The last few days have played host to some pretty stormy weather.  Just yesterday we had a tornado go through just south of us in a little town called Lancaster.  Our Governor visited the area and expressed quite the dismay at the loss of farm buildings and livestock.

Mr. Flanagan and myself did not escape the mess; of course the high winds put a few trees down on the drive, tossed some things out and about in the yard, and it knocked out our power for about 15 hours.  We took it in stride and made due using what we had to make it through the day without electricity.  One thing I noticed about the two of us is that years and years of re-enacting seasoned us to the point that we had no qualms about pumping for water or using the great outdoors for a bathroom!  We had plenty to eat...I just dug out our camp stove and set to work heating up dinner whilst Mr. Flanagan dug out all the oil and candle lamps.  It was a bit fun deciding what we wanted to do with yet another night without electricity.

Then reality sets in.  You start thinking to yourself..."hmmm that sky still looks pretty volatile", and  "gee I wonder if there is damage around here?"  I got to thinking about all the food in my freezer and how slim the pocket book is this month.  I was a bit concerned that the food would defrost and be rendered "no good" for eating, and honestly...we cannot afford to replace what is in the freezer right now.  At least it wasn't the dead of winter so we did not have to figure out a way to keep warm, "but" I thought to myself, "what if it were in the dead of winter, how would we keep warm?"

It is fantastically amazing to me that our ancestors made it through these same types of storms, and they did it without all the modern things we use today.  If we wanted to see if that sky was going to drop another storm or tornado...all we had to do was query it on my cell phone.  If we wanted a bit of water for the horses, all we had to do was open up the deep well water pump located in the back of the barn yard.  If we wanted to eat, all we had to do was hook up the propane to the camp stove and grab some food out of the still cold refrigerator.  Lamp oil and tons of candles, along with  flashlights illuminated the scary and dark night with no problem, and a versatile converter charged my cell phone (which is complete with all the weather and news information at the touch of a finger.), and as a bonus it changes battery power into AC power if needed.  
How on earth did our ancestors do it?  
I guess they just looked at the sky, held a finger in the air, and guessed? 

Yes..sitting in candle and oil lit rooms was kind of neat for a bit, but I much prefer having electricity at my fingertips when needed.  While I believe Mr. Flanagan and I would do just fine without it, and we would adapt to not having it, I much prefer not to live without power.  
Living in the past is fun for a day or two...I would rather reside in the present for now!

Just recently I developed a bad case of gall bladder problems.  So I did what most folks do and headed off the the family doctor.

Now don't get me wrong...I really like our doctor.  He is pretty laid back and down-to-earth...well not as down-to-earth as I am I guess.

I found that information out once he asked me what my diet consisted of.  I went ahead and told him that I ate mostly what I could glean, preserve, catch, hunt, or find off the land.  I ate organically and used the resources around me.  "So for breakfast I had Kefir made from organic milk that I fermented myself and hard boiled eggs from my chickens" I explained.  He told me I needed to eat more fiber.  I needed to put more fiber in my diet.  

Hmmm...so I told him "I have taken an interest in milling my own grain into flour, baking my own bread, and in addition I eat a hunter-gatherer diet of lean meats such as venison, chicken, turkey, and fresh caught fish.  I also eat a variety of organic fresh and frozen vegetables and fruits" which is about as high in fiber as you can get.  
Half of what I talked about like my own fermented sauerkraut, kefir, and kombacha confused him; he had no idea what some of even was and said so.  
He said, and I quote, "You need to eat better stuff that will move things through your system.  I get it that you are "green" and like all those types of things, but you need to change your diet".  He ended up telling me to eat more noodles, toast, jellos and things like that.  Down the hall I went in my own confusion; there he sat at his desk filling out my prescription for pain with a (healthy?) bottle of mountain dew sitting on his desk
 
Huh?  

For centuries our ancestors have hunted, grown, cultivated, and gleaned the land.  They were not considered "green"...the words "green movement" , "carbon foot-print", or "global warming" didn't even exist then!  

I am not "green".  Like my ancestors I am homesteading.  No matter what I eat (and I know that what I eat is tons better for me than what I can buy in the store!) there isn't anything that will stop family genetics (those on my mother's side all have had bad gall bladders), or the fact that for centuries folks have gotten sick.  Picking up a loaf of nutrition-free white (bleached flour...yes they use bleach to whiten that flour) bread for toast, or a bag of instant, nutrition-free, white flour pasta is not going to fix my gall bladder pain or problems.
Why do I get a label of being "green" when I am doing something that up until recently was commonly done in order for families to eat?

"Passed on May 20, 1862, the Homestead Act accelerated the settlement of the western territory by granting adult heads of families 160 acres of surveyed public land for a minimal filing fee and 5 years of continuous residence on that land."  (citation credits via Our Documents)

I am pretty sure when those folks took advantage of the opportunity to homestead, they didn't go to their local Wal-Mart to buy instant food or food like products-they grew, hunted, cultivated, and foraged their food just like I do.  

So folks, please do not call us "green" movement people...we don't move anything green unless it is a bunch of weeds.
We are on a hobby farm and we do what our ancestors did for food; heck it sure saves us a lot of money, and despite my bad gall bladder, I have to say I have never felt healthier in all my born days.  Funny how it was what we had to do in order to survive..then it was no longer popular prompting the government to "promote" victory gardens during WWII.  
We have become a generation of Hot Pockets and Hamburger Helper people that forgot how to eat real food!

 My goodness we have become a nation of whiny complaining folks!  I was thinking about how much people seem to complain as I was helping with winter chores outside yesterday.  Sheesh!  Our ancestors thought they had it made if they had a fully stocked pantry and enough firewood for (not just the winter because it was used for cooking too) the year!  Our ancestors were able to have an opinion and express it in the land we call the home of the free and the brave.  And our ancestors worked a hard day's work never thinking anyone owed them anything they didn't work for.  Mr. Flanagan and I are ever so blessed here renting this  old farmhouse.  Home is where you hang your heart for sure, and quoting from the movie It's a Wonderful Life, " It's deep in the race for a man to want his own roof and walls and fireplace..."

Well call us corny, but last night  Mr. Flanagan and I watched an old VHS entitled, "Little House on the Prairie, The Christmas They Never Forgot."

You see our Christmas was quite a simple affair; we wanted to keep it pretty simple, and not get all caught up in the busy craziness of it all.  So after our visit with our adopted grandparents Norbert and Marge, Mr. Flanagan got out his harmonica and I sat down to the old pump organ and we cranked out the tunes.  By tunes I mean traditional Christmas carols that is...
First he would play a song of his choosing on the harmonica and then we would belt it out together singing as loudly as we could.  The kitten would scurry from one corner of the room to another as if the walls were going to tumble in. (Mr. Flanagan certainly has a robust singing voice that carries for miles!)  Then it would be my turn to choose a carol.  I would pump my legs up and down at the old pump organ and magically (as I do not read music) a tune would twirl itself out of my fingertips upon the ivory keys.  I always say that I do not know how to play a lick of music,  but for some reason when I sit in front of that old organ carols or hymns roll out automatically (of course with a few missed or sour notes here and there.)

If anyone would have been outside they most likely would have had a good laugh at the two of us in our flannel pajamas howling out the carols like a pair of blue tick hounds!  The best part of this time we had together was how similar it was to the Little House On The Prairie show we had viewed.  We did not exchange any gifts (as we could not afford to buy each other any gifts), we did not have a fancy meal complete with fine wines, and we did not have company or family in our humble home.  Snow was falling as if mimicking a snow globe that had been rocked to and fro, the air held a nip of chill, and the wind was sifting around the old farmhouse like a ghost relentlessly seeking some sort of entrance.  As meager as it seemed we felt as wealthy as the most prestigious kings or queens of the world!

Probably unlike our ancestors or the characters portrayed in the Little House series, we were efficiently warm and snug in our old farmhouse.  Did we have chores to do...oh yes!  But nothing like our ancestors had in the dead of winter.  Winter depicted in the show we viewed was just as cold and relentless then as it is now.  You see Mr. Flanagan and I had been lamenting about our automatic horse watering system.  It had frozen up and for some reason no matter what we did, we could not get it to work.  Imagine!  An automatic watering system for horses!  What would our ancestors think of an automatic watering system?   Heaven's to Betsy...we have to haul water now?!!  How long until that system can be fixed??  Oh...my! 


On an -11 degree day one can sure appreciate what our ancestors had to go through watering the livestock each morning.  IN below zero weather with mittens made of wool they would not just "flick" on the hose spigot like we were able to do.  Pump...pump...pump....pump!  Hours upon hours it must have taken just to pump and secure enough water for the livestock and the family each morning. (Wearing not the latest winter wear from LL BEAN, but handmade clothing and layers upon layers of it!)  

....and when the snow came down in feet rather than inches, it was up to the people and a trusty old shovel to remove that snow.  I watch Mr. Flanagan hop into our landowner's plow truck and effortlessly remove the snow from the roads.  In what would take our ancestors hours to do he has done in minutes (and he does a fantastic job at it too).  In addition, he is dressed in his warmest Columbia jacket along with lightweight state-of-the-art gloves complete with hand warmers.  Modern heated equipment that far outweighs the old wool for warmth when the temps dip below zero.  What is there to complain about there?  (Especially me as I watch him out there in his Columbia jacket while I sip  a nice white tea sprinkled with a bit of ginger in the warmth of the farmhouse :)

Speaking of warmth...
Without question we have it made when it comes to heating our homes.  I cannot imagine all the hours it took our ancestors to chop, stock, pile, and split enough wood for heat and for cooking.  Let's face it heat was not as uniform as we are so drawn to think.  Today we burn our yule logs aesthetically for ambiance or to chase a chill from the room.  Years ago however,  cast iron stoves or fireplaces heated the room they were in and unless you had a stove or fireplace in your bedroom you could expect to face some pretty chilly nights!  Unlike our warm air forced heat, our ancestors depended upon a limited heating source and warmed their chilly toes with layers of wool stockings. Should we even think about having to use the bathroom on a below zero day in winter?  I will leave that up to your own imagination.  Brrr!

Even in our poorest of poorest settings we are still catered to and wealthier than we think.  Things are a bit tight here at our farmstead; with a wedding on the way for our daughter, a new granddaughter due in May, and my parent's 50th wedding anniversary celebration coming up one could say we have a bit of saving to do with the limited funds we work with.  But compared to our ancestors that lived as pioneers,  those that lived through the great depression, or even those who lived with debilitating illnesses (that could be fixed or helped in today's technology) we are quite a spoiled generation.  I would be so bold as to say we are a very spoiled nation.  
In third world countries one does not "turn up the heat" when they are cold.  They do not "twist on the tap" for clean drinking water.  They do not have the "liberty" to head to the store to purchase macaroni and cheese, or even a can of soup.  Our dogs and cats eat better than some folks do in third world countries.  Our concern many times is more focused on how much more damage our current administration will inflict upon our country, what time the Packer game is on, or even how angry we were because McDonald's got our cheeseburger order wrong.  
Even our poorest of poor are offered shelters, cell phones, and food pantries.  And before feathers are ruffled I am able to say I know first hand about food pantries and shelters having had to use these services after my ex-husband left me.  Even as poor as poor could be, I still was able to eat, turn on water for a clean drink, and sleep safely in a warm bed.   

  You see I know writing a weblog will be read and folks will either agree or disagree with what I have to say; be that as it may the words are my own and the beliefs are mine.  This here is my log of thoughts and musings sort of an online diary one could say.  I am quite proud to be an American.  America however has become a nation of beholden and spoiled people.  I see it from our children demanding cell phones and the latest XBOX to the folks of maturation demanding the latest Lexus.  When did the focus change?
I live in the Land of the Free and The Brave.  I am glad that I am free (as we all are) to say "this is how I feel" or "this is what I know".  What I am ashamed of is that I now have to be BRAVE enough to say it.  If I say my beliefs on the Bible, or God, or the effects of (I believe to be a non-existent) global warming, it seems to me I can no longer say how I believe without also being quite brave.  I have to be brave to face the onslaught of those that are not like-minded, or those that believe differently.  Yikes...and MEAN!  Some folks are just downright mean about addressing those that do not seem to think like they do!   Instead of healthy debates it ends up being a war of words and one trying to convince the other to believe as they do.  

That is not my goal with my writings.  My writings are mine.  They are "me" put into words.  I am more than brave enough to say what I know to be right and what I know to be wrong.  I focus a lot of my writings on what I have learned from history and my surroundings.  Yes..I have a strong faith in God and many of my writings are just the plain simple truths of what I read in the Bible and what I see around me.  Call it my soapbox, or my slanted view, or whatever you wish but the bottom line is sometimes the focus needs to be a bit more on where the moral compass should be.  I wonder what our ancestors would say if they came back to life today.  Our forefathers would take arms and raise a ruckus if they could see the rights we have been intimidated into surrendering as of late.  This nation seems to be going to hell in a hand basket if you ask me.  
(By the way...historically speaking... "Going to hell in a hand basket" was a phrase the miners used to proclaim as they were slowly lowered into the earth in a wire basket to begin their dangerous day's work).  

The only thing I can do about the moral compass I talk about is to continue doing what I currently do.
I must (as our Pastor said this morning)  Increase Christ and decrease me.  I need to increase others and decrease me (and that can be difficult!).  I want to live as if I were dying (because I am...we all are! If we are guaranteed anything life- it is that we all will die), and do the best job I can do.  Folks, make sure to treat everyone as if they were the most important people in the world because guess what??? THEY ARE!  Think positively as you face 2014.   I am not a fool to think bad things are not going to show up this coming year.  I am wise enough to know I have a God that can take care of me (and He always does) and will make sure I can,  and will make it through the tough times.  He shows me how to appreciate the good things.  So while others on this New Year's Eve may donn their gay apparel...and head to the local saloon,  I am going to reflect on the past year and enjoy the simple comforts of a home, a warm bed, a full pantry, lots of firewood, and look towards a new year- a new year learning how to increase others and decrease myself.  First goal on the agenda?  Goats.  I want to buy some goats for families living in the third world country of India.  Sounds silly to you as you munch your Doritos, but to that family or families it is fresh goat milk everyday!  Today after I am done writing this blog I am going to set up my goal chart, sort of a picture graph of prayers and dreams.  I do it every year and just about every year I see those goals, dreams, and prayers come to life.  COOL!
Try it...you might be surprised!

I never tire of my surroundings here on the farmstead.  Just recently my Face Book friend Carol posted a picture of the winter sunset in her backyard...then the next morning she posted a photo of the sunrise.

Each just as gloriously beautiful as the other.  

I never tire of my surroundings.  Especially in the very early morning and the setting of the evening sun.  

Still, still, still... three words describe the setting of the sun last night.  As I drove myself to town to work the evening shift, there was not a turn of the road that did not shed a myriad of breathtaking beauty.  The setting sun had painted the opposing hills in spectacular shades of oranges, reds, and pinks mingled with the haze of misty grays.  Each hill wore their coat of color differently.  The whiteness of the snow blankets appeared as a fuzzy patchwork quilts upon a mounded goose feather tick.   I was thankful I had the road to myself as I crossed the Wisconsin River.  There too I could see the unique beauty this season boasts.  True, none of us likes the bitter cold nor the blustery winds that seem to cough up yet more snow, but the river held such glittering movement at that moment I quite forgot the extreme cold.  Shards of ice floated and gleamed in the setting sun.  The hills rose above the river as if to say "Look at me and  how I reach to the sky".  It would have been a very disgruntled driver behind me had I not had the road to myself because, right there in the middle of the bridge, I came to a complete stop to behold the winter touching the river of ice.  
What a lovely sight it was, but my shift was to begin soon so I was not able to finish watching the completion of the sunset panorama.

The sunrise on the other hand is just as beautiful as I take in my surroundings.  Only the sunrise does not offer the three words a sunset gives.  For you see in the morning no matter how cold it is there is no such thing as still, still, still!  

Perhaps it is because there are no leaves on the bare and quiet trees, or maybe because there is an afghan of glistening snow upon the ground that the sound of the bird seem to resound in such a vibrancy. 

 Just as the sun begins to rise I put on my warmest work clothes to perform the routine morning chores.  After the bitter close of a long night everything from wood stoves to horses needs to be fed.  At first the cold takes my breath away; I tuck my face deeper into the scarf wrapped around my face.  Once my body adjusts to the onslaught of single digit temperatures I take my hat off to listen.  A chorus of song tickles my ears.  The winter birds sing "good morning" as the sun breaks the horizon.  A muffled nicker from the horses mingles with the variety of singing birds as I walk to the wood stove to feed it the morning meal.  Snow squeaks against my boots and reminds me I should have put warmer socks on.  Hearty wood smoke coats my sense of smell as I toss logs upon the hot coals and once again I look around me, and take in the morning sun painting the driftless hills.  

Still, I never tire of my surroundings...

MY CHRISTMAS RANT
by: Dawn 

This month being the "Christmas" season,  so many folks are focused on the materialistic chasm of parties, gift giving, and obligations.  
Maybe it's just me but sometimes I feel like skipping all the seasonal -must do- activities and I feel like focusing more on the surroundings.  I think generally speaking we loose ourselves in the conventional way of "holiday" thinking, and we forget to focus on what is truly important... thus causing undue stress and disheveled schedules.

Maybe it is the tsunami of red and green santa's that hit the store shelves before we are even done with handing out candy to costumed kids, but I find I tire of the holidays as soon as October rolls around.  

Today it seems as though it is easy to forget that the reason we even celebrate Christmas, or the "holidays" as some put it, is because a certain person was born to redeem us and set us free. 

 There are those that will find any way possible to refuse the idea of Jesus Christ (unless using the name as a cuss word which blows my mind, why don't we say Dali Lhama, or Buddah sakes as cuss words?) or that we even have the "holiday" season because HE was born.  I find it interesting that so many refuse to believe He existed when countless historical accounts, not just the Bible, record His birth and life.  

Why do we even have "Christ"mas?  We don't have "mother earth"mas, "buddah"mas or "confucius"mas.  What caused us as a people to decide to celebrate this particular month with silver bells and brightly wrapped gifts?  Historically speaking...why did our ancestors even bother to begin such ~Christmas~ traditions if there was nothing to base such celebrations upon?  Some will claim the dull regime of 'religion' or 'church' requirements, but if thus is the case, where did the 'religion' or 'church' base their requirements upon?

Take the many toys and gifts into consideration one will give or receive (all of which were probably made in China).  What causes us as a society to overspend on said gifts in the "holiday spirit"?  
No one can deny that a tricycle for example was created for a child's enjoyment.  Did mom and dad put all the parts and pieces into a box and BAM! shake it around and slam it into creation?  Impossible.  Someone had to intricately put that tricycle together for little Bobby or Suzy.  Piece by piece it was created and assembled for the child lovingly.  Yet some say the world "BAM!", was magically in existence by itself.  Ludicrous.  It was created.  

Lovingly our surroundings were perfectly created for us to enjoy and occupy while we are here.  We were created to inhabit this land;  too often we scurry about focusing on such unearthly details, and we forget we are to enjoy this time we have here.   

Still...still...still...how is it that each and every  snowflake (trillions upon trillions of them) is spectacularly created individually to not replicate another.  How is it that a child can be born knowing how to magically take in its first breath after submersion within the womb?  How is it that our very earth spins upon its axis without falling or exploding into bits?  (Yet those tout it exploded into being?)

Nay-Sayers will puff up their chests and clear their throats in annoyance at my written words which in essence will cause them to ponder, but I celebrate the Christmas season because God was born as a man known as Jesus Christ and walked this earth.  Then He was crucified and rose again.  No confusing nuts and bolts about it.  The reason the sun "appears" to rise and set is His doing.  The reason the birds sing and the hills rise to meet the sky is because He created the splendor of the earth and all it contains.  

It is not hard to look around you and see each season holds some special charm or beauty.  I know there are difficult times in life I can identify having been through so many losses and trials.  I find what truly gives me peace and redemption, or maybe relief and joy, is to simply forget the conventional patter of the holiday season.  Instead I reflect on the birth of the Holy Child in a stable not that much different than my old hay-filled barn, and what was created around me from the little kitten biting my toes to the completion of the sunrise.  
"Gloria in excelsis Deo" Latin for "Glory to God in the Highest"...this is my winter song as I celebrate the Christmas season in my own reflective way.  Instead of gifts and twinkling $3.00 multicolored lights on a gnarly jack pine, I am choosing to consider my blessings of family and friends.  I am focusing on my surroundings; on the sunrises and the sunsets.  I am looking ahead to the future with silver bells of optimistic goals and gifts of multiple blessings.  

Take it or leave but in scripture it says,  " And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment" Hebrews 9:27
Think about it.  Just like the winter appears to cause the appearance of a silent and still death we know that still nature lives.  We all must approach the same stillness yet we can still live.  We shall be judged and either He will know us or He will say "I never knew thee...be gone from my presence".  That is a scary thought if you ask me.
I have not a worry. 


 What do you choose?

Yesterday, on my night shift at the hospital switchboard an elderly gentleman came in to visit his brother.  This man and I had conversed many times before this night; his brother has been a patient more than once, and now was down with the pneumonia. With good reason he was quite concerned about his older brother.    I knew I should have been making quick work of the piles of papers that needed to be sorted behind that hospital front desk, but the man standing in front of me, a mere reflection of the strong young man he used to be, called out for someone to just have the time to listen.
So listen I did.  Each time I "find time" to listen I learn.  

He started out with the usual banter about the weather, and the four letter word no one likes to hear about...snow.  Then he continued on about how many times he had to cut the grass around the old house over the summer.  He lamented about the long growing season we had for grass, not that he minded cutting grass, it just seemed like he had been cutting it a bit more this year than last year.  I nodded my head in agreement tossing in a few "Oh really?" and "Yes, hmm"  He transitioned into the tomato soup he would have for dinner when he got home and how it was enough for him now that he was on his own...

Then slowly, like a shifting breeze, he began to tell me about when he was younger.  He and his siblings all attended a one room school house.  He told me of the many times they would walk quite a distance just to spend the day learning.  "Now-a-days" he said, "You can't get a kid to even want to open a book.  Me, I could not wait to feel those books in my hands.  I felt that if I could only learn all I could from that teacher and those books I could do anything when I got to be an adult."  He paused long enough for me to tell him about my grandfather.  I told him how my grandpa was a teacher during the Second World War so he did not have to enlist as teachers were needed at home.  He rented a room at a local farmhouse and walked the line fence each day to get to the one room school house.  He taught all ages from 2 to 17 year old children.  If there was a blizzard, he would get up in the middle of the night and walk the line fence to get the pot bellied stove heated in the front and in the back of the small building.  At times he would even sleep there rather than trek back to the farm house in the deep and blinding snow.    

Of course my story did not last long once I mention WWII!  He was quick to tell me that he remembers when Pearl Harbor was bombed...he remembered right where he was standing as if it were yesterday.  He was six years old almost seven, and they were all at his grandmother's house.  Of course there wasn't any television at the time in their family and his house did not have electricity, but grandmother's house did.  So she had the radio on loud and clear for his dad and uncle to listen to.  "My dad was a sharp tack, he kept up on all the news and made sure to tuck his money wisely."  He went on to tell me more, "I remember we were all in the living room and everyone was quiet as we listened to the man try to calmly tell us the news.  I remember the static and the voice fading in and out, and I remember thinking to myself that this must be a very terrible thing."  He went on to describe the braided rug on the floor and how he counted the rows as he listened to the adults discuss the future of America, the boys that would want to go and fight, the boys that would want to stay home.  He then told me about his brother, the very same brother now fighting pneumonia, talking about wishing he could go and fight but he was too young.  He was thankful none of his family had to fight in the war, but lost just about all of his former older classmates from that one room school house.   
"Family was important in those days.  You learned to accept the flaws and took care of each other.  Last year for Christmas I got a gift of a plaque to hang on the wall.  The plaque reads  'It Is What It Is'   I don't want to lose my brother, but I know he is in his 80's and he may not recover;  I always say "it is what it is".   He continued,  "My brother is a few years older than I and neither one of us ever married.  I was just too shy to speak to a girl and I figured I wasn't much to look at.  My brother had his eye on a lass for awhile, but she went off and married someone else.  We decided to take care of mother as she got older, and when she passed away...well we just continued to live together.  He went to the nursing home about two months ago because I just can't help him anymore.  It has been hard getting used to living on my own."  

Then the hospital phone rang and I had to wave a quick good bye so I could get back to my duties.  As he slowly walked towards the revolving hospital doors I thought of  how sad he must feel being the last in his family to remember.  I pictured this man warming up his tomato soup in the microwave, maybe turning on an a.m. radio station on the radio.  The rooms would be silent aside from the ticking of the living room clock.   He would most likely sip decaffeinated instant coffee in his 1970's coffee mug.  My heart went out to him as I remembered how I listened to his  life memories intertwined with  a poignant sense of loneliness.   I watched as history played itself before me in "real time" while he told of the life and times of WWII in his reflection.  I felt for this man's loss and was glad I took the time to listen.  
Today it seems to me we no longer  have a sense of caring for and respecting our elders.  I more often see young people or even people of my own age shooing away those of maturation.  They have become the brunt of our jokes.  They have become a burden and are left to remember on their own.  If you have the time to listen, find someone that needs to share; I cannot tell you how much I have learned about our past by taking the time to listen.

It was a warm day full of a blustery breeze.  Above me I could hear the Blue Jay's screech to one another sounding the alarm.  "Jay...jay...jay!" they screamed out..."Intruder!"  Silently I willed them to "hush" in my mind.  I just wanted to hear the rustle of the leaves on the trees as the wind carried its fervor through them.  My eyes darted around the barn yard looking for the Barn Swallows.  "That's funny" I thought to myself, "usually the Swallows are diving above me when I hike the field close to the barn."  That is when I realized the subtle changes around me.  The Barn Swallows have gone.  It was here.  As much as I wished it not to be it was here.  The field of corn next to me held a beige hue and sure enough...it was slowly drying out from the bottom of the stalk to the top.  The sumac blared a bright shocking red coat, and the small maple tree ahead of me whispered shades of muted orange. My eyes followed the landscape of hills and valleys and found shades of yellow, dried green, orange, and browns.  It was here.  The season has quietly arrived with no warning.  Autumn.  The mere sound of the word evokes thoughts of warm sweaters, hot chocolate, and firelight.  It reminds one that soon winter is to follow with its cold and silent fury.
  

Slowly I made my way further into the woods near the farmhouse.  Again the Blue Jays screamed their annoyance that I would dare to enter their habitat.  Gentle breezes lifted the hair upon the back of my neck cooling the perspiration that had popped up there in the vigor of my hike.  To my left I saw the prettiest group of  wild purple Asters.  I stooped down and grabbed a handful of it.  In the mix, what I didn't see was the small thorns of a wild rose.  I winced as the aggressive thorns pierced my skin.  I rubbed my hand against the coarse denim of my jeans to somehow get rid of the sliver that now remained lodged within the palm of my hand.  Of course the small sliver refused to release itself from the soft skin.  "Shucks" I thought, "Might as well head home anyway, I bet that bread I mixed up is ready to be kneaded."

I slowly trudged my way back to the farmyard marveling at the speed in which the sun takes its rest below the horizon.  Within seemingly seconds the landscape transformed from bright and breezy to pink, orange, and hazy.  An owl hooted its awakening in the distance and behind me to the right a few coyotes touted their existence.  I reached the farmhouse and grabbed an old green wine bottle.  "Perfect for my purple Asters" I thought to myself as I filled the bottle with warm water and placed the purple little daisy-like flowers within.  Forgetting about the sliver in my finger I set to work kneading the now risen bread dough sitting in my Grandma's old 1940's enamelware bowl.  White with a red rim trim I find this bowl to be the perfect size for my homemade bread dough.  I flour my kitchen table and proceed to knead the bread.  As I run my fingers through the dough, the warm scent of yeast mixed with flour touches my nose.  I deliberately work the soft yielding dough through my hands and think of the delicious smell the house will wear in but a few hours.  Kneading vigorously I suddenly feel a sharp pain.  "OUCH!"...surely that darn sliver is what is the problem!  Seconds ago I was joyfully inhaling the wonderful smell of my bread dough and then the sliver in my hand brings me back to reality.   

Ignoring the sliver, I continued to knead my bread dough until it was ready to be rolled out.  With my Grandma Nushart's rolling pin in hand, I roll the dough this way and then that way until a perfect rectangle forms.  With tender care I carefully roll the rectangle ends into a perfect loaf-of-bread shape and put it in the bread pans upon my warm stove top covered with a light kitchen towel to rise once again.  Surveying my kitchen I can see the dirt and stone driveway has left remnants of dust upon my shelves and walls.  I grab a dust cloth and begin to dust the areas in which the blanket of film covers.  I glance out the window and behold the fog of the cool evening descend upon the soy bean field like a white winter quilt.  Darkness enfolds the barnyard and the hills, and late season crickets sing a vibrating song across the vast yard into the wooded hills.  I grab my dust cloth and head into the living room to once again swipe away the invading layer of dust. I dusted the living room and watched as the first star touched the sky in the cool of the evening.  I decide to head outside and pick up the rake and various garden tools I left laying in the yard before it is too dark to see.   "OUCH!"  Again the sliver reminds me of its presence against the soft flannel cloth in my hand as I pick up the unyielding hardness of the rake handle.  "I really need to get this dumb sliver out..." 

The bread is ready to be placed into the oven.  Distracted once again from the sliver, I head to the kitchen and prepare the oven for baking.  I think to myself how nice it would be to have my wood cook stove just sitting and rusting in storage in the barn hooked up to bake this bread.  There is just something about the way food tastes after it has been prepared upon or in a wood cook stove.  "Maybe I can talk Flanagan into helping me get that summer kitchen done out in the chicken shack." My mind wanders as I think about the different ways we can configure the area to fit a wood cook stove.  Oh how I desire to fire it up and prepare some meals, preserve some goods, bake some pies and breads with that stove!  Some day before I die I want that stove hooked up and cleaned up so I can prepare some delicious items upon or in it!  In the electric oven the bread goes and I set my timer for exactly 35 minutes...just the right amount of time to bake the bread to just the right color.  I check the bread one more time before I decide to leave the kitchen.  Opening the oven door the sliver decidedly reminds me it is STILL there.  "OUCH!"  That was the final straw.

Heading to the bathroom with a vengeance I forcefully grab the tweezers.  Ugh.  Glasses.  Where are my glasses!  As I age I am reminded that parts of me are declining.  I hate it that I can no longer see without those buggers!  Glasses secured, I begin to dig at that sliver in my finger.  Painfully I twist and turn the palm of my hand to get a better grip upon the sliver.  The sliver fights me.  It ducks my advances as I pick at it.  Oh how frustrating!  Light.  I need more light!  I turn on the florescent mirror and dig at it some more.  FINALLY.  Finally the sliver secedes.  Tiny and full of a bit of blood, what once was a festering angry sore is now nothing but a slight spit of a thing upon my tweezers.  Almost not there.  So tiny it made me giggle at how much pain it caused whilst in my flesh. 

In the living room I sat down in my recliner and picked up a book intending to read.  The baking bread made my tummy growl as it painted the house with its warm and tasty smell.  Best intentions set aside I thought about the little sliver that plagued me.  Isn't that just like something so small to grow and grow and grow in discomfort into something seemingly so big?  I think about the problems we all have in our lives.  How many of those problems are just like that little sliver from a wild rose bush?  Some problems, like the sliver, seem so SO big, but are really quite small.  Some problems are deep, they hurt, they do not go away.  We dig at them and dig at them and still there is no relief.  Some problems  are tucked away and forgotten.  But, like the small sliver, they are still there and they fester.  They become infectious and take over until suddenly they explode into yet more pain that really could have been avoided...had we just removed it or dealt with it before it festered.  You see even in a sliver I see a life lesson, so I share that life lesson with you.  The Scripture states "Do not let the sun go down upon your wrath".  To me that is just like that little sliver wedged into the flesh of my hand.  If you do not make a plan to deal with it or remove it; if you let the sun go down upon that sliver and try to forget upon it...guess what?  It will still be there.  It will not go away until you deal with it and settle it.  Readers, do not let the little problems boil within.  Like my sliver...my joy was stolen on account of a little sliver!  That pesky sliver caused me to not appreciate my wildflowers, the smell and feel of my homemade bread dough, even the feel of a good book within my hands!  Remove that sliver before it becomes infected and steals your joy.  

Traffic was surprisingly at a minimum as I took my time to cross the Wisconsin River.  The sunset was absolutely amazing!  The driftless hills seemed to rise up and slowly swallow the sun.  "Breathe this in Dawn" I told myself.  
The country roads twisted and turned as I wove my way home.  Fireflies twinkled along the way in every direction as if God Himself were lighting my runway to home.  
A deer and her young one flashed across the road in front of me; I was thankful she chose to cross way before my car reached that part of the drive.  

Off went the air conditioner and the windows flew open so I could take in the scent of the many wildflowers that sprinkled the ditches along the road.

Finally I turned on the road that I live on.  You see though, it is not just any road.  It starts out as a nice blacktop road with a few farmhouses spattered here and there.  But eventually the road meets the sand and gravel.  This is when I know I am almost home.  
My thoughts again start turning as I think of all the upturned stones poking into the soft fiber of my Good Year tires.  Just like the pains of life poking at me when I least expect it.  Isn't that analogy so true?  We travel so smoothly, things run along so nicely then BAM! ....we hit the gravel.  Our flesh tears and burns with the gravel piercing our outward person.  Inside the grit and sand rubs away our stamina; like salt in a wound we cry from the pain.  
My thoughts carry to the years of pain I have experienced like gravel being tossed to and fro by the wheels of my car...then I stop.
I literally stop the car.
ENOUGH! I tell myself.  Enough focusing on the negative stones...let's focus on the road.  We are all on it aren't we?  Some of us appear to have roads of blacktop, others a mixture of stone and blacktop, then there are even some that have nothing but sand and stone.  

With the car running at the base of my drive I got out.  My ears needed cleansing.  I shut off the key to the ignition and immediately recognized the comical sound of the Whippoorwill.  Now readers you may ask why I find the sound comical when listening to the Whippoorwill...this is why.  As a child we would often travel up to our cottage.  Many days were spent playing on my homemade swing and pretending to be cowboys and Indians in the tall trees of Wausaukee, WI.  Evenings were sometimes spent around the campfire my dad had created near the back of the property.  Whenever we would hear the sound of the Whippoorwill, my dad would ruffle my hair and remind me  "that old bird has to jump up and down on a branch to make that sound.  Aren't you glad you don't have to jump up and down to talk?"   As soon as dad would say something about the bird and its song,  my mind pictured this cartoon painted bird with big eyes jumping up and down, to and fro whipping out his Whippoorwill song.  It always made me smile.  
Now I stood on a gravel road swatting away the mosquitos as they attempted an evening meal upon my bare arms and legs and smiled again listening to the  "whippoorwill" song of this unique bird.  
The "mew" of a cat bird followed with a black capped chickadee off in the distance chiming in.  I closed my eyes and took in the sounds, and I breathed in the air deeply.  
"Whoosh...Whoosh...Whoosh..." sounded just above my head and my eyes snapped open.  So close I could feel the flitted air as my hair rustled upon the top of my head.  An owl, large, ominous, beautiful, soared just above me and off into the corn field behind my mailbox.  I meandered over to the side of the drive to get a better look and picked at a few plump mulberries .  I smiled again as I observed my peach skin turning purple with the stain of the berries I had just devoured.  The sound of a pack of coyotes howling soon started a chain of clamor as one pack chimed in to greet the other pack.  Ants tickled my toes as they crossed my feet scurrying to their anthill nest for the night.  I keep a canister in my living room of monarch eggs, so I gathered a bit more milkweed for my hungry caterpillars.    
Slowly I made the drive up the hill which is exactly one half mile long.  The night sky has now darkened the world around me as I drive up to the farmhouse.  

On the driver side of my car I sling my arm out the window to slap the tall corn in the field planted next to the drive.  Like a little kid I swoosh my arm up and down feeling the resistance of the wind against my skin.  
Finally the white four-square farm house I am blessed to live in speckles the horizon.  I slow my car down to park just in front of it where the lilac trees hold hands above the walk. 
 In the window with sleepy eyes waits my Calico Cat named Daisy.  She waits for me every night in the window .  
A few candles are burning casting a warm glow and throwing off a cinnamon apple scent.  
A warm cup of white tea waits to tease my senses and relax me to sleep as I close out my day.
Mr. James has his slippered feet up in the recliner;  he is  anxious to hear about my long 12 hour shift, and the deaf old dog Chester wags her tail in happiness as she coaxes her wet nose into my hand for rubbing.