Ridin' Off Again

 

 

 

 

 

 

My legs rub the saddle
I’m fifteen hands high
My hat separates me
From a blue and orange sky
Dusty boots in the stirrups
Hands loose on the reigns
My senses are alive and full
Of the Sangre de Cristo range
 Oh Lord, it feels good to cowboy again
                                       
Mesa’s and arroyos
Sand and pinyon pines
Shadows in the sunset
Drawing dark and lengthy lines
My collar up against the cold
Wildrag tight up to my chin
My bones tell me I’m gettin old

And my jeans are wearin thin
But it feels good to cowboy again

Nothing within fifty miles
But grand wide open ground
The squeakin of the saddle
Is the solitary sound
I pat my mount on his neck
And swing into the wind
A single star begins to shine
What peace I feel within
Boy, it feels good to cowboy again
                                   
“Texas or New Mexico ?”
My wife smiles as she walks in
“That faraway look in your eye
Says you’re ridin off again”
I turn back to the fireplace
And watch the hypnotic flames
Saddled up in my leather chair
My sippin glass in my hands
Man, it felt good to cowboy again

It sure felt good to cowboy again

K.L. Dennie 12/2021

Faded Light, Faded Hope

 

The circle of light on the ceiling dances

From the candle flame as it prances

Right to left and left to right

As I sit alone in the room this night

The flickering flame burns low then high

But soon the wick will wither and die

Once lit in a hope of a future bright

It is weary now, sad fading light

Many things disappoint us  in the end 

Tho bright with promise it so began

The wick that stood so proud, time did choke

The light has left , now there’s nought but smoke

KL Dennie 11/2021

October Rain

 

 

 The sky is gray and the ground is wet here at the Chicken Ranch today. The sun is no where to be seen. It is not gloomy, however. I'm somehow cheered by the cold drops of rain falling in a steady drumbeat upon the roof.  It is altogether fitting that this day should be cool and subdued. It is autumn. It is October. It is grand.

The rain falls steadily upon the trees and earth. These days the trees are increasingly turning colorful. The varying types of trees loosen their hold on the canopy and send random confetti showers to the waiting ground beneath them.  Moistened leaves succumb to the wind and the weight of the raindrops. Flying past the window in an aerobatic display, some of the chlorophyll-starved remnants of summer foliage stick to the window. They slide down the pane before being lifted away again  by the cool autumn wind. A streak in the midst of a thousand round raindrops is all that's left to indicate their short visit.

Larry, the barn cat, hugs tightly to the base of a large Hard Maple tree. He is stranded momentarily as a groaning  thunder produces a short cloudburst of rain. He waits for the chance to sprint to the wood shed where a pile of warm dry straw in the corner will soak the wet and chill from his tan and white fur. He was likely trying to spend some time away from Bart, the tabby kitten, whose rambunctious behavior gets on Larry's nerves occasionally.

This rain will set the harvest back a bit. The brown fields of acre after acre of grains have been sites of scurrying activity of late. Tractors, combines, wagons and trucks have been moving  at a frenetic pace to gather the millions of bushels of corn and beans that come from some of the most productive farm land on planet earth. 

Corn shucks fly through the air in a dizzying dance of tan and brown. Often a whirlwind captures the corn shucks producing a mini tornado that pirouettes across the landscape like a dirty ghost. Shucks blow across the road in front of drivers; looking for all the world like a parade of sea horses hurrying to who knows where. 

Harvesting beans creates dust, and a lot of it. Sometimes, when it is very dry, the dust from a bean field being harvested is so great that it obscures the roads around it. Drivers have to slow down and turn on their headlights at times, until a breeze finally lifts the dust and clears the road again. But not today.

All the ground is dark and wet and the roads are glistening clean. Rain settles the dust and washes the red, green, and blue implements setting idle in the fields. Halloween pumpkins and multi-hued gourds look shiny as moisture rolls over and through the canyons of their skins. The leaves blanket the ground in a wet quilt that is added to, layer by layer, as the water continues to coax more and more trees to begin giving up their summer cover.

The sun will return in a day or two and harvest will return to its beehive-like frenzy. But, for today, there is a pleasant quietness that abounds. As I listen to drops of water dancing now on the tin roof of the back porch, coffee cup in hand, I am very content to soak up this time of cool dampness. There is a peace to this moisture laden morning that transcends the hustle and bustle of summers end. There is a joy that comes with the muted thunder and gentle storms of Fall. The rainfall of a Fall rain is a special kind of experience indeed.

There is nothing quite like an October rain.

CONSTITUTION DAY 2021

 

HONORABLE MEN WROTE IT. HONORABLE MEN SIGNED IT. HONORABLE MEN WILL ABIDE BY IT. HONOR DEMANDS THAT WE DEFEND IT WITH ALL THAT IS WITHIN US.

GOD BLESS AMERICA.

The Chicken Ranch World

 

 

 
Sometimes folks will ask, Just how big is the Chicken Ranch anyway?” I will always smile and say, “How big do you see it?” Through the years I have posted pictures of and from the back porch. Yet, when folks I meet talk about it to me, they often see it somewhat differently than the pictures I've shown. I suppose a writers job is to furnish the colors, the music, and the script and then allow the readers to make the movie in a way that suits them; leaving it to their minds eye to create the images as they'd like. And I'm just fine with that.

What is the Chicken Ranch anyway? The Chicken Ranch is as much a brand as it is a place.

Many years ago when I was fondly remembering aloud raising calves, selling livestock feed across a couple of states, and the family farms where I spent  my youth, my son-in-law looked to the hen house with the 50 or so chickens in the yard and joked, “Well, now you’ve got  a Chicken Ranch!” The name stuck, and it’s been used ever since. The chickens, the many gardens, the barn cats, etc… these certainly are all part of our daily experience. And so are much of our surroundings.

We are fortunate to live in a flyover state where we are surrounded by ranches and farms that are surrounded by more ranches and farms. Many of our neighbors are some of the best crop and/or cattle growers in America. Cattle and horses abound. Just a quarter mile from us is a ranch that has a full scale rodeo style team roping corral. For those not familiar with team roping, it is a sport where calves are released running from a chute and chased by the cowboys. On horseback, two cowboys chase the calf to rope it, just like rounding up for a branding. One cowboy (the Header) tries to lasso the horns at the head, the other cowboy ( the Heeler) attempts to lasso the feet.The event is timed. It takes a great deal of skill to do it right. It's fun to do when your young... and fun to watch when aren't as young as you used to be.

We are also just a few miles from 16,000 acres of creeks, woodlands, and ponds that I have  roamed, hunted, and fished on for many years. This rugged and also prairie-like land was originally purchased for a nuclear power plant many decades ago, but Three Mile Island killed that plan.The land was purchased after many years by the state and made into a state park several years ago. Some of my photos come from my many treks into that beautiful wildlife sanctuary. So, most of what I write about is from here, but our surrounding area is an inspiration as well. 

The quiet of a steaming coffee cup morning, the silent explosion of a colorful sunset in all its dazzling wonder, the musical staccato of rain on our tin porch roof, the snow hanging in potential avalanches on the boughs of the pine trees... these are the things that I see and hear in my daily experience. I write about them because I love these things, these simple pleasures of life. 

So, as I send these thoughts along, I hope that I can present it in such a way that you can see, hear, smell, and feel the experiences with me. See them the way it makes you happy to see them. Its just rural life in America that I write about.. the observations from under my cowboy hat.

There's magic in everyday things and there's magic in the written word. Just like fried chicken and sweet tea go together, so do events and writing. Here at the Chicken Ranch blog I just try to dish up a healthy dose of both.

August Morn

 It is cool here at the chicken ranch as I stand leaning against the porch post ready to begin the day. I gaze at the mist hanging over the bean and corn fields and appreciate the relatively cool air after weeks of insufferable heat. Larry the cat reminds me that it’s feeding time and he is growing impatient. “Take in the mornin air, Larry. Be patient.” Of course, he just looks at me like cats do. You know, that - it must be pitiful to be a human- look.”

There is something about August days. It is, I suppose, that summer has reached its maturity. Flowers are beginning to drop seeds, the fruit trees are getting ripe for picking; or by now empty, after yielding to the harvesting of their branches. The garden is past its peak and the leaves of the plants have lost their dark green luster.

Butterflies now abound after freeing themselves from the long bondage of their growth. They dance in a colorful kaleidoscope of winged beauty as they capture the breeze that carries them from blossom to blossom.

Hummingbirds, the speed demons of the bird kingdom, seem to be in a little bit more of a hurry as they go rapidly feeding from fading bloom to bloom. The colorful petals of the many flowers cover the ground more each day as the plants begin to rest.

Cicadas make their presence known as they make their canasta clicking song in the leaves of the trees. Crickets join in.The singing of the insects brings in the additional harmony of the Cardinals, Blue Jays and Robbins. The birds just can’t contain themselves; they have to have their voices heard. It’s all a beautiful symphony of summertime.

The sun rises in it’s silent powerful glow. Each day finds the glowing orb drifting further to the south. The days are shorter now by a few minutes each day. It will be hot soon enough, as the sun reminds us that it is not yielding easily the coming autumn and cooler times.

The cattle will soon be seeking shade in the trees along the creek. A few will venture into the water and allow the gentle cool caress to wash them free of bugs and dirt, and give their legs a rest. Dizzying clusters of insects fly in a frantic ball around the cattle. Only the occasional swish of their tail and a slight shake in the head indicates that the cattle pay any attention to these nervous bugs at all.

The days when the creek will be covered in ice, the banks full of snow, the trees bare, are hard to picture in this summer view. Yet, everything around me, the ears of corn descending, the slight yellowing of the soybeans,  the general feeling in the air, all present evidence that summer is just beginning its downhill slide.

As hard as it is to picture it now, before too long, autumn will bring it’s glorious hue to the trees surrounding us. Then the trees will lay themselves bare and begin to sleep. Old Man Winter will not be long behind. But, that is in another place in time.

For now I am content to soak up this misty shirtsleeve morning. The sweat and toil belonging to this summers day is not yet upon me. A multitude of  clouds are appearing in the sky above, where it seems that, as one author so poetically put it, “the angels must be hanging out their laundry.” I drink in all that this morning brings. Like the bounty of the garden, I want to harvest this feeling and store it for my winters memory during the gray and gloom of that time.

Larry is now contentedly munching on his breakfast and my coffee cup is empty. So, I take one more long deep breathing morning air and think that it’s time to begin the activity of the day. For now, it’s still Summer… and a summer days work needs to be done.

THE HOPE OF YOUTH

 

 

 

 "Kids these days !" my Papaw Armstrong would say with a shake of his head."Oh, I know!" my parents would chime in, with my mother rolling her eyes. In the 1960's and 70's, the long hair of the Beatles and other British "invaders', protests over the Vietnam War, free love, and the ever increasing drug use among young people was a shock to the systems of  The Greatest Generation. This older generation had sweated, fought, bled, and died for their country. From their youngest days to adulthood, life had been hard, pleasures few and simple, and the Good Book the unwavering standard. The American flag was loved, respected, and honored above all. After all, not so long ago, many of their friends and relatives had died under those beautiful stars and stripes in World War II and Korea. News reels now showed some young people actually burning Old Glory in the streets. Things were changing. What was happening to their country?

 Well, at my age, I'm asking some of the same questions now. Why do some kids have more metal in their faces than the front end of most cars? How is it that most can't do math in their heads or answer the most elementary of questions concerning our nations history? I could go on, but its not that group of today's youth that inspires me to write today. I'm writing because of those kids that I see that are a beacon of hope for this great country of ours. The young folks who still believe in America's greatness... even while they are aware that our government may fail us from time to time. I see life and light in many of today's young people. After all, as has been oft repeated, our children ARE our future.

 Patty and I were recently enjoying a meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant in a small rural town not far from the Chicken Ranch. The Mexican-American family that owns and operates it produces the finest south-of-the-border cuisine around. Their menu offers the best Chile Pablano I've tasted anywhere north of Texas. But, back to my original line of thinking.

As we were eating and talking, a group of four young folks came in and were seated a couple of booths from us. My guess was that their ages ranged from 15 to maybe 20. Three boys and a a girl. Two of them were dressed in shorts and tee shirts while the other two, a boy and the girl, were dressed in jeans and boots. The girl was the youngest, and from our table, she was the most visible.Her boots were scuffed some from seeing a lot of work. She wore jeans that were dusty and clearly work clothes. She was obviously an all American pretty little country girl. I wondered if some or all of them were showing livestock at the county fair starting this day on the other side of town? They were clean cut, intelligent looking kids.

I pointed them out to Patty because their manner of walk and talk impressed me. They were friendly and courteous to their waiter when they ordered. As they talked among themselves, they laughed and and chatted in a quiet kind of way. Honestly, they were far better behaved than a group of fifty somethings two booths behind me. These were young folks who had been taught social etiquette. When their food arrived they each politely received their part and thanked the waiter. And then they thanked someone else.

As I watched, they all quietly bowed their heads and gave an inaudible thanks for their food. Done quietly and  appropriately, these kids prayed not out of show but out of gratitude. Our family always offers thanks for our food...no matter where we are. We prefer to do it silently and not draw attention to ourselves, but we don't feel right not offering  thanks for what God's provided us,.  Not many people do that anymore, and for these young folks to do it automatically told me a lot about their character. It told me a lot about their parents. "Train a child up in the way he should go: and when he is old he will not depart from it."

Patty and I spent the rest of our meal talking about how encouraging it is to see the good side of our youth today. We talked about our appreciation for our grandchildren and their many friends who give us hope in a stronger, more God-fearing America. We finished our food and prepared to leave.

 As I walked past these kids, I stopped and said a word to them."Ive been watching you young folks since you came in", I said, "and I want you to know that  you impressed me.Your manners, your quiet offering of thanks for your food; these things I am happy to see. I'm a veteran of Desert Storm and I love my country and my flag immensely... even with its imperfections. I do feel like America is a little off the rails right now, but your generation, young people like you, give me hope. It's you who will right the train. We're counting on you."

Each one of them smiled and thanked me...and, I was walking away, one young man said "Sir?" I turned and he said "Thank you for your service." The others nodded in agreement.

 With kids who feel gratitude for those who have served and died for this country, who feel grateful for the God who has blessed America over and again, the future looks bright and hopeful.Give us more and more like them. God bless these young folks. God bless America.

Happy Independence Day from the Chicken Ranch.

This Feeling We Call PEACE

 

 

I have not written in a while. After nearly 500 posts of poems , stories, essays etc, I feel like I may be just repeating myself. I am not a professional writer -as any professional writer would recognize right off- I just try to put to pen and paper whats on my mind. My day to day observations. I have been experiencing "writers block" I suppose. So, I just stayed away from the keyboard.

Many friends have asked where I've been.  Some have asked when I'd post something again. Still others have told me how much they enjoyed reading the reports from the Chicken Ranch and how much they missed them. The words most often used to describe what is enjoyed  by those who read the writings of this blog (and the previous Facebook page) are that "they are so peaceful."  Peaceful. What is that really?

 I sat on the back porch this morning watching the gentle breeze move limbs and leaves in a waltz of green and maroon. Shadows and light in a hypnotizing display played upon the trees and flower beds.  The waterfall landed on the rocks and water below in the manor of a pianist touching each ivory key to play a soothing lullaby. Butterflies and a host of pollinators quietly buzzed from bloom to bloom in search of breakfast. Even the incessant tweeting of the wren and the squawk of the bluejay were welcome to my ears. The cardinals bragged on how "pretty" they were, while the quail calls for Bob White, who seems to be ever elusive. I took a sip from my mug of coffee and thought,"peace."

 The first time I received recognition for my writing was many, many years ago when I was attending community college in Kentucky. My college professor assigned the class the task of writing an answer to the question (you guessed it) "what is peace?" My professor was impressed by my opinion and posted it for the school to read. I only remember part of the beginning of that paper from so long ago.

I asked the required question, then asked the lead questions, "Is peace the absence of war? Is it a lack of noise and distraction? Is it the solitude and tranquil surroundings of a natural vista? Is peace a product of our environment at all, or is it something we must produce in ourselves from deep within?" Today I believe that all these things are peace in a measure. And, I have learned over the years that peace is a nutritional requirement for the soul. It is a staple. We have to feed on the things that create peace within. Many people believe that I must just be a peaceful person naturally. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

In all honesty ,over the years, my inner self has been in a state of turmoil  more often than not. The reasons are  hundredfold... and not worth sharing. I write about peaceful experiences because I drink in the outward quiet to help still the noise within me. Nature has long been my multi-vitamin for nourishing peace. I was very young when I began to be awestruck by natures beauty.

 I think it must have been my first serious look at the sky that began my appreciation of natures magnificence. The awesome wonder of a western sky ablaze in lavender, orange, purple, and blue, is a powerful source of quiet comfort at the end of a long day. How can a person not relax while viewing the sun setting low, providing a backdrop of wonder in the clouds of varying shapes and sizes.

When I was just a very young boy I would go deep into the Kentucky woods on my great-grandparents and grandparents farms. I would follow the creek that our water came from far off into the hills to its spring origins. I'd sit and listen to the gurgling water, as clear as crystal, rolling over the limestone and rocks. The sunlight playing on the ripples was mesmerizing, and the music of the stream only enhanced the spell. I would sit literally for hours.Then is when I learned that the quieter I was the more I was able to observe. Anytime you are moving in the woods you're missing something. I learned the value of being still. Sometimes to find peace you have to stop a while and just be still.The Bible says in Psalms, "Be still and know that I am God..." Wonders appear in the stillness.

In my earliest years I was fortunate to have generations of family members teach me that God created the earth and the heavens. I was taught that God is almighty, all knowing, wise, and wonderful. When I hiked and sat those long hours as a youth, I was keenly aware that all that I saw and heard around me in the woods was the handiwork of God. When I looked up into the canopy of limb and leaf, when I watched the animals, birds, and insects travel busily by, when I looked down the creek as it grew wider and deeper, I  full well realized that I was in a spiritual place. Years later when I read the  8th Psalm of David it made such perfect sense to me: "When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man that thou visitist him?....O LORD our Lord how excellent is thy name in all the earth." It remains one of my favorite Psalms to this day.

 Sitting in those hilly woods, sometimes on an overhanging stone ledge where I could see for miles, I felt that I was in the Cathedral of God. I still feel that way when I view the expanse of the western deserts, or I'm on a bluff overlooking the  the crashing waves roaring in from the ocean; in all things nature I feel the presence of God. I always offer up a prayer of thanksgiving. Nature helped teach me the peace that comes from recognizing God... and praying.

The subject of prayer is a  far bigger issue than I am able to offer any enlightenment on ; I just know that it brings me a measure of peace. For me, prayer is the main vitamin of the nutritional supplements that make for peace in the soul. Abraham Lincoln, when asked about prayer said, "I have been driven many times upon my knees in the overwhelming conviction that I had no where else to go. My own wisdom and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day."  In it's simplicity, prayer is humbly having a conversation with God. It is, at times, asking things of Him. Strength to face a task, wishing for the lifting of a heavy burden, healing of body and/or soul, forgiveness for a transgression, or the ability to forgive someone for their transgression against us. We should often pray to offer thanks for provisions that God has made. I thank God daily for his mercy; I should, as I'm most likely the greatest recipient of His mercy of all men. We have often heard that if you cant think how to pray or what to pray for, then simply start by thanking Him for all He's done. Let the rest happen, listen and be still.

When I am out of strength, when I need direction, when I need grace to help me be a better man, I pray. When I am worried, confused, and addled by whats around me in this life, I find a place alone and seek  converse with he who understands all things. Its then that I find peace. And, I love others who seek peace.

I recently heard a young gifted orator of a minister speak about rest. Among the many good things she spoke, she mentioned that "it's hard to rest when others around you are busy." This thought was in connection to her statement that we can be in a place of rest...and yet not BE at rest at all. I find this to be true of peace. We can be in peaceable place, but not be at peace unless we summon a calm within  us.  I seek out peaceable people when I can't be alone. This same young minister spoke some time ago about "settled people". "Settled people", she said, "are peaceful to be around."  People that are in turmoil or a state of agitation will rob you of your inner peace. Whenever I can, I choose to be around people who are at peace, who share a spirit of calm with me. We cannot be calm, quiet, or peaceful all the time. Life doesn't allow that. But, I've learned to seek out the things that offer peace.

So, peace doesn't just always land upon us like a passing  butterfly; sometimes it takes a little work to attain an inner peace. I will continue to find my way to the woods as long as I possibly can. I'll sit in the Cathedral of God beneath the wonderful canopy of sky, limbs and leaves. I'll watch the winged  guardians ride the thermals and gracefully dance on air.  I will allow the song of the wind in the cedars and pines to put me at rest. My lungs will expand to inhale the life-giving blessing of fresh woodland air. The smell of  the myriad fauna will fill my olfactory senses to the brim. I will drink thirstily from the clear, cool, sweet stream of peace. And, I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for this calming natural experience.

"Peace", I wrote all those many years ago, "is not what surrounds us, but rather what abounds in us. We seek to build a room, a place, within in us that is still and quiet, even when the cacophony of this present life is all around us." I went on to mention a story I heard of a contest for artists to paint a picture depicting peace.There were entries of peaceful-looking landscapes in pastoral settings. There were ocean sunsets, and lakeside cabins. But, the entry that won was a painting of a raging thunderstorm with angry clouds and lightning... and a bird nestled in a cliff quietly resting, safe and at peace in her nest. 

We must fill this place within us as often as we can with all the things that quiet us. Seek out the things that encourage, that lead to peace. Find calm people and places. Pray to rid ourselves of things within us that disturb and hinder our ability to be still inside. Build a garden; if you cant build one in the physical sense then build one within. As a little sign on our back porch reads, "Your mind is a garden, your thoughts are the seeds, you can grow flowers, or you can grow weeds."

So, what is peace? It may be something that we each must decide for ourselves. No one but us and our Creator know what we truly feel inside. I do believe peace can be the absence war between peoples in this world. I also believe that it is the absence of warring spirits within us. I know that I experience a  grand measure of peace in the surroundings of nature. One thing certain is, that at the very best, its a temporary thing if we only depend on external things to provide it. Lasting peace is a spiritual thing, a thing to be pursued and nourished within. I'm still learning. I'm still praying to the only truly lasting source of it.

 It takes effort sometimes to find calm and quietness, but its the effort that adds sweetness to the experience. For me,  the effort is in learning better how to be still; on the back porch in my rocker, in the presence of Gods natural handiwork... and in my soul. This feeling we call peace. My hope is that all who long for it, find it.

Peace to you all.

So Glad To Hear

 

 

 

 

 I cannot imagine a world without sound 

Where clang and clatter and music abound

To see all from side to side, up and down

Yet, hear nothing, nothing at all

To never  experience a mockingbirds song

Or a cardinals cheering all day long

The mournful whippoorwill when day is done

The roar of water o'er the falls 

 

Imagine not hearing the cacophony

Of city streets with cars and people as far as you see

The basketball cry of "He hit a THREE!"

Or the announcers 'TOUCHDOWN!!" call

 

To not hear the blended chorus of a hymn

The music in the pines caused by the wind 

A spattering rain on a roof of tin

Or the rustle of leaves in the Fall

I think of children's laughter and the joy it brings

An orchestra of brass and reeds, and drums and strings

Thunders mighty roar after fiery lightnings

But for some its silence... only silence is all

Thank you so much, Lord, for the gift to hear

Every voice, every sound falling upon my ears

Of all thy gifts it has become so clear 

That hearing may be the most precious of them all

KL Dennie 2021

Warm Remembrances On A Cold Winters Day.

     Griggs Grocery 1940's

 

It is a quintessential winter day here at the Chicken Ranch. Snow blanketing the hardened soil, ice sickles hanging from eves, and frigid winds drifting over my tracks as I trudge through the snow to feed the animals. Days of numbing cold have prevailed  here lately, and 7 below zero temps today indicate more of the same to come. It is the longest cold spell that we've seen here in a while, but back in the 60's and 70's, these sub-zero nights and frigid days were common for winter.

 Forty to fifty years ago, snowdrifts 6 feet high and temperatures 20-30 below were not at all uncommon on the farms where we lived. A 20 below real temp accompanied with winds at 30 mph made for dangerous conditions. Days and days of this kind of weather was and is hard on livestock. It's hard on people too.

My wife, Patty, and I spent some cold winter days together in our young married years. The walls of the old farmhouses where we lived were not insulated, and wind howled through every window seam. You could sit in a chair  and feel a cold  breeze on your neck as the north wind howled through the window across the room. Patty and I would stuff newspaper and/or rags in every crack or crevice to reduce the effects of the arctic blasts. In one old house we lived in it was not unusual to come into a room after a blizzardly night and find a tiny drift of snow on the window sill inside.

 Sometimes the old stoves couldn't heat the whole house, so rooms that weren't absolutely essential would be closed off by shutting the doors or nailing blankets over passageways. Any liquid left in a closed off room would be found frozen later. We tried to heat with wood as much as we could to save on the cost of "coal oil" or of propane for stoves and heaters. Patty, our two tiny girls, and I, would dress as warm  as we possibly could. Clothed in flannel, heavy cotton, and wearing wool socks, we kept warm by day, Nighttime found us all under warm blankets topped by colorful heavy quilts made by our grandmothers and  by my father-in-law. Our grandmothers gifts of beautifully pattered quilts were perhaps prettier, but no one made a heavier, warmer quilt than Patty's dad. We still have some of those quilts 40 plus years later, and they serve us well yet. They are still full of warmth, both in material and in love from the hands that made them.

Sometimes the pipes from the well  would freeze and we would pack pots tight with snow, then heat them up to have water. We had a Nubian dairy goat in a couple of those winters and she provided gallons of fresh milk for the girls. Patty remembers well those cold, cold trips to the straw packed shed to sit on her stool by the stanchion and milk "Glory" the goat. The roads would often blow shut for a few days, so we stayed prepared to be isolated. We kept plenty of food on hand, and often I would trudge out to a wooded draw on the back of the farm and shoot rabbits and squirrels to supplement our meals. We always had beef and pork too; we were in farm country after all. As soon as the roads opened we'd head to the little country store for resupply.

 Our favorite country store was owned and operated by a wonderful couple in their late sixty's. Those were the days when groceries ran credit for people. Winters could be hard on some folks, and the sell of a steer or a pig, or a trade for dozens of eggs often "settled the bill." You came in, bought what you needed, then settled your account when you could. Emma and Ellis Griggs owned the store back in those days. They were congenial and hard working folks who had never had children of their own.  Ellis was a short stout man with thick gray hair who spoke with a hint of a brogue. He always wore a pleasant smile. He was either at the register or, more often, stocking and cooking at the little grille at the back of the store. Some of the best sandwiches in America came from the back of Griggs grocery. Bologna, ham, liver loaf, souse meat ...you name it, it was there. Sandwich meat was sliced to order, as thick or as thin as you liked. Hamburgers and other fried foods and meals were available too!

 Emma was a short round lady with a bulbous nose who could come off as a bit stiff, but she had a laugh that made you just have to  laugh with her. She loved children. They especially took to my wife, Patty, and her two sisters when they were girls growing up, and when I showed up to court Patty at age fifteen, they took me in also. After Patty and I married years later, the aging Griggs still owned and operated the store.  We'd buy our groceries, sometimes "on a ticket" and pay as quick as we could. The Griggs always fawned over the children. They were generous with their candy, much to the kid's liking.

It was a wonderful old store built originally in the 1800's then rebuilt in the early 1900's after a fire. It hasn't been a store in the decades since the Griggs passing, but the building still stands today. Every time we drive by that place we smile at the fond memories of two old folks who showed such kindness to us as teens, and then as a young married couple.

These days we live in comfort during the cold winters. The fireplace burns brightly for our visual comfort as much as anything. A high efficiency furnace heats the well-insulated house, although compared to many other folks, we keep our house quite cool; maybe we retain  a little fondness for those cold old farmhouses. A  wood stove warms the shop out back. No, the winters aren't what they used to be, nor is our response to them.

 I'll finish feeding the chickens, load the wood stove in the shop, then carry fresh wood to the fireplace.I'll wrap my hands around a coffee cup, Patty will have her tea, then we'll sit in front of the crackling fire. I'll look out the window at the cold. As the flames do their spirit dances up and over the logs, I'll allow their hypnotic efforts to lull me away. I will travel in my mind back to those drafty old farm houses. I'll listen to the wind howling and hear the music of a little family snug in the warmth and the love of a home long ago. I'll sink a little deeper in my chair, and maybe pull one of our wonderful old quilts over my lap. 

I'll look out at the drifting snow, and as I sip my coffee, I'll hear Mr Griggs say, "Put this on your ticket, Kevin ?" No, this coffee is paid for, but how will I ever pay for the friendly kindnesses that they in their little grocery showed to all of us for all those years?  It was so very long ago. Well... I can see Mrs. Griggs standing in the filtered sunlight of the window next to the cash register, chuckling, and with a smile saying, "Just pay us when you can".

WINTER CLOUDS

 

 

 These winter clouds of gloom and gray,

Like guests who have abused their stay,

Are longingly wished away,

For they are a bit depressing. 

Unlike their cousins of summer white,

pretty by day or moonlit night,

these blanketing opposers of sunlight,

Could stand some finer dressing.

Surely the winds will have their fill

And send these clouds, against their will,

Off to the arctic or further still.

Now that would be a blessing.

 

But, alas, winter will have its way.

These clouds will return anyway.

I guess it's a good napping day. 

I'll just give my eyes a resting.

K.L. Dennie  Jan 2021

 

THE FINAL ROUND-UP

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THE FINAL ROUND-UP

He leaned forward on his saddle,
Resting his arm on the horn,
And gazed at the land below.
The sun was setting orange in the western sky,
And in the east,
The full moon began to glow.

He watched contented cattle graze,
Horses nurturing their colts,
And then looked to his calloused hands.
Through many years of blood ,sweat, and tears
He had touched every inch
Of this land.

He had built bridges and fences,
Barns and a home,
And a family who loved him dear.
He looked again o’er the land
 With a smile and a sigh,
And reigned his old horse to the rear.

 And as they walked quietly home
He remembered lean times,
Happy abundance, and drought.
“We’ve seen it all Ol’ Buck”
As he patted the horse,
‘This is what our lives’ have been about.”

With Buck rubbed down in the barn,
The old cowboy pulled off his boots,
 Then reached for the Good Book by his bed.
Then he blew out the candle
 When his reading was done.
He was just too tired to undress.

The rancher didn't rise
As usual with the sun,
So, the hired hand came to call.
Sometime during the night,
The final round up was called,
And the old rancher hung his spurs on the wall.

K.L. Dennie June 2012