The Sticky Mess

   Way back in January of 1919, a deadly event occurred that could have been prevented had carelessness not gotten in the way.  Most folks nowadays have forgotten or merely have not even heard of the "Great Molasses Flood of 1919" and when you mention it, a lot of folks stare in disbelief as if it was not a true disaster.  Jokes are often made but the loss of life is not ever fodder for comedy.  The flood really did happen and it was all the result of greed and carelessness.  The flood was truly that...a flood.  It happened because of a failure in the structure of a 50 foot tall storage tank that was a slipshod construction.  A neighborhood in North End, Boston was completely devastated by a gigantic surge of molasses after the storage tank ruptured.  Townsfolk had pointed out the structure leakage long before the tank literally exploded but nothing more than a brown coat of paint was applied to the tank.  This was done to merely disguise the problem and not to remedy the situation.  Because of the shady dealings, the rupture caused the neighborhood to be engulfed by a 35 mile per hour wave that was 25 foot tall.  2.3 million gallons of molasses ripped through buildings, toppled trains from the tracks and, most horrifically, killed 21 people and numerous animals.  The town was in complete shambles and covered in a horribly sticky mess that made cleanup nigh on impossible until it was found that salt water helped dissolve the goo.  The fire department was then put in charge of the major amount of cleanup as salt water was pumped from the Boston Harbor.  All in all, this was a tragic event that could have been prevented had the Purity Distilling Company only inspected their tank to make sure it would withstand the pressure of so many tons of molasses.  Responsible action should have been key goal.

  Not to be compared to this catastrophic incident, something happened yesterday here at the Little Bayou House that caused this whole memory of that flood.  Purely because of a molasses spill on the kitchen table, I recalled that Granddad had told me about the Great Molasses Flood.  This spill, like the flood, could have been avoided had "protocol" merely been followed.  It appears that the lid of a molasses bottle was not properly tightened after use and then the bottle was inadvertently toppled.  Yep, a small scale "chaos" occurred.  Sticky syrup flooded the table.  As I was cleaning the goo, Granddad's story came to mind.  I was determined that, once I finished the task at hand, I was going to research the event.  It was eye-opening and, at the same time, heartbreaking.  There were 21 too many lives lost due to negligence.  In both cases, that "ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" idiom comes to mind.  Responsible action could have prevented the devastating flood in Boston and the small-scale mess in my kitchen.  

  Folks, if you ever have a few moments, read the history of the Great Molasses Flood of Boston.  Something that happened over a hundred years ago should be a reminder that we all need to be more responsible in our actions.  

 

  

There is a painting in that sunrise!

   That time just before the sun shows its face above the pines on the opposite side of the Bayou is my favorite time of day.  Usually by then, I have been up for a while and have most of my indoor chores completed.  I can head to the pier to collect the thoughts before starting in on the garden.  Between the pier and garden, I am not sure which would be called my "favorite place" but that pier sure has a strong hold. I go to watch the sunrise and see Mark off as he heads fishing.  He and I fully agree that "There is nothing like fresh fish for lunch."

  Sometimes, that sunrise can stir the brain a bit and cause the imagination to set in motion.  This probably comes from time spent with my grandparents as they both encouraged my creative endeavors even at a young age.  Granddad, especially, would push me with "Can you see a painting in that sunrise?"  I could and I would try.  My painting abilities never reached the quality that I wished but it matters not.  I still "see" that painting.  

  A couple of days ago, Mark and I were remarking about how the fog had settled in on the marsh just enough to make the sun stay dark until it was well over the tops of the pines.  I took photograph after photograph of this mysterious beauty, all the while, hearing Granddad's voice reminding me to look for the painting.  I can see it.  I wish I could paint it.  Perhaps, Darling Daughter will fulfill that wish for me. Granddad is the inspiration, I will provide the photograph and she can work her magic on the canvas!  

See You Next Summer!

   The Night Blooming Cereus plants have outdone themselves again this year.  For some reason, the plants really love the little care that I give them.  They flourish on neglect, obviously.  Each spring, I lug them out of the greenhouse and plop them in some shady place of the yard.  Occasionally, a bit of water is hosed on them and that is about it.  Then, over the course of the warm months, they bloom...lots.  In fact, it it has been about every two weeks that the plants reset buds and, when the time was right, the yard would smell divine with the scent of blooms.  I can only imagine the frenzy of the moths that surrounded the blooms at night.  I have to admit that I only made three viewings of the late night blooming times, this summer.  (Exhaustion is not a friend!)

  With the recent cold spell visiting us, I did my duty and lugged the heavy plants back into the greenhouse.  I figured the plants were finished blooming for the season.  Now, they can stay snug and warm for the duration of winter.  A couple of days ago, it was necessary to water the plants and you can imagine my surprise to find nine large buds on the cereus plants!  Oh, my!  Plants...you should be resting now.  

  Again, I was too sleepy to trek out to the greenhouse to see the flowers in the middle of the night but...BUT!...I headed out at 4am the next morning.  The blooms were still open at that wee hour so I did not fully miss their glorious display.  When I opened the door, the heavenly scent engulfed me and, once again, I was carried back to my grandparents' place and one of their many "Night Blooming Cereus Parties".  (Yes, that was a thing back in the day when I was a youngster.)  Those parties often found me dozing on Pop's shoulder far before the "grand viewing" but I was roused from slumber to see the giant flowers.  I stood in the greenhouse and whispered a "thank you" to Granddad for giving me my first Night Bloomer so many years ago.  And I whispered "thank you and see you next summer" to the blooms.

Learning...Always Learning

   For as long as I can remember, I have wandered the woods, creek beds, bogs and marshes in search of new plants and critters.  This interest in what Mother Nature provides was instilled in me by my granddad.  Being the youngest of a brood of five, it is possible that my folks needed a break so I got to spend lots of time with my grandparents.  It delighted me so all was good.  Granddad always had some "lesson" to teach me and those stuck...most of the time.  Still, I find that some of the names of plants may have been just local lore and not the true name.  For the bulk of my life, those names have stuck and probably will always be there.  I do, however, find it interesting to learn the actual name and a bit more about what I find.

  After a pea-soup thick foggy morning, the day unfolded to be bright and sunshiny.  The bluest of blue skies literally glowed after the winter greys.  This meant that my afternoon hike gave new light to a lot of things.  Down behind the canebrake, my path took a sharp left and then an equally sharp right to the creek bed.  There I was greeted by a cluster of small trees with lovely white blooms. The small trees twisted their ways through the palmettos to reach the sunlight making photographing a tad difficult.  Still, I was determined.

  Growing up, I was taught that this was "Knotweed" blooms.  When you are with your grandpa and he tells you something...you listen.  So, Knotweed Tree has been the name for all of these many (many) years.  Now, I find that Granddad may have been using a local name and not the "real deal".  Recently, I was shown an article that described the tree and called it Buckwheat Tree.  Sure enough, those pictures did look a lot like my photographs!  So, I am assuming that I should try to remember the "new" name.  It will be hard to "relearn" something after so many years but that is a part of life and learning is a good thing.  Never stop!  Buckwheat Tree!  Buckwheat Tree is named after the buckwheat plant from which we get buckwheat seed and, guess what...it is in the knotweed family!  Sort of ties things all in together...Knotweed Tree aka Buckwheat Tree.  Maybe not...maybe just me.  Maybe Granddad knew this.  I like to think he did, anyway.

Ghost Plants, Memories and Wistfulness

   Back when I was just a kid, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.   I think being the tail end of a five kids, I was just too much for Mom to handle with all of the other duties of being a farmwife.  So...I would run down the road and up the long lane to my grandparents' house and spend the day or two...whatever it took for Mom to be ready to handle five kids again.  Taking care of kids, farm critters, produce, the house was a huge chore.  I loved being with my grandparents as it made me feel mighty special!  

  It was on one of those weekends with them that my granddad took me into the edge of the woods to show me an unusual plant.  I was enthralled by there being a plant that was ghostly white!  Granddad, ever being the instructor of so many things, took the time to explain how having a pure white plant was possible.  He told me how the plant did not depend on the sun to help it make chlorophyll but that it was a parasitic plant to a fungi that was actually in a symbiotic relationship with tree roots.  The plant would feed off the fungi that, in a sense, fed off the tree.  After that, it became an regular thing for us to go in search of the "Ghost Plants" also known as Indian Pipes (Monotropa Uniflora).  To this day, I still go to the "special" spot where the ghost plants grow.  Down beneath the brushy plants that surround some old oak trees, I can be found on my knees in a different world.  I can dream away the hour simply remembering the lessons Granddad took the time to teach to an inquisitive child.  

  Just recently, I found out that there are many, many people who have never seen these plants.  In fact, they had no idea that they even exist.  Perhaps, they did not have a nurturing grandpa that took the time to wander the woods with a tyke in tow.  Or, perhaps, they did but the lesson did not stick as they were not interested in such things.  Regardless, I am glad I did.  My time spent with my grandparents will always be held dear to my heart.  I only wish I had the same opportunity to impart to my grandkids such tidbits of knowledge about the wondrous things of the world.  Then again...perhaps...they would not be interested as they are bombarded with the material things like all other kids of this day and age.

Could be useful...

   In my old age, I am finding that a lot of times my conversations include the phrase "this could be useful some day".  I am usually rambling off some tidbit of how to make fluffy biscuits or how to cane a chair seat but I also find that I use it a lot when I am in the garden.  Sharing the knowledge of plants is something that I am passing down from Pop and from Granddad.  Both gentlemen were brilliant in their own rights and they tried to instill in me a good bit of the commonsense they had.  Some stuck.  Some flew by the head and was lost in space never to be retrieved.  Still, the wee bit that I did retain surely does come in useful...most days.

  While I scurried out to check the ripeness of the tomatoes, I noticed that dollarweed was taking over a couple of the flower gardens since I have been virtually a no-show in the Small Gardens.  The stuff was doing rather well and was even blooming.  Oh, well.  Years ago, I had given into the fact that my gardens would never be the pristine things of Pop or Grandad.  Dollarweed...also known as pennywort...is probably going to be a permanent resident in the gardens so it may as well reap the benefits of the fertilizer, water and mulch.  

  As I stopped to admire the healthy plants, I had to smile when I realized just how many folks have no clue about this plant.  Most only look for ways to eliminate it from their lovely lawns.  They have little idea that the lowly weed could perhaps save their lives if ever need be.  (That is if it is not contaminated by the overuse of chemicals).  Pennywort is edible.  In fact, in some places it is used almost daily in meals.  Yep, that round leaf thingy is indeed tasty but it also has great potential in healing many ailments.  In view of the fine mess this country is in right now, perhaps people should be studying up on what is around them...which plants are edible...which can be used as medicine...which you should avoid at all costs.  A bit of knowledge could, indeed, be useful some day....most days.  

Tiny but Amazing! Yellow Woodsorrel

   It seems as if every tiny bloom is catching my eye these days.  Perhaps it is a subconscious yearning for spring or maybe it is pure boredom with being isolated for so very long but I find I am drawn to the tiny plants.  It could be that I am feeling small and insignificant and so can relate to the wee things in nature.  Still, the wildflowers of the area are the focus of my spare time, as of late.  Today as Son and I were planting lemon trees, I found a tiny bloom beneath the plum tree.  Ahh, wood sorrel!  What a grand find!  I pointed out my discovery to Son and tried to explain why I was almost giddy.  He tolerates my silliness for which I am highly grateful.  

  The finding of the common wood sorrel was not an earth-shaking thing but did bring a smile.  I tried to recall what Granddad had told me about the plant.  (As the youngest of five, I was often in my grandparents' care as Mom had her hands full with the farm duties and the other four siblings.  To entertain me, Granddad taught me so many useful things about plants, critters, woodworking, home repairs, toy making, etc.  You name it and he covered it!)  Since I am aging, I do not totally depend on the teachings but do check things to reinforce the lessons.  More oft than not, Granddad was correct.  The common wood sorrel is entirely edible...roots, stalk, leaves, blooms and seeds!  The plant also has a myriad of medicinal uses, too.  Folk medicine says that yellow wood sorrel is useful in treating stomach issues, sore throats and mouth ulcers.  I wonder??

  One of the quotes I remember Granddad often saying was "For every illness, there is a cure somewhere in nature."  It seems he knew his stuff!  As I am delving more and more into the plants of our area, I am learning that those often overlooked plants are the most amazing.  It has occurred to me that perhaps I should forgo the showy garden centers and simply encourage what grows naturally.

The Plant That Keeps On Giving

   "They" said that it only happens every one hundred years, every ten years or even every year but only once.  I am talking about all of the myths and untruths surrounding the Night-blooming Cereus.  Depending upon who is doing the talking, this poor plant may as well give up ever setting a bloom.  Granted, that "once a year" thing is more accurate than the others and, granted, the blooms only last one night but it is ridiculous to think that it only blooms once a decade or once a century.  Nope...it just does not happen that way.

  I admit that I am a bit surprised at the frequency that my plants are setting buds.  This is their seventh budding this summer and we still have several months of warm enough weather to see that number rise.  Crazy thing is I do nothing for these poor plants other than take them out of the greenhouse with the first warm spell and plunk them on the bench under the oak tree.  It must be the perfect spot as, ever since I have been putting them in this spot, they have flourished.  Maybe placement is all it takes.  The plants just completed a blooming cycle last week and today I noticed tiny nodules on the leaves.  Those mean more blooms are coming!

  My plants are all "starts" from my granddad.  He kept two large hanging plants but rooted many.  I received mine and have rooted hundreds.  To start, I was careful of how I attempted taking the cuttings and how I placed them for rooting.  Now, I simply break off a leaf and drop it in Pebble Creek.  The water does the rest.  It takes about a week for the leaf to have enough roots to be on its own.  Usually, I take the time to pot them but, lately, laziness has gotten in the way of that.  I merely leave them in the running water until someone wishes to have their own Night-bloomer.  "Here!  Take one...or two...or maybe ten!"  It is all good!

Very Special Surprise

   In one section of the Small Gardens, there are quite a few rose bushes.  Even though the arbors have gone the wayside due to hurricanes, the roses have made a comeback and are doing well.  One, which was Grandmother's Rose, has outdone itself with blooms.  Granddad rooted this rose for me many years ago and he was the one that dubbed it "Grandmother's Rose". The name stuck and I will never think of it as anything but.   Grandmother always loved her flowers but never worked in the gardens.  Her "work" consisted of taking her little snips, cotton gloves and flower basket out to clip a few blooms to bring indoors.  Still, they were Grandmother's gardens.  When I stepped outside today, I was tickled to see so many blooms on the bush.  I tried counting but somehow got lost after a hundred!  Grandmother's Rose!

   There is something very endearing about that rose bush this year.  Right smack dab in the middle of the bush is a bird nest with several baby cardinals in it.  Mama Cardinal is mighty tolerant of me wandering about the gardens as I work.  Sometimes, I am only inches away from her nest but she never makes a fuss.  While it is not unusual to have a cardinal nesting in the Small Gardens, I find it heartwarming to know she chose this particular rose bush.  Northern Cardinals were Grandmother's favorite bird.  How appropriate that Mama Cardinal chose Grandmother's Rose as her home!  Maybe it was just meant to be,

  

Its Bright! Its Yellow!

   I guess I am one of the very few people in this old world who finds all things of nature interesting.  Since most of my days are spent outside, it seems that I see my share of just about everything.  So, it is only natural for me to "study up" (using Granddad's term) on new findings.  I might as well learn.  Sitting inside is not for me nor is repeating the same activities.  Learning, on the other hand, is!  Learning about all things of nature is even more.

  With the copious rainfall that has occurred in the past few months, the hillside is in a constant state of "wet".  That moistness combined with the warmth of spring causes some pretty amazing growths in the yard.  This morning's hike found me taking photographs of slime mold.  Yeah, I was on my knees photographing that stuff that most people say "Yuck!" over.  I am ok having the stuff around only because it causes no problems.  It is not toxic, it is not harming the trees or plants, it is only around for a few weeks, at best.

  This particular slime mold has the lovely, catchy name of "Dog Vomit" Slime Mold.  Indeed, it does resemble that more on the second day than the first.  It was my thought that the fresh stuff looks a whole lot more like a yellow, kitchen sponge or even some grated cheese than dog puke.  In fact, it is almost pretty!  Granted, by the end of the day, the stuff turns sort of "bile" brown and chunky.  

  Folks, embrace what Mother Nature provides even if it is a slime mold.  Time is too short to be so "cotton-pickin' nitpicky"...to use another of Granddad's phrases.  Yep, this is the same man who got me started delving into all things natural.  I sure miss our times discussing whatever happened our way even if it was Dog Vomit Slime Mold.  Smart man.

Cute, Little Possum Face!

   It was a tiring day with not much of a break to go hiking about the hillside. With a few more days of cold weather settling in around us, cutting more firewood was in order.  This is all good because it "kills two birds with one stone".  (Not that I go around killing birds or even throwing rocks at them.)  With still lots of limbs and trees down from Hurricane Zeta, the firewood gathering, not only provides us warmth, but clears more debris.  It has been a slow go with that cleaning but this is helping tremendously. 

  It was my chore to haul and stack the wood.  Mark cuts, Son splits and I stack.  I am ok with this as it gives the mind a chance to wander around in the dark corners of the brain and pull out any thoughts that have been hidden.  I was in deep thought as I unloaded an armload of firewood.  I was taken aback when I saw a face looking back at me from the woodpile!  No, there was not a living critter there but rather a figment of the imagination.  As a toddler, Granddad had taught me to "look for faces" in just about anything and everything.  Well, I found a cute, little possum face in a chunk of firewood.  Or, maybe it is an aardvark...only we do not have those on the Bayou...so possum, it is!  

  I was so tickled by the cute little face that I had to show Son.  He is very obliging but still sighs deeply and says, "You are certainly easily amused".   Perhaps this social distancing and self isolation thing is getting to me.  The social interaction with people has started causing me to find entertainment in odd places.  But...I do see it!  Cute, little possum!  You just have to love pareidolia! 

Cougar at the Frog Pond!

   It is often quite amusing to check the photographs that I take during the course of a day.  Most of the time, there are a few that I deem "keep-worthy" and many that are discards.  When taking the picture, you are never quite sure if the lighting is correct, if you may be wobbling a bit or if what you think is a great photo-op is really just a dismal failure.  Then there are the times when something unintended jumps out at you.  More oft than not, I see faces in my photos.  These can be human-type faces or critter-type faces or even make believe-type faces but they are faces, all the same.  Believe it or not, there is a name for this phenomenon.  It is called pareidolia.  I sort of think of it as an "art" in itself.  In fact, Granddad taught me to look for faces in most everything.  We actually would go "face-hunting" when I was a wee tot.  To give Mom a break from having to deal with yet another lively youngster (I have 4 older siblings), my grandparents were often given "kid duty".  Granddad had to think of fun things to do, so face-hunting was introduced.  We hunted faces...in flowers, wood-grain, clouds, mudflats...anything and everything.

  Back to the photography of nowadays.  My attempts at recording oddities of the Bayou often do not turn out as expected.  What I may think is a fantastic subject may be a big no-go. Then, again, no-gos take on a new light when looked at with a skewed sense of reality.  What should be deemed as a flop, sometimes reveals a FACE!  Recently, I threw a photograph of a rock that was near the little Frog Pond on social media and the consensus was that a face was, indeed, to be seen.  This time the face was a critter...a cougar to be exact. (Use that thing called an imagination.  You do have one, you know.)  How exciting for me to have others see the same thing that I found when I first examined the photograph.  As for a picture of a rock, the photo was not extraordinary but as a bit of pareidolia it was wonderful!

  Folks, pareidolia can help you look at things a whole lot differently and can, most assuredly, improve your photography skills.  When you go about "face-hunting", you actually slow down enough to thoroughly examine items.  You will pay closer attention to what you are seeing and therefore may just find more subjects to photograph.  It all goes back to what I have been saying for years.  Folks, slow down your pace and really "see" things for what they are.  Life is better that way.  Happy face-hunting!

The Morning After...

   Last night, Son walked out with me to view the Night Blooming Cereus.  The plants are potted and sit on a plank bench near Pebble Creek (the glorified roof drain).  I know it is probably silly but these plants have a strong meaning to me.  These are direct descendants of plants that Granddad grew. In fact, he rooted my very first plant and gave it to me when I was still in high school.  Over the years, I rooted more until I have a dozen and have shared with all my friends.  I did, however, almost lose every one during Hurricane Katrina.  There was no way to protect the plants and, at the time, that was the least of my worries.  Afterward during the massive cleanup, I found one small "leaf" and from that started anew.  The memories of "Night Blooming Cereus Parties" still hold a special place in my heart.  About a week ahead, we were put on "bud watch".  As the tiny buds grew, so did the excitement (at least for me.)  Then, on the big night, the family would drive over to my grandparent's place and we would have supper and wait for the buds to open.  The buds usually began to open around 8pm but were not in their full grandeur until about 10pm.  That late hour added to the intrigue.  It was one of the few times that I was ever allowed to be up late and especially to be that late at someone's house.  It was special!  Like I said, Son and I went out to view the blooms.  Nine of the buds were opening!  I marveled at the beauty and the aroma.  Son, on the other hand, patiently humored his mom.  

  Then...the day after.  The morning after the blooming, the excitement fades and a sort of sadness settles in to replace it.  The blooms of the cereus only last for one night.  They open late and then before dawn, the blooms start to wane.  By sunrise, the once dinner-plate-sized blooms are sad, wilted remnants of themselves.  This morning, I snapped off the spent blooms and tossed them to the wayside.  They were done.  I was sad.  Until tonight!  More buds are set to open tonight and for the next few nights.  This is the third time this summer that the plants have set buds.  I think I finally found the perfect spot for them to flourish.  Sadly, however, not a one of the plants that I shared with friends and family have bloomed yet.  Perhaps they are lonely and I should root some more!  Granddad would have.  He always said that if you want your plants to do well, then you should share them with others.  It works, for sure.  Memories...tied to plants, just like to people are well worth hanging onto.

Fuzzy Brained or Brilliant?

  As I survey my vast (ok, minuscule) domain of the Small Gardens, I seek out the oddities that can bring a moment of distraction to the boredom that is playing out in my brain as I am isolated here.  With limitations on what I can do, how active I can get and where I can roam, I now live in a sort of "Make-Believe World".  Trust me when I say, it is not all fun and games.  This fantasy world is whatever I can dream up about the mundane sights I see over and over again in my realm of the Small Gardens.  As Queen of the Small Gardens, I have that privilege.  I can glorify a pile of sand to become a dune,  a bent weed to become a lofty palm tree or a trickling gutter can be a roaring river.  Whatever I want them to be....

  Speaking of roaring rivers and gutters, before my affliction, I was working on the gravel gutter drain.  I had grand ideas of turning it into a water feature for the gardens,  In fact, that may have led to my undoing.  (I am not sure if my medical experts would agree on that or not but it rambled about in my mind recently.)  Instead of waiting for Son to help me, I created a fountain on the high end of my "creek" by making use of a huge concrete urn.  This thing weighs well over a hundred pounds and, well, I lifted it and positioned it as I saw fit.  I figured "Hey, if I can shovel a huge load of gravel, I should be able to create a fountain!"  I did.  It is awesome!  Speaking of that gravel before I get too far off track, that is where my brain found today's magical pieces!

  Regular old driveway gravel is not what one could call beautiful or even exciting.  It is mundane, to say the least.  It serves a purpose and does a good job.  BUT!  If that gravel happens to have water trickling over it for any length of time, it begins to take on a life of its own.  The grime is washed away and soon vivid colors can be seen.  Wee ridges, cuts and imprints are visible as are tiny fossils.  Each pebble is turned into a variable gemstone of intrigue!  Among the cobwebs in the nooks and crannies of my brain, I vaguely recall Granddad mentioning that many times, the "gemstones of life are often overlooked as simple pebbles."  I know he had a message in there somewhere as he often spoke in parables when trying to teach me as a small child.  Sometimes, those lessons flew past my understanding and went straight to the back of my mind.  Now, as I am older, I can dust off those tidbits and they suddenly seem to be brilliant.  

  So, the Queen of the Small Gardens has now decided that pebbles are gemstones whether in parables or drainage ditches.  With that in mind, I am rich beyond compare.  It is amazing how royalty gives you these insights!  Either that or the brain is still fuzzy.  Probably...

Sticking To The Point!

  It has been a while since I have paid much attention to the yucca plant back behind the greenhouse.  It is far more noticeable when it is in bloom except when you happen to bump into the leaves.  Those things have needles for tips!  Today, I found out just how sharp they really are.  I was throwing a blanket over the night-blooming cereus plants since there may be a frost tonight and backed into the yucca.  Oww!  The tip of one leaf poked a hole in my ankle.  I did not think much of it but, later, I realized that the thing actually drew blood!  So, I washed it good and changed the sock.  Things are good but....of course....it got me to pondering things.

  The yucca plant is used for so many things.  Shampoo and soap can be made from the stems and roots.  The plant has some medicinal uses and the dried leaves and stems can be used  as fire starter.  I guess those points make you overlook the other "points"...the stabby ones.  Granddad made sure that I knew a lot of "survival" tips long before the "prepper" craze of today.  He was the first to instruct me in the uses of the yucca plant.  One of the things that was most fun for a pre-school age kid was when he helped me to stitch together a soft fabric with the "threads" and needle from the yucca plant.  He showed me how to carefully snip the point (needle) of the leaf and strip it down the side (thread).  The small pouch we made (complete with a braided drawstring) was my first attempt at sewing.  I admit that I never got much further than that but, hey, I made something!...and from a plant!

  I have heard-tell that the blossoms of the yucca plant are edible but I have yet to try them.  Some folks argue the point saying the blossoms will cause stomach problems so I do not want to take the chance.  Things may change once the plant blooms, however, as I have been known to eat some pretty strange things. Right now, though, being stabbed by the needle was enough of an encounter with the yucca plant..
 

Good For Something

  Granddad always used to tell me that I needed to make myself useful.  Each and everyday, I was to find something to do so I would be "good for something".  I think it was more of a way to keep me busy and out of the way but I searched hard to find that bit of usefulness each day.  Being the youngest of five siblings, it seemed that I was more "in the way" than "good for anything".  But, I tried.  I fed the cats.  They seemed to appreciate the extra food and soon became fat and lazy!  That lasted until Pop told me that the cats were not doing their jobs of keeping the rats and mice out of the barns.  I moved on to watering the porch plants.  Carrying that water from the kitchen to the porch was a hard job for a 4 year old but I kept at it!  At least I did until Mom told me that I was making a mess by leaving a trail of splashed water.  Next, I thought perhaps I could help gather the eggs from the hen house.  That did not last long as the hens were not appreciative of a toddler stealing their eggs.  (Chicken pecks hurt!)  I tried my hand at weeding the rows in the field but soon found that I could not tell a bean plant from a weed.  Thus ended that chore. My usefulness seemed to be a hard thing to find.  Eventually, things all fell into order and I was assigned jobs on the farm that fit my age.  The chores included picking ripe fruit, hand washing the fresh eggs and packing them in boxes for sale, arranging fruit and vegetables on the market table and feeding the chickens. (They were not so apt to peck when they saw corn being scattered on the ground!) I felt good about myself as I was now "good for something".

  All of these memories came flooding back this morning as I observed an item being "good for something".  Years ago, Hurricane Katrina "donated" many items to us via the flood waters.  One was a duck decoy.  Where this thing came from was beyond me but since I had it, I might as well use it.  The plastic duck was tossed into the Frog Pond and there it has resided since.  It was not my intention to coax live ducks into the little pond but use the thing as a decoration of sorts.  Today, however, I noticed that the duck being used.  The frogs in the pond have decided that the decoy was a good perching place.  Two fine frogs were sitting atop of the floating duck!  While this looked humorous, it made me think that, at least, that old duck was not a waste.  It was good for something!  A bit of satisfaction was achieved! 

Ditch Daisies

  Years and years ago, I used to love visiting my grandparents.  We had a special bond that spanned the generations.  Grandparents and grandchildren are good for each other.  It is a proven fact that older folks live longer and happier when they spend time with the grandbabies.  As a kid, I was allowed to trot down the road and then up the long lane to stay with my granddad and grandmother.  It seemed to be a magical thing and the right thing.  There was no trying to cram a year's worth of interaction in two days of visiting like it is nowadays.  Folks lived closer together and took care of each other.  Not now.  But that is a different story for a different day.  My tale, today, is of time spent with Granddaddy and Grandmother....days I will cherish always.  

  More oft than not, Granddaddy and I would wind up working in his flower gardens.  Correction!  "Grandmother's gardens"!  He always called the gardens Grandmother's Gardens even though she never planted a single seed.  He dug the gardens, planted the seeds, weeded, watered and tended each plant.  Grandmother would occasionally take her tiny snips and a huge flat, flower basket out to the gardens to pick flowers but that is as far as she got.  Granddaddy did the work...and, occasionally, I was allowed to help.  During our work time, he taught me the names of the flowers, how each loved to grow and how to appreciate each bloom as if it had opened just for me.  I am still doing what he taught.

  This morning, the sun glinted off of some bright, yellow daisy-like flowers that were blooming in the marsh.  While the bright blooms brought a smile, it was the flood of memories that stayed with me throughout the day.  "Ditch daisies!" One uncle always called the yellow blooms by this name as he was pushing his lawnmower to snip the daisies to the ground.  "Ditch daisies"...he sounded repulsed by the very sound of the name.  His mower made short work of the pretty blooms.  It always made me sad to think of the little, yellow petals being torn from the stems.  Granddaddy, on the other hand, allowed the daisies to bloom where they may.  Each year, the yard between his driveway and shed was completely filled with the bouncy flowers.  It was literally like a sea of yellow and I thought it was absolutely gorgeous.  Sometimes, I ponder if Granddaddy would let the daisies take over the yard merely to irk my uncle when he came to visit.  

  It was Granddaddy's teachings that made me appreciate the "Ditch Daisies" in my life.  Whenever I find any wild bloom, I immediately marvel at the beauty.  It matters not that others see these as weeds.  Granddaddy had made sure that I knew that "We are all weeds, until we bloom."  I am ok with being a Ditch Daisy.

The Torch Has Been Passed...

  I have a personal vendetta against the Eastern Lubber Grasshopper.  I come by it naturally.  Granddaddy carried on a feud with these guys for years.  He would try to kill as many as he could each spring and then all summer long.  It did no good.  No matter how many you kill, there are just as many (or more) the next spring.  Like him, I will go out of my way to stomp on one and I am one of those "live and let live" sort of folks...most of the time. With these grasshoppers, it is more of a battle of survival.  If I wish to have any sort of garden, I have to be overzealous in dealing with the lubbers.  If left, the critters can strip a garden of every leaf in a matter of days.  Gardening would be a bleak endeavor. 

  Back on the farm, the grasshoppers were unheard of.  We had no inkling such a critter existed.  While we battled things like tomato worms and aphids, grasshoppers of any kind were just sort of ignored.  Then came Hurricane Camille back in 1969.  It was an intense hurricane like none other before.  The Coast was nigh on decimated.  It took so much away but also brought an everlasting plague.  The Eastern Lubber Grasshopper washed in on the tidal surge and never left.

  This afternoon, I noticed two of the critters in different stages of their morphs.   One was still in its juvenile black stage while one was a full adult.  These, both, would have met their demise had I been able to reach them.  They were smart to stay out in the marsh.  As I came back up the board path to admire the ruby lilies that were gently swaying in the breeze, my heart sank as I spied several other grasshoppers happily munching the lily stalks.  Needless to say, I value my lilies far more than some bug.  Those five are no more.  Granddaddy would be proud to know that I am carrying on his battle! The torch has been passed and the lilies are safe for at least one more day.

Take a Look Upwards...

  Way up in a small nook of a loft in the living room, there sits a small church.  It has been there for years and years.  It does not get used as much as it once did but it makes me smile almost daily.  You see, back when I was just a wee tot, my granddaddy made this church.  He lovingly pieced it together from scrap wood that he had in his shop.  The project began at a request from my mother.  Mom was teaching Sunday School and wished to explain the parts of the church.  As was the custom of architectural plans of churches, Granddaddy built this church in the shape of a Christian cross with the long portion of the cross being the center aisle and the junction of the cross near the altar.  The roof lifts off so the entire interior of the church can be viewed.  This tiny church has working doors, miniature pews, a wooden pipe organ, choir loft and altar.  There are even teeny-tiny candlesticks and a cross on atop the steeple!  

  Since the church dates back as far as my toddler days, it is quite old.  Back in the day, Mom would tote it to church for a while as she taught her lessons.  At the end of that segment, the building would come back to the old farmhouse.  There, it would sit in the attic until Christmastime.  Mom always requested that the church come down to sit on a table near the Christmas tree.  Sometimes, it would sit on top of the old upright piano.  I was always fascinated by the small building and would stare through the doors at all the inner workings.  Then, when Mom and Pop left this world, the church went to stay at my sister's house.  Eventually, it was stuck in the attic of their shed and sat unnoticed for years.  At some point, the shed roof had a leak and a bit of damage was done to everything stored within.  She asked if I cared to have the church. Sure!

  At the Little Bayou House, the church, once again, became a thing of interest.  Not as its original purpose but due to Son's playtime when he was a toddler, we had some mighty righteous Ninja Turtles!  Those little green fellows went to church regularly and then protected the world from the dinosaurs that roamed just outside the double doors!  The church received a bit more wear and tear from a little fellow climbing in and out of the church.  Then, he outgrew his playthings and the church made its way up high into the loft area.  There, it sits to be viewed by any who take the time to look upwards.  Well, isn't that the whole point of a church?  When it seems as if things are crashing down around you, look up.  That is where the answer is.

Swim Goggles and Pie Pans

  Sometimes it pays to hike down to the pier in the cold, drizzly rain.  Not many times...but sometimes.  While I was waiting on the old dog to make his morning rounds, I ambled to the pier in hopes of seeing the otter pups at play.  Instead, I was treated to a sighting of four Hooded Mergansers.  These are probably my favorites of the ducks that visit the Bayou.  While I love every waterfowl in the area, there is just something special about these tiny ducks.  Perhaps this goes as far back as my childhood when I would visit my grandparents who lived on this very Bayou.  My grandmother loved the little mergansers and would watch them when they came to visit for the winter.  My granddaddy, on the other hand, would hunt the ducks.  He and Pop would push the little skiff out on the mudflats and wait for the ducks to fly into the area.  Grandmother would rush down to the end of their pier with a pie pan in her hand.  She would beat that pan and call to the ducks.  "Here, duck, duck, duck!"  Bang, bang, bang!  Sure enough, the ducks would flock to her and be safe from the guns of Pop and Granddaddy.  I was allowed to "help" Grandmother on her mission to save the ducks and had my very own pie pan to beat!  Eventually, the menfolk gave up on having duck for dinner and the little mergansers were safe for another day.  Grandmother was happy.  The menfolk were not so happy.  Me?  I felt important banging my pie pan in protection of the ducks!

  The little ducks visiting the pier this morning were busy working the shallows.  They were in search of breakfast and swam around with their heads under water, more oft than not.  Hooded Mergansers "sight" fish.  With their heads underwater, they can see the fish.  Mergansers have a nictitating membrane (third eyelid) that acts a lot like swim goggles.  Not only does this protect the eye, it also allows perfect vision under water.  Though the pickings were scarce this chilly morn, the ducks were obviously finding something to eat.  They hung around near the pier for a good while longer than I did.  That rain was cold and the wind blustery.  It was time for me to go stoke the woodstove and get another mug of hot coffee!  Glad to have you back for a few months, Hoodies!