The Towering Ghost

About five or six years ago, we started coming regularly to East Texas from Dallas to clear off our property, the part of the family farm my mom was born on that she gave to me.  So many trees, so many creek beds – dry and wet – and so many places for me to explore as, surely, my mother had done before me.  Although Richard and I have cleared out many, many trees, the area remains what one would call a forest.

Immediately to the east of where we determined we’d eventually place our home is a wide, deep, low place.  When my mom lived here, she said they grew cotton down there.  But that was more than eighty years ago.  The family left the farm after my grandfather died in the early 30’s.  About the only thing that will grow there now is mushrooms.  It is an earthy space, canopied by tremendous trees, a space that feral hogs and deer and armadillos and possums roam.  It is damp and dark and musky.  And I adore it.

It is one of the few places on the whole former farm where I “get a feeling.”  I’m not sure I can explain that.  The same thing happened to me when I visited Chichen Itza and entered the site for the first time.  I was filled with a knowing.  A feeling that I was somehow connected to the space.  It was not in the least bit an ominous feeling.  It was a heady, powerful, giddy feeling.  Like the kind you get when you’re coming home after a long absence and you know it’s where you belong.  That’s what I feel when I look out over my special space, and when I descend to ramble around and make my presence known, the feeling gets stronger.  

It is there that I met my friend the ghost  – an ancient sycamore tree.  Amidst all the towering pines, the lush oaks, the winged elms – the deep, dark green ocean created by all those inhabitants – the stark white trunk of the sycamore stood out like a giant ghost. A towering, glistening presence to be venerated.  It welcomed me every time I arrived and walked to my favorite spot where the sycamore stood.  It was a beacon and a beckoning.  I could just have easily named it the Siren given how it called to me.  Called to me every time – every time we arrived.

A few years ago when we arrived from Dallas to spend the weekend in the woods, we parked the truck, turned on the pump for the water well, and headed out to stretch our legs -- Richard in one direction and I in another.  I headed through the woods to my special place where my shimmering, ghostly friend resided.  Where my Siren stood.

Stood.

Such a sad word.

Sad because the towering sycamore stands no more.  Sometime while we were away this last time, the ghost gave up the ghost.  I hope she went over gently.  Or perhaps I hope she went over like the biggest explosion ever, loudly crashing her magnificent presence all the way to the ground.  Either way would be fitting in its own way.

I’ve lost my friend.  My ghost.  The strong, tall, majestic, old sycamore.  And “coming home” is not going to be the same for quite some time.

The "girls" today . . .

Mollie and Arrie Beth are doing very well!  Not sure how we amused ourselves before we acquired them.  (Arrie is on the right)

She ain't snakebit

My grandmother used to use the word "snakebit" to indicate a string of bad luck, as in "his crops failed, his cows died, and he's havin' another young'un -- he's shore snakebit!"

Well, thankfully, Arrie Beth is not snakebit -- literally or figuratively. After soaking her foot in water and applying several rounds of hydrogen peroxide, she was much better. The swelling was down significantly Monday morning.  Monday evening, she perked up and walked around a bit. This morning, she went with us on our whole walk! She appears to be gaining strength every minute!

Maybe we should change her name to Wonder Woman.  I don't think Wonder Woman was snakebit either.

Double your pleasure???

Well, more news on the dog front.  As I posted earlier, we were blessed to find Mollie B at the cemetery a few weeks ago.  Yesterday, my cousin called and said there was another dog in the cemetery and that she looked like Mollie B.  Oh, goodness.  Had someone abandoned two dogs and we just didn't see the other one?

After discussion, we determined we couldn't have missed the dog inside the cemetery -- but she could have been outside the cemetery and we didn't see her. Now, he tells me, this new dog is in very bad shape.  We can take a chance on her living, or he'll have his uncle put her down. But he can't get her to get in his vehicle, so we offer to come with some food and Mollie B to entice her to get in the truck.

We arrived at the cemetery and were heartbroken at this dog's condition.  She was skin and bones. Literally. Mollie B was in much, much better shape than this little girl. When we let Mollie B out of the truck, she bounded over to the new dog and they certainly appeared to know one another.  And, other than the new dog being in bad shape, they certainly do look alike. After a bit of food and some coaxing, we got the new girl in the truck along with Mollie B and headed home.  Since Mollie B is named for my paternal great-grandmother, we decide to name the new girl after my maternal great-grandmother -- Arrie Beth.

This morning, Arrie Beth seemed better. She jumped around a little as we greeted her and she ate and drank fairly well.  When we returned from church, she ran up with Mollie B and seemed in good spirits. We went upstairs to have a bit of lunch with the intention of taking the dogs for a walk after we finished eating.

But . . . something was dreadfully wrong with Arrie Beth when we went downstairs. And it had been only 20 or 25 minutes since we went upstairs. She limped a few inches and, upon close inspection, one of her back paws and lower leg were quite swollen. Then it hit us -- she had been bitten by a snake. We can't think of anything else that would make her swell that much in that short of time. I called my cousin to ask what to do. He said there's nothing to do. Most dogs survive snake bites, but the healing process takes a week or so. But this dog is already compromised health-wise. Still, nothing to do. We're quite worried. It will suck if her short, miserable life ends this way. Unlike Mollie, this little girl already has some scars -- about three inches of her tail are gone and one of her toes is missing. So, we'd really like for her to survive this round of bad luck and live out her days happily chasing armadillos!

Here's to Arrie Beth's survival and subsequent thriving -- we want her to get as fat and happy as Mollie B.

Arrie at top of photo, Mollie at bottom

Poor thing -- rib bones showing.

And the tail . . .

Mollie certainly looks fit next to Arrie.

Yum. Country life.

Okay. We really like living in the country. It's quite a change after having lived in Dallas all my life. But we've adjusted very well.  So, why "yum" on country life?

I guess you could say there are "yums" and "bums."  Not "bums" as in people's behinds, but as in "bummer." My husband now has room for a huge garden.  And that's what he planted. But all of the produce gets ready at the same time! That's the bummer.  Canning and freezing produce is not all that fun. At least not to me. In fact, it's a lot of trouble.

Freezing stuff is a lot easier, but I have limited freezer space. So, in order to keep things awhile without refrigeration, you have to can them. Sterilizing all those jars and lids and rings and getting bubbles out and filling jars enough but not too much . . . makes my head spin. And so many recipes use "pounds" as a measurement and I don't have a small scale for that kind of measuring so I end up picking up one of my weights and trying to determine how close the food compares to the hunk of iron. Yes, it's ridiculous.

If I continue to be serious about this stuff, I have to get the equipment. Last year, I sprang for a canner. It's huge. I hate taking it out of the cupboard because it weighs a ton and when I heat it I have to put it over three burners. Yes, three. Of course, my current stove is small -- we're living in a tiny apartment above our garage while our home is being built. But really . . . THREE burners. Anyway, the canner is purchased, but I really need a scale, some enamel cookware, and an inexpensive bag sealer.

We purchased fresh peaches a few days ago and I haven't put the peaches up yet.  I must do it tomorrow. But tonight I'm messing with figs. The kitchen is not large enough to mess with two things at once! I'm hoping all of this stuff tastes good this winter.  Didn't I put up anything last year?  Yep. That's one of the reasons I bought the canner. Too late, of course, but I bought it. I spent a lot of time canning beans and a few things. I did not have a real canner, just a pressure cooker. After about 10 days, all my stuff was ruined. Lesson learned. And the stuff I froze? Taken care of by a 5-day power outage. That's why I'm hoping this stuff lasts until this winter and that we're able to enjoy it!

Right now, though, I'm grumpy. If I see another cucumber before I sleep, I'm gonna explode!

Little ones

We have three grandchildren.  The oldest and youngest are boys.  Well, men. The middle is our granddaughter.  Today is her birthday -- her twenty-sixth birthday. And our baby girl is having a baby. We found out this morning.

We're not in shock. She's old enough to have a baby. But it is a surprise. Cory Ann has been "motherly" all her life. So, there's no doubt that she'll make a wonderful mom. We're spending the day kind of taking in this news. The oldest grandson, Jack, had a baby a couple of years ago. Now, there's another on the way.

Little ones. I like 'em.

My, how they've grown . . .

Yesterday was our oldest grandson's birthday.  Number three-oh.  I don't know if that makes him old or makes me old! Actually, I don't think either of us are old. Tomorrow is our granddaughter's birthday. She'll be twenty-six. Just doesn't seem possible.

I'm sure that it was only last week that Jack was too young to ride a bike and Cory was still in Pampers. But I guess that can't be true since these birthday numbers prove otherwise. Tempus fugit. Yep. Time flies. It's wonderful to see them all grown up, but kinda sad that the days of blowing bubbles and throwing frisbees are gone. Or, are they? Maybe when we all get together next time we can do some of the things we did when we were all younger. I'm not sure I can still toss a frisbee and make it go where I want it to go, but I'm pretty sure I can still blow a mean bubble or two.

The photo is not a new one, but I like it because they're both smiling so much. Smiling is a good thing!