A Bookworm Celebration

It's been a long time since my last blog, and even longer since my last book review. This one has special meaning. I finally moved one book off the pile of BTR (Books to Read) on my bedside table. Ron Rash's The Caretaker had been there a while along with several other unread treasures. I'm celebrating the fact that I finished a book. This comes from one who has read before bed every night since I was 12. My first book to read was Phyllis Whitney's Mystery of the Green Cat. I was hooked. Last December 28, my nighttime reading stopped. I had a bad case of flu, strain A. I was in a painful state for over a week, and the cough continued for weeks. But the worst of it was that I suggenly realized that my vision was not normal. I already has a central vision deficit in my right eye. But this new hazy, distorted vision was in my left "good" eye. I had a flare of dry macular degeneration in that eye several years ago. My doctor at Mid-South Retina told me that I was in the 3 percent of patients who recovered vision after that happened. A month later, bam, here it was. When I looked at people it looked like part of their heads had caved in. Everything had a red tint. My fingers looked longer that they should, and were much more crooked that they aleady are. I couldn't read. In early January I saw another doctor at the same clinic and he said that I had wet macular degeration with a lot of fluid in that eye. He gave me an injection in that eye. No big deal. I've had dozens. When I saw my regular doctor at Mid-South in February he scheduled me for monthly injections. Last visit he said all we could hope for was that this stabilizes. It's not expected to improve. I cried on the way home. My mother had ARMD (Age Related Macular Degeneration) and I watched as her depression began and her world closed in. I'm not doing that, I said. So, after three injections, I really do see some improvements. People now have round heads. My fingers don't look as creepy, and I'm driving again. If this is what I'm left with, I can stand it. I'm eating so many blueberries I fear I may turn blue, and I take ARed eye vitamins. We prayed. My doctor was the first to pray with me, and then Howard and I prayed, as did my Sunday School Class. Before I retired, my boss gave me a set of little magnifying glasses in different sizes. He must have known that they would come in handy some day. They had silver handles in different fine cutlery patterns. I have them scattered all over the house where I usually land. I say all this not to bring attention to myself, but to encourage people to have regular eye exams, be aware of changes. If your friends seen to have heads that have caved in, for Heaven's sake, go to a specialist. Someone said to me, "Are you going to quit riding your horse?" To which I replied, "Well, no. She's not blind, and she knows where she is going." PS: I loved The Caretaker. This wasn't a proper review. Maybe later. Also, it's been so long since I wrote a blog, that I can't get this stupid program to indent my paragraphs. I know better.

Cash the hero

Let me tell you about our black Labrador——Cash in Black. This is not an obituary. No, he is still with us. We got Cash from Howard's bird-hunting friend and his wife, Bruce and Phyllis Hawkins. Cash is almost 14, and that's really old for a Lab. He has bad skin. He sports little tumors all over his body. One of those nasty things is the size of a ripe canteloupe. His eyes are cloudy from cataracts, and he can barely walk. Most days he can be found on the back steps, sleeping in a coma-like slumber. I stand there sometimes to watch and see if he is going to take another breath. He always does. When people come to our house, they look at him and then look at us, as if to say, "Why don't you let him go?" I've asked that question myself. Howard just says, "He's not ready." Cash proved that recently.

In anticipation of being left dogless except for my aging Silky Terrier, Howard got a heeler mix wild puppy (Katie Barr the Door) which he loves more than he does me. They ride on the Mule every afternoon that weather permits. She sharpens sticks, has dug up all my flower beds, has chewed through a leash, pulled the weather stripping off the back door and anything else she can get her needle-sharp teeth into. That includes Cash——his ears, his tail, his feet. He puts up with it. That's why he is still here. To raise that wild thing and Sassy the kitten. When Cash has enough torture, he puffs out a semi-growl, and she quits for two seconds. He doesn't have enough teeth left to bite anything. When she is tired he lets her snuggle up beside or on top of him. When she was still tiny she slept on his head. Katie is not the only animal in the dog pile. He (Howard) also brought home a kitten, Sassy cat, while I was on a trail ride. She has funny markings but is mainly white. When it rains (I think it has rained twice since we have had them),they line up single file and truge at Cash's pace down to the horse barn to sleep in the hay. Katie chews on the kitten too. She is young and fiesty enough not to let it go too far and gets out her boxing gloves and works poor Katie over good.

I think Cash must remember what a bad baby Lab he was, and that's why he is hanging around and putting up with all this nonsense. He ate the pool cover, chewed the gas lines on the grill, ate every kind of bed I got him, and destroyed beach towels just for the thrill.Even this past summer he swam laps in the pool. Well this year, maybe just a dip. I tried to make him behave. He went to obedience school when he was about four months old. He would do what he was told——sit, stay, heel, etc and then fall out at my feet and sleep like he was drugged. We went to another obedience class and by this time, he was awake. He was fine until a little poodle passed by and he wanted to get in her personal space. I had to take him out of the class. Then my friend Mary, who raises and trains dogs, took him for two weeks. She is stronger and meaner than I am, so he did great for her. When I got him home, he could tell I was a wimp by just looking at me. For Howard, he was Mr. Perfect.

So I miss him already—the handsome, confident boy that he was. If we hadn't had him, how in the world would we have raised the wild puppy and silly cat? He knows it's not time. Not quite. Hope you enjoy the pics.

Help me celebrate my Jilly

I never intended my blog to be a wailing wall where I bemoaned life's tragedies. With this in mind, I ask you to celebrate and appreciate my magnificent mixed breed dog, Jilly. She was a big part of our lives and we will miss her. But, Oh, what a dog.

Two weeks ago Hayley brought her beautiful chocolate lab Daisy, home to our place. We planted daisies on her grave. Today I laid my sweet Jilly Possum next to her. We have dreaded this moment for several weeks.

 

So tonight I ask you to indulge me as I tell you more about her. I got her at our local shelter during spring break of 2010. The story was that two sister dogs, that they called collies, came to a woman’s house and both had puppies—21 in all. First, I think they were Border Collies, not Rough Collies. The puppies were incredibly cute. They looked like fluffy little Border Collies. Many, as did Jilly, had an eye patch marking.

 

I went to the shelter to ask about the one I’d seen in our local paper. They quickly said that she had been adopted, but they had 20 more just like her. I was in puppy overload. I picked Jilly because of her sweet disposition and beautiful markings. Her only flaw was that she was a little timid.

 

So we brought her home. Howard said she looked like a little white possum with her little pointy nose. From that point on, he called her Possum. The rest of us called her Jilly, so named by my grandson Garrett. He must have seen a cartoon starring a possum. Babies are called Joeys, males are Jacks, and females are Jills. How did he know that?

 

She had a rough go at first after being spayed a little early and being a little wormy. (gross) We propped her up on the bed next to some of Bella’s toys. That is Jilly next to baby Shrek. She overcame her timidness and remained sweet and extremely loyal to me. Howard taught her to shake, sit, stay, and down when she was too young to be doing those things.

A few months later we were given a registered black lab puppy who we named Cash in Black for Johnny Cash. I enrolled him in basic obedience school at Northwest. He would do a few commands, and being a big goofy puppy, he would fall out beside me and sleep. I think they passed him to get him out of there.

 

Then we went to Sandra Selph Gooch in DeSoto County for the next training step.  Cash was easily distracted and was pulling on my shoulder that had not quite healed from surgery. Sandra let me swap Jilly for Cash and even though she had missed half the lessons, she caught up and graduated with flying colors. Here she is at her graduation, mortar board and all. 

I registered her through AKC (American Kennel Club) as an American Dog. This is a registry that allows mixed dogs to compete in trial competition without being registered. I had good intentions, but we never did show, but she could have.

My friend Terry who has collie show dogs, was determined to get Jilly as white as she could. She found a bottle of blue toned shampoo for horses and thought she would give it a try.  As you can see in this pic, it turned her blue and she stayed that way for six weeks. I got lots of comments 

As she grew, I was more sure than ever that she had herding dog bloodlines. When my granddaughter, who were about five at the time, would run and squeal, as little girls do, she would circle them and try to herd them onto the back patio 

We took her camping with us a few times. She liked going places and walking around the campground, on a leash of course. 

At home, Jilly would go from window to window to watch what we were doing and hoping if she sat there smiling long enough she could come inside.

A few years ago the shelter did a calendar of dogs that they had placed in homes. Jilly made the cut and was Miss March, if I remember correctly.

 

This winter she began to show her age. It happened so fast. It was our routine to me to call her and we played a game where she assumed the “play” stance—rear end up in the air, paws splayed out. I would bark and she would bark back.  This winter she barked but was not playful.

 

And suddenly, I knew. She was so smart, beautiful, playful.  She was not a fur baby (I dislike this term). She was part of our lives. I don’t know if our dogs will be in heaven, but I do know that God put them on earth to enrich our lives, comfort us when we need it, make us laugh, and teach us many life lessons.

So tonight we are sad but at peace. No crying in the night as I have heard many nights before, No giving meds in the dark. And because Cash is lonesome, he got a ham bone all to himself.

Here are a few of the scenes that made us love Jilly.

Western lore for Bryer's Easter bucket

  

In this week of Easter, there is bunny, chicken, duckling, and lamb cuteness decorating store windows and lining the shelves of gift shops. However, my baby grandson has a new Easter basket, or should I say, bucket with a different kind of decoration.

His mama, my daughter, had her friend Lisa Cobb to adorn the bucket with the image of a jackalope. If you aren’t a Westerner or a fan of the western plains culture, you may not be familiar with this mystical creature, the jackalope. Mystical, is he?

 

My daddy lived his childhood and teenaged years in west Texas and New Mexico. He brought his love of all things Western back to Mississippi, and my children and I have included the lore and customs into much of our lives.

 

I can remember sitting in his lap and looking at his photos of “Out West.” In that collection was a vintage postcard of a cowboy riding a GIANT hare, the jackalope. The creature is a cross between a giant hare (jack rabbit) and an antelope, or more specifically, a pronghorn.  It is much like the one on the card I have included, except our cowboy is riding a wild, bucking, rearing rabbit with horns. Olivia has had me on a hunt for the postcard for a while now, and we can’t find it.

It seems that jackalopes have shown up in art as early as 1280. Some say they are small and more rabbit-like with a single horn. Those probably did exist, but scientist says they are ordinary wild rabbits which have a fungal growth protruding for their head. Well, that’s no good mystical tale.

 

Others are described as weighing 150 pounds and having a nasty disposition. Cowboys sitting around the campfire told of hearing a creature making noises that mimicked the human voice  and made sounds like they were throwing their voices to different locations. The legend, also told by old-time storytellers, is that the jackalope could only breed during a lightning storm. 

 

Two young brothers had a small set of horns on the ground and when he threw a wild hare down on them, he was struck with the idea that he could take them to a taxidermist and have it mounted as a jackalope.  The fad spread. President Reagan even had and jackalope doe and buck mounted above a door at his Rancho Del Cielo in Galeta, New Mexico, according to a photo courtesy of the Ronald Reagan Library.  

 

“Are they real?” I used to look up and ask daddy. 

“Sure, they are. You just don’t see any in Mississippi,” he would say, winking his eye and smiling.

 

Real or legend, see for yourself. Here is a link to a great article from High County News. It’s a great read. https://www.hcn.org/articles/books-the-legend-of-the-horned-rabbit-of-the-west

 

But we at my house know that bunnies, chicks, ducks, and lambs are not the reason we celebrate Easter. It’s for our living Jesus.

 

Resources

Legends of America.com

High Country News

            The Legend of the Horned Rabbit of the West

                        Michael Branch

 

 

BOOK REVIEW: Grisham knocks it out of the park with A Time for Mercy

To be honest, I had not read a John Grisham book since Sycamore Row. When I learned that A Time for Mercy, the sequel to his first book, A Time to Kill, was out, I couldn't download it onto my iPad fast enough.

Photo from jgrisham.com

I've followed Grisham's career for several reasons, but we'll get into that later.  You may recall that A Time to Kill featured young lawyer Jake Brigance. Good old Jake returns in this sequel having been appointed by Judge Omar Noose (Don't you just love it.  Judge Noose, ha!) to defend a young, skinny, shy teenager—Drew Gamble. The kid is accused of fatally shooting a local deputy at point blank range, and the community is demanding the death penalty.

Drew, his mother, and sister have been living with the hard-drinking and abusive guy for some time. Jake reluctantly accepts Noose's appointment to defend Drew. But when he starts digging, he uncovers more than the obvious about the case. That's all I can tell you, except that the characterization was so real, and the plot was brilliant, and the dialogue very believable.

The book is a page a turner—that's for sure. Jake is played by Matthew McConaughry in the Time to Kill movie. There is speculation that he might do an encore if this is made into a film. Problem is—The two cases are five years a part in book time.  In real time, the first movie was released in 1996, and now it's 2020. If anyone can pull this off, Matthew can. He credits the first movie with jump-starting his film career.

Well, back to the other part of this story. Why am I interested in John's career? Yes, I can call him by his first name. We are the same age, and we happened to be at then Northwest Junior College in Senatobia, Miss., at the same time. For me, those years were 1972-73 and 1973-74. 

Grisham in the 1974 Rocketeer,
the Northwest yearbook.

Herein lies the irony. I didn't ever run into John, that I know of during that time. I'm sure he would have remembered me. He came back to his alma mater soon after the release of The Firm movie, probably around 1994. That was my only face-to-face meeting with him.  He set up in the conference room in the McGhee Building to sign copies of his books.  His real reason for being there was that he had donated a short story to the Northwest Review, the literary magazine.

And it was at that event that he told the students that he had taken Freshman English from the late Miss Frances Smith, a no-nonsense English teacher who spoke with perfect diction. He did not make a good grade. When he got to Northwest he had planned to be a stand-out player, but his grades put a damper on that. He left Northwest and transferred to Delta State University.

"I decided I needed to leave," Grisham joked. "I could not trust such a promising career to coaches with such limited vision." This, from a July 3, 2015 article in The Clarion Ledger.

We, I, too am a published author. Since retiring from Northwest in 2010, I have written a three-book series including The Carving Place, The Bargain—Paulette's Story, and Finding Marian.

Like Grisham, I sold books from the trunk of my car, at local shops, and even a few from Square Books in Oxford. I think I read that he sold 50 books at his first signing. I sold 5 at Square Books. Grisham has made millions, an estimated $300 million on his writing career. I have barely broken even. And when I took Miss Frances Smith's English class at Northwest, I made an A.

Movie Review: Rebecca classic wins my vote

I was in junior high school when we had to do our first real book report.  I chose Daphne du Maurier's 1938 book, Rebecca. It helped that I could watch it on television when Alfred Hitcock chose the story for his first American film in 1940.  No, I wasn't born then. I had to wait and catch it on a late movie.

Now considered a classic, Rebecca, was doomed to be a hit. It was produced by David O. Selznick (Gone with the Wind, 1939) and starred Laurence Olivier as the handsome widow Maxim de Winter and Joan Fontaine as the second Mrs. de Winter.

Hitchcock's version was in black and white, which made the grand house of Manderley even more creepy. That film won the academy award for Best Picture and one for Best Cinemotography,

Jump to 2020 to the Netflix version. Armie Hammer is certainly the dashing Max de Winter. In this version he is much closer in age to his new bride.  Speaking of the bride, she is played by Lily James (Rose in Downton Abby).  

Mrs. Danvers, the evil housekeeper who is obsessed with Rebecca, makes life miserable for the new bride. Danvers is played by Kristin Scott Thomas. Sorry to say she reminds me of the villain Cruella de Vil, the fictitious character of 101 Dalmations, come to life.

All-in-all, I must say that I was not in the least scared by this new version set in modern day time. Manderley was not spooky, the color was too hot, and I'm sticking to the classic.

Old oak stirs memories

Our treeline view to the South has changed. The tallest tree was felled this week. Back in the early spring we had a severe thunderstorm. We heard a scary-close clap of thunder followed by lightening that lit up the sky.  Not long afterward, the weather alert on my phone told me, "lightening has struck 0.0 miles from your location."

I guess my big oak tree took the hit. It wasn't obvious until this summer when a huge scar was visible on her trunk and leaves began to drop far too early. This tree is special to us. It is known by our family as "the Girl Swing tree."

When our grandchildren were small, Howard and I went to Lowe's and bought rope and hardware to construct two swings. The Boy Swing had a round seat with one strand of rope. Garrett would hook his feet together under the seat and with a big push, he'd fly so high it made me nervous.  The little girls were about 3 so they couldn't yet be trusted on that swing.

Their swing had one wide seat with ropes on both sides and anchored to the perfect limb on the oak tree. The seat was wide enough for two little butts to sit on it side-by-side. They laughed and squealed as granddaddy pushed them higher and higher. That made me nervous too. Now I know it was magical.

The trees also served as markers in our Easter scavenger hunt. I would hide clues in various places on the property. The first clue sent them to the Girls' Tree. Clue number two sent them all the way back to the house, and three was a trip to the Boy's Tree. You get the idea. After several clue stops, they ended up at the location where the prizes were hidden.  They thought it was great fun, and the hunt was successful in burning up some of the energy created by too much Easter chocolate.

All that remains of my tree is the bare trunk. Our friend who cut the tree for the firewood, hauled off the massive limbs yesterday. 

I have a great respect for our trees. After all, I wrote a three-book series based on our family name tree (thecarvingplace.com). Even though our treeline is different, the upside is that I can see more of our pond. The kids are almost grown. I hope those tree swing memories stick with them.

Perfect Design

Hey guys. Take a look at this photo. Kinda gross, right. Hint: It's not a sea creature, not an alien creature. It belongs to one of our most beloved creatures, especially to me. In my opinion it is just one of the examples of proof that God loves all animals, and that man and beasts are beautifully designed.

https://honesttopaws.com/newborn-foals-hooves/

These are the feet of a newborn foal. This is eponychium, the soft capsule that protects a mare's uterus and birth canal from the sharp edges of the foal’s hooves during pregnancy and birth. The term also refers to the thicker skin around the fingernail and toenail in human anatomy. They are also referred to as “golden slippers” or “fairy fingers."

Without this soft tissue, the foal's sharp hooves would damage the mare's uterus and do damage going through the birth canal. 

Lyn Scruggs with Scruggs Quarter Horses agrees. "The ones we see are not this extreme. We call them feathers. We normally don't notice them after the first few hours. I imagine once they (babies) stand they start to disappear. That hoof hardens pretty quickly. And those front feet//legs are pushing out so hard during labor it's good there is softness there on the bottom of those feet"

These look almost like a strange variety of drooping lilies.

We raised many colts on our farm during the 1960-79 period.  But daddy did it the old fashioned way—usually leaving the mare in a pasture by herself and let nature take its course—and finding a new baby early in the morning. Such a sweet surprise. So I never saw this miracle since the feathers has disappeared by the time I saw the baby.

Another instinctive miracle—Have you ever wondered why our babies take a year or so to walk, while foals and calves and other animals walk right after birth? Being animals of prey, horses know that predators are attracted to the smell of the placenta and blood and will track to the site of the birth. That's why the mother and foal need to be able to travel and get away from that site as soon as possible. (https://www.horsenation.com/2016/03/21/what-the-muck-is-that-eponychium)

I know all my readers are not horse people. But I can't deny this perfect design is by the hand of God.

Job 12:7-10
7 "But ask the animals, and they will teach you or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; 8 or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. 9 Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this: 10 In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.

Toy Story—Western Style

My sweet friend and her 16-month daughter were coming for a visit one day this week. I dug deep in the upstairs closet for toys that she might like. Most of the little dolls looked like they needed a trip to the washing machine. Then I saw it!

The grand toy of my children's early days. My daddy gave this to my son when he was four or so. A Vintage Ertl Chevy Titan Bronco Bustin' Rodeo Set, made in the 70s and 80s. Under the influence of daddy (Hayley Dandridge), Jason was a cowboy for a time.

This thing sells for $299 new in the box. Mine is
not in new condition and I'm sure didn't
cost that in 1980.

Here is the description I found on eBay.

 Of course mine is not in pristine condition. But take a close look. This big rig trailer was meant to haul four horses and had a furnished living quarters including a bed, swivel captain's chair, dinette table, and a sofa.

I want you to know that I have never had a trailer like that. Notice the bucking bull and horse, rodeo clown, and barrel.Those are long gone from my house. You see there was a problem. I guess the bucking animals were supposed to be played with outside of the trailer. But they had to get there somehow, right?

Well to a small cowboy, they needed to go inside the trailer. The animals were bigger than the trailer, but by George, he got them in there. Some went in the back door of the trailer sideways, and some went through the sunroof in the top of the trailer. Maybe that's why they lost legs and I don't have them anymore.

The top of the trailer has a crack where he or one of his evil sisters tried to ride on top of if. The girls pretended it was a fancy horse show trailer, so they didn't need bulls and bow-legged cowboys.

Jason did, indeed, go through the cowboy stage. For a while he only wanted to wear jeans and boots....cause Granddaddy did. No shorts for him.

He roped and rode every piece of furniture in our house. His poor stuffed horse, Brown, took a lot of abuse. We still have him too. His neck is broken and he is missing an eye.

Here's Jason  in "perfect riding posture" on Tiger the pony. Next my little red-headed cowboy and me on High Spots Tobie, our all-time favorite horse.

Jason continued to ride on and off until his early teens when he realized his true talent on the baseball field and basketball court.

I know people my age sometimes dwell too much on the past. But sometimes when you find a vintage rodeo trailer, you find a little pocket of happiness. I didn't shed a tear.

Jason and his wife Janice. Thay live in Memphis, where
they operate Senior Care Management Solutions. They have a daughter,
Caroline Dandridge Gibert, and a grown son Riley Allen.

Thanks for the memories.........

For those of us who are followers of Ernie Brents’ Facebook page, we have seen dozens of precious memories of Senatobia from days gone by, from the mid-1800s up to now. Pardon me if I use Ernie’s page to editorialize a bit, but these old photos have made me do some thinking.

Are we leaving downtown Senatobia with local businesses that our children and grandchildren will remember fondly?  Will they eat at a place like Roy’s Café, watch local craftsman like Lee Neal repair a boot, or walk to town to shop at Ben Franklin or with Mrs. Ruby Lyon at Volunteer Grocery? 

Even though those businesses are long gone, Senatobia is beginning to see growth in downtown. Just recently we have seen a beautiful mural come to life on the side of the old Varner’s Building, the future home of Community Pharmacy and Soda Fountain thanks to funds from the city and painted by artist Cristen Barnard. With funding from Sycamore Arts, another mural by artist Vitus Shell graces the wall of the Pocket Park at the corner of Main and Ward. 

Tate Nutrition, which sells nutritious teas and drinks, also opened its doors on Main Street.

On Front street, The Delta Steakhouse opened in the building formerly occupied by The Loft, and in my day, home for the Mississippi State Extension programs and U.S. Soil Conservation Service. Next door Is the beautiful home décor space of Wheat and Willow. This building had many other occupants including a funeral home, flower shop, and in the early days an Opera House.

The Five Star City Fest is growing each year, Market on Main is in its second year, and Movie Night in Gabbert Park is a hit. Thanks Senatobia Main Street. So….looks to me like we are leaving our children with a downtown that will spark sweet memories down the road.

And my second point is…Ernie tells me his collection of historical photos and memorabilia were collected from old newspaper clippings, found on microfiche, downloaded from the internet, and in old yearbooks.

With small hometown papers dying across the country, what historical documents are we leaving?  All across the country people have collected newsprint clippings from of their son’s little league team, award-winning vegetables and livestock, groundbreaking ceremonies for churches and buildings, and countless more events. These occasions may not have been national news material, but they are stored in frames, scrapbooks, old trunks and boxes belonging to people who treasured them.

I’m not against new technology. And I think that looking at the events of the past keeps us grounded and tells us who we are, but we also need to look at today and into the future. Where will people a half century from now find a photo of a church built in the 2000s, or an article describing a Garden Club meeting that their Great Aunt had held at her home….maybe a home that doesn’t exist.

Hats off to the remaining small papers, especially the Tate Record. And thanks for the memories Ernie Brents and David Grisham’s Senatobia History and Landmarks Facebook page.

PS: If I left out a new business, forgive me.

Plague invades north Mississippi

We read in the Bible about the seven plagues of Egypt. Not to make light of blood, frogs, lice, boils and such, but I think we have a new plague in this part of Mississippi......STICKERS! Last year we had stickers, but not like this. Until then, I can't remember battling the pesky little things. They are actually burweed or spurweed.

I have been taking a survey of all my neighbors.  "Do you have stickers?"
"Yes!" they usually respond.

These are not just little prickly pests. They hurt, they draw blood, they make grown men cry. The jump off the ground and attach their burs to your toes if you are wearing sandals or crocks. You need snake boots to water the lawn.

What's worse, is that they invade the house. You can check the bottom of your shoes and see the burs imbedded in your athletic shoes, sandals, and especially flip flops.

And once in the house, look out!  They are stuck in the rug and bath mat. Then they get in the clothes hamper, and before long they are in the laundry and your underwear.  OUCH!

According to The University Georgia the plants are native to coastal Georgia. The seeds must have come in on the wind. From what I've read and been told, it is too late to do much about it this year. This winter when we have forgotten about them, we need to spray a pre-emergent to stop next year's crop.

All we can do this year is to cut the grass really close with a bagging mower and water the good grass really well.

Warning! Once they turn from green to brown they are really deadly. Besides stopping running children in their tracks, they also get between your dog's toes and make them look like a sad hound even if they are a curly poodle.

Good luck with your stickers. We might all need waders before this is over.

Listen to the music of the night

From the back porch you can see our shop and horse barn
thanks to our security light. If you live in the country,
you just need a security light.

I've been sitting on my back porch with little Ellie the Silky Terrorist for her last visit outside for the night. She is mesmerized by the sounds—I like to call it my night music. She forgets why we are out there. Cash the lab is asleep in his Igloo doghouse with only his nose sticking out. Jilly, the shepherd I got from the shelter, is standing at the gate, ready to play. She has enjoyed this cold winter. Every time I come outside, she assumes her play position—rear end in the air, front end down, tail wagging, and she's smiling. She is 10 this year, but when it is cold, she plays like a puppy. When it's Mississippi hot, she moves with her head down and pants every breath. You would too if you had to wear a white fur coat that weighs 10 pounds.

So, while I'm waiting on Ellie to focus and remember why we are out there, I listen. A few nights ago I heard a female fox. We have heard the scream before, but this one was especially loud and really close. By the time I ran upstairs to get my phone to record it, of course, she quit screaming. It sounds like a damsel in distress shrieking out by the propane tank. I'll try to get a sample recording before the season is over.

Speaking of seasons.......Every frog in Tate County is down at my lake and they are all singing. If this means what I think it means, well, I don't want to think about it. I can just see all the tiny frogs-to-be dipping and diving in my swimming pool before long.

Looking into the dark with her special night vision is Lilly, the dilute calico cat. She is 14 and has never sat in my lap. My daughter found her in a wood pile, abandoned by her mother. When they moved, she didn't want to take her with them. My daughter is a dog person, not a cat lover. Her first word was DOG, not MOM. So, Lilly came to live with me. She has always been skittish. After all these years she will let me scratch her on the head. One move of my finger past her ears, and she's gone. When I go walking she follows about 10 steps behind me. If I stop suddenly and turn around, she freezes and looks away, like she is embarrassed that I caught her being somewhat social.

Almost time to go in when I hear a horse snort right at the backyard fence. This gray, wet, muddy winter has been hard on the two horses. My barn has been in a state of renovation, so I haven't been able to put them up on stormy nights. "What do you think the wild Mustangs do when it storms?" says my non-horsey husband. "They get hit by lightening," I reply. Come on spring, I say.

The horses look horrible, like big goats. Since the weather has been so cold, they grew extra hair. The long hairs under their chinny chin chins looks like a beard. They roll in the mud at least once a day. I dream of clipping their ears and giving them a warm soapy bath. "Quit being horse show Nancy," says one of my friends. "Be trail riding Nancy." I say, "Life is too short to ride an ugly, hairy horse."

My Memphis daughter-in-law is right—it is loud out here. Besides the sounds my animals and frogs make, I hear my neighbor's coon dogs baying. A distant siren blares, making my big dogs throw their heads back and sing. I'm so blessed to have night music and country dark. It makes my stars brighter.

Book two set to hit shelves early April

My new book, The Bargain, the prequel to The Carving Place, is in the proofreading stage. When I did the math to figure out how old Characters Asa Sinclair and Paulette would have been when this story began, I landed on the 1967-69 time frame.

Wow.  I started to include some of the cultural, political, musical situations that marked that landscape of time. There were too many. True rock and roll was new, culture was marked by experimental drugs, and free love.

Where were you in 1968? I was only 13, but was already feeling the influence of the music.

Instead of focusing on a cultural history lesson, I chose to weave just a little of it into the story so you knew where you were in time. I let Paulette Toliver, Asa Sinclair, and a host of new characters tell their own stories.

If you read The Carving Place, the new book is a prequel, telling you the story of Buck's mother Paulette and how he came to live with the Sinclairs.

I'm dedicating this book to the friendships of women, especially the relationship between and older woman and a young girl. I can't say more or I will spill the beans. Read The Carving Place before you read The Bargain.  The story will be more meaningful.

I hope to have the new book out around the first of April. So, get ready. Turn on the lamp on your bedside table and get ready for a night of reading. That's about how long it will take you to finish it. But I hope the characters of Paulette, Asa, Merry Bell, and Winston stay with you a long time.

I never tire of a good journalism flick, especially this one

I'm watching the 1976 movie All the President's Men for the umpteenth time. It helps if I let a few years lapse between viewings so that I can be blown away by the beautiful, raw, journalism that is demonstrated by Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward (Robert Redford) and Carl Bernstein (Dustin Hoffman) as they blow the Watergate scandal wide open.

Woodward and Bernstein

Robert Redford as Woodward and Dustin Hoffman as Carl Bernstein
walkerart.org  no copywriter infringement intended

In case you don't remember or were born before or near 1973, The Watergate scandal was a major political scandal that occurred in the United States during the early 1970s, following a break-in by five men at the Democratic National Committee (DNC) headquarters at the Watergate office complex in Washington, D.C. on June 17, 1972, and PresidentRichard Nixon's administration's subsequent attempt to cover up its involvement. After the five burglars were caught and the conspiracy was discovered—chiefly through the work of a few journalists, Congressional staffers and an election-finance watchdog official ^[1]—Watergate was investigated by the United States Congress. Meanwhile, Nixon's administration resisted its probes, which led to a constitutional crisis and the ultimate resignation of the President.

Watch trailer below

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLt6djxhNe8


This movie takes me back to the summer of 1973 when I was asked to be a news intern at WNJC, the NPR-affiliated station of then Northwest Mississippi Junior College. I had no longer finished exams than I started working with News Director Ann Muchmore,who taught me how to rip and read Associated Press copy, how to search for local, small-town news, get sound bites and much more. We didn't have long because May 17, 1973 the station began carrying gavel to gavel coverage of the Watergate hearings. They continued until Aug. 7, 1973—just in time to go back to class.

We never played a record all summer except at night after the hearings had adjourned for the day.

Later I worked with Dr. Ann Whitten, journalism instructor and director of Public Relations. She loved to show her journalism students a few good movies that she hoped would inspire them to be good reporters. All the President's Men was at the top of the list.

If we can get past the changes in the way the news was gathered in 1973 compared to today, we can still be inspired. The reporters' cubicles were armed with reporter's notebooks, rotary dial phones, dozen's of phone books for every city imaginable, and other research materials, cascading off the small desks. No click of a mouse to verify the spelling of a name or exact wording of a person's title. There was a lot of checking, rechecking, and verifying.

As soon as they interviewed a source, furiously taking notes in their spiral bound notebooks.....name, date, spelling of name, title, quote, any other background information, any phone numbers or references....They grabbed a form and furiously typed their notes to be kept in a file to be used when they began the first draft on the story.

Some of the quotes are classic.

"Ben Bradlee: Now hold it, hold it. We're about to accuse Haldeman, who only happens to be the second most important man in this country, of conducting a criminal conspiracy from inside the White House. It would be nice if we were right. 

(Ben Bradlee was the executive editor of The Washington Post from 1968 to 1991.^[1] He became a national figure during the presidency of Richard Nixon, when he challenged the federal government over the right to publish the Pentagon Papers and oversaw the publication of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein's stories documenting the Watergate scandal.) Wikipedia.com

"Ben Bradlee: Bernstein, are you sure on this story?
Carl Bernstein: Absolutely.
Ben Bradlee: Woodward?
Carl Bernstein: I'm sure.
Ben Bradlee: I'm not. It still seems thin.
Howard Simons: Get another source."

I didn't learn much about writing news that summer, but I learned a lot by listening. When the movie came out three years later, I was fascinated.  Still am.  Journalists of today should take note. 

Pray for Poplar, Montana

The view looking out our window in the house where we stayed with 25 other
volunteers. Air mattresses on every inch of floor space. 

A caravan of trucks, trailers, and cars traveled two days to the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, to Poplar, Montana, July 19-28 to conduct a four-day Wrangler Camp for kids. Bryant Lane Cowboy Church in Sarah, Three Trees Cowboy Church in Wynne, Ark., and Damascus Road Cowboy Church in Clinton, Ark., sent groups on the road for a brutal two-day travel to the Sioux Nation.

Each day started much like any Vacation Bible School. Kids were registered, contact information—if they had any—collected, then they were given granola bars and a juice box. Second step, inspection and treatment for head lice. Seventy-five percent were positive.

When we provided lunch, we noticed that many children came back and asked for an extra hamburger or hotdog to take home. We found food hidden all around the camp that they intended to come back for later to take to their siblings or caretaker.

Cowboys and cowgirls divided into eight teams led by trail bosses as the youth navigated eight activity stations. These included four horse riding stations, a mechanical bull, archery, shooting gallery, and a stop for a devotion. Who thought cowboys from Mississippi and Arkansas would go to Montana to teach Native Americans to shoot a gun and a bow and ride a horse?  Times have changed.

Roy Wooten at the shooting gallery.  

These kids have no hope!
Life on the remote Fort Peck Indian Reservation in northern Montana has all the ingredients for sex trafficking -- poverty, isolation, joblessness and violence, topped with an epidemic of crystal meth addiction. http://www.thedickinsonpress.com/news/crime-and-courts/4034703-fueled-drugs-sex-trafficking-reaches-crisis-montana-reservation

Most kids live with a "grandma" sometimes not related by blood, but someone who took them in.  Parents are meth addicts or alcoholics, are in jail, or just don't care. The traditional family is almost non-existent. Teen suicide is the highest in the nation in this community. There has been another young man lost to suicide since we left.

The mechanical bull was a favorite
at the camp and at the block party.

Day one of the camp, the youth were distant, stoic, hesitant to interact.  On day four they cried when we left.  We did too.

Two nights we hosted Block Parties at the Blue Church in town, a small Baptist Church with a membership less than 20.  Sunday services there were an experience we won't soon forget. We got to meet some families and members of the community. They came out for free food, cotton candy, rides on the mechanical bull.

The last night we had a special performance by the Pretty Little Feather Dancers. They dressed in traditional ceremonial regalia accompanied by singers and drummers. We even got to join them in the friendship dance. (pics to be posted in next article)

There is so much more to this story.  I'll be sharing more as I have time to process it.  In the meantime, pray for Poplar, Montana.

Rhydale LeMarr gave about 400 rides around the pen
before the week was over. An average of 144 kids a day
attended the camp.

Twins Rider and River were a
challenge to say the lease. Here
one of the boys can't wait
to get a hug from his
trail boss Rip Copeland
at the first Block Party.



Photos by Nancy Patterson
and Rip Copeland

Cotton candy at the block party.

Block party at the blue church.

Teresa Copeland, Olivia DeMuth, Pastor Tracy Wilson, and
Pastor Woody Key worship at the Blue Church.