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Signs of Summer

On warm humid southern evenings as the sun sank over the horizon, the yard came alive with little flashing lights. We called them lightning bugs. Some folks called them fireflies. It was a sure sign that summer was well on its way.

As a kid, I spent hours catching lightning bugs. My sister and I got little jars, punched holes in the lids, and headed outside to collect nightlights. By the time I got to the spot where I saw a flash, the bug was already gone. It wasn’t long before lights flashed all around me. I scooped up some bugs and added them to my jar that was padded with grass. 

For me, catching lightning bugs was a yearly childhood game. By the time the warm evening was over, my jar had enough lightning bugs to light up the bedroom. Sometimes they mysteriously escaped and flew all over the room flashing as they went. Whatever lightning bugs were still in the jar by morning were released – only to be chased again the next night. 

The other evening, my youngest granddaughter and I sat on the porch when the lightning bugs started flashing. So, guess what we did. We ran barefooted through the damp grass and scooped up those little flashes of light that blinked in harmony with each other as they sang their summer song. 

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Double Blessings

Mama was not a believer in throwing anything away. She even reused plastic forks and disposable cups. Washed Ziploc bags were hung to dry over bottles or pan handles so they could be used again. She didn’t throw away any food either. Fortunately, when all of us kids were little, we didn’t have very many leftovers because the boys scarfed down everything. In fact, they would say, “Hey look at that!” When I turned to look, they snitched food off my plate. We ate as fast as we could so we could get second helpings. As the bigger kids started going their own way, leftovers became more common in our household.

One evening Mama called us for supper – leftovers. We sat down at the table waiting on Daddy. He came in, sat down, and started to eat. We kids followed suit. Mama stared at Daddy and said, “Aren’t you going to bless the food?” His response was, “I’ve already blessed it twice!” Not missing a beat he continued to eat his doubly blessed meal.

the maker and blesser of our meals
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Canning Day

Clang! Clang! Pop pop! Sluuuuurp whistle! The sounds came from the pan on top of the stove. Wisps of steam lifted and disappeared into the air. My granddaughter came through the door. “I love to hear that sound.” She walked over to the stove and peered into the pan. “Making muscadine jelly?”

It’s funny how smells or sounds trigger deep buried memories. Mama and my grandmother canned produce from the garden. Tomatoes, beans, jellies and jams, soup mix, pickles from cucumbers, peaches and beets, and even meat were canned for the winter months or for a quick meal for unexpected company. When I was a kid, canning day started with a trip to the garden or a visit to one of the local farmers or roadside stands. Sometimes we sat on the porch and rocked while snapping beans or shelling peas. Mama filled her apron with beans and had them snapped and cleaned in no time at all. My hands didn’t work quite as fast. I didn’t mind shelling butter peas, but butter beans made my thumbs sore. 

My process for canning hasn’t changed much from when I was a kid. That scene still plays in my mind. Jars turned upside down in a pan of shallow water made a slurpy whistle sound as water sucked up in the jars and they jangled, clanked and clanged. Once the jars were filled with produce, some were placed in a hot water bath. Others had to go in the pressure canner. With the lid was secure, the petcock was set on the valve. Pressure was regulated by a gauge or the number of jiggles. Pssssst, psssssst, hissss, spit, spit, sputter, pssssssssst. The timer started. When the jars were removed from the canner, the popping noises started as the jars sealed. That sound made me smile. 

Those sounds bring back many memories, not just of canning but of family, home, satisfaction and contentment. That’s what I want to instill in my grandchildren.

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Well Done, Cousin Kenneth

The Montana winter snows that covered the countryside could not cool the spirits of my great aunt and uncle as they rolled into my grandmother’s yard in Big Timber, Montana that mid-March day of 1951. They had their own unbelievable wild tale to tell. How could bushes and flowers of every color imaginable be blooming and flourishing in the south? Nevertheless, they said it was true and that settled it, they were selling out and moving to Georgia.  

They found the perfect place to raise cattle and the perfect place to build their home. Driving up the rise to their house, you would think they lived on the Montana prairie. Only a few trees near the house offered a bit of shade. The rest were cleared from much of the land. One could stand of the brim of the hill and see for miles. Like my mom, I think my aunt did not like to be penned in and surrounded by trees. Those prairie girls liked to be able to see wide open country. 

  • one of my favorite pictures of Kenneth next to my mom

Down the hill and within view of the house on the hill was the home of their son Kenneth, one of my mom’s favorite cousins, and his wife. He exhibited some of the same family characteristics as his mom’s family – a big booming voice. When the family gathered, their resonant voices echoed in the great outdoors just as well as within four walls of a room. There was great comfort in being around those folks. Along with their loud voices was deep laughter that gurgled all the way up from the tips of their toes. My, how they loved to laugh! That family characteristic has passed down to some of the other generations of cousins as well.

  • Cousin Kenneth and his mom, my great aunt

A few years after my aunt and uncle arrived in the south, my parents followed suit. That is where they got me. I think they figured they needed as much help as possible and since Godparents were a custom in our family, I needed some as well. Mama chose her special cousin, Kenneth, and his wife as my Godparents. Through the years our families gathered together on various occasions, for reunions, or just to visit. They always stayed in contact with one another and kept up with the happenings of the family.

  • me with my Godparents

I recently received word that Cousin Kenneth left on another journey to meet up with family members who have been enjoying the scenery for some time now. He will be greatly missed. He joined the ranks of those who lived before us a life of honor and integrity. May we honor his memory by following suit and continuing to share our rich family heritage. There must be quite a reunion going on with stories and deep resonating laughter unleashed and flowing freely. Oh, the scene that must be! I wonder, who got the first slice of watermelon? 

  • it’s about time to cut the watermelon
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Big Hairy Spider

I ran down the long dark hall as fast as I could to my parent’s bedroom. Somehow it seemed further away in the darkest part of the night. I went to the side of the bed where Daddy was sleeping soundly, that is until I shook him. 

“Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Hurry! There’s a giant spider in the sink.”

I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the restroom. After turning on the light, something caught my eye. There was a monstrous gigantic hideous ugly spider in the sink. Its hairy legs wiggled, and its beady eyes turned around like a revolving dome as it looked at me. The fat body moved up and down in rhythm and I knew it would pounce on me at any moment. The only thing, and the best thing I knew was to get Daddy. He would take care of everything and send the monster to its watery grave.

When Daddy got to the bathroom, there was the spider just as I said. Big hairy varmint! Ha! Daddy took care of him!

When he returned to his bedroom Mama asked, “What was that all about?” Daddy said, “Oh, there was just a little spider in the bathroom sink.”

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Montana Rainbows

sometimes we just need a reminder of a promise

The fire was going in the wood cookstove and water was getting hot for tea and for a bath in the old washtub. Finally, the chill was gone from the air as flames licked the stone fireplace and heated the log cabin. It wouldn’t be long until the smells of a hot meal filled to room and welcomed the hikers yet to return from the mountains.

The steady rain eased up and rays of sunshine managed to squeeze through the clouds. It was then I noticed a rainbow. The arc was so close, I could see the colors of the prism between me and the trees just beyond the Ward and Parker gate. Had we been in Ireland, I am positive there would have been a leprechaun searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Never had I see such a sight. The colors were bright and vivid. I thought about walking toward the trees but was afraid the bow would disappear altogether. As if a magic wand painted the sky, another fainter rainbow appeared over the brighter one. Just as quickly as it came, they were both gone. When the hikers arrived a few minutes later, all evidence of the colorful phenomenon was erased.

Over forty years later just a few miles away, another rainbow appeared. Once again, the colors of the bow could be seen rising up from the prairie grass casting its hues on the trees behind. A second bow arced over the first.

  • at the edge of Porcupine Butte; the colors of the bow in front of the hill

Another rainbow looked like an arch holding up the sky, spanning across two corners of the earth. The second bow sent sparkling water particles upward until they faded from view. I think that was the biggest, most magnificent rainbow I have ever seen.

  • over Big Timber 2012

When rain has fallen and the sun magically appears, look to the east. You might just see a promise of a lifetime.

Autumn rainbow 2018 – it followed us all the way to Livingston

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Supper Invitation

After the long trip across the country, we pulled into my grandmother’s driveway. It was wonderful to be out of the car and stretch our legs. Traveling that long distance, skin on skin with the five sibs, we were ready to be free of the car and one another. Mama was probably the happiest! She might get some reprieve from all the noise and fussing that went on in the back seat.

  • Cousin Jim standing on horse

The first order of business after visiting with my Grandmother a bit was to go downtown to the post office to see Cousin Jim. Any day to see Cousin Jim was a good day! For one thing, he was a great storyteller. For another, Cousin Ruth was a great cook. He always invited us, the whole mess of us, to their house for supper, and believe me, that was something we didn’t want to miss!

I had a snack in my Grandmother’s crabapple tree the afternoon before going to their house for supper. By the time we were seated and the food was being passed around the table, my stomach churned and burned and started to boil. I had to leave. My sister ran with me back to the house. I barely made it before exploding. My Grandmother had told me not to eat too many, but I didn’t listen. I had no idea those tiny little tart apples that made my mouth water were actually ticking time bombs ready to explode. 

Let me tell you, I didn’t make that mistake the next time we were invited for supper! I didn’t want to miss a bite!

  • Jim, Ruth & Darlene
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Collecting Frogs

When I was a kid, I collected frogs, live frogs, and I didn’t even get warts. There was a muddy Georgia creek close by and it was prime frog habitat. Sometimes we’d go to the creek and dip a scoop of tadpole water into a pot, take it the front yard, and check daily on their progress.  

My frogs were special. They had names. I named all my frogs “George.” That’s a good name for a frog because they all like being called “George.”

One day my sister said, “Let me name this frog.” I said, “Okay, but if you name it anything other than George, it will hop away.” She pondered a minute, then said, “I’m going to name him James.” That was not a good idea. She sat him on the ground and immediately he hopped away. Frogs do not like to be called “James.”

  • Meet George(s)
  • and George and George
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Leroy

Daddy puttered off to the computer room. After about 15 minutes he returned. He was looking for something and couldn’t find it. “What were you looking for?”  “A song book.” “What does it look like?” “It is kind of torn apart. It’s the old Cokesbury book. Well, I’m headed to bed.” He puttered on his way. A few minutes later he blew past me with his rolling walker. “I’m going to look someplace else.” He soon returned, book in hand. When I went in to tickle his feet, put in his eye drops and tuck him in for the night, he was looking through the songbook. “What are you looking for?” “The song that Leroy liked to sing.” He couldn’t remember the name of it. I flipped through the pages and stopped on page 153, unbeknown that was the song. 

That’s when I remembered his story about Leroy. After Mama and Daddy moved to the South they became acquainted with Leroy and his family. Leroy was a bit slow – just like his folks. When it came plowing time, Leroy’s daddy hooked the plow up to Leroy and Leroy’s mom. They were the work mules. At church on Sunday Leroy would holler out, “Let’s sing One Fifty Three.” That was 153 in the Cokesbury Hymnal, “Love, Mercy and Grace.” I guess that song was sung every time Leroy was in the congregation.

Leroy’s folks would send him down the road to one of the neighbors to get their milk. He strolled down the red dirt road and got his bottle of milk. The poor guy got thirsty on the way home and drank some of it. His mom would kill him if he didn’t return with a full bottle of milk, so he veered off the road, headed to the creek, and filled the bottle before taking it home to his mom.  

  • Family taking in the sights. Maybe Leroy passed by that day.
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A Life Well Lived

When my mother set up a burial fund through the funeral home, my daddy didn’t. I figure he thought he’d live forever. Not long after that, my mother’s fund was cashed in. Daddy became my sidekick – for almost twelve years.

Even though I suggested he change his will and make final arrangements, he kept putting it off. He finally decided it was a good idea when he understood his procrastination would put an extra burden on me.

When I asked who he would like to preach his funeral, this man, who had preached for 50+ years, said, “I don’t want a preacher.” Okay – well – that didn’t help much. “Whatever you decide will be fine.” I really didn’t like that burden of responsibility so let it slide for the time being.

The Man of the Mountains with his two oldest kids

One morning in January 2018, I gave the Man of the Mountains an assignment. I said, “Daddy, I’ve decided on a preacher for your funeral.” He looked at me a bit puzzled since he had already told me more than once that he didn’t want a preacher. “Who is it?” I paused a second and said, “You.” His eyes lit up, he got a great big smile and he chuckled that chuckle of his.

I told him I’d keep it a secret. Not even the family would know who was to speak at his funeral. He laughed. “I can say, ‘Hey, I’ve been asked to do a funeral for this old man and I know him better than anybody else.” He jiggled as he laughed, “He got old in a hurry and it was because of the company he kept. He had sisters to bring him up – his older sister,” he paused, “and his younger sister made a contribution towards bringing him up because she’d kick his slats in if he got out of line. He respected her!’”

One of these girls “kicked his slats in”

After a period of several weeks, in between many days when he could barely breathe, I recorded him telling stories of his life, his family and his ministry. Little did I know at the time that in three short months his family and a congregation of friends would be watching and listening to him preach his own funeral.

This morning as I rocked on the front porch and listened to the recording of the above conversation, I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit myself. Hearing his voice again brought back many remembrances of the sheer joy of spending time with him. We shared one last secret.

His words brought laughter and tears. He didn’t need a preacher.

His funeral preached itself by a life well lived.