tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20789939553366872432024-03-08T06:31:49.903-05:00The Reindeer KeeperAbbey senses something special about the little man tending the reindeer who, along with an old farmhouse, was a gift to Abbey. She and husband Steve, together since the '60s, move in just before the holidays. Now 30 years later, they're looking forward to their boys coming home for Christmas. Turns out this Christmas proves to be more magical than anticipated!Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.comBlogger417125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-43507736143750887352024-02-25T12:43:00.001-05:002024-02-25T12:43:56.090-05:00Creamsicle with Whiskers<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnbsQen8ez75RnsFHHt7TftZjGJdQqq0rtZzPHfRwfVSbpit8DDwo0RokjDbjF5rfB-64kO2EwSqihIwI_pZ7Qtuedk6wtKhbzQmeNFCiC5hyx8AgvN1bMdss8E78teNGXb_dWIRphEEOI5beoJ2yqFsC120DKvvlhL_WFWhSxoMHO6nDerMQN-bkhw7t/s605/o49ug0lpy8111.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="605" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggnbsQen8ez75RnsFHHt7TftZjGJdQqq0rtZzPHfRwfVSbpit8DDwo0RokjDbjF5rfB-64kO2EwSqihIwI_pZ7Qtuedk6wtKhbzQmeNFCiC5hyx8AgvN1bMdss8E78teNGXb_dWIRphEEOI5beoJ2yqFsC120DKvvlhL_WFWhSxoMHO6nDerMQN-bkhw7t/s320/o49ug0lpy8111.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The attached photo is misleading. This post is actually about a stray cat residing out back in the barn, but I can't get close enough to 'her' to get a good picture. Why did I choose to post a photo of yummy Creamsicles? Let me tell you the story.<div><br /></div><div>The old barn has housed many a stray cat. Most check in for a night or so then keep on moving along. We normally don't see them again. I'm sure some have homes with heat, food, and hopefully lots of loving but despite what they have, they like to wander. Go on an adventure, then head back home for a while before going back out around the neighborhood or, in our case, back out around the fields and old barns.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last year we really took to a particular stray. Every time I would see him, I would hurry to feed him in hopes he would stay around a little longer than before. It usually worked. It got to the point where he would come up from the barn to a certain tree. Then sit there until I brought food out to him. Eventually he did not run away. I was able to sit nearby and talk to him, even pet him while he ate and drank. It wasn't long before he would run after me if I started to leave, batting at my feet with a paw, as if asking me to stay and play. And so, I would sit back down and play and talk and pet him. By that point we had named him Randy, after a character in a TV ad. </div><div><br /></div><div>It fit him.</div><div><br /></div><div>One summer night it started pouring outside. Then the thunder and lightning struck. That's when I noticed Randy sitting by the back door. I could tell he was seeking shelter from the storm. So, I opened the door and in he came. Randy didn't like being in the house. He ended up sitting by the back door. So, I opened it and back out he went, into the storm and most likely, back down to the barn. I assumed other strays had checked in down there. After all, it was quite the stormy night. Going to the barn made sense. There was no check in. No reservations needed. First come, first served. No tipping required. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks later on a beautiful Sunday morning, three days before I planned on taking Randy to a Vet for a check-up, I happened to look out the kitchen window. My heart sank to my toes. Tears came to my eyes when seeing a ball of fluff on the side of the road. I knew it was Randy. I stood in the kitchen staring out that window hoping she would get up and run into the field. But that never happened. I found a shovel and took care of Randy as graciously as I could.</div><div><br /></div><div>From that point on, my son and I avoided making any contact with stray cats in the barn. I left no food. I turned my back-until one day I happened to look out towards the barn and saw the most beautiful cat I have ever seen. 'She' was so puffy. Sort of orangish-like a Creamsicle-a Creamsicle with whiskers. We fell in love with Creamsicle. I take her out food and treats whenever she shows up out by the barn. And when she does show up, we let out a happy yell around the house, "Creamsicle is here!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I have not been able to get near her. I have yet to get any good photos of that beautiful puffball. When she does return, she will sit by the barn door and stare at the house as if saying, "I'm back and I'm hungry."</div><div>And if I am home and see her sitting there, I hurry to bring her food and more than enough treats-so many more!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><p></p><div><br /></div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-37142877394397386442024-01-05T22:15:00.000-05:002024-01-05T22:15:04.237-05:00The Mitten Drawer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAeza8jLlRPD5kH25GeK0XNUzn6OgDH6fAooKLkyWIHpx2nkZ-gd0Pekmr5hMj-ho_bBqbFmSWhoiHkbkX6ZV-RAXZgra__m1zC1gyP8gn-p9ORewq3nVAQcB2MYyuZ1GiVkueVYsi3ObWq3mHgiCOPPz1h-jUu8eAjDtUFVQnfL13yM4K3_Kir_ImR8C/s1080/thumbnail%20-%202024-01-05T204413.552.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1080" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAeza8jLlRPD5kH25GeK0XNUzn6OgDH6fAooKLkyWIHpx2nkZ-gd0Pekmr5hMj-ho_bBqbFmSWhoiHkbkX6ZV-RAXZgra__m1zC1gyP8gn-p9ORewq3nVAQcB2MYyuZ1GiVkueVYsi3ObWq3mHgiCOPPz1h-jUu8eAjDtUFVQnfL13yM4K3_Kir_ImR8C/s320/thumbnail%20-%202024-01-05T204413.552.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I recently posted a feature about two of my old cupboards all decked out for Christmas, pointing out my love for such intriguing pieces of furniture with nooks and crannies meant to hold special little treasures. More often, special to just me.<p></p><p>This morning, with the outside temperature in the single digits, I went to a drawer in one of those cupboards. It is a deep drawer. One of two. It is the one I go to often during the winter. That is because it is full of mittens. Well, not really anymore. Mittens were the intended occupants but that has changed over the years. I didn't realize how much that has changed until I pulled it open and was greeted by a hodgepodge of odds 'n ends of stuff. It was mostly all warm stuff. Like scarfs and gloves. A few woolen socks. A few hats. Knitted hats. But hardly any mittens. Matching mittens, that is. There were quite a few of those small, stretchy black mittens that you can even buy at the grocery store which I always find convenient. That is why there were so many of them. But some had holes in them. Some had lost their stretchiness. </p><p>Usually when I go that drawer I am in a hurry. I don't take the time to really look through the pile of stuff greeting me. But with the outside temperature very cold, I wanted some extra warm, and if possible, matching mittens. </p><p>So, I start digging.</p><p>I went beyond the scarfs. Designer scarfs. Some with fringe. Knitted scarfs. Kids' scarfs. There were some knitted, tight fitting toques. A few with a small, knitted ball of yarn attached at the top or to a piece of yarn that made it possible for the knitted ball of yarn to fly around if the child or adult wearing it was going full speed. On this very cold morning I could imagine those small balls of yarn soaring.</p><p>There were two baseball caps. One baseball cap slowed me down for a minute. I had not seen it for a while. My son used to wear it to work in a garden of long ago.</p><p>When I reached the bottom, I found some Legos. Some playing cards and pencils. Pennies. Nickels. Crayons. A Hello Kitty hairclip. Even an earring that I'd been missing for some time.</p><p>I even found some matching mittens. Very warm matching mittens. Just what I needed to start my extremely cold January day. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-32910854675806383642023-12-29T14:49:00.000-05:002023-12-29T14:49:04.917-05:00The Wild Asparagus Christmas Tree<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLuEqmevfC3TjzcJGSlLMJRkXBFHyn9pRPHnVVffP8nLWYefzRRFwY0Vo4EALu4d_sFTGOkC4TmNsvzUiO6FHF_o5-fRuLBtB-_NricS5k511xXXixsUjriG2mwgKeOuwcN5SkVDWm9HgODT9WZXnb70fYc05DnywxmoSofnIjJlnl8pSRpsw7AtYElAx/s1456/thumbnail%20-%202023-12-19T120746.861.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1456" data-original-width="1031" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLuEqmevfC3TjzcJGSlLMJRkXBFHyn9pRPHnVVffP8nLWYefzRRFwY0Vo4EALu4d_sFTGOkC4TmNsvzUiO6FHF_o5-fRuLBtB-_NricS5k511xXXixsUjriG2mwgKeOuwcN5SkVDWm9HgODT9WZXnb70fYc05DnywxmoSofnIjJlnl8pSRpsw7AtYElAx/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-12-19T120746.861.jpg" width="227" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstQ5LQnfmW1mMktZPbokaiTFU42tkEtyDhKdynZ_mdPXm3leZ037mRfFulDx1NqrB0oXTb_Y230BFPZ6r29B5L-d85EVnNymIpV95ohuISa-VdklRNj1u1ZY6lmfPYGGD-_Jztnhq54GwxplLqZt2T4FS5UCwiEyIf-Rutzrdqtss8EWnr8_ZjsNYqDrG/s1080/thumbnail%20-%202022-10-30T090952.593.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="1080" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstQ5LQnfmW1mMktZPbokaiTFU42tkEtyDhKdynZ_mdPXm3leZ037mRfFulDx1NqrB0oXTb_Y230BFPZ6r29B5L-d85EVnNymIpV95ohuISa-VdklRNj1u1ZY6lmfPYGGD-_Jztnhq54GwxplLqZt2T4FS5UCwiEyIf-Rutzrdqtss8EWnr8_ZjsNYqDrG/s320/thumbnail%20-%202022-10-30T090952.593.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><br />Off in the field just outside our back door wild asparagus plants grow. I've cooked a few spears and somewhat enjoyed them. But the real enjoyment of having them as neighbors is watching them throughout the year. As autumn draws to a close, they turn a colorful canary yellow as shown in the 2nd photo.<p></p><div>Those wild asparagus plants endure all sorts of weather. The field where they live is wide open to all the elements so when the wind howls, they take a beating. Sometimes they end up flat on the ground. Sometimes they lose lots of their ferny. Sometimes in winter they get buried in snow. Or covered in ice and lose more of their ferny. Spring rainfalls can get treacherous. If the wind picks up, I hesitate to look over in that field, not wanting to see if they survived. So far, so good.</div><div><br /></div><div>One morning a few weeks ago I looked out and discovered it had snowed overnight. A winter wonderland was in place, even on those wild asparagus plants. With my winter gear on and phone for photos in my hand, out I went. It was spectacular. As I walked about the asparagus plants, my boots crunching in the snow, I had a thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas was approaching and I had a few tree decorations leftover. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had put them back upstairs but looking at the snow-covered wild asparagus plants I thought it would be fun to decorate one. They'd earned the right to celebrate Christmas after surviving the wind, snowfalls, rainstorms, the hot sun beating down on them, predators, I went inside and told my son about my idea. He agreed. They needed to join in the spirit of the Holiday Season.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I ran upstairs, took hold of a few of those leftover decorations and went back outside and over to the field fresh with sparkling snow. I picked out one of the largest of the wild asparagus plants. It was taller than most of the others. It was also more by itself. The only problem was it was hard to hang ornaments on its ferny, thin little wisps of branches. If they didn't have a little bit of the branch sticking out, I couldn't hang an ornament. </div><div>And then there were the rather large leaves the wind had blown about those asparagus' plants. Some of those leaves were blown right into the middle of the plant. Some were stuck to their ferny branches making it impossible to decorate. </div><div><br /></div><div>But none of that mattered.</div><div>While the wild asparagus Christmas tree looks a little lopsided, it never looked more like Christmas.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am sure Santa was happy.</div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-72334935540846698032023-12-11T00:25:00.001-05:002023-12-11T07:31:47.608-05:00Old Cupboards at Christmastime<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYdQOQebzCsjAGz_5CDGB7OFz1hDrFQCP_1YBd2Cz3CZsc17EU0CD0_qXzkLNoS0AgpbtCVW6MQile7Mzo1hqT14e3C7Hy-1cvp6MMECXcgGj3m6sPJIReHuWshw_RLlLRSnp7PhjyyMFEiCzkzv_IsNtx6XQrLLWVRMOOuMLzD_AytGo-snBqSXz2Yu-/s3861/IMG_9730%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3861" data-original-width="2728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYdQOQebzCsjAGz_5CDGB7OFz1hDrFQCP_1YBd2Cz3CZsc17EU0CD0_qXzkLNoS0AgpbtCVW6MQile7Mzo1hqT14e3C7Hy-1cvp6MMECXcgGj3m6sPJIReHuWshw_RLlLRSnp7PhjyyMFEiCzkzv_IsNtx6XQrLLWVRMOOuMLzD_AytGo-snBqSXz2Yu-/s320/IMG_9730%20(1).jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK8dbODw0GYDVI9-LOb4wNXqomrB6BYcpKoej8ZA3IciFaD0NBGDj3BHq6S-Mf-rtQAv0ZYUGj0rAU39tMOayTr5XHBR0BYpgpYhG8mZFU-ZrDOMCgdnhLfJWG8smUxdCOZMM-KMNxYo4gqv688Z1Q9hWOpKTWhP6yRXdO6hO_sDkg1sW9-N402y2l7L3/s1244/thumbnail%20-%202023-12-10T102359.564.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1244" data-original-width="1032" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK8dbODw0GYDVI9-LOb4wNXqomrB6BYcpKoej8ZA3IciFaD0NBGDj3BHq6S-Mf-rtQAv0ZYUGj0rAU39tMOayTr5XHBR0BYpgpYhG8mZFU-ZrDOMCgdnhLfJWG8smUxdCOZMM-KMNxYo4gqv688Z1Q9hWOpKTWhP6yRXdO6hO_sDkg1sW9-N402y2l7L3/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-12-10T102359.564.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>Old cupboards, like two of mine I am featuring in this Post, have always intrigued me. With drawers and shelves and files, they offer so many options for storing stuff, displaying stuff and hiding stuff. Better yet, stories of long ago are in the drawers, on the shelves and in those files. You just have to listen. And when it is Christmastime, those old cupboards become even more intriguing once they are dressed in twinkling lights or Santas or fresh greenery, candy canes, old crocks, Holiday art and decorations. <div><br /></div><div>I stumbled upon the smaller cupboard at a place opening up several years ago. They were taking items on consignment. At that time, I was just beginning to dabble in art, using mostly markers and having no clue what I was doing. Looking back, I am so glad I went. While the owner did end up taking a few of my pieces, it was a simple cupboard off in a corner that made my day. Of all the stuff in that place, I felt that little cupboard was mine even before I took a closer look. The wood-the plank boards-were rough. None of it matched yet I fell in love with that plain, brandless cupboard with its three shelves and one plain knob. There was just something about its simpleness. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few days later, the owner of the shop delivered it to me, and it has been with me ever since. At the moment, it is sitting in the small hallway by the front door all decked out for Christmas. It gets lots of compliments. Some ask about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>One conversation led me to its creator. Its designer. Its dreamer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I learned the man who built that narrow cupboard was a friend of my grandparents and an aunt and uncle who enjoyed refinishing antiques. Once I heard his name, I knew where he had lived. I understood his connection with some in my family as they too loved things like old cupboards with stories and rough plank boards that didn't match. Antiques tell stories. My narrow cupboard told a story that caught my eye.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other cupboard belonged to my mother. She used it in a few shops she owned for displays. I can still see bolts of fabric stacked one on top of another. And beautiful sweaters beautifully displayed. And the jewelry. And hat pins. And feathers for hats. </div><div><br /></div><div>Best of all the little nails she used for displaying necklaces are still there. Still waiting for their next assignment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Right now, both old cupboards are awaiting Christmas. Both are hiding gifts. Those gifts will be put under the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. And the next day, those old cupboards will have another story to tell.</div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-7945779099791371192023-11-17T16:50:00.000-05:002023-11-17T16:50:29.511-05:00The Little Tree Off in a Field<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1R3k0Yr5NSbA2ichImlI75oRfQ6xlTdAR_EAXjkxioDp0D8GS-5DPkCXeD5itMiIkXhDtiuG_-2CpI8-QbQwo0ofns2Z-j5VK251VNdjKUJdQqjJzPSP0kUudX9wW6GVwGMts9EH8aG6SqDFJgQEE_RBOxSoGviDo3wIZ3Q4ZdZinH-DMx3McBZTb1I4/s1181/thumbnail%20-%202023-11-14T155808.392.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1R3k0Yr5NSbA2ichImlI75oRfQ6xlTdAR_EAXjkxioDp0D8GS-5DPkCXeD5itMiIkXhDtiuG_-2CpI8-QbQwo0ofns2Z-j5VK251VNdjKUJdQqjJzPSP0kUudX9wW6GVwGMts9EH8aG6SqDFJgQEE_RBOxSoGviDo3wIZ3Q4ZdZinH-DMx3McBZTb1I4/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-11-14T155808.392.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I noticed the little tree set off in a field whenever I'd go by. Despite the weather, there it would be glowing in shades of gold. Seemingly so proud to be out there with the bigger trees behind him. Standing there as tall as he could, straight as a pin, spreading his beautiful branches as if to say, "Welcome Fall. Welcome Everyone. Enjoy your day."</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It dawned on me how happy the little tree was to be there. Happy to be feeling the wind and the sun. Embracing the rain. Enduring the wind. Watching the critters run <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>around and the cars go by.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">In some ways, the little tree is actually the tallest tree in that field. It has nothing to do with his height. It has everything to do with his presence. With his roots buried firmly under the ground, his leaves getting ready to fly away like grown children departing the nest, he stands assured. No frills. No pretenses. Proud of the bark and branches and leaves and roots he comes from. Proud of the stories they tell. Respectful of the other trees and their bark and branches and leaves and roots, and stories they tell.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">That little tree off in a field brings sunshine to those, like me, passing by.</div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-88799007788377510432023-10-15T23:45:00.000-04:002023-10-15T23:45:01.253-04:00I Kept Thinking of Nellie Olsen<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHREb3z5E84OEuc9OnwOF4LRs1b82ZJnlWgsGS0Sxd8uhQGhw1GQ4Y-sG4ypS5WwLzNHP1lGNzK-6s5kGqxW4kFBP7QsmnDU3FNZQ-rojKwr2QJxAKi6tglvXKgAI7lBi3WAmeAp3V_IH8c3D8Qk4nolrsXhhNicGdyEKNU9tvpJV55jLsg-XXwgMWSUJ/s1784/cd43fe0c8f856aa4c017e30ea2ef39bb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="1784" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOHREb3z5E84OEuc9OnwOF4LRs1b82ZJnlWgsGS0Sxd8uhQGhw1GQ4Y-sG4ypS5WwLzNHP1lGNzK-6s5kGqxW4kFBP7QsmnDU3FNZQ-rojKwr2QJxAKi6tglvXKgAI7lBi3WAmeAp3V_IH8c3D8Qk4nolrsXhhNicGdyEKNU9tvpJV55jLsg-XXwgMWSUJ/s320/cd43fe0c8f856aa4c017e30ea2ef39bb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The other day I stopped at an Amish farm I’d driven by many times. It had nothing to do with their roadside stand. It was because an Amish woman at another roadside stand told me that one of the three Amish men on their local school board lived there. She told me this after I voiced my curiosity about Amish schools. </span><p></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I explained I liked to write stories. Some for children. Some for adults. I told her I had an idea for a new storyline which <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>included an Amish community. A particular character was the Amish teacher. I asked her if it would be possible for me to visit an Amish school. That’s when she told me about that Amish farm where that Amish man on the school board lived.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I never did tell her I had been wanting to visit an Amish school for years. New storyline or not.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">So, the other day when I finally stopped at that Amish farm, the Amish man on the school board was home. He was more than kind. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">A half hour later I was parking my car off the road, in front of the Amish school I had permission to visit. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The children were outside playing a version of baseball. They quit playing the second I opened my door. They all stood together, staring at me. So did the horses until an older boy ran to what I would learn was the woodshed. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Seconds later, their teacher stepped out and began walking toward me. She had a beautiful smile. I felt welcomed even before we exchanged a word. After explaining I’d been given permission to visit the school by that Amish man on the school board and told her my reason for the visit, she introduced herself. We headed to the school, talking all the way. Then up the steps we went. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The magic began as we entered the cloak room. Names such as Mary-Ruth-Martha-Samuel-John-Moses were above coat hooks. Above the hooks was a shelf where lunch pails sat. They too had names written on them.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">“How many students do you have?” I asked.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">After answering my question, she explained the children were called scholars, not students as we entered the classroom where the scholars’ wooden desks were lined up in rows in front of chalkboards. The alphabet written in cursive was above the chalkboards. The teacher’s desk sat in front of the scholars’ desks. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">In one corner, there was a box full of puzzles. The walls were not decorated. A wood stove was in the back. I learned it had been testing week, starting off on Monday with spelling. I learned how she dealt with so many grades in one room. The young teacher told me later that afternoon she and the scholars would be sweeping the floor and cleaning the school.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">“We do it together once a week,” she explained, adding that after a week of testing, the school was a mess.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The more we talked the more I thought Nellie Olsen would be coming in at any minute. Maybe Laura herself. It was the setting. The moment. The horses shaking their manes. The simplicity of that classroom. The fields surrounding it. No cellphones. No tablets.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Noticing a box of books, children’s books, I asked if I could add my books to the pile. She invited me back next week, with my books to add to the pile.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When the teacher stood in the doorway and rang the bell and the scholars lined up one by one, I again thought of Nellie Olsen. I could see her running ahead of Laura in an effort to be the first through the doorway. I am certain that teacher would have stopped her. The boys and girls coming through the doorway into the cloak room were quiet. Smiling. Curious of me. No one tried to get ahead of anyone else. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Nellie Olsen would not have been happy.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I did not overdue my welcome.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">On my way back home, I realized those thirty minutes or so were like a step back in time. It felt good. Very needed as the world seems to be on fire. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg" href="https://www.barbarabriggsward.com/?fbclid=IwAR0k0R_MM5fp_2WIn7OYmsvZZYkbC2nq6qraN7LsKv9DT7aZVSLFZg69eLw" rel="nofollow" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://www.barbarabriggsward.com</a></span></div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-13235930390927752902023-10-09T08:28:00.002-04:002023-10-09T08:28:35.071-04:00Handmade Friends<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03V6qUzUi6S4TZeoq-4YKbvkuglBNsAGdDcTnaRoI047dgvcnT_S5tQdiwwlC9TXzu8X_x09edVqrx-VLDgW4M8XpU2s59adOdjRV-yFlvWxZte5qHAszbnqjVa5VHW40vXRRxymQQJ-c54dz263AsQd5ZTtw_a-HXfR6QpLGEteg_AMdzsWV-8Uf-H3T/s259/thumbnail%20(61)%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="259" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03V6qUzUi6S4TZeoq-4YKbvkuglBNsAGdDcTnaRoI047dgvcnT_S5tQdiwwlC9TXzu8X_x09edVqrx-VLDgW4M8XpU2s59adOdjRV-yFlvWxZte5qHAszbnqjVa5VHW40vXRRxymQQJ-c54dz263AsQd5ZTtw_a-HXfR6QpLGEteg_AMdzsWV-8Uf-H3T/s1600/thumbnail%20(61)%20(1).jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">For at least ten years now these two handmade friends have been getting together in anticipation of and to celebrate Halloween. In a way, they are related. The decorated gourd maker is the daughter of the brown paper bag pumpkin maker. The brown paper bag pumpkin maker was in kindergarten when he created his paper bag pumpkin.</span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever the handmade decorations made by little ones at home or at school happen to be, they weave their way back on to shelves or <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>Christmas trees or tabletops when the appropriate season calls them out of wherever they were put to rest up for their particular season or holiday to come around again. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">After all, they have a very important responsibility. They just don't sit on a shelf or inside an old crock as reminders of a holiday. They sit there as reminders of the little hands that made them; a young imagination on full speed, using little scissors and glue if necessary and crayons and pencils; possibly glitter and cotton balls, even pipe cleaners when needed. Cutting out construction paper eyes and mouths and gluing them in place. Then waiting with anticipation to go home and, with stomachs turning and eyes full of wonder, present their creations to those they love. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Some things, especially things made with little hands and great excitement, like a decorated gourd with googly eyes and a brown paper bag pumpkin, are priceless, sitting together once again as the leaves fall and little ghouls and witches get ready for trick or treating. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Handmade, from the heart.</div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-20305199241211172182023-10-08T06:50:00.003-04:002023-10-08T07:22:22.240-04:00If My Grandmother Only Knew<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlO9SPjRRIsFJ9eH1S3NYLEdzkO74NXkm1vlXkmUB2oak2wju1EV-521ce1w-W5lYUAR0HDUl1E-YaYC_jh3eyys8a5EnqNd6Mjaev_qugVTwdc52bjjSAsCUfvdXKKBjwtSxP2GyF-mZb6a9hyphenhyphenAtBit4wchoJwognZyD6d-qdfD2U2O1O0BWAfgSnANL/s218/91POLkDPqWL._AC_UY218_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="188" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlO9SPjRRIsFJ9eH1S3NYLEdzkO74NXkm1vlXkmUB2oak2wju1EV-521ce1w-W5lYUAR0HDUl1E-YaYC_jh3eyys8a5EnqNd6Mjaev_qugVTwdc52bjjSAsCUfvdXKKBjwtSxP2GyF-mZb6a9hyphenhyphenAtBit4wchoJwognZyD6d-qdfD2U2O1O0BWAfgSnANL/s1600/91POLkDPqWL._AC_UY218_.jpg" width="188" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I've written so much about growing up in the country in one of the four houses in a row full of family, and the old chicken coop converted to a clubhouse where I'd play with cousins, day after day after day, using our imaginations, using the books and chalkboards and desks the adults bought from an abandoned schoolhouse, bringing them home and putting them in our converted chicken coop for us to enjoy. And that is just what we did.</span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes, I'd <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>bring a book I was reading to the clubhouse. So would a certain cousin. We made time in our busy schedule to read our books. Those books might have been Nancy Drew titles or books written by Louisa May Alcott. One thing for sure, many of those books were from 'The Little House on the Prairie Book Series,' books more often than not bought by our grandmother and given to us with love as gifts for Christmas.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">IF MY GRANDMOTHER ONLY KNEW that very book series, she bought for us as gifts is now on the most recent list of Banned Books! Wow! How shocking! I loved those books! They join so many (too many) other amazing books now banned including, 'Where the Wild Things Are,' 'Anne of Green Gables,' 'The Harry Potter Paperback Series'(another Wow-Brian and I Loved those books), 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar', 'Call of the Wild,' (Brian and I loved that book too), 'Gone with the Wind,' (I read that book in the clubhouse. Took me the whole summer to read it. I loved it). </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Brian and I are currently reading, "The Giver"-another Banned Book! </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">So many Banned Books! Too many Banned Books. Over 3,000 Banned Books. Other than being a parent, how can someone choose what others can read? Why?</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Reading books expands our minds. Our knowledge. Books offer us imagination, information. They take us away. We meet people of different cultures. Some books are history lessons tied around a storyline. We Learn. Laugh. Cry. Cringe. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">We grow as a human being. And so do our Children. </div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-76874099681493449132023-09-04T07:54:00.001-04:002023-09-04T07:54:49.258-04:00SIGNS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVXOEOTDEcRNSceFmlBXIwl8buTlP_aFlsdHJuuPwLkWc6YgGbxMicekft9tv8jQ1purgfazVrMK54Kh9uWHbjoWCBqH-ATnSy30Z_7F6uqBrvo6JJ0Se3ai4l8pA2WPNdAbdq18g1ce3tdLDsN4wioXr_sYLuvdz0XpZL53K8jVWIv8sxtQufEhvbQiT/s1492/thumbnail%20-%202023-06-26T164610.684.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVXOEOTDEcRNSceFmlBXIwl8buTlP_aFlsdHJuuPwLkWc6YgGbxMicekft9tv8jQ1purgfazVrMK54Kh9uWHbjoWCBqH-ATnSy30Z_7F6uqBrvo6JJ0Se3ai4l8pA2WPNdAbdq18g1ce3tdLDsN4wioXr_sYLuvdz0XpZL53K8jVWIv8sxtQufEhvbQiT/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-06-26T164610.684.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br />Signs inform us. Direct us. Influence us. They come in all sizes. Some, like the Amish sign above, are simple. Some signs light up. Some flash on and off twenty-four hours a day. Some signs are subtle. Quiet, like a whispering breeze. Precious as a baby's smile. Signs of impending bad weather or a health scare are signs we would prefer to go away.<div><br /></div><div><div>After losing someone we love, their life is retold over and over again. Signs of their life are everywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>They tell a story. </div><div><br /></div><div>Their story unfolds as we take care of their things, from fishing poles to books (some with pages marked or paragraphs underlined, or notes scribbled on pieces of paper stuck between pages) to clothing we remember them wearing.</div><div><br /></div><div>We clean out drawers. Pack up boxes. Those signs are at every turn. On most every wall. On the refrigerator door. In most every room. From favorite magazines and countless editions of newspapers read from front to back, over and over again, to favorite old 45 records-to photos. So many photos. It takes time to go through them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Remembering. </div><div><br /></div><div>Signs of a loved one at all stages of their life are told in those photos. From newborn to toddler to grade school, high school and beyond. From documenting birthdays, holidays, weddings, favorite homes and rooms inside those homes, especially kitchens where cookies were baked, and cakes were decorated and favorite soups simmered; where cereal was poured into bowls and coffee was perking and pancakes were flipped, those photos document signs of simple moments. Everyday moments that now take on a different meaning. A priceless meaning. Photos of gardens fussed over and trees planted, and boathouses and boats-some loaded with children ready to go fishing; some off to chase big ships and ride their waves, to skating on home-made ice rinks, cutting out pumpkins, getting pears from the pear tree, playing in a sandbox, getting ready for Christmas and so much more, all telling that story, that unique story.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good times. Bad times. Sad times. Scary times. Unforgettable times. All Signs of a Life. Of Living. Loving. Laughing. Crying.</div><div><br /></div><div>And saying Goodbye. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>photos</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-30543365754799800922023-07-11T00:35:00.000-04:002023-07-11T00:35:01.846-04:00A Pinch of This and A Dash of That<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9cwUdR2yrloDhtgKLvfF0Dfg_8P9sw0QupBFir-UsfsAFi-hbBr6AMCvjo28M43dzs4PcaXm1nz8ws8jh9ApueH8YOFObOUh01Hdc2iw9MtbC5mAt5ZxkoKfP0nsvbxIz6jFPTxTV94lESUuULEeeEoHZtZqSwOtgd7Jiw36TXQcQ8v1LRHV6H7py2Zx/s981/thumbnail%20-%202023-07-09T093312.984%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="981" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9cwUdR2yrloDhtgKLvfF0Dfg_8P9sw0QupBFir-UsfsAFi-hbBr6AMCvjo28M43dzs4PcaXm1nz8ws8jh9ApueH8YOFObOUh01Hdc2iw9MtbC5mAt5ZxkoKfP0nsvbxIz6jFPTxTV94lESUuULEeeEoHZtZqSwOtgd7Jiw36TXQcQ8v1LRHV6H7py2Zx/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-07-09T093312.984%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I recently made a few Raspberry Pies following my grandmother's recipe that is included in a cookbook featuring her recipes. It was put together by her oldest daughter. One of six daughters. I love using her recipes. They are quite simple. Basic. Born out of an era of raising a family on a farm where meals were homemade, and work and chores were nonstop and produce came from the garden, some of that produce eventually canned or stored in a root cellar.<p></p><div>In a few of my grandmother's recipes, her instructions include words such as a pinch, a dash, a sprinkle or a hint as ways of measurement of certain ingredients. In the Raspberry Pie recipe, her instruction was to add a pinch of salt. Before, when coming upon that particular instruction, I would put a little bit of salt in a bowl or on a plate and take a pinch of it. Then add the pinch to the other ingredients. But this time I was curious. For whatever the reason, I asked Mr. Google what the instruction for a Pinch of an ingredient in a recipe equals in measuring it out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Was I surprised by the amount of information I received, on not only a Pinch, but on a Dash, Sprinkle, Hint, even a Smidgen. Even a Drop! Did you know a Dash is 1/8th of a teaspoon, liquid only, a Pinch is between 1/4 teaspoon and 1/16th of a teaspoon or that a Smidgen is 1/32 of a teaspoon and a Hint is 1/28th of a teaspoon? The Drop, liquid only, is 1/64th of a teaspoon. And if you want to be exact, you can purchase a measuring cup for a Pinch, a Dash, a Sprinkle, a Hint, Smidgen, even a Drop.</div><div><br /></div><div>A Pinch is the one that made the most sense to me. Supposedly what fits between your thumb and forefinger is considered a Pinch! I get that. I don't need to measure a Pinch! Nor will I measure any of the others.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure my grandmother never measured a Pinch or a Dash, Hint or Sprinkle, Drop or Smidgen. I'm sure she never gave it a thought. She was too busy working about her farmhouse in her house dress. Too busy going out to the gardens, the barn and fields, tending to children. Despite all that she had to do, I'm certain whatever she cooked tasted delicious. I can attest to that!</div><div><br /></div><div>It did not matter that my grandmother was void of something called a computer with a Mr. Google available twenty-four hours a day. She didn't need such a thing. If she ever got into a 'pinch', she'd get Creative. That's something Mr. Google and his computer will never figure out.</div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-61889334609256017152023-06-04T23:05:00.001-04:002023-06-04T23:05:53.215-04:00Opposites Do Tastefully Attract<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iENw9xvfCbuCN31Z5Ock0F0D7vZ3LRW16rmjwSVYZSOqRKXggLptT9Ox-H_-uBP_CQuTcU86e3tV4GyJMbxhxGcNmbKFMVscHyH5RCeduuY9mVBz5Tql4U3-FUB5Anno8egKY-bi8FN0w4RN2IEHxUwIwGzw_4rz9xAfMC5r8cKR-6tFx0PNbZ2SZA/s1014/thumbnail%20-%202023-05-14T174434.523%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1014" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iENw9xvfCbuCN31Z5Ock0F0D7vZ3LRW16rmjwSVYZSOqRKXggLptT9Ox-H_-uBP_CQuTcU86e3tV4GyJMbxhxGcNmbKFMVscHyH5RCeduuY9mVBz5Tql4U3-FUB5Anno8egKY-bi8FN0w4RN2IEHxUwIwGzw_4rz9xAfMC5r8cKR-6tFx0PNbZ2SZA/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-05-14T174434.523%20(2).jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br />When you think about it, the possibility of something so sweet mixed with something so tart tasting so very good seems impossible. But it happens most every year about this time when I make strawberry-rhubarb pies using my grandmother's recipe. I don't know how it happens but the unlikely combination of the two makes for one very delicious experience.<p></p><p>I live in northern New York where fresh rhubarb abounds. From a friend's amazing rhubarb patch to Amish stands stocked with just picked rhubarb for sale, the rhubarb I use is the freshest available. The strawberries are just as fresh, picked from Amish strawberry patches, and sold at those roadside stands. After you've cleaned and sliced those two main ingredients, all you have to do is add a little flour, some sugar and a "sprinkle of salt" as my grandmother would say, and you are ready to add your ingredients to the bottom pie crust in your pie plate; then cover them with the top pie crust and bake at 350 degrees. It won't be long before your kitchen is filled with a sweet aroma coming from two opposites baking as one in the oven.</p><p>Since baking strawberry rhubarb pies, I've come across some people and a few family members who have told me they can't stand eating strawberries and others who can't stand the mouth puckering taste of rhubarb. But once I finally convince them to try just a taste, most have fallen in love with strawberry rhubarb pies. </p><p>I am not a scientist. I don't know what happens when such a pie is baking in the oven. I just think the best of the rhubarb-its tartness-and the best of the strawberries-their sweetness-come together in the baking process, combining them as one heavenly tasting, pie. Add a glass of milk or a cup of coffee and life is good, and so very delicious.</p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-48640008325473265812023-05-10T00:30:00.001-04:002023-05-10T00:30:34.132-04:00The Glory of Morning Glories<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidY1TRkw9wNcsLXbtswVo-S95RHFW8RRPDR-33lb57A5Zv6ECQfy5ox_bD3FP4gQk2SKfSga9mqGmh67_81uNv4q9JLilOJnQnuekHoj1NNdwR56VnzlQVprB0qVfOeZZcpjrICF_jma_gEa2ez8BwD_3mcSClrlfqi2NyuEIb2dbN2VsxuBFe0lYzVQ/s347/1-25-2012%208;00;29%20PM%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="272" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidY1TRkw9wNcsLXbtswVo-S95RHFW8RRPDR-33lb57A5Zv6ECQfy5ox_bD3FP4gQk2SKfSga9mqGmh67_81uNv4q9JLilOJnQnuekHoj1NNdwR56VnzlQVprB0qVfOeZZcpjrICF_jma_gEa2ez8BwD_3mcSClrlfqi2NyuEIb2dbN2VsxuBFe0lYzVQ/s320/1-25-2012%208;00;29%20PM%20(2).jpg" width="251" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVQBwBTPQvMIIa32ngljw2DYs49Wr1rwat3eUbehffM5jYoaKi1wkZqPMcanVAQBTAaKxvBaC2p3BK8DubwG34zrk8jSM72eilX08MeZ5J1ltHejOIRFRThX7owrD2EULbRDrV88wIM3tFyfy8f9fQAI0gh2uPaAy3C60Mu2voId8eLtCF_D1vhF_Vw/s621/thumbnail%20-%202023-05-09T205627.996%20(3).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="496" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVQBwBTPQvMIIa32ngljw2DYs49Wr1rwat3eUbehffM5jYoaKi1wkZqPMcanVAQBTAaKxvBaC2p3BK8DubwG34zrk8jSM72eilX08MeZ5J1ltHejOIRFRThX7owrD2EULbRDrV88wIM3tFyfy8f9fQAI0gh2uPaAy3C60Mu2voId8eLtCF_D1vhF_Vw/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-05-09T205627.996%20(3).jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br />The top photo shows my mother sitting next to her father in the front yard of my grandparents' farmhouse during a family summer picnic. My mother is holding me. Behind my grandfather you can see the chicken coop and behind that, the barn. My grandfather was a farmer. <p></p><p>When I was seven or eight years old, my family moved out to the country, right next to the farmhouse. By then, the farm had been sold. My grandparents lived on the other side of our new home with an aunt who never married. The farmhouse was occupied by another aunt plus an uncle and four cousins. On the other side of the house occupied by my grandparents and aunt who never married lived another related family, including an aunt, uncle and two cousins. Once we were all settled, the fun began.</p><p>Being kids we wandered all over the place including the backfields, the creek running behind the four houses, the barn, and the chicken coop which was eventually turned into our Clubhouse. By that time, there were no chickens living in it. So, our parents bought the remains of a one-room schoolhouse and put the desks, chalkboards and books inside the chicken coop. We spent hours in that coop. We played school. Sometimes with imaginary students. Other times with siblings and younger cousins. We played there all year long. Even in the winter despite the snow coming in because what windows there were either didn't fit the casings or were minus some glass. We did not care. We loved our Chicken Coop Clubhouse out in a field.</p><p>Because we loved it so, we did our best to take care of it. We varnished the wood floor. We hung curtains. And one spring, we planted Morning Glories underneath the window visible in the above photo. To our surprise and delight, Morning Glories grew right up that side of our clubhouse. I think we had chicken wire in front of the window and up those beautiful flowers climbed, adding color to that old chicken coop/clubhouse. We were so happy. Those Morning Glories were so beautiful.</p><p>Today I bought some packets of Morning Glory seeds. I'm going to plant them in a small area I am turning into a flower bed. Every time I go by them once they have climbed up an old trellis, I will be thinking of that Chicken Coop Clubhouse with love, so much love and lots of color because of those Morning Glories-those glorious Morning Glories.</p><p><br /></p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-75835475707286513452023-04-21T22:10:00.001-04:002023-04-21T23:09:07.758-04:00A Little Blue Swing<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9o2ouKNMW1ZMpkoGn5AmB5zze6eYEWn5NZ_B_JqMNoKw4sg0xtw1h5P9zuZ3sqqpD9-s2H968JZ9rxfSFsryGPTzdZphM8xFNPWL4_ivnStGu4IaMJn47SSAr6HsgGk3101T6BAb0sp5ZT96CajWB6xh6GCHSqgOP_s4j1BKBBLDUQ5Q6ECzn65UF0g/s1914/Henry%20outside%20and%20weeds%20019%20(3).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1914" data-original-width="1675" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9o2ouKNMW1ZMpkoGn5AmB5zze6eYEWn5NZ_B_JqMNoKw4sg0xtw1h5P9zuZ3sqqpD9-s2H968JZ9rxfSFsryGPTzdZphM8xFNPWL4_ivnStGu4IaMJn47SSAr6HsgGk3101T6BAb0sp5ZT96CajWB6xh6GCHSqgOP_s4j1BKBBLDUQ5Q6ECzn65UF0g/s320/Henry%20outside%20and%20weeds%20019%20(3).JPG" width="280" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdmO3M62J_l_0THOFr_qn37sgYqeozgh29F349Q-Jwex0ox-tzoCZOdH6AwFogOrGxx8D9aYJdq-J569zqI-ZCGBoAyvGNhjL-kZ3m97h4RAH7eYHbgcNeB7Atg7L6GIF9N08cRHUqBe3qJHx0SCzspUzwSTYK9R1bcovG945NCnuFB-9TFIIRMx7xQ/s3530/Melanie%20and%20pool%20002.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3530" data-original-width="3161" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdmO3M62J_l_0THOFr_qn37sgYqeozgh29F349Q-Jwex0ox-tzoCZOdH6AwFogOrGxx8D9aYJdq-J569zqI-ZCGBoAyvGNhjL-kZ3m97h4RAH7eYHbgcNeB7Atg7L6GIF9N08cRHUqBe3qJHx0SCzspUzwSTYK9R1bcovG945NCnuFB-9TFIIRMx7xQ/s320/Melanie%20and%20pool%20002.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><br /></div><br />Between the ice, the wind and the snow, this past winter was a harsh one. Not only on us humans, but on the trees, roads, homes, barns, and whatever else was outside at the mercy of the elements all winter long. Some days when I'd look out the window, I was unable to see familiar sights, like the old barn out back and a little blue swing approaching its 12th summer hanging from a maple tree, providing lots of fun and lots of memories involving two little children who grew up playing around or near or in that plastic swing hung from a sturdy branch when the oldest, now twelve (in the bottom picture) was but a toddler.<p></p><div>A few weeks ago, when early signs of spring were becoming noticeable, I went out back to check the garden and take a good look around. That look around included the maple tree holding on to the little blue swing. I discovered the twine rope attached to the swing, wrapped around a branch of the maple tree was severely frayed. I noticed that branch holding on to the swing was damaged from both the winter's harshness and the endless hours over the years of holding those two little ones safely in place as they went soaring through the air as leaves fell, as snow swirled, as giggles and laughter and attempts to touch the leaves with their feet or pull leaves from branches with their dimpled hands brought more laughter-uncontrollable, precious, innocent laughter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Standing there that day in early spring, I realized it was time to take that treasured blue swing down. With those two little ones now almost ten and thirteen, it was simply-time. That little blue swing deserved to come in out of the cold. It had entertained and created memories and played a role in the early lives of two toddlers who'd squeal for all to hear, "Push me higher. I want to touch the leaves!"</div><div><br /></div><div>And that is what they did, over and over again, their laughter singing with the breeze.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-27591207009235814332023-03-26T22:45:00.000-04:002023-03-26T22:45:17.329-04:00Celebrating National Pencil Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3bTYGRHafiRdG923pgwzJXe31R-BRk4v6KcAOQkxi8ZJ4DkxV3LHzqA63qNN0YwNlQ74RDAQ8pZ4kVa3sEvWj2LyDUhDhZbKBxZnXZb3l94QSU5sv4nVynSCh5fvfUvzeXrem4LskxD8e8BUOTYpg-vzbOo3_PuVkGuiG6UdgI1Bei6fahSSided7g/s364/12-25-2011%2010;32;03%20PM%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="364" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3bTYGRHafiRdG923pgwzJXe31R-BRk4v6KcAOQkxi8ZJ4DkxV3LHzqA63qNN0YwNlQ74RDAQ8pZ4kVa3sEvWj2LyDUhDhZbKBxZnXZb3l94QSU5sv4nVynSCh5fvfUvzeXrem4LskxD8e8BUOTYpg-vzbOo3_PuVkGuiG6UdgI1Bei6fahSSided7g/s320/12-25-2011%2010;32;03%20PM%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5AFrjDCnORP_BgQ9yDpRf3KUGVuhvZ1WXwuWVOrjwi7YY0EfC4ZNIvbGDronzyG1CCPHV4v_otuSBpET3l6HuZjI2gYLDXh5AgfnGk3fN6Onns52kHAW7ttLzMzAGk-xmDsiGEo0gi6vmpyzwJcZKKbaV1zzjFRj-O54yMxEH4oac7-jB0h6o0gN28A/s1440/thumbnail%20(8).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5AFrjDCnORP_BgQ9yDpRf3KUGVuhvZ1WXwuWVOrjwi7YY0EfC4ZNIvbGDronzyG1CCPHV4v_otuSBpET3l6HuZjI2gYLDXh5AgfnGk3fN6Onns52kHAW7ttLzMzAGk-xmDsiGEo0gi6vmpyzwJcZKKbaV1zzjFRj-O54yMxEH4oac7-jB0h6o0gN28A/s320/thumbnail%20(8).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>When I was seven years old my grandfather made me a simple pine desk for Christmas. It came with a stool, two side shelves and a single drawer. Inside that drawer was a pad of paper and two yellow, sharpened #2 pencils. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer. I really didn't know what that meant. I think the pencils had a lot to do with it. I wanted to draw with them. Write. Scribble. Fill that pad of paper with original artwork. All kinds of artwork. <div>I fell in love not only with my desk that Christmas morning but with pencils as well and the infatuation has never gone away. </div><div>So, when I discovered there really is a "National Pencil Day" I had to celebrate it by sharing my infatuation for pencils with anyone who might like to read about it.<div><br /></div><div>I have a "few" boxes of pencils. Colored pencils. Broken pencils. Really sharpened pencils. Pencils with erasers. Pencils minus erasers. Pencils with funny erasers. And lots of yellow #2 pencils. I also have a few drawers holding many odds and ends of pencils. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I begin to write a new story or blog post or book or when I get an idea for an illustration, I like to use a pad of paper (preferably a legal pad of paper) and a pencil. Simple. No technology to start the process. Just me, a pad of paper and a pencil. It may sound strange but using the pencil frees my thoughts. Nudges my imagination. Holding a pencil gives me strength. A pencil's feel and smell comfort me. I find nothing comforting in a computer although it is a necessity as the process moves along.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not surprisingly, I loved pencil cases when growing up. I never could get my fill. I had the plain ones. Many plain ones over the years. They just held pencils and came with a zipper. They were plastic and smelled very good. I had a wooden pencil holder. It came with a small sharpener and one bigger than normal wooden pencil. I loved my over-sized plastic pencil case held together by a snap. I loved the snap. It made noise. </div><div>My pencil case complete with a ruler as part of the slide on and off top as well as a sharpener and multiplication tables etched into the top was a favorite. </div><div>But my most very favorite pencil case wasn't mine. It belonged to a boy in my kindergarten class. It came with drawers and in a few of the drawers he kept jumbo sized crayons. They smelled so good. I asked Santa Claus for a pencil case (actually box) just like his, but I guess Santa thought I had enough pencil cases.</div><div>Now as an adult, I realize I had more than enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>On March 30th of this year 2023, hold your pencil high. Wave it in the breeze. Doodle with it. Write a poem. And if you make a mistake or need to make a change, use your eraser and start over because March 30th of this year 2023 is National Pencil Day! </div><div><br /></div><div>Hip. Hip Hurray for National Pencil Day!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /> <p></p></div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-57953809610029619962023-03-19T12:06:00.000-04:002023-03-19T12:06:07.240-04:00A Boy and his Puddles in the early Spring<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4MWWsCY4Dkw5DT4RrrLM60Q5tP4J-snnWDOMo8q8-N71sEuF9hyKvYLiZsT9SLjaLWcK_T-XY3wT9zfQT3GNbmhr2jNi557eBXTjpwA2h9xC8K7CRtr-8ZmY1RYEOuUZ0vAP0UgkmGuX-Kw3y8Qck7aorJ0U07mFkz6gI1MXU5-IAyFox3Sco74QWg/s4320/Henry%20Outside%20Playing%20010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4MWWsCY4Dkw5DT4RrrLM60Q5tP4J-snnWDOMo8q8-N71sEuF9hyKvYLiZsT9SLjaLWcK_T-XY3wT9zfQT3GNbmhr2jNi557eBXTjpwA2h9xC8K7CRtr-8ZmY1RYEOuUZ0vAP0UgkmGuX-Kw3y8Qck7aorJ0U07mFkz6gI1MXU5-IAyFox3Sco74QWg/s320/Henry%20Outside%20Playing%20010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDC4j5K8-wZMWW0Rm54XVjoxclzWHTUaC27XM7XPFOFi1kJoND6z8bPbiyZoo3pw1sinR49z3d0HgJz87O0o4BzB1vSsguJnl9LLpxiowHHxS6q9EwfUrq1zUXkBBtYpTUMmG4EssKJVnsdt3NuiVwI9Cv3n4wCIVQ1J5Sdc1eH4mncq_tk-fGLWM0g/s1464/thumbnail%20-%202023-03-19T111510.848.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDC4j5K8-wZMWW0Rm54XVjoxclzWHTUaC27XM7XPFOFi1kJoND6z8bPbiyZoo3pw1sinR49z3d0HgJz87O0o4BzB1vSsguJnl9LLpxiowHHxS6q9EwfUrq1zUXkBBtYpTUMmG4EssKJVnsdt3NuiVwI9Cv3n4wCIVQ1J5Sdc1eH4mncq_tk-fGLWM0g/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-03-19T111510.848.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><br />Besides the robins, tulips, daffodils and geese, kids playing in and walking through puddles created by melting snow are a sign of spring despite occasional snow squalls and the wind howling. I bet most kids would say playing in those puddles is a favorite thing to do as Mother Nature tries her best to turn Winter into Spring.<p></p><p>I know my nine-year old grandson would agree. The top photo shows him at age three, standing in one of those puddles after jumping up and down, laughing with his hands flying, losing his breath when some of the flying melted snow splashes him in the face. But kids don't feel getting soaking wet in a puddle. They just keep jumping and laughing, eventually racing inside to get warmed up with a cup of hot chocolate.</p><p>The 2nd photo shows my grandson the other morning after sleeping over the night before. Nine years old now, he didn't jump up and down, but he did make waves with his boots. Then he took a stick and looked for fish or other fantastical creatures he could imagine. And as he went exploring in the puddle, he told me some of his greatest fishing stories because, he himself is one fantastical fisherman.</p><p>Kids and puddles go together like peanut butter and jelly. When I was my grandson's current age, springtime was meant to explore the outdoors after snowstorms had covered the ground for what seemed like forever. A stream ran along one side of my grandparent's farmhouse and that is where my cousin and I played whenever we could. Sometimes we each found a twig. Our twigs became our racing boats. We'd put our twigs in the stream and race one against the other. I can't remember how many times I won or lost but I do remember getting soaked and laughing out of control.</p><p>But that was okay. </p><p>That was a part of playing in that stream in the early spring. Just like my grandson playing in a puddle.</p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-78753304078170237482023-03-09T07:21:00.002-05:002023-03-09T07:21:46.061-05:00Abandoned<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMpCCozHMiAKKjFWwb-7q3Fzfk1J6mrapSSpIRvDa8lukXj4oSTm-GbQtgl055cVWQcpcTStLV318YyqWEzD4bd-xluzCAKbcRA0Moj8poR3rG1uAUTMvSuVJP5Lr8sIHL5j3aUe8881BxrpUd6XZm03qLN22ouxd8khAwJ1aaCB1Ql2u8vkT29gZyQ/s698/1520178862326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="698" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbMpCCozHMiAKKjFWwb-7q3Fzfk1J6mrapSSpIRvDa8lukXj4oSTm-GbQtgl055cVWQcpcTStLV318YyqWEzD4bd-xluzCAKbcRA0Moj8poR3rG1uAUTMvSuVJP5Lr8sIHL5j3aUe8881BxrpUd6XZm03qLN22ouxd8khAwJ1aaCB1Ql2u8vkT29gZyQ/s320/1520178862326.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); font-family: -apple-system, system-ui, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", "Fira Sans", Ubuntu, Oxygen, "Oxygen Sans", Cantarell, "Droid Sans", "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Lucida Grande", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: var(--font-size-large);">I've always been drawn to remnants of places sitting in silence along country roads. As I drive by those haunting structures, I wonder who lived there. I wonder why they left. I wonder how they walked away. Each one of those abandoned places has a story. Just like we do. Most of us have been abandoned in one way or another at some point in our lives by someone we loved, by a boss, a friend, a community.</span><p></p><p style="--artdeco-reset-typography_getfontsize: 1.6rem; --artdeco-reset-typography_getlineheight: 1.5; background-color: white; border: var(--artdeco-reset-base-border-zero); box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); font-family: -apple-system, system-ui, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", "Fira Sans", Ubuntu, Oxygen, "Oxygen Sans", Cantarell, "Droid Sans", "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Lucida Grande", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: var(--font-size-large); line-height: 1.75; margin: 1.6rem 0px; padding: var(--artdeco-reset-base-padding-zero); vertical-align: var(--artdeco-reset-base-vertical-align-baseline);">My first realization of abandonment came when my aunt cared for a foster child-a little baby. I might have been twelve at the time. I never knew babies were abandoned. It was a rude awakening. That was followed by my sister finding a puppy alone, cold and shaking and hungry in my grandfather's old barn shed. I wondered how someone could do such a thing to a puppy. Since becoming the mother of a mentally ill son, I've learned even more about the harsh reality of abandonment by so many who either fear such an illness or are embarrassed knowing someone with such an illness. Whatever the reason, they keep their distance from someone dealing with a brain disease.</p><p style="--artdeco-reset-typography_getfontsize: 1.6rem; --artdeco-reset-typography_getlineheight: 1.5; background-color: white; border: var(--artdeco-reset-base-border-zero); box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); font-family: -apple-system, system-ui, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", "Fira Sans", Ubuntu, Oxygen, "Oxygen Sans", Cantarell, "Droid Sans", "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Lucida Grande", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: var(--font-size-large); line-height: 1.75; margin: 1.6rem 0px; padding: var(--artdeco-reset-base-padding-zero); vertical-align: var(--artdeco-reset-base-vertical-align-baseline);"><span style="font-size: var(--font-size-large);">When you think about it, all it would take to salvage many of those abandoned structures is some tender loving care, along with some paint and nails, new windows and new roofs. </span></p><p style="--artdeco-reset-typography_getfontsize: 1.6rem; --artdeco-reset-typography_getlineheight: 1.5; background-color: white; border: var(--artdeco-reset-base-border-zero); box-sizing: inherit; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); font-family: -apple-system, system-ui, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", "Fira Sans", Ubuntu, Oxygen, "Oxygen Sans", Cantarell, "Droid Sans", "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Lucida Grande", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: var(--font-size-large); line-height: 1.75; margin: 1.6rem 0px; padding: var(--artdeco-reset-base-padding-zero); vertical-align: var(--artdeco-reset-base-vertical-align-baseline);"><span style="font-size: var(--font-size-large);">That rings true for people as well. If we were to reach out to each other in understanding, the world would be a better place. The world would feel better about itself. No paint needed. No windows or roofs. Just kindness and acceptance and an abundance of understanding.</span></p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-1121367781444807772023-02-19T19:45:00.001-05:002023-02-19T19:45:17.802-05:00And Then, Like Magic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlOlIoV1Vz-yYqChlaOSopbn0yICj7O_ExBU1jJ0Y0BtCOBjoQ4a1SMSadF2RmxT-nCR9viYOkLI_ZDE54B8RgOAkqEGaMdv559iFoe8zEBr9Y9mHZGmdKIYR70Gsj6RErfuIT2PYi9rC3KzT0ebgNV6jC4frTsejpYTIyzKxYKwqXrmp9bKRZpFWTWw/s1080/thumbnail%20-%202023-01-16T084623.730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlOlIoV1Vz-yYqChlaOSopbn0yICj7O_ExBU1jJ0Y0BtCOBjoQ4a1SMSadF2RmxT-nCR9viYOkLI_ZDE54B8RgOAkqEGaMdv559iFoe8zEBr9Y9mHZGmdKIYR70Gsj6RErfuIT2PYi9rC3KzT0ebgNV6jC4frTsejpYTIyzKxYKwqXrmp9bKRZpFWTWw/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-01-16T084623.730.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvqglbomQ2HWJ2wNj1f1ah6njYOi1oUtbrpoN5lJXlYM3S4EDqe7vtw2M4jRwmF328_opuz1stkCu0mFFsfVLQ37IHfr5Y0S1jyYud3dcFBnFD3Cg87duc0krWvjMyPmuhftldDUtCJw5afc0Omo25CboPamRD_6lwwEMX5NKYdRo7-dqf0B4WSED0A/s4240/DSCN4863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4240" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvqglbomQ2HWJ2wNj1f1ah6njYOi1oUtbrpoN5lJXlYM3S4EDqe7vtw2M4jRwmF328_opuz1stkCu0mFFsfVLQ37IHfr5Y0S1jyYud3dcFBnFD3Cg87duc0krWvjMyPmuhftldDUtCJw5afc0Omo25CboPamRD_6lwwEMX5NKYdRo7-dqf0B4WSED0A/s320/DSCN4863.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">BUT THEN, LIKE MAGIC</span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xdj266r x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">They say change happens right before our eyes. And more often than not, we never see it happen. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">For some, waiting for spring after a long, hard winter is tedious to say the least. One day brings sunshine: the next a blizzard. Ice covers the roads and sidewalks. Schools are closed. The wind howls. The temperature goes below zero. Oh, those heating bills.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Then, the ice and snow turn to water flooding the basement. Snow piles turn into mud piles. Grass is <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>scraggly and frozen in place. Shades of browns and greys; heaved roads, dirt and debris; cold winds, tired people still wrapped in scarves and wool hats and mittens all make it appear as if Mother Nature is asleep on the job.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">But Then, Like Magic, daffodils show their yellow faces, adding color to the dreariness. Robins come back. Crows squawk. Geese honk. Fields are being plowed. Tulips pop up out of the ground. The scent of lilacs is in the air, and then, more Magic. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">One day we go outside, and our hearts are warmed by the sun. Gardens are flourishing. Green grass is being cut. Butterflies are flitting about, and bees are buzzing. Lilies of the valley have blossomed. Buttercups will follow. Kids are outside, playing in sandboxes, riding their bikes, kicking soccer balls and playing baseball and running free without their coats and snowpants, boots, hats and mittens. Picnics are enjoyed. Fish are being caught.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">We open windows and let the warm breeze in to push out winter. We have a kick in our step, relishing not having to bundle up or shovel snow or drive through blizzards.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When did all of that change happen? Could it have been when we were moaning and groaning instead of appreciating one season grudgingly, stubbornly saying goodbye while another season was getting the flowers ready and the birds in line and the grass prepared to rid itself of that scraggily look?</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">We push away those memories of the blizzards and ice storms and the earth trying to melt its way into spring until long summer shadows in late afternoon and geese flying south and leaves turning colors, falling to the ground remind us that change is coming back around as each ticking second nudges its way towards fall, and beyond.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Change is a part of life. Babies are born. Babies grow up and we wonder when that happened. Hairdos change. Fashions change. Beliefs change. Surroundings change. We change. Families change. Policies change. Some changes are good while some are bad. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The trick is to hang on and enjoy the ride and if you live where those long hard winters prevail, keep the snow shovel handy no matter the month.</div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-85125259259283864652023-01-22T17:50:00.003-05:002023-01-22T17:50:57.033-05:00The Bird Hotel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEbHQdhLndk-0Ds6O7MGLW9lZW_q9QWsFcXdsGBbqPuPYNJdcIug4ax3KI9mwXqX9OEr70daOEhDmHz3y3EcFjz-t1LJSyBFZq9qAGiDaOFEZIB5tFqqgM5qgU1zXHdipGc7sUqJIDNL3EBoAkxNLDBm4EJQNsyxP-gH_O6h9LVfzkEpwhkBWkXMceg/s1681/thumbnail%20-%202023-01-22T153812.567.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1681" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEbHQdhLndk-0Ds6O7MGLW9lZW_q9QWsFcXdsGBbqPuPYNJdcIug4ax3KI9mwXqX9OEr70daOEhDmHz3y3EcFjz-t1LJSyBFZq9qAGiDaOFEZIB5tFqqgM5qgU1zXHdipGc7sUqJIDNL3EBoAkxNLDBm4EJQNsyxP-gH_O6h9LVfzkEpwhkBWkXMceg/s320/thumbnail%20-%202023-01-22T153812.567.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of our Christmas tree after
dragging it outdoors and standing it up by the bird feeders. I secured it to
the post holding the feeders, thinking it would offer additional ways and
places for me to feed the flock. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After one of our windy, snowy, icy storms I looked out one
morning and saw the tree had blown over. It was on the ground not too far
from the feeders. After a while I went out to get it standing back up again
beside the feeders. But I couldn’t budge the tree. It was frozen in place. I
knew I’d have to leave it there until we had a warm spell. I thought that was
that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But then, the funniest, strangest thing began to happen. It’s
still going on as winter is far from over. The Christmas tree turned into a hotel.
A busy and spacious Bird Hotel with a marvelous view of the field. It appears
to be patronized by Cardinals, Sparrows, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Mourning
Doves, Rock Doves, Crows, even Squirrels and Chipmunks. Some days I’m thinking the
hotel is full what with all the chattering going on in all of those updated rooms.
It would be best if the hotel would require reservations. That would stop the
bickering between those able to get a room and those flying in too late. Besides
offering reservations, room service is needed. I notice lots of unnecessary back and forth travel. One bird employee answering
the calls would cut down the noise. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One last suggestion to management. A caretaker is desperately
needed. Most every morning the back yard is a mess, peppered with seed pulled
out of feeders, strewn all over the ground, zillions of bird prints in the snow,
empty suet containers yanked from their strings. I suggest a local racoon
or coy dog be brought in to help. Maybe even a fox.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So, with the busy Bird Hotel, it makes sense that a
restaurant would follow. Actually, the restaurant was there first. The restaurant’s
bird feeders remain busier than ever. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Popular items added to the menu include suets, suets of any
kind including Nuts, Seeds, Fruit, even Peanut Butter and High Energy. Suets
are followed by delicious Bird Bells. Then bags of Wild Bird Seed. Even slices
of bread. Maybe some popcorn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Credit cards and cash are not accepted. Payment in suets and
bird bells are most welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-52891621868201510152023-01-15T12:39:00.004-05:002023-01-15T12:55:52.755-05:00More Than Just a Woodshed<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz5n8BpQlNvzdBmJVmdDKr1aZTt8vZrVHkHFP6VjSB0fD8c-sbPD60iJXVxA6Kkyu1s2pZM-qnFZPgc1xNSg7vqG63WtL992wx0EauosNq4NdLMPRlwEm73YHy_9ZcnCgbwolm_2V1UJtGz9f5ea-_4ONrf2cNO_abMwy4O6XHGQQwAVtiC3deFnG2Q/s1873/4-4-2014%206;11;22%20PM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1873" data-original-width="1270" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz5n8BpQlNvzdBmJVmdDKr1aZTt8vZrVHkHFP6VjSB0fD8c-sbPD60iJXVxA6Kkyu1s2pZM-qnFZPgc1xNSg7vqG63WtL992wx0EauosNq4NdLMPRlwEm73YHy_9ZcnCgbwolm_2V1UJtGz9f5ea-_4ONrf2cNO_abMwy4O6XHGQQwAVtiC3deFnG2Q/s320/4-4-2014%206;11;22%20PM.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><br />That's my grandfather sitting on the doorstep of what was his woodshed. The woodshed was attached to the back of the farmhouse. Inside the woodshed, there was a door that opened up into the kitchen, making it easier when working out in the shed, chopping wood up into pieces. All that the wood chopper needed to do after chopping was open that door, walk a few feet into the kitchen to the wood box sitting by the woodstove and dump the new supply of chopped wood into it. I remember being in the kitchen, able to hear someone chopping wood in the woodshed. I loved the smell of the chopped wood. Loved the saw dust and wood shavings all over the place.<p></p><div>Another thing I loved in that woodshed was the wooden platform leading from the door in the kitchen to a set of stairs that took you down to the dirt floor in the woodshed or back up and through to the kitchen depending which way you were going. It was a good-sized wooden platform. Perfect for stacking wood and more importantly, perfect for putting on what my cousin and I called, "Shows." We considered them to be as spectacular as Broadway Shows. After all, we'd be performing. </div><div><br /></div><div>On a day when we were in production, we'd sweep our stage, getting rid of the sawdust and wood chips and whatever else had collected. Oh the dust it must have created but I can't remember ever being bothered by any dust. After all, we were also the stage crew. We couldn't let a little dust stop us. And it didn't. </div><div>After cleaning the stage, we figured out where our audience could sit. That might have included old chairs and footstools kept in the woodshed. Old boards kept in place by good-sized blocks of wood at one end and maybe extending the board through a ladder on the other worked just fine. Whatever we used, it always worked. Our audience never complained. But first, we had to invite them. That meant telling grandparents, aunts, uncles and other cousins and siblings about the upcoming event in the woodshed. We were certain they'd be as excited to attend as we were presenting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anticipation always grew before showtime. We'd peek through the kitchen door to see if everyone had arrived. Sometimes we couldn't wait. Out the door we'd go onto our old wooden stage, singing and dancing and being silly. My most favorite songs to belt out included "Oh My Papa" and "I'm Going to Sit Right Down and Right Myself a Letter." I can't remember but I think the audience went wild after each performance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come to think about it, those award-winning performances mirrored anything presented on The Lawrence Welk Show. Maybe they were even better considering the spectacular natural atmosphere that woodshed offered, including the smell of chopped wood with sawdust and wood shavings all over the place.</div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-6076678714166405902022-12-11T22:18:00.001-05:002022-12-11T22:21:11.038-05:00Gingerbread House is Falling Down<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBLBYzZOZD7cdpGyL3t73Hl-9UyUZYW1lI_XbV7KGmzNd1Sv5vCm3lerkOcpn8muYFinv1GykOfmlHr6QreBxFlQBwDvp6IjemotPVEAMKX57NeX5s-xVierDj2vd_vTyqdRsCIfdb0ATqjCNyPOsStrGRPuGDxYT5Zh25xPYoWJlUYaat96vq4hC2A/s4320/Graham%20Cracker%20Sunday%20020%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2581" data-original-width="4320" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBLBYzZOZD7cdpGyL3t73Hl-9UyUZYW1lI_XbV7KGmzNd1Sv5vCm3lerkOcpn8muYFinv1GykOfmlHr6QreBxFlQBwDvp6IjemotPVEAMKX57NeX5s-xVierDj2vd_vTyqdRsCIfdb0ATqjCNyPOsStrGRPuGDxYT5Zh25xPYoWJlUYaat96vq4hC2A/s320/Graham%20Cracker%20Sunday%20020%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjgO2BrsnjeBN3ELFf_QS4-DeK0BB3D2rxj54Lzkb1qq2SNfbJlg4Bo2Vnm0v-iEuQEzL8y6wMETv6ZPYUDhUX5qAk88ISzr3jp-WsecZ9dB6WgRv_h1n9WArf53-U8yyJGFtqCzq2T9jtKoRykyxXZTgZ7ahLFNL3DBxMX6T80bOqUDjnlwS49dT2A/s4320/Graham%20Cracker%20Sunday%20012.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjgO2BrsnjeBN3ELFf_QS4-DeK0BB3D2rxj54Lzkb1qq2SNfbJlg4Bo2Vnm0v-iEuQEzL8y6wMETv6ZPYUDhUX5qAk88ISzr3jp-WsecZ9dB6WgRv_h1n9WArf53-U8yyJGFtqCzq2T9jtKoRykyxXZTgZ7ahLFNL3DBxMX6T80bOqUDjnlwS49dT2A/s320/Graham%20Cracker%20Sunday%20012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /> I<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> can't claim to be a maker of gingerbread houses. I only tried one time. I wasn't using a kit. My plan was to make it from scratch and then let my very young children decorate it. </span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I had everything ready to go for the decorating. I had it all planned. After I had the pieces cut out and baked; then cooled and on the table, I figured the rest would be easy. It would become a <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>Christmas tradition right out of the movies. That never happened. Just the thought of gingerbread houses tires me out.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">That's because the pieces of the gingerbread house i made from scratch would not stay in place no matter how hard we tried. I'd followed all the directions. But it kept falling down like London Bridge as the kids whined and started to eat the candy meant to go on the house. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It got to be really late. If I'd had my way, I would have thrown those pieces in the trash but, I had a better idea.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">In a calm and reassuring voice, I told the kids I thought I should start over and while they were asleep, I'd get it all together for them to decorate in the morning. It worked. They were either tired or as sick of that house as I was.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It didn't take them long to fall asleep. That's when I dressed the 5-month-old in his snowsuit and off we went to P & C. I bought a Gingerbread Kit-a prefab gingerbread house, a perfectly beautiful gingerbread house. The baby fell asleep in the car. After getting him to bed I put that glorious gingerbread house together in no time and no one ever noticed how perfect those pieces were. They were more intent on decorating it.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">That was my one and only attempt at making one of those gingerbread houses. We've continued the tradition by using graham crackers. Easy and Fun. A fine tradition indeed with no last-minute rushing to the store. https://www.barbarabriggsward.com</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-18793683134937920312022-11-07T09:17:00.000-05:002022-11-07T09:17:15.778-05:00Going Up the Road to Vote<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RK-FfeWxrme7HSLCxoSQF3HSEDwTodvpdcyzhgvPCVIwcO15bx7lCXE7QLx-4duwYyqrwzVUYjIadcrlrGoEOVy5zWHqdVAoXHwQtzUj3r5UjPxM1l659Cx02OkhcmXxCjz8e7DTAHgKLoWk_Z6rHWJ7lE17t9d7M6EAyEfpdCwilAI4OtG6PaJnLQ/s1163/Opinion-polls-1947-1948-resize-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="1163" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RK-FfeWxrme7HSLCxoSQF3HSEDwTodvpdcyzhgvPCVIwcO15bx7lCXE7QLx-4duwYyqrwzVUYjIadcrlrGoEOVy5zWHqdVAoXHwQtzUj3r5UjPxM1l659Cx02OkhcmXxCjz8e7DTAHgKLoWk_Z6rHWJ7lE17t9d7M6EAyEfpdCwilAI4OtG6PaJnLQ/s320/Opinion-polls-1947-1948-resize-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Back in the days of my grandparents living on their farm, working the fields and raising a family, when November came around and it was an election year, they exercised their Right to Vote.<div><br /></div><div>At a certain time on that important day, my grandfather would come in from the barn to get cleaned up. My grandmother would finish preparing a full-course meal with all the trimmings. Election Day was treated with respect and a fine homemade dinner including dessert. When my grandparents were ready to go, they'd get in my grandfather's small Ford truck and head up the road to, what I remember them calling, the county barn, where they would vote. <p></p><div>A few times I was lucky enough to go with my Aunt Claire in her small Ford car to the county barn. I'd be able to go inside and wait for her. I loved doing that. Although I was very young, I was able to sense the importance of the moment; that being our right of freely expressing our opinions, hopes, fears and dreams for the country we love through Voting for candidates of our choice. Everyone was respectful of their neighbors. People working behind the desks were treated with kindness. After all, they were the ones responsible for making Democracy work through the recording of their neighbor's votes.</div><div><br /></div><div>After returning to my grandparents' farmhouse, my parents and other relatives would come for Election Night Dinner. The meal was like a Sunday night feast. The mood was jubilant. The adults were celebrating their exercising their right to Vote. I don't recall any arguing of issues or tearing each other up over candidates. I don't remember any awkwardness when any certain politician's name came up. In fact, I don't remember any politician being named. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too into my plate full of my grandmother's cooking. Maybe their names did come up. Maybe. Maybe not. But there was no arguing. No shouting. Just discussions. And lots of laughter. And so much wonderful food.</div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back, what I do remember was the void of television with zillions of channels and commentators expressing opinions, some spinning the truth, some accusing without facts to back them up. I do remember there were no cell phones, no Twitter or Facebook or dark places one could go to on a scary thing called the internet. There was just a family gathered in a large farm kitchen, sitting around the table enjoying a fine meal prepared by a loving woman who'd gone with her husband up the road in his small Ford truck to cast their ballots for the candidates of their own choosing. No one threatened them. No one tried stopping them. After all, they were expressing a Right in the democracy they loved called America.</div><div><br /></div><div>(I chose the attached photo, feeling it might have been a snapshot back in the day of my grandparents of what is now popularly called a Focus Group. People gathered together to discuss issues and exchange opinions). </div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-78632818063894754292022-10-31T08:06:00.009-04:002022-10-31T08:06:49.440-04:00Happy Spooky Halloween<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wcxGqLWT6_ywuaWnPA3W6n8P_eWc822TD_if0mog2HtWMUI4N3LR63vzoIZ9LktaSeSDXB6w_W9yJ-g6XY_IQI3RvqmG0Ab8ui-lESeV_4pV29gkt52Es048Pq2Vpm8l1sxsCBs-fP1Fw6J6ruevrzUN5teNX1S1dYBX8lGiUx-6Le4M_M-eFEhz9w/s1083/312636979_451239380481836_560499567075181626_n%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1063" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wcxGqLWT6_ywuaWnPA3W6n8P_eWc822TD_if0mog2HtWMUI4N3LR63vzoIZ9LktaSeSDXB6w_W9yJ-g6XY_IQI3RvqmG0Ab8ui-lESeV_4pV29gkt52Es048Pq2Vpm8l1sxsCBs-fP1Fw6J6ruevrzUN5teNX1S1dYBX8lGiUx-6Le4M_M-eFEhz9w/s320/312636979_451239380481836_560499567075181626_n%20(2).jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">EARLIER THIS HALLOWEEN MORNING</span><p></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I was out taking some pictures of the moon over the field when suddenly I could not believe my eyes. A Witch-a real Witch on a broom went flying by. I could hear her heckling and the broom whizzing and the wind drifting through the branches now bare.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It's Halloween! </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>Glorious and spooky Halloween with candy corn and lollipops and miniature candy bars and popcorn balls and candy apples and pumpkins carved, and wide-eyed kids full of anticipation out trick or treating.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It's Halloween! Beautifully Glorious and So Very Spooky.</div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-79167867584490742092022-10-21T08:07:00.001-04:002022-10-21T08:07:13.106-04:00A String of Pearls<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxPaat4ybwE5ryi8m-IEdSWEQsLVCHxZvLwH2xO1_FN5KMhzHjpo3kdS6zOlIWZwXmXkJgIj3OvZv_l_Jkgova20o7NeR79ooVCYOtk3e1860dFnOaEMVrtqxCuV8ExMUc6yRY-5bcN-VP6E6h9ip7vQhIQjKeSZRuf4ZsSMv48OAO1eL4UmiX6LUeg/s2129/thumbnail%20(64).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2129" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxPaat4ybwE5ryi8m-IEdSWEQsLVCHxZvLwH2xO1_FN5KMhzHjpo3kdS6zOlIWZwXmXkJgIj3OvZv_l_Jkgova20o7NeR79ooVCYOtk3e1860dFnOaEMVrtqxCuV8ExMUc6yRY-5bcN-VP6E6h9ip7vQhIQjKeSZRuf4ZsSMv48OAO1eL4UmiX6LUeg/s320/thumbnail%20(64).jpg" width="162" /></a></div><br /> A string of pearls has a few meanings to me. <div><br /></div><div>My mother loved the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Particularly their song, "String of Pearls." Sometimes she'd put her Glenn Miller 33 RPM vinyl record in the record console when cleaning the house. When that song came on, she'd turn it up and dance around as she dusted or washed windows or changed the sheets on the beds. I now understand why she liked that song. I've grown to like it too. Whenever I hear it, I can't sit still. It gets me dancing around the house.<p></p></div><div>My grandmother had a few pieces of jewelry that I fondly remember. Not because of monetary value. I have no clue what they were worth. But I do have a clue of their worth in the fact they were my grandmother's That makes them priceless to me. I remember on special occasions, like Thanksgiving or Christmas, she'd most always wear a swirly, silver pin. I can still see her pulling a turkey out of the oven. Although she wore a bib apron over her dress, that pin was still visible as she lifted that bird onto the top of the stove. Sometimes she'd wear a small round watch. It was a long necklace. I don't recall her ever checking the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two of her pieces of jewelry were my favorites. One was a small silver pin in the shape of a pony. The other was a short, double string of pearls with a beautiful pearl clasp. My grandmother didn't wear her pearls very often. I've figured out she saved them for good. But whenever she did wear them, I noticed. Over the years I'd remark about that little silver pony or her short string of pearls whenever she wore either of them. I think my grandmother understood how those two pieces of jewelry always caught my eye. You see, both of those pieces of jewelry are now in my dresser drawer. I never wear them. I treasure them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Many of the things we value are not because of their monetary worth. It goes deeper than that. It's the memories they hold. Like precious memories wrapped about a string of pearls with a beautiful pearl clasp</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-10803639773115599812022-10-09T10:19:00.003-04:002022-12-09T07:42:39.123-05:00A Heartwarming Storyline Developed During Covid<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-DgkFQQSptWWBG-Za0oGMX26MS70XAheuNOlNJdSBZZWORuldkjGfNCNkyJJ5ftEr78VcpFMVU8MwAzbm1ayTUnzf3__B6b8tNjDBZeJKA36cO_UGPpamHriGQb_pYEi0whbwKCgAC2c61EbqRio_5WJShTUN8iT2TLoQrcHgrjWNwiRa-Cc48CjjQ/s788/295465160_1034808324071790_4131004092168388636_n%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="535" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-DgkFQQSptWWBG-Za0oGMX26MS70XAheuNOlNJdSBZZWORuldkjGfNCNkyJJ5ftEr78VcpFMVU8MwAzbm1ayTUnzf3__B6b8tNjDBZeJKA36cO_UGPpamHriGQb_pYEi0whbwKCgAC2c61EbqRio_5WJShTUN8iT2TLoQrcHgrjWNwiRa-Cc48CjjQ/s320/295465160_1034808324071790_4131004092168388636_n%20(1).png" width="217" /></a></div><br />I hardly ever mention my being a writer on this blog but with the release of my new book, "Velvet Snowflakes." I thought you might enjoy learning how it came to be. I often have people asking me where my ideas come from for storylines. My reply is always the same. Storylines are all around you. The trick is to recognize them. Acknowledge them and take the time to develop them. Besides time, it takes patience. Writing is akin to putting a puzzle together. Sometimes the pieces don't fit. Sometimes a character or a scene or a conversation need reworking. That's when you have to go back and redo those pieces until you, as the writer, feel they fit.<div><br /></div><div>The idea for my heartwarming story, "Velvet Snowflakes" developed during the dark days of Covid when we were on lockdown. I began thinking about the meaning of home and the places I'd called home. Most of my attention turned to the first place I called home. It sat along a lane. I lived in that clapboard home painted gray with my parents, older brother and sister until the summer before 4th grade. Then we moved to the country. But that house on the lane has stayed with me. It has never gone away. It remains in my heart. Every inch of it, from my back bedroom with stairs that led down to the kitchen to the living room where the Christmas tree always sat in a certain corner, to the screened-in porch and large backyard full of lilacs and trees. I can still hear the wind at my bedroom window. Smell banana bread baking in the oven and feel the excitement of running down the front stairs on Christmas morning. That house on the lane played a pivotal role in "Velvet Snowflakes."</div><div><br /></div><div>The story started out as a short story. But when a magazine editor told me to go back and finish the story, telling me the characters had a lot more to give, I went back and turned that story into a book, just as the editor suggested I do. Giving the characters more room to develop enriched the storyline more than I ever could have imagined. Once I got back into that storyline the words flew off the pages. It was as if the characters and the plots and every little sentence added knew they belonged there. They all kept telling me to keep writing. And so, I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>Writing is a sloppy frustrating, beautiful process and when it all comes together, the respect and love for that process is immense, even when on lockdown.</div><div><br /></div><div>***The cover of "Velvet Snowflakes" was designed by the renowned artist, John Morrow whose work has appeared on several magazine covers and earned first place in many exhibits around the country. </div><div>To learn more about John and see a portfolio of his work, visit jmorrow.com.</div><div>***"Velvet Snowflakes" is available on Amazon, Kindle, Nook and Barnes & Noble or contact me and I will mail you an autographed copy. My website: barbarabriggsward.com.</div><div><br /></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2078993955336687243.post-10580836921560928472022-09-06T09:31:00.001-04:002022-10-26T20:48:33.025-04:00A Colorful Surprise Across the Road<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHz7GH1235uM3vHmHhbjXriKDpQ2QN04kgAGUhn0nhaXqOBEO-RmqUr1bhRy-XbhOsg_5DxfojjnraSbC2cFjsi_AiiFrjPq55Ow8VE3vP7K3LLY_AUlkxLhDCxXeg-DwL1Rgmop3iBaGUO6azGKKi1VCjSkz1OipSg4SOFTUod5UO7xqxG2RwabuKww/s1336/thumbnail%20(39).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHz7GH1235uM3vHmHhbjXriKDpQ2QN04kgAGUhn0nhaXqOBEO-RmqUr1bhRy-XbhOsg_5DxfojjnraSbC2cFjsi_AiiFrjPq55Ow8VE3vP7K3LLY_AUlkxLhDCxXeg-DwL1Rgmop3iBaGUO6azGKKi1VCjSkz1OipSg4SOFTUod5UO7xqxG2RwabuKww/s320/thumbnail%20(39).jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was hanging clothes out on the clothesline the other day when I noticed something moving in a field across the road. I couldn't figure out what it was, so I went inside the house for my phone and told Brian I'd be right back. As I crossed the road, I still couldn't figure out what it was until "it" moved.</span><p></p><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">What I'd seen was the top of a hat. </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>discovered it was worn by an artist from New Jersey, Catherine Whitehead. She travelled here to participate in Morristown's Plein Air event. I could only see the top of her hat because she was sitting in the field, painting. The field was a collage of beautiful, colorful wildflowers swaying in the gentle breeze. When I think about it, such a scene is repeated alongside so many of our country roads. After introducing myself, I learned this artist was infatuated with the fields drenched in purples and yellows and oranges and shades of white and green.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Catherine Whitehead was delightful. Very welcoming despite my interrupting, as she mixed her colors and with a few strokes of her brush, added them to her work in progress, out in that field across the road. With her obvious talent on display, I listened as she spoke with enthusiasm and appreciation of the North Country. </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Catherine raved about the North Country's natural beauty. She was infatuated by the clouds. She told me some types of clouds she'd never seen before. She fell in love with our clouds that pass above us without a sound. She talked about an Amish family she'd befriended, asking if she could paint their farm. She was told yes as long as she did not paint any of the children. The Amish family loved her interpretation of their farm on canvas. A bond was formed between the artist and the Amish.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps the most pleasant discovery for Catherine had been the people, from those organizing the event in Morristown to fellow artists, to people she'd met while out painting her beautiful landscapes. Everyone was welcoming, so much so that Catherine told me she will again return to the North Country.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't stay too long. She'd explained the best times of day to be painting in regard to the sun and the light. I realized I'd interrupted her creative flow. I went back to the clothesline. When I looked over at that field a little while later, I didn't see the top of her hat.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The artist had moved on. The clouds were still rolling by.</div></div>Barbara Briggs Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01112520363373376919noreply@blogger.com0