doodlebugs,barefeet and creation

Most of my childhood was lived outdoors. There were no televisions or computers for entertainment and our mothers could only stand us inside if we were helping clean. "Go outside and play" was the standard response to our question "What can I do?" I lived in the deep south where the weather co-operated with being outside most of the year.
We lived at the end of a little dirt road in an old farmhouse. During school, my sister and I would walk to the paved road to catch the bus. I learned to read the tracks left in the sandy road... snake slithers, bird tracks, racoon paws, dog prints, possum paws with tail dragging impressions. When we came home in the afternoon, I would check to see what had changed... who had driven in... a tractor... a truck.
The house we rented was on a farm owned by Mr. Coody who lived down by the paved road. We were surrounded by pastures, barns and sheds, dirt roads, cows, occasional horses and once, pigs. They didn’t last long, though... too smart and too smelly. My sister and I were free to roam the outdoors and we did.
The pasture next to the house had a gully at the very end, far from the house. It was one of my favorite hiding places... warm sun... soft breezes... a good place to read uninterrupted by parent’s demands. The chinaberry tree in the side yard had a fork in the main trunk that cradled my small body perfectly. That was a wonderful place to hide... covered with the lacy foliage and purple blossoms... not to forget the hard little berries that made perfect ammunition for a pea shooter.
Some of my chores were outdoors... feeding and watering the hens, gathering the eggs, picking up walnuts and pecans in season, picking beans in the garden... but mostly, the outdoors was my great escape... my learning lab for fantasy and real life. I wept when I found the dead kitten, killed by some unknown predator... rode my pretend horse wildly around the pretend wild west of my yard... dug for doodlebugs in their little cone shaped homes in the sand... took my shoes off as soon as school ended and lived with gloriously free feet for the summer (except for the occasional painful sandspur)... caught grasshoppers and created little homes for them in jars, providing grass and water, watching them grow and split out of their old skins... ran from rattlesnakes...dressed our patient old cat Goldie in doll clothes and rolled him around the yard as my baby... had mud pie tea parties with pokeberry tea... learned how to suck honeysuckle blossoms and the end of grass blades for a sweet taste...made wigs of long hair from the abundant Spanish Moss hanging from every tree...sat on the front porch and listened to the grown-ups talk, tell stories and laugh as they escaped the heat in those days before central air conditioning.
Almost all of our lives now, are like central air conditioning and heat... indoors, the same temperature all summer and winter long, confined to the known four walls that surround us in our homes and work and transportation. Short walks over pavement to and from home and work and shopping... children who do not have the freedom these days to roam safely nor the space... various and sundry diversions that keep us all indoors observing life through someone else’s eyes.
Michael walks the farm each morning. He checks the cows, gets the paper, sees the first blue bird come back for spring, watches the dogs play, feeds the ducks, hears the screech of Gary the hawk flying overhead. I feed the cows and barn cats each day, see the morning sunrise in a different way each day, hear different birds sing each day, count the ducks on the pond each day. I can report there are no doodlebugs in the North Carolina mountain land on which I live but there is the splendor of creation all around me.
In the 104th Psalm, there is a beautifully lyrical description of God and the creation of our world full of leviathans and mountains and angels and darkness and beasts and gratitude... "Thou sendest forth thy spirit, they are created: and thou renewest the face of the earth... I will sing praise to my God while I have my being... Bless thou the Lord, my soul". Perhaps today I will look for the sight of the Holy One as I feed the cows...give thanks for the winter wind that cuts to the bone... see if the possum visited the leaning barn to eat leftover cat food... search for the doodlebug treasures left by my Creator in the world that surrounds me.

Sing Them Over Again to Me...

My first church memories are centered in a white painted concrete block church in north Florida... Pinetta Baptist Church. On Sunday morning, the men would be gathered around outside smoking and talking. Even though a few women smoked, they did so at home, never in public. When you entered the front door, the first thing to catch your eye was the large framed Church Covenant hung behind the choir loft. The knotty pine paneling had turned orange over the years and the wooden pews were too upright to be comfortable... and not padded. The boards that held the Sunday School reports hung on the left side of the platform... attendance, offering, how many read their Bibles last week, attendance from last week. The board to the right held the hymn numbers for the morning... but those numbers were subject to last minute changes.
We were a very poor church financially. It stretched the budget to hire a pastor. Most of our members were dirt farmers with poor dirt... sandy north Florida soil did not grow cash crops easily. A few of the members worked at the local paper mill and had a steady income but most of our congregation lived well below the poverty line. I don’t remember feeling poor or deprived in that church though. It lived large... peanut boilings at the Woodard house after Sunday night service... home made ice cream at the Buchanan house... VBS with cookies and Kool Aid... dinner on the grounds at least four times a year... twice a year revivals... traveling teachers from the Baptist Convention who came to teach everything from music to books of the Bible... gathering at the Ellington house to help with the cane syrup making... and the singing... the songs that lived in the hearts of those people were joyful and spirit filled.
On fifth Sundays, we would have hymn sings during worship. You could call out the name and number of your favorite hymn and we would sing it. Our pastor, Brother Rowan, loved to sing and sort of sang tenor. Mr. Crafton always wanted to sing "How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours" and he wanted it sung s-l-o-w-l-y. Mr. Buchanan loved the old gospel hymn "No, Never Alone" with its chorus punctuated by staccato "No’s". Miss Jeanette loved "How Great Thou Art". I loved them all. I can still sing them today... remember the key in which they are written... feel the joy of singing that surrounded that poor little Baptist church worship on Sunday mornings. I can hear Mr. Buck singing bass... Miss Jeanette and Mrs. Tyre singing alto... Mrs. Ellington singing soprano... Mr. Crafton singing notes of his own choosing. The music lifted our hearts and souls to God leaving behind the struggles of making it in this world. I give thanks for the great gift of joy in music they gave me.
The pianist was a teenager, Carolyn Woodard. She played beautifully and was a music major in college. I wanted to be like her... play the piano like her. Her music gift shared with the church family provided a model for me... a place for me... My first piano lesson was at Mrs. Buchanan’s house on her piano. She was keeping us during the summer while mama went to business school. I learned to play "Wonderful Words of Life" by memory... key of G major... one sharp.
"Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life; Let me more of their beauty see, wonderful words of life. Words of life and beauty, teach me faith and duty; beautiful words, wonderful words, wonderful words of life". And those wonderful words of life sung every Sunday morning in worship and sung while I iron and feed the cows continue to teach me faith and duty... show me the beautiful way of Love. How can I keep from singing?

sowing and reaping... tears and joy

It has been cold at the farm... cold but clear. The light has been bright and sharp edged. When the sun comes up over the mountain, I can watch the light spread over the distant peaks coming to me. Yesterday, the warmth of the Holy One’s Light washed over me all day long.
When I fed the barn kitties, Bud, Helen and Prince Hal were there. They twined around my legs... purred when I picked them up, let me pet them and gave me their blessing. That doesn’t happen often. They are semi-wild and often fearful when I come. I stayed awhile in the barn letting the cats love on me while I love them. We both needed it.
The cows began to bellow... the cow version of yelling. They had heard the mule coming down the hill and had gathered to be fed. I was too slow getting there and they let me know. I loaded the hay, opened the gate and drove to the glen. They were standing in a group, looking at me as I drove around the curve... their heads turned towards me... Tilly with her magnificent horns... Sassy with her new baby bull Betty... Annie great with child... her twin Fannie... Buttercup with her mule ears hanging low... the two yearlings... Annabelle swinging her head back and forth impatiently.... and Ferdinand our sweet old bull.
I went to the tack shed and got the feed, put it out quickly so I wouldn’t get stepped on in the rush. I spread the hay in the hay ring for the day and then put some hay on the ground. For some reason, our cows like to eat their hay spread out. Daddy used to fuss about them standing in the middle of it while they ate, wasting it. He had an elaborate system worked out to prevent that... it didn’t work very well. So I laughed as I spread the hay, hearing Daddy’s voice telling me how to do it right.
And then I stood and watched... waited. Barney our yellow cur stray and Betty were playing a slow game of catch. Baby calves run for the sheer pleasure of it with their tails straight up in the air. Betty will still let me pet him if I am still and wait for him to come to me. Cows are curious creatures, like cats, and they will investigate you. Like a cat, a cow’s tongue is slightly raspy and they will lick you as a greeting. Betty tiptoed over, nose extended, sniffing, to my outstretched hand and licked me. My giggle scared him and he scampered away, tail held high.
On Thursdays, I teach two classes of picture matting and framing, each three hours long. As a functional introvert, six hours of extroversion in one day wears me out. But yesterday there were several grace notes that kept me lifted up... students who told me how much fun they were having in class... completed pictures framed and matted by students who were scared to death three weeks ago... an unexpected invitation to share lunch with friends in town...a nap in the sun... It was a sweet day.
Last night I stepped out the front door and looked up. In the country there is very little ambient light and we are on top of a small hill that is not closed in by trees. In the dark night sky, the stars and planets glowed. There was no competition from the moon and each little light was so distinct... so sharp... so beautiful... so many. It took my breath away. That was my bedtime blessing.
The Psalmist says "They that sow in tears shall reap in joy"... Yesterday I gathered joy and I am grateful.