Christmases Past

I'm not sure how an excess of cookies and candies became associated with Christmas unless it's the fact that mothers and grandmothers everywhere decided to make special treats for this special occasion and the tradition just grew.

Although there were very few presents under our tree on Christmas morning, certain treats were never missing. My grandma made chocolate covered cherries well in advance because they had to sit for a while in order for the centers to liquefy. My dad made peanut butter fudge and sea foam (divinity). We could hardly wait until we were allowed to sample these goodies we had only once a year.

Grandma's fruit salad was another treat served only on Christmas day. She started with a can of Delmonte fruit salad from Buxton's store and added canned peaches and pears from our cellar. Then came a small can of pineapple chunks, a small jar of maraschino cherries, and fresh oranges - the only time of year we had fresh oranges. Before we had electricity, our fruit salad was chilled in the smoke house overnight and brought in at the last minute. Sliced bananas were added just before serving. It was wonderful.

Great-Uncle Howard arrived on Christmas mornings carrying a bag of black walnuts he had gathered. After sitting in the kitchen patiently cracking the shells and digging out the nuts, he made a black walnut cake – his gift to our family. Now that I think of it, the only ingredient he provided was the black walnuts. If anyone noticed it at the time, no one mentioned it. Uncle Howard lived alone on a houseboat tied up on 13 Mile Creek in Leon. His gift was a gift from the heart and it was very much appreciated.

Above you see a photograph taken the year I was married. There are my Grandma, my Mom, and my two youngest brothers, H.A. and Johnny. I am proudly wearing the necklace Carl gave me. My little brother, Johnny, is wearing the cowboy outfit we gave him and H.A. has a new shirt. Carl took the picture with his new Argus 33mm camera – the first camera he'd ever owned.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my friends and family. I wish you the kinds of memories that help make this time of year so very special.

Christmas Villages

Ceramic Christmas villages are highly collectible. There are so many villages available that it's hard to decide exactly which one to buy. And most of them are beautiful. Should it be the Norman Rockwell Village? Christmas in the City? The Nightmare Before Christmas Village? The New England Village? The Alpine Village? The North Pole Village? Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The ever-present ultimate salesman masquerading as an artist, Thomas Kinkade, has so many Christmas villages for sale that one can hardly count them all.

But my favorite Christmas village didn't come from a store. My Christmas village offers a whole lot more. My family and I can stroll through our village and remember what took place in each and every house we've lived in.

There is the snug, low-roofed home where Carl grew up near Buffalo, West Virginia. It was built by his dad. And there is the white Dutch-roofed home where I spent my childhood in Leon, West Virginia – my father's dream come true. Next is our little story-and-a-half house that Carl and I bought for $14,800 in Worthington, Ohio. It contains all of Scott's childhood memories.

And how many people can say they really built their home? We look at our village and see the house we built from top to bottom with our own hands in Marengo, Ohio. We must have been nuts. It was a two-story, 3,500 square foot home with three fire places and a five car garage on twenty acres. It took us several years with a little help from our friends and before we got it fully furnished, IBM offered me one of those opportunities you just can't refuse. Leaving it was especially painful because we left Scott behind too. But only for a little while.

The Raleigh, NC, house in our village was a compromise. Carl loved it. I didn't. But it gave us our first taste of Southern living and a screened porch that just couldn't be beat. When we stroll through our village, we remember things like trying to understand a strange new language – Southern – and trying to be tactful when we were quizzed about our kin. Yankee was not a desirable heritage.

And, last but not least, we come to our current home in Lilburn, Georgia. We have been here for fourteen years and we've learned that, although big cities do offer certain advantages, those advantages come at a high price: Heavy traffic, crime, and more nationalities than one could ever imagine, many of whom have no interest whatsoever in becoming Americanized. It takes us an hour and fifteen minutes each way to go to our eye doctor – if we're lucky. It once took us 4 hours to get through Atlanta on Thanksgiving eve, a distance of 35 miles. Nevertheless, this home contains many happy memories too. We have irreplaceable friends and neighbors here and this is the home where we've built memories with Greg since he was five years old.

So take a peek at my Christmas village. It represents my life. It's the first decoration to go up every year and the last to come down. Seeing the glow from those little windows brings back every room in every house and all of the memories created there. It is the ultimate gift that keeps on giving every year, lovingly created by my husband.

Deck The Halls

Deck the halls with boughs of holly. Falalalala, lalalala!

Living in the South brings great rewards to replace that wonder of wonders, snow, which we cannot even begin to hope for. Atlanta, Georgia, hasn't had many, if any, white Christmases but nature has blessed us with wonderful natural elements with which to decorate our homes.

Those who know me well know that I decorate with fresh greenery. No plastic garlands or fake flowers and berries for Sarah Anne Atkins (except for our fake tree that you've already heard about). Christmas decorations must include pine and cedar as far as I'm concerned. For the past couple of years I've decorated our Christmas tree with dried flowers. Some came from my back yard and others came from St. Stephen where I paint every Friday with Southern Colours artists. That is the day the altar guild disposes of the old flowers and brings in the new. They leave the old arrangements for us. It's the ultimate recycling of nature's bounty.

Living in the suburbs offers special challenges, though. I used to visit an empty lot behind our local supermarket where I could find fresh pine. It's now another strip mall so I take my black plastic garbage bag and head for the power lines that adjoin our neighborhood. There I can usually find little pine tree seedlings. I take only the side branches, hoping the trees will survive until next year.

Meanwhile, I have planted Burford hollies and nandina bushes that do not grow in the frozen North. A trip to the back yard gives me all of the beautiful red berries that one could ever hope for. They reward both the birds and me every year. I am also blessed to have access to my friend, Sally Arnold's, north Georgia mountain retreat where the climate and the terrain are as close to my West Virginia childhood as I can get these days. I lovingly cherish the white pine cones I find there and feature them every year in the decorations I put together for our family to enjoy. It's like a little piece of home.

My past few days have been greenery days. I have made wreaths and centerpieces galore after decorating our Christmas tree. Above you see some of the results of my labors. Now it's time to bake the cookies. A woman's work is never done – especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas time. To us falls the task of preserving memories of Christmases past and creating memories of Christmases present for future generations of our families. It's something we do with love every year.

Speaking of love, Carl made the cobweb ornaments for me when we were a young married couple and I had the bright idea that I would decorate our tree based on a story I read about birds, spiders, and other animals of the forest decorating a tree. They have been on our Christmas tree every year since then and, if you look closely, you'll see bird nests too.

Choosing A Christmas Tree

Carl and I began decorating our Christmas tree today.

This year we did not uphold our family tradition of picking out a live tree while arguing about the fact that I like tall and skinny trees and he likes short and fat. We did not pay an exorbitant amount for it, drag it home in the trunk of the car, bemoan the fact that the trunk was too big to go into the stand, wrestle it in the front door or become upset that it was crooked and it wasn't as fresh as it had looked.

After all of the above happened last year and we ended up with what I thought was the ugliest tree in the world while Carl, once again, declared that I could go pick it out by myself next year, I decided it was time to remove this annual stress forever. Off I went to our local garden store to look for an artificial tree without telling Carl where I was going. Keep in mind that I have frequently said that I would NEVER have an artificial Christmas tree.

An amazing array of choices met my eyes but the only trees that were close to acceptable cost a fortune that I was not about to pay. I finally chose the only tree that I thought I could hold my nose and live with. Wouldn't you know? They didn't have it in stock. The manager was called just to make sure. He offered to dismantle the display and I said no because I had already been there for more than an hour.

I explained that I hate artificial trees and was only there because I was tired of starting our Christmas season in a bad mood every year. I told him my story about our annual tree battles and then I apologized for being difficult and said, "Thanks but no, thanks."

A miracle occurred. "What about that tree?" he asked, pointing at the biggest, the best, the prettiest artificial tree of all that weighed in at about 9 feet tall with zillions of pre-installed lights and a cost of about $700. After I explained that, although it was beautiful, I was not about to pay $700 for an artificial tree, he said, "What if I let you have it for the same price as the one we don't have in stock? It will be my Christmas present to you."

Well. It took three helpers to get it in the car. I had to open the box while it was still in the car and get each section out separately. I carried them upstairs without saying a word. Carl took one look and disappeared but his curiosity finally got the best of him. Before I knew it, we were putting the tree together……together……...marveling at how easy it was.

We marveled again today and agreed that my annual trek to gather fresh greenery for the mantel, wreaths and centerpieces will make up for having a tree with no scent. After all, pine and fir boughs smell the same whether they're on a tree or on the mantel. Best of all, both of us were in a good mood.

Above is a picture of our first Christmas tree as a married couple. Notice how beautiful it was. Notice the loads of fancy ornaments. Notice the large number of gifts. Are we happier today than we were then? Nope. But we sure do have a fancier Christmas tree. It doesn't smell as good but Lily Pearl enjoys sleeping under it just the same.

Gifts From The Heart

Practically everyone I know goes into a shopping frenzy this time of year. I hate it.

Having grown up in a household where Christmas was celebrated as a truly holy day, it bothers me to see that too many people today rush to give their children expensive gifts but don't have time to tell them what Christmas really means. Too many make time to shop till they drop but, somehow, can't find time to attend one single church service or read the real Christmas story from the Bible........if they have a Bible. The closest that many children ever come is hearing it from the TV show, "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

Fueled by the incessant ads on TV, Christmas has become a time for retailers to milk as much money as possible from a public that willingly goes along. And, although I resist it, I must admit that I fall into the same trap all too often. I hate it.

I was recently reminded of one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received. This gift has sat in my closet every spring and summer for at least forty years. It comes to light every fall when my wardrobe turns from light pastel colors to darker greens and browns.

Pictured above is a handbag that my sister-in-law, Vicky, made for me all those years ago. She will be surprised to learn that I still use and treasure it. Lovingly pieced from little scraps of leather, planned so that everything fits perfectly inside and with an outside pocket to hold things like grocery lists and a list of books I want to read, it was the perfect gift – handmade with love. It was a gift from the heart; one that typifies what the holiday season should mean to all of us.

I long for the time when Christmas meant memorizing scriptures, poems and special songs for the Christmas program at church and Christmas dinner with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I long for the time when Christmas meant one or two gifts from the heart, lovingly handmade, or maybe a book. I long for the time when Christmas meant something more than shopping and decorating.

Last night I saw TV images of people sleeping all night in the cold so they could be first in line to buy Christmas gifts at the perceived lowest prices of the season. I wonder how many of them would sleep all night in the cold to get in the door of a church on Christmas day? How many will explain to their children what Christmas is all about? Not many. I hate it.

Over The River and Through The Woods

"Over the river and through the woods, To Grandmother's house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, Over the white drifted snow."

A couple of my friends were discussing their Thanksgiving plans a few weeks ago and, when asked, I replied that at least I wouldn't have to shoot Thanksgiving dinner this year. You can imagine the astonished looks and laughter that followed but I wasn't kidding.

Thanksgiving day in West Virginia meant that a couple of my aunts and uncles arrived either the night before or about daylight with their .22 caliber rifles. Along with my dad and grandpa, they set out to hunt Thanksgiving dinner. It was usually a cold, foggy, drizzly day – perfect for hunting. If they were lucky, they came home with several rabbits and squirrels. Deer and wild turkeys were not plentiful in that place at that time.

Meanwhile, Mom and Grandma killed, plucked, and otherwise prepared a couple of chickens to go along with the wild game. The meal was filled out with vegetables they had canned during the summer and a couple of pies made from canned apples, blackberries, or peaches. Turkey? Nope. Cranberries? Nope. Stuffing? Nope. Pumpkin pie? Nope. Think turnips, carrots, beets, green beans, and mashed potatoes. We ate what we grew.

Today, I can't imagine eating a squirrel. I do have to admit that I loved it at the time. In fact, I preferred it to rabbit. We did not think it odd to see carefully cleaned squirrel heads resting on a platter. My brothers and I argued about who got to claim them if there weren't enough to go around. We thought there was something very special about squirrel brains.

This year, we will have the usual turkey and dressing at our house along with three kinds of cranberry sauce because everyone has their own personal preference. I'm now the grandmother so Scott and Greg will come to our house but there will be no snow. After all, we live in Georgia. Our friends, Brenda and Tom Flood, will be our guests but they aren't expected to hunt meat for dinner. They will, however, come over the river (the Chattahoochee) while Scott and Greg will drive 2 ½ miles through well-groomed subdivisions. There are no woods left near Atlanta, Georgia.

Although times have changed, I have many things to be thankful for. Among them is the fact that I don't have to hunt for my dinner or kill and pluck a chicken.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and family!

P.S. Above is a picture of my little brother, Johnny, learning how to skin a squirrel at age two. Or was it a rabbit?

Blogs Bring Wonderful Surprises

When I discovered blogging a few months ago I never dreamed what rewards would come my way.

For instance, one of my recent blogs was about Grandma and all the things she taught me. Within a week, I received a phone call from a first cousin who lives in South Carolina. Within a few more days, I received a package filled with quilt blocks Grandma appliquéd for a quilt she was planning to make in 1953. As it turned out, Grandma wasn't able to finish the quilt. There are two blocks remaining. One is half finished and contains the needle and thread Grandma placed there fifty-five years ago. The blocks (pictured above) contain fabric from summer dresses I remember from my childhood – my mother's, my Grandma's, my aunts', and mine. I am now facing the challenge of making the very first quilt I have ever attempted.

Another amazing connection happened a week or so prior to that. I received an e-mail that said, "My brother stumbled across your blog and the poem our dad wrote about his grandpa." It was from a cousin I've never met and whose name I never knew. I lost this particular branch of the family when I moved to Columbus, Ohio, at age seventeen and my cousin married and moved to Cincinnati at about the same time. Our visits back to W.Va. never coincided. Although my cousin has passed away, his daughter and I now trade family stories and pictures that are precious to both of us. Her brother searched the internet for his dad's name on a whim one day and my blog came up, along with the first line of his poem about Grandpa. Who would ever imagine that?

In addition to the above, a nephew I love very much but hadn't heard from for a long time has begun e-mailing me, I was invited to judge Parkview High School's annual Reflections art contest (which I did), and I've sold my painting, "Firefly Evening." None of these things would have happened without my blog.

Carl says my blog must be going all over the world by now. I think, perhaps, he is correct. I can hardly wait for the next surprise.

Trick Or Treat?

I have found a few major differences between living in the South and living in Ohio. One of those differences is how people interact socially.

Most of my Southern friends are hard pressed to come up with a description of the best party they've ever attended. Most of my Ohio friends find it almost impossible to choose just one.

Norma and Howard Lamprecht, our Worthington, Ohio, neighbors threw the most well-planned, elaborate parties one can imagine. Many of them were costume parties. If invited to such an event, one did not let them down.

I've forgotten the actual year we wore the above costumes to their Halloween party but I'll never forget the wonderful time we always had at the Lamprecht's house.

Too bad you can't see my spike heels. Did we look glamorous or what?

An Artistic Adventure

My wonderful artist friend, Sally Arnold, invites our Southern Colours art group to her home in the North Georgia Mountains every year for a painting excursion. That's Sally on the left, looking like a Scottish lassie. We usually plan our trips around the full moon with the goal of painting outdoors in the moonlight. Alas, the clouds rolled in this year and the only moonlight appeared at 4:00 a.m. just before we were scheduled to leave on Saturday morning. Who would have thought that, after experiencing a three-year drought, we would have rain almost the entire time we were there?

But devoted artists are an intrepid lot. Although we didn't paint in the moonlight, the rain didn't prevent us from producing beautiful paintings. We went for a walk when we arrived on Thursday in order to decide upon which perfect vista we would each paint. Sally then delivered us via her 4-wheeler, along with our many art supplies, to our chosen spots.

I had barely gotten set up and spent about 20 minutes on my painting at her pond when it started to rain. Sally came tooling over the hill to rescue me. There is something to be said about knowing when to quit or being forced to quit. My painting of her pond that you see below turned out to be my favorite of the weekend. I had grandiose plans of painting all kinds of tree reflections in the water but now I'm not so sure that would have been an improvement.

We overcame a rainy day on Friday and produced wonderful paintings from the front porch, the back porch, under the porch, the bedroom windows, and the shed beside the storage barn. As usual, there were beautiful still life opportunities set up in Sally's studio. I painted under the shed on Friday morning and from the front bedroom window in the afternoon.

In between we ate, planned what we were going to eat, ate again, and did exciting things like tai chi exercises in our pajamas before breakfast. Sally planned a great project of making molded concrete garden ornaments from real leaves so that each of us would have something beautiful to bring home.

Sally is one of the most talented and versatile artists I know. She is the only member of our group who has explored the art of encaustics (the ancient art of painting with pigments in bees wax) and she gave us a demo Friday evening while some of us were wondering exactly how long we could stay awake. The mountain air seemed to put us to bed earlier somehow.

Just as we were leaving on Saturday morning, the sun came out and Sally's father-in-law came barreling over the hill on his 4-wheeler with a big bag of apples for us to share. All of us were reminded, once again, that a very special group of people has come together in our Southern Colours Art Association. I am fortunate, indeed, to have such friends.

If you'd like to see more, click on Visit Southern Colours at the right of this page and then click on A Glimpse At Our Activities.

Meet My Grandma

Since I wrote about Grandpa a few weeks ago, I can't neglect my Grandma. The two of them were complete opposites.

He was fiery, had a hot temper, cussed like a sailor, and never darkened the door of a church except for funerals. Even then, he sometimes had to be coaxed. She was patient, mild-mannered, and never raised her voice; a devout Christian who never missed a church service. When faced with a situation she didn't like, she would look you in the eyes and softly say, "I wish you wouldn't do that." Those kind words were enough to stop me, and even Grandpa, in our tracks. My mother, her daughter-in-law, loved Grandma wholeheartedly and once told me that, if there was ever a saint put here on earth, it was my Grandma. I can't think of a more wonderful compliment from a daughter-in-law.

Grandma was an expert seamstress who didn't just sew and do alterations; she could design and cut her own patterns. In addition to more mundane things, Grandma once made band uniforms for the local high school and she remade an authentic WW II Japanese kimono into a more American robe at the request of the wife who had received it. It was the first time I'd ever felt silk.

Grandma's room always contained scraps of material that were far more beautiful than anything our family could afford. I was allowed to practice sewing with some of those scraps and guess who had the loveliest doll clothes in all of Leon. I never had a store-bought dress or coat until after I started high school. My homemade clothes, many made from fabric that was reclaimed from my aunts' cast-offs, were beautiful. I especially remember a gorgeous brown wool coat with copper-colored lining and a dress my Dad called my princess dress (because I looked like a princess in it). It was made from reclaimed flour sack material. And, yes, flour did come in muslin sacks.

I still have scraps of that red silk Japanese kimono. I have the wool and velvet comforter we made together. Grandma helped me piece it and taught me to embroider at the same time. We lined it with turquoise silk fabric from a WW II parachute. I was eleven years old when it was finished. After looking at the picture above, I know you will agree that it is beautiful, as is that red scrap of the Japanese kimono and her pin cushion. I also have the first cross-stitched sampler I did, with her supervision, at age six. The tangible things I have are precious to me although they have no monetary value. The intangible gifts she gave me are more precious than diamonds and pearls.

Here is my tribute to my Grandma, Arminta May Casto Burns:

MY GRANDMA

My grandma made my life replete,
With kind, soft words so very sweet.
I never heard her raise her voice,
Except in song, and to rejoice.

For every single path she trod,
Was guided by her faith in God.
And it was her true belief,
He’d help her o’er the stormy reefs.

She made me dresses trimmed in lace.
I still can see her lovely face.
In the garden we would hoe,
And she taught me how to sew.

My treasure was her button box,
And I still have her biscuit crock.
We cooked and canned and did the dishes,
While we talked about our wishes.

We skimmed the cream, made cottage cheese,
Snapped the beans and shelled the peas.
We planted flowers of every hue,
And looked for fairies in the dew.

She helped me make a crazy quilt,
And, block by block, it slowly built,
Into a keepsake I still love.
I’m sure she’s smiling from above.

Her auburn hair was long and bright.
She let me brush it every night.
And just before I went to bed,
She listened to the prayers I said.

I think of Grandma as so meek,
But not to be construed as weak.
Her self-control reached every length,
And so her meekness was her strength.

It wasn’t that a race was won,
But that I knew when I was done,
That I had giv’n my very best,
And God had helped me in my quest.

Through every challenge and through strife,
My Grandma sought to mold her life,
To be the best that she could be,
And by doing so, taught me.

By Sarah Anne Burns

The Winner of the Worst Teacher Award Is.........

MR. HAINES!

I didn't plan to talk about teachers again but more memories of poor teachers came pouring in from my friends.

One teacher stands out from all the rest: Mr. Haines – he who made examples of an overweight girl vs. a thin girl in front of their class.

Mr. Haines taught thirteen and fourteen year old students. Based on what I've heard, he didn't like girls; or perhaps he didn't like children. More examples of his misdeeds were forthcoming:

One day he asked if any of the girls had a mirror. When my friend raised her hand, Mr. Haines had her bring her mirror to the front of the room and stand there, looking at herself in her mirror, chewing her gum, until he told her she could sit down.

That same girl borrowed her friend's typewriter and worked especially hard to turn in a paper that was perfect. It was a time when many students didn't have typewriters. When she handed her paper to Mr. Haines, he gave her a smirking look and said, "I'd better not see another one like this."

So, Mr. Haines, wherever you are, please do not wait for any of your former students to show up with a special Hallmark card for you. Do not wait for any of them to tell you how you inspired them to be a teacher too. And, if you have gone on to your just rewards, may your eternity be spent as a student in a classroom with a teacher just like you were.

Not-So-Favorite Teachers

After writing about favorite elementary school teachers, I promised to share my friends' and my memories of not-so-favorite teachers. Some of those memories are surprising. They range from incompetence and laziness to actions that were downright cruel.

Reading these made me realize how much power teachers hold in their hands. Not one of my friends has forgotten their best or worst teachers. Children's lives are shaped for either better or worse by teachers. They are either encouraged or discouraged by teachers. Teachers can help children blossom and grow or damage fragile egos. Good teachers create a learning environment that's exciting while poor teachers merely get through the day or take out their personal frustrations on defenseless children. The unfortunate part is that wonderful teachers usually get the same pay as terrible teachers.

Since I'm a firm believer that history should be accurate, the names of not-so-favorite teachers have not been changed or hidden to protect the guilty.

Some not-so-favorite teachers were:

Mrs. Foglesong, my junior history teacher. She slept through 6th period while making us memorize 10 new dates a week. She made me hate history while I was living in a place filled with wonderful historical events. I learned all about them as an adult – no thanks to Mrs. Foglesong.

Mrs. Burts, my Spanish teacher who spoke Spanish with a Georgia drawl. I had just come up to Georgia from Ft. Lauderdale and couldn't understand all of the Southern accents. So the "Southern Spanish" didn't click with me. I could understand it if I looked at it in the book but never felt like I could speak it because of the way she talked.

It would have to be between two teachers. Mrs. Kracofe who taught shorthand and bookkeeping (terrible teacher) and Mrs. Uhller who taught English. She was a bad teacher but in spite of her I got good grades in English.

Mr. Pierce. I had him for a world history class. He was a very abrupt person and he would say different things from one day to the next. There was one guy who would raise his hand and say, "Mr. Pierce, yesterday you said……" The teacher would say, "I lied," and keep going with his lecture. That same boy (an Air Force kid) fell asleep in our class one day… .last class of the day. He made us all slip out quietly without waking him up. All of the AF kids had a very long ride to Tyndal, the base, and I think someone went back to wake him up to be sure he got to the bus.

It goes without saying...Mr. Haines. One time he called Judy Hahn and me to the front of the class and had us stand with our arms down at our sides...the point being that Judy was heavy and her arms went out far and I was thin and mine didn't. He was not a very compassionate or nice man as I look back on it.

Mr. Troy, the band teacher. I was trying to learn to play the snare drum and he would yell, scream, and turn red in the face when someone made a mistake. We had to practice on wooden blocks. We didn't get to use the real drums very often because they made too much noise. I never did learn to play the snare drum.

I forgot her name……….she amused herself by being sarcastic and constantly reminding me that I had a small mind and I deserved the poor grades I got.

Mrs. Jackson. She spent every class toadying to the children of wealthy, more prominent people and totally ignored the rest of us. Most of us stopped raising our hands when we knew the answers because she would never call on us. I don't think she even noticed.

Those of you who have children and grandchildren in school might want to ask them about their most and least favorite teachers. Their answers may surprise you.

P.S. Click on the image and read part of a story from Carl's First Grade Reader.

Nesting

Birds nest in the spring but women nest in the fall.

There is a certain instinct that unexpectedly takes over one day. The temperature has dropped a little, the humidity is lower, and a stray breeze not felt during July and August whispers past as you walk outside. Without even thinking about it, nesting season begins.

My friend, Brenda, called a couple of weeks ago and said, "I think I'm nesting; I've made corn/potato chowder and a loaf of cranberry nut bread today." Coincidentally, I had made split pea soup the day before and homemade croutons to go with it. We agreed that the fall nesting season has begun and we are happily embracing it.

Fall is a time for cozy evenings wrapped in an afghan. A time for making a slow transition to warming, filling soups and stews, apple pie, bread pudding, and hot tea instead of salads, sandwiches, iced tea, and lemonade. A time to say goodbye to stifling days, sweat, and bug spray. A time when our attention begins to turn inward rather than outward. A time to walk outside and look around just for the pure joy of it

Soon it will be time to close up the house and turn on the heat or light the fireplace. It will be time to bring out the heavy sweaters and coats. It will be time to worry about our ears getting cold when we go for a walk. It will be time to look out the window and see bare trees and brown grass. It will be time to begin the sometimes frantic shopping that goes along with the winter holidays.

But for now, fall is here with its glorious colors and fresh, invigorating air. And women are beginning to nest.

Favorite Teachers

Do you have great memories of a favorite teacher? Did any of your teachers influence your life? If you are a teacher, do you wonder about your legacy in your chosen field?

Last year, after receiving the same "friendship" quiz for what seemed like the hundredth time, I decided to create a friendship quiz that would tell me something more than where my friends were born, their middle names, and favorite foods and colors – most of which I already knew. It is a quiz that, when finished, is nice to share with children and spouses as well as friends. Creating such a quiz was more difficult than I originally thought. This is not a quiz one sends to everyone on his or her mailing list.

One of my friends has pondered over my quiz since last October. When I finally received her answers a couple of weeks ago, I went back and re-read the answers from other friends who have responded.

One of the questions is: Who was your favorite elementary school teacher and why? Today I am going to share a few memories of favorite elementary school teachers. To all of you dedicated elementary school teachers out there; you did make a difference. Thank you.

Some favorite teachers were:

(1) Juanita King, my 3rd/4th grade teacher who read a chapter of "Bears of Blue River" after last recess if we were good. She encouraged my love of reading (2) Lyda Smith, 6th grade teacher, who gave us art lessons with supplies she bought herself and encouraged my love of art. Both influenced my life.

Miss Mary Thuma in first grade. Even though I had to stand in the corner for talking, she became one of my most beloved teachers.

Mrs. Sweet, her name fit her perfectly. She adopted a boy when he was at least 18 and he was so proud of it and she was so proud of him. I remember that he came by the school every now and then to see her. She was a very good teacher and cared about her students. I remember we had a turtle in a bowl in the back of the class and they thought it had died. Well I got the turtle and sort of pressed on its shell kind of like CPR and the turtle started to move and woke up or whatever. She called me Doctor Sally announcing it to the class that the turtle was fine now, thanks to me.

Mrs. Teeter. Her husband was the school principal. She was just a warm, loving teacher.

Mrs. Masters was my 6th grade teacher and although I don't remember specifics I remember she was kind and had us memorize Bible verses...she was tall, thin and very "scholarly" looking; like teachers ought to be (the scholarly part I mean).

Mr.Jake Cain was my only elementary school teacher. He taught first through eighth grades in a one-room school so everything I learned was learned from him. He was a good teacher although he got a little hot under the collar sometimes if people weren't paying attention.

Ms. Ralph. She was a tough woman who loved teaching science and listened to what we all had to say. She rarely smiled but when she did, she lit up the room.

If these memories make you think of your own favorite teachers, take time to thank them if they are still around. If you'd like to take my friendship quiz, let me know and I'll send it to you. Stay tuned for those not-so-favorite teachers who also serve as examples.

P.S. Pictured above is one of my favorite teachers, Juanita King Burdette. Lyda Smith passed away several years ago but not before I told her how much she was appreciated.

When A Weed Is Not A Weed

I saw the first evidence of turning leaves on our red maple yesterday and I needed an afghan to sit on the porch with my first cup of coffee this morning. Those of you who do not live in the south cannot imagine how wonderful it felt.

With coffee cup in hand, I wandered down to the back yard to assess the damage I knew had occurred during our 90+ degree days when I simply pretended there was nothing out there that needed my attention. I was anticipating head-high weeds in certain places and I must say there were plenty of weeds to be found.

But there, in one corner of the garden, was a beautiful sight – the sky blue wild ageratum I rescued from a roadside ditch in West Virginia years ago. I have been picking stems of it for bouquet fillers now and then while not really appreciating that it has sat there all summer, looking beautiful, with no water and no care. The cultivated variety would have turned up its toes and died a horrible death by now.

A weed? I think not.

Favorite Things

I have finally finished my Southern Colours project. It will be a long time before I choose such complicated subject matter again. Believe it or not, the most difficult part was addressing the envelopes because of the perspective and the difficulty of making such fine lines with pastel. The elements I included in this painting are: clock, fabric, flower, seedpod, metal, and pepper.

I paint what I love and the objects in my painting reflect that. I've already talked about the clock. There's something about the quiet tick-tock and the hourly chimes that make our house feel cozier somehow. The lamp is one of a pair from the 1920s. I love the way the frosted globes make the crystals glow. The scarf beneath the letters is one that belonged to my mother-in-law who loved to embroider. The letters are actually past orders for my book, "Everyone's A Whittington," but I changed one address to Pepperdine University just for fun because pepper was one of the elements from which to choose. The other letter is from Shirley Prunty, my still forever-friend who went to elementary school with me when we both lived in the tiny town of Leon, West Virginia..

Paintings sometimes take on a life of their own. When I began this painting, I had no idea what time would be reflected in the hands of the clock. By the time I got to the last day of the painting, the only time that seemed right was twenty minutes till eleven. It wasn't a time I chose for any particular reason. When Carl saw it he said, "That's the time you finished the painting; right?" He was correct but I had decided on the time without knowing what time I would finish. It is also twenty minutes before the time we were married. The painting makes me remember how I was feeling at that time on that day so many years ago. My feelings haven't changed. There's a lot more to art than meets the eye.

Poetry from the Heart - Chapter 2

Several of you have asked that I publish my continuation of the poem about Grandpa so I'm doing that now. My cousin was 23 years old when he wrote his poem. There aren't many young men that age writing poetry today – especially about their grandfathers.

The picture on the left depicts two of my brothers and me on our creek bank in Leon, West Virginia, with Grandpa fishing in the background, of course. I was wearing a hand-me-down bathing suit from my Aunt Millie. It was gold and black and made me feel very grown up. And don't overlook those Roman sandals!

Here is my continuation of:

MY GRANDPA – NOW FINISHED

‘Ja ever listen while he sang?
Try not to when he said, “Gol Dang!”
‘Ja ever help him plant a tree?
Or have him hold you on his knee?

‘Ja ever shiver as he spoke,
Of ghosts and ghouls and “hanted” folk?
‘Ja ever see his strange delight,
At Coalie in a groundhog fight?

With strong cuss words when he was riled,
He sometimes drove my Grandma wild,
But no matter what we heard,
We didn’t dare repeat a word.

‘Ja ever learn to row a boat?
Or build a raft of twigs to float?
‘Ja ever fly a June bug kite?
Or watch a snapping turtle bite?

His old harmonica made me dance;
Round and round and round I’d prance.
Played soft and low, could make me weep;
I still can hear it, in my sleep.

‘Ja ever watch him light the fires?
Or help him grub the running briars?
‘Ja go with him to the berry patch?
Or help him clean his fishy catch?

Sometimes we woke at dawn’s first light,
To watch a baby bird in flight.
We looked for pearls in mussel shells,
Dug ginseng roots in ferny dells.

He was tough as nails and soft as gauze,
From hollow reeds he made us straws.
Blew bubbles in the fading light,
And watched with us the dark’ning night.

My Grandpa never spoke of love,
Just made our lives a treasure trove.
Although his body I can’t see.
My Grandpa’s spirit lives in me.

......Now Finished

By Sallie Burns Atkins

Poetry From The Heart

My grandpa was a most unusual man. He and my grandmother lived with us the entire time I was growing up. Because of that, our farm was the gathering point for my many aunts, uncles, and cousins. While difficult to live with from an adult point of view, his grandchildren adored him.

When I was about ten years old, my oldest male cousin wrote a poem about Grandpa. He titled it "My Grandpa - Unfinished" because, he said, Grandpa wasn't finished yet. I finished the poem about three years ago.

Today, I introduce you to my Grandpa, Peter Franklin Burns, as viewed by his oldest grandson, Harley Wallace Bias, Jr.

"MY GRANDPA – UNFINISHED" by Harley Wallace Bias, Jr.

My Grandpa used to teach me things,
'Bout whittlin' and makin' swings,
And how to bait a hook just right,
To get the biggest fish to bite.

Just when to plant a field of corn,
And how to patch a glove we'd worn,
To recognize each bird in flight,
And what made what in sound at night.

To thump for just the proper sound,
On watermelons that we'd "found."
To make sure that the one we ate,
Was sweet and red and tasted great!

'Ja ever dig a mulley grub?
Or hide a bullfrog under a tub?
Or poke a stick at a garter snake?
Or skim flat rocks on a backyard lake?

'Ja gather leaves at Fall's first frost?
And find an arrowhead, long lost?
To conjure on its plane and flight,
Of battles fierce or foe's delight?

'Ja ever drink from a trickling spring?
And think of the hundreds of other things?
That time on time and time ago,
Had sucked and quenched their thirst just so?

We heard the whippoorwill at night,
And threw rocks up at bats in flight,
And watched moths flutter near a fire,
Caught lightnin' bugs in an old fruit jar.

'Ja ever jump on a cornstalk sheaf,
To watch quail fly from underneath?
Or trail a rabbit through the snow?
Or read a book by candle glow?

We'd amble, too, beside the crick,
And poke at crawdads with a stick,
And talk of dragonflies and bees,
Of honey comb in secret trees.

………….Never Finished

About Rain, Crystals, and Friends

Yesterday brought just enough light to work on my Southern Colours project after several days of dark clouds and heavy rain here in parched Georgia. Meanwhile, my favorite activity has been stomping through puddles, barefoot, on the way to and from picking up the morning paper at the end of the driveway. It was dark and none of my neighbors were awake to see me, although I'm not sure that would have mattered. A two-year exceptional drought has a way of making one appreciate rain. I will never again complain about a rainy day.

In any event, when the sun peeped through briefly, I hurried to the sun porch where my art supplies reside. A stray thought just crossed my mind: Why does no one ever call it a rain porch?

The crystals have been calling me so that's where I began. Anyone who has looked closely at a crystal knows they are both clear and many-colored – quite a challenge to capture on paper with sticks of dry pigment. I'm not sure that I'm finished but my artist friends will be glad to jump in and tell me if I need to make changes. That's what friends are for.

All of us need friends who are brave enough to tell us where we are going astray and suggest what we need to do about it. Compliments go only half way. That applies to life and not just art. A real friend is one who has the courage to tell us what we would sometimes prefer to not hear. It's called truth. If you have such friends, never let them go. If you don’t have one, find one. If you aren't one, be one.

How to create a brand new recipe

This is the plum torte I made yesterday. It is nothing like the original recipe.

My friend, Camilla, sent me a recipe for Plum Cake. Since Camilla is a wonderful cook, I always pay attention when she sends me something. I made the cake and it was wonderful – just like the plum tortes found in German bakeries. I'd never used plums in baking before and I was hooked. My family loved it. We had plum cake as long as plums were in season that summer.

Another year rolled around, the plums were beautiful, and I made another plum cake. It was nothing like the original. It was tall and fluffy and the plums sank down into the batter. I called Camilla and she said, "But that's how it is supposed to be." Rats! We didn't want tall and fluffy; we wanted dense and crusty. We yearned for the old plum cake.

My left brain began exploring how this could be happening. What had changed? It was an aha! moment. I had purchased new baking powder and I might have used different flour. What to do? I had to make that cake thinner and more dense somehow.

I set out to recreate the plum cake we knew and loved and, in the process, created a brand new recipe. To heck with calling it Plum Cake. It's my recipe now and I call it Plum Torte. Try it. You'll think you've been to a German bakery. You, too, Camilla.

PLUM TORTE

1 cup un-sifted bread flour
½ tsp. baking powder
1/8 tsp. salt
½ cup unsalted butter, softened
¾ cup sugar + 3 tbsp. sugar for topping
2 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
4 or 5 ripe plums, cut into ½ inch thick slices

Preheat oven to 350. Grease & flour a 9-inch springform pan. Mix dry ingredients. Beat butter and ¾ cup sugar until fluffy. Beat in eggs & vanilla. Stir in flour mixture (with a spoon). Spread batter in pan. Starting at edge, arrange plums in circular fashion. Top with 3 tbsp. sugar. Bake 50-55 minutes or until done. Let cool 10 minutes. Remove sides of pan. Serve with whipped cream (or not).

A Southern Colours Project - 4

After spending most of last week helping my artist friend, Sally Arnold, create a Southern Colours blog, I'm finally back to working on my painting. I've missed it.

It is amazing what one can see when one really looks. Artists are taught to squint and open up our minds to seeing shapes and colors instead of a "lamp," or "clock," or "person." Once you get it, the world never looks the same. Shapes and colors are everywhere.

Painting this brass candlestick lamp made me realize, once again, that brass isn't just gold and brown. Look at the blues, oranges, pinks, and dark reds I've found. Although I've had it for many years, I didn't realize my lamp has feet with toes until I looked at it from an artist's point of view. Surprise! The artist's world is an amazing kaleidoscope that sometimes takes my breath away.

Tomorrow I hope to begin painting the crystals. I can hardly wait to see what shapes and colors I will find. Meanwhile, I will probably find myself squinting to find abstract shapes in the mop water while I catch up on the housework I've been neglecting.

I mentioned the Southern Colours blog. It's finished and ready for the world see. Give yourself a treat and take a look at all of the wonderful art that happens every Friday in Lilburn, Georgia.

VISIT SOUTHERN COLOURS

Meet My Friend, Marie. . .

This is my friend, Marie, with her first watercolor painting. I met Marie last winter when she and her parents moved next door. Carl and I hosted a going-away party for our former neighbors combined with a welcome party for our new neighbors.

Marie and her parents expressed an interest in my art so I took them on a tour. Before the evening was over, Marie told me she wants to be an artist when she grows up and I said perhaps we could have an art lesson this summer.

While talking casually in our driveway awhile back, Marie disappeared and returned with a picture she had drawn and colored. We scheduled our art lesson for later that week.

The big day arrived. I selected Marie's Watercolor Pigment for our lesson. Marie and I talked about the importance of painting what you love. She loves flowers and butterflies. We chose flowers from the garden and put them in a blue vase. We talked about squinting and drawing shapes and Marie followed along perfectly, even drawing the "ears" on the vase. It was a perfect hour except that we forgot the butterfly so Marie painted a butterfly while she was on vacation and presented it to me afterward. It is proudly installed on our kitchen counter. Another vacation brought a special gift from Marie and her brother, Duane – real B.B. King Barbecue Sauce that is made only in Memphis. We're having it tonight on barbecued chicken.

Marie and her family have given me a great gift - the gift of friendship. I do believe Marie will be an artist when she grows up.

Doing What is Right

Although I am not a Catholic, I was hugged by a priest this morning and it felt wonderful.

My day hasn't gone as planned. I finished my morning coffee, read the newspaper, and was checking my e-mail when I opened a notice from the editor of our neighborhood newsletter. It stated that a former neighbor, John McNalley, had died. It was 9:40 a.m. and the funeral was at 10:30.

I didn't know John McNalley very well. I met his wife, Ann, when she joined Southern Colours shortly after Father Paddy gave his permission for us to paint at St. Stephen on Fridays. He asked us to invite members of their church who might be interested. The only person interested was Ann McNalley. Ann and I subsequently discovered that we live in the same neighborhood. She was part of Southern Colours for a short time and then she gave it up.

The McNalleys sold their home last fall and moved into an assisted living facility. We hadn't talked for a while until Ann called me for advice concerning the art supplies she would no longer have room for. She wanted to donate them to a worthy cause.

Many thoughts went through my mind as I sat there reading about Ann's husband; age 85, a graduate of the University of South Carolina and Georgia Tech, a gunnery officer in the Navy during WWII, married to Ann since 1949, five children, many grandchildren, and founder of a Catholic church. Ann had just lost her husband of 59 years.

My first thought was that I really should go to the funeral. My second thought was that I didn't have time to get ready. My hair was a mess and I hadn't showered. My third thought was that Ann wouldn't care what I looked like. My fourth thought was that I hope none of my friends will miss my funeral for such superficial reasons.

I raced upstairs, threw on a decent outfit, went to John's funeral, gave Ann a hug, and met their children. And then Father Paddy gave me a hug. It felt just like the hug I would have gotten from my parents if they were here to see that, this morning, I did what they taught me to do. They taught me that there are times when we should do what is right rather than what is convenient. It felt wonderful.

A Southern Colours Project - 3

Every Friday is a Southern Colours day. We gather from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. to paint together, share related art news, exciting new techniques, what's going on with local shows, who has won awards, and check out everyone else's work, usually beginning with a line-up of works-in-progress offered for critique. My painting isn't quite ready for a critique since so many parts of it haven't progressed beyond the block-in stage. That doesn't mean that several of my cohorts didn't wander past and offer helpful comments. It's part of what makes Southern Colours so special.

I worked on the base of the lamp all morning. Those of you who are not artists might wonder how it is possible to spend an entire morning painting a lamp base that's approximately 12 inches tall and 2 inches wide. I have done entire paintings in less time but I have chosen a difficult subject in this case. I don't want it to look like a photgraph but it has to be rendered correctly and therein lies the challenge. Refine, refine, refine, and refine again until nothing looks obviously wrong.

I think I'm at the point where one more session will finish the lamp base. Notice that I have done a tiny bit of work on the first crystal. We've had a temperature drop. It will be 85 to 90 degrees rather than 95 to 98 degrees during the day. Now I have to decide between working on this painting tomorrow and attacking the weeds that are thriving in the garden while all of our desirable plants curl up and die.

Meanwhile, it's Sunday and my family is hoping I'll make a dessert to go along with our traditional Sunday dinner. I'm thinking it will be blueberry pie from the wonderful blueberries my friend, Faye, brought from her mother's Habersham County farm. Faye's mother, Clara, puts me to shame. She's gardening in the same 95 degree heat that I'm always complaining about and sharing her bounty with grateful hangers-on like me.

A Southern Colours Project - 2

It's 10:00 a.m. and already hot. I can see that refining my drawing of the lamp and, perhaps, adding a few darks will be the extent of this session.

One thing I immediately noticed when I began scrutinizing the lamp is that I, somehow, overlooked the correct angle of both the top of the piano where these two items are sitting and the linen scarf under the lamp and letters. I hope you didn't notice that floating clock! How could I leave something so obvious out of my drawing?

Although I've worked at producing a symmetrical drawing of all those rings and round shapes on the stem of the lamp, I can clearly see that it will need a lot more attention before it is correct. Painting this lamp may prove to be even more difficult than the clock. But it is hot, my eyes are sweating, and tomorrow is our regular Southern Colours painting session where I always get a lot of inspiration from my fellow artists - in an air conditioned room.

I've put a few more darks and another layer of red on the ribbon and that will be all for today. I can hardly wait to paint those crystals!

A Southern Colours Project

Unlike many of my artist friends, I do not have a studio where I can go and paint undisturbed. My studio is our sun porch, located on the western side of the house. Since this is August in Georgia, I paint in the mornings before the sun comes around the corner and raises the temperature to almost 100 degrees. In addition to that, I must banish Lily Pearl to the nether regions to prevent her from becoming a technicolor cat instead of her usual pristine white.

I've been working on our latest Southern Colours art project - creating a painting that includes 5 of 8 predetermined elements - metal, pepper, wine glass, pot, flower, fabric, seed pod, clock. I've decided to post my progress.

The clock is mostly finished at this point. It is an Ansonia more than 100 years old that Carl bought from a friend when we lived in Ohio. It is almost finished except for the hands. I can't decide what time it should be. Perhaps it will be the time I finally finish this painting. Or perhaps it will be a time that is significant to me. Or perhaps the hands will simply partially cover those numerals that gave me fits.

This morning made me wonder why in the world I chose a subject with so much detail and so many curves and circles. Have you ever tried to draw and paint a recessed circle within a circle? Especially one that is facing away from you and is not really a circle? I can only blame it on Bill Hosner, my most recent workshop teacher, whose advice is to always choose the harder subject when faced with a choice. I can safely say he would be proud of me.

I think I'll work on the lamp tomorrow. After all, this is a pastel and I must start at the top and work down in order to avoid ruining anything I might have completed at the bottom. Or I could turn the painting over and work upside down. We'll see.

ABOUT SALLIE ATKINS

• I am an artist, a writer, and a genealogist.

• I was born in Leon, West Virginia, have lived in Worthington, Ohio; Raleigh, North Carolina; and now reside in Lilburn, Georgia.

• My family consists of my husband, Carl; my son, Scott; my grandson, Greg; and our snow white, blue-eyed cat named Lily Pearl.

• My life's history includes a rewarding career with IBM that culminated in managing their Telecommunications Production Center in Raleigh, NC.

• I co-founded the Southern Colours Art Association after moving to Lilburn and am the president of the Southeastern Pastel Society. Check out both organizations at http://www.southerncolours.com/ and http://www.southeasternpastel.org/

• I established this blog to share my art, my writing, and my family history.