She loves him sweet and tender
She loves him with pies and cake
She loves him with buttery little biscuits
The kind she likes to bake.
She loves him good and hearty
She loves him with beef stew
She loves him with ribs and goulash
And rich bowls of thick burgoo.
She loves him hot and spicy
She loves him with red cayenne
She loves him with jalapeno peppers
And secret recipes from the Yucatan.
She loves him dark and steamy
She loves him with coffee and cream
She loves him with Earl Grey and Oolong
And toddies spiked with Jim Beam.
She loves him in so many ways
She loves him the best she can
She loves him sweet and good and hot,
Her sweet talkin’ everlovin’ man.
— This is an old poem written for Bob as a Valentine one year. Still one of my silliest and one of my favorites. I hope you won’t mind if I re-post it again today.
Sending you hearts and flowers and a day filled with love! K
Fear invades, pervades, masquerades in calm seas,
Tossed into sets of broken dreams, unseamed hems
Of garments rent in grief. No sweet hand of relief
To a burning brow, to wipe unshed tears
Across the bruised cheek. Dissonant hymns
Of grace rejected, bounce from cellar to steeple.
Flags sway in changing breeze to catch the sharper
Wind, not seen but felt on skin whose
Pallor has moved from gray to gray, undone by
The aspect of different circumstance and need.
What has truly changed, nothing. Nothing but
Possibilities and options, the awareness
Of the nearness and the dark night.
Running with scissors is her M O, not caring
the tearing that her soul brings to the fore.
Silver flashing blades of grass beneath her feet,
grasping the consequences of all her actions.
Moving through Time and Dreams,
her mother’s voice is calling,
calling, calling to the future of what was
and will not be again. The remembrance
of remorse and tears unshed, of grief,
freely given and taken, when all that is left
is love, forgiveness, and unanswered prayer.
Shattered petals fall
Scattered confetti of pink silk
Roses after the rain.
Deep as blood the sap moves
thru the branches to each new bud.
Life reaches forward, upward and out-
life redeems life – a resurrection of now.
Every living thing breathes
the newness and promise of more.
Living is moving -living is seizing the air-
singing molecules of being through each pore,
to the unknown song ,
the holy litany of life.
I was driving home with my mom last week and our road off the ridge had a short space where the trees had touched overhead to form a tunnel. And mom reminded me of the road down to the shack – she said that was one of her favorite things in the summer – the tree tunnel all the way to our home.
That road turned off a state highway about a mile and a half north of the house and ran along side a creekbed on the west side of the road. It was a gentle slope along the hollow between the two ridges; a dirt and gravel road, well maintained by the county, and ran all the way down to Spring Creek. Once the only road south to Rogers, AR, it is still called the Old Rogers Road on some maps.
We found out the history of our area as we learned more about our road. The roadside along the creekbed was reinforced by a solidly built stone wall. As we explored the creek, we found an inscription on one of the stones explaining that this wall had been built by the WPA. So this was one of the road projects in the 1930′s that helped men make a living during the Depression’s hard times. I admired the wall even more once I considered the hardships that these men must have faced in this area during the Depression. Never an easy place to scratch a living, the Ozarks must have been hit even harder during those years.
We began to visit with the folks that lived down the road. I mentioned one of them in an early post, our neighbor whose son sold us the shack and who would stop and share a beer with Bob on hot summer afternoons. His wife told us that this road was used by both armies of the Union and the Confederacy during the days of the Battle of Pea Ridge. The armies marched and rested alongside the creek. And the spring house in their yard was used to house the wounded as the armies moved south. Artifacts of the battle would occasionally turn up in the villiage’s garden plots or newly dug foundations. Bullets, buckles and buttons were common but the most unusual was a cannonball that had to have the bomb squad come out from Rogers. We never found anything other than a few old bottles or broken china on our land.
We loved the road and would walk it with the dogs every day, looking for new wildflowers or roses in bloom. I would gather rose hips for autumn arrangements and we would pick blackberries in the sunny spots. Each fall a family would come by gathering black walnuts to sell at the villiage farm store. They would always politely ask to come on our property to pick up the hard round nuts and we would happily agree.
In the summer, the road was a tunnel of trees from the state highway to the north, all the way to the beginning of our property. As the road made a gentle curve to the left, our home on the side of the ridge, would come into view. Then as you passed to the southern property line, the trees would again fold over the road.
The temperature would drop by 5 to10 degrees as the road descended down the hollow. It was wonderful in the hottest time of the summer to roll down the windows and breathe in the cooler air.
And then in those hot summer nights, the trees would be filled with fireflies! So thick it would seem to be strings of fairy lights illuminating the road. Absolutely magical! Add a few children, our nieces and nephew or friend’s kids, and you would really have an enchanting scene. We would walk under that tree tunnel, covered in the glimmering lights of the fireflies, and could almost see our shadows.
I can still see the children’s faces looking up in wonder at the trees. A beautiful memory shared by everyone who walked that road. Until next time….