Happy New Year

Another year has gone by, this one even faster than the last. I reckon when you reach 60 plus years of saddling up, you know you're riding a down hill trail, and it only makes sense that each year would pick up a little more speed. When you're young, a year can seem like forever. The older a man gets, however, the faster time flies by. New years seem to come to the Chicken Ranch faster than a tax assessor can find your new shed.
As I look back over the last years, it seems I've always thought of the past year in terms of the things I've lost and the things I've gained. Like the penciling of an old leather-bound ledger in a by-gone hardware store, I've inventoried earthly gains and losses in deaths and births, possessions and necessities, dollars and cents, and (increasingly it seems) aches and pains. Its normal and, I suppose altogether proper, to gauge our position on the planet after another 12 months of God-given life.

 I think especially of my spiritual growth, my attitude toward my fellow man, and hope that one thing I see as  I look back is progress on that front. I'm never fully satisfied with that review really; I know I could've, should've done more to be a better fellow. There are always changes for sure. As I consider it tho, I am glad that some things are just the same as they always have been.

When a new year is thought of, we tend to say "Out with the old, and in with the new." But, as I think about it, I'm glad some of the old just gets older, and moves right along with us. I'm glad some things are lasting things. After all, this years latest technology will be replaced by next years latest and greatest technology. And "New and Improved" isn't always a good thing. Some things were better before they were improved upon; it wasn't broke but somebody fixed it anyway. No, I'm glad that there are some lasting things that are with us year after year. God has given us a few things that are perfect for this life, and perfection cannot be improved upon. As long as there is life on this Earth, there a some things that are with us always.

Sunrises and sunsets, for example, are always with us. The silently powerful rise of that life sustaining orange orb is welcome day after day, year after year.The setting of it each day lifts another page of life from the calendar, and gives us a quiet pause before another new day of unknowns dawns upon us. I love that the days are marked by the rising and setting of the sun.

I'm glad rivers are also with us always. The flow of the water along its journey is a reminder of our steady voyage through this life. Through the straits and narrows, the bends and falls, the water moves on. Day and night, rain or shine, winter or summer, the water travels on to its destination,and is one day collected by the sea. Rivers remind me of the unstoppable passing of time.

Love moves into each new year with us, although with the passing of time, it may change form. The heady euphoric youthful kind of love may mature into something that feels more like security, appreciation, contentment, and companionship. If we have truly loved and been loved, it lingers a long time after we have been collected by the sea. Love can remain in the hearts of those we have touched  long after we're gone. I'm glad love travels with us.

I'm thankful that memories roll along with us as the pages of the calendar turn. I know personal memories can be robbed by age or disease, but the memories that we help build don't belong solely to us; they last beyond us, much as love does. Babies are born, children and grandchildren are raised, and times and experiences shared are bound up in a book of life that has a new chapter written with each rising of the sun. No, our memories are not ours alone; they belong to all that we share this life with. Pleasant memories are the warm glow left with us long after the wine glass is empty, the burning coals left behind when the flame has flickered its last.

So while I do not wish to become stagnant and refuse to accept change when it is good, I am glad that some things do not change. I'm thankful that some things ride through time with us, like a steady horse under us, or a beloved old truck that just keeps going.  It feels good to know there are a few things in this natural life that you can trust, appreciate, and count on...year after year.

To all y'all, a heartfelt Happy New Year from all of us at the KD Chicken Ranch.

Rainy Day Chores

I put on my slicker and big hat and head out to feed and water, and to bring in a load of firewood.

The cold mist drifts in the air this day at the Chicken Ranch. Fog has draped around us like a thin grey curtain. Water drips from tree branches on to the backs of tiny birds, and they shake their feathers and shiver against the cold wetness. It is the kind of dampness that settles in a old cowboys bones, and offers an achy reminder that he has used his body for a machine too many times over the years. Knees and shoulders telling me I should've used a tractor to move things, or to carry loads that were too punishing on joints and cartilage. Young, impetuous, and impatient once. Not young any longer that’s for sure, not impetuous either. Impatient? Yeah, afraid I’m still there.

The sounds are few and muffled in the watery air. There is little activity around here this winter morn. Many of the chickens have decided to stay in their houses where it is dry, and wait for the cracked corn to come to the yard.

Hershey, the Chocolate Labrador Canine Security System (his official title), peeks his head out of the dog house as if to say, “Miserable ain‘t it?” “Some sentinel you are” I tell him. He reluctantly leaves his warm, dry bed of straw, and runs along while I carry water. He lets me know that a hen is out, and chases her until she gets to the edge of the fence and flies over. He has never hurt them, but just herded them all these years. It figures I’d have a  labrador retriever that hates water, and thinks he’s a Border Collie.

A fox squirrel sits on a tree branch above the chicken yard. He’d give his back teeth for a nibble of the corn being tossed to the hens. But, after calculating the risks, i.e. big rooster, dog, and me, he decides to just move on and forage in the nearby woods.


 After I feed the rabbit, our resident free loader that is my grandsons’ pet, I turn to head up to the woodshed. The smell of oak, hickory, and other woods fills my senses as I enter it. Happiness is a large wood pile, that’s one of the many things me and old Davy Thoreau agree on. I never tire of that split wood bouquet. I have appreciated that smell all of my life. My earliest childhood memories are of wood stoves and wood piles on the farms of Armstrong Valley and Shelby County, Kentucky. Two places that are the base of my DNA, down there in Gods country.

I gather up an armload of firewood, and head to the house. Won’t need but a low fire today. Just enough to dry the air a bit, and provide some visual comfort while I sip a cup of strong black coffee. May do a little writing today, or watch an old John Wayne western. May set up the lighted ceramic village for Patty that we put out each winter. May take a good winters nap in my leather recliner that I love.

I’ll probably do all these things as the day progresses. After all, it’s gonna be a wet weekend, and all these happy things can be done inside…where its cozy, warm, and dry.

The Feed Man (repost)

Several years ago I sold livestock feeds for a living. My work took me to farms and ranches all over Illinois and Missouri. It wasn’t long after I started selling feed that I learned you couldn’t just lump everyone with land, tractors and livestock in a hasty generalization, and call them all “Farmers” or Ranchers”. There were plenty of folks that had all the usual equipment, buildings and animals found on a farm, but this ownership didn’t automatically make them a good producer. I found that true ranchers and farmers set a certain standard of measure before them. A code of ethics. A dedication to be a good steward of the land while it is in their possession. Fall short of that code and no amount of land or critters made you a true blue rancher in the eyes of others. I met and befriended some great livestock producers those years, and I ran into some terrible ones. Lets be positive in this writing and talk about the best ones.

No Other Home Than This

Bob and Isetta lived not too far west of the mighty Mississippi river, in the rolling hill country of Missouri. They were far enough off the beaten path that the road went from narrow blacktop to gravel to dirt and rock. The gate to the road leading to the house was aged oak and tensile wire, and swung on rusted hinges older than many of the big trees surrounding it. The fence was board and wire, upright and in secure order. The post the gate was mounted on bore an old MFA (Missouri Farmers Association) sign that was a third rusted away and an equally aged home made sign proclaiming “STOP AT THE HOUSE” . I took it to mean “Let us know you’re here. Don’t just wander around.” Good advice, if you prefer not to dig buckshot from your hind side. This old gate was the first indication to me that these folks were solid caretakers. The latch was well mounted and secure, and when I swung the gate it floated like a leaf in the wind. Old and rusty as the hinges and pins were, they were greased and cared for. I drove through the gate.

The driveway to the house was two gravel tire trails with a high center of grass. You didn’t drive a Cadillac to visit Bob and Isetta, but years ago a Model T would have fit the road just fine. After closing and latching the gate behind me, I noticed the blue/green pastures on each side of the drive. Years of seeding and maintaining had produced beautiful grasses, waving in the breeze, that the sheep and cattle were quietly feeding on. There were no saplings or unwanted growth of any kind in these fields. Just good, productive, deep green grass. As I came closer to the house and sheds I was greeted by two barking dogs. Not killers for sure, but alarmist who wanted the folks to know that a stranger was around. I got out of the truck and spoke to the dogs. The Australian Shepherds with their multi colored coats and blue eyes were friendly enough, when you got to know them, and as is typical of most herd dogs, they followed right at your heels. As I left the truck they uttered just an occasional bark to rouse the folks.

Soon I heard a “Hello!” from a shed door. I saw a lean man in his 70’s waving me over. He was wearing blue hammer-loop pants with the knees worn white and nearly thru, and a blue long sleeve work shirt buttoned to the top even though it was a warm summer day. The felt hat on his head had to be 30 years old. He was working on an old Ford tractor that had the front axel propped up on a stump of wood. “Wheel bearings” he said as he saw me looking at his work. “ They can be stubborn” I offered. He agreed, slid off a glove to shake hands, and we introduced ourselves to each other. I told him I was a feed rep and when I called him ‘Mister’ he said “Mister was my Dad, just call me Bob.” I smiled and said “Okay” as I glanced at the shed.

The shed and other buildings were nearly 100 years old and well maintained. The doors were all straight and sturdy. The metal roofs, though showing some rust here and there, were tight. The weathered gray board and batten siding was straight and solid. “How long have you lived here Bob?” “All my life” he replied “my Dad bought this farm in 1897. He raised us seven kids here, two girls and five boys. I guess I was the only one silly enough to stay farming.” He smiled and looked out across the fields, not really focusing on anything. He wore the look men do when they see many decades behind them... and their own mortality in front of them. “Robert ?” In the half opened screen door stood his wife Isetta. “ Ready for your coffee now?” “ Comin” he replied. Bob nodded in Isetta’s direction and smiled, “Let’s go up to the house.”

As we entered the closed-in back porch Bob hung his hat on a home made peg board, just hand carved dowels protruding from a slab of wood. The places that were worn smooth indicated many years of hung up hats and coats. I carried my hat in my hand as we entered the kitchen. Three mugs were on the table, each one advertising some event, though the letters were all but worn away. “ How do you take your coffee? Isetta asked. “Just like it comes out ma’am” I replied. She grinned as she poured and glanced at her husband, “Good boy. If God had intended for coffee to have cream in it he’d of had cows produce it.” Bob chuckled as he added cream to his mug. “She gives me a hard time over this”. “Only for the last fifty years” she said. The kitchen was old, with dated linoleum and wallpaper. The cabinets were layers of paint on wood, white this time around. Everything was neat and orderly, right down to the previous meals plates in the wire dish rack sitting on the white enameled sink . “Fifty years, is that how long you’ve been married?” I asked. “Give or take a few, all of them spent right here on this farm. We got married and moved in with Bob‘s folks. Our honeymoon was a movie in town and dinner ” she grinned “You married son?” And she placed her hand on Bob’s shoulder.

Isleta’s hands were slender and feminine, like the rest of her, but her calluses and short fingernails showed that these hands had done a lot of work. Her hair was tied back in a short ponytail that fell on her ankle length dress. Her apron was a plaid print showing wear around the collar and pockets. “Yes ma’am, I am, and I have two beautiful daughters” I said in answer to her question. “ Family is everything” she stated and smiled. Bob nodded in agreement as he sipped his coffee. Bob offered that I probably hadn’t just come to talk about my personal life to strangers and asked about my products. Isetta pulled out a chair and sat down with us. I had a feeling she didn’t take the backseat when they drove to town. She soon proved me right when I started quoting production figures and yield expectations from my brand of livestock feeds. She got up and returned with a calculator. Bob asked the questions, but Isetta did the numbers. They listened carefully and politely then Bob said  "Kevin, the condition of my animals is my main concern. We have survived here all these years by maintaining the health of our animals and the health of our land”. He went on,"being the biggest producer or the fastest person to raise calves and get them to market has never been a concern for us. Having good strong breeding practices and not straining the livestock or the land to the limit is what we have tried to always keep in front of us.” “If you cherish the land…it will take good care of you”, said Isetta. Bob turned to me and asked “You got time to drive around the farm a little?” I said I would love to.

 We thanked Isetta for the coffee and headed out to an old beat up blue 1956 Ford truck. “Hop in son” Bob said. The door of the truck popped loudly as I climbed in. I noticed a faded photo of a young soldier in a World War II era uniform taped to the dusty metal dashboard. “That was our Charlie” was all he said, and we headed down a dirt road toward a creek bottom.

In the floor board  of the old truck was a can of rusty and slightly bent nails. Looking back, I realize that I never questioned then why a man would recycle nails. Pull them from discarded lumber and straighten them out for reuse. Saving nails was saving money. It's what many folks did back then. In today's disposable ( you could insert wasteful here) society a thing is bought and used without giving much thought to its longevity.  From push mowers to bicycles, repairs are seldom done anymore. It’s cheap, don’t waste the time or energy, just go to the nearest big-box store and get a new one. It hasn’t always been that easy. Years ago, straightening the crooked nail meant extended use and saving money... two  things that seem to have become old fashioned ideas.

The summer sun burned down on us as we made our dusty way along the road. Through the windshield I could see that the road was cradled in between a bluff of rock and trees on one side and a corn field green with knee high corn on the other. We soon came to an opening where a large barn stood. An old tire hung from an oak tree by a rusty old log chain. The tree limb from where the tire hung had grown over the chain long ago. Grass grew under the tree and showed no signs of the swing having been used for ages. We rounded the barn and the road dropped abruptly to a creek. A concrete bridge that also served as a dam allowed us to cross. The tires splashed through the running water flowing over the dam, throwing droplets on the hood and windshield. I pulled my arm back inside the window  of the truck  until we crossed. Upstream of the dam was a quiet pool of water that reflected beautifully the trees and sky above it. Under one tree along the creek bank was an old metal chair sitting on the flatrock, facing the water. The chair was red now, but spots of peeling paint here and there revealed the colors from its past. A single chair out here, so removed from the house? Bob must have noticed the quizzical look in my eyes. “ Isetta sits here often. For a couple of years she would sit in that chair for hours on end.” Then changing the subject he said, “there’s our best herd bull.”

The red and white bull was massive. His back was as straight as an aircraft carrier deck, his neck strong, and his muscles rippled as he walked. Bob told me they had saved up a lot of money and bought a good bull in Kansas City many years ago. This bull was an off-spring resulting from that purchase. I remarked that the cows across the fence were equally impressive. This was good stock.
“ Haste makes waste you know” Bob stated “ dad had good cows to start us, and we selected the best calves every year to build a herd. We've always kept good bulls before the cows, and Isetta keeps excellent records in her ledger.It takes time to build a good herd.” Bob gunned the old truck a little as we headed up a knob. Dust swirled in the warm summer air behind us.

A ballet of shadows and light danced on the hood of the old truck as we drove under and out of the shade of the trees along the road. The dirt road swept up and around the knob in its approach to the top. The view from the truck windows of the valley below was wonderful. The creek, pastures, and fields of varying hue spread out before us. The cattle grazed contentedly in the valley and half way up the knob. I was reminded of part of a biblical verse I have always loved,“ The cattle on a thousand hillsides are mine” the Lord said. Few things in this natural world are constant. Civilizations rise and fall, magnificent structures are erected, then decay away. But the view before me was as old as man himself. Gods creation, a masterpiece of animal and terrain, looking much as it has for thousands of years, throughout much of the earth.

“You own a beautiful place here, Bob” I said as we topped the hill. “Well” he smiled, "I've known no other home than this, but I don’t reckon I own it really. We don’t owe a red cent on it, and the deed says it’s mine, but really it’s only mine for a little while. There was my dad who owned it, then two fellows before him. I suppose the Indians laid claim to it and, before that, it was Gods alone. I’m old now, pushing 80, with a bum ticker, and it won’t be too long before it’s someone else’s. No... it’s just mine to care for while I’m here, and then I’ll pass it on.” Bob had stopped the truck and we were getting out. "To family?” I asked as I stepped on the grass hillside. He paused only slightly as he was stepping out of the truck and glanced at the picture on the dashboard. “No, I’m afraid not”.

We stood on the hill top taking in the view below. The shadow of a  large cloud passed slowly over us, turning the valley dark then light again. After a few seconds Bob spoke. “We had a son, fine boy, hard worker and smart too. We lost him when he was young.” “That picture on the dashboard, you called him Charlie, is that of your son?” I asked.

“It is” Bob started walking along the bluff. “ He enlisted in1941. He was too young without having us sign for him. He wanted to go so bad. Isetta and I agreed to let him go even though, since he was an only son, he could have stayed home. I had a couple of hired hands to help with things here so….He made it back okay, after about four years. Happiest day of our lives was seeing him walking down our road with his grips in his hand and a smile as big as Texas on his face.” Bob was smiling as he experienced that moment all over again in his mind. We stopped on a large rock protruding from the hillside. Bob reached down, grabbed a stalk of grass and began chewing on it.

“He was home about three months when he was in a bad car wreck.” Bob went on “Drunk fellow driving a log truck, of all things. Charlie made it out of the war and got killed by a drunk.” “I’m sorry” was all I could think to say. He looked out over the land with his hands in his back pockets and nodded, then turned and said “ that drunk almost took Isetta from me too. She spent two years not caring if she lived or died. Just went down to the creek where we all swam together, and sat in that old chair. Winter and summer, staring into the water. Eventually, I guess the waters there just kinda washed away the pain. One morning after breakfast she went to the shed and came back with her gardening tools. Started working in her flowers just like she used to. I knew then that she was on the mend.” We had turned around and were getting in the truck when he said “Well, whoever winds up with this place will find that we improved it. Isetta and I feel strongly that we’re put on this earth to make a difference. God gives you something, he has a right to expect you to treat it good. To build on it, not to waste it. A man's done good when he can say he left a thing better than he found it."

We headed back to the barnyard by a different access road. We discussed types of cattle, hogs and sheep. We settled on a couple of items that I sold that he thought would be beneficial to his operation. A fellow on a tractor mowing hay waved as we passed by and Bob pointed out that the fellow was his hired man. As we neared the house Isetta was exiting a white shed that I took to be a hen house. A basket under one arm, she smiled and waved to us as we approached. The chickens were nearby scratching in the pasture and yard. “My wife likes you son, I can tell. You’re honest, and she knows it.” "I try to always be” I said as we stopped next to the shed with the old Ford tractor in it. “Never stop trying, son" Bob said, getting out of the truck. He paused before he shut the door, smiled and looked me in the eyes “there is nothing more important in a feed man than honesty”.
 Words to remember and live by.

I saw Bob and Isetta  several more times before I moved on in 1985. The hog market reached historic lows and some producers back then didn't make it. Because Bob and Isetta were quite diversified they suffered no real or lasting damage.They were always such a pleasure to meet with. I had coffee and some wonderful baked items that Isetta provided each time I was there. These folks were never my biggest customer, but they were  one of my best customers.
They never failed in their belief that it was a solemn duty to protect and improve upon the land that God had given them. I loved talking to them, whether I sold a thing or not. Faithful stewards. That’s what they were. Honest, resilient, hard working, caring and kind. The sort of people that made you want to work more fervently, harder and smarter. They were of the stock that had built the west into the Western Civilization. I don’t know what happened to them after I moved. I hope they had a contented life to the end. 
With sparing uses of chemicals, good crop rotation practices and even the dedication to leave trees in fence rows to prevent wind erosion, Bob and Isetta protected their land. 

One  thing is sure, their farm was left better off because of their wonderful insight into land stewardship. And, without a doubt, so was I.
                                                              

Radio Remembrance

I fixed and cleaned up my grandfathers 1960's Sears Solid State transistor radio today. It was given to me after my grandmothers passing many years ago. The old radio used to sit on the antique glass-door hutch in the kitchen of my grandparents home. A home that was nestled along an ever running crystal clear creek, in what we called Armstrong Valley, Bullitt County, Kentucky.

The old radio was there for music, weather updates, and sometimes... just plain comfort. I remember coming in at noon often and finding my grandparents eating lunch and listening to weather and farm reports. Sometimes it was the Arthur Godfrey Show or some other entertainment breaking the air waves, as Papaw sat at the kitchen table sharpening a pocket knife, or cleaning his gun after a morning of hunting. It wasn't on a lot, just there when it was needed; like an old chair that always there to sit in when you need to. Whether on or off, there it was atop that old hutch, year after.

 In the shop, I shined up the outside of the old radio with vinyl cleaner. Reconnected some loose wires. I cleaned up some contact points, and gave it a try. It worked, so I took it in the house to my room of old family treasures.

I set in my den, this box of old electronics, plugged it in, and rolled the crackly dial until the telescoping antenna picked up a station. As the fuzzy sound became clear, I heard the distinct voice of an early 20th Century New York City disc jockey. He was mid-sentence in announcing the next Christmas song; Bing Crosby singing White Christmas. I felt like I had just dialed my self back in time nearly 50 years.

The old transistors did their job, and the ancient speaker hummed and vibrated merrily as Bing sang the song that his amazing baritone voice made so famous. The sound of the old radio, and the radio stations' replay of the 1953 Christmas broadcast, brought back old Christmas memories that covered me like a new fallen snow.

There was the memories of the chairs under the shade trees near the creek, where sweet tea or lemonade soothed the soul in the summer heat. The cool autumn days of picking turnips. The winter days and nights around the old wood stove, basked in the warmth of the popping and cracking wood and the warmth of each others company. And Christmas. The table full of Christmas food, full of laughter, overflowing in love of the country life, running over with love of family. Some Christmases were white and some were not, but all were good to me as a boy.

The meals that I enjoyed ( the best fried chicken ever made, period), the conversations around the table, the last meal I had at the farm with my Mamaw Grace before she died, the last deeply sorrowful meal we had there after she left us, and a hundred other glimpses of the past, were as fresh to me as yesterday. All these brought on by the static sound of 1953 on a 1960's radio.

There are spots of the finish that are worn away where my granddads fingers routinely worked the buttons and dial. He'd tuned in to the same places over and over through the years. One of the most worn areas is the location that I had turned the dial too. I placed the dial where he had, and out of the box of wires, circuits, and remembrances came the 1950's and 60's. Coincidence? Could be, I guess, but I like to think my grandparents sent me there, to take me back, so I'd remember the joys of those Christmases past. A journey back to a simpler time, in a world still inhabited by the Greatest Generation and small family farms.

So, this Christmas season I once again have to say thanks to them, the grandparents on my mothers side, who helped shape the boy into the man. The folks who kept a country haven, and a wonderful grandmother named Grace who was an honor to her name.

"Thanks for the old radio Mamaw and Papaw".  And, as our old friend Bob Hope would say back in the day, "Thanks for the memories."

From all of us at the Chicken Ranch, "May your days be merry and bright...and may all your Christmases be white."

Country Funeral

The sky is dressed in its winter coat today. The varying shades of gray hides the sun and makes the temps feel even colder than it is. The dampness settles around my collar and makes me wish I'd started my winter beard sooner. The thicker facial hair would warm me up a bit. My cowboy hat does its job of keeping my head warm though. Winter is upon us. This less than bright and shiny winters day matches some of my inner being as I reflect over recent events.

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a great friend. He was nearly the same age as me. We'd known each other a long time. His wife and I had had connections to my home state of Kentucky that went way back to our childhood. Their children had grown up as friends to our children; they remain good friends to this day. His family and mine share more connections than I have time to write about.  His faith in  God and conservative views were a strong match to mine. Like-minded, he and I have tried to live Christian lives despite our struggles with our own human nature; neither of us perfect men, just men determined to keep on trying to make each day a little better than the last. He was just much better at it than me.

In a small rural town in southern Illinois a few hundred folks from three or four states gathered to pay respects to the big man whose smile, laughter, and heart matched his girth. As we made our way from all directions to the town hall where he lay, the sky was a display of brilliant blue, and the wind had the chill of early winter beneath its wings. Doctors, law enforcement, corporate leaders, farm and ranch folks, ministers, and cowboys all drove in the night before, or got up before the sun did, to make it to this mans last gathering with his friends. Alan loved visiting with people. He loved to laugh, talk, tease, and just plain enjoy the company of other like minded individuals. He'd have loved the crowd. And the food...my goodness.

The meal after the burial was all that you'd expect from rural Americans paying their respects. Meats, salads, breads, deserts, and dishes of every conceivable type were brought in by the friends of this good family. Food comforts and strengthens the soul. At the time when our world has changed so dramatically and the shaky future is seen through a clouded glass, food and friends are the support system that never fails. No one knows how to bring that kind of comfort more than country folks do. Brought one loving dish at a time, hours and hours of kitchen dwelling was made evident in the feast  that was offered on the long rows of tables. Folks ate and told their favorite stories of the man whose love of life and family were legend. We were all glad to have known him...and glad to know each other.

Time and again the remark was made (as it almost always is) that "we need to get together somewhere other than a funeral." Everyone promises to call or see each other soon, "while we can." We all mean it, sincerely mean it, but our busy lives will likely keep us apart until another of us passes, and we all come together again in support. And that's okay. The fact remains that, when we're needed the most, we will be there. That's just what friends and family do. With country folks, the line between friends and family is often blurred. Love, after all, knows no boundaries.

So as I load wood in the stove for warmth on this chilly morn, I'm warmed inside by the thought of yesterdays gathering. While bittersweet, we were all brought together in fellowship and love. We'd taken time out of our often hectic existences to come together for a greater good. As I thought of my wonderful friends, from here and far away, that I was able to spend a wonderful day with, I was immensely grateful.  A powerful magnet of kindness, caring, and compassion drew us collectively to the side of those who mourned their loss...and we were all rewarded. Alan was that magnet yesterday. It was just the way he'd have wanted it. It was special to me, the joy and sorrow interwoven.

So, as I say adios to an old friend I also have to say thanks to him. Thanks for years of friendship, miles of smiles, a barrel full of laughs, and a shared love of all the important things. And as for bringing together the greatest folks in the world yesterday ? Well, as usual, Alan old buddy, I owe you.

Some friends and family who came to say goodbye.

WARM SIDE OF THE WINDOW

The rainy mist is cold upon my skin today as I feed the animals. The water beads on my duster and Stetson in little BB sized drops until gravity persuades them to the ground. My breath steams as I load the containers with recently purchased feed. The fifty pound sacks make my muscles work, and the heat from the exertion feels good.

The ground is soggy beneath my boots. The recent days of rain have left the ground  a damp multicolored carpet of brown, yellow, and red  leaves. The high winds from a recent storm stripped nearly every bit of foliage from the trees, and has left their winter skeletons bare before the gloomy gray sky. A huge late autumn storm passed by us before it unleashed the many tornadoes that left horrible devastation in their wake. I will not complain about the wet and cold; my shelter from both is still thankfully intact. I have a warm fire and a hot cup of java to comfort me. Some folks now have neither, and my heart goes out to them.

I move to the lean-to shed and grab a bale of straw. The dog house, for that chicken herding pet of ours, needs a little bedding. A fresh floor of straw will provide a warm and dry haven for this chocolate covered "mans best friend". Hershey sniffs the golden bale, then runs off to the chicken pen to harass the chickens as they feed. He runs by and gives one half-hearted woof. The hens look annoyed but don't respond.They have a meal to finish, and no dog, safely on the other side of the fence, will be allowed to disturb that.

I gather the eggs from the many nest boxes. Eggs are few in number today. We don't provide artificial light to our hen house to encourage more laying. We allow the hens to rest in the short lit days of winter. Our hens lay for up to eight years, partly, I believe, because we let the girls lay when they feel like it. Spring, summer, and fall production is plenty to provide us with 40 or 50 dozen eggs in the garage fridge at all times. We sell some, barter some, give some to family, and use the rest for good ole Chicken Ranch cooking. There is no comparison to store-bought eggs. Dark rich yellow yolks are much preferred here over the anemic Super Market type, which are six months old and hardly "farm fresh" when you buy them.

The wind picks up a little and ruffles the feathers on the hens. A couple of stubborn leaves are finally urged from their hold on the limbs, and they make their final descent to the wet ground. The wet olive drab and brown prairie grasses are bent low in one direction, looking like a bad comb-over on the bald soil. Here and there, dark puddles are garnished with colored leaves floating  like little sailboats in them. I look around and realize that much has  been altered in the last few weeks.  It is only the pines that stand resolute and unchanged by the seasons touch.

I stop by the woodshed to gather an armload for the fire. The pile is lean, time to call the woodman or head out to my daughters land and cut some more. Hmmm, think I'll call the woodman to get me by for awhile. I head up to the house and balance the wood in one arm as I open the door to the mud room. I give my boots a kick and walk sock footed to the rack by the fireplace. I unload my arms with a clunk clunk on the hearth.I arrange the longs so that small wood is available to start the fires, and larger logs are left to carry through the night. I notice that I need a little kindling, so I put on my boots again, and walk out the kindling pile.

As I make my way to the back porch, kindling in hand, the rain picks up again, and the wind blows a chilly wetness down my upturned collar.  It helps me hasten my steps a bit.There is a quiet moan in the pines as I walk by, and I recognize the sound. It is the whisper of Old Man Winter, warning that he's on his way. I smile to myself as I think of the warmth of the crackling fires in the shop stove and living room fireplace. And the hot coffee waiting in the pot.The hen house and Hersheys abode are freshly strawed and prepared for icy cold nights. My sheeps' wool lined Indian moccasins are waiting by the door. " I hear you old man", I think to myself, "we've been expecting you."

I step in to the mud room,  and set the kindling on the step to the kitchen. I put the door between me and the wet chill blowing across the back porch. I hang up my drippin' duster and cowboy hat. As I slip the warm moc's on my feet and gather up the kindling again, I take in the slight smoky smell of the fire that is mingled with the roasted aroma of the coffee in the pot.With the fireplace squared away, I walk over to the west window and look at the rain falling from the cold gray sky. It is a pleasant thing to be on this side of the glass on this cold and wet late autumns day.

Yep, Old Man Winter, we know that it's time. It's been a year since we've seen you. Come when you will, I think we're ready for you now.

Captain Greens Summer School

It was the summer that I was 16 years old. Like most of the kids my age, I needed a part-time job to earn spending money, and keep fuel in my car. I was dating a girl some distance away at the time, and when I was able to make the trip from  Kentucky to her small town in rural western Illinois, it got in my pocket a bit. Long distance relationships, I learned, could be a bit expensive. So, I took a position at a hospital working as a groundskeeper. I learned some valuable lessons  because of that summer job; few of which were about landscaping.

My great-uncle was the Chief Electrician at this particular facility, and when I had mentioned my need for part-time work, he pulled a few strings and secured a summer of mowing, pruning and planting at the hospital. "The fellow you're gonna be working with is a little out there," he told me, "and everyday you'll see him head for the cafe a time or two. He'll come back in a happier state after each trip cross the street" he said with a wink. The cafe was famous for it's chili, and was the hospital community favorite, I would learn. It was the bar at the cafe, however, that my uncle was referring to, and my supervisors trips weren't for food always.

My supervisor, Mr. Green, was a tall skinny man with the kind of Errol Flynn pencil mustache that a lot of older fellows sported back then. He was bent slightly,  and when he walked he swung his arms out in front of him a little, as if the pendulum-like motion helped propel him forward. His  baggy pants were out of the 1950's, and cinched by a thin belt that fought to hold them to his scrawny waist. The day I showed up for work he was bending over a water hose, screwing it on to the faucet. I introduced myself and without more than a glance he grouchily said "Your uncle is a good worker...won't take long to find out if it runs in the family I reckon." And off he went, leaving me standing there. He turned around and said " Well, come on then." I followed behind him to the old brick and stone shop where I would report each day for work.

Over the next few days I was given mowing jobs, hoeing a vegetable plot for the Nuns, and pulling weeds as daily tasks. Each time I reported for work, Mr. Green would rattle off curtly what the day would include and get me the needed tools, then set me me off in the direction of my work. He was the grouchiest  man I had ever met at times, and I didn't think he liked me much. Some of the other maintenance men introduced themselves over time and would ask with a wink " How's old Green treating you? Making any trips across the street?" And with a chuckle they would be off. Mr. Green was making trips to  the cafe often; at breaks in the morning, at lunch, and in the afternoon. I had to say that his work never suffered from his trips across the street though.

Mr. Green was meticulous in his approach to landscaping. He trimmed bushes as neat as a haircut, he knew the names of every plant and flower, and how much water each piece of fauna required on hot Kentucky afternoons. I remember once that it started raining while he was watering a flower bed, and he just kept watering the whole time it rained. I was on break, and several of the hospital staff were watching out the window and trading jokes about "crazy old Green" not knowing enough to come in out of the rain. "He's drunk as usual", one person said, "he can't feel it.", and everyone laughed, including me. "But, " she added " he does keep these grounds beautiful." Most agreed.

Mr. Green would tell me how to point the mower in one direction and mow the same way every time so the pattern was just right. He insisted on attention to detail, and would let me know in no uncertain terms when he was less than pleased with my work. And he hated weeds with a passion. Once, he took me to a flower bed early one morning and told me to pull all the weeds. It hadn't had attention for a while and the task looked daunting. I took a deep breath and started to work. I pulled weeds in the sun for hours. Finally, I finished and headed for the shop for lunch. While I was eating my sandwich, old Green came in and said "You gonna finish that weeding after lunch?" I was miffed. He went on,"There are still a few left you need to get." "I've pulled at least thousand weeds from that bed," I said trying to hide the irritation in my voice. "Well, you didn't get all of  them, go back and finish after you eat." and with that he went back out the door.

At the end of the day, and after I had  removed every single thing that wasn't a flower, I was washing my hands and preparing to leave. Old man Green came in the cool dimly lit shop, sat down in his old swivel rocker by the desk and lit his ever present pipe.  He then smacked the arms of the chair lightly with his hands. "Boy, there's something you need to learn. When you pull weeds from a garden, folks passing by later won't know or talk about the hundreds of weeds you removed, they won't know how hard you worked, or how much sweat you poured in to it, the only thing they will see is what you left behind." He let that sink in then said" You have to see a thing through all the way to the end, then folks will appreciate it better...and so will you." Lesson Number One. I didn't quite get it then, and I wasn't listening as well as I should have to a skinny old drunk who watered flowers in the rain, but over the years what he said has come back to me time and again.

I wasn't enjoying my time much at my job but I had committed to the summer, so I would stick it out for my uncles sake. My uncle was a WWII veteran of Patton's Infantry, and had seen the worst of the war, including liberating concentration camps. I held him in high regard. Old Green, after all, certainly was not abusive, he was just cantankerous much of the time. I laughed about him (and complained about him) to my friends and parents often. One day we were visiting my  aunt and uncles farm and during the course of conversation my uncle said "I've heard that Green is a little hard to get along with." I nodded but didn't want to appear ungrateful for the job, so I said nothing. "He likes you though," he said. "He doesn't show it if he does," I gruffed. "Ole man Green don't show his cards to anyone, but he told me you were a good worker and a decent kid. That's a compliment from him." After a bit of silence he added "There is more to the man than you know." A few weeks later I learned what he meant.

Old man Green was not at work one day when I got there. I waited a bit, then decided to just finish mowing a plot I had begun the day before; until I saw Green and got further instruction. I looked for the keys to the shed where the fuel was stored, but didn't see them hanging in their usual place on the wall. Mr. Greens desk drawer was partially open, so I pulled it out to see if the keys might be there. What I found instead was a bottle of Vodka, and an 8 x 10 sepia photo in a slightly rusty old frame. In the photo was a  handsome young man in a WWII Army uniform sitting next to a very beautiful dark haired young woman. It was the pencil mustache that caught my eye. This couldn't be old man Green in his younger days...could it?

"That's Green you know." A voice from behind startled me. It was Greens boss, the Operations Director. "I was just looking for the fuel shed keys," I said, trying to explain myself. The Director smiled and said, "He was an Army Air Corps pilot in the war, and a damn good one too. He once circled over a plane shot down in Germany, protecting the pilot from the enemy.He stayed and fought until he was so low on fuel that, after he landed, the plane ran out of gas before he could get it taxied to the hanger. He spent enough time up there that the US was able to get to the pilot and rescue him." "Gee whiz" was all I could say.

The Director took the picture from my hands and looked at it a minute. "The woman with him was his wife. They had a son." He put the photo back in the drawer and went on, " Old Green was discharged after the war and headed home to surprise his wife. On the day he arrived,  his wife and son weren't there. Just the night before, while he was on the train home, they were both killed in a collision with a big truck. His next door neighbor had to give him the news.Green was never the same after that, and he's been living out of a bottle ever since." I looked out the door and then back to the Director, "I didn't know" I said. He sat on the corner of the desk and crossed his arms. " I know people think he's crazy, a drunk, and all that. But like you, they have know idea who he was. I put up with some things because I do know.. and because the pilot he saved from capture was my dad."
He got up after a few seconds, reached in the middle drawer, and then handed me the fuel shed keys. "Green won't be in today, he doesn't miss work often, but he has been sick lately. Just do what you normally do. He should be back tomorrow."

After the director left, I pulled the photo from the drawer again and looked once more at the movie star-handsome couple. I sighed and hung my head. I never had a clue who this man was or what he had gone through to shape him as he was. I had judged him so cruelly, and I felt ashamed. I had always looked at him as though he had been old and broken down his whole life. I had never once considered that he wasn't always old; that he had once been young and full of life, and had hopes and dreams just like I had now in my youth. Some people I realized, were  much more than their appearance. Lesson Number Two.

After that talk with the Director I held a whole different view of Mr. Green. I found myself smiling more at work,and not the least bit fazed by his sometimes gruff demeanor. I looked at his trips to the cafe bar as pain killing time. I never made fun of that again, just felt sad for him. I never mentioned the photo, but I did converse with him more.

One day he mentioned  my uncle, and I said "He was in World War Two. I have nothing but respect for war veterans, they are owed a lot.  I have kin in Vietnam right now. Someday, I think I may join the military myself."  Mr. Green didn't say anything back at that time, but he did what he didn't very often do...he took a puff from his pipe, winked at me, and grinned. He and I began to be more at ease with each other. I found myself working harder for him, and found him more friendly to me. We even shared a laugh or two before the summer was over and I had to head back to school. I looked at him differently and treated him with respect; as a result he looked at me in a kinder way too. Lesson Number Three.

On the last day I worked, he took me to the cafe across the street and bought my lunch. Before I left, he tapped his pipe into his hand, refilled it from his tobacco pouch, then said "I've enjoyed workin' with you, boy." The only real compliment he ever gave me personally.  He turned and headed back to the shop, his swinging arms helping him to push on.

I hadn't been back to school long, when one day my uncle stopped  by our house on his way home from work. He wanted to talk to me. He told me old Mr. Green was found dead at home after he didn't report to work that day. He had been laying on the couch, his pipe beside his head, and a picture of his wife and son on his stomach. "I asked him how you had worked out for him just last week when I met up with him at the cafe. Old Green said that you were a good worker, that you were smart... and that you'd make a good soldier someday."  High praise indeed, from the old man many called Crazy Old Green. He had finished another war, fought his last battle against painful heartache, and was on a train bound for home again.

Today, sometimes when a hard rain comes while I'm watering my flowers, well, I find that I just keep on watering. Hard rains usually don't last long, and much of it runs off. If the flowers need a good soaking, you just have to help Mother Nature out a bit. Might look a little crazy, but nobody knows and understands the need of the plants like the  master gardener does. Thanks, Captain Green.
Call that Lesson Number Four.

One Last Look

He placed his hand on the tree and stood for a few seconds to give his legs a rest. The hill was steep, but hadn’t posed this much of a challenge when he was young, and climbed this and the other surrounding hills routinely. The top was only another thirty or forty feet away, so he pushed on. Reaching the end of the hardwoods, he stepped out onto the relatively flat limestone surface.

The flat, silver-gray rock on the top of the hill, formed a nearly three acre plateau. In between the limestone slabs were patches of grass, and tiny saplings that had the misfortune of being born in a piece of ground that could not long support it. The fertile area around the plateau was  inhabited by hickory, oak, cedar and pine trees that shaded some areas, and allowed the blue green reindeer moss to creep over the rock. The evergreens would bend and whisper as the warm and cool winds traded places from the top of the hills to the valley floor several hundred feet below.

He walked along a worn path that intermingled with the stone. Many decades of cutting wood here had worn a road of sorts across the dirt and over the flat rock. Horses and wagons had started the road when the land was first settled by his ancestors. Pick up trucks followed years later. Load after load of firewood and building lumber had been hauled from this ridge. He had hunted here. He had helped his great-grandfather and grandpa cut and load wood here at times, but he had most often come here alone. He had preferred the peace and solitude of riding horseback or climbing. But,  above all, he had enjoyed the view.

He walked to his favorite spot where a rock overhang opened the wall of trees. There the valley spread out before him. Lesser hills stretched out for miles. Here and there, smoke rose from behind trees to indicate a house or workshop that had its wood stove lit. That smoke, and a couple of barns below, was all there was to reveal that the valley was inhabited by humans. All else was a patchwork of fields and wood lots as far as you could see, down to the winding river. It was a picture of Gods handiwork, it was the essence of peace. That is why he had come here so often as a boy, peace was often elusive while he was growing up.

He had been born in the early 1950’s, a time when World War Two was still fresh on the minds of so many of his family who had lived through it. The Korean war had ended one month before he was born. As a little boy he was surrounded by veterans who spoke little of the wars, but often wore their experiences on their faces. “He was part of Patton’s infantry and saw the liberation of concentration camps,” some would say in a hushed manner. “He doesn’t talk about it, but he has horrible nightmares sometimes” or “He was a cook..” was what the people that loved them would discuss when they weren't around. Little snippets of info that the older men would allow to filter through the wall of resistance; sometimes with the persuasion of a little Kentucky bourbon, he remembered.

The 1960’s years brought their own troubles. The Cold War began in earnest. He remembered being so frightened as a child when, over and over again,TV programs showed how to build bomb shelters and wear gas masks, in the event of a nuclear war with Russia. The Cuban Missile Crisis brought America closer to the brink than anyone would really know... until many years later. America held it’s collective breath, and prayed for 13 days until Russia finally blinked. It was a frightening time for children and adults alike.

John F Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, followed by his brother Bobby in ‘68. Martin Luther King after that. And Vietnam turned from an advisory campaign to a full scale operation where many of his  high school friends and relatives wound up spending a year or more, fighting in a war no that one liked… or understood. Many years later he had become a  war veteran himself.

Yes, it had seemed to him back then that the whole world had gone mad. But, here on this rocky ridge he had found comfort. Here he had looked down on the hawks as they circled the valley below. Muffled sounds of farm equipment would float up the hill at times, but mostly it was the wind in the cedars, the call of the blue jay, or the squawk of the crow, that fell upon his ears. Perched on this plateau, like the Indians had done before the white man came, he saw what God saw when He looked down on the valley that He had crafted. A valley like no other. A glorious gift to those who would come here.

He had come here alone from the time he was eight years old until he had started a family of his own, and moved to another state. Even then he would come up here sometimes when he came back to visit. When he had come to this place as a boy the chaos of the world had stood still. Here, there was no war. There was no killing or crying. No fighting or worrying. There was only the beauty of the valley, and the music of creation that rode upon the wind.

He had made a promise to  one day build himself a home here, on this plateau at the top of the hills. A cabin of wood from nearby trees, with a chimney of stone from the rocky hillside. Here, he would live far above the noise and tumult, and look down at the world below. It was a dream that he had expressed to his grandparents, and that had been blessed by his wonderful, loving grandmother. It was a dream, a desperate longing, that had stayed with him nearly fifty years… until today.

They were home from the funeral now, and while others talked, cried, laughed together, and mourned for her, he had decided that he must climb this hill one more time. So he had gone out the back door, crossed the wooden bridge behind his grandmothers house, and made his way  to this hilltop one more time. The place his ancestors had settled would be parted out among his relatives soon and be sold.

To some folks money means more than history or ancestry. What price do you put on Paradise? When is money worth more than the blood and sweat mingled in the soil of the land your forefathers settled. And of the farm that perseverance built? What price can be put on a sanctuary, where a boy found peace in a world that had little?

As he stood on the hilltop now, he was angry beyond words. Not at his relatives, but at himself. He was saddened to tears. He had broken a promise to himself. He wasn’t in the financial position it required to purchase the hill top his grandmother had wanted him to have. He would have to watch it go. He felt the weight of the reality that his dream would never be. There would be no cabin of wood and stone. And it was no ones fault but his own.

His head was bowed when he heard the cry of the hawk. He raised his eyes and watched the beautiful predator with its outstretched wings, as it glided on the wind, and circled  down, down to the valley below.

The sun was setting in the west, and ribbons of color were stretching across the sky. The evening breeze whispered in the trees as he surveyed the valley one last time. He drew in a deep breath and smelled the earthy scents around him. He soaked up all his eyes could absorb. He burned the view deep into his memory.

He faintly smiled, and felt a small measure of peace as he thought of his humble little grandmother. He said aloud, “Mamaw, I guess now you have an even better view of this valley than I do ." Then, after a silent moment, he said "Well… at least it was ours for a little while.”

He took one last look, sighed deeply, then turned and started back to the house; several hundred feet and one creek crossing down below.

Autumn Wind

The limbs of the maple tree rise and fall gently, waving hello. The long feathery limbs of the weeping willow sway back and forth like svelte young dancers around a Maypole. Branches lift their weight, and then drop the fruit to the ground, as the apple tree bends and bows. Countless movements of dip and sway in tree, grass, and bush, reveal the arrival of our seasonal guest. The northwest wind has returned to the Chicken Ranch.

Autumn has requisitioned this wind that bears a chill upon its wings. Its presence is required to initiate a host of fall events.  From the caress of this chilly air and the frost it encourages at night, the leaves are convinced to change into their best dress… before they say goodbye. Geese are prompted to southern climes, and squirrels convince us of their prudence, as they busy their bushy tailed selves by burying hickory nuts in the soil. Riding the motion of this wind, a myriad of summer songbird lift from branches to catch the train south, where the promise of warmer temperatures lures them. 

This cool wind plays cupid for the deer. With their noses lifted, and the chilly wind ruffling the hair upon their backs, the need for procreation saturates the herds’ senses. Soon the rattle of bone against bone will be heard as bucks, young and old, lock horns and battle for the favor of a waiting doe. And it is not only the animal kingdom that feels the change upon their skin. Humans too are prompted to alteration, due to the smell and feel of this winds' chilly air.

Old sweaters and jackets appear on the shoulders of folks in the mornings now. Straw hats, that shaded us all summer, are hung on the wall, replaced by the cozy comfort of beaver and wool felt that now sits upon our heads. This northern wind encourages us to bring firewood up to the house, and to inspect the chimney for wear; cozy fires are an autumn delight here, in both the outdoor and indoor fireplaces. Iced tea will soon take a back burner to hot chocolate.  And, last night I made my first pot of Cabinet Soup, a favorite fall and winter dish that I have written about before in this blog.

I watch the trees release a colored confetti of leaves that glide silently and softly into the lake, while a misty rain begins to fall. I watch and listen to flocks of geese beginning there journey south, then  I drink in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. As the northwest wind tickles the water, little ripples appear on the glassy surface, like the goose bumps on my skin. I turn up my collar, seat my hat a little tighter, and watch the effects of the chilly breeze.  

I know it’s a gentle wind just now, behaving nicely, but the northwest wind has another, more aggressive  side. Perhaps one day, before too long, it will demonstrate its ability to howl and moan, while pushing a sea of white before it. I take in the changes happening around me, both vivid and subtle,  and I recognize the north wind as one important prompter of it all.

As I start back to the house, a red leaf blows squarely into my nose, then over my shoulder and on to the ground. I pause to watch other leaves sail across the  garden path. “Welcome back ‘wind of the north”, I grin, “you’ve got things off to a great start here. I’ll be seeing you around.”

A Morning With Willie and Ethyl

“Cavin, your Mamaw has breakfast ready”. It was my great-grandpa Willie Armstrong I saw through the lighted gap of the door. “Okay, Papaw” I muttered as I got myself awake. The smell of pork frying filtered though the door into the darkness of the room. I threw back the blankets and quilts and felt the chill of the old house on my skin.
Part of the old house is the original log cabin Papaw built on to after he drove cattle from Washington County to settle here; on land bought from his new brides father. It was a simple gabled roofed house that sat on a knob, in a little valley of Bullitt County, Kentucky. Truth be told, Papaw probably had more money in the big barn down the knob than he did in the house. But I loved the place and loved coming here. As I tossed the pillow and quilts back against the headboard, a solitary feather escaped the pillow seam and floated gently across the room to land in the dim light of the window. Dawn was barely breaking over Peacock Hill as I peered through the glass.

“Cavin”, I smiled as I pulled on my jeans, thinking about the way my great grandparents pronounced my name. Armstrongs had been in Kentucky and Virginia since 1690. Some of the phrases and terminology they used was certainly Scottish and Irish. I suppose Cavin made more sense to their inherent Scottish inclinations than the more Irish/American ‘Kevin’ did. At twelve years old I thought it bit funny, but at the same time I liked the way it sounded when they said it. I pulled on my boots and headed for the table, buttoning my shirt as I stumbled toward the light of the kitchen.

The old wooden table was set full of biscuits, slab bacon, eggs, potatoes and butter. Every bit of it from the self-sustaining farm they called home. Papaw and Mamaw were waiting as I sat down to eat. We bowed our heads while Grace was said. Mamaw had poured me a cup of coffee. When I was here, or at my grandparents, I was allowed to drink it, and I loved it. Still do. We talked about the weather and today’s squirrel hunt, the reason for my stay, and chores that needed done. I watched them, Willie and Ethel, trading barbs and laughing, even at this early hour. They were quite a pair.

Willie was a slim man, of average height. He still wore bands on his long sleeves just above the elbow, like men did in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Round glasses sat on his nose under a hat that he was seldom without. He wore a straw hat in summer, the kind with the green visor in the brim. He wore a felt/wool hat in the winter.At other times a ball cap. Most of the time he was dressed in bib overalls with laced up work boots on his feet.

 Great grandma Ethel was plump and jolly. She always wore dresses and stockings. Her long hair was worn in a bun that shook a little when she laughed. And she loved to laugh. They both did.  My great-grandma was a descendant  Henry Lee, that made us cousins to General Robert E Lee and possessors of a strong southern heritage. 

Conversations with Willie and Ethel would always be rich with jokes and chuckles. To me they seemed like the happiest people in the world. They weren't wealthy by any means. They farmed and ranched for a living. They saw their share, and then some, of troubles in this life. And no marriage is bed of roses always. But, happy, that’s what they were this day, and how I remember them now.

We finished breakfast and Mamaw put the extra biscuits and bacon on the back of the cook stove. They’d be gone before the day was done. Plenty of hungry boys and men around this farm. Papaw and I headed outside into the early chill, past the smoke house and down the sloping path to the barn and blacksmith shop. The guineas raised the alarm as I went by.Their shrill call startled me at first. "Well, if anyone was still asleep around here, they aren't now" I thought. With the chores done, we headed back past the log shed toward the “holler” in between the hills.

Guns tucked under our arms, we walked quietly along the road. Only the crunch of dirt and grass under our feet gave away that anyone was up and about. The sun was just beginning to light up the hilltops. A mist was rising like blue/white ghosts out of the valley floor and hanging in the peaks far above us. Off in the distance a dogs bark was echoing through the valley. Hard to say where he was, sounds travel long distances in between the hills. We crossed the creek and opened a gate. “Remember” Papaw said “ If you open a gate, you close the gate behind you. Or you could wind up chasing cows all day”, a lesson in responsibility that I've never forgotten.  I closed the gate and we made our way along the creek bank, following the grassy dirt and creek rock road.

The holler was such a magical place to me. It was a pasture in a hollowed out area surrounded by hills of hardwoods. You were wrapped in trees with a circle of sky overhead. It was like stepping into another world. My Uncle Butch Armstrong later built a house in this holler. I always envied him living there. Papaw headed away from me, up the creek to the right, and sent me into a little draw on the left. I sat down in the thick autumn leaves, enjoying the woods and anxious for the squirrels to move. A crash in the distance told me a squirrel was leaving his nest. I would be ready and so would Papaw. 


I waited for a squirrel to come my way, and the chance to add to the supper table later. The squirrels avoided my area  however, while the sound of a couple of shots in the distance told me that Papaw had bagged a couple. Being young and impatient,itching to shoot something, I took a shot at blackbird in a tree. He came tumbling down to the ground and I went to examine him. 

As I walked away from the bird my great-grandfather came down the ridge. " I heard the shot", he said, "did you get a squirrel?' I answered "No, he got away." He looked at me for a second and I felt as if my soul was laid bare. "Or maybe you were wasting a shot on a bird?" Papaw said. It was more of a statement than a question. "Ammunition is not cheap" he added..."and your words shouldn't be either". 
I hung my head and said "yes sir." He smiled and patted me on the shoulder, "We've got squirrels to skin", and we headed toward the hollow gate and home.

 I learned a valuable lesson about waste and honesty that morning that I never forgot. I also learned about love, kindness, and forgiveness. This had been more than just a hunt...it had been a life lesson.

The sun was now bright in the sky. The day was fully alive. What a morning this was. A noisy woodpecker was calling in between hammers on a tree trunk. Blue Jays, cardinals and meadow larks all voiced there opinions of this glorious morn.The air was cool and fresh. I took in all that was around me, and drew in a long deep breath. I felt then that I was in the most beautiful place on earth, on the most beautiful morning ever.

 I felt happy to be alive and to be a part this family of mine. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and for this morning spent with my great-grandparents, Willie and Ethel. I felt that there just couldn’t be a morning better than this one. And now, looking back all these many years later, I would have to say that few have been.

What Would They say ?

 I often wonder what the folks would say,

The ones who crossed the land,

Those who labored every day

To build this nation grand

A people determined to start a life

In the wilderness, valley, or plain

A man, a woman, a husband, a wife

Facing a land  untamed

Through all weathers, toil, and disease

Through mud and blood and tears

They overcame the enemies

Of surrender, weakness, and fear

Those who built homes and families

And fought Hell's legions to keep them

Those strong determined pioneers

Who would allow nothing to beat them

Oh, for the strength of that time

With a nations' promotions every day

Of right, of courage, Him Divine

Of  valor and honor without sway

Yes I wonder what they would say

Of the country that we've become,

The American nation of today,

Of their daughters and of their sons

Are we the vision that they had

Of the nation that would be?

Or would it make them  a little sad

The things they now would see?

More and more everyday

I wonder what those folks would say.

KL Dennie 2016

A Vote and/or A Prayer

When I am asked if I am a Democrat or a Republican, my standard answer is “I’m an American.”
At the ripe old age of 18, I registered to vote as an Independent. Coming from a family who, at that time at least, were strong Southern Democrats, that was quite a break. I felt then that I did not want to do something so important as voting to put a leader , local or national, in office based on a tunnel-vision affiliation with one groups ideals. I felt that my vote should be for the candidate, the person, that was the most qualified, honest, ethical, moral, principled, and of the most integrity. All these years of political sickness that has both Democrats and Republicans fighting  for the party instead of the Country, has only re-enforced my belief that I will not be shepherded into a vote. I can’t be part of the crowd when the crowd is going over a cliff.

It used to be said "Vote your conscience”. Is there a political conscience at all any more? Do we vote for our children’s and our  grandchildren’s sake? Do we vote for our Countrys’ sake? Do we vote for the Kingdoms sake? Are we still ‘One Nation Under God’ or a nation that has put God under? I believe that more good can be done by voting on our knees than voting for a person that in our hearts we feel is wrong.

I have no confidence in our government to consider the moral, ethical or spiritual welfare of our wonderful country any longer. We have the most corrupt body of people governing us since the founding of our great nation. “For the good of the people” has been replaced for the gain of the politicians. We have few folks in office, if any, whose main consideration is the citizenry and not the next election and their personal wallets.

The best and the brightest no longer lead us, the well-connected and shrewd do.

It is a sad, sad day when the very best this country can offer for a Presidential Candidate is well documented, proven crooked, chronic liars and law breakers. A prayer lifted to Heaven is all you hope to do to find comfort in this coming election. To pray that God takes the reigns, and turns the hands and minds of those in office to protect our dear nation and steer it back to the God fearing country it was founded to be. I cannot in good conscience vote for the pathetic offerings from any of the parties today. Am I saying we shouldn’t vote at all ? No, I’m just saying I’m saddened and disheartened  by the lack of anyone I CAN vote for. And, personally, if I vote my conscience… I can’t vote at all.

Ronald Reagan was asked, after leaving the Democratic party to join the Republican party, if he was now a Republican for life. He stated “No… I am a conservative for life.”  He went on to add that whichever party Democrat, Republican, or otherwise, served a Christian conservative purpose, that is where he would cast his vote. I wholeheartedly concur. But, where is such a party in America today?

This year our voting choices are to vote for one candidate to only make sure the other candidate loses. So who wins? The politicians do. Who loses? All of us do. An election is won and a country feels lost.

I intend to vote on my knees.

Why? There Is No Answer...Again

 NOTE : AFTER THE RECENT SCHOOL MASS MURDER EVENT, I WAS REMINDED OF THIS POST I PRESENTED IN DECEMBER 2012. HERE IT IS:


WHY? Over the next few days, weeks, and months much will be said about the heart breaking and mind numbing event at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut . Focus and energy that should be placed on the broken lives of the parents, grandparents and siblings will soon be shifted to blame placing and, unfortunately, political rhetoric. Much will be speculated, some things will be confirmed, positions will be entrenched, and....there will be plenty of finger pointing.
 
Some will argue anew for the removal of all guns from American soil, in the naïve notion that that could ever be accomplished in a day of a world wide economy, where one phone call gets an entire shipment of deadly weapons delivered from overseas in a week. Some will cry for stricter laws, in absentminded blindness to the fact that, assault with a deadly weapon and cold blooded murder are already against the law, and that one deranged human being broke those laws, over and over and over again, in a blood letting rage, until 26 adults and children were dead.  The Law means nothing to a person prepared to break it.
 
Others will argue that we often arm guards in shopping malls to protect retailers and customers, but don’t have universal protection for our most vulnerable and precious resource in public schools. Our future is our children after all.  Many will cry that if there had been no guns on the street, this wouldn’t have happened. Still others will shout that if some adult in that school had had a weapon, and knew how to use it, maybe some of those victims could have been spared.

Some will say it is Gods will or he would have stopped it. Many will argue that God could never will the slaughter of innocent children, that mans inhumanity to man comes from the will of Satan and a persons lack of concern for Gods will. 

Few would argue that there are two things increasingly absent from both families and schools; discipline...and God. As a society we increasingly (and wrongfully) expect schools to rear our children, and yet we have fettered the hands of teachers when it comes to discipline. Many parents are lazier than ever when it comes to raising their children. We have legislated God out of our schools yet have the audacity to ask where he was during a tragedy. What about honest family structure at home?

 Letting kids grow up is easy; raising children, however, is hard work. It takes great effort to nurture children, but the reward is worth it. Some say that having each parent working makes it too difficult to spend the time they need with their children. Others say that people always have the time to do what they really want to do most. Its not always about time... sometimes it's about priorities.
 
The frustration, positioning, and rankling, and the psychoanalyzing and theorizing, all come down to one thing. None of us have the ability to wrap our minds around the reality that a person would murder beautiful, fragile, innocent children, or that children would murder each other. And yet, sadly, in the name of war, it happens routinely in other parts of the world. But it should not happen here…this is America.
 
No, the truth is, all these debates are just pent up grief, anger, and frustration due to our total lack of ability to answer the question on all of our minds. Why, for Gods sake…why? And that answer has alluded us since Cain killed his own brother Able, thousands and thousands of years ago.

There has always been, and always will be, an element of society that will be injurious to the other. The only thing that we can do about it is protect ourselves, and learn better how to bend our knees, fold our hands.... and pray.
  All we can do is try to protect ourselves, our children…and pray for guidance. God help  us all.

So Long, Sailor.

"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."
G.K. Chesterton 

 The day has dawned with promise here at the Chicken Ranch. Through the misty gray of moisture laden air, the sun pushes in. The quilted patchwork of white, gray, and purple clouds, are accented by the brilliant blue glimpses of sky, that only make you long to see more. The recent rains have both burdened and encouraged the new foliage of spring that has pronounced upon the stark, bare branches and the tan-brown  stems of winter.

The blooms and petals of cherry, crab apple, and pear trees glow in magnificent shades of pink, maroon and white.  The wind and rain have caused them to fall like multi-colored confetti, settle like a late snow upon the ground, and liven the ever greening grass. It is a day of hope here at the Chicken Ranch, but it is also a day of quiet reflection.  A physical ailment has has my body here, but my heart and thoughts are in another place this day four hundred miles away.

Another of  "The Greatest Generation" will be laid to rest today. My uncle, Kenneth Dennie, will be buried beneath the bluegrass of my native Kentucky homeland. We called him Uncle Pete, my Dad called him brother, everyone called him  'kind'.

Uncle Pete was a Navy veteran of world War II. The war where the objective was clear, the purpose dear, and a whole generation of Americas' finest and bravest faced down  tyranny. On the sea, the battlefield, the home-front, this generation of my family became the sword that severed the head of the dragon. Together this generation battled an Army whose quest was world domination, and beat it with an Army who fought only for freedom and world peace. Would that there was just such a generation of folks that my parents and grandparents belonged to, that would tackle what we face as a nation today.

My uncle, as I recall him, like my father today, was a humble man. Not given to bravado or loud proclamation. He had no sense of entitlement. He suffered the loss of an eye in a farming accident. He suffered the heartbreaking loss of a son. He has known rain and sun, great happiness and great disappointment. He simply called it "life".  He full well expected to work, and work hard, to get what he wanted and needed for his family, for his country. He loved God and Country. He loved to laugh, he loved us all.

So today he will be laid to rest in the presence of those who he fought to keep free, fought to return to, fought to raise and be a father to. My heart is there with my Aunt Frankie, with my good cousins Kenny and Dave, and with my Dad who mourns his brother. I'll let Tom Brokaw wrap this up with a quote from the last paragraph of his book, The Greatest Generation:

"After talking to so many of them and and reflecting on what they have meant to my own life, I now know that it is in those small ceremonies and quiet moments that this generation is quietly honored. No fanfare is required. They've had their parades. They've heard the speeches.They know what they have accomplished and they are proud. They will have their World War II Memorial and their place in the ledgers of history, but no block of marble or elaborate edifice can equal their lives of sacrifice and achievement, duty and honor, as monuments to their time."

 Goodbye, Uncle Pete, rest in peace and if I forgot to tell you  before.... thank you.