a casserole and a bottle of sweet-smelling hand cream to be given to Katherine. Come to find out, Mickey had been in the hospital I guess until Saturday night. They also carried in a pan of apple dumplings from Flam Orchards, and I was glad the dining room table was cleared. The dumplings were beyond delicious, and we also had crackers and corn dip that Mary Ellen had brought to the farm.

Early medication seems to have held Katherine’s shingles in check although other MS complications have not been so kind. A Saturday trip to the ER because of continuing blood pressure spikes eliminated our fear of heart problems, and she is better. A visit at her house from Mary Ellen and Brianna yesterday afternoon had us laughing hysterically as Mary Ellen told stories in her inimitable way. (When ME was still a preschooler, I was convinced that Carol Burnett had a competitor.) We also had a few giggles from Jeannie and Leslie’s Facebook exchanges this weekend.

Gerry came up from Georgia last week to dove hunt with his dad only to find the huge flocks of doves already moved on to someone else’s fields, but they had a good time visiting anyhow. I enjoyed his presence and serving him meat, which made me think of my mother who always enjoyed planning meat for my brother when he came to visit her. Jim loves good meat, she would say. The men watched on television the first Georgia football game, and Gerry was back home for the final two days of Labor Day Weekend and pitched four hours yesterday. Vickie met Erin in Atlanta last night when she arrived home from Austria.

Another holiday weekend is over. There is more harvest ahead, probably more problems since problems mean we are still alive, and hopefully more laughter and giggles unless we can restrain Les and Jeannie, and that is never gonna happen.

Another Week, Another Dollar, and Another Problem

The week started well with a calm and restful Sunday. Since it was the fifth Sunday of the month, Gerald and I were scheduled in the extended teaching care during the morning worship service, and Katie Cutsinger, an adorable teenager who has a wonderful way with preschoolers, was helping us. We had six children in our charge, and three caretakers were not too many.

Toby does not usually get to come to our church because his mother works as a nurse at the Veterans Hospital on Sundays, but that was her day off. We have missed him. Toby is already recognizing words and starting to read even though this is the year he will start kindergarten.  When he saw Gerald, he ran and hugged his legs. He smiled at me but Gerald got the hug. Men are especially welcome in child care in today’s world because so many children are being reared by single mothers. When I worked in family literacy, I asked any of the men repairmen to please stop and talk to the children in the preschool room, who were being taught while their parents were in GED class.

Our son-in-law Brian stopped by for a little while Sunday afternoon, but otherwise it was a day without visitors. He was down looking at crops and conversing with his friend Phil Anderson, who has already started harvesting corn. Brian’s crop will be ready for harvest soon. The extremely hot weather is expected to cut yields. Rains came but in such fast fashion that much water was lost in run off. We need rain badly right now, and a couple of eighth-inch showers this week have been welcome but not adequate.

With the lack of rain, the cantaloupe and tomatoes are almost gone, but Gerald is still bringing in some okra every other day and an occasional watermelon and zucchini. He planted turnips a week or so ago in an empty place in the garden. So we have something yet to watch grow.

A couple of meals each fall with turnips satisfy me. In addition, however I like to serve them for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner even though Gerald and I will be the only ones eating them. They just seem an appropriate vegetable at those feasts at the farm. We haven’t had a turnip patch the last few years, but we acquired plenty at church from Charles Graves who shared his excess. Gerald’s brother Garry was planting a patch on their home farm the other day, just like Dad Glasco always did, so Gerald caught Garry’s enthusiasm and accepted some of his seed for this project.

After the good start to the week, I ran into Katherine’s yesterday morning to see how their weekend had gone. Then I learned the latest problem. During the night she had broken out in shingles. She immediately called the doctor and the drug store delivered a couple meds yesterday afternoon to take along with the many she already takes. Now everyone is wearing gloves. Aides who have had chicken pox are concerned about shingles. Aides who have not had chicken pox yet have that worry. I had the preventive shot a couple years ago, but I understand it does not always work. Despite this new misery and hard hurdle, Katherine seemed in remarkably good spirits today. Another week and another problem is a common occurrence in her life. Those of us with good health do not know how blessed we are.