A Christmas Second Thought

The tracks ole Buck left behind

Were long and snowy deep.

The quiet wrapped us like a blanket

As we rode along the creek.

Only the bubbling of the water 

and the soft saddle leather whine,

Could be heard above the tic-tic-tic

Of snow falling on the pines.

My hat was tight and my collar high,

The air was cold and thin.

But we were on a mission today

And we'd see it to the end.

"Right over this rise", I said to Buck,

"is where we'll need to be."

The pine I'd spied in the summer past

Would make just the perfect tree.

We'd drag it home and trim it fine

With lights and a garland weave.

It'd be the center of holiday cheer

On this snowy Christmas Eve.

We cleared the rise then feasted our eyes

On the most amazing sight.

The perfect tree in shimmering ice 

And draped in snowy white.

 Its weighted green and snowy boughs

Were adorned in reds and blues.

Cardinals and the bluest of Jays

Had chosen this tree to roost.

It was all that I had  imagined

When I'd seen it this past year

But never had I given thought 

That it could be so glorious... here.

On top was a frozen Aspen leaf,

As if crowned with a golden star.

And there we sat in silent awe 

 Like the shepherds from afar.

Buck pricked his ears and turned his head

To take a look back at me.

"I know ole boy" I softly said,

"Ain't it a grand sight to see?'

Before us was Gods handiwork,

and never more humbling than this.

I'd wanted a beautiful Christmas tree

Well... now I had my wish.

"You cant improve on perfection, boy,

Some things are best left alone."

I left the axe tied in its place

Then just swung around for home.

K.L. Dennie 2017

The Winter Fox

NOTE: This is a re-post from mid-December 2013.

The trees in the woods are ice covered and dusted with snow. The ground is also glassy as a frozen result of winter drizzle and cold temps. The world around me glistens like fine crystal with a powdered sugar frosting upon it. The sparkling white surrounding me makes it appear as though I’m caught in a snow globe that’s just waiting to be shaken. I hesitate to move and disturb this perfect picture of winter wonder. As I lean against an ice bound oak tree, only the fog of my breath rising from under my hat would indicate my presence.

It is perhaps my stillness that allows me to hear a steady tic, tic, tic of movement off to my left. I clear my ears to better hear, and focus on the area of sound. Soon the disturber-of-the quiet comes into view. It is tsu-la u-wo-di-ge, a red fox, that meanders down from the rise above the creek. His red fur stands out like a blazing fire against the glassy surface under his black socked feet. He stops momentarily and puts his black nose to the wind. Something, probably me, has him a little cautious. After a few seconds though, he seems satisfied that there is no danger, and moves down to the creek.

As I watch him walk, I marvel at the length of his red, bushy, white tipped tale. Its almost as long as the rest of his entire body. The tail aids him in running I’ve been told. And maybe, like a squirrel, that tail wrapped around him when he lies down, provides some comfort on these cold winter days and nights.

The fox moves to the creek and walks to a break in the snow covered ice. The water runs cold and clear as it gurgles and bubbles along a short path, then disappears under the ice again. My long-tailed friend raises his nose again and looks around, then bows his head to the cold clear offering from the creek, and drinks thirstily. After a moment of slaking his thirst, the fox licks his whiskers with his long tongue, then retreats back into the deeper woods, perhaps in search of a mouse for lunch. Better a mouse than one of my chickens, I think , as I watch him melt away among the trees and frozen undergrowth.

There has been a fox near the hen house many times at the Chicken Ranch. Once, my oldest grandson, Kirkland, looked out toward the cornfield and observed a fox just sitting at the edge of the field watching him. It was as though he was casing the place to see how to get past the dog and into the chicken pen sometime. It wasn’t until Kirkland yelled at him that the fox stood and slowly walked away.

Just a few nights ago, I happened to look out the kitchen window at the heavy snowfall, and notice another of the red/gray predators in the moonlight, trotting happily down the lane by the barn, then out to the pasture and away. We have lost a few hens over the years to these slender little speed demons. The dogs usually do a good job of keeping them at bay, however.

I don’t mind the foxes, really, as I long as I don’t lose too many egg layers to them. It would be a sad world to live in if we had none of mother natures offspring to coexist with. The creatures around the Chicken Ranch are a reminder to me of the beauty of Gods plan. The wildlife and earth around us is all one beautifully sculpted result of the Creator. Humans are the only part of His creation that seems to have a hard time fitting in to His plan. All of the rest of Nature fulfills what He intended as its purpose. Man does his best at times to go against the perfect order of things, and mottle them up. I want to be a better steward of the land, and remember that all of nature, all men, are under his feet. There is a purpose for everything under Heaven, even a hungry fox wanting chicken for dinner.

I’ll hike a bit more and watch the color of birds ornament the glacial looking trees and bushes. I’ll observe the deer, gracefully moving like shadows, out of the draws and down to the creeks. I’ll enjoy the piercing cry of the red tailed hawk, as he circles on the wind in search of a meal. And who knows, I may see that fox again, heading southwest to a hen house full of temptation, that rests on a little patch of earth that I call home.

Thanks For Autumn

                        Armstrong Valley, Kentucky

Lighted trees offer dancing leaves

In every possible hue.

Cotton clouds in purple shrouds

Float 'gainst a sky of pure blue.

Prairie grass bends and stands again

In submission to the breeze.

A Red Tail hawk cruises a balk

Then vanishes thru the trees.

My collar is raised as I gaze,

The north wind at my back.

On another day this wind will stay,

And snow will cover my tracks.

I cross the stream of shimmering beams

Reflected of the sun.

It bubbles around the rocks its found

Along its winding run.

I breathe in deep and feel the steep

Of peace that rides the breeze.

And, as along I trod, I offer God

Thanks for Fall days like these.

K.L. Dennie Oct. 2017

Autumn Senses

Armstrong Valley, Kentucky

The morning is misty and wet today. As I make my way to the pens to feed, the moist wet grass dampens and darkens the toes of my boots, and colored leaves stick to the soles. A steady rain has fallen through the night and has brought a bit of welcome softness to the ground beneath me. After one of the driest summers in our area in years (September was the 2nd driest in history) it is a welcome relief to the feel dampness on my skin. The drops of rain shaken from the trees take a detour on their journey to the ground and fall on my hat in little pops, then run around the crown and off the brim. The woods edge is noisy with the squirrels causing a shower to loosen with their every leap from limb to limb. The smell of damp fallen leaves and end of summer foliage feels my senses as I take in a long deep breath the early morning air. There is something about the fragrance of a wet autumn morn.

Encouraged by the weight of raindrops, and persuaded by the wind of change, the leaves surf the breeze in a dizzy dipping glide to a gentle landing on the earth below. The leaves of walnut, sycamore, and hack berry trees carpet the ground, weaving a yellow/brown quilted pattern over the grasses. The wetness releases an earthy aroma that appeals to my olfactory senses. Perhaps it is an ancient hunter/gatherer instinct that is awakened by the smell of autumn; a reminder from an early time that triggers us to prepare for the winter to come.

 We Americans no longer face the kind of winters our ancestors did in this country. There is little fear of running out of food and water for people or animal before the Spring. But, here in our part of the country, cold and snow is coming eventually, and there is preparation still.

We are preparing here at the Chicken Ranch as we always do. For instance: there is wood to cut, gather, split, and stack over the next few weeks. Long nights indoors are ahead, and there is nothing more comforting than the pop and crackle of an evening fire. The fireplace is now cleaned and ready, and the wood stove is too. On the nights ahead when the north wind sings its song of bitter cold, the warm glow of flames spirit-dancing over the logs counters the chilly sound, and wraps us in visual blanket of comfort. Patty and I find ourselves checking the inventory of hot chocolate and marshmallow cream. The nights of warmed hands around a cup of  chocolate sweetness are a comfort to us while the frost paints the window pain, and snow piles upon the roof. As many do, we prepare to be inside more this time of year.  There's outside preparations too of course.

The hen house is cleaned and fresh straw put in place. Some doors and windows that have been open all summer are increasingly closed at night now. The garden is empty now except for Kale and a few tomato plants that are hanging on. Orange and red pumpkins,  and  multi-colored gourds adorn the outside of the house and shop after having been gathered from the garden. In the next few days all that remains of the garden  will be tilled under and the green of Spring and Summer will return to an earthen brown. The soil will rest  for the next few months and await the Spring to be born again.

It is a special time, this changing of the seasons. The honking encouragement of tens of thousands of migrating geese that fills the air, the tic-tic crunching of  leaves on dry days when kicked up by wandering feet, the rat-a-tat cadence of a gentle rain as it falls upon the metal roofs, the occasional  call of the coyote floating on the crisp breeze a moonlit star-bright evening... this is the music of Autumn at the Chicken Ranch. The welcome smell of decaying leaves, walnuts and hickory nuts losing their outer shells, wood smoke from the chimneys, and coffee steaming from my cup... this is the fragrance of Autumn here. Fields gold and tan with harvest plenty, tractors and combines scurrying like ants on a mission, a kaleidoscope of orange, yellow, and red colored leaves, and cobalt blue skies with cotton ball clouds... this is the view of Autumn.

In every sight, sound, and smell, Autumn abounds here. This gentle transition from summer to winter fills the senses with earthly wonder. Autumn eases us from the outdoor business of summer into long nights of indoor idleness during winter. It is God's perfect plan for us here. It is a wondrous thing to us here at the Chicken Ranch, this season of change.  We welcome it. Always.

AUTUMN HINTS

Autumn Hints

It's there in the chilly morning air,
In the cobalt blue of the sky so fair,
In cotton candy clouds everywhere,
...and there is something more.

In the seeding flowers all around,
The leaves of corn edging brown,
Rows of pumpkins on the ground,
and the garden stock to store.

It's little things I hear and see.
Like cicadas calling in the trees,
The hurried flight of the bumble bees,
That makes me know for sure.

Certainly summer days are not yet o'er
And there's heat and dog days still in store.
Oh,this wondrous day is just a teaser sure,
To remind me that Autumn... is worth the waiting for.

KL Dennie 2017

Summer Simplicity

A dome of brilliant blue sets over the Chicken Ranch today. Only the thin brush strokes of fair weather clouds interrupt its bright covering. The breeze is fresh and the temperature in the 70's for now. A perfect day for doing summer chores. I'm picking cherries this early morn.

 The tree is full of the sweet/tart marble-sized fruit. The ripe ones are a beautiful candy red. The less than ripe are a  mixture of red to gold. I fill my bucket to the brim while standing on a ladder. Pulling the branches to me, I gather the darkest red ones that I can find, and dream of the tasty jams and pies that my wife, Patty, will wonderfully make from these. This chore goes easy as the breeze blows across my skin, and makes music in the pines and cedars. The wind massages my neck under my cowboy hat and eases the task at hand. Nothing like a cool summer breeze to lift your spirits.

The birds sing songs of praise for this day as I gather the fruit. A rabbit hops below my ladder and looks up at me with curiosity; then settles in to nibble the clover surrounding the base of my ladder.

Birds fly in occasionally and then flit off at the site of this cowboy high in their domain. I'm glad I'm picking theses cherries instead of them. Blackbirds can clean a cherry tree out in a day. A few years ago I started placing a large realistic looking owl close to the the trees when the cherries were close to ripening. This has worked wonders in keeping the feathered fruit-stealing critters from beating me to the punch each year, and robbing me of my pies and jam.

The garden will need attention today. A little watering, weeding and hoeing to keep it clean and productive. The full dark green leaves and bright orange blossoms of the squash plants promise the coming of great table fare. The blue/green kale is already adding its unique taste to our salads. Tomatoes are standing tall and full, and some now have green fruit growing bigger each day and ripening in the summer sun. We anxiously await the big red balls of salad and sandwich makers. I sometimes keep a salt shaker under a can on a post near the garden. When the tomatoes are just right I wipe them off, salt them, and enjoy the right-off-the-vine taste that cannot be beat.

Summer chores are a joy to me. My mind rests while I hoe or when I'm picking fruit or vegetables. While I'm in the garden, or on the tractor mowing, I feel unburdened by the worries and problems that are a weight of every day life. The feel of the sun on my skin, the touch of the breeze, the sounds of the birds and the wind in the trees, are all a source of real joy and comfort to me.

Man is made from the earth, when he is in touch with the earth, he has come home. He is connected, revitalized. Sometimes the work is laborious. There is toil and sweat in daily living, but every drop of perspiration is an impurity leaving me. Every muscle movement is verification of my being healthy. Working outside carries me from just living... to feeling alive.

It's a simple thing, just doing what needs to be done. Some of what we do is of pure necessity, and yet, those actions remind me of what I have and enjoy in this life. I count my blessings when I work outside. It makes me grateful for all that I have; not just worldly possessions, but in my sight, hearing, feelings.

As I take a break, and sip sweet tea on my back porch, I take in all the summer scene of flowers, trees and nature as a whole. I expand my chest, inhale deeply, and take in the  fresh oxygen-rich breath of the seasons finest country air. I think, yes, I'm thankful for all that God has in His mercy granted me. I'm happy to be active. I'm happy to be alive. I'm very glad for summer simplicity.

Rise and Shine, Old Sol

It's good to see the sun.

The air is cool and damp this morning as I sip coffee on my back porch. The warm pick-me-up feels pleasant as its heat brushes my mustache and rolls up my face to the brim of my cowboy hat. It is a good morning...as every waking morning is. It's a particularly welcome day because the rain has abated, and Old Sol is doing his best to thrust shimmering blades of golden warmth through breaks in the stubborn white and violet clouds. It's good to feel the suns drying effect after the constant deluge of recent weeks. It is a good thing to watch the light overtake darkness.

I'm not the only one happy to see the rain move on. Old Woodrow, the rooster, has a little more of a robust crow today I think. The bright red cardinals are singing away... along with a myriad of other birds that seem to flit and warble with more enthusiasm now that it's sunlight that caresses their feathers, and not water droplets. I'm glad this day is brighter for us here at the Chicken Ranch. I realize it's not as bright for some.

A life-long friend in Kentucky has lost his battle with cancer. I know his lovely widow and their children are viewing this new morn with a gratitude to God for their own life and health; but the new day is also dimmed by the dark clouds of sadness that accompanies the loss of someone, who is so much a part of you, that their leaving produces an earthquake to your emotional security and sense of well-being. Some losses sever the soul. While the wound of separation can be salved by pleasant memories and healed by the passing of time, a part of who and what you are is so utterly and painfully lost. We wish our dear friends comfort and peace in their time of rain and pain. We wish them love.

There is much to do today here. All of what we do will be in the wetness and mud, but life moves us on, and living requires actions to propel us forward. Animals need fed, and there's mowing to do. Repairs need to made and the vegetable and flower gardens need tending (as much as can be done until it dries). So, we will work this day. And in the light of a clearing sky.

The sun rises higher and bids me to get away from my writing, and on to make up for lost time due to the storms. It looks and feels good, this giant orb of warmth and light. Its rising reminds me again that it always fulfills a promise. I am glad for it in many ways.

It does not matter the length or the intensity that the tempest presents.  No matter how dark the days or stormy the nights, it may be obscured, but the sun is there, high above us and holding promise.

 Some day the comfort and peace will come. The storms will pass and the rains will cease. The water will replenish the earth, and new life will emerge from the storm in some way.

Yes, it's sure.  Some day, in all its glory, the sun is gonna shine.

Color and Song of Spring

KD Chicken Ranch

Gone is winter browns, and visible around us is green of every imaginable shade. I am amazed by the many variations of green that fill the woods , lawns, and fields. Darker green hues upon the pines and fertile grasses, are highlighted by the yellow/green of new leaves on the trees and bushes.  The fruit trees are magnificently brushed in their own contributing tints. Pinks, dusty rose, and whites abound as their blossoms burst forth with the promise of cherries, apples, and crab apples to come. The Forsythia has exploded in yellow blooms, while the red bud trees are flush with red along their branches. The wonderful canvas of spring is being saturated with color here at the Chicken Ranch.

Golden Rod plates some fields with the color of its name and, along with the tiny purple flowers of the pesky ground ivy, tries to show off its weedy good side. Tulips, daffodils, and crocuses were among the first to present their offerings as they rose to cheer the winter weary soil. All around now though, the birth of a new season is evident against the azure sky. Columbine, Petunias, Nemecia and much more bring their offering of Spring greetings. Man and animal alike are in celebration of winters pass, and springs march toward summer.

The recent heavy rains have flooded many streams and rivers; in stark contrast to last years’ drought like conditions in places. Ponds and lakes, which were down by as much as eight feet, are nearly bank full. Fish cruise the sparkling water over areas where one could walk last summer. There will be no intrusion into their habitat this year. Fishing will be from the shore line again. The warm weather has me and my grandsons putting new lines on the reels, and readying for a summer of lures and baits in the water.

The air is cool at night but not uncomfortably so. The warm temperatures make evening back porch sitting a pleasure again. Watching the orange sun soften into the horizon, as day melts into night, is one of life’s simple pleasures. The quiet, nearly imperceptible decent quiets the cacophony of daytime and ushers in the gentleness of evening. The bees go to bed, and the owl raises his head, in  natures changing of the guard.

One recent night Patty called me to the back porch to listen to the tree frogs. The songs of the mate seeking peepers were audible even before I reached the back door. The singing was a chorus of chirps and shrills, of highs and lows. I sat down in my rocker to hear the night air filled with a blend of song that is as ancient as time. Occasionally a  solitary night bird could be heard trying to add  to the music, but this was the night of the tree frogs, and it bowed to the amphibious chorus.

It is a happy thing to feel the mild wind upon your skin these days.  A mans’ day is brighter when the sun is. His attitude is loftier when the sky is blue, and the clouds are non-threatening.  How can you not have a spring in your step when Spring is in the air. From the honey bees to the leafing trees, from the songs of the night to the long daylight, the happy evidence of spring abounds. The seasonal canvas is being painted, and it is rich with the colors of spring... and hints of the summer to come.

Spring Is Springing

A shroud of gray overhangs the Chicken Ranch today. The golden orb of sun is absent; not a ray of light breaks through the filter of clouds above us. There is no breeze, just a moist stillness surrounding us. It may sound a bit gloomy or depressing, but really, as I take a closer look, just the opposite is true.
 
A gentle rain quietly cascades upon the trees and fields, barely visible, and yet enough to wet the slicker on my back and the cowboy hat on my head. Branches and twigs are shiny with wetness. The tic-tic sound of its fall upon the metal roofs, and the steady staccato of water dropping through the buildings’ downspouts, makes the peaceful music of a gentle Spring rain. As I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, I think that Mother Earth must require a deep drink to quench the thirst of budding trees and bushes, and the acres of grasslands and pastures, after a long winters nap.

The birds sing and chirp in a happy merriment; just as if the sun was shining in a blaze of warmth and light. The mating dances of Robins and Blackbirds are winged and stepped despite the complete wetness. Procreation would never stand still because of a little rain. New nests appear each day in the limbs of barely leafed trees.

Right below me, a centipede crawls across the needle droppings of a pine tree. I watch his twisting, curving walk as he appears to fight for control of the army of legs beneath him. Squirrels prance upon the boughs and shower the earth below as they jump from one tree to another. The neighbors’ horses are cropping the new grass along the fence and occasionally give their head a shake, give me a look of hello, and return to their nibbling.

No, the animal kingdom is not at all perturbed about this day; they embrace it.

Each drop of rain seems to cause a bud to open and the earth to part for another shoot to appear. The bright yellow of the Forsythia does its best to brighten the day. The crab-apple and plum trees here are covered in a mass of white or pink petals. As the petals fall like snow, the ground beneath is livened from its winter drab. The trees seem to await a signal that will put them all in a breathtaking explosion of color. These flowering trees rival the colors of Autumn…and are just as appreciated. And the ground too is showing its welcoming of the rain.

Hyacinths are peeking through the leaves here and there. Yellow and buttercup daffodils bloom in cheery Easter bonnets. The pointy green stems of the hostas are presenting, and the Columbine and Bleeding Hearts grow taller right before my eyes. Soon these flowers will put on a dazzling display of their own.

All of nature seems to love this day. The rain brings needed moisture to promote growth. The clouds temper a broiling sun, as if to protect the green shoots as they establish themselves. In the dampness of this day there is the feel of newness, of refreshing and growth. The promise of warm days is in the wings, and summer leaves and flowers begin their adolescences. Spring, in all its awaited glory, is springing.

Today may appear still and a bit gloomy, but as I look closer at the budding and blooming trees, the ever-greening plants and grasses, as I hear and watch the dancing and singing birds, thawed insects walking above the ground, it occurs to me that this day is anything but still. And as for gloomy? What’s not to love about the music of the rain dancing on tin roofs? How can a day so full of wonder and promise be gloomy? This day is a day of glorious anticipation... and hope realized.

It is neither still nor gloomy in any way at The Chicken Ranch today. No... I’d say this day is nothing short of magnificent.

The Prairie Winds

                                                                                                                        photo by christellefv


THE PRAIRIE WINDS

The prairie grass bows and bends
Then rises quickly tall and thin
In a dizzy spirit-dancing spin,
And repeats, in rhythm, over and again,
When the wild prairie winds blow.

The hair blows high upon the back
Of the hungry coyote on the track
Of his early evening snack.
He stealthily pounces in attack
While the wild prairie winds blow.

With the effort of every bough and limb,
Trees reach out to catch the wind.
Briefly subdued, it exits then
You can hear ghostly music in the end,
When the wild prairie winds blow.

Seen only by its grand affect,
Felt on the back of this cowboys neck,
As I fight to hold my hat in check,
I’m glad when it quiets ..and yet,
 How I love when wild prairie winds blow.

K.L Dennie 2017

Life Anew and Life Again

KD Chicken Ranch

It is the quintessential late Winters day here at the Chicken Ranch today. Old Sol peeks only occasionally thru the mix of gray and lavender clouds. The sun's proud presence warms the air just a bit before the clouds move in and curtain it again from view.  Flurries of snow, heavy at times, whiten the sky, as soft dime sized flakes quietly and gently  ride upon the cold wind. The crystal flakes add a rim of powder to the brim of my winter cowboy hat. And then, as quickly as it started, the snow ceases; only to return again later. It's the seasonal tug of war between Mother Nature and Old Man Winter.

The days have been unseasonably warm until today. So warm for so long in fact that some trees and bushes have well budded (too soon I think) and the pastures have started to slightly green. Tens of thousands of migrating ducks and geese can be seen and heard making their way north from their winter homes. Flowers have poked their green leaves above the soil; impatient for the warm rays of the spring time sun.

I have trimmed some limbs today and I'm a might fearful that I waited too long. There's a danger of cutting branches when the tree's sap is on the rise and, while the sap is not running full, some trees have  fully budded. But this is when I could do it and it needs to be done. The roar of the chain saw is finally done, and the business of stacking wood and hauling away branches is complete. It's time for a cup of coffee.

As I sit on my back porch and watch the snow and flitting birds through the steam of my cup, I feel glad that God has spared me to see another Spring. I've been granted sixty three winters; not as much as some I know, but sadly, more than so many others. A brother-in-law left us at thirty, my father-in-law at fifty two, a dear sweet friend at forty. Vietnam took friends and family who had barely started a life at all... most still in their teens. As for me...time and again God has spared my life through things that should have killed me.

 I took chances in my life that I never should have. I've pushed beyond limits that others died exceeding. I fell into circumstances where only good luck (or the Good Lord) pulled me out. I've been bold and daring, and at other times just plain dumb. Yet, in all those things God has spared me. He's shown mercy, and granted me a lot of years. I don't know why I've been so blessed. I feel like I've not thanked him enough nor tried hard enough to live a life of gratitude. I do begin every day, as I awaken, looking out the window from my pillow, saying "Thank you, Father, for another day of life. I never want to take it for granted."

I know that God has an order and a plan. I also know that "time and chance happeneth to all."  Some not so well meaning folks live long lives; while other beautiful souls are cut down much too soon. It is a curiosity that is beyond our finite minds ability to solve, why a terrible hate-filled person lives to ninety and a wonderful young child is taken from our midst. I suppose that circumstance is a great sweeping net at times. It captures some while others escape. Only God knows in His infinite wisdom, this mystery of life and death.

 I've finished my hot cup of comfort and now it's time to get back to work. There's brush to burn, chickens to feed, eggs to gather, and a host of other things to do before the sky grows dim and I repair to the house, and the warmth of a glowing fire. As I feel the leather upon my gloved  hands and turn my collar to the  increasing cold,  I look around  and take in the late winter scene.

The sun has shown once more, even as it continues to flurry. Canadian geese are honking overhead and a Robin tweets on a branch near the barn. A Cardinal settles in a pine tree; the spirit of some one passed who has come to say hello, it is said. I smile at him and say, "Yeah, I'm still here. It's a cold and gloomy kind of winters day, but yes, another wonderful day to be alive."

As I walk to the shed I turn to the red songbird again and say, "Tell the Almighty I said 'Thanks'.........on second thought, maybe I'd better tell Him myself."

A Town almost Forgotten

Patty and I were in far northern Missouri recently on a road trip with our good friends, Jodi and Jody Mauck. We stopped at antique stores, and little shops and restaurants along our circuitous 300 mile route.  We took a short hop over the Iowa line just long enough to dine at an old grist mill that has been turned into a restaurant, and is on the National Historic Registry. Great atmosphere, great food.

One place we discovered along the way, was the Battle of Athens State Park on the Des Moines River, near the Iowa border. The park turned out to be a pleasant aside on our trip.

It is a small battlefield park a few miles off the main highway. It doesn't look like a battlefield. Not a single old cannon is present  for view. I have toured many Civil War battlefields, including all the battlefields of the Army of Northern Virginia, from Bull Run to Appomattox. This little park is small enough to fit into the gift shops of some of the other battlefield parks. The battle here was only a one day affair, but that fight has the distinction of being the northernmost Civil War battle fought in the state of Missouri (it may be the northernmost battle fought in the nation) and that is part of its claim to fame

 There are just a few houses still standing that were present at the time of the battle, and these are preserved through state and local funding. There are old building foundations, and depressions where streets ran. If you look hard enough, and use your imagination, you can see the remnants of an old community. However, it is not what is in the park that left an impression on me,,but what is no longer there.

Our guide was an English woman with a lovely accent, and a passion for her work. She gave us a wonderful tour; even though we showed up at the park at lunch time, not knowing what to expect. She showed us through a house that still has the holes visible where a cannon ball entered and exited. When she was pointing out the flooded foundation of a once highly prosperous grist and textile mill along the Des Moines River, I started thinking " so little is left to tell the story of this place."

We looked down the knob to the riverbank below. There had been a settlement in this place, she explained, beginning in 1830-34. She told us that, what was now underwater, had once been the main street of town. Building after building of bustling businesses had lined the river bank to serve the needs of the 500 people that had lived here, and the river traffic that plied the water way.   A dam had been built here, and at the time, everyone felt the town of Athens would grow into a large and prosperous city. They had good reason to be optimistic.

 Athens had boasted of fifty businesses, numerous homes,  five churches, a two story school house, and even a large hotel.There were places to work and places to play, places to learn and places to stay. A growing town in an expanding nation. Sadly, all but six houses and one old church have vanished over time. Only a ghostly reminder of the hopes and aspirations of a people and their town. 
An entire booming business district fell to ruin and, with the establishment of the Mississippi River levee system years later, eventually washed away. The river, that never flooded these banks back then, is now at the mercy of the locks and dams of the Mississippi River system. Even the dam that powered the  huge mill is reduced to rubble and ruin along the banks and shallows. The mill itself, once the heart of the business community, is twenty feet of stone walls that, today, has a river flowing through it.

If not for that one day when the Union wanted to run the southern born and Confederate-leaning townsmen out of the country, few if any today would ever know that an entire town had once stood and thrived along the river. The town of Athens, which for many years couldn't do anything but grow and prosper, began to wilt away after the war between the states.

I am sure that there was a great deal of speculation surrounding the growth of Athens, Missouri  during its heyday. Capitol was raised as high as the dreams of those who saw the towns potential. Ambitious folks carved out a place to prosper from the inevitable continued expansion of the town. In the early days of the towns growth, Athens would have seemed a safe bet for any entrepreneur. How could you lose? A huge mill for textiles and grains.  A navigable river for supplies and travelers. But, like for so many communities during Americas' developing years (towns that budded, but never fully bloomed) fate had a business plan of its own.

A war between friends and bothers changed the tide of economic growth all across America, and shifted the momentum away from this little town on the river. Nothing lasts forever, and some things just don't last long enough.

After the Civil War, some towns popped up in the most unlikely of all places, like Tombstone, Arizona, and thrived despite all odds. Other villages, in locations seemingly perfect for a town, just withered away and died . Many small towns have no past to share, nothing of historical significance to mark its place in time.  No famous townsman nor President. No western lawmen gunfight or world changing inventor. Even today, little rural towns, without strong economic connections of some kind, just slowly fade away.

 Athens, Missouri however, was saved for the ages. Not because of its dam, textile mill, bustling riverfront,  or beautiful location. It wasn't the few decades of prosperity and growth, proper planning, or shrewed investments that kept Athens  on the map. No, it was saved from an invisible existence because of a national argument. It was memorialized in a one day fight, more northern in location than any other, during a war that divided a nation. Fate may not have allowed this village to grow into all it hoped to be, but a Union victory, though far overshadowed by battles in places like Vicksburg, Gettysburg, and Atlanta, became the one brief moment in time that flagged this little communities' record of life.

But for the few old houses and stone foundations, no one would ever guess that a whole lovely, lively town had once been here along this rolling river. 

Athens is gone; the war that contributed to its demise, however, has kept it from being forgotten.

A New Days Dawning

It’s not quite dawn at the Chicken Ranch. The sky is yet black as I look out the window from my bed. The trees outside are a spider web of limbs and branches that are visible in the moonlight, and ornamented with the blue flickering stars that appear to hang from them.

The room is quite cool on this winters morn, and the old quilt offers warmth across my chest. Patty’s steady breathing while she sleeps is all that breaks the silence, until I hear the rooster begin to crow. He jumps the gun a bit - there is no sign of the sun just yet - but his declaration of the coming day is welcome. It is a good day when you awaken to the sound of your spouse’s breathing, the rooster crowing, and you can feel in your beating heart, gratitude for another day of life granted to you and your family.

I think about the day ahead, and all the things that necessity has laid upon me. I hope to accomplish what I need to, and I will put in a good effort. As I have grown older, however, I have come to be less anxious over the tasks before me each day. I’ll strike a march toward the things I want to get done, but at the end of the day, if there are non-critical things yet undone, they'll just have to wait. There is always tomorrow. And if there is no tomorrow, well, I reckon it won’t matter much then.

I don't mean to imply that I have fully adopted a totally laid back, easy going mentality. Those who know me well will tell you, that isn't me.I still cannot leave a project undone once I start it. I am loathe to start a construction project here at the Chicken Ranch and just let it hang forever. I will work as many hours as it takes, for as long as it takes, to see the project completed in a timely manner. Once I begin, I'll see the thing done. But, I have learned that some things I might have once obsessed over, just aren't worth the worry really.

I realize that it is proper and good to plan for some things in this life. It would be careless or irresponsible not to. But I have found life to be a varied and fluid thing that alters my designated course with each new event brought before me. Like a river that I am traveling for the first time, I must be prepared to navigate each curve and condition as it comes. Some days are easy drifting; others are filled with rapids or islands. And.. what is around the bend is always a mystery.

The bible tells us that “Time and chance happeneth to all.” What is this life but a ticking clock that is propelling us through a host of unknowns? Some things we encounter are wonderful, some terrible. Joy and sorrow interwoven. The only thing predictable about this life is that it's unpredictable... and that it's finite.

There are floods and drought, feast and famine, a whole host of unexpected things that interrupt us. As John Lennon wrote in one of his songs “Life happens to us while we’re making plans.” So I have come to understand that there likely will be surprises and interruptions throughout my day and, for that matter, throughout my life. I just need to prioritize, and do the best that I can, until I have burned the daylight. I need to enjoy the experience of living; the simple pleasures, and the relationships built along the way.

I get up softly, and then get dressed. I carry my boots to the kitchen in order to finish up quietly. I’ll try to let Patty get a few more winks. I put on a pot of coffee, and head for the living room when its finished. I'll read a little in the Good Book and hope some much needed wisdom will be imparted.
As I sip the hot black potion from my favorite mug, I see the first light of day on the eastern horizon. A shimmering band of yellow orange announces the rising of the sun. The slender clouds light up around the edges in a neon-like border. I see the morning birds move from branch to branch, warming up for their morning chase to find food.

I'm on my second cup of Jo now, and I hear the sounds of my good wife beginning her day in the kitchen. The old rooster is crowing in earnest now.

The new day begins, I know not how it will end. I will try to make it a productive day, a purpose-filled day. I do feel a need to make something out of the time I’ve been given. But, if everything doesn’t go as planned, I’ll see if tomorrow will allow me to do it then. And if it so happens that there is something I want to put off ? Well, I’ll take Scarlett O’Hara’s approach in Gone With the Wind, “I cannot think about that today. I will think about that tomorrow.”

And then I'll await the new days dawn, and start all over again.

Rockin Chairs

In the early 1700’s someone took a long  look at a chair, and wondered how to remake it so it would rock back and forth, but remain stable and upright at the same time. The first rocking chairs were born from regular chairs with bowed skis placed on the bottom. After that, the chairs began to be refined and built just for rocking and comfort. Some credit old Ben Franklin with the invention, but historians think the chairs were probably around when he was a young man.


It may have been a sleepless mother or father of a new infant, who could see the advantages of a chair that gently moved back and forth in a swaying motion of comfort. Many folks enjoy kicking a chair back on its hind legs and sitting that way; as long as the chair doesn’t slip or the legs break . Whatever the inspiration, I’m grateful for the invention. There’s nothing like a rocker.

A rocking chair just symbolizes calm to me. It beckons you to come sit and take a load off your feet… and your mind. There is Rocking Chair Therapy for convalescents, and for people with diseases that cause the urge for repetitive motion. The motion of rocking has proven to aid digestion, and keep muscles and tendons flexible in the elderly. Songs have been written about these moving chairs; Old Rockin’ Chair and Rockin’ Chair Blues for instance. I had a friend who would refer to men, that he didn't think worked as hard as they should, as "being in the rocking chair" ; making movements, but never really going anywhere.

Whatever your personal likes about a rocker, everyone agrees that it is relaxing. Cracker Barrel, and a few other restaurants, found that having rocking chairs on the porch and in the waiting areas didn’t only make the place look folksy and welcoming; they soothed weary drivers and impatient folks waiting to get a table. Executive offices often have desk chairs that rock; a tension reliever for sure. People just feel compelled to sit and rock when they see these chairs, especially old wooden ones. We Americans love rockers. Patty and I have four rockers at home.

Our back porch has two rockers adorning it. Patty and I love to sit in these chairs and take in the sight and smell of the blossoming fruit trees in the spring and the flower beds in summer. We sit in these comfortable seats to break beans and shuck corn after the harvest, or to pick walnuts or pecans. We sit in them a lot at the end of each day and talk. Our joys, fears, sorrows and even disagreements are often expressed from the comfort of these rockers. Yes we love to sit there and talk. And sometimes, well… we just sit.

 I love to watch the fading sun lower on the western horizon from my rocker, and feel the quiet of  evening settle the business of the day. We love our outside rockers. We have inside rocking chairs too.

One old chair belonged to my great-great-aunt. She and her husband owned a furniture store in the early 1900’s. I’m guessing that this ornate oak piece was one they purchased way back then. Anyway, it has a bit of history with it. My aunt was sitting in this particular rocker when someone tried to kill her. A shot was fired through the window at her; the bullet hit the Bible in her hand at an angle, and deflected to the next chair. The deflected bullet killed her husband, my great-great-uncle. A cousin went to prison for the murder; but most folks believed it was his girlfriend (who my aunt vehemently disapproved of) that actually pulled the trigger.

My aunts' old chair is nearly as sturdy as the day it was built. We have it in our living room facing the fireplace. Sometimes I sit in it just to feel the same wood, the same comfort of that old chair that my ancestors felt nearly 100 years ago. And it does seem to be a lucky chair to sit in after all.

The fourth rocker at our house is an old oak rocker that I received as a gift from Patty not long ago. I wrote about it a little in the blog titled “Mark Twain Christmas Walk”. I found it in a Hannibal, Missouri antique store. The chair reminded me so much of the rocking chair that my Great Grandma Armstrong had in her room, and sat in so much of the time. The last time I visited with her she was sitting in that old rocker, laughing and talking.  I resisted buying the 'Mark Twain' piece, but my wife knew how much I wanted it, and arranged to have it purchased for me for Christmas. It's a grand old piece of sitting furniture, and I often wonder what stories that old chair could tell.

It is a love affair that I have with old rockers. When I think of the books read while sitting in them,  or the stories told from them, I know that rockers creak through many miles in their  lifetimes . 

 I think of the fretful babies quieted, the songs softly sung, letters from overseas anxiously read, and the evening hours spent reflecting, in a wooden chair that  moves peaceably back and forth. Like an old boat riding the waves of time, an old rocking chair gently moves generations of folks through a lifetime of memories. Kids love them, old folks love them, and I think we all need them... to help bring a little piece of mind to ourselves now and again.

This piece of Americana is a wonderful addition to any house that becomes a home. A house without a rocker seems to me to have an empty space, a void inside it. To me, an old rockin' chair is just, well, part of the family.

If you’re ever by the Chicken Ranch, drop in. Pattys’s a great hostess and the chickens are friendly. If you drop by some evening, there’s a mighty good chance I’ll be on the back porch, just sittin' in my chair, lookin' out over the flowers to the West…rockin’.

My Great Great Aunt Noras' Rocker                                                                                                                                                  My " Mark Twain" rocker

    
          


　

Slumberless Night

It’s three in the morning and I awaken to the sounds of my wife’s peaceful breathing, and the oscillating fan purring back and forth. I look at the red numbers of the clock, and then roll over to try to get back to sleep. My mind, however, begins to mull over all this past weeks events, and things I have ahead of me to do . After some time, I realize that slumber isn’t coming back soon, so I ease out of bed. I pull on my jeans and t-shirt and walk barefoot to the kitchen. I quietly open the fridge, pour myself a glass of milk, and walk through the dining room into the living room.

The large windows in the room reveal a blue-sequined sky of shimmering black velvet. The twinkling stars in the dark of this night are reminders to me of a vast universe, of how small Man is, and just how great God is. Countless men, over thousands of years, have gazed into these same heavens; have looked upon the same moon, and wondered at the vast expanse before them that is hidden by the light of day. The stars have fascinated us all, and stretched our imaginations. They have put us in our place, and put life in the proper perspective.

We are but finite creatures made of, and living on a planet of, rock, water, and soil. Our earthly body is not long here, but we have a soul that lives forever, and staring into the endless heavens on a clear summers night, helps us better understand what the words eternal and infinite must mean. If we can see and believe in a never ending universe, well it's not hard to believe in a never ending life with the Creator; the creator of all things great and small, simple and wondrous.

The breeze is gentle. The tree limbs sway softly, delicately, and the flag waves lightly; the red and white stripes shrinking and lengthening in the wind. I raise the window to catch the breeze, and as the fresh night air surrounds my face, my ears catch the haunting songs of the night birds. The birds are in several trees within a hundred yards of the house. One calls a sweet melody to my left, and another joins in straight ahead, then another on my right, and yet another, until a chorus spreads through the cool night stillness. There is a pause and then, sweetly, they begin all over again. I listen enchanted, and I am in awe of Mother Natures ability to soothe the soul in sight and sound, in beauty and simplicity.

After an hour of breathing the night air, and soaking up the music of wind and song, I realize that I am relaxed; that I've lost the burden of fretting, and that my eyes are weighting. I slowly close the window , latch the sash, and head back to the kitchen. As I wash out my milk glass, I see a raccoon amble across the yard on his nocturnal jaunt. He is nearing the end of his shift, I think, and in an hour or so I'll be beginning mine.

So, I return to my place for slumbering, and settle back in bed with the music of the night birds fresh in my head. I play the beautiful haunting melody over in my mind again, until I fold deep into my pillow, and blessed rest is mine once more.

Highways and Byways

I like the American interstate system of highways and super highways at times. I sometimes enjoy heading off to some distant place knowing that I can close the gap in a hurry. When the ribbon of blacktop rolls under my truck at 100 feet per second, it's not long before I've reached my destination. From the east coast to the west coast, a man can travel uninterrupted for hours at a time. Other than a fuel stop and restroom break at some convenience store along the way, there is little to slow you down.

On the interstate, the only vehicles you see are other folks like you who are in a NASCAR-like sprint for somewhere. Each car jockeying for position in front of a behemoth truck, or pulling around a slower moving vehicle. All are trying to avoid having to do that awful, frustrating, interrupting driving pain of releasing your cruise control. A person has to wait for what could be as much as 30 seconds for the other driver to get by, before you can get around the slower moving driver ahead of you, and the cruise control can be set again. And what about those big rigs that barely have the power to pass another big truck, but try it anyway, and block the road for as much as one or even two minutes? "We're in a hurry here 'good buddy', what are you thinking?! Could you please move that thing over?"

No, on the super highway system there are no small town squares to navigate, with their flags flying along the side walk and folks sitting on benches in front of local stores and businesses. No four corner rural highway crossings, with fruit and vegetable stands, or high school FFA and cheerleader car washes on a corner. No farm tractors or hay wagons. There is an absence of  farmers or ranchers moseying along at 35 miles per hour, checking on their fields of crops, or livestock behind post and wire fenced pastures. No sir, nothing slow about travel on I-Anything. Driving there is often fast and furious. And, that is precisely why I only like the interstate system ... sometimes.

I use the interstate when time is important and that route is faster, and I will always use it to skirt a major city. But, for the most part, if I can travel a state or county road to my destination, that's what I'll do. If it is a few miles further or takes a while longer, so be it. Rather than speed along at a Grand Prix frantic pace, I prefer to travel at the speed of sound... sight and sound that is. I want to see and hear things along the way, maybe even smell things as I go, like a freshly mowed hay field. And off the state and county highways, there are the narrow blacktops and gravel roads.

Recently, Patty and I visited some old friends who live on a farm about an hour from the Chicken Ranch. Patty and her friend since elementary school, went to their 40th class reunion this day, and left us two husbands to fend for ourselves. So we two cowboys sat in their comfortable living room with a window that looks out over a green pasture along a stony-bottomed creek. We talked about cattle and hay and the usual stuff, and the old days. We talked about experiences on and along the miles of old gravel, dirt and blacktop roads near their farm. 

Both of us remembered people we knew as younger men.Some were still around those parts, while others had moved, or passed from this life. After a minute of reflective silence, my friend looked over at me, smacked the chair arms with his hands and said, " Want to take a drive down some of those old roads?" Yeah, I did. It would be a nice trip... literally down memory lane. So, after he pulled on his boots, we headed up to the shed, hopped in his four wheel drive pickup, and headed off.

 We rolled down the windows and took in the country air. The sound of the gravel under the tires was mixed with the call of song birds as we drove the narrow roads. One road, a strip of white in a sea of summer color, led us to a creek where both our families had swam, fished, and played for many years. The many thunderstorms this year had forced the sandy creek to change its course, and the "road" through it was washed away and impassable this day. But the memories were there. Like the two times I got stuck and had to have my friend pull me out with his tractor. There was the time that one of my brothers in law drove his four wheel drive into the creek and zigged when I told him to zag. Had to be pulled out by tractor again.

This day my friend grinned and joked "If I get stuck you can walk home and bring the tractor this time, you know the way pretty good."

One gravel road turned to dirt, then led through a gate, through the woods, and into a pasture with a small lake. As we looked out over the quiet scene he said, " This is where we scattered my father-in laws ashes. He built this little lake for family recreation . He loved it here." We watched the fish pop the water, and took in the sounds and smells of summer along the lake, as it wafted through the windows of the truck cab. After leaving that serene place, we traveled down several more roads. Eventually, we worked our way back to the farm.

These were old gravel roads that we had  lived on; they were a part of us. Old roads we traveled when we had dated our wives. Places where we hunted, fished, laughed, and cried were along these rock and dirt accesses. The old roads we traveled threaded through knobs and hollows, through the ups and downs of our past experience, and, like threads, they had helped weave the fabric of our lives.

Memory lanes these were; cruised slowly, so that every sight, smell, sound, and reminiscence of that country was absorbed. You can't do that with the widows rolled up, hands tight to the wheel, and traveling at 70 miles per hour.

I think of ribbons of blacktop and dirt roads near my Kentucky home, in Jefferson and Bullitt counties, and in Paducha,where Patty and I spent part of our early married years. Roads that led to our future, and that hold our past in a spider web of asphalt, rock and sweet memories.

Yes, I am grateful for high speed highways when I need them. But, when I want, maybe need, the feel of the open road, I'll choose the lesser roads. I'll choose the route peppered with tractors, and wrapped around town squares. I'll take the four corner stops, and I'll wave as I pass the rancher poking along, checking his herd. I'll ride with the windows down and my spirits up. I'll choose life in the slow lane. And once in a while, I'll drive the roads where there are no lanes at all, off the highway and on to the byways.