Labor Day

The other day at the Gate City weekly flea market...
We passed on the pumpkins because I couldn't tote one to the car. I settled for a very old lathing hatchet, purchased from an old man who was also hawking some seventeen-jewel windup pocket watches (very hard to find).

This particular flea market is a delight to the soul. The Scott county people are kind and generous and authentic. We also visited a much larger one in Jonesboro, TN. We couldn't help noticing that, while there was much more to buy, the people were largely vile in appearance and deportment. The people there are...different. The influence of a nearby (relatively) big city? Still, MeeMaw bought a bonsai jasmine plant with one powerfully fragrant blossom intact.
We've had a tenant for a couple of days. He poked his head out of a hole in the siding and said hello to MeeMaw.
Startled her so bad, she just had to harvest our watermelon.



We took Bonnie for a picnic lunch at Natural Tunnel State Park. She was underwhelmed at the scenery and the leash laws, but she enjoyed the sweet 'tater fries we fed to her.


This morning when I opened the blinds on the patio doors in the office, this little feller was taking shelter from the rain:

Bonnie and I went out in a ferocious downpour and walked for a long while. If I could push some of this rain down to Texas, I would. It's not for lack of praying...





MeeMaw sends her love. We miss you all. Rest well, loved ones.

~ PeePaw

Migrations

We arose early this morning, since we had the day off together, and decided to take a day trip to Asheville, NC. The animals weren't as quick to rouse as we were, but who can blame them during hurricane season?

My daily consultation of The Old Farmer's Almanac yielded this tidbit: today is the start of the annual migration of hummingbirds. The ones up north, in Canada and beyond, will begin moving southward to warmer climes for the winter. Our regulars will not begin to move just yet, and in fact will likely hang around until at least early October. We may see some extra diners at the little bird-stop just off the back deck as weary travelers stop by for a drink and perhaps a brief soujourn. And then, finally, our little companions will leave us until next spring. MeeMaw plans to leave the feeders up and filled until late October, in case we have any stragglers who come through and need a good feeding on the long journey down to the negev.




One of our stops in Asheville was the Tobacco Barn Antique Market, which is a vast array of used goods in, well, an old tobacco barn. One could easily spend all day in there, browsing and deciding. We ended up with a mere two books, one for each of us. MeeMaw's was a selection of stories about the Ozarks, one of her favorite places on this earth.
My find was a slim volume of poetry. When I picked up the book, my attention was arrested by the photograph of the author on the front cover. He had a kind, somewhat sad face. The kind of countenance I think of as an "old timey" face. If you've ever seen Eddie Stubbs, the host of many bluegrass radio shows, the host of the Saturday evening Grand Ole Opry program, and the host of our beloved The Marty Stuart Show, you know the type of old timey face I mean.
The book is For All The Lost and Lonely, and the poet's name is Edward Dixon Garner. There is nothing about him on the internet, which is a shame. The brief biographical sketch on the dust jacket is all I know about the man so far. Garner, incidentally, was my father's name.

The poetry took me right away, and I stood rooted to the spot and read about a quarter of the book under the huge fan in the old barn. MeeMaw came and examined the book, too. She insisted that we get it. I'm so glad she did.
The poem that resonated most strongly with me is titled "Flight," and I wanted to publish it here, for what should be obvious reasons.

Flight

Instinctively the migrant knows the hour
To spread its wings to make the flight afar.
The route is charted by some secret power,
Unknown to all but whence such powers are.
High the bird rises, circles, and is gone
Straight toward the winter haven where, secure
Against the rigors that with winter dawn,
It finds the warmth that southern skies assure.

So, like a migrant, when the air shall chill,
And time's leaves fall...the hour for flight appear...
The soul shall rise and circle, then by will
That calleth all things home, be drawn to where
No winter waits, no blasts, no snow, no cold,
But lo! Green pastures and the Shepherd's fold!

~ Edward Dixon Garner
copyright 1961

Rest well, loved ones.

~ PeePaw

10th Sunday After Pentecost

The dawn above Possum Cough...

...and the morning peace of our smallholding.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills..."
The other morning when I stepped outside to go to work, I received a beautiful reminder of God's promises:
The jewel-like drops of rosin hanging from the pine cones is not just beautiful; it's very treacherous. Someday I'll tell y'all in detail what happens when one is driving a lawn tractor around under the pine tree while daydreaming. I was very relieved that I didn't end up having to tonsure myself to rid my hair of the stuff.
MeeMaw relaxing in the way she likes best...

And Bonnie being groomed by her new BFF:Just a fraction of one day's harvest:
Bonnie guarding her watermelon as it matures...
The mist in the hollers...
One of MeeMaw's beautiful morning glories...
And another...

Truly, an aptly-named plant.A bug warming himself atop a tombstone in the growing light...


The calmest air, and the sweetest breeze...
...and not a man-made sound to break the majesty.
The mist returns for the end of the day.

Eventide comes to Possum Cough...I will leave y'all with the words to a beautiful hymn below. Rest well, loved ones.

~ PeePaw


The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended,
The darkness falls at Thy behest;
To Thee our morning hymns ascended,
Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.

We thank Thee that Thy church, unsleeping,
While earth rolls onward into light,
Through all the world her watch is keeping,
And rests not now by day or night.

As o’er each continent and island
The dawn leads on another day,
The voice of prayer is never silent,
Nor dies the strain of praise away.

The sun that bids us rest is waking
Our brethren ’neath the western sky,
And hour by hour fresh lips are making
Thy wondrous doings heard on high.

So be it, Lord; Thy throne shall never,
Like earth’s proud empires, pass away:
Thy kingdom stands, and grows forever,
Till all Thy creatures own Thy sway.

Amen.

The Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

Yesterday, we arose early and drove up to Abingdon. The town's library was hosting a used book sale, so we stopped at Pal's enroute and got a couple of bacon biscuits and sweet tea and headed north. Finding the library was a bit of a challenge, since some of the streets were being closed for the annual Highlands Festival, but we made it. And then we made out like bandits. Less than an hour in the place, and we walked out with a big box of books, for which we paid less than we'd have paid for two books at the local latte'-bar-disguised-as-a-bookstore. I'd tell you what we obtained, but time is short. See MeeMaw for details.


After we left the library, we went in search of the local farmer's market. We ended up at one of the local Highlands Festival fairs. Younguns, take heed: walking around a town and declaring, "Let's jist take a look in them tents over yonder!" is usually not sound policy. One might find one's self attending upon a blacksmith.



We did manage to locate the farmer's market, but not before I had to tear MeeMaw away from the bungee jumping apparatus.



The farmer's market was one of the best we've ever found. It was held under a very large pavilion, so there was not only shade, but a wind-tunnel-effect breeze. We browsed and chatted with the merchants, and found some nice things.
We ended up buying two bottles of wine, one from each of the local vineyard. One was a blackberry table wine, and the other a local Riesling. MeeMaw bought a peach teacake and some fingerling potatoes. I purchased a beautiful eggplant from an elderly colored woman. The eggplant has been sliced and is now resting in some brine in MeeMaw's crock (do any of you know how to prepare eggplant? Hint: brine is absolutely essential).


We came home and set about coaxing one of the hens back into the pen after she literally flew the coop. I don't recommend traipsing about in the briars while wearing shorts. This is one more reason I feel that I have erred in deciding to wear the blasted things when we lived in Texas. Long trousers well become a man; short pants are for schoolboys. And I'll say no more.


After the "let's capture the convict" adventure, we examined our garden. The corn has many ears, and we're trying to be vigilant about guarding it from the 'coons. MeeMaw picked an immature ear just to see how it tasted. It was very sweet and very crunchy.



The black-eyed peas are exploding,too. We've been mystified at how black-eyed peas - a staple in Texas and Arkansas - are virtually unknown in SW Virginia and east Tennessee. It can't be the soil...ours are growing with a ferocious intensity. We may harvest some tonight. We won't cook 'em, though. MeeMaw is crock-potting some green beans that Helen and Ernie brought us.

Here's some of PeePaw's potato plants. MeeMaw will explain.
Trust me. MeeMaw will explain.


And here's the de rigueur shot of Bonnie Dawg. MeeMaw's uncle Ellis used to tell her, "You're as pretty as a spotted dog under a red wagon," which was a high compliment in Texas parlance. For Possum Cough denizens, "You're as pretty as a red dog in the green grass in the mornin' time" is equally high praise.
Oh, and here's the wine we bought at the farmer's market...


And here are the homemade lamb dog biscuits we got for Bonnie...


We had a pleasant time at the church meeting this morning. One of the other elders' daughters was visiting with her husband, and they came to PeePaw's Sunday School class. We had a full house, which was rare for this vacationing time of year.


Then the two old folks came home and had a light lunch and then drowsed in the dark, cool cave of the family room while a thunderstorm rumbled outside. Dog and cats napped, too. And now we're up and about in this heat, which seems hellish by Appalachian mountain standards, but which is child's play compared to what Joshi-O and Moo-Moo are enduring in Austin.


My buddy Herrick recently posted this 19th-century list that I found interesting:

1852
How To Shorten Life

Lead a life of enfeebled, stupid laziness, and keep the mind in a round of unnatural excitement by reading trashy novels.
***
Begin in childhood on tea, and go on, from one step to another, through coffee, chewing tobacco, and drinking.
***
Marry in haste, get an uncongenial companion, and live the rest of life in mental dissatisfaction.
***
Eat without time to masticate food.
***
Follow an unhealthy occupation because money can be made by it.
***
Contrive to keep a continual worry about something or nothing.
***
Retire at midnight, and rise at noon.
***
Gormandize between meals.
***
Give way to fits of anger.

He followed it up with this tidbit:

-1871-
How to Live Long

A venerable minister, who had preached some sixty-five years in the same place, being asked what was the secret of long life, replied, “Rise early, live temperately, work hard, and keep cheerful.”

Another person, who lived to the great age of 110 years, said, in reply to the inquiry, “How he lived so long?”: “I have always been kind and obliging; have never quarreled with any one; have eaten and drunk only to satisfy hunger and thirst, and have never been idle.”

Our love and blessings to all of you, our loved ones.


~ PeePaw