Life in General and a Commercial (Ain't that life?)

I've been noticing life around me lately. 

That's a change, because I've been doing the old nose at the grind stone thing  lately, trying to get this book ready for the publisher. 

It's done except having my picture struck, which I reckon I will do Monday.

Ugh.

You  may be like all these other people who are taking selfies all the time and think it's a grand thing to see their mug plastered all over Facebook, texts, twitter, snapchat and whatever the heck else there is.

Not I, friend. Nope, nope, nope. I hates it, my precious.

You may have noticed it's rained here enough to float the ark. But today the sun is out and our tomatoes are turning red. I picked a few beans to go with the other handful I picked a few days ago. There might be enough that  maybe Husband and I won't have to fight over them.

On another note, I saw on the news the other day that a fella asked his mother to play the lottery for him. He carefully gave her the numbers he wanted played. She wrote them down.  

She wrote them down wrong.

She proceeded to go to the store and buy a ticket for him. Using numbers unknown to him. 

She won $100,000.00.

I bet he ain't mad at his mama.

So, commercial time!

Wait! Come back! It won't take long.

My new book coming out: "Poetry, Prose and Music: Life of an Appalachian Woman" is a whopper. No wonder I'm tired.

It's over 400 pages long filled with the funny and some sad, some light hearted mess and some introspection. Some of it rhymes, some of it doesn't, just like life. There are fifteen short stories, a few not very short. A few of these blogs you've read over the years are in there, as well as some "essays" that have been published elsewhere. A few short stories have won contests and been published. I even got money, people! And there's a great deal of photography included. Some of it quite good. Those are probably the photos I didn't take. 

And at the back, a musical CD. Three of the songs are written by yours truly. Some are contemporary Christian, a few old hymns. Daughter sings a solo and two duets with her dear old mama. Daughter also did the artwork on the CD. Show off.

I'll keep you posted (you were afraid of that) as to the progress and when it's done and when book signings will commence.

Commercial over.

So, have you read any good books lately?





















fifteen short stories

Saturday Slow News Day

Well, I cooked dinner. That's a first in several days, but (thank you, Lord!) my 'extra' back pain has lessened for the past two days, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

I cooked the last of the green beans from the garden. Husband and I picked them last evening. They were a surprise, because we figured we'd already seen the last of them.

One lone tomato and one lone cucumber were left, which we ate, too.

The only reason I feel sad that fall is a'comin', is because I won't have good, fresh tomatoes from the garden. Ain't much better eatin' than that.

Other news: Eli caught a baby blue tail lizard in the sun room. Husband said it looked about done for, but he caught it and took it out to the rose garden. Hope it revives.

Daughter ain't happy. Don't know why, but say a little prayer for her.

Husband did a lot of yard work early this morning. This is BIG news! Ha!

Okay, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel in the news department.

Over and out.

Detour!

Every time I start to the studio to work on the novel I'm writing, or to check mail, or to play scrabble , or to blog, I get detoured by the garden.

We have consumed four tomatoes already, and there are at least four more ready by tomorrow. I picked a small bowl full of green beans this morning. Squash is still blooming. Onions need pulling.

Now, obviously, we don't have a big garden. Just a few raised beds.
But it's so much like receiving a gift every time I walk by, it makes me get all excited. 

Not to mention hungry.

So, while writing, and e-mail, and playing scrabble, and blogging are fun, it's not as much fun as playing in the dirt, and coming out with food.

It's just like magic.

In the Garden

I've known a lot of gardens in my life, if only peripherally. When I was a child, I was in my grandfather's garden a lot. Trailing after him, I listened to story after story as he worked; planting, weeding and harvesting.

I think this is one of the reasons I love to tell tales. My great-grandfather (on the other side) loved to tell stories too, as did my own daddy.

As I became a young adult, gardens more or less disappeared from my thoughts altogether. I was too busy learning how to do a job through education and work experience, and for a while I lived away, close to the city.

Both sets of grandparents couldn't wait to garden in a big way as soon as they retired. In fact, the year before my grandfather died, he gardened on his knees, using a tater sack to slide himself down each row so he could plant, weed and harvest.

My grandmother (other side) crossed the creek to tend to her garden, delighted to have one again. (After all, her daddy said she was the best hoer in the county.)

Neither of my parents were gardeners. In fact, they pretty much ran the other way if the word was said aloud.

But a lot of my friends' parents still gardened, and they learned skills that I never did.

A few years ago, we (meaning Husband) began with a small raised garden, and we've enjoyed the tomatoes, beans, potatoes, onions, cukes and a squash or two from it.

One of my best friends (the tall, blonde, talented one) has tended her own kitchen garden, as well as her ailing, aging parents giant garden. She says every year it's the last time. But she found herself once again this year plowing, planting, weeding and harvesting.

She told me the other day, "This is the last time."

I said, "Um hmmm."

She just shook her head.

Well, yesterday while working in the big garden, my friend may have broken, and  if not broken, hurt badly, one of those long legs of hers when she stepped in a big old hole.

Me, along with a bunch of others, have prayed without ceasing for her. She is the main caretaker of her parents. She works two jobs, one of them driving a school bus. She leads a vital Bible study and prayer group and about a million other things I don't have space to name.

I talked with one of our mutual friends yesterday, and we are all signing up to take over her life if necessary; and I don't mean this in a bad way. But together, we can take care of her, her house, her cooking, her parents and whatever else her poor husband can't do alone.

You may even find us in the garden.

Habits

During this past summer, I got into a habit.

Our raised gardens are to the side of the garage, and I got in the habit of meandering over to them every day on my way to the studio, which is the back part of the garage.

I'd look to see what was growing, what was budding, blooming or producing fruit. And if that fruit (or vegetable) was getting big enough that we could soon pick and eat.

It was a pleasant stop, to stand in the breeze and contemplate what we might have for supper in the not too distant future.

There is something very satisfying about a garden - knowing where something comes from, eating what you grew with your own hands. Well, Husband's own hands, anyway.

Usually, even if I'd only been out in the studio a few minutes, I'd find myself in front of the garden again before traveling back across to the house.

It's November. I still find myself veering over toward the garden, although it's all brown earth now.

But in my mind's eye, I can see the green stalks shooting up, the red tomatoes peeking forth, the big yellow blossoms of squash quivering in a summer breeze.

It won't be long - a blink of an eye, a snow flake or two - and some of us will be looking summer square in the eye again.

And, well, some of us won't.

Good-Bye Garden, Hello Fall

Two days ago I picked the last tomato from our garden. We planted late so that we could have some tomatoes as late as possible. I think we made the right decision.

Yesterday, Husband grubbed taters, and we have enough for a big serving. He planted too much stuff in our raised bed, and this kept us from having a lot, but these will still be good for dinner.

I walked by earlier today, and there was one lone onion sticking up from the ground. I pulled it up, brought it in and cleaned it up to eat.

There is nothing left that I can see.

All to do now is to clean the site up, pulling up the dead vines and putting away the tomato cages.

I love the fall of the year, I really do.

But this - this just sorta makes me sad.

Farmer Hill

Ah, the garden spot.

An even dozen tomatoes on the vine. More, please.

The beans are growing up the poles that Husband stuck last week. The vines curl like a skinny green snake, eager to reach the sky.

Onions are almost ready for the pickin'.  I love me some onions.

Butter beans ain't doin' so bad, either.

Squash!  Yay!

Red lettuce is showing up  nicely, too.

My favorite, potatoes, are peeking out.

We've spent enough money on this garden to keep us in groceries via the Piggly Wiggly for six months.

But I ask you: would it taste as good?

Nope. Not by a long shot.

Now, if I can just convince Husband to get out there and weed.

He will, he says.

Tomorrow.

Sprang Brangs Flares, Don't It?

One of my grandmothers was a real flower nut. She planted all sorts of blooming things, my favorite being the Hyacinth. Man, those flowers smell good! Husband has planted a few for me, to bring their fragrance into my kitchen. Pink ones smell the best.

Every year, my grandfather would put us all in the car, and we'd take a trip to a mountain where he knew he could easily access rich, black dirt. He'd pop open the truck, get out his shovel and feed sacks, and fill them up. Meanwhile, my grandmother would set out the picnic lunch she'd packed for us, and we'd have a feast before we set off for home.

They dug in the dirt a lot. My grandfather had a big garden behind the house in town. When they sold the grocery store and moved to the country, he had a huge garden.

I guess it was in their blood to grow their own food.

I wish I'd paid more attention.

Husband's parents were the same way, and he paid about as much attention as I did.

However; we attempted our first garden last year, and all in all, it was a success. We are eager to do this again.

Well, I'm eager to watch him do it again.

Back to flowers: My other grandmother liked to have a garden, too. She'd rather be in the yard and garden than the house any day.

Much of my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" comes from true stories. One of which is about my grandmother. As I said, she'd rather be working outdoors. And when my grandfather told her father he wanted to marry her, he said, "Well, she ain't much fer house keepin'. But she's the best little hoer in Gilmer County."

When Husband and I first built our house and started planting stuff in the yard, we knew that yeller bell is really Forsythia. Hydrangies are hydrangeas. And so on.

But we looked two seasons for Cannies until we stumbled across them at a hardware store. They are really Cannas. But with our deeply rooted Appalachian language, who knew?

And to make things really clear, it is not pee-AH-neez it is pee-ON-es.

Please, people. Get it right!