What's a Tobacco Basket, anyway?

I love the Christmas Season....to me, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, second only to the spring when my yard slowly comes alive with spots of color that surprise as various and asundry bulbs push their way through the thawing ground and tiny buds on flowering bushes and trees create the most lovely smell when the wind blows.  Yes, Christmas is second only to spring in my opinion.... I am so grateful to live in a place where I can enjoy the changes that each new season brings.

The memories and the traditions that serve to make Christmas so special , though, are also what make it so hard.  By definition, traditions remain the same, and yet life forces change.  Neighbors move away, kids grow up, and loved ones die.  Unlike the changes of nature's seasons, these are not changes that I savor. 

I miss my mom more than usual at Christmas, in part because she loved this season so and always made this time of year very special for my family.  Since moving ten years ago to her former hometown, four years after she passed away, I have been blessed with sweet surprises that I have not anticipated.  Because I now live where she grew up,  I often "run into people" who knew her and who are eager to share about their interactions with her.  One such encounter took place this fall in an unexpected way.

I was attending an auction at a large farm just a mile from our home early one Saturday morning.  There was a large crowd already present when I arrived so I parked along the electric fence on the side of the road and walked through the pasture to join my fellow bargain shoppers in the gravel drive.  I quickly was greeted by several friends whom I had seen at the high school's Friday night football game the evening before, and the conversation centered around the big win.

The cool morning and friendly conversation were just the start of a divine day.  I was pleased that the auctioneer started the bidding in a politically incorrect way with a prayer followed by the Pledge of Allegiance (there was a large flag on a tall pole in the front yard of the home),  and I enjoyed purchasing  a few unique items that you just can't find at the mall or Walmart.  I brought my first load of treasures home at lunch time to make sandwiches for myself and my kids, and then headed back to the auction, planning to bid on a really cool old English bicycle that I never planned to ride but really wanted.  I thought that simply leaning it up against our white fence as if a friend had just ridden up on it would make me smile each time I  approached our home after a long day at work.

Well, while waiting for the old bicycle to come up for bidding, I noticed a small stack of really large baskets on the ground by the bike.  I didn't know what they were, but realized that one of them was stamped "Roxboro, NC" which is a neighboring community where my grandmother grew up.  I began asking questions, and the nice old farmer in overalls beside me explained that they were tobacco baskets, used for taking the tobacco leaves to market for sell in the early to mid 1900's.  Because my own granddad and great- granddad were both tobacco farmers, I was immediately interested in acquiring one of the treasures, though not exactly sure what I would do with it.

Well, after a fellow auction-goer accidentally purchased 4 of the baskets for $20 each (he had thought he was bidding on only one), he quickly agreed to sell me the one of my choice for $15 in order to re-acquire some of the money he had just inadvertently spent.  Of course, I chose the only one that was emblazoned with "Roxboro, NC" even though it's condition wasn't as good as that of the other baskets.  As I smiled to myself, I considered the possibility that one of my farmer relatives from the past had actually hauled his tobacco leaves in the basket I was now toteing around myself.

When I got my basket treasure home and researched  the history of tobacco baskets in North Carolina,  a post from a woman in Pennsylvania (where apparently tobacco wasn't grown and therefore tobacco market baskets weren't needed) immediately caused me to feel quite fortunate to live in "Tobacco Alley".  Apparently, she had been searching for three years for such a basket, and had finally purchased one for over a hundred dollars, feeling quite lucky with her acquisition.  She'd be sick if she knew there are probably farms all over  North Carolina where folks are tripping over the baskets piled high in their barns collecting dust and being knawed apart by barnmice.

The best surprise of the day was yet to come however.  As I was carrying my basket to the car, a gentleman I didn't know approached me and tapped me on the shoulder.  I thought he was going to ask me if I wanted to sell my tobacco basket to him for a profit, but instead he asked quietly, "Are you Carol Ray's daughter?"  (Ray was my mother's middle name, acquired from her father who was at war when she was born.  Hillsborough is the only place she's known as Carol Ray instead of  by her maiden name McKee or her married name Knight.)  Feeling a bit surprised, I responded that I was indeed her daughter, a bit taken aback because my mom has been dead for almost 15 years and the way this man spoke of her made it seem as if he'd just talked to her the previous day.  He then smiled shyly and said, "She was my first girlfriend....a real sweet girl.  I am sorry she passed away."

He shared his name, I shook his hand, and then he helped me load my truck as I prepared to return home to stay this time.  When I later spoke to my dad, he responded, "Well, I never knew about him.....I thought I was her first boyfriend."  My grandmother later told us both that this first boyfriend was from Caldwell Elementary School, no longer in existence, and that the clandestine love affair had taken place when my mother was all of six years old and in the first grade.  We laughed , and I only wished my mom had been there to laugh with us.

I did find the perfect place to hang the basket.  After cleaning it well with the garden hose, and then spraying it with clear lacquer to give it a slight glow and to warm up the tones in the wood a bit, I hung it like a large piece of artwork on a bare wall in our stairwell.  Because it's Christmas, there is now also a cedar wreath at its center, but even when the Christmas decorations come down , the basket will remain. 

Cheap tobacco baskets at auction.....just another unsung benefit of being a North Carolina country gal....that and the decorated Christmas tractors that folks park in their large front yards decked out in Christmas lights.   There are three such tractors within 500 yards of each other about a mile from our home.  I love passing them on a dark night as I am driving home in December....makes hanging lights from the eaves or bushes just seem passe! 

Merry, merry Christmas!  Hope you enjoy your own unique sights, sounds, and smells of the season wherever you live.

       

                                                                         

Tomato Candy

I love my garden, small as it may be.  There is nothing like being a busy mom who at 5:00 realizes she has absolutely no idea  what her family will eat for supper (know anyone like that?) and then glances out the window to be pleasantly reminded that everything she needs for a delicious salad , or just BLTs  (if you have bacon in the fridge), is right outside her door.  Now that three of my children are older, I can even send them "grocery shopping" just down our front porch steps, with nothing but a basket in hand - no shirt, shoes, money, or car keys required. 

We've had delicious ocra, cucumbers, squash, peppers of all colors, musk melons, and large tomatos all summer but the best surprise from this year's garden was without a doubt "Sweet 100 Cherry Tomatos".  These plants mature in 65 days and produce large clusters of sweet cherry-sized fruits.  Even my four-year old would pop them in his mouth one after the other, barely giving me time to rinse them, when I would carry a small bucket full into the kitchen.  One day, as he was munching away, I said to him, "Better than candy, aren't they?" to which he quickly replied, with tomato juice dripping down his chin, "You must not have had the kind of candy I have had."

I always start planning next year's garden when the end of August rolls around and my small plot begins to resemble a cemetary - more dead than living.  One of my plans for next year includes using the plethora of cherry tomatos I have high hopes of again producing to hold a salsa-making party for friends in the "neighborhood".  If I provide the tomatos and jars, and each one of them brings another ingredient, we can all end the night of chopping, mixing, gabbing, and laughing, with a couple of jars of the most delicious salsa you've ever eaten.  A co-worker , who used to live in Texas and brought this recipe with her when she moved to NC, shared it with me.

I call it "Shelly's Salsa."

Ingredients:
1 can whole peeled tomatos (or fresh ones from next year's garden)
3/4 of a medium size onion, chopped
4 sprigs fresh cilantro (or a palm full of dried)
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp.salt
2 Tabl. lemon juice
2 fresh jalapenos

Put all the ingredients minus the tomatos in a mincer or chopper until they are at an agreeable consistency.  Add the tomatos and mince or chop  a bit more. Stir in just  under a tablespoon of cumin.  (Shelly says the cumin is the magic ingredient - "If there's no cumin, it's not Mexican.")

After the salsa is made, grab a bag of tortilla chips and enjoy the company of friends around a table in your garden.   Simple pleasures are best!  (Warning - all tomato-eatin' 4-year olds may want to join you around the table....be prepared to share!)

The Real Housewives of Orange County (North Carolina)

I am very blessed to have a dear group of four friends with whom I meet a couple of times a month in order to encourage and pray for one another.  At our last get together, however, there was more clucking than praying going on, literally.  Upon arrival at my friend's home, we heard what can best be described as loud, agonizing chicken squawks, at which point I hurried to the window to peer into their backyard coop to see what  all the ruckus was about.  Her son was sent outside to check on the chickens, at which point she began to tell us of the previous day's events.

Weeks earlier, her entrepreneurial and hardworking 14-year old son had embarked on a money-making mission, involving building his own chicken coop in the garage of their home in order that he might purchase his own chickens and eventually sell his own eggs.  Diesel, the pit bull in the neighboring backyard had killed one of his first chickens, requiring that he re-think the size of his initial coop. He and his father and younger brother decided to build a second, larger coop that would allow the chickens more room to roam about without fearing the aforementioned pit bull predator.  Well, during construction of the second coop,  a second chicken went missing, but the mystery didn't take long to solve.  A good friend of the family and owner of Diesel, 12-year old Blake, stated somewhat excitedly as all the boys sat poolside," You ought to see the big black bird my dog killed yesterday," to which my friend's son replied, "That big black bird was my new chicken."  As we discussed the ins and outs of maintaining friendly relations with neighbors we love amidst the challenges that free-ranging chickens and dogs on large plots of land in the country create, the discussion took a slight turn.

Hibbard's Hen House  (for building plans contact Brian Hibbard)

Just a few months prior, another friend in the group, who is a city-girl transplant to the neighboring metropolis of Cedar Grove, had experienced her own chicken dilemma.  She and her husband had purchased what they thought were 26 hens from a new acquaintance who happened to be Hispanic. ( I share his ethnicity because those 26 hens turned out to be 25 roosters and one hen, and my friends are hoping that this dire misunderstanding was due to a language barrier and nothing else.)  Well, if you know anything about raising chickens, you know that you can't have 25 roosters in one chicken yard....in fact, I'm told that just one is ideal.  This overabundance of testosterone  resulted in gang wars scarier than anything LA has ever seen - the Southside Gang stayed near the pond, the East and Westside gangs near the garden and goat pen, and the tougher Northside Gang claimed the area near the coop.  The yard was becoming a warzone , and my Cedar Grove friends deemed action, as unappealing as it would be, was absolutely necessary.





Cody "the Godfather" Rooster

 I called this particular friend on a particular day this summer and asked her 3rd grade son Liam if I could speak with her.  When he shared that she wasn't at home, I asked if his dad Brian was too busy to speak with me briefly.  Liam immediately said, "No he's not real busy.  He's just in the backyard killing our 25 roosters, but he's got some help." (I wonder what busy looks like to Liam.)

 When I inquired about who might be helping with such a desirable task, he responded that 60-year old Miss Elaine from their church was there as the chicken- killing expert.  She had skillfully shown Brian a few various and asundry ways to do the deed, and following her demonstration, Brian chose the method that involved wielding an ax, only to regrettably learn that his ax needed sharpening.  As my friend Kayli thanked Elaine for her help and apologized for the despicableness of the task, Elaine wiped her dirty hands on her overalls as she stated, "Oh don't apologize.  I just love killing me some chickens.  Reminds me of special times with my sister, because that was a job we always did together as girls." (Don't make girls as tough as they used to, apparently. My own daughter thinks the dirty dishes in the sink are gross.)  Thankfully, Kayli has a huge, and now full, freezer - just hope she doesn't invite us over for chicken and dumplins anytime soon.

Liam's hen, Ruby



A former member of our prayer group, whose daughter, upon the occassion of her 16th birthday had wanted her own chickens, worked with her husband to build the necessary coop to accomodate this birthday wish.  Unfortunately, what had started out as an act of motherly love on a beautiful afternoon resulted in an unexpected visit to the emergency room when her husband shot a nail through his wife's hand with a nail gun....ouch!


The only poultry we've ever had on our property was a rooster, the end result of a second-grade incubation science project at my daughter's school,  the first year we moved in our home.  That rooster met an unfortunate end one day when we were away from home and my brother's dog, who lived next door , did what dogs naturally do.  I've often pondered building our own coop and purchasing some new fine-feathered friends; however, after this particular time of "prayer" at my good friend's home, I'm re-thinking that venture.

 Most recently, my neighbor across the street apologized for the pre-dawn

crowing of her new rooster .  I let her know that I had been sleeping with the windows open just so I could better hear the beautiful sound.  She immediately said I was the best neighbor in the world for not complaining, but I told her that I was being purely selfish.  The fact that the rooster lives at her house allows me to enjoy the blessing of his early morning wake-up calls without dealing with the inevitable when it comes to raising chickens - carcasses, axes, emergency room visits, and turf wars, both with roosters and dog-loving neighbors .

With four children at home, free fresh eggs would be wonderful, but not truly "free".....



As we left our fellowship time, we all laughed as we pondered the fact that we had been talking chickens for almost an hour.  Don't think they'll be producing a reality television show about us any time soon, but I don't care.  The Real Housewives of  Cable TV can have their botox treatments, divorce lawyers, and tarot card readers.....but the real housewives of Orange County will keep our good friends in the country, both feathered and not!





Summer Reflections

One of my older children asked me yesterday what the date was.  When one is not in school everyday, and  Mondays feel like Fridays, it is difficult to keep up with specifics like dates.  As I heard myself answer, "July 16th", I felt a mild sense of panic.  The middle of July means the middle of summer vacation....where had June gone?  July 16th....really?.....already?
I began to ponder what we had done with our summer thus far and couldn't help but laugh when I reflected back on our Fabulous Fourth.  The Historic Caldwell Fourth of July Parade has been a part of our yearly celebration since my daughter was born 17 years ago, but feels a bit more ingrained since we moved to the community almost 9 years ago. 
Caldwell is literally an intersection, with a wonderful Quik Stop called Handy Andy's on the corner.  When Andy answers the phone, even when I don't share my identity when asking if they sell cream cheese for instance, he'll respond,  "Just a minute, Kristal.  Let me check on that for you."  Handy Andy's sits on the corner of two North Carolina highways, NC57 and NC 157, and is the hub of the parade commotion.  Although both highways are major thoroughfares in these parts, traffic is shut down completely for an hour or so on July 4th each year....all traffic, that is, but  bicycles, horses, and the like!
The parade begins with an announcement to all who have gathered in the July heat to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and to place your hand over your heart.  Don't you just love a small town where one doesn't have to worry so much about being politically correct?  Most years one of the neighbors brings a pick-up truck full of buckets of sunflowers that she shares with many of the female spectators, young and old alike, as we all wait for the line up to pass by.
In the past, my children and their cousins who live next door have decorated their own bikes with all the red, white,and blue finery we could muster.   As they have aged however, and grown older and wiser, they have come to realize that riding in the parade means missing out on gathering the plethora of candy that other parade participants barrage the spectators with each year.  Now my 14 and 4 year olds alike bring their baseball caps as "loot bags," and the candy generally lasts around my house until almost Halloween.  (Not bad for a 30- minute parade in the booming metropolis of Caldwell.)
Other than children on bicycles, standard parade entrants always include those driving their prize four-wheelers, John Deere tractors, and beautifully restored old cars.   My father, who graduated from the local high school in 1962, enjoys shouting at his former school mates as they cruise the "parade strip", attempting to guess the year, model , and make of the classy old cars they show off.  Amazingly to me, he's more often right than wrong!
This year,  parade highlights included a barrel train, painted in patriotic colors, 6-7 cars long, each car carting a preschooler, as well as an Elvis look-alike. Maybe Caldwell is where Elvis has been hiding all these years???????
I'm so grateful for our traditions, silly as they may seem to some.  In some unique fashion, traditions create the warp on which the rest of our lives are woven.  They are the strong, tight fibers that hold fast, that help us to define our lives, and that give our children a sense of identity.  They also provide the gift of warm memories - praying your own memories fill more than a memory book this summer.

Shuckin' Corn

Our neighbor, who plants the cornfield that surrounds our home, stopped by the other day to bring us a huge sack of "sweet corn". ( In the country, a neighbor is someone who lives within 5 miles of your home, not someone with whom you can shake hands if you stick your arm out of your bedroom window as was the case at our previous residence.)  This nuance was one of the first things I learned upon moving to the country ten years ago.

Something I haven't yet learned is exactly what makes "sweet corn" sweet.  Sweet as opposed to what.....sour?  Sweet to me is a hot fudge sundae or a cappuccino bonbon, not an ear of corn.  I do know that "feed corn" means it's meant to feed farm critters and not my family, and I've heard of Silver Queen corn, too, but I still don't know exactly what is meant by "sweet corn".  Being too embarrassed to ask, I simply thanked Mr. Latta, our generous farming neighbor, and placed the sack on my front porch.

Within minutes, my four- year- old son Coleman came running down our rock drive with his dad following close behind.  They had been cutting down a dead tree, and he had seen Mr. Latta leaving in his truck.  "What's in the bag?" Cole wanted to know as he opened the top of the sack, that was almost as tall as he was, to peer inside.  I showed him all the ears of corn I was preparing to tear into as I placed the kitchen trashcan on the front porch in order to catch the husks and silks.  Now even though I have lived in the country for ten years now, I must say I still dread finding a worm in any ear of corn I'm holding and eventually planning to eat.  The dark, mushy, partly-eaten kernels at the end of the ear are a sure sign that a worm-sighting is imminent.  These worms aren't petite, but are instead quite large and fleshy.  I halfway squinted my eyes and turned my head away as I instructed Cole in how to pull back the husks, knowing that I was likely going to uncover more than just corn kernels.

When my husband Scott joined us on the porch to assist with the task at hand,  we quickly developed quite a rhythm, making fast progress.  I would hand him any ear of corn whose end needed to be broken off due to wormy inhabitants, and he would hand me the ears from which he had just  removed the husks because he deplores the tedious task of attempting to remove the tiny silky hairs that are tightly wedged between the rows of corn kernels.  (Yes, he has the patience to sit alone in the freezing cold on a 12" x12" platform high in a tree until his butt is numb just hoping to spot a deer, but not the patience to pull the silks from an ear of corn.  Go figure???)  Coleman was still working quietly on his first ear of corn, removing just one leafy husk at a time.  As he finished, I saw him jump slightly out of the corner of my  eye.  Correctly thinking he had probably been a bit startled when he spotted a worm, I told him I would finish the task for him.  I was a little surprised at his quick response.  "No way , mom," he said.  "This is fun.  I hope I have a worm in my next one."

For the next half hour, Cole would carefully select an ear of corn from the sack as one might choose a straw in a game of chance.  That arduous task would then either be followed by a sigh of disappointment or a squeal of joy, depending on whether or not the selected ear included the grand prize of a wormy resident. For the duration of our work, my son was hoping for a worm even more than I was hoping against one. He would  often make a fist and pull his elbow quickly to his side with a manly "YES!," gesturing as he's seen his older brothers do, as if spotting a worm in an ear of corn were quite the acheivement and something about which one could feel quite proud.

An hour later, as we were sitting at the dinner table and Coleman was chomping on a piece of corn, he excitedly confided in his 14-year old brother.  "Garrett," he said, nodding his head toward the ear of corn he was holding with both hands."This is my first one."

 "Your first what?" Garrett asked.

 "The first ear of corn I ever shucked," Cole answered, as if he'd conquered a real growing up milestone.  "And I think this one even had a worm in it," he concluded.

"Sweet corn" tip-

Mr. Latta shared on this particular evening that sometimes boiling the corn removes its flavor. He suggested we instead wash the corn and then while it's still damp , wrap it in a papertowel and microwave it for 20 seconds or so.  He was right....easy and delicious!  Try it for yourself the next time you want your sweet corn to taste even sweeter!  (As for me, I'll still be reaching for the chocolate the next time I've got a hankerin' for something sweet.)

Barefoot but NOT Pregnant

Our 25th highschool class reunion is tonight...atleast the invitation said 25th.....maybe it was a typo, because I know I haven't been out of highschool that long.  I remember my own parents' 25th class reunion, and they were ancient at the time.

 I  was considering dress for tonight and realized that I have worn maternity garb to the previous two reunions, because I was pregnant with my 2nd child at our 10 year reunion and with our 4th child at our 20th.  Would be fun to wear a maternity dress tonight just to observe the reactions of our old classmates!

Our first three children were all born within 4.5 years, but there is eight years between child #3 and Coleman, our 4th.  He was a great, big, wonderful surprise to all of us, the operative word being SURPRISE.  As we prepared to announce his arrival to our older three children at the dinner table five years ago,  we told them we had a surprise for them.  Our eight-year old immediately and hopefully verbalized, "I know....we're getting a dog!"  Scott, my husband, said, "No, not a dog...."  My then 12-year old daughter said, "I know....you're going to have a baby!  I've been praying that you would." (She smiled an enormous, knowing smile and didn't seem all that surprised!)  At that, our 10-year old son pushed his chair back from the table with both hands, grabbed his head on either side, and placed his elbows on his knees , lowering his head.  "Mom,"  he said, "you can't be.  How do you know?"  I quickly told him that I had been to the doctor, and that he had told me that I WAS pregnant.  My son immediately said, "Yeah, but did he know how OLD you are?"  Ten minutes later the eight year old  asked in disheartened fashion, "So we're not getting a dog?".

I could now write a memoir  (Coleman's only four , and I definately have enough material to fill it) entitled "Confessions of a Mother of Four", solely about all the ways I have already failed him.  He told his preschool teachers a few months ago when the children were discussing their favorite television shows that his were "Man Vs. Wild" and "Deadliest Warrior".  This revelation had followed other children sharing their love for "Thomas the Train" and "Bob the Builder".  Ooops!

At the top of the list of failures would be that I have never taken Coleman to a photo studio, much to the dismay of some family members, who strangely have never volunteered to take him to a studio themselves.  It's just such fun to put a child in an uncomfortable outfit he doesn't like to begin with, to wait in a large room at Olan Mills with other stressed out parents who are trying to keep little darling's shirt tucked in and face clean, only to finally get called back to the "studio" where you jump around like a bumbling idiot while a 19-year old stranger with the personality of a rock who's never had kids tries to get yours to smile.  What joy!  I can't imagine why no one's volunteering.

Each of my other children has a 4-year old portrait hanging prominently in our hallway.  Since Coleman turns 5 in September, my older children have been periodically reminding me that I have an important task at hand so that Coleman doesn't feel "left out". ( They are all three quite skilled at reminding me of the important mothering tasks that I am forgetting when it comes to their youngest sibiling.)  This responsibility of mine is further exaggerated due to a beautiful portrait of the oldest three children painted by a dear friend who surprised me with this gift before Cole was a twinkle in his daddy's eye.  Because it is displayed conspicuously on our mantle, we've all worried that it might make Cole feel like the family add-on.  Since it isn't possible to somehow crop him into the family painting,  I knew I had to do something about this 4-year old portrait, but would rather shop for school supplies at Walmart on the eve of the first day than suit up for the Olan Mills expedition.

My solution:
1- Let Coleman wear what he wanted - jeans, a tank top, and no shoes, of course, because he is my child
2- Give him some of his own favorite toys - his Cowboy horse and lassoing rope
3- Run across the front yard together a few minutes after supper
4- Take a picture with the simple one-step camera we recently purchased at Best Buy
5- Return to our comfortable air-conditioned home five minutes later

Enlargement at Costco - $1.49
Used frame at Goodwill - $2.98

Chocolate brown spray paint - free (already at home)

Cole's smile and my sanity to spare - PRICELESS!

 Sierra's 4-year old portrait cost us $200.00.  Despite "Man vs. Wild," "Deadliest Warriors," and the fact that none of Coleman's preschool pals are allowed to come over to play anymore, maybe I have learned something!

Barefoot Beginnings

One of the highlights of summer for me is being barefoot , except when shopping or attending services at church. Since I can even slip my shoes off at work, I am exaggerating only slightly.  My grandmother says I'm the only person who visits and then drives home shoeless without even realizing it.  It has happened more than once that I have forgotten to put the shoes back on when leaving, that I slipped off upon arrival on her back porch.

This trait is something I inherited from my mom.  She was a public school teacher, and she always said that it felt so good each afternoon when she got in her car to drive home to drop her shoes in the floorboard first. I can remember as a young child, watching her slip her shoes off in the car, even as she drove 55 miles an hour down the highway.  My father always liked to say about her, "You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl", in reference to the fact that she had been raised on a tobacco farm outside a small town but now lived in a suburban neighborhood just outside Greensboro, NC.  At the time,  I couldn't understand exactly what "country" was in her that needed to be removed, but since both my parents would grin when dad would make that comment, I would smile, too.

As a young child, I can remember pleading with my mother to allow my brother and me to go barefooted on the first day we deemed warm enough in the spring.  Although she wasn't a woman of many rules, she always demanded that we not go without shoes until the first day of May.  "If it's 85 degrees today", I would ask, "what is so magical about the first day of May?" Her explanations would only increase my frustration because she would respond that her mother had always made her wait until May to go barefooted so we should wait as well, and then, just for good measure, she'd throw in something about the likelihood that we would "catch cold".  (Wasn't that the reason mothers gave for not getting to enjoy atleast 90% of what makes childhood so enjoyable?  Maybe I should tell my own children that they should abstain from all contact with the opposite sex so as not to catch cold.)

When that first Saturday morning in May finally did roll around, my brother and I would be outside by 8am anyway, running around our yard to feel how interesting all of the different available textures felt on our feet.  We'd rub our feet over the scratchy concrete of our sidewalk, through the softest patch of green grass in our yard, and over the cool, smooth tiles of our front porch.  We'd later run barefoot to our neighbor's home just a couple of houses away to announce, as if she couldn't see with her own eyes,  "WE get to go barefooted today!"  We'd then implore her to ask her mom if she could forego shoes as well, joining us next in her sandbox to bury our feet and  to wiggle our toes.  (We didn't have a sandbox.) 

Despite the lifelong joys of being shoeless, one  place where I will never go barefooted is my blackberry patch.  Last week, while picking in my old shorts and flip-flops, I almost stepped on what appeared to be atleasst a 6 foot long black snake.  (In reality, it was only about 3-feet long.)  In 9 years, it's only the second black snake I've encountered while living in the country, the first being one that made its way a few years ago into my grandma's fireplace, presumedly through the chimney.  When she couldn't get in touch with her son, she called my husband , who quickly made his way to her home. Enroute, I asked him how he was going to remove the snake from grandma's house, and he just responded that he wasn't sure.  Well, that not knowing turned into just picking the snake up right behind its head with his bare hands , Crocodile Hunter fashion, (at the time, he had watched some of Steve Irwin's animal videos with our young sons) and calmly carrying it across my grandma's kitchen and outside.  Us girls stayed in the house, and as Scott returned, my grandma immediately asked him what he'd  used to kill the snake.  "Kill it?"  Scott said,  "I didn't kill it .  I just threw it in the pasture behind the house."  He went on to explain the virtues of the blacksnake, how it isn't poisonous and how they eat mice and moles and other small varmints, but it all fell on deaf ears.  Grandma let Scott know in no uncertain terms that she didn't want that snake anywhere near her home and that she had expected a beheading.  Scott was expecting his own after that tirade.

A few days after my own encounter with a blackberry-loving blacksnake, I suited up like a HAZMAT employee (minus the breathing apparatus), despite the 97degree temps, just to pick blackberries.  I tried to be as noisy as possible during my expedition, so as to possibly prevent us from surprising one another.  Even though a black snake isn't poisonous, Scott had assurred me that a snake bite of any type would hurt.  I must admit , this experience and the ensuing blackberry-picking "uniform" have taken some of the pleasure out of blackberry picking for me, and it won't be the chore that I assign the boys anymore either.  (They may be too much like their daddy and just decide to carry the snake barehanded to the woods!)

After this experience, the berry cobbler that I eventually share with my uncle and grandma (See "What Happened to the Blackberries?" blog) may contain frozen vs. fresh berries....when I tell her about the snake, though, Granny will definately understand!

A Long Line of Love

My grandmother's close friend Daff called my home one night recently while we were away.  She thought she was phoning my grandmother and left the dearest message (intended for her) on our answering machine.  Daff said, "Chris (short for Christine), this is Daff.  Just checking on you, sweetheart, to see how you are doing. I don't know where you are, but I'll call you back later. I love you...."

Daff and my grandmother met when they began the fourth grade at Helena School in Helena, NC.  They were the best of friends all through their years of schooling, but sort of lost touch with one another as they were both raising their children.  My grandmother shared that she thinks that happens to alot of female friendships during that stage of life because there is so much for a mom to do when her children are at home.  I met Daff at a Christmas luncheon my grandmother hosted about 7 years ago and so enjoyed hearing the stories that Grandma and the couple of her classmates who were there shared.  They laughed heartily many times until my Grandma's eyes teared.  Just recently my 89-year old Grandma attended her school friend Daff's 90th birthday party, enjoying herself immensely.

In a day and age when neighbors ,cars, and houses change yearly sometimes, and even marriages don't often last, my grandmother's stick-to-it-ness when it comes to love is refreshing.  It applies to many relationships in her life.  Since her husband died quickly and unexpectedly of a heart attack when my grandma was only 48 years old, she has been faithfully caring for her mentally handicapped daughter, who is totally dependent on her  for everything.  Even when her daughter's behaviors towards her are unkind and selfish, grandma continues to patiently persevere and show her daughter unselfish love and concern.  Grandma understands that love isn't a rush of butterflies in the stomach...instead it's caring for others when they don't deserve it, in spite of who they are, being quick to forgive and move on.....love that doesn't depend on the endearing characteristics or accolades of the recipient or even on being loved in return.

I am the beneficiary of my grandma's stick-to-it-ness with love in a direct way, but even more so indirectly.  Because my mother was blessed with her own mother's unconditional love and care,  she parented well.  My grandmother's legacy of loving long and hard impacts the way I love my own children.  As corny as many find many country music lyrics, I can't help but think of the chorus from one of my favorite old country songs:

"You see, I come from a long line of love. 

When times get hard....we don't give up.

Forever's in our heart and in our blood.

You see, I come from a long line of love."

Us moms have to remember that when we care well for our own children , we are ultimately loving our great,great grandchildren.  Yes, our mothering is just that important.  Our children need to know that they are a priority in our lives, and that nothing they do can ever make us stop loving them.  Children spell "love"

 T-I-M-E whether us busy parents like it or not.  No matter what you give lip service to, your children will decide how much you value them in accordance with how you spend your time.  Ultimately, our children would rather have" face time" with us than the toys or sports camps or dance lessons our paychecks afford them.  Our children need less "car time" as we hurriedly rush them from activity to activity and more " face time".....not with their peers at after-school , but with us.  The parenting phase of life is brief, and we won't get a shot at a re-do , no matter how badly we might want it.  Make sure your kids know that being at home with them is your favorite place to be!  Your great, great grandchildren will thank you one day! 

Thank you, Grandma!

What Happened to the Blackberries?

My family took a 10-day vacation this year for the first time ever.  It was wonderful, except that it was planned during the last couple of weeks in June, when our garden was full of yummy vegetables and our blackberry bushes were full of yummy........ blackberries.  I had planted three blackberry bushes that I received in the mail from Stark Brothers Nursery the second spring that we lived in our home.  We all had visions of endless blackberry cobblers by that next summer atleast........that was about seven years ago.  At the time, we had no idea of the wait we had in store.

 My husband accidentally mowed over one of the bushes  that very summer, because they were in fact more blackberry "sprig" than "bush".  After replacing that one, those three sprigs did in fact turn into three bushes which multiplied into a plethora of bushes that have even required some pruning and thinning this past year.  We actually gathered fallen cedar logs in the woods around our home and on my uncle's nearby farm to build a support structure for them so that we would have something on which to drape the heavily-laden limbs.  (It also turned out to be a great way to hide our less-than-attractive cement well cover.)

Well, just before our trip, it was apparent that all the beautiful red berries would be turning black and would be screaming to be picked while we were hundreds of miles away in Utah. Alas, because of poor timing, it appeared that we would have to wait yet another year to cash in on the fruits of our labor all these previous years, because even though we have harvested blackberries in the past, our hoard had never been enough to make a true blackberry cobbler.  I casually mentioned to several friends that they could feel free to pick the blackberries while we were away, and even shared with my sister-in-law next door why the timing of our trip was so unfortunate.  It was my grandmother, though, who mentioned on the day we were leaving, that my uncle loved blackberries.  I told her to tell him to come and get all he wanted while we were away.

When we returned from our trip and checked the blackberry bushes , their once heavily- laden branches were almost bare.  I asked my grandmother if she and Uncle Rick had enjoyed the berries and she explained,   " No , we didn't get to eat any.  When Rick was picking your garden one night, he noticed how full and ripe the berries were, and told me he was going to pick them the next evening after work, but when he returned , the bushes were empty. He was really disappointed because he loves blackberries." 

My sister-in-law later mentioned to me that she had frozen one bag of berries for us, but that when she went to pick them , there were hardly any there.  Mmmm, I wondered....had the birds eaten them all?  I wasn't sure but really had no way to find out.

A few days later, the most wonderful neighbors in the world (mine!) casually mentioned that while we were away, mom and third-grade son had had so much fun together picking our blackberries.  She also mentioned that she had made the most wonderful cobbler in the world with them - in her crockpot!  ( I love crockpots, because you just basically dump in your ingredients, turn it on, and go about your merry way!  Even I can cook like that!) 

Well, I was so happy to have solved the mystery, and happier still that our dear neighbors had been the recipients of the bounty.  With the blackberries my sister-in law froze for us and the late-bloomers that ripened after our return,  I made the cobbler myself for friends and family.  My 14-year old son said, "That's gotta be our new summer dessert - I LOVE IT!"  (I just need to make another cobbler soon to share with my grandmother and especially my uncle!)

Here's the recipe my neighbor shared with me....frozen berries work just as well as fresh ones!

Crockpot Cobbler

10-ounce bag frozen strawberries

10-ounce bag frozen blueberries

10-ounce bag frozen blackberries

Spray crock pot with cooking spray.  In large bowl, toss all frozen fruit, 1/3-2/3 cup sugar, and 1/2 cup baking mix.  Move to crockpot.  Stir together 2 1/4 cups baking mix, 1/4 cup sugar, 4 tablespoons of melted butter, and 1/2 cup milk with wooden spoon.  With your hands, drop bits of dough on top of the fruit in crockpot.  In a small mixing bowl, stir together 1/4 cup sugar and 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon.  Sprinkle cinnamon suger on top of dough and put lid on crockpot.  Cook on high for 3-4 hours (while you tend to your blackberry bushes!)

 (My neighbor found 2 blackberry "sprigs" on her front porch the next week.....in pots that she had used to share her perennial cornflowers with me a few months before.  Having friends that garden is a double blessing!  Give it a try - just take turns passing the pots back and forth filled with whatever's blooming at your house.)

More Summer Reflections

Summer is the time to consider those new traditions that might be worth starting in the coming year....the slightly slower pace and longer days seem to allow time for atleast some reflection.  Before August brings the start of school and all the "to do list" items that entails, make plans now for next summer's "Founders' Day Celebration", one of our favorite traditions in Caldwell.
Five-six families with grandparents thrown in here and there gather at my brother's home next door around 4:00 in the afternoon each year on July 4th.   Each family brings a plate of sandwiches to share, any equipment necessary for the race/contest they have planned, and a handful of prizes for the winners of such.  Past highlights have included the watermelon roll, for those three years old and under ( the seeds of which are used in the later seed-spitting contest), the mile run in and around the cornfield, and the "hollerin' contest".  The yard is always festively decorated (thanks to my sister-in-law) with traditional patriotic ballads playing in the background (thanks to my brother, and yes, he knows the words to all the songs!)
After devouring  the sandwiches and the repurposed watermelons, the climax of the evening for all those with an insatiable sweet tooth like myself, is the judging of the pies in the pie baking contest (because after the winner is announced by the guest judges, we get to eat all the pies!)  I have won the pie baking contest 3 out of the 4 years that I have entered a pie.  This is quite funny , and even baffling to my sister-in-law I think, because I am quite possibly the worst cook in the county.  (I think I remember asking my college roommate how to heat a can of soup.  I guess I could blame my mom for that lack of training by the time I entered college, but I don't, because my growing up years were near perfect due in large part to her mothering, and I do just fine with soup prep these days!)  Mom would be proud!

Well, here's the very simple winning recipe for the 2011 Caldwell Founders' Day Pie Bakeoff...start picking out a place to hang your First Place ribbon now!

Double Chocolate Pie (how could you go wrong with a name like that?)

1/2 cup unsalted butter

1/3 cup instant cocoa mix
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
2 large eggs, separated
1 9-inch pie shell, baked

Melt butter and cocoa mix over low heat, stirring until mix is dissolved.  Stir in chocolate until melted and well mixed.  Remove from heat; cool slightly. Beat in egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition.  Beat egg whites to stiff peaks; fold into chocolate mixture.  Spoon filling into pie shell.  Refrigerate 4 hours or overnight.  Serve with whipped cream.  Makes 8 servings - I doubled everything!

The highlight of winning was how proud my 12-year old son was of me....middle schoolers don't often confer praise on their parents, or atleast the two that I live with don't! (Being that he's male, it figures that that praise would be the result of his stomach being full of something he had liked the taste of!)  My son immediately asked me when we returned home on the eve of Founders Day if I had remembered my ribbon.  I think I'll go gaze at it now, hanging in the exact spot where he placed it on our fridge!