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Leather and Saddle Soap

We were a little late leaving because we had to wait on the Judge. We loaded the back of the Jeep and started out on our first overnight adventure together – Red, the Judge and me. 

I had wanted to be at our destination before dark. The girls had no idea where we were going, and by the time we got there I wasn’t so sure myself. According to the GPS, we were at the right location. Finally, I saw the unlit sign, and we pulled into the drive and stopped at the fence. It was dark. It was quiet until we thought we heard the sound of dueling banjos drifting out of the Appalachian hills. A flashlight approached with a lady on the other end of it. She waved, so I got out of the car. “Park over there, and get your stuff.” I did.

The girls were a bit edgy as we opened the gate and started across the front yard. There were a few lights on in the house, but we walked right past it. In the dark, I could see the whites of the girls’ unblinking eyes. They asked, “Where are we going?” “Right over there.” I pointed to a barn.

The smell of leather and saddle soap

The lady opened the door, and we stepped into the tack room. We were met with the smell of leather and saddle soap. It reminded me of my uncle’s tack room. Saddles were propped on stands. Bridles, reins, ropes and other items hung on the walls. Two sets of bunkbeds were pushed against the wall, and a nice bathroom complete with custom toiletries was off the other side of the room. We hauled in our luggage then headed to town several miles away for supper at Woodbridge Inn. It was worth the trip. 

  • Our luxury rustic lodging
  • Dining at Woodbridge Inn

I took a top bunk, and the girls took the bottom bunks. We turned out the lights and got settled in for the night when we heard scratching noises outside the door. Red said, “What is that?” I suggested that she go open the door and see, but for some reason she declined. Whatever it was finally quit, and we dozed off. In the night I woke up. The mice above my head were having a big party. They romped and sang and danced. I think they even invited some squirrel friends or other critters. It sounded like the ceiling would fall in around me. As morning got closer, they quieted down so I could get some sleep.

I was up and ready to go early. As is my custom when on a trip, I get out the door fairly quick with camera in hand. That’s the best time to explore and see the world shake off the night and morning arise from sleep. We headed over for breakfast in the old farmhouse, and it was a feast. The house was absolutely fascinating, and the hostess gave us the history of the farm along with stories of the family. After our meal I said, “Are you girls ready for our next adventure?” Questioning eyes looked at me. They looked out the window and saw the ranch hand saddling horses. “We’re not going to ride horses, are we?” “Yep, that’s what we’re gonna do.”

There are some scenes that will be stuck in my mind forever. One is that guy trying to get Red on her horse. That little helmet was pushed down on her head with her red curls poofing out the sides. It was obvious she was nervous, and the horse knew it. That is a recipe for disaster.

  • Ready to ride
  • Oh my!

We started off at a leisurely walk. The tails of horses swished back and forth, and the saddles squeaked as leather rubbed against leather. The guide and I were up ahead. Red’s horse would stop and refuse to move. I turned my horse around and hollered, “Kick him. Kick him in the flanks.” The Judge tried to encourage her to make the horse go forward. Our guide led us down a side trail. He went down a bank and crossed the creek. I was right behind him. Red was next. She got to the top of the bank, and her horse refused to go down. The Judge was right on her tail, literally. I said, “Kick him.” Red tapped him with her heels, and he backed up. “Loosen your reins.” She pulled tighter and tighter. The tighter she pulled the more he backed up until both horses were in the bushes. The guide said something in Spanish, went back across the creek and rescued Red’s horse out of the bushes, thorns and brambles. So much for our scenic ride on the other side of the creek. We took a less restricted route back to the barn. I even got to gallop as we rode across the open pasture. 

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Little Spook

When I was four years old my brothers and sisters attended school. I was kind of lonely, but now I look back and think I should have been thankful for the reprieve from being aggravated by my brothers. Some days Mama would let me walk to the Wheeler’s house. She would watch me walk to the corner and turn down the street. I’m sure she placed a call to Mrs. Wheeler to make sure I got there okay. Cookies and milk would be waiting for me when I went inside the house. Mr. Wheeler would take me outside and let me play on the tractor. I would pretend I was on all kinds of adventures. After visiting for a while, I would walk back home.

  • Flour can

Mama was always busy. She made the best bread in the world, and she made a lot of it, six loaves at a time. I guess she made a batch at least once a week, sometimes more. Bread baking day was one of my favorites because sometimes Mama would make us fried bread before shaping her loaves. Mama kept the flour in an aluminum flour can. Whenever the lid was off, I would lick my finger, stick it in the flour and then lick it off. The can was just the right height for me to sit on or to use as a stool. One day Mama was making bread. She had mixed it up, beating the mixture with a slotted spoon that whipped air into the dough, scraped the dough onto the floured countertop and kneaded the dough for twelve minutes. After covering it with a towel to rise, she gathered up the freshly washed laundry and headed to the clothesline. 

  • Freshly baked bread

I peeked out the window and then looked at the flour can. The peanut butter was stored in the cabinet above the counter. I slid the flour can up against the cabinet and climbed aboard. I jumped up on the counter, opened the cabinet, retrieved the peanut butter and started my descent. Stretching out my toes, my foot found the top of the flour can, then the second foot. About that time the lid flipped. Swoosh! I landed IN the flour can. Flour shot out everywhere. I was covered from head to toe, and flour was scattered all over the floor. Boy, was Mama surprised to see a little spook when she walked through the door. Boy, was I in trouble! 

I wonder if I got a piece of fried bread that day. Hmmm…maybe not.

  • Fried bread
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God’s Cathedral

  • Winter 2017

My mother’s favorite national treasure to visit was Badlands National Park. Every time we went west, we had to go through the Badlands. That was the least we could do for her. She’s the one who had to get everything ready and packed for the trip. She was the one who got stuck keeping kids or grandkids that weren’t big enough to go camping or backpacking in the mountains. She was even compliant with camping along the way from time to time. It may have saved them a few dollars, but it was a lot of extra work for her. So when we neared the Badlands, it was a given that we would go through.

  • 1963
  • 1963

The Badlands National Park consists of 244,000 acres. Formations of various sizes and shapes emerge from the eroded hills. The roads lead through grassy plains and then the earth opens up as canyons begin to take shape. Pinnacles and buttes rise from the earth that seem to have been swallowed by time, water and wind. Nothing can be seen for miles except flat land and ridges of layers of various colors of the strata of rough barren hills. The Lakota Indians called this place “Mako Sica,” which means “land bad.” Bison, big horn sheep, prairie dogs, deer, antelope and coyotes roam the land. 

  • 2003
  • 2003

Mama always marveled verbally about the colors of the hills. She would explain that the hills change intensity of colors from one year to the next. Some years, the colors were muted. Other years, the colors were bright and intense. Looking across the quiet sacred hills, Mama would say, “This has to be God’s Cathedral.” 

  • Winter 2017
  • 1981
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Spike Goes on an Adventure

For a few years, our adventures had been limited to Red, the Judge and me. Spike never had the opportunity to go with us. Spike is Red’s cousin and a distant cousin of the Judge. This was her first trip with us.

Every day or two Spike asked, “Where are we going?” She had to learn the drill. “It’s a secret.”  It’s called “destination unknown” for a reason. I tell the girls when we’re leaving, an approximate time for return, their portion of the cost, and what to pack on our adventure. I also give a general itinerary laced with a few hints without divulging locations or activities. In order to expand their horizons, there is usually an activity they wouldn’t do otherwise.

This trip KaKa, Maud, and Viv went with us. We loaded up and headed east. My Jeep seems to have a homing device that goes toward the mountains. About 40 minutes into the drive, I turned onto a little road that wound through the hills and farms that dotted the countryside. It seems an unlikely place for a restaurant, but we found it as advertised on the side of the road. We ate, talked and laughed before heading off again. It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination. The curvy driveway was up a steep hill. We got settled in before going to supper. 

  • Lunch
  • The view from our cabin of Lake Burton in the Blue Ridge Mountains

The next morning after breakfast, we started out for a day of adventure. It seems the girls have an attraction to bears. We hoped we would see a bear on our trip. Well, we were driving down the road, and I caught sight of a little bundle of fur rolling down the steep bank. I slammed on my brakes. It was a baby bear. It scrambled up the bank, but the little guy kept rolling down because it was too steep. Soon it turned and ran across the road to the other side.

  • Tallulah Gorge

Our first stop was Tallulah Gorge State Park. We hiked down the trail a bit and decided there would be just enough time to walk to the bottom. Boy, that was a mistake! Red and Spike decided not to make the downhill hike. They knew what went down had to come back up. They sat on a bench along the path and waited. The rest of us went down, down, down. We checked the time. Uh-oh, time to go. We went up, up, up. The more we climbed, the slower we got and the more we huffed and puffed. The Judge decided to crawl up the flights of steps.  I wondered if we would have to call the rescue squad to fetch her out of the canyon. We finally made it with the help of KaKa going back to encourage the Judge along. We headed to our next adventure. 

  • Do I have to climb those stairs?

We had a few minutes to spare so stopped at Old Sautee Store. We had the best cheese, crackers and homemade root beer while we looked at all the old farm implements displayed on the walls and counters in the old country story. A few minutes after leaving the store, I pulled into a parking lot. The sign said, “Winery.” I drove beyond and pulled into a gravel lot, parked and got out of the car. A big sign read, “Zipline.”  The Judge grinned at me. Red and Spike got out of the vehicle they were in, and they both looked at me and shot me with daggers. Spike said, “We’re NOT going to zipline, are we?” My response was, “Yep, you are.” I thought, “She’ll never go on another adventure with us,” and I wasn’t so sure Red would either. The Judge and my other companions thought it was a great idea.

We got our harnesses and equipment on, climbed into a beat-up miniature bus and headed up a rutted red trail. At our first platform we got our instructions and climbed the ladder. There were still some evil looks at me, but no one dared to retreat. By the second zip, Red relaxed a bit and even laid out midway through the flight. Spike still wasn’t too sure about it. After the last platform, we decided we would take the Big Zip Intimidator that’s half a mile long. Red was game, and Spike only consented because she knew Red wouldn’t leave her behind. Well that was it! Spike spread eagle and flew through the air like she had done that all of her life. She was hooked! 

  • The Judge
  • Red & Spike coming in for the landing

I’m proud to say that Spike had a great adventure. She has even gone on other adventures with us. Now she wants to know when we’re going ziplining again and asks, “Where are we going next,” to which I respond, “It’s a secret!” 

  • Ready for a zip
  • Bumpy ride
  • Beat up miniature bus
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Noodles, Noodles, Noodles

My grandmother used to make homemade noodles with tomatoes. When I serve them to guests, most say they’ve never had homemade noodles and are amazed. Many have asked how to make them. Here is a short very unprofessional video of the process.

https://youtu.be/K2yt2dnrnT0

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    Bars of Gold

    “Bring me back something.” That’s what I told Daddy every time he had to travel out of town for a conference or meeting of some kind. I didn’t care what it was, just as long as I got something.

    As soon as he got home, I’d run to meet him, “Did you bring me something?” I wiggled and waited impatiently for him to unpack his suitcase. Sure enough, tucked away in the pocket was a special gift for me – a bar of soap. Yep, that’s what it was every time. You would have thought he gave me a million dollars.

    The bar of soap was always from the hotel or the place he stayed. I would grin from ear to ear, hold the bar of soap close and run off to my room to hide the treasure in my jewelry box.

    That may have been a silly little thing to most kids, but to me it was a never-ending game. Even when I was grown with kids and grandkids of my own, he would bring me a bar of soap from his adventures. Some of the soap ended up going on adventures with me. Other soaps are still tucked away in my jewelry box. Once in a while I get my bars of gold out, show them to my grandkids and tell them about my special gifts from the past.

    You know? Those little bars of soap didn’t cost him a dime yet knowing that he always thought of me while he was away is priceless. It always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eyes as I think of the joy that was given to a scrawny little girl in that one small sliver of soap.

    August 2019

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    The Master’s Hand

    I walked into the little shop
    A layer of dust coated the door
    Earthen faces peered from laden shelves
    Dusty footprints on the floor

    The bearded man sat on his stool
    In front of the potter’s wheel
    That spun as his boot rose and fell
    As he formed the clay with skill

    He lovingly stroked the earthen dough
    In his hands gentle and strong
    He shaped a unique work of art
    As the wheel hummed its song

    He dampened his fingers to smooth the edge
    Then pushed back his stool to stand
    The wheel stood still as he lifted the bowl –
    The work of the Master’s Hand

    SA 2014

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    Collecting Memories

    A lot of folks collect mementos of their trips and adventures. Some people take home t-shirts, magnets, stickers, shot glasses, post cards, seashells, spoons, and thimbles, among other things. I have even carried back a bag of dirt. When I was a kid, I always managed to stash a favorite rock or even a bag of rocks. I’ve expanded my horizons and now collect pottery made in the areas I visit.

    Each piece is more than just a trinket. It is a memory. The platter and bowl I picked up in New Smyrna Beach, Florida during my sister trip are reminders of lighthouses, beaches, seafood, sunsets, kayaking, an island rookery, laughter, manatees, Spanish moss, lots of good food and fun. A bowl from the Art Walk in Sequim, Washington holds memories of cousins, rain forests, hikes, mountains, lakes, scenic photos, cliffs, sounds of ocean echoes in caves, and ferries. The bowl from North Carolina tells of a surprise trip with “the girls.” It brings to mind waterfalls, the Biltmore Estate, ghost hunting, cold rain, friends, little towns, Madison’s Restaurant, winding mountain roads, and a wintery Segway ride.

    Unique bowls from Alaska remind me of the fulfillment of a childhood dream come true to visit there with my dad. My husband and I were able to take that trip with my dad, aunt and cousins on an Alaskan Cruise plus a four-day inland tour to Denali. 

    Two pieces from the Brad Walker Pottery Shop in Dahlonega, Georgia, brings the sound of laughter. “The girls” and I have passed through there many times on our “Destination Unknown” trips. We’ve hiked, explored, gone off road to climb mountains and stick our feet in mountain streams. We have eaten at many delicious places, stayed in lodges and cabins, zip-lined through the trees, shopped in quaint little towns, rode horses, slept in a tack room, visited fudge shops, and many other things.

    While traveling through Montana, we have gone through little towns and followed roadside signs that say, “Pottery Shop.” We came across Basin Creek Pottery in Basin, Montana, one of those towns that can easily be missed if you blink twice. The artist gathers his own clay and makes his own paints with natural minerals found in the mountains. The pottery I got from there is a long, narrow and shallow dish that is perfect for crackers. It holds memories of Ghost Towns, a bumpy ride through the wilderness and chasing elusive outlaws. Firehole Pottery is another great little pottery shop off the beaten path between Belgrade and Bozeman. I have several pieces from there that all remind me of the mountains and visits with Maud and my grandson.

    The bowl with the indented swirl in the middle is from Penn Cove Pottery shop in Coupeville, Washington on Whidbey Island. Various artists display their works of art, each unique. It was hard to make my choice. I ended up with two bowls. They remind me of island life, tall bridges over glacial waters, coastal towns, boats, seashores lined with rocks, green rivers and lakes, massive chains from sunken ships and other items washed up on the beach, squawks of sea birds and the deep sad tones of foghorns in the distance.

    Another shop, Fat Elk Trading Company, in Packwood, WA, was small, but it had lots of pottery as well as other items. The pieces I selected were different than any I have seen elsewhere. They bring an old memory from a trip long ago to Mt. Rainier National Park as well as more recent memories of traveling in the shadow of Mt. Rainier and of sharing a meal of burgers at Cliff Topper just down the street.

    Every piece of pottery I have collected holds a special place in my remembrances. Not only do I use them to serve up Sunday Dinner, but I also use them to serve up memories.

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    Tar Paper House

    I don’t remember much about the day of my birth. In fact, I don’t remember anything about it at all. The first time my brother saw me, he said, “Take her back. She doesn’t have any hair or teeth.” They didn’t take me back but took me to my first home.

    We lived out in the country along a narrow dirt road not far from my grandparents in a tar-papered share cropper’s three-room house. By the time I came along, the house had been improved. Before my folks and brothers and sisters moved in, it was abandoned except for the mice and possums that fed on the oats that were piled on the floor. It might seem like ten dollars a month rent would be a bargain, but I’m not so sure. Pillars of fieldstone under the corners and centers of each side of the house kept it off the ground. A screened porch on the back of the house also served as a pantry. The yard was red Georgia clay.

    • My brother, sister and two cousins playing
    • My brothers and sisters by the tar paper house
    My oldest sister and the well

    The house was covered in rolled tar paper that mimicked red bricks. An outhouse served as the private restroom. The house was bare when they moved in. Shelves had to be built in the kitchen. Sweeping the floor was easy enough. Mama just swept the dirt between the cracks in the floor. They bought a “square” which was a piece of linoleum to put on the floor. It stopped some of the wind that whistled up through the cracks. If the wind blew hard, someone had to stand on the flooring before the door could be opened. A corner of the linoleum could be lifted up, and we could see the chickens under the house. Daddy told about the time a man knocked on the door one morning and asked if he could catch the big possum that he saw run under the house. Mama was quick to oblige. She certainly wasn’t going to throw a possum in the pot!  In the winter, water drawn from the well would be frozen solid by morning. The big round ice cube was rolled to the stove to be melted for the day’s needs. A small coal heater was purchased to provide a bit of warmth in the cold months.

    Me and my brother who wanted to send me back

    My heart aches as I think of my mother’s devotion and sheer determination as she looked at that rundown old shack with five children by her side – one just a baby. She didn’t have the personality nor the time to feel sorry for herself or moan and groan about the situation. I can almost see her square her shoulders, take a deep breath, and then start working to make the tar paper shack into a home. I joined the family almost two years later. As meek and meager as those days were, there was also abundance – abundance of family, good neighbors and church family who remained friends for years.

    My memories of the tar-paper house are more from seeing the house after we moved. We would pass by on the way to visit my grandparents. The house stood there for several years with very little change. As we would go by the abandoned house, I could see kids playing in the yard with white sheets waving in the breeze in stark contrast to the red clay yard. The stories I heard of the time we lived there came to life in my imagination. I have a newfound admiration for my mother as I think of the sacrifices she made.  The tar-paper house was certainly not a castle, but I am convinced that my mother deserves a crown and all the honor fit for a queen.

    Mama and us six kids

    August 2019