Years and years ago (way back when the kids were small), we used to take hikes back into the creek bed. While other parents were too afraid to let their kids even go outside, I encouraged mine to roam the woods. Of course, I was with them but the dangers were still there. I figured my kids needed to learn to handle scary situations rather than hide from them. Obviously, it worked. As adults, they are alert to their surroundings, are able to face and conquer problems and have an infinite love for nature. Our treks allowed them to learn to smell snakes before seeing them, explore the hidden wonders of wild creek beds and learn the flora and fauna of the area.
It was on one of those "expeditions" that we found the creek bed filled with purple flowers. The wild Stoke's Asters were in full bloom. The kids were so enthralled with their own "Secret Garden" that we decided to dig up a couple of plants to bring back to the yard. I had no idea if the plants would even grow after being moved from their boggy domain but they did. This week, I was surprised by a few blooms peeking out from under the jasmine vines. Their rich purple color led me to believe that the asters were happy where they were planted so many years ago.
Stoke's Asters are wildflowers that can be found all over the Southeast. They do well being transplanted into gardens as long as they have a bit of shade and well-drained, acidic soil. After they are established, the plants require little to no care. The blooms also do well as cut-flowers as they will last up to a week in a vase!
I love my little aster patch, not only because of the blooms, but also because of the memories of our creek bed hikes. I miss those times. It has occurred to me that perhaps I do not have gardens but, instead, have "memory holders"!
Every now and again, something strikes a chord and memories start flooding back in wild abandon. This morning as I strolled about the storm battered gardens, a lone zinnia held its head high and wafted on the gentle breeze. The purple bloom was in its full glory with the bright morning sun beaming down on it. In its center, the flower wore a circlet of gold which proclaimed it as "Prince of the Garden". (I figure I have enough queens and princesses and a sole "king" skink so it is about time for a prince to appear.)
This purple zinnia started the memory flow and from there, it just took on a life of its own. For the rest of the walk through the gardens, memories of Pop filled the brain. Good memories...happy memories...times I never wish to forget. You see, being a farmer, Pop always had lots to do with plants. His fields were always impeccable and lush but his passion was his flower gardens. He loved flowers of any sort and zinnias seemed to be a favorite. These and petunias could be found in beds around the yard. As a youngster, I walked with Pop as he tended the gardens. He showed me the ins and outs of planting and caring for each plant. He taught me the names and planting times. He instilled in me a love for all growing things. It is still there.
Zinnias are some of the easiest garden flowers to grow and, once you get a start, the seeds can be saved for future plantings. In fact, the seeds usually stay viable for several years after harvesting. Also, as long as you dead-head the spent blooms, zinnias will fill the summer and fall with their colorful blooms. They make great, long-lasting cut flowers, too. So...plant some zinnias and start some of your own memories!
Growing up, art of any sort fascinated me. I spent countless hours drawing on the little cardboard inserts from shredded wheat boxes. With money being short on the farm, there was little to be spent on frivolous items such as art supplies so I made do with what I could. Several little, old ladies on Pop's egg delivery route saved the cardboard pieces for me and, occasionally, added a short stub of a pencil in my bounty! I was a happy camper! Then, when I started school, I was taught to create a "name bug" and I was totally hooked! The fanciful scribbles took over my life! Not only would I spell out my name but any word that came to mind became art! Later, I taught my own children how to make name bugs and they had the same reaction. These things were fun! For any not familiar with name bugs, it is a simple process. Fold a sheet of plain (unlined) paper in half lengthwise, unfold the paper and using a crayon, write your name in cursive along the crease. Now, fold the paper with your name on the inside and rub to transfer the crayon writing to the other side of the crease. Unfold and you should have a mirror image of your name. Color in the inside of the "bug"on both sides of the crease. Add any adornments desired and there you have your name bug! Make the bug as fanciful as you wish! After all, it IS your name bug!
This afternoon, I went out to sweep off the back porch when something brought back a flood of memories of name bugs! A single pear leaf was sitting precariously on the railing and that dark brown leaf had a bright golden "name bug" of its own! Well, it did not spell out pear tree nor was it an actual mirror image but somehow the leaf did bring back happy memories of not only my childhood but of me passing along the idea of a name bug to my kids. It is funny how memories work. Name bugs! Pear leaves! Happy memories!
For the past several days, the Bayou has seen its share of stormy weather. Nothing terrible but just enough to keep us inside. Mark and I make short (quick) trips to the pier to check the small skiff but usually get chased in by the rain. Not only has there been copious rainfall, the wind has been churning up the Bay. This is all good by me but has Mark a bit antsy. He wanted to go fishing! It is a no-go, however, as the skiff bounces around like a toy boat in a whirlpool! It just is not safe.
This morning, that desire to fish got the best of him. While on the pier, he threw the net a few times "just to see if there is anything out there". Well, there was not much. He caught one small croaker and that was it! The croaker was photographed then released. It happily swam away unscathed. That croaker got me thinking of days passed when my cousin and I would paddle out in (of all things, a molded plastic lifeboat that we called "The Bathtub"). We were young...probably too young to be out in the middle of the Bay by ourselves but times were different then. We never felt that we were in danger and I am sure my aunt kept a watchful eye on us from her kitchen window.
Croakers were the prize we were set to catch. They were quick to bite and easy to hook. Just about anything could be used as bait as they were not picky. It was our goal to catch as many as we could in the short time we were allowed to fish. Usually, we were told to be home before noon as the fish had to be cleaned for lunch. Neither of us had a watch so our "alarm" was Aunt Marie letting out a yell for us to come home. Her voice would carry across the open Bay with no problems. We, then, would paddle back home with our catch. The fish were cleaned and Aunt Marie would fry them. It was then our job to get back in that little boat and paddle down the shoreline to my uncle's place. He was building a house there and had little time to cook lunch. We toted it to him. Croakers were on the menu quite often.
It is funny how seeing the pretty, little fish with its golden scales started the flood of memories. Those were good times...happy, carefree times. Margie and I had no worries, no fears. Unlike kids today, we spent our summers outside not cooped up inside glued to some electronic device. We played, roamed the woods, fished in the Bay and generally were just being kids. I miss those days.
The weather is quite perfect....if you are a plant. The warm, foggy nights keep things at just the right condition for plants to grow and grow they are. As I was out walking the old dog, Mr. PJ, I came across the one part of the yard that is not cluttered with construction material from our ongoing battle with termite damage. The lane that leads down to the main road is lined with azalea bushes and these appear to be nearing their peak bloom time. As we meandered in the midst of the bright blooms, it almost seemed to transport us to some mystical, magical place. Of course, the entire Bayou is sort of a mystical, magical place but when you throw in a whole slew of azaleas that tower above you head, it is perfectly exhilarating.
Azaleas are often thought to be strictly a thing found in the Deep South. Our places are dotted with the bushes or lanes are lined with them. During the springtime, nigh on every yard has at least one bush and most have dozens or even up to hundreds depending on how old the homestead is. Interesting thing is that these are mostly nonnative plants! The azalea was first brought to the United States from Asia around 1830. Word is that a plantation in South Carolina was the first known place to use the bushes in their landscaping. From that time on, the popularity spread like wildfire and now the azalea has become synonymous with the Deep South. Granted there are a few native azaleas but none look much like the showy blooms we now know.
Another interesting fact is that most locals are quick to share their plants so there is not a lot of need to "buy" bushes. If you want some, ask. Someone will definitely have "a few layered". Most locals know to throw a brick, log or shovel full of dirt on a low lying branch to root them. If a need arises, there are plenty to share. In fact, every bush on the place here has come from an old homestead. My grandparents and parents gave us some as did several aunts and uncles. Sharing plants used to be the thing to do when a young couple married and set up household. It is sad that the custom has almost gone the wayside now.
My mystical. magical place in the midst of the azaleas brought back many happy memories of the folks who supplied our yard! The sweet scent of the blooms will definitely draw me back down "Memory Lane" a few more times before the blooming wanes.
Well, now! That is a change! I was recently bemoaning the fact that we had no winter, so to speak, then last night, Mother Nature decided to intervene on my behalf. I awoke to nigh on freezing temperatures! This did, indeed, pleased me...for the most part. Other than the fact that I had to make multiple trips out to the woodpile to stoke the old stove, I thoroughly enjoyed the coziness of the Little Bayou House. The old wood-burning stoves both chugged along happily and kept the place toasty warm.
This morning, sitting in the comfy rocking chair while sipping my mug of hot coffee, it occurred to me that I would probably not enjoy having the "luxury" of central heating. I NEED that comfort of watching the flames in the fireplace regardless of the extra work of gathering, splitting and hauling the firewood. There is something mighty soothing about watching the flames flicker and hearing the fire crackle.
Of the two wood-burning stoves in the Little Bayou House, the parlor stove is my favorite. This tiny cast iron stove was made in Florence, Alabama way back in 1871 and is still in perfect shape! This stove allows me to remove the front grate so I can enjoy viewing the flames. The other is enclosed. It warms but the visual aesthetics are missing. My uncle gave us the stove before he moved from the Coast to live near his daughter in Missouri. My oldest son was helping Uncle Alfred move some stuff around before his move when they came across the old stove. It had been stored under the house for years and when Mark found it, Uncle Alfred said "Ooooh! Get that thing out from under there and take it home! That thing is still good!" Piece by piece the iron stove was hauled to our house. My uncle then came to tell us how to put it all back together again. As a gift, this was amazing. I cherish it even more since it came from my uncle! Each time I light the fire, thoughts of our visits and, later, our phone calls, come to mind.
All of these happy thoughts and sweet memories came flooding in all due to a change in the weather. Yep. This kind of change is good!
On the north side of the Little Bayou House, there is a trail that leads into the woods. It meanders under the magnolia trees, between huge clumps of palmettos and down the hill to the chinkapin (chinquapin) trees. Once you make the final turn back toward the house, you happen upon a rather interesting sight. Beneath the briers, you can find the most lovely, moss-covered log that you ever want to see! The thing is a good fifteen feet long and has most of the bark missing. All that is left is the heart of the tree and mounds of rotted wood. What once was a majestic pine tree now is a delightfully interesting moss bed.
No matter how often I hike this path, the log is always a stopping point. It fascinates me. I admit that this fascination comes from as far back as my childhood. It was then that I was taught to see things a bit differently than most folks. A moss-covered log is not some discard of nature but is a habitat for a multitude of new species of flora and fauna. It is not some ugly trash in the forest but is a thing of natural beauty.
As a child, the discovery of such a log would have thrown me into a fantasy land of make believe. Hours upon hours would have been spent clearing the brambles from the area. My small hands would have been scratched by the briers, arms bitten by ants and mosquitoes and I would have been dirty beyond belief but...my log would have become a play area, More oft than not, my folks could find me in the edge of the woods playing in my own little world.
This afternoon as Mark and I walked the back path, that log took me way back to those happy times. I mentioned to Mark that I wanted to clear the pathways again and maybe cut the brambles away from the old log. I am not sure he understood what was going through my head but he simply nodded in agreement and let me wallow in the possibilities of a new happy place.
Years and years ago, I was often allowed to spend the night with my grandmother. While this was probably more of a way to give Mom a break from an active youngster, I felt it was a special treat. Being the youngest of five kids, I often felt left out of the "big kids" doings so I found this little outing quite exciting. My scheduled sleepovers usually coincided with some movie that was being shown on TV. This, too, was exciting as back on the farm, we had no TV. It was on one of these sleepovers that I first experienced the musical "Brigadoon". I was hooked from that moment which led to me being invited each time the movie was shown. It became a ritual for Grandmother to put on the tea kettle, pull out the "fine" teacups and fix a plate of cookies to be enjoyed during our viewing. This tradition carried on until I was a teenager and then my heart was broken by the passing of the dear lady. I could not bring myself to even think of watching the movie for years and years. Then, at some point, Mom asked me to watch it with her and, once again, the movie entranced me. Later, my kids and I never missed a showing of the musical but, instead of milk tea and cookies, the kids wanted more "exciting" foodstuffs. Sometimes we roasted hot dogs in the fireplace while other times, we had an indoor picnic. The decision was theirs and, more oft than not, their grandmother (Mom) would join us for the fun. I miss those days. I cannot say that any current day movie has ever affected me as much as this one did. Then again, I cannot say that any current day movies can possibly been deemed classics either.
This morning, memories of Brigadoon, the mystical city that appears of the mist every one hundred years, came back to me. The time spent with Grandmother, Mom and my kids nearly brought tears to my eyes. These memories were all due a heavy fog that had laid in overnight. The thick mist blocked from view most of the other side of the Bay. Only one small portion of what laid on the opposite shore could be seen and that vision was short lived. The fog slowly blocked out the entire city. The mystical, magical Brigadoon (in this case, Keesler Air Base) slipped from sight for the next one hundred years (or at least an hour).
One of the best parts of living on the Bayou is that you never know what the new day will bring. Things change with the drop of a hat and surprises abound. Each day also brings with it the opportunity to reflect back on things from years ago. The quietness allows the brain to wander where it may thus making each day, each memory worth a visit.
There are folks who claim that animals have very limited, if any, memory. Being around animals a good bit for a long time, I can attest that sometimes it does seem that way. With several pets in the past, trying to teach basic commands seemed to fly right out the window. Just when you think they've got it...they do just the opposite. Perhaps that has nothing to do with memory and a lot to do with being obstinate but, at least, there seems to be hope with dogs. Dogs seem to have long-term memory, if nothing else. I cannot say whether this is true with all dogs but most of the canines that have lived at the Little Bayou House have great long-term memories.
Since my son and daughter-in-law moved their little family to an island far, far away and since I am keeping their dog, PJ, I have been sending them a daily photograph of him. This was a request from my little granddaughter, Mary Ruth. She said she was going to miss her dog and asked for the pictures. I am trying hard to live up to my word and not miss a day. After she received today's photo, she made a video (with the help of her sweet mom, Joanna!) and sent it "for PJ".
Mr. PJ was sound asleep when I played the video. As soon as he heard that little girl, he jerked awake and turned toward the sound. He had the happiest look on his face as he intently watched the screen of my computer. HIS little girl was talking to him! HIS little girl said "I love you, PJ!" The old dog seemed young again, even if it was just for a few moments. I replayed the video several times for him and, finally, he climbed back on his bed. He was content. HIS little girl still loved him! He misses Mary Ruth and my grandson, Mark Charles.
PJ definitely remembered that tiny girl and her sweet message was just what he needed. Tonight, he will sleep soundly and have happy dreams of Mary Ruth and Mark Charles, I am sure. Dogs do have long-term memories...this proves it. It did my heart good to see the old dog so happy.
Occasionally, I stumble across something that causes the brain to have a complete meltdown of happiness. Good thoughts! Happy memories! Today, as I was going through a jumble of things, I came across a copy of a handwritten recipe. This was one of Mark's dad's famous recipes....at least they were famous to anyone that ever tasted them. That man could cook! This was one of my favorites because I am all about those desserts. Mr. William always made a divine bread pudding. I loved Mom's bread pudding and thought there could never be one better but his rivaled even that. Although, their bread puddings were vastly different, in taste, appearance and in ingredients, they were both something unforgettable.
The tattered and torn copy of this recipe is one that Mark's sister, Susie, shared with me years ago. Even though I had helped Mr. William make the pudding several times, I never had the good sense to write down his recipe. After he passed from this world, I mentally kicked myself a thousand times for that mistake. When Susie offered me a copy of his recipe, I never thought it would actually be one that he had written. I was elated! This made it all the better.
I reread the recipe several times today and even headed to the kitchen to check if I had all of the ingredients on hand. Well, duh! Nope, I do not. I have no BREAD! I guess it would be really hard to make bread pudding without that essential ingredient! I can just about hear Mr. William teasing me on that one! I miss that man!
My son and daughter-in-law have a wonderful plum tree in their backyard. This tree seems to revel in providing them with some of the most delicious plums. Last year, they had far more plums than they could use. This year, the plums were less in number but just as delicious. Since they have two tiny children, time is of a shortage so I volunteered to make the trip to their house to help with canning the plums. Unforeseen things occurred making it impossible for me to be there at the time the plums ripened but they had the great idea of freezing the fruit. Now that I am visiting them, we decided that it is time to do something with all those lovely plums!
My son and I set to work making plum jelly and plum butter. Since Mark and I are used to being in the kitchen together, the process went smoothly and it was not long before their table was being filled with jars of lovely jellies! A lot of chatter and laughter filled the kitchen along with the fantastic aroma of plums! I felt right at home in their kitchen.
Dozens of jars of jelly and butters now line their tabletop but that is not the best thing that came out of this whole day. The time spent with Mark and Joanna means far more than anything we might have sealed in jars. Memories of times spent together will last a lifetime.
Back in the day when I was just a tyke, the old farm house was occasionally graced with the presence of some mighty special folks. It never failed to excite me to no end to see Pop's cousin and wife from Nebraska come to visit. Steve and Una were my type relatives! She was the most amazing cook in the world and did not hesitate to commandeer the kitchen of any home she visited. Treats were turned out in startling speed all the while a full meal was being cooked and by full meal...I mean FULL MEAL! It was nothing to see the table, sideboard, freezer top and stove all filled with delectable delights! Everything was almost too good to eat! As a little kid, I was always treated with a secret taste now and again without Mom or Pop noticing. Even though she was a large person, Aunt Una (we never called them cousins, the most respectful term we could think of was aunt and uncle!) would scurry about the place with lightning speed and make everything smell divine! She never seemed to tire of making folks happy and....well fed!
But while Aunt Una was most special to me, it was Uncle Steve who stole my heart. He was a big bear of a man but was entirely an old softy when it came to kids. He would sit for hours and play checkers with me while spieling out some wild yarn of things back on the ranch in Nebraska. To my way of thinking, the man was some sort of "Tamer of the Wild West". He talked of steers, horses and rattlesnakes. He told tales (true or not, I never knew) of grabbing rattlesnakes by the tail and slinging them until their heads popped off! There were stories of coyotes and mountain lions being chased with whips. My favorite was about the prairie dogs that were caught and trained to polish his boots! Perhaps, the tales were all fictitious and created on the spot for the entertainment of one gullible little girl but to me, everything was as true as gold! (Except maybe the prairie dog one...I was always a bit dubious of that one even though he assured me that it was true!) I was fascinated by his every word!
Steve and Una are long gone now which breaks my heart. Their passing was a passing of an era for me. While going through pictures today, I found this small photograph of them and a whole wealth of memories started swirling around in my head...good times, good food, good people. Yep, I still have relatives in Nebraska. I have cousins that some day, I shall meet in person. I talk with them occasionally and I am quite sure that we will be fast friends forever. But...none can ever be the giants of people that Steve and Una were in my life. I miss them.
