Thursday, September 25, 2008

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.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

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.


Tuesday, September 16, 2008

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.




Tuesday, September 9, 2008

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.








Wednesday, September 3, 2008

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

Monday, September 1, 2008

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