An Old Album

While digging through the photograph albums for old camping pictures, I found these of

much earlier days.

Long ago styles and long ago pleasures; it appears to be so peaceful. The worst part of the day would be struggling into all those layers of clothes that the women wore! It has occured to me that it might take some careful planning if a suiter wished to sneak a kiss!

Some of this collection dates back to the early

1900s giving a glimps at life 100 years ago. Look at those hats, those long dresses and underskirts with high topped lace up shoes peeking out. Look at those tiny waists! And the guys with their suits and their hats cocked so jauntily. It must have been a good time in their lives; they all look carefree. In the overloaded swing, Mother is left, holding Byrd. I brlieve Ruth and far right, Paulina. Halton Cowling is seated on the steps, obviously used to the girls antics and ignoring them completly. He and Martha, the oldest girl, were the first to married and Martha guided her siblings through their early years. Throughout most of their marriage, their house was filled with visiting relatives.

What a pity the photography is usually of poor quality. These youngsters are Ruth's three boys, Billy, Ray,and Neil. Their father raised the boys after Ruth, their mother died.Martha raised their sister, Mary Lou.

Take a close look at that little red wagon. How about those large wheels of 100 years ago!

Left, brother Joe looks as though he is proposing to Kitty. A sweet picture and some tall stalks of cane.

Mother is peeking around Paulina in

the photo of the canoing group. May be would-be suitors and possibly brother John for a chaporone

on a Sunday afternoon outing.

I think this is the house at Estaline that was one of the houses that boarded several teachers. It looks substantial enough to be still standing. I hope it is.

Estaline may be the town that had a nice small museum that we visited, thinking there might be some picture or memento of Mom. The nearest thing of that sort was an old fashioned friendship quilt with the name Fry. Mrs Fry was mother's landlady while she taught there.

I have always believed these next pictures were taken at the "teacherage", as it was called. My impression has been that Mother and one sister, and friends were the ones here having silly fun.

Mother is on the extreme left, the one with the short hair. when that was a new style she was among the first to "bob" her hair. It appears on the photo on the left that she is getting paid back for the pounding she was giving some one in the left picture.

Such clowns! Trying to pretend they such nice young ladies! Mother is still

on the left. Perhaps it is her sister Paulina by herr side. Only a few of her pictures are labeled. Very few of the ones of my own family are, and that's another project for another day.

Shorter skirts became the new daring style but the ladies were not yet ready to give up their hats.

One could speculate upon what our styles will be in another 80 or 100 years. What comes off next? Not much, I hope, or there will be an epidemic of skin cancer.

There is an old saying, "The pendilum always swings back." Intreguing, huh?

Look closely at the picture hanging on the wall. That appears to be that large oil painting of the mountains and the elk. . I had no idea that she had painted that so early in her life, but I guess she was in her mid-twenties here, so it wasn't so early, after all. She began very early to spend her summers in Boulder,taking art lessons.

In the early '20s, when I think this picture was taken, it had become acceptable for women to wear pants when hiking. Mother, of course, with her bobbed hair and independant spirit, didn't hesitate to be among the first. Most of the remainder of her pictures preceeding her marriage in 1925, show her hiking in her beloved Colorado mountains, wearing her hiking pants, high, lace-up boots and that beaver hat. In this picture she is taking a rest stop with her sister Paulina.

It's just an old album but it's a window into life so long ago. One hundred years!

A wild flower that's also old..

Indian Blanket

Scouting memories

Sometimes small things stick in your mind. They’re neither big nor important, but they’re embedded there as vivid as the day they happened.

There is no reason that I can think of that explains this memory. It was the first day of Day Camp for Brownies. We had taken a walk with our group, probably some sort of nature study, and were returning to headquarters. A little girl, whom I did not know, skipped up beside me on the path, and started chattering happily. She had no buddy to walk with, she knew no one, but she and I held hands and I listened to her talk about this first day, her big brown eyes sparkling with happiness. She announced that she and I were friends, and I agreed.

She was the only African American child in that day’s session and she did not attend any more. I don’t remember her name; I don’t know why she never returned, but after forty years, I can still feel that little hand.

Another time, with my own troop’s camp-out, part of the troop was doing the fire building. Of course, they enthusiastically carried their loads of dry wood to their camp site and one little girl drug in the prize: a dead log almost as big around as she.

Now, anyone who has ever attempted to prune their trees after the limbs have died or sawed an old dead log for the fireplace, knows that while making an excellent fire, the dead wood is really hard.

Our tool was our bow saw, and this little girl was part of the group responsible for building the fire, so this rather frail appearing little girl tackled this log which was about eight inches in diameter.

I believe I suggested that the chore be shared. I don't seem to have an actual photo but the picture is still clear in my mind. Such determination, a job well done with the log finally ablaze.

This next unforgettable experierence casts doubt upon my level of sanity. The last troop that I was associated with was a very large one with over twenty girls. There four leaders, well, technically a leader and three assistants, but that wasn't the way we operated. Three of us were very active, each with a patrol. The fourth, assisted us by being responsible for all the mundane things we three didn't want to do. She was our anchor.

Our scouting program had always been strong in our town. From the day an earlier troop trashed the official uniform and designed their own, throughout the years of this last troop, the Council despaired of our antics. We were progressive; they were bound by arcade training and rules. When our ideas, were successful, as they often were, sometimes being the first such program in the nation, Council praised us while tensely awaiting our next bombshell.

One of the leaders of this troop, #147, had several years before volunteered to work with a group of older girls in organizing the first ever mounted patrol. She was also the leader who spearheaded a Bicycle Rodeo, that with the cooperation of the police department, had a safety and skills program for the community's youngsters.This was also a first.

Now, it was this interest in bicycle riding that was almost my downfall! I grew up in the country...dirt roads and no bike. Some where, some time I rode a bicycle. Once. When this bunch of girls got all excited about riding their bikes, they decided to take a five-mile ride outside the city limits. This may have been a badge earning project. I don't remember, but part of scouting is helping the girls plan and carry out events so plans were made and a route and date set.

Naturally, my daughter who was a member of this troop, had a bike. I don't know where I got mine. Away we went. As is so often said, "Once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget."Well. I had been on a bike before so I was qualified, right? We rode and rode with one rest stop. The girls laughing and wheeling here and there, laughing like it was loads of fun. The other two leaders were obviously

at ease, enjoying the countryside. I was concentrating upon keeping my balance and telling myself "You can do it, you gotta do it, this will end sometime today." And it did. I managed to finish the ride and get off that danged two-wheeled demon without collapsing, my determined smile still pasted across my face.

Did I mention in an earlier blog that scouting brings new experiences into your life. Unforgettable ones, I will add. So I lived for another day and more experiences yet to come.

Children are like flowers; they need to be nurtured.

A Scout Leader

If you are ever fortunate enough to have an opportunity to be a Girl Scout leader, do it! Think you aren’t qualified? You’ll learn…oh how you’ll learn! The main qualification may be patience and a certain amount of interest in all things. It is a time consuming project but worthwhile things usually are. It will take organizing your time if you are to remain sane. Home life also deserves a part of you and you will occassionally need time to do your nails! Or to read something other than the current issue of the Girl Scout Leader.

I was a leader for 21 years starting in 1952 when my first daughter wanted to be a Brownie. This became a group that wanted to break the image of scouting being dull and for girls who were not of the adventurous type. They hated their official uniforms and choose a more becoming outfit but in the standard scout colors. Their other leader and I supported them in this choice because they were attractive, modern girls and if they were to continue in the program they needed to feel attractive and modern! I remember my co-leader as being more daring and progressive than I and I credit her for much of the troop’s continued interest in scouting.

Council wasn’t happy with us but it was only a year or two until the official uniform followed suit. These girls, with the encouragement of my co-leader, took part in numerous community affairs and were active in school affairs. Now in their sixties, these are women I’m proud to know.

Later years and more daughters, brought more troop work, sometimes as a leader and sometimes helping. Helpers are very important to a troop. Supportive mothers are a must, and I have never met a mother who would not help…if you only could find her niche. It might be camping or it might be telephoning, It could be transporting and it might be only once a year! It is the support group that keeps a leader from spreading herself too thin. Let's not forget fathers. They are also part of the support group, usually helping with the tougher jobs such as helping make a campground safer. Never think for a moment that the fathers, older brothers or male friends are not greatly appreciated. We leaders are capable but super women, we are not!

When my third daughter’s troop graduated and I was still a leader of the fourth one’s troop, I had to make a decision; whether I could cope with a troop, a family, and aging parents plus being a leader of a troop. Family and parents came first and I regretfully quit scouting but not without many memories. Some are rather impressive and some are ordinary but special to me.

A few of those will be shared later. You’ll wonder why I remember some. Well, so do I. Some you’ll have no doubt about!

This cactus flower shows what beauty can develop out of a pest. It's tough and durable and its needles can be a real problem. That's scouting for you!

The Woman Who Was My Mother

Who were the women who became our mothers? In appearance and lifestyle, mine was a completely different person from the hard-working farmwoman she became after her marriage and the Great Depression that changed lives all over the nation.

Eula Frances Lantrip was one of seven children, all of whom somehow got their teacher’s certificates, taught school and married school teachers. Except Eula! Eula did not marry until she was thirty-eight, making her an “old maid”, not the independent career woman as they are called today.

Mother’s first school was in Orange, Texas; the following year she taught in McAllen, far south near the Mexican border. The predominance of Spanish speaking students made the purchase of two Spanish language books a necessity.

Securing a teaching position in the 1900’s placed the young ladies very much on their own. Traveling was a serious undertaking; a trip of any distance was made by train accompanied by a large trunk holding everything they would need for the school term. They left home with no plans to return until the summer months.

Usually someone living near the school would have a spare room and would board the teacher. Some had enough space to provide a boarding house for three or four of the young ladies. In such living arrangements, friendships were formed, and personality differences developed. Mother never forgot one boarder who envisioned herself a talented entertainer, pounding away on the piano and giving her rendition of Sugar Blues evening after evening… It was not an event the others waited for with great enthusiasm

Mother spent her summers in Boulder, Co. She had a talent for painting and took art classes and enjoyed the area, hiking and taking tours.

Old photos show her very stylishly dressed for these trips in knee high lace up boots, pants, and a wide brimmed beaver hat. For trips to mountains such as Pike’s Peak a tour guide was hired and the trip was made in an auto with no heat and only curtains over the windows for protection from the cold. This was in the early ‘20s, so it was only the daring that undertook such ventures in such uncomfortable cars and using the gravel roads which were the highways of those days Are there still glaciers in the area for the really adventurous to cross as there were then? Mother once turned back alone from a trek across one because a snowstorm was forecast, I’ve often wondered what motivated that decision: to choose between being with a group in a snowstorm or hiking alone back to the starting point. Evidently, she trusted her instincts more than she trusted the judgment of the guide.

She took in the sights of the area, Royal Gorge and even farther west to Flagstaff AZ. Deep canyons didn’t daunt her daring spirit in the least. She walked across swinging bridges and looked down into their depths, something that has me shrinking back to a safer terrain at my first glimpse. I did not inherit that daring gene. Like Mom, if a job needs or must be done, okay, I’ll grit my teeth and do it. But a bridge over Royal Gorge does not need to be crossed so I’ll find other things to do. If it were absolutely necessary I would go…crawling on my knees, never upright.

When the depression hit, she dealt with it as she had with her past adventures; head-on, doing what had to be done, learning the best way and using her considerable skills developed over the years to cope with her family’s needs. When pressure cookers became available for home use, she agreed to an offer of half of a beef and new cooker if she would do the canning. With a canning manual and a erratic wood stove she keep the pressure correct and provided a good supply of canned beef for the following year. The early pressure cookers were not as safe to use as those of today, and I remember that she was a very nervous woman and although she used that canner and wood stove for most of the rest of her life, she never became comfortable with its performance.

When we had enough money for a down payment on a farm of our own, she took advantage of its cellar to store the entire food supply safe from the freezing temperatures that would exist in the old house. Then to her dismay she discovered the cellar filled waist deep with seeping water due to the shallow water level in that area. With the family’s food supply (including that precious canned beef) at risk, she waded in and brought out all the canned goods. What had to be done, she did it. The choice was easy; a dark cellar three feet deep in water or starvation.

The one thing she could not conquer was the rule against married women holding a teaching position. She tried and tried but it was not allowed. A woman teacher might become pregnant and the little kiddies thus be exposed to the facts of life. Mercy!

Even a severe case of osteoporosis did not defeat her. Although it became a critical situation after being knocked down by a running cow she and my father were trying to pen, she continued her farm work, the cooking and all the rest of the work that being a farmwoman involved in the ‘40’s and ‘50s. After the SS act included farmers, she and my father were able to ease their labors, but mother never relinquished her position as the one who prepared the meals and kept the house neat. She finally had to use a cane and to keep it close at hand; she tied it to her apron, freeing her hands for her chores. She swept the floors using the same technique for the broom and in later years, she tied what she needed to her walker and moved slowly with her walker from place to place, sweeping as she went.

I was allowed to do the laundry and prepare small frozen meals for her and my father but she always made the daily noontime pan of cornbread, and Dad, an early riser, was allowed to prepare his breakfast oatmeal.

As the saying goes: “The older I became, the smarter my mother became” and I am still discovering that the names she used in identifying flowers were the correct ones, that she correctly used common-sense treatment for injuries and illnesses, and that she apparently remembered every lesson she had ever been taught.

Once Dad had remembered the first line of a poem, Come Little Leaves, from his early years in school, and asked Mother if she also remembered it. At the moment, she only had a faint memory of the words, but later she correctly wrote four of its five verses, decorated its borders with autumn leaves, and gave it to Dad for his birthday. This, at 70, remembered from their 5th grade reader, 60 years before? I am still amazed.

So I remember Mother; that brave, smart, talented, determined and innovative woman, who went from stylish silk dresses to flour sack ones, who used her hands to hoe and scrub clothes instead of painting, who never gave up her teaching skills although I was her only pupil. With her abilities and background, I sometimes wonder why my dad always seemed to be the dominant partner in their marriage….but was he? I can only speculate.

What a variety of things make each life what it becomes.

Santa Fe & Taos

One more night in Albuquerque and then on to Santa Fe, first to visit the Georgia O’Keefe showing and then a long, wishful visit to the museum’s gift shop. The beautiful scarves ($85) and colorful glassware, plus a multitude of smaller items could rearrange one’s budget but still made interesting browsing.

Before leaving Santa Fe, a few more galleries were visited and a few more pictures were taken. Some even turned out clear enough to share.Distant rains had changed the hot weather into a very pleasantly cool day and the cool weather stayed with us through out the remainder of our stay in New Mexico.

^

This picture, shown at one of the galleries, is made of rolled newspaper strips. Such an undertaking! Such patience and time! As an alternative to the recycling bin, I'll pass.

The flowers in the glass globe are supported by a group of nude

figures. This is one of a display of almost a dozen similar globes.

Taos, the touristy attraction that has it all: scenery, skiing, artists, and a concentration of small shops and galleries. All this, plus New Mexico’s very obvious heritage of it’s early settlers; it’s adobe buildings with flat roofs, and flowers everywhere. Yards were filled with flowering plants, hanging baskets hung in every available spot, huge clay pots filled with flowers sat along the sidewalks, and every available space holding soil along the paved areas were filled with blooming plants: roses, holly-hocks, petunias…if it had color, it was there.

Sunflowers were plentiful, but these red ones blooming among the yellow, were the only reds that I noticed.

Although this was not my first visit to any of these locations, other visits had been with friends and traveling as campers with our RVs. None of these visits included visits to the galleries and shops! In retrospect, I cannot imagine how this happened, especially as my friend was an avid shopper. Did our husbands, sensing a severe money drain, have that much influence on our activities? Evidently yes!

Right: This rather poor picture is of a box

made of loosely wove wire with a delicate rose at the point the wires

cross. The lid is topped with a tiny grasshopper! Look

carefully andmaybe you can detect the details.

The grey tones in the distant clouds were merely an interesting study in color when we made our decision to drive on in to Amarillo before stopping for the night. It was only another two hours and so much closer to home for the Sunday’s final drive. The predicted rain arrived but we drove on and climbed and descended and climbed again on this beautiful drive through the mountains overlooking the populated valleys…sometimes looking out upon someone’s rooftop no more than 10 or 12 feet from the edge of the highway. Finally, passing through a cloud, all was obscured in the valleys below and only the motorcyclists ahead were in view.

The decision to take our chances on finding rooms without making reservations got us exactly what we wanted, something the early March reservations had failed to do, so despite rock hard beds we rested, relieved that there had been no hassle.

The drive from Amarillo on home was markedly different from that through west Texas. Here, instead of sagebrush and cactus clumps, fields were cultivated, with rows and rows of cotton curving their way into the distance, red soil showing in the curves. The plants grew uniformedly level as though they had been sheared. Any weeds sticking up among the uniform plants appeared to be intruders...and they were. Long gone are the days of workers in a field, swinging their hoes to thin the cotton plants and chop down the weeds. Fertilizer and weed killig chemicals have taken away the human touch...and from my memories of swinging a hoe in a hot, sunny field this took considerably more energy than a mere touch. 'Twas hot, backbreaking, all day labor! Are the effects of the labor saving chemicals upon our invironment an improvement over the old methods? Inproved production, partly due to the irrigation systems marching slowly across the fields, would call for a "yes" answer. Speculating upon future effects, would bring a strong "No". Whatever your opinion might be, I expect it will be years before there is a satisfactory solution.

Leaving the plains of the panhandle, we began to pass through the little towns where my mother once taught school. This part of the drive always brings happy memories of her many stories of those teaching days; stories told as we swung our hoes down rows of tomato plants, or corn or peanuts... wherever the weeds were trying to take over our livelihood.

Now, after another six hours on the road, I opened my door! It was a great trip. We had a nice visit with my grandson and his wife, saw great scenery and great exhibits. Now, 1500 miles later, it's also great to be home: no crowds, no traffic, plenty of parking space....and a hot, humid wind blowing from the south! Ah-h, Texas, we love to leave and are delighted to get home.

Weavers' convention

,

It’s over and I survived!! I took a 6-day trip to New Mexico with my daughter, whose interest in a weavers’ convention being held in Albuquerque was the main reason for making the trip.

What can one say about a 600-mile drive through West Texas? I will report that the scenery around Sweetwater has changed since my last trip to that area. Now wind farms line the skyline, the blades slowly turning, creating a bit more energy for our rapidity increasing demands.

New Mexico has an abundant supply of talented artisans and we visited several galleries showing the work of a few before moving on to the convention center. There, venders booths were filled with colorful displays of more yarn than one would expect to see in their entire lifetime. Various items made from these yarns tempted the lookers. Scarves of every color and every weave imaginable were displayed. Silky ones with beautiful dyed patterns filled some booths. Hand bags and hats and many small items were for sale Jewelry lovers could browse and wish, and makers of jewelry had a huge variety of supplies from which to choose. Tools for the weavers use and looms of different sizes were on display and the weaving in progress always had watchers.

It was not all about buying. To become aware of the types of materials and techniques used was educational for the scores of us who know nothing of the weaving craft. The final viewing of the day, the exhibit of chosen examples of weavers' work, emphasized strongly these very things. All that was woven was not of yarn. Copper wire was used to make an impressive hanging, Wood, yarn, barbed wire...you name it...were combined in many pieces. Clothing and even portraits, all woven, proved the weaver's skill. All together, it was tremendously impressiveto view these displays.Perhaps more can be found later at my daughter's site at Sherri Woodard Coffey

The following day, while she attended her class of choice, we toured the nuclear museum, a sobering experience. Then a visit to Albuquerque's old town and a very pleasant time sitting on a bench in the shady plaza. The feet appreciated the rest if they were to survive for the next day's activities.

A gallery necklace>

Flowers of July and August

We are approaching the last of July; gardening season is far behind us, and here I am browsing the flower sections of Home Depot and others, trying to control the urge to get one of each variety. I would classify myself as having a serious problem except for the dozens of other shoppers also loading their carts.

My yard consists of a shallow layer of top soil over a gravel base. That's the best part. There is a large amount of solid rock between the house and the road. I continue to have hopes for the part with the layer of soil; the rock, proven to be at least 40' thick, as proven by a core taken 45 years ago, will remain "as is. "

Many plants have met their doom in my planting areas. Cactus and Yucca are prolific in the untouched part of the acreage. Roses are not happy here. Even the newer variety of knock Out, developed for our difficult Texas growing area, is needing special attention.

I have hope that this coneflower, recently planted, will approve of it's location and become permanent. We once had some growing wild down the side of our hill but that was before we had a lot of underbrush cleared because of fire danger. Most of the wild flowers were drastically rearranged.

Some wild flowers look rather straggly when not in bloom...in other words, they look like weeds! There is one that I now have in a flower bed, transplanted from another part of this gravely hill. It is in it's second year in a flower bed and I hope that after it's many years in the wild This is a Liatris, budding now for late August or early September spikes of lavender flowers. It's flowers are long-lasting, even providing filler in floral arrangements after it has become dry. After years of seeing it growing wild, I was surprised to see it at the florists.

For years I have wanted what is called a Butterfly weed. A member of the milkweed family, it does not spread as some do, but I have seen the same clump appear year after year...at least 15 or 20 years, in the same location by the side of a country road. It's blossom head is a cluster of small orange flowers, each plant cluster having six or seven heads or clusters, making a striking display. It may be bought from wildflower speciality stores for a rather hefty price, but I definitely must have one. If it can thrive unattended by the side of the road, surely it can survive my care.

Here in the south, one of the showiest, most dependable flowering shrubs is the Crepe Myrtle, and it is so

tough that once established it withstands the Texas heat. Different plants seem to have different timetables, making their gorgeous displays last for weeks. The colors range from white to light pink and lavender, to a deep rose and almost red color. Plenty of sun and water will create a mass of color.

Joining the crepe myrtle at about this time in July, is the Purple Sage. I have seen one of these shrubs, in a totally neglected location, be completely covered in lavender blossoms for almost 40 years. It appears to be dying now, and I wish someone would give it first aid. Like the Crepe Myrtle, all plants do not bloom at the same time. I'm waiting for mine, and hope it has enough sun to put on a show.

It's not only a July or August bloomer: it brings color from it's very first bud. Let it have plenty of light but shield it from the hottest sun in the afternoon for that will cause the blossoms to close. It has

several names: Moss Rose is the most common. Portulaca is most likely the name on it's tag. Growing wild is a much less showy plant, it's blossoms are usually small, quarter inch size, but with the same colorful variety as the larger Portulaca: yellow, orange and shades of rose.

It's succulent leaves look the same as those of its larger showier cousin. The wild variety is usually called purslane and is loaded with healthful additions to one's diet. Don't use me as an authority..read about it before you dump it into your next salad!

The days remain hot and the lawn is becoming brittle. Our lowering water table is enough of a concern that I will water only enough to keep the roots alive. The flower beds will get their share and we will be rewarded with their blossoms. The day will seem cooler because of their bright colors.

Cats and More Cats

Cats: they’re fun, they’re pests, they are useful…. and their numbers increase faster than you can give them away.

Three years ago, a stray, perhaps alerted by a cat style hobo mark, stopped by, ready for her handout. Skinny and obviously carrying kittens, she received her expected daily handout of table scraps.

These were placed in a worn-out birdbath, and if you have never heard of a birdbath being worn out, let me assure you that it can happen! Not from the flapping and fluttering of wings, however, but from a flaw in the concrete, which caused it to deteriorate until huge holes appeared, and it could no longer hold water.

Now that it had become a convenient feeder for the cat, other wildlife took notice. There were four crows, jays and cardinals, and one evening we glanced out the window and spied a fox crouched n the birdbath, happily enjoying the remains of our evening meal.

At about this time, the cat with no name, retired to have her kittens. Happily, there were only two; identical black and white ones, a male and a female. They were a joy to watch as they jumped and wrestled in the late evening twilight. As half grown cats they seemed not to notice that their no-name mama had deserted them (and us), and one night the male also decided to roam and like his mama, never returned.

The little female grew tall and leggy, but remained as wild as her mother and no amount of food put any fat on her lean frame, but her fur was jet black and glossy so she officially became Pretty Cat, as we are not imaginative folks. Soon I renamed her Mighty Cat, after watching her frighten the fox away from her dinner table. Occasionally, she would deliberately lengthen her meal time, while the fox waited patiently a short distance away.

Once the fox must have been extremely hungry, for he got to the feed early, and established himself firmly over the goodies before Mighty Cat arrived. It was a standoff. He ate, She watched. She even swatted that long bushy tail hanging over the edge of the feeder, with no results.

Naturally, when putting food out it was not always entirely eaten and other animals sense that the welcome mat is out. We were not surprised to see a huge coon appear for his share of the free , easy to get, food. He soon established his position as boss over the other animals and left not a crumb if he was hungry. He never seemed very disturbed by my yelling and stick waving.

Late one evening, we were startled to see two foxes enjoying the bounty that the birdbath held.. Cantaloupe rinds, overripe fruit, left over veggies from the dinner table…they cleared their dish. They did not eat broccoli. One night, the old coon also brought his mate along . There were more to come. The evening the entire fox family arrived, I could not tear myself away from the window. The pair of fox were both in the birdbath, chowing down, but constantly watchful for danger.The almost grown young ones were playful, wrestling and snapping at each other. Occasionally, they would snatch a bit of food, which bothered their parents not at all.

Not to be out done, the old coon brought his family up for a free meal. In the coon family, the rules were different. The he-coon first had his leisurely meal while his family waited impatiently. His mate or one of the three young, would sometimes reach a tentative paw toward the edge of the bird bath, only to be swatted away. After observing the foxes’ congenial behavior, I was shocked by this old fellow’s selfishness. In fact, I was so annoyed that I chased the entire family away.

There may be a moral here about freebies, because from the first give-away to one cat, we now were feeding a cat, a fox family of five, and a coon (the entire family never appeared again.)

In the naturally progression of cat life, Mighty Cat soon presented us with her own litter of five kittens, a beautifully marked brindle, a grey and white, and three ugly tortoise ones because of their strangely marked faces. Following in the footsteps of her mama, she also disappeared, returning occasionally to swat her brood away from the feed pan. By this time, we were buying cat food in 15 lb. bags. The foxes had left, deciding they could feed elsewhere with less hassle.

Of the five kittens, all females), we managed to catch two and sent them to a new home in a barn reported to have an over abundance of mice and rats. Their yowls of protest as they were placed in a carrier were impressive and the remaining three cats became even more leery of a human touch and strange vehicles sent them streaking for shelter. Their appetites were never diminished by their nervousness.

Suggestions about what to do with three female cats were plentiful. Suggestions don’t tame cats and the wild gene remains strong in this group of cats and continues in a new, fourth generation of eight darling blue eyed kittens. A direct look sends them under the nearest bush. A movement of a single hand sends them streaking for distant safety. Regardless, now that there are eight new, wild little critters creeping up to join their mamas at the feed pan, somehow, a cat-snatching must be arranged..

Any one want a kitten?

The Call of the Road

I read once that we, as a nation, are fascinated with the names of places, as used in songs, more than any other people in the world. True or not, it started me thinking about songs of this type…..and there are different types.

Early ballads provide a musical history of the longing for home, and songs of the Civil War period also sang of home and of a lost way of life.

Our modern day “On the Road” type of songs could have their roots in the old Route 66 highway that crossed 2448 miles of the nation, reaching from Chicago to LA. Migrants traveled this route during the dustbowl days, their ordeals immortalized in john Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Although travel was exceedingly tedious in the days following the opening of Route 66, in 1926, other daring travelers began to undertake the trip.

Route 66 saw every kind of traveler: The more affluent, traveling to see the sights, and worn-out vehicles and trucks such as this museum item,piled high with household goods, their owners hoping to find a better life.

Perhaps it was Bobby Troup’s lyrics to Get Your Kicks on Route 66, that first captured the spirit of traveling through the cities and states along this legendary highway. Written soon after WWll, it quickly became a hit, and as Route 66 became improved and other highways were built, cross country travel became more common.

There is a bit of loneliness as well as excitement in the multitude of trucking songs such as Six Days on the Road and 500 Hundred Miles Away From Home. Then there is Kansas City, a rollicking piece that quickly filled many dance floors with it’s first notes.

Songs about Alabama, California, Oklahoma, and Texas appear to be in the majority, and cities such as San Antonia, Tulsa, New York, and San Francisco head a long list of many more. The names seem to hold a special mystic … one of the excitement of the wild west, or being on a mountain top, looking down on a misty valley, smelling the scent of the pines the ocean on a damp breeze.

In retrospect, it seems that it has been our highway system that has spawned so many songs about being on the road.