Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed

  Maggie  My Dog is my constant companion, riding beside me on the Kubota back and forth from the chicken houses. She is brown, with a compact build and intelligent eyes. She is part Pit Bull/part… something else.  Ten years ago, Tara picked her out at the Humane Society in Fort Smith from a litter that had just been dropped off.  Maggie  pawed at the glass when she saw Tara, and leapt and jumped and kissed her when we took her into a small room to get to know her. She bubbled with joy and excitement, but would also snug up to be petted, looking up at you with those eyes. She looks at me sometimes like she wants to say something…she just can’t quite get the words out.

  She is sweet and gentle, wonderful with children…never snapping or getting grumpy. She barks when people pull up in the driveway, hair standing up on the back of her neck, putting them back  into the truck sometimes.

  I’m okay with that. I think about that power, too…often wishing I could weigh 45 pounds and still be able to bare my teeth and bark and run someone off.

  Maggie is also…a killer. If a small animal makes an appearance at the chicken houses...they are killed, shaken, ripped apart. A cat. A raccoon. A possum. A rabbit.

  She doesn’t kill chickens…she got a spanking for killing one in her youth, when we first built the chicken houses and let her come inside. Maggie never forgot that and now…even if I sic her on a chicken, she will act like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, looking away and…I SWEAR….whistling. doo de doo….doo de doo. I’m not listening. I’m not listening, her face seems to say.  

  She chases hawks and buzzards away from the composter. She runs unabashedly at coyotes, snapping at their heels. I often wonder what she would do if she caught a coyote...maybe it’s best she doesn’t.

  She runs the cows away from the feed bins at the chicken houses, but only if I’m there. I’ve often driven up on the Kubota and seen her lying around with Tika, my brain damaged Blue Heeler, cows milling about nibbling on the green grass near the cool cell pads. They leak water and there’s always grass there even if there isn’t anywhere else. She will jump up when she hears me and just clear the way, barking and snapping. Tika, being a Heeler, will jump up to and bite their back feet, pushing them forward. Maggie isn’t quite as talented and usually turns them in circles til they run off. She is worthless when working cattle, but she thinks she’s really doing something.  

  But, mostly…Maggie is a killer of squirrels. Oh, how they taunt her! Jumping into the tree at the last second, running around it, up and down, back and forth, spinning Maggie all around until she gives up.

I do believe squirrels are her favorite.

 I got done with chickens yesterday and Maggie took her place beside me on the seat. She sits most regally, facing forward, leaning in to the curves. People drive past and see her, sitting there beside me, her proud head up. They wave and kids point.

  Maggie has a habit of deciding to jump off while I’m still driving, standing up on the seat on four legs, timing the ground so she can hit it running. The first few times she did this, she bit the dirt and was sent rolling. Now, if she perks up and stands, I immediately slow and so she can leap off without injury. I usually then stop driving, often killing the Kubota to see what she’s running after.

 It was that elusive squirrel that she chases almost every day. But, this time…instead of running up a tree, it ran up a light pole in Trevor and Mykka’s driveway. Mykka and Trevor’s dogs came running when they heard Maggie’s short yip yip and soon, the whole pack was gathered around the light pole.

  The squirrel ran around, up and down, barking and chattering at the dogs. His tail was fuzzed up and he never stopped moving. I watched him run up the light pole, safely away from the dogs. I figured he would tire them out, wait til they left, then go to his tree.

  That’s when the squirrel did a very squirrely thing. To my horror, the squirrel turned and ran DOWN the light pole, right into the waiting pack of dogs. It tried to make a mad dash toward it’s tree, but Maggie was too quick. While the other dogs stood there stunned, Maggie jumped on the squirrel, bit it, shook it hard and killed it DEAD. She sniffed it for a second or two, then, tongue hanging out...seeming to grin…she hopped up on the seat and looked at me. She then tried to lick my face, me shooing her away. I had seen that dog chew on a dead chicken, then kill a squirrel that morning already. Good heavens. No THANK YOU. I petted her and told her I was proud and she seemed pleased.

  I looked over to see Jake, Trevor’s dog…he looks just like a coyote and often I’ll tell them he fools me at least once a day. I cannot believe someone doesn’t shoot him, but they don’t…anyway, he had picked up the squirrel’s limp body and was trotting around, playing catch with himself, throwing the squirrel up in the air and snatching it on it’s way down.

  I drove home, Maggie sitting righteously beside me on the seat and I  pondered that stupid squirrel.

  He was safe. Why didn’t he just stay THERE? He jumped INTO the pack of dogs.Why?

 Then it hit me.

   Squirrels always want to go HOME at the slightest danger. Go to THEIR  tree, THEIR branch, where they feel comfortable. Even if it would be safer to stay put. That’s why squirrels will run UNDER your car when they are safely on the side of the road. They have an instinct to go to their comfort zone, their home…no matter how unsafe the trip may be…no matter that running away would be the best thing to do…no matter…no matter.

  I’ve done that.

I’ve gone back, I’ve thrown myself to the pack with abandon to try to go to the place I knew, the place I KNOW, the place that is MY place… place I’ve been put…the role I was supposed to play.…no matter how deadly or painful. No matter that I would do better to stay up on the light pole, tail fuzzed up and chattering a warning at the waiting pack below. No matter.

  I THREW myself and THREW myself into that pack of teeth and growling ghashingness …only to be shocked and STUNNED when I got hurt and torn, then played with like a chew toy.

So, I shall stay up here…close to the Light. Where it is safe, and my home is lovely with peace and harmony.

  There are no snarling dogs in my life anymore, waiting for me to throw myself  toward them, offering myself as a sacrifice.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Think about that, dear reader.

Think about trying to get back to someone or something…even though it will HURT you, KILL you inside.

Don’t do it.

Stay put.

Up by the Light, where you are safe and can perch and watch the slightly chubby 41 year old Poultry Princess fly by on her orange Kubota, her dog sitting queenishly beside her, looking forward.

You don’t have to try to get Home. You can be safe and not have your heart torn to bits and pieces. Be bright eyed and bushy tailed and safe.

Don’t be a squirrel. J

 

Show Girl Chickens, Miniature Donkeys, and Suicidal Peaches. (You know you want to read it. Who can resist Suicidal Peaches?)

I culled today, a nasty, tedious job filled with death and carnage.

Let me explain.

   Not all chickens are what I call “show girl” chickens, with glossy feathers and sparkling, healthy eyes. Some are runty and pecked at. Some have crossed beaks and bedraggled feathers. Some are sick and fuzzed up, their eyes listless and dull. Some have “break down” which is they seem perfectly fine until about 4-5 weeks of age, then suddenly their hip or knee joints give out and they are unable to get to food and water. Some are blind and will slowly starve to death.

  These chickens have to be taken out. And sadly, I’m the Poultry Princess to do it. I can’t let them go into the food chain, these sick, diseased, runty, ugly chickens…some need to be removed for purely cosmetic reasons, I must admit. I would be aghast if someone held up one of my cross beaked, skinny, runny eyed chickens and said “is this YOURS???”. So, I kill them as humanely as possible. They are all going to die, I tell myself. No chicken gets out alive, they give their lives to feed us, so I try to make their 8 weeks on this earth as pleasant as possible.

  So, I got up early and headed out there this morning in the cool air. Much work to be done and might as well do it before it gets hot. Some of the calves were near the liquid feeder, their breath visible in the early morning air.

   I started in house 1. It seems to be my problem child this batch. I easily could carry out 100 culls a day, but I can only carry so many at once, so I do 50-75 a day. Often, my hands will be full of dead chickens and I’ll come upon a cull. But…a bird in the hand is worth two on the floor and I walk past, vowing to get it tomorrow.

  The horses came and stood near the well house when I got done with house 1. I walked over and petted Onkey, the miniature Donkey. He is by far the most vicious, fearsome animal on our farm. All fear the Great and Powerful Onk!! I thought as I rubbed his tiny muzzle. I’ve seen him herd the 3 full size mares and the 1 miniature mare into a tight clutch, walking around them in his tiny steps, braying at top volume, threatening them with his teeth. He also will occasionally look into the woods whilst mixing in with the cows and begin to bray and run into the woods with much crashing and thrashing and then run back and circle the herd and check everything out. I need not fear stray dog or bobcat or coyote with Onkey  nearby. He is a classic example of “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog” saying. He is brave and tough and smart. No one has told him he isn’t 1000 pounds of spring steel and raw hide. He is strong because he doesn’t know what he can’t do.

  Aren’t you like that, dear reader? Don’t you, after you’ve gone thru something, realize it should have broken you down? Scared you beyond reason? and yet YOU, instead of running away and hiding, YOU ran BRAYING into the woods, thrashing, crashing, splashing thru the trees and morning dew and when you chased AWAY the bad thing…YOU came back and circled your herd, checking things out, braying once again as a warning?

 Tiny you.

 Cute, cuddly you.

 Soft, sweet YOU.

  Oh, it wasn’t the big, black 1500 pound Brangus Bull named Doc that protected the herd.

 It was YOU.  

  I got thru the chickens and drove home, stopping by the creek to look for snakes. I killed another one yesterday with my bb gun and drug it up on the bank with a large stick to take pictures. It was a water moccasin about 3 feet long.

  There were 2 snakes. The smaller one was doing a kind of a dance, swaying back and forth and rolling in the water. The larger snake was watching this with interest, as was I.

  I aimed my bb gun and missed, hitting slightly above the smaller snake. It froze and looked at me standing up on the road, aiming my bb gun down at them. It began it’s dance again and after I missed a couple more times, I quit shooting and just watched.

  The snakes swayed and bobbed and danced for a little while until my dog Maggie ran toward the bank and they swam away. There isn’t anything in this world more graceful than a snake swimming, except maybe 2 snakes swimming and they went into the culvert to hide.

  They’ll be there tomorrow, though and after I am done with chickens and petting horses, I will aim my child’s toy toward them again, these beautiful, poisonous, deadly, dancing  snakes. 

  Sometimes I think of all the snakes I’ve killed in that little hole of water. 20? 30? I’ve lost count. I kill 3 -5 every summer and I’ve had chicken houses for 10 years. Then, I think of ALL the holes of water, all the drying creeks running thru this countryside, with deep spots that keep water in them for a month or two at a time, filling with minnows and frogs and crawdads… and snakes.

  I think of that dance I saw the snakes doing, it made me think of that old Tom T. Hall song “Sneaky Snake” where he goes dancin’, a wigglin’ and a hissin’. I suspect it a mating dance and think of baby snakes. Once, Clint shot a large cotton mouth snake behind our house in the creek. It sunk and then…bubbling to the surface…16 baby cotton mouths that hadn’t been born yet. So my husband has killed 17 snakes with one shot, we like to say.

  I went outside to check my tomato plants and grieve over the peaches that insist on falling off the limbs before they are ripe. Stupid, suicidal peaches, I’ll mutter. I hear, in the distance…Onkey. He is braying loudly, insistently. I know coyotes will come to the composter to dig up dead chickens. They have to run across the pasture to get to it and I suspect Onkey sees them and warns them of his omnipotence. I don’t go check, I know the Great and Powerful Onk has things well in hand. Hoof. Whichever. His bray echoes and another peach comes off with the slightest brush of my hand, soft and slightly rotten. Stupid peaches, I think.

  But…higher up…a healthy, beautiful peach. I touch it, it is firm and clings tightly to the branch. It ignores the rotten other peaches and hangs on, storing up summer and sunshine. Oh, nothing holds the sun like a peach. Eating a fresh peach will warm you from the inside out. Edible sunshine, a peach. 

  Sometimes….dear reader, it’s just hanging on that makes the difference. It’s not being the biggest or most beautiful. It’s being Onkey, strong because he THINKS he is strong. It’s a peach, just staying there, hanging on for dear life, soaking up God’s sunshine.

   I think of times past, in my childhood…I planted my feet, braying loudly against something or someone, some bad thing…I made noise and I STAYED and I BRAYED and circled my herd. Oh, does everyone in my life like me or love me or respect me for this? No, dear reader, they do NOT. Even though… sometimes it was for THEM, for their safety. It is alright. I would do it for them anyway. I would do it again, for them, my herd.

   But… peaches  fall early  from trees and herds move on and snakes dance.

Today…I think…I shall be a peach that hangs on, soaking up God’s sunshine.

 A sweet, soft, ripe peach.

I’ll also be a donkey, braying and chasing. I’ve been called worse. J

If i had an indian name...it'd be Dances with Cows

I like to walk to the chicken houses in the cool of the evening. Sometimes, Clint goes with me, but more often than not… I go alone. Well, sometimes Maggie or Tika trots along beside me, but they get distracted by squirrels and run away.

  So, I’m by myself. Which is fine with me, I just put my ear buds in and listen to music on my iPod or podcasts about different things. I love to listen to podcasts. I dislike the ones with foul language, but that’s about my only caveat to listening to someone’s opinion. I listened to one recently about bullfighting and after hearing what actually happens to the bull before, during, and after the, ahem, “fight”, found myself decidedly Team Bull. Then, I listened to a conspiracy theory one about some guy calling a radio host and telling the host he was from the year 2063. The speaker on the podcast opined that he did NOT believe the time traveler was real because “he just didn’t seem that excited or into it”. Not the fact that time travel isn’t true, mind you, but that the MOOD of the time traveler was “off”. Just like the host, I suspect.  

  Last night, Clint was gone and I put in my earbuds and headed out to walk. I felt like listening to upbeat music, so I found Family Force 5’s “Love Addict” which is a song about the love of God. I urge you to listen to it if you can. Try NOT to dance.

  I put it on repeat and checked the chickens. It was just getting dusky and I was headed back home, the song echoing in my head, me singing along, bobbing my head ever so slightly.

   

                                         (hold up, wait a minute, put a little love in it)

I sang along, my feet hitting the gravel chicken house road in rhythm

                                         (can’t kick the habit, I’ve got to have it, I’m what they call a

                                                                     LOVE ADDICT, LOVE ADDICT)

I think about Trevor, introducing me to this song when he was a teenager, jumping up and dancing to it at church camp one year when I went as a lunch lady. How the crowd screamed and yelled and jumped up with him, dancing and bopping along, Trevor doing the “worm” up the aisle at church camp...everyone singing and clapping.

   So that’s what was running thru my head in a loop as I walked.

 (doctor, oh doctor, I’ve got an e-mer-gen-cy…it seems I’m head over heels with this

                                                    L-O-V-E)

I was halfway home, walking and singing on this road running thru the middle of my pasture. I saw movement to my right.

       I stop walking, turn my head and stare straight into the eyes of 45, the white cow that tried to kill me a couple of years ago. I made the mistake of being too close to her calf. She threw me up into a tree and wallered me and stomped my arm, leaving the most marvelous hoof print shaped bruise.

  To my HORROR…I see her new calf off to my left, on the other side of the road. 45 tosses her head at me angrily and takes a few steps toward me.

  I cannot outrun her. I cannot outrun a SNAIL, an ant, a beetle. I cannot RUN. My daughter says watching me run causes her pain to see it, awkward and loping and slow. I’m in good shape. I can walk for days and lift things and work.

                 I CANNOT run.

  There is also nothing to hide behind, in this open field on a gravel road. 45 snorts at me.

I walk a few steps, thinking I will remove myself from being between mother and  child. The calf moves WITH me. I warn the calf he is the next T-Bone and I WILL get my revenge MWA HA. I’ll swallow YOU, along with my FEAR, I warn the calf.

  I try this again. Step, step, step.

Calf moves with me.

45 is getting progressively more upset and paws the ground a little.

I have no other choice. I kneel down, never taking my eyes off of 45. I feel around, picking up 3 large pieces of gravel.

                                 (hold up, wait a minute, put a little love in it)

still plays loudly in my ears.

  The first piece of gravel whistles past her hind end. She doesn’t even notice, and takes another threatening step toward me.

     (can’t kick the habit, I’ve got to have it, I’m what they call a LOVE ADDICT, LOVE ADDICT)

  I take better aim this time and throw the rock hard toward her head, she’s coming toward me now.

                               WHACK!!!!

it hits her DEAD CENTER, right between the eyes with a hollow THWACK.

I take off trotting, this allowing me a few seconds to get out from between mother and child.

45 shakes her head, wobbles a bit. She lets out a confused MAAAA  and her calf runs to her. They sniff and check each other out and head out into the pasture.

  I stop trotting and walk the rest of the way home.

         ( I must confess, my heart is pounding in my chest, for this love’s the best)

I round the corner, headed home, people on the highway have their lights on now. It’s more dark than light.

               (HOLD UP, WAIT A MINUTE)

I give in to the music and bob my head, singing along, caring not what the people driving by may think.

(I’m glowing inside, with this light I can’t hide)

I think about Trevor and church camp and dancing with the kids. We often stopped whatever we were doing and danced. Once, the kids got me a birthday card that played music. It was “Can’t Touch This” and the rule was, if that card was opened, dancing commenced. So, I’d walk in from the chicken houses, dirty and nasty and Tara or Trevor would run and open the card.

               Now we dance! we’d shout and we WOULD and we’d boogie til the song was over.

  Their friends would come over and the shout would come NOW WE DANCE!! and we WOULD, me and my kid’s friends, laughing and dancing.

  So, when I got home I put “Love Addict” on speaker. Now we DANCE! I thought.

                                                               and I did.

chicken poop, snakes, and hurt feelings.

I wonder sometimes when it’s going to happen. 

  Getting bitten by a snake, of course, is the thing I wonder about.

   I have such a tendency to wear flip flops right up to the edges of creeks and ponds, poking at interesting things with sticks. I jump from the Kubota to peer closer at a turtle or large bull frog and before I SEE the snake, I HEAR the snake…that heavy, long lengthy slithery slide, the grass parting just slightly and PLOOP they are in the water. I get a glimpse of them and then they are gone.

  I killed a cottonmouth snake with a BB gun Friday morning. It had been a terrible day already and my spirit was low. Lower than a snake’s belly! I read in a children’s book once. I had dealt with pain and anger, anger and pain for days. I could scarcely bear it, the things said to me… to others, angry, mean words. Threats. Mocking words.  

  I saw the cottonmouth in the second creek on my way to the chicken houses. I was getting a late start, so it was almost 10 am. Usually I am out there earlier, but today was a bad day, so my schedule was off. The wind blew across my face, drying  the tears I had cried all morning.  It was hot already, the sun hitting my shoulders and arms.

  I keep a BB gun on the Kubota to spook dogs and wayward cattle and horses. I also shoot AT snakes but rarely actually HIT snakes.

  The snake was lying in the shallow part of the creek, sunning his body on a large rock, his head in the water.

 I stopped the Kubota. I aimed my BB gun and PING! Hit the snake right in the head. Instead of sliding away, gliding away under the water and hiding under a rock…he was still. I shot again, seeing that again I hit him right in the center of the head. He went under, rolling slowly under the water…that roll that snakes do when they are dying, their nerves still alive and twitching. . I grabbed a large stick and lifted the snake out of the water. He was dead, dead, dead.

  I was STUNNED. I lay him on the road and took a picture with my phone. I texted it to Clint with the caption “I killed a snake with my BB gun!!”. He called almost immediately and said “woman! you’re gonna get BIT one of these days, poking around creeks with a silly BB gun!”

 But he was proud of me and told me so. I hung up and headed to the chicken houses, feeling strangely lighter and better.

 I walked chickens, the air swirling with feathers and dirt. I picked up a cull and almost immediately it pooped on my leg, the goo running down into my boot. I never broke my stride. See, that stuff washes off. It’s gross and unpleasant and smells… but it won’t actually kill you.

 So on I walked. I picked up a cull that had been attacked by another chicken. I felt blood trickle down my other leg. That stuff washes off, too.

On I walked.

 I thought about my morning…about the words said to me. I thought about that dead snake.

  Oh, a tiny BB gun. Barely able to break the skin.

But…I killed a snake with it.

I killed a snake because I kept at it. I wasn’t afraid. My aim was true. I didn’t give up. Just kept shooting.

I pondered chicken poop and venomous snakes and angry words.

   I drove home after dumping the dead chickens onto the pile at the composter, the buzzards waiting. They’re always waiting. Waiting for the dead, the unliving, the unmoving, the battered and the bloody. They eyed me, tilting their heads to look at me. If we don’t cover the dead with leftover chicken litter, tomorrow I’ll drive out there and there will be bones and feathers, bits and pieces. Frankenchicken.

  I took a shower, washing off the poo and dirt and the morning. I got out of the shower, dried with a fluffy white towel. I braided my hair, plopped on my sun hat and put on my overall shorts.

  I sat down, my feet and legs feeling tired and shaky. I thought about the things said to me, from people that I loved, that once had  loved me. I prayed for them. I prayed for me. I pictured myself, a harmless child’s toy. A BB gun.

  I pictured hatred, like a poisonous snake, venomous and waiting, sunning in the water.

I looked again at the picture on my phone. I thought of Clint’s words. “Woman! You’re gonna get BIT!”.

  I thought of the people who lashed out at me. The people that…when they call and I see their number…I hesitate to answer. I never know who they are going to be. Do they?

  I thought of those people. I thought of getting snake bit. I wondered when…at what point…am I only going to be armed with a  BB gun or not armed at all and not see the snake? Will it bite me? Will it hurt?

  Clint and I were searching for a calf the other day. I had on my boots and at one point, Clint slowed the Kubota and I jumped off, going to walk toward the creek, where there were trees and shade. The perfect place to bed a calf down. I had taken a couple of steps when the snake slithered past me, 3 inches from my foot. A cottonmouth I had very nearly stepped on. I knew my boots wouldn’t have stopped an angry snake’s fangs. I turned to Clint. He had seen it and he got off the Kubota and looked, but the snake was gone.

   I don’t believe that bite would have come any more out of the blue or any more painful than what I had felt in the last few days.

  But…during church today, I realized my heart felt like I had washed it clean  and dried it with a fluffy, white towel. I washed off the gunk and goo of the last few days with tears and prayer. See, angry words are unpleasant and painful…but the won’t actually KILL you.

  And…I feel God is telling me there are creeks I must stay away from. No matter the memories or former tugs at my heart. Stay away, says God to me.

 To keep from getting bitten, of course.

And so I shall.

If you wanna sing out, sing out!

I love music of all kinds…on my iPod and Kindle I have worship music…Adele…Jimmy Buffet… Weird Al…my music tastes are eclectic and tend toward older stuff.

My favorite is Alison Krauss, with or without Union Station. I saw AKUS years ago. Clint bought me 4 tickets to see them in Branson and I took my friends Carolyn, Sherry, and Toni. We had a grand time. I drove and I discovered something about myself. When we would exit a parking lot onto the infamous 76 strip with its terrible traffic, I would nose my black Expedition out onto the road. I would make eye contact with who ever was driving toward me. Often it was a man and I would smile and say under my breath “he’s gonna let me in, he just doesn’t know it yet.” Then I would smile even bigger and wave my fingers at him and he would stop and let me in. Then I would pull out onto the road, smiling and mouthing thank you and getting a smile and wave in return. This caused great laughter around me. I didn’t see what was so funny, as this is the sort of thing I do all the time. I do the same thing when I’m walking into Walmart or the mall..I look toward a coming car and I smile and they slow and let me walk across. But it became a staple saying that weekend, every time we pulled out of a parking lot..”he’s gonna let me in, he just doesn’t know it yet.” we would say in unison and he WOULD let us in and we would smile and wave. Tis a fine thing to be a southern woman. I haven’t been to many other places. I wonder if it would work up north or would they think me a loon and honk at me and perhaps give me the finger. I shall try it someday and report back to you.

I think I like Alison Krauss because I can sing harmony with her. Her voice is so high, crystal and pure. I cannot sing as high as Alison, when I try it comes out shrieky and weird. My voice is low and untrained. My Preston side of the family can all sing or play instruments or both. The first time I went to a church as a child of 8 and a woman got up and sang and just BUTCHERED the song, just yelped and screeched and caterwauled as sometimes people do…no one will tell you not to sing if you are willing to get up there and do it..…I looked at my mother in HORROR and whispered “what is WRONG with her voice?”. She shushed me and I sat and listened, feeling almost sick to my stomach and embarrassed for the lady up there just a yelling away. I didn’t understand that not everybody could sing, not everybody sang with their sisters and brother while hanging clothes on the line or doing dishes.

I sing harmony along with Alison. It’s really my favorite thing to do, sing harmony and blend and make that sweet sound. I told people for years I was an alto and then I started singing in the choir at my church and realized to my chagrin that I do NOT sing the alto, I sing what I HEAR and it’s not the alto, it’s the tenor part OR the bass and baritone an octave up. This makes for a hard time for me singing in a structured choir, as my voice tends to be soulful and unruly and does it’s own thing. How do you know there’s an alto at the door? She doesn’t have the key and doesn’t know when to come in, goes the old joke. But I soldier on and fake my way thru the alto part, working very hard during choir practice, only to forget it due to nervousness and sing what I hear in my head. Sigh. Tis my lot. Sorry, Bro. Tim.

My children and I would sing whenever we drove anywhere and when you have young teenagers you drive them EVERYWHERE and so we would sing. “Jesus Freak” was a favorite and Casting Crowns…Tara doing the lead, Trevor doing the tenor, me intoning my weird, low harmony. We would get up and sing at church and people marveled at our harmonies and sound. Trevor hates to sing and will just about refuse to even practice with us. He’s content playing the drums with the band at church. But…his wife Mykka has a gorgeous voice and sang at Tara and Daniel’s wedding. I’m working on her now….she’s gonna let me in, she just doesn’t know it yet.

Tara can sing higher than me, I suspect that’s from her youth and practice. She sings with her husband Daniel. He plays guitar and leads our worship at church. The thing I like about worship songs is they are free-er, I can throw my head back and just sing my harmony like I want to. I can’t hit the notes I used to..not that they were all that high, but I could at least hit them. I can’t now, my voice seeming to get lower and lower on the register. I remember hearing my Granny Viv sing and she had that strange, low, beautiful sound. Perhaps that shall be me and someday my grandchildren will write about Granny Lichea and her weird voice and penchant for reptiles and all things sparkly.

So, today…while puttering around the house, picking up things and putting them back in their places…dusting and sweeping…I am harmoniously singing harmony with Ms. Krauss..



“this old house is falling down around my ears-

I’m drowning in a river of my tears-

when all my will is gone, you hold me sway-

I need you at the dimming of the day”

“Dimming of the Day”



That song is on her latest cd. The first time I heard it, I knew all the words. I really did. I searched my memory, but didn’t remember knowing that song at all. I even knew the harmony, when to rise and fall with her voice. I told Clint about it and asked if that ever happened to him, did he ever hear a song for the first time and know all the words. He looked at me like he always does, bemused… he reminds me of that dog that’s got his head cocked sideways listening to the old Victrola… and said “how would I know all the words to a song I had never heard before?” and I said “that’s what I’m asking! how do I know all the words?” I finally went and looked it up, finding out it came out in 1975. I would have been 5 years old. I found the original version, but it didn’t sound familiar to me at all. But, I must have heard it somewhere, sometime, and along with sitcom theme songs and my old home phone number, it nestled in my brain to be coaxed out by AKUS’s version.

Sometimes, I can’t quite find the note I’m searching for and I’ll try several, cringing when the harmony note I’m attempting is discordant and raw. But eventually, I’ll find one that fits and is pleasing. Tara and I have this thing we do where we start on one note and slide up to another note and we stay in harmony the whole time. We do this without practicing or knowing where we are starting. I can’t do this with anyone else, but I’m working on it with Mykka and we are making progress. I listen where Mykka’s voice goes and I follow. She’s gonna let me in, she just doesn’t know it yet.

Once, Tara and I were watching TV and there was a boring part on the show we were watching. At the very same time, we starting singing the same song, Tara doing the lead, me doing the harmony. It was a commercial jingle…”I am green today, like the cricket sounds” or something like that. It was the strangest, most wonderful thing. We laughed about it later and tried it again several times, always knowing the note the other was going to sing before it was sung. We demonstrated it for Clint. He said we sounded good, but I don’t know if he understood that we were, in essence, reading each others minds about the key we were going to sing in. Tara let me in, she just didn’t know it yet.

I find in my life, I sing harmony with everything I do. I rise and fall in the conversation and mood of my friends, finding the “thing” that balances and soothes and smooths. I shy away from discord, finding my spot to come in, finding the note that goes and makes it sound better. So, that’s me. I want to find a note, a spot, a place to come in and be harmonious to you. There are some people that I’ve tried to do this with and it didn’t work. This always leaves me confused and distressed. Some people refuse to let you sing with them, they WON’T let you in no matter WHAT note you try. I liken this to teaching a pig to sing. You waste your time and annoy the pig. There are so many people who will sing with me, loudly and with abandon. So I keep away from people who’s souls don’t sing with the same joy mine does. So, dear reader, I invite you to sing with me if you are able. Not with our voices, but with our lives, with our friendship and laughter. I must tell you, dear reader, as I smile and wave. You’re gonna let me in. You just don’t know it yet. 

Easter, y'all :)

   I think of Easter…when I was a child. The baskets, the hard boiled eggs we would hide all day, until the shells were cracked and peeling…then we would sit outside and eat them. After hiding them ALL DAY. I doubt we even washed them, I don’t remember doing so, but perhaps we DID. But I doubt it. It is probably one of the reasons I have a strong, hale, hearty immune system. Only the REALLY bad things get thru. I rarely fall to colds or 24 hour tummy bugs. I instead get viral meningitis. See? Only the most nefarious, terrible bugs get through, the bugs that have been sifted and weeded out by weaker immune systems.

    We rarely got gifts or chocolate at Easter…just baskets and eggs and sometimes a new dress, either store bought or homemade. Mom would dress Bobbie and I just alike, like twins. We were the same size even though I was 2 years older. Bobbie was rounder than me..all those years ago…but now she’s not. She’s tall and lean up next to my curvy roundness. Bobbie is 5’11” and we probably weigh the same. I’m 5’3” but my hair makes me taller. I tease it til it takes offense, then laquer it good with hair spray.

  But one Easter when I was 6,  mom gave Bobbie and me necklaces from Avon. It was a tiny, cartoonish rabbit on a strangely linked chain. The ears on the rabbit were a separate piece and would move back and forth. I became obsessed with this, betraying my tomboyish ways and paving my future sparkly fascination.

  I wore it to school, carefully touching it through out the day to make sure it was still there. I didn’t go down the slide, or swing upside down on the monkey bars for fear of losing  or breaking it.

  I have no idea what became of our bunny necklaces, it just seemed as though one day they were gone and forgotten. Sometimes Bobbie and I would talk about the necklaces with fondness and think of how sweet the bunny was and how excited we were to wear them to Easter with our mom and grandparents that chilly, beautiful Easter morning. We sang “Christ Arose” a song I still love to hear at Easter. Sometimes, we would have “dinner on the ground” and there’d be potato salad and meatloaf and casseroles. There is nothing like Baptist food, it will fatten you up and make you happy. Several years ago, I read about a study that said people who carb loaded after a stressful event had less depression. Well, DUH!!  says this southern gal. I know something about sadness and I know something about eating chicken and dumplings and green beans and coconut pie and feeling that sadness just wash away. Southern gals have known this for years. It’s in our rich, butter laden blood. After a loved one dies, immediately….the good, church going southern gal knows to bake bread! Bake a cake! Make those chocolate chip cookies you make by HEART and by DOG make them gooey and soft and chewy! A slice of nice pie will sooth some of the pain  of losing a loved one and sadness  is best sopped up with a biscuit.

  So Bobbie and I ate our potato salad and chicken and dumplings in our matching dresses, sitting on the front steps of Union Hope Baptist church, reaching up occasionally to touch the base of our necks for the little bunny with the moving ears.

     That was so long ago. Today is Easter and I think on these things. Jesus, rising. He is risen, indeed. I think of potato salad and peach pie, still warm, the ooze of peach juice and sugar on the crust, the wonderful crust, the hint of whipped cream. I think of bunny necklaces and matching dresses.

  Then I think about, how…back when the kids were small…4 and 6… close to Easter time, Clint stopped at a yard sale as he does sometimes to kill a little time. He saw something that made him think of me. He bought it, paying almost nothing for it and bringing it home and handing it to me. 

  I’m looking at it right now.. the strange chain. The moveable ears. The tiny, cartoonish bunny.  I had never told Clint about my necklace from my childhood. He said he wasn’t sure why he got it, as it was obviously a child’s necklace. He said it had just jumped out at him. Yes, he made a funny and yes, I laughed.

  I think of Easter, when I was a child. I think of my own children and “Christ Arose”. Trevor, in the suit I made him. Tara, in the dress I made her, with her hat and lacy gloves and white shoes and a brand new band aid under her eye to cover the stitches from a recent jumping off the bed and hitting the tv face first.  I think of Clint, buying that necklace for me and not even knowing why. I think of dinner on the ground at  the church of my childhood  with homemade rolls and did you try her green beans? they’ve got BACON in them  and did you make this pie crust HOMEMADE? it’s divine and I do believe I’ll have some more okra and a dab more of that fruit salad. Vivian, how do you get your pie to set so well? Could you hand me a biscuit? I do believe this is the best meringue I’ve ever tasted. Meringue can be just a BOOGER, sometimes mine turns out rubbery. But not this one! Oh my! That is SO good!  I can still hear the ladies chatter, standing over the food, swishing at flies, doling out slivers of pie and spoonfuls of dressing. Y’all want some sweet tea?

  I thought of these things in church this morning, as we sang. We didn’t sing “Christ Arose” so I came home today and sang it while I spooned out chicken enchiladas to Clint. He shushed me a teeny bit when I got to the loud, high part, so I sang it quieter.

  “Low, in the grave He lay

    Jesus, my Savior

    Waiting the coming day

     Jesus, my Lord-

        Up from the grave He AROSE!

      With a mighty triumph o’er His foes

       He arose the victor of the dark domain

       and He lives forever with His saints to reign!

                       He AROSE!!!

                       He AROSE!!!

          Hallelujah, Christ Arose.”

   Have a happy Easter, y’all. I do believe I’ll go get some more chicken enchiladas and just one more of those WONDERFUL chocolate chip cookies and rest a bit before I go back to church, to sing loudly in our Easter program, where my sweet, gentle son plays a vicious Roman  guard, screaming at Jesus and abusing Him …Clint plays one of the disciples, that follow Jesus and love Him implicitly ..…Tara and I sing, soloing on some parts, dueting on others, our voices both  blending and competing, singing “Blessed Redeemer”  during the time Trevor and Clint play opposing parts, one putting Jesus on the cross, one taking His limp body down. They solo and duet, too, but not with music…with acting, each taking his part and playing it to the fullest. Woven and weaving, my family this Easter, singing and acting on this Easter Sunday.

                                            He arose.

                                            He AROSE!

                                            Hallelujah, Christ AROSE!

Ray of Sunshine OR Fish are jumpin' and the Cotton is High

It was hot and sunny last Saturday and after I got done painting the bathroom in Clint’s shop and he got done with fixing tractors and whatever else is broken, we went fishing.

  We have a little pond right behind our house. We’ve never stocked it and yet magically, it is filled with crappie and bream and the occasional bass. I have no idea how this happens, there isn’t water running into the pond from a creek or something that would have fish in it…but yet, there they are, along with the frogs, crawdads, minnows, turtles and snakes. It truly is one of those “build it and they will come” sort of things, much like if you put a basketball court up, you will soon have scads of teenage boys dribbling balls and passing and yelling good naturedly at each other.

  I don’t understand how the fish get there, but I don’t question it. I just fish and throw them back, as they are too small to eat and I would just as soon let them be happy and swim around.

  Clint was on one side of the pond, and I on the other. He likes to fish with complicated lures and poles…I like bobbers and worms and minnows. I also will take the fish off the hook myself, carefully grasping the fish so his dorsal spike doesn’t poke my hand or allowing the fish to wriggle and send the hook into my finger. These are things I have learned over time, from fishing as a small child in ponds and lakes and creeks. Hooks are vicious and deadly, their barbs making them hard to remove. I’ve pushed hooks thru the skin on Clint’s finger and cut the barb off  with pliers to pull the hook out. It’s a terrible job and I hate it. So, best to not get the hook stuck there in the first place.

  I think of fishing past, of catching catfish in Granny’s lake on chicken livers. Chicken livers used for fishing are nasty, stinky things that are often so rotten they’d barely stay on the hook. Ray and I would string the livers onto the hooks, wiping our nasty hands right on our shirt fronts. We would smell so bad, mom would make us ride in the back of the truck all the way home.

  Once, Ray and I were fishing in a pond near our aunt Debbie’s house in Mixon (a rural community WAY out in the boonies) before one of those sudden,  summer storms that pop up, roaring and scary.  The catfish were coming to the top of the water, like small sharks, their dorsal fins cutting thru the brackishness. They were agitated and flopping, breaking the surface with big, wide mouths. Catfish don’t really have teeth, but they have rough, snaggly mouths that will break thru your skin if you pick them up by the mouth like you would a bass. You have to pick a catfish up by the gills, and you will hear the grinding, snapping sounds of their “teeth”. Ray got a bite, pulling his line taut. He fought to get the fish in, the pole bending and creaking. Finally, Ray pulled the creature up on the shore.

  It was the biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen. It’s shell was black, broad and shiny. It was fighting and snapping, the fishing line coming from its mouth. It had swallowed the hook, and dug it’s feet in to keep from Ray pulling him up further. It made a strange, prehistoric sound and thrashed it’s head back and forth, back and forth, trying to dislodge the thing from it’s throat. Ray and I didn’t know what to do, so I screamed CUT THE LINE! But we had no pocket knife or pliers, so I took the line in my mouth, the line that had just been in that swirling black water with  rotten chicken livers, catfish, turtles, and cottonmouth snakes. I took it, Ray holding tension, the turtle fighting and pulling against us. I bit down, knowing exactly how to cut the line with my teeth, having done it hundreds of times.

  My teeth cut through quickly , and the turtle flipped backward, line hanging from his mouth. One smooth kick from his feet and he was gone, the only evidence the swirling, dirty water and me with the line still  in my mouth.

  We could hear the storm in the distance, coming swiftly…but we had more chicken liver and the fish were JUMPING now, breaking the surface. So we fished and caught catfish after catfish, stringing them on the stringer. Finally, we could ignore the storm no more and Ray hung the stringer of flopping catfish on the handlebars of his bike and we pedaled the mile back to our house as fast as we could. Lightning struck behind us, the storm seeming to follow us home. Mom cleaned the catfish and rolled them in cornflour and fried them lightly. We ate them for supper, watching TV and listening to the storm outside. We told Mom and Bobbie and Boo about the turtle and the fish looking like sharks as rain fell, coming in sideways from the wind.

  I thought about that as I cast my bobber and worm into my quiet, little pond, sunshine burning my neck in a pleasant way.

  I saw a curious turtle poke his head out of the water and nudge toward my bobber. I pulled it sharply, scaring the turtle and he ducked under the water.

  Then, I noticed swimming toward my bobber…a brown, small snake, it’s back a swirl of patterns. I yelled to Clint “hey! a snake!” and we watched him glide through the water, so graceful. He turned when he got to my bobber and pointed toward me on the bank, his tail gently whipping back and forth, propelling him toward me. I held my breath, not reeling in my line, perfectly still.

  I wanted him to come up on the bank, I wanted to see him closer, his glistening skin, the beautiful pattern of his scales.

  He edged closer and closer. I stood in my flip flops, silent, smelling the fish on my hands I had just released.

 Then he stopped and stared right at me and without so much as a flicker, he was under the water. I watched and watched the edge of the pond, waiting for him to appear. Clint walked over, wanting to go  home and get out of the sun and rest for a little while. I said “I keep thinking that snake will pop up! I’d like to see him!” Clint just laughed and said “woman, what is it with you and snakes? He’s too smart to pop up. He’s hiding.” I stood there for another second, my eyes still searching for a small, brown head. “I might not know where he is,” I stated “but I bet Mr. Snake is watching me right now. I don’t know where he is, but he knows where I’m at.”

  I pulled the leftover piece of my worm off my hook and threw it into the pond and then, doing the thing I’ve done since I was a child, with Ray and Bobbie, something so second nature it was like I was 12 again, the storm coming, the turtle on the line, the string of catfish….I carefully strung the hook onto the pole, securing it so it wouldn’t fly around and hook a finger or a face. It made me thing of the time Ray had walked behind me as I cast, the chicken liver gooey and stinky and heavy ... and as I cast, the hook caught him in the left nostril. I felt it snag and I stopped, freezing in my tracks. I turned to see Ray, the hook hanging from his nose, the chicken liver hitting him on the mouth. I had stopped so soon into my cast when I felt resistance, the barb didn’t break through and I carefully unhooked Ray, my hands holding his face perfectly still. A small trickle of blood ran out of his nose and he wiped it away. We re-enacted this for our family when we got home, Ray hooking his finger in his nose and pulling it straight out to imitate what it looked like, me freezing with total stillness after I felt my hook catch something behind me. I told this story to Clint as we climbed on to the Kubota, hooking my finger in my nose like Ray. Clint listens good naturedly, as he has heard this story, just as he has heard ALL my stories in the last 24 years.

  As we drove around the pond, I saw movement on the edge. A snapping turtle, about 6 inches across, slid slowly into the water as we approached. He watched us for a moment, then with one smooth kick, slipped under the water, the only evidence of him being there a swirl of dirty water, a ripple on the surface.