Journal

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2011

When The Frost is on the Punkin

by James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916)

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as her tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here–

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock–

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries–kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below–the clover overhead!–

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and teh ones a feller keeps

Is poured around teh cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;

And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!…

I don’t know how to tell it–but ef such a thing could be

As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me–

I’d want to ‘commodate ‘em–all the whole-indurin’ flock–

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

MONDAY, JULY 11, 2011

Looking For Normal

Life is still crazy for my family at the moment and I've had trouble sitting still long enough to write.  My thoughts are with all my dear readers and I hope you are enjoying this glorious July.

This lovely song is seeing me through these days....perhaps it will help you too.

 Rose window Durham Cathedral

In heavenly love abiding,

No change my heart shall fear;

And safe is such confiding,

For nothing changes here.

The storm may roar without me,

My heart may low be laid,

But God is round about me,

And can I be dismayed?

Wherever He may guide me,

No fear shall turn me back;

My Shepherd is beside me,

And nothing shall I lack.

His wisdom ever waketh,

His sight is never dim;

He knows the way He taketh,

And I will walk with Him.

Green pastures are before me,

Which yet I have not seen;

Bright skies will soon be o'er me,

Where darkest clouds have been.

My hope I cannot measure,

My path to life is free;

My Savior is my treasure,

And He will walk with me.

~ Anna L. Waring

SUNDAY, MAY 8, 2011

Where I'm From

My fellow Kentuckian Wendell Berry has voiced the belief that we need to understand our roots to know our place in this world.

"If you don't know where you're from, 

you'll have a hard time saying where you're going." 

~Wendell Berry

The lovely Searcy from Old Southern Garden was the inspiration for a previous post; a post reminiscent of a poem by George Ella Lyon.  

Where I'm From

I am from clothespins, 

from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride. 

I am from the dirt under the back porch.

(Black, glistening, 

it tasted like beets.) 

I am from the forsythia bush

the Dutch elm

whose long-gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I'm from fudge and eyeglasses, 

          from Imogene and Alafair. 

I'm from the know-it-alls

          and the pass-it-ons, 

from Perk up! and Pipe down! 

I'm from He restoreth my soul

          with a cottonball lamb

          and ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch, 

fried corn and strong coffee. 

From the finger my grandfather lost 

          to the auger, 

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures, 

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams. 

I am from those moments--

snapped before I budded --

leaf-fall from the family tree.

~George Ella Lyon

Now it is your turn.  Here is a template to write your version of Where I'm From and I will post my version at the very bottom.  If you chose to participate, I ask that you link back to this post so that I may visit and enjoy your poem.

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)

I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).

I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).

From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).

I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.

I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).

From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).

I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

Your version of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From"

(Collection closed)

Link tool by inlinkz.com

Where I'm From

I am from old fruit jars, 

from White Lily and Basse's Choice.

I am from the tall, white porch columns.

( graceful, slender ladies

 cool under the heat

 of a noon day sun.)

I am from the old garden roses, 

the ancient white lilac 

hugging the east garden wall 

in it's lush frilly petticoat beauty.

I am from cream pulled candy and bluest of blue eyes, 

from Lucien and Fairy.

I am from the orators and philosophers.

From mind your manners! and remember your people!

I am from All Things Bright And Beautiful and 

the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.

I'm from Byrd and Duke's line,

corn pone and bourbon.

From the boat ride my grandfather took through the courthouse

 during the 1937 flood,

the dictionary my uncle 

bought as a birthday gift for my mother

before being sent to France during World War II.

In the bottom dresser drawer

folded into a tight triangle,

the flag  given to my grandmother

reminding me of the price that we pay for freedom.

I am from those Second Sons--

pushing through the Cumberland Gap

to put down family roots 

stretching from the Old Dominion

to the Bluegrass.

THURSDAY, MAY 5, 2011

Growing Up

This year I will be celebrating my 40th birthday. I'm being teased unmercifully by my children and, just yesterday,  informed by Paine that I was going to be sooo old .  I couldn't help but laugh.  I guess he is right... 40 must appear terribly old from the view point of a 16 year old, but I'm not going to be spending any time mournfully commemorating the passing of my youth.  I plan to celebrate the wisdom the last 39 years and 7 months has bestowed upon me.

I recently read this piece by Horace Walpole and believe it sums up my feels perfectly.

"To act with common sense, according to the moment, is the best wisdom; 

and the best philosophy is to do one's duties, to take the world as it comes,

submit respectfully to one's lot,

and bless the goodness that has given us so much happiness with it,

whatever it is."

SUNDAY, MAY 1, 2011

The Holy City

Every February, for the last 10 years, my family has taken a trip to what has become our families "adopted" city.  Unfortunately, with our moves this year it was impossible to make the trip and I've been left with  feelings of  withdrawal.  I've been promised a trip later this year, but until then I will enjoy a few pictures from trips past.

With the numerous steeples dotting the city's skyline, Charleston is known as The Holy City and I make it a point to attend services at a different church each time we visit.  Our family is Episcopalian, but as Mother often says, "It's good to shop around for a good sermon on occasion."

I have many recommendation of things to do while in Charleston, but today I'd like to share a place we visit every single year...






Magnolia Plantation was founded in 1676 by the Drayton family and has survived the centuries.  It has witnessed the history of our nation from the American Revolution to the Civil War and beyond.  It opened its doors to the visitors in 1870 now becoming the oldest public tourist site in the Lowcountry, and the oldest public gardens in America.

From the beautiful azaleas and camellias to the Monet like white bridges, it is an unforgettable experience to walk the gravel paths and if you look closely perhaps you will find the bench seat where John Drayton sat and composed his sermons before and during the Civil War.

Oh, June can not come quickly enough...


Mosaic Mondays with Little Red House

MONDAY, APRIL 18, 2011

The Art of Correspondence

Once a month, I meet a dear friend for breakfast at a local bookstore, using our time together catching each other up on our busy lives and discussing our views on the world at large. (Oh, if only everyone would just listen to us...we could  fix all of the woes of the world lol)  This mornings discussion focused on the good and bad of technology.


It should go without saying that I love my computer.  I love the ability to connect with people on the other side of the world through email and blogs.  I love that I have information at my fingertips, but I often miss what life was like before we all got online. I'm sad that my children don't know the thrill of receiving a handwritten letter from a loved one unexpectedly in the mail; a small joy that email can not compete with.


Surely I'm not the only person who gets excited about receiving mail not requiring a check to be written (bills) or addressed to "occupant"?  Most of our written communication seems to be through text messaging or email. Of course, occasionally a birthday card comes in the mail, but, more often than not even birthday wishes are now sent via e-cards.  I mourn this loss of written communication...handwritten communication, that is.  I miss the pleasure of looking back on the cards and letters from the past, now lovingly tied with ribbon and placed on the top shelf of my closet, awaiting a quiet moment to relive the memories.  A printed email message will never be ribbon worthy and all too soon I fear there will nothing more to place on that top shelf.  I just can't allow that to happen.

I am on a crusade to revive the art of correspondence.  Here are some of my thoughts...


Today find a quiet place and read some of your favorite letters. While sitting there soaking up all the love and support, think of one person you love and write a beautiful, loving letter to that person.  Make sure you write from the heart.  Letters are intimate.  Be intimate.  Fancy stationery isn't necessary; write a loving note on the back of a pretty picture or inside of a book to pass along.  A letter takes so little time, yet one letter in a lifetime to a mother, a daughter, or a special friend could make a greater difference than you believe.

MONDAY, MARCH 28, 2011

The Elusive Tomorrow

The sheer number of filled notebooks hidden within my childhood bedroom closet is testament to a life-long desire to write.  Teenage romances, centering around a young girl, always named MacKenzie, were the bulk of my earlier writings and, while I would be mortified should anyone read them, I find it impossible to toss them out. Those early attempts at writing the next great novel were not a waste of time, but lessons in perseverance and faith.

The Next-to-Nothing House began as an outlet for my desire to write.  It was to be a safe place to wax lyrical, or, attempt to, on everyday living and faith.  I say a safe place, for I'm still quite timid about exposing my thoughts for the world to see (and critique).  How I admire those writers tossing self-preservation to the wind and lay bare their souls before the world.  I am not there, yet.  Perhaps fear is what has kept me from dedicating myself completely to this blog?  By the way, a search committee needs to be formed to find a word to replace "blog". My previous dashed off posts have done nothing to further my argument of being a serious writer. They make it difficult for even myself to believe I once won a writing contest in college.  My only excuse for my lax writing is an unclear vision of what this blog (there's that word again) is to be. Well,an  unclear vision and three children, with their continuous interrupting of my thought process : )  I once read an interview with a female author (forgive me for not remember the name) who remarked that her sentences had grown longer in  proportion to the ages of  her children.  As they grew older the interruptions came less often and thoughts could fully bloom within her mind.  She expressed my experience exactly, but all of the blame can not be placed with the little darlings.  I must step up and take responsibility.

The truth is I've not taken my dream seriously.

By 9 A.M., I find myself alone with everyone off to school for the day and nothing to keep me from sitting down to write, but more important things distract me.  The breakfast dishes won't jump into the dishwasher on their own, nor will the load of towels wash themselves, and with each "one more thing" my day slips away.  The next thing I know it is 10 P.M., the clean page is still mocking me, and I make another hollow promise to write tomorrow. Tomorrow is such a slippery slope to find oneself on.  We tend to believe that tomorrows are infinite.  I've spent more years than I'm willing to admit making plans for that elusive tomorrow; the tomorrow of empty laundry hampers, spotless kitchens, and phones that don't ring with a plea for assistance on the other end.  This may come as a surprise to some of you, but those days don't exist.  I'm teaching myself to be okay with this knowledge, because perfectionism is an ugly mistress which to be yoked.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not to your own understanding.

 In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths. ~ Proverbs 3: 5&6

With the mindset that every choice matters, I begin each day in prayerful contemplation, pleading with God to direct my path. It is my belief that our dreams are implanted in our souls before they are called to this earth and, therefore, are of God.  As my faith grows stronger, those perfect tomorrows appear more often than not and I'm delighted to report that their perfection isn't dependent upon clean kitchens.

  Do not put statements in the negative form.

And don't start sentences with a conjunction.

If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a

great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.

Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.

Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.

De-accession euphemisms.

If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.

Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.

Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.

~William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"