The Reindeer Keeper

Although they were just Archie comic book characters, Veronica and Betty were so much more to me-especially when playing with my cousins in an old chicken coop converted into a clubhouse. I don't remember how often we'd get a new comic book or where we even bought them-but when they did show up-we devoured every page featuring those two high school girls who were best friends yet rivals for the affection of Archie. I'd find myself going back and forth as to which one was my favorite. Both were 'beautiful.' Veronica had the darker hair. She was spoiled. Her family was rich. Betty was a bubbly blonde-a sweet, lovable sort of girl. Of course I never took into consideration that by the magic of someone's illustrating abilities, they were quite developed for young teens. Actually they were too developed. They were more like Barbie dolls. Their hair was always the latest style and their makeup flawless. I'd imagine myself in some of their outfits. They were fashi

In the movie, Dr. Zhivago-set during the turbulence of the Russian Revolution-one particular scene reminds me of my grandfather's barn in Winter. I didn't pick up on that when I read the book. It hit me after seeing the movie for the 2nd time. That specific scene shows the doctor and his lover, Lara, entering an abandoned home complete with chandeliers. It took my breath away. Not because it was obvious how elaborate that place must have been but rather-it was because the rooms were full of snow and shimmering, sparkling ice crystals and frost resembling lace-just like my grandfather's barn in winter-itself abandoned-not by a revolution of any sort but instead by a farmer and his wife aging-then moving. While we played around that farm and its fields and pastures every season-to me, Winter was the most breathtaking. Void of any animals, the barn stood silent-except for the wind etching its way through cracks and holes in the slabs of weathered wood with some of t

The granary set behind my grandparent's barn was as intriguing as both the barn itself and the chicken coop that had been turned into a clubhouse for all of us little ones. By the time we came around the granary wasn't used too often as the farm no longer was a working farm. There were no cows or horses or pigs or chickens to feed-except for the Black Angus my brother had for awhile. Because it was hardly ever used the granary became yet another place for us to explore and pretend. It never took much to stir our imaginations when playing around that farm. We didn't need fancy toys. We had all we needed right there on that rambling country road. Once we walked inside that rickety old structure the fun began. The first room was more like a workshop. There were old cans full of nuts and bolts and nails and screws. There were hammers and files-the kind used to smooth wood or metal, wrenches, screwdrivers. There was a vise-which became so much more than just a vise when we wer

(I'm still unable to post a picture/photo on my Blog so I will continue to post the particular picture/photo that would have gone with a particular post on my Facebook page). There was one particular room in my grandparents' farmhouse that blossomed in the winter-warming the season's shadows with color and a sense of season's to come. The room was one of the two front parlors with a window facing the sun-the window where geraniums blossomed one right after another-spreading shades of red against the white on the other side of the cold and frozen panes streaked in frost. There was something magical when looking out the window where the flowers spread their leaves of green. Next to the window was a bookcase full of books. It was the same room where my grandfather would sit in his chair and read Saturday Evening Posts and Zane Gray westerns. I too have such a window in the winter where geraniums blossom all winter long-as the sun spreads those shades of red against the

For some reason I can't attach the picture I wanted to with this Post so please use your imagination! (I'll post it to my Facebook page-Barbara Briggs Ward). This all started stirring in my head on Christmas Eve as I watched my 3-year old granddaughter open some gifts. Of course she was excited-ripping paper off one and then another; spending seconds looking at each and then moving on to the next. When she got to the 'big' one-so big that I hadn't been able to wrap it, she hesitated. It was obvious she was trying to figure out how to get at what was hidden inside the two very large, oversized gift bags. With her Daddy's help she removed the bags-and discovered a-to-die-for, brightly-colored easel. One side was a chalkboard with a tray for chalk; the other was the easel with cup holders for paints and things. She would soon unwrap another easel gift-one with the chalk and paints and brushes and paper. I say it was a to-die-for easel because I put myself in he

Winter brought hours of fun playing outside when growing up in the country. It never mattered how cold it got. It never mattered how high the snow banks grew or how wild the wind howled. We'd be out there dressed in snowsuits and scarves, wool hats and mittens and boots made more for the season than for fashion. Some days we'd go sliding or tobogganing. Other times we'd just roll down the hills or piles of snow. We'd often make tunnels and snow forts. The forts were supplied with lots of snowballs in case it needed defending. Skating down at the creek-day or night-was always fun. Sometimes we'd wear our skates. Other times we'd put them on once we got there. I don't remember spending much time shoveling it off. I think the wind was a big help or maybe skating through some snow here and there didn't bother us. Either did having to jump over creek grass sticking out from the ice because if you didn't jump over it, you'd most likely get your ska